A/N: Turns out msdoomandgloom and I have a bit of a collaboration problem. And by that, I mean we can't seem to stop collaborating. We have a few stories lined up for you, with spectacular artwork to accompany it. Here's the first of many historical AUs.

Find her on social media to see her full works, and leave a review if you like them! Enjoy

The dressing room at the Moulin Rouge resembled a three-ring circus. Performers were in the throes of show preparation, winding and diving between one another in a mad scramble for sequins, feathers, high heels, and rhinestones. The air was scented with perfume, pressed powder, and cigarettes, a haze hanging over the room. The fluorescent lights flickered over the vanity mirrors. Michonne peered into the glass, adjusting her crimson lipstick.

"2 minutes, ladies!" The stage director bellowed through the open door.

The dancers buzzed like bees, rushing to pull on their headdresses. Michonne adjusted her own feathered cap, slipping her feet into her pair of stilettos. The spiked heels pressed into the tile as she joined the line.

"Remember, chins up, tits out!" The stage director shouted instructions. "And smile ladies!"

One by one, the women pasted on bright grins. Michonne fixed her own expression into place, sweeping out the door with the others. The bright lights blinded her but she kept in step, swinging her layered skirt to the music. They kicked up their heeled feet, and the crowd went crazy.

The cheers drowned out even the music, but Michonne knew every beat of the routine by heart. She spun, smiling, swishing her costume with gusto. Her garter slid up her thigh. She flashed it as though it were some kind of brazen secret at the men watching down below, perfectly synchronized with the rest of the chorus line.

She longed to see the audience, the way she had every night for three months. Las Vegas was every dancer's dream, the hub of nightlight in America. The hotels glittered like jewels along Fremont Street, tempting in visitors by the thousands. There was no pleasure Vegas did not offer, no experience off-limits for the right price. Casinos, shows, buffets, and nightclubs were all ripe for the taking.

Of every hotel in this booming little town, only one was integrated. Michonne had heard about the plans for the Moulin Rouge months before it opened. It was listed in Jet, a whole spread about what the casino was set to become. She'd boarded the bus heading west and never looked back. The first day it had opened, Michonne had been at the door to audition.

Now, she stepped to the music, the roar of the crowd pumping in her blood. She could make out the figures at the tables as the lights gradually lowered, silhouetted by neon. Her eyes scanned the crowd as the main act took center stage. She'd seen celebrities at these tables, Sammy Davis Jr., Louis Armstrong, but tonight, the audience shocked her. Amongst the brown faces she'd grown accustomed to were men with decidedly paler features. This was not exactly new in and of itself, but these men were not average viewers- if appearances were to be believed.

Michonne was not the only one who noticed. The dancers sashayed in orderly rows off the stage as the lounge singers took their places. The women began to buzz immediately, shimmying out of their first costumes and into even scantier attire.

"I hear they work for Sinatra," one of the girls gushed. She applied rhinestone pasties with studious precision.

"Uh-uh," another shook her head, her feathers fanning back and forth as she fitted the skirt over her hips, "I heard they work for Lansky. He works for the mob, you know."

The buzz increased at this simple statement. Michonne was not sure of its credibility, but one thing was clear.

"They must be important," Michonne wiggled out of her first dress and into her jeweled bikini bottoms. "They're seated front and center." The stones warmed quickly against her heated skin, covering only what was strictly necessary for public decency's sake.

"Maybe they'll tip well," another girl looked enthused at the mere prospect.

Whoever the men were, they proved to be attentive audience members. There were only two of them, one dark haired, the other more fair. They watched with rapt attention as the show unfolded. Michonne had seen lust in the eyes of men, love even. The dark haired man was looking at her with obvious appreciation, but it was the blue eyes of his associate that sent a bolt through her. This man looked at her with something akin to awe.

She looked down at him, smiling the way she had for hundreds of spectators before. Her hips swung in a seductive rhythm as she kept pace with the rest of the dancers. Blue eyes followed her motions, tracking the sway of her waist, the bounce of her breasts. Michonne felt herself becoming distracted under his unwavering attentions, warm in a way she was unused to. She nearly missed a step.

She forced herself to not look down for the duration of the set, focusing on her movements instead. Her muscles burned, her feet ached, her head throbbed under the weight of her headdress, but she felt exhilarated nonetheless. She was sweating and breathless by the time they retired, exiting the stage to thunderous applause.

"Michonne," the stage director stopped her from changing out of her costume. "They want to meet you,"

"Me?" Michonne asked, startled. The singers often were the sought after ones. As far as she knew, no one had ever requested a dancer by name.

"They asked for the girl with the hair," he shrugged. "That's you." He gestured to the thick coils of her locs, curled and pinned to match the rest of the dancers.

She resented the description, but sought answers. "Who are they?" She questioned.

"Big wig talent agents," the stage director looked her up and down. "I'd leave that costume on if I were you. Maybe lose the top."

