The spring breeze carried a fine mist, delicate as lace, each drops a quiet promise of the rain to come. "Where's this yacht anyway? I'm losing all feeling in my fingers and toes," Michonne said, rubbing her hands together as the newly chilled air stirred the low clouds above them.
Truthfully, she was getting cold—colder than she'd expected—and she hadn't packed for the kind of wind that sneaks into your sleeves and settles in your bones. Still, her voice held more teasing than complaint. It wasn't just the chill making her restless—it was being this close to Rick, walking beside him, shoulder to shoulder in a silence that was starting to feel… charged.
Rick nodded toward a curve in the dock, just beyond a cluster of parked jet skis. "It's right over there…" he said, with an almost sheepish glance. He hadn't thought to check if he had a jacket she could borrow. He'd meant to—but then he'd noticed a loose hinge on the bag and got sidetracked, something about the small details always pulling his attention. Now he wished he'd been more prepared. He hated the thought of her being uncomfortable.
But the clouds shifted, and a bold streak of sunlight broke through—a sudden, golden flare like hope itself—and he felt a flicker of warmth return, not just to the day, but to his chest.
The yacht came into view: about fifty feet, sleek and understated. Beautiful, but not ostentatious. Nothing like Negan's towering, overcompensating monstrosity of a hundred-foot mega-yacht. Negan had always needed bigger, louder, flashier. Rick didn't. He liked quiet, steady things. Things that could weather a storm.
He glanced at Michonne again, her hair lifting in the breeze, her profile lit by that hesitant sun. Maybe, he thought, he was learning to want something—someone—he could weather it with.
The number of people currently populating this yacht caught Michonne by surprise. She thought the boat party down the pier had been unexpected - she had been wrong. There were well over a dozen people on board, several waved and hollered at them. Rick casually waved back.
"Who are these people?" Michonne snorted, following him up the ramp.
"The rich side of Concorde," Rick explained, "Private property, belongs to the silver fox over there," he nodded towards a large group. He was impressed by the turnout as well. His new acquaintance had told him a few weeks ago that his party would be the first of the big Springtime festivities.
Although several men and women could be labeled 'silver foxes'; it was easy to single out who he'd meant.
Michonne peered at the distinguished long-haired man, sitting in his plush lean-back chair; he held a glass of something probably more expensive than it was reasonable looking like a king holding court. The silver-haired man was talking to two other older men who were accompanied by fancy-dressed women.
Younger women, unsurprisingly. Not younger than herself, if she was guessing right, but still certainly younger than the men they were accompanying.
"Ah, Rick! You could join us after all!" The Kris Kristofferson look-alike was happy to see his new friend, he stood up gracefully -donning a tailored, white button-up shirt with several buttons undone, white slacks, and glossy white loafers.
"I got hungry," Rick shrugged with that easy casual way of his, and 'Kris' and his guests laughed, charmed by him.
"This is my friend Michonne, I thought I'd feed her too," Rick gestured her closer.
"Hello, Michonne Taylor," Michonne smiled brightly and shook hands with 'Kris' and the handful of people around him. She soon discovered 'Kris' name was Greg. Just Greg. No one seemed to have a last name anywhere.
"So, how's the sailboat coming along?" Greg asked Rick conversationally as he led them towards the fully stocked bar and wonderful-smelling buffet table.
"It's coming along nicely. Not a whole lot left to do." Rick was happy to announce.
Michonne just listened in and wondered if that meant Rick would finally go back home once, he was finished. The subject, however, quickly changed to other topics - Greg's party guests, the copious amount of top-shelf liquor, and an impending storm coming from the Atlantic.
It was easier to mingle than she would have thought, mostly because everyone was so fascinated by the fact, she worked in law enforcement. Before she knew it Michonne was sitting in a circle of fancily dressed women, mostly elderly, some in their fifties.
She discovered; that this was the tenth annual celebration of the yacht Alexandria, named after Greg's late wife.
Greg's yacht and his guests were not staying but would start cruising very soon.
The food was better than anything she'd eaten since her arrival, so she took full advantage of it; noshing on savory grilled filet mignon kabobs, smoked Brie, warm Bruschetta, and fresh vegetables with cucumber garlic dill Tzatziki all the while she answered a woman named Carol's easy questions.
Carol was an aspiring author, very interested in asking law-related questions - she wanted to go into the crime and mystery genre.
"Well, I have to say it…" another one of the younger women, probably in her age bracket, scooted closer when Carol left her to get a refill. "You're sure a lucky lady!" she winked and looked over her shoulder, to where Rick was sipping a beer and talking to two other guests; both of whom had drunk way past their fill and were laughing loudly and gesturing dramatically.
"I am...?" Michonne was confused for a moment until she caught the shared smirk between the woman who asked her the question and her friend. "...Oh! Oh no!" Michonne shook her head vehemently. "No, no, no!" she laughed nervously. The last thing she wanted was some rumor about Rick and her at Greg's yacht party or something like that. "Rick and I are old friends...known him since kindergarten. Practically related!" she exaggerated a little.
She cringed internally.
"Oh...! I thought...well never mind what I thought." the women shared another curious look.
The one who asked the question looked slightly confused.
Michonne took a nervous sip of her Sangiovese, and while the awkward silence prevailed, she popped her last chocolate-covered strawberry in her mouth and washed it down with more wine; she doubted they were looking at this as an opportunity.
They were there as companions for other men. But perhaps they had been looking for a little hot gossip. Rick was an A-lister who hadn't been heard from in a while or romantically linked with anyone for over a year.
Suddenly Michonne became paranoid about cell phones. She started eyeing the women's hands for one, looking for camera flashlights or anything. To her relief there was none, all the people here seemed to be truly enjoying each other's company.
Carol came back just in time with more questions for Michonne, which fortunately steered the topic in different directions. Michonne escaped the group as soon as nature called and had to walk a little and go up a set of stairs before finding Rick again.
He was by himself, leaning against the rail, watching something on the horizon. As Michonne stepped closer, she realized what'd caught his attention was an approaching lightning storm.
The clouds quickly gathered, a silver fade, from the strongest of grey to soft whites; the silver hues were like molten silver, swirling in steady and radiating ripples.
"Wow, it's coming this way, huh?" she said as she joined him.
"Yeah. Storms here can last long but they're not too bad. You'll see." Rick looked down at her arms when he noticed her shivering. "Are you still cold?"
"Yeah, aren't you," Although the temperature had dropped considerably.
Rick was still wearing his worn-out brown t-shirt and jeans, he was not slightly cold. He pulled back from the rail. "Come on let's start heading back so you can warm up. Besides, I've had my fill of these people already," his eyes widened comically.
This was perfect, he found that Michonne's company was all he really wanted to have.
Michonne laughed. "Yeah! Tell me about it."
They said goodbye to everyone, some of whom were already retreating to below deck where things were less windy and warmer,
They made their way back to the pier.
Seeing Michonne have a good time with the elite residents of Concorde made him wonder if she was always so easygoing with everyone she encountered or if was she like him... good at pretending, putting on that causal facade, hiding all that was wrong deep inside.
He knew that in her line of work, she had to play a role, a professional, even-tempered with an unwavering demeanor. But at the end of the day, she could turn that off, have a beer with friends, and be Michonne.
As a Federal agent, she has total anonymity. He, on the other hand, felt as if 'character Rick' and 'real-life Rick' were the same. He was always in a role, when someone met him, they did not see him, they saw the character, the person they wanted him to be and he would never be truly seen for who he is.
Halfway back to the sailboat, the skies unleashed a downpour so fierce it felt like a cosmic prank—an infinite bucket of freezing water dumped straight onto their heads.
"Run!" Rick barked through laughter, grabbing her hand as they dashed forward. The wooden dock was slick beneath their shoes, puddles forming faster than their footsteps could avoid them. The planks were grimy in patches, and every step was a gamble between speed and dignity.
They reached the narrow staircase leading to the lower deck, and Rick kept her steady with a firm hand as they climbed it in double time. She didn't realize she was holding her breath until they tumbled inside the cabin, Rick sliding the glass door shut with a satisfying thunk.
"Shit, that was cold!" Michonne gasped, bracing herself against the wall as she turned—and promptly forgot what she was going to say.
Rick stood there, dripping like a Greek tragedy in a wet t-shirt contest. Rain clung to his chest, every sculpted muscle outlined like the universe had decided to highlight its finest work. The soaked cotton hugged him in a way that should've been illegal in at least three states.
Oh no. Nope. I'm not gonna stare. I'm just gonna blink slowly and pretend I'm not about to spontaneously combust.
But Lord —his abs looked like they'd been individually carved by divine intervention. The kind of body that made hotel towels seem like flimsy suggestions.
After all these years, Rick Grimes was still utterly, offensively hot. A walking, brooding Adonis with broad shoulders and arms that screamed pick me up and ruin my life.
Her mouth went dry, and for a few heartbeats, she forgot how to breathe. Or blink. Or function.
He ran a hand through his soaked curls, water trickling down his neck and vanishing beneath the clinging hem of his shirt. "You okay?"
"Yep," she croaked, trying not to sound like a teenager caught staring at the quarterback. "Fine. Just a little… damp."
He smirked at that, and she nearly groaned. That smile. That damn crooked, dangerous smile that had once made her knees weak on a balcony in Savannah still had the power to short-circuit her entire nervous system.
"Hang tight," he said, his voice low, warm. "I'll grab some towels."
As he turned to head toward the small linen closet, Michonne let herself watch—like, really watch—him walk away.
I swear to God, if this man drops one of those towels and bends over to pick it up, I'm filing a complaint with the universe for cruelty.