Chapter 3

written by: ldmb

The saying is that time flies when you're having fun. Michonne discovered that time moved at light speed when you were falling in love. She would have liked to blame the scenery for her current emotional state- romantic stone pathways, winding red brick, canals that shone like stained glass, the gondolas, the food, the wine, the music that seemed to be a very part of this place. She loved this city, truly, she did. However, what she felt about Rick was something else entirely.

A morning together had turned into a day, then a week, then a month, until she lost track completely. Slowly, their two existences had begun to merge, twisting together until she was rarely to be found without him by her side. His room at a Venetian hostel had long since been abandoned in favor of hers. They spent long hours during the day wandering, reading, burning holes in their pockets. Nights they spent pressed together beneath the light linens of her bed, talking until one or both of them could not keep their eyes open any longer.

She fell asleep in his arms, and woke up there as well, always surprised to find how natural it felt. With Rick, she felt silly, adventurous, brave. The threat of the future did not loom over her head; he had no expectations of her beyond her simple company. He was gentle always with her, all soft touches and kind words. It was a treatment she thought only existed in romance novels.

All the while, a sense of dread filled her, increasing with every second that slipped by. This vacation, this city, this newfound freedom, Rick, it was all temporary. Soon, too soon, she would be back on a plane, headed for home.

It was enough to make her want to cry on the spot.

"'Chonne, you ok?" Rick interrupted her musings, kissing her gently on the cheek. He scooted closer to her on the bench of the bus, fixing his eyes on her. The vehicle rocked lazily as it putted down the road. The heat was almost sweltering, but she found she did not mind so much. She adjusted her loose cotton skirt, uncrossing her legs so she could look at the man next to her.

Michonne turned toward him, mustering a smile. "Why wouldn't I be?" she asked.

Rick looked unconvinced. "Stop thinking about it," he instructed, draping an arm around her waist. His skin, warm as the air around them, sent a chill through her when it brushed her bare hips. "We're going to the beach today. We're going swimming. We're going to have fun," he reminded her. "We decided we weren't going to be sad."

Michonne reached for him, cupping his cheek. He'd let his stubble run wild over the last few weeks, to her unexpected delight. She kissed him softly, relishing in the gentle scratch of it against her smooth skin. "I remember," she promised him.

"Good," he pushed a stray loc back beneath her wide brimmed hat. "No more thinking about next week. Be here now. With me." He swallowed thickly, focusing on the trinkets in her hair. It was a hodge podge of shells, hand-blown glass beads, charms, and fabric that the two of them had accumulated over the summer, a tangible testament of their time together. Michonne loved the effect, the color, the textures.

"I'm with you," she kissed him again, removing her hat so she could lay her head on his shoulder. She settled against him, realizing something suddenly. "Where's your camera?" she asked, sitting up.

"I left it at home," Rick kissed her forehead.

"Why?" In two months, she'd never seen him without it.

"I'm focusing on you today," he smiled wistfully, a faint blush to his cheeks. The sun had bronzed his skin considerably over the summer, but he always managed to flush beneath her gaze.

Michonne clenched his hand in her own, holding back her tears. She did not release him as they navigated their way off the bus and onto the beaches of Lido. Her melancholy melted away under the rays of the sun. Soon, she and Rick were chasing one another gleefully down the beach, splashing into the low waves until they were absolutely spent. She collapsed on a towel, grinning when Rick fell down beside her. He rubbed her back, smoothing his hand over her skin.

"Rick," she called to him, breathing in the scent of the ocean, "I don't want you to leave."

He exhaled, rolling onto his back before turning to look at her. "I have to, 'Chonne," he took her hand. "So do you."

Michonne began to tear up. She pressed her face into the fabric of the towel beneath her. Home loomed in the distance like a prison sentence. "I don't want to." She'd broken up with Mike in a text message weeks ago, and hadn't turned her phone on since. She knew an onslaught awaited her the moment she got off the plane.

"So come home with me," Rick entreated. He scooted closer to her.

"To New York?" she blinked at him, surprised.

"Why not?" he shrugged. "We've got law schools you could transfer to, good ones, if that's what you want."

Michonne paused, focusing instead on the world around them. Vacationers traipsed by, happy, fulfilled. She studied their faces.

"'Chonne," Rick called her. She looked towards him. "What is it you want?" he asked.

"I don't know," she answered. Her life had always been planned for her. There had never been a question of wanting.

He nodded, laying back, seemingly accepting her answer.. "I can't speak for you," he began cautiously. "But I have been with you for months. You might not know what you want, 'Chonne, but I think I know what you don't want. You don't want to go home. You don't want to live under your parents. You don't want Mike."

"I'd never go back to Mike," she protested at once. He'd been beside her in bed when she sent that text, had heard all the tales of his behavior. She'd never seen Rick angry before that or since.

"Why go back at all?" he tilted his head at her.

"Would you leave everything?" she asked him. "Everything you know?"

"You've already left," he reminded her.

"For vacation," she countered. "You don't know my parents. You don't know what they're like." Panic was rising in her at just the thought. She'd spent a lifetime learning to please them. It was all she knew.

"You're right," Rick sighed. He released her hand.

"Don't be mad," Michonne groped for him, clutching his wrists, unwilling to break physical content.

"I ain't mad, Michonne," he rolled towards her. He kissed her shoulder, lingering against her, hiding his face. She felt the moisture gather against her skin. "I'd leave it all for you," he whispered against her, so quietly she nearly didn't hear him. "Ti amo."