Michonne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she pulled a nearly sheer robe over her costume and strode out on her stilettos, projecting a confidence she wasn't sure she felt. The pair in question were still seated at their table. They were dressed to the nines, outfitted in tailored suits, their hair brushed and parted the way the wealthy white men were prone to styling it. Both were handsome, Michonne noticed. Dark eyes had a dangerous sort of appeal. She knew instinctively that he was the kind of man that thrived in Vegas. She would bet that he'd be at the high roller tables within the hour, cigar hanging from his mouth, a woman under one arm, and a drink in the other hand. The other though, his expression betrayed far less. His eyes were still on her, dark blue in the smoky light of the casino. His partner noticed her presence at last, turning in his seat to look at her.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she put on her brightest smile, simpering in her sweetest tones. "How can I help you tonight?"

"What's your name, sweetheart?" The darker haired of the two addressed her. He wore a smirk familiar to her, making no secret of his attraction when his brown eyes roved over her.

"Michonne Marron," she answered, her smile not cracking. This man was becoming less handsome by the moment. Still, she knew that her fellow dancers were crowded just out of sight offstage, watching the exchange. More than a few of them would not be so adverse to his attentions. Opportunity was opportunity, and she wasn't about to squander it because one man had no couth.

"Michonne," the man rolled her name around his mouth, his deep southern accent tripping over the syllables. "I like that." He glanced at his partner. "It's pretty, ain't it, Grimes?"

The man beside him cleared his throat. "Beautiful," he said, his accent just as strong as his cohorts. His gaze remained on her face and not her costume. He took a sip of clear liquid from the tumbler in front of him.

"We were hoping you'd dance for us," the other man spoke. "They say you're one of the best ones here."

Michonne longed to ask who it was who was talking about her. Instead, she widened her smile. "We have another show at midnight," she offered.

"We were thinking something more private," the man said.

His blue-eyed partner threw him an irritated look. He pulled the linen from his lap, setting it on the white tablecloth in front of him before standing. "Michonne," he addressed her directly, "Please sit." He pulled the empty chair at his table out, gesturing to her.

"Always so polite," his cohort mumbled without any real malice. He gestured to a waitress. Michonne busied herself by sitting, arranging her robe so that it did not ride up too high on her legs.

"Can I get you a drink?" the man called Grimes asked her.

Michonne shook her head. "I don't drink at work," she explained, trying to look gracious.

"Looks like you've got something in common," the other man took a healthy pull of his glass of whisky. He turned to the waitress. "Darling, I'm gonna get another one of these," he lifted the empty cup. "And these two are going to get water or something."

Grimes looked towards Michonne, silently prompting her. "Cranberry juice please, Maggie," she told the young waitress.

The green eyes girl nodded. "And you, sir?"

"Water's fine," he smiled politely at her.

The waitress scurried off. Michonne sat silently at the table, her curiosity growing by the moment. The pair of them were better off than she'd first suspected. Silver cufflinks, leather shoes, golden watches… they all made her wonder who exactly she was sitting with. Maggie returned with the drinks. Michonne sipped at hers, the tart tang of the cranberry dancing on her taste buds.

Perhaps the men realized their rudeness because the dark haired man retrieved a cigarette from a case in his jacket pocket before looking towards his partner. "You want to explain why we're here since you've got a problem with how I do it?" he asked sardonically.

Grimes took another sip of his ice water, looking amused. He looked to Michonne again. "We're putting together a new kind of show," he said to her. "The other casinos are looking to follow what the Moulin Rouge is doing here. We're looking for the very best."

"You'd like me to audition?" Michonne's smile grew more genuine.

"We do," he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved a cardboard card. "Give us a call tomorrow and we'll set up a time." His fingers brushed hers as he handed it over.

She read it, noting his first name. Richard Grimes apparently worked as a talent promoter for both the Golden Nugget and the Flamingo. Michonne's heart skipped a beat, rumors of these two hotels tumbling in her mind. "You know gentleman," she began carefully. "I'm quite happy with my place as a chorus girl here."

The other man snorted, blowing out a match as he finished lighting the end of his cigarette. "Is that so, sweetheart?" he asked. "Lanky's hotels too glamorous for you?"

Michonne bit back a rude response, settling instead on widening her smile. "At the Moulin Rouge, when I'm done working, I can sit out here and watch the shows," she gestured to the stage. "Maybe even have a drink. Tell me, will the Flamingo or the Nugget offer me the same courtesy?"

The blue eyed man looked impressed at her gall but his partner flushed. "The girl's got sass," he said around a puff of tobacco. Michonne held his gaze.

"Walsh," Richard Grimes sighed.

"All right," Walsh held his hands out in surrender. "I'm just saying that even Sammy don't complain about the Nugget."

Grimes leveled a look at him that silenced Walsh immediately. He turned his blue eyes back to Michonne. "It's a unique opportunity we're offering," he explained. "I'd appreciate it if you could give me a call." He tapped the card in her hand.

"Well, thank you," she tucked it into her robe pocket. "I'd better go backstage and get ready for the next set."

