A/N: Thanks again, and please check out the accompanying art by finding msdoomandgloom on Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram

This is not how Rick had imagined his night would unfold.

He'd planned the details down to the most miniscule, searching for the jewels that would best compliment Michonne's complexion, finessing his way into dinner reservations at an establishment that frequented the Hollywood elite. He'd even reserved a room, or a suite rather, with a view he knew she would love, the desert out beyond, the neon lights of Vegas below. Two tickets to spirit them off to Paris were folded neatly into his wallet, his best suit was pressed, and the little velvet box was burning a hole into his jacket pocket. Everything was in place, ready for the moment of truth.

And Rick was sitting in a jail cell in a Vegas police department, wondering how the hell it had all escalated so quickly.

His knuckles smarted and were bruising already, and there was a cut beneath his eye going black and blue. Rick's mind was not on these inconveniences, but on Michonne instead. Her show would be ending soon, and she would be waiting for him in their usual spot. He wondered whether she would worry, how long she might stand in the dark, looking for his blue Cadillac to come around the corner.

"Mr. Grimes," an officer peered in at him through the bars. They'd had the good sense to move the other man to the drunk tank, far out of Rick's line of sight. He was liable to be charged with something much worse than disorderly conduct if he had to listen to another word that spewed out of his mouth. Perhaps his cracked front teeth would remind the stranger that where Michonne was concerned, he ought to keep his fat mouth shut.

Michonne was used to strangers staring at her, but for Rick, it was an adjustment. She was a beautiful woman, made all the more stunning in her costumes and silks. Admiration he could understand; he might have even been able to tolerate a lecherous leer or two. But he found that eyes were often on the pair of them, some curious, some appraising, some full of a terrible judgment that sent rage boiling through his veins. He'd learned to temper it, to angle himself between those hateful eyes and his love, to turn his back before the situation could get too out of control. He knew it bothered Michonne though she did not show it. She kept her head high, her chin up, but her hand would squeeze at his like he was a lifeline, a silent acknowledgment that this world of theirs had far to go where fair treatment was concerned.

There were theaters that he no longer frequented, friendships that he'd left fall to the wayside, business partnerships that he dissolved at once - all based on a flippant comment that some might have called a joke. He rarely disclosed these instances to Michonne, though he suspected she knew despite his discretion. This world might have been new to Rick, but it was the whole of her life, a daily struggle that she'd learned to weather long ago.

So the eyes followed them, on red carpets, in bars, in picture shows, at the pool, in casinos, hotels, and the like. Rick did his best to ignore it. There were some instances, however, that he could not disregard.

"Yes?" his voice was terse, but he could not help it, not even to garner softer treatment from the officers here.

"You know who you want to call?" The officer was short on patience. Rick couldn't say he entirely blamed him. The drunk tank was swarming already, and it wasn't even 1 in the morning yet.

"Yeah," Rick nodded, sucking at his teeth. "I know who I want to call."

"Jail?" the phone was rough against Rick's ear as he listened to his friend's voice come down the line. "Holy shit, Grimes, did we switch places? Is this some kind of a bad joke?"

"I wish it was," Rick held in his sigh. Shane Walsh's surprise was to be expected.

"What the hell are you in jail for?" his director asked him, half-amused, half-aghast.

"You saw the Enquirer?" Rick asked in return.

The humor slipped from Shane's voice all at once. "Shit...yeah. I was hoping you wouldn't see it tonight. Did your girl-"

"I don't know," the thought haunted Rick enough as it was. "Some pencil-necked idiot was waving it in my face at the bar tonight, asking if it was true."

"Of course it ain't," Shane fired up at once.

"I told him so," Rick's fist flexed involuntarily, sending a shock of pain racing up his arm.

"What he'd say?" Shane asked, voice rough.

"A bunch of shit he won't be saying again," Rick glanced down the narrow concrete hallway, squinting towards the drunk tank. He couldn't see the man anymore, but he supposed they might have taken him to see a doctor by now.

"You knock his face in?" Shane sounded almost proud.

"Not his whole face," though it wasn't from lack of trying. "He's gonna need a good dentist though."