The words, spoken in his rough version of Italian, hit her squarely in the chest. Something inside of her contracted. Michonne pulled herself into Rick's arms, ignoring the people around them. She pressed against him, cupping his face between her hands.

"Ti amo anch'io, Rick," she told him. "I love you, so much."

She kissed him desperately, determined to put thoughts of Sacramento from her mind.

-l-l-l-l-

They'd shared a bed all summer, but never like this. It took all the control and patience he could muster to board that bus and bring her back to their room. The moment the door closed, Michonne was on him, kissing him like her life depended on it. Her skin was warm from a day in the sun, smooth and darker now than when they had met. The trinkets in her hair tickled as they grazed him. The hands that had so quickly grown adept at photography, that gesticulated so passionately when she spoke, that had spent a summer exchanging soft touches with his own, now burned through his clothing, desperate to caress him.

Tomorrow, he would be leaving Venice, leaving this bedroom, leaving her. But tonight, she was here in his arms. He would make sure that she would never forget it. He disengaged from her for a moment, setting her down on the floor. She stood before him, breathless.

"Rick?" she questioned, suddenly nervous. Rick smiled at her, kissing her once for good measure.

"Michonne, giacere sul letto," he instructed, drawing on all of the Italian lessons she'd gifted him. He saw the chill run through her, her eyes darkening as she moved to comply. Slowly, she obeyed and lowered herself to the mattress, arching her back as she wiggled upwards toward the headboard.

Rick stood over her for a moment, taking a moment to simply watch her. His fingers inched for his camera, but he refrained. This sight of her would be for his eyes only, preserved only in memory. It would have to be enough.

"Baciami," she requested, offering herself to him. Rick bent immediately to comply, capturing her lips against his own. She wrestled with him, all tongues, and hands, and teeth, and passion, until the both of them were bare against each other.

Rick left his mark, nipping at her dark skin until it flushed beneath him. She returned the favor in kind, scratching at his back as he parted her legs. She cried out as he entered her and he did the same.

"Don't stop," she panted, wrapping her legs around him. "Please Rick, don't stop."

If he had the choice, he'd never stop. But tonight, he hefted her higher in his arms, winding his hips against hers until he was sure he might simply die from the pleasure. He whispered his love for her in every language he could think of, until she was weeping openly against him.

Over and over, until the sun began to rise beyond their window, Rick confessed his love. He memorized the curves of her body, the pitch of her moans of pleasure, the scent of her, the taste of her. Every bit of her he committed to memory until she was spent. She fell asleep against him, exhausted, her fingers twisted around hers.

Rick watched her as the sun rose. Perhaps Michonne did not yet know, but he did. They'd found something rare here in Venice, something unexpected, something to be treasured. In a few hours' time, he would be boarding the plane for Queens. She would go home to Sacramento, to a life that did not deserve her. She had miles to go still, before she found herself.

Rick would wait. Patience was a virtue he possessed.

"Don't go," she cried later, when his bags had been backed, his camera stowed away.

He kissed her in answer, sliding a wrapped box into her hands. He'd bought it one morning without her, leaving her under the guise of going for an early morning run. Hiding it had been a chore, but he suspected it would be worth it. "Promise me you'll enjoy your last week," he told her. "Open this when it's over."

She clutched it to her chest, nodding before hugging him tightly in the middle of the airport. Rick held her back just as fiercely.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too," he promised her.

"Will I see you again?" she asked.

Rick pulled back, smiling at her. "Ovviamente," he told her in his best Italian. "When you're ready, you know where to look." He released her slowly, his heart breaking at the expression on her face.

"Addio, Rick" she bid him farewell.

"Arrivederci, amore," he vowed. Before he could talk himself out of it, he seized his bag and headed for security, leaving Michonne sobbing quietly in the lobby.

He was grateful that she couldn't see him cry as he boarded the plane.

-l-l-l-l-

Her last week passed more slowly, a retread of places she'd once visited with Rick. She took it in one last time, determined to enjoy it, determined to ignore the ache in her chest.

On her last night, Michonne sat on the bed they'd once shared, and opened the gift Rick had left her. Inside was an old fashioned Canon camera, and a thin book. She cracked the cover, turning the pages as tears streamed down her face.

Rick had catalogued it all, filling the pages with pictures of her. The whole trip, the marketplaces, the squares, the gondolas, their excursions to Burano and Murano, the glass blowing, the gelato, her first photograph of the bridge- it was all preserved in paper. There was only one photo of the two of them though, loose in the back of the album, a selfie Rick had taken of them aboard a water taxi.

Overcome, Michonne lifted it up, studying it. In it, she was draped over his shoulders, her face shaded beneath a floppy hat. Nothing could disguise the smiles on both of their faces. She scarcely recognized herself, colorful and dark and free, a woman who looked like she knew what she wanted in this world. She flipped it over, tearing up, and was surprised to see Rick's neat, blocky handwriting.

"For when you're ready, amore," it said simply. Beneath it, he'd written his phone number and address.

Michonne dried her eyes. Carefully, she replaced the picture, then packed away his gift with her belongings. She retrieved her phone from the nightstand, turning it on.

Dozens of messages blinked up at her, but she ignored them, punching in Rick's name and saving it. Her task completed, Michonne took a deep breath, stood up, and grabbed her suitcase.

With one, lingering look, she left the hotel and Venice behind. Sacramento, and her future, awaited her.