Grimes nodded, seemingly satisfied. Walsh spoke up again. "Looking forward to seeing your next outfit," he told her.

Michonne offered a simpering laugh before standing. Grimes rose to his feet as she did, holding out a hand for her to shake. She took it, feeling the calloused palm beneath his heavy jewelry. Walsh stood reluctantly as well, offering his hand. The two watched her retreat backstage.

Michonne tried to put the pair out of her mind as she went about preparing for her next set. They were gone when she took the stage again. She danced her way through the rest of the show, happily retiring at night's end. She shook off the questions of her coworkers, insisting that she did not know what the two men wanted. Mob entanglements were a thing that the Moulin Rouge could not afford to mix with. With that in mind, Richard Grimes' business card was tucked safely into her clutch, well out of sight.

Michonne returned home, dumping the contents of her purse atop her dresser as she removed her makeup and crawled into a hot bath. It remained there for three days and nights, hidden beneath tubes of lipstick, compacts of rouge, and crumpled dollar bills. In fact, she didn't think about it at all. It wasn't until she walked into work one evening, dressed in her street clothes, that she remembered their offer.

"Miss Michonne," her name startled her as she walked through the front doors of the Moulin Rouge. The casino was occupied as always, but the day crowd was much more tame than the night. She spun on her heel, taking in the man standing near the slot machines.

"Mr. Grimes," she greeted coolly. He was still in a suit, though his jacket was gone. The pale blue of his cotton shirt suited him incredibly well. In fact, he was more handsome in the light of day than he'd been in the smoky ballroom. He was considerably more at ease without Walsh, leaning casually against the wall.

"They say you're supposed to wait three days to call a girl back," he remarked, his lips quirked at the corners. "I wasn't sure what the protocol is for waiting on a call from a beautiful woman."

Compliments from strangers were nothing new. Her reaction, however, perplexed her. She liked his eyes one her. Michonne paused, hiking her purse higher onto her arm. "Like I said, Mr. Grimes, I appreciate the offer, but I like the Moulin Rouge."

He shrugged, leaving his post on the wall to walk towards her. "I can't blame you," he looked around the casino, clearly impressed. "And you can call me Rick."

"Well, Rick," she smiled, "Thank you for the offer, but I must decline."

"You don't know what the job is," he pointed out.

"I know the resorts you represent used to be Siegel hotels," she fired back.

This time it was he who smiled. "His reputation precedes him," Rick chuckled.

"It does," Michonne confirmed.

Rick stared at her, his eyes narrowed, clearly deep in thought. Michonne's pulse began to raise but she held her ground, refusing to be intimidated.

"All right," he bit his bottom lip, nodding. "I can see you're not going to come work for me." He tucked his hands in his pocket. "Maybe I can convince you of something else." His eyes flicked over her again, taking her in from her black ballet flats to her hastily styled high ponytail.

"What's that?" she asked, throat suddenly tight.

"Have dinner with me," he offered, rocking on the balls of his feet.

"Dinner?" she laughed at the absurdity of it. Whatever she had been expecting, this was not it.

"Dinner," he repeated, grinning just the slightest. "Martin, Davis, and Sinatra are performing this weekend at an event. Come with me."

Michonne gaped, her mind racing to catch up with this new development. "I'll have to work," she said, stammering. "If I miss, I'll lose my spot."

Rick shrugged again. "I'll pick you up after then," he suggested. "Those Rat Pack boys like to party late."

She considered this, her mind warring with her desire. She'd never seen a Vegas show before, not one that she wasn't a part of, at least. "Where's it at?" she questioned cautiously.

"Private party," Rick said. "Sinatra's throwing a shindig." He announced this with the air of a person discussing the weather.

"How did you get invited to that?" she asked, impressed despite herself.

Rick grinned outright this time. "If you'd have called me back, you might already know," he teased.

Michonne shook her head, attempting to hide her amusement. "And if you show up with me on your arm…" she began.

"I'm going to make a hell of a lot of men at that party jealous," he finished for her. He stepped even closer to her, standing just out of reach. Michonne could smell the sharp scent of his cologne, could see the curls of his hair struggling to free themselves from his slicked back coif. "What do you say, Michonne?" he asked. "Saturday night?"

She considered, weighing the pros and cons. "I'll be done at midnight," she said at last. "What should I wear?"

"You seem like the type of gal with fashion sense," his eyes darted over belted black dress. "I don't think I need to tell you how to dress."

Michonne inhaled. "Then I guess I'll see you Saturday, Rick." She stepped backwards.

"See you Saturday, Michonne," he called after her, watching as she walked away. She chanced a glance at him over her shoulder, flushing when he smiled at her and waved. She quickened her steps, embarrassed.

"I see ol' blue eyes came back for you," one of the girls observed as Michonne entered the dressing room, breathless. "What did he want this time?"

Michonne set her purse down and flipped the switch to her vanity, illuminating her makeup table.

"I'm not sure," she said truthfully, sitting down to fuss with her hair, trying to calm her sudden onslaught of nerves. "But I think I have a date on Saturday."