"Attaboy," Shane applauded him. "You need me to come bail you out?"

"I do," Rick nodded. Shane owned him a couple anyway. "But I need you to go to the club first, pick up Michonne."

"Does she know?" Shane asked.

"She will soon," Rick sighed.

"Wasn't tonight your big night?" Shane asked suddenly, as though he'd only just remembered.

"Was supposed to be," Rick swallowed, examining his reflection in the chrome box of the payphone. If the tabloid rags thought he was a mobster before, that shiner forming under his eye wasn't going to help his cause.

"Shit Rick," Shane snorted. "You've got some damn bad timing."

"You'll pick her up?" Rick pressed.

"Yeah," Shane agreed. "Then we'll come spring ya."

He hung up without another word. Rick set the phone back in its cradle. The officer was waiting for him at the end of the hall. Rick traipsed back towards him as casually as he could manage.

"I saw your new show," the officer told him conversationally.

Rick glanced at him. "That so?" he asked.

The officer nodded. "Me and the wife. It was pretty good. It ain't the Rat Pack, but that girl of yours, she can dance."

Rick nodded. "She can." It was an understatement, but frankly, he was tired of correcting people tonight.

"Isn't it weird though?" The officer pressed. "You being you and her being-"

Rick froze, eyes narrowing. The cop wisely stopped mid-sentence.

"Only thing weird about it as how folks like you treat us," Rick imparted. He sped up his gait, eager to be back in the cell and away from this man. He'd go to prison for sure if he stayed much longer.

"I ain't got nothing against it," the officer held up a palm in surrender. "I gotta say, I get it. She's a mighty fine lady. But your children...what are they going to be like?"

Rick had given much consideration to this thought. When it passed his mind, he imagined a daughter with Michonne's hair and talents, sons with personalities like his and skin like their mother's. He kept silent on this, resolving to get himself in no more trouble today.

"I'm just saying," the officer finished, shutting the cell door again. "It's something to think about."

Drunks began pouring in by the dozen, saving Rick from the indignity of any further inquiries from the supposedly well-meaning police officer. The drunk tank filled up, so they started loading them in with Rick. Rick kept to the corners and away from the staggering and vomiting rabble, counting down the seconds before Shane got there.

It was Michonne he saw first, still in her stage makeup, clutching her coat over her. She rushed forward towards him but was stopped by another officer. Rick stood at once and pressed against the bars, watching her.

"She's with me," Shane swept in, voice loud and barking. He stepped to Michonne's side, putting himself between her and the cops. "We're here to pick up that one," he pointed at Rick.

"Oh," the officer was caught off guard. "He's gonna need bail," the officer explained.

"Do I look like I don't got it?" Shane challenged.

Michonne's eyes remained on Rick through the process, clouded with something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He waited anxiously until the cell doors were open. She was in his arms within seconds. Again, the eyes were on them, but Rick couldn't have cared any less.

"Are you ok?" he asked her, smoothing her hair between his hands.

She laughed, bewildered. "Me?" she questioned. Her fingers traced his bruising eye. "Rick, what happened?"

"I'll explain," he promised, kissing her forehead.

"Alright," the officer announced loudly. "So we got one suit jacket, one watch, a wallet, cufflinks and-" he set the belongings on the counter one by one. "One ring, still in its box."

Michonne's eyes widened as she looked at it, the question written all over her face. Rick hastily gathered his things.

"Are we good?" he asked the officer.

"Guy says he won't press charges. Wants to avoid any...entanglements." The officer paused on that word. Rick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "So we're good. Don't go knocking anymore teeth into skulls."

"Got it," Rick couldn't promise he wouldn't, but he was eager to get out of here. "My car?"

"Impound," the officer pointed. "You gotta wait until morning for that. No one's there now."

They left, Michonne clinging to Rick's hand, the air heavy between them. The walk from the front door of the precinct to Shane's black Cadillac seemed to last hours. Michonne was uncharacteristically quiet, her fingers laced tightly around his. Rick slid into the backseat alongside her, wrapping his arm around her waist. She leaned into him, still clinging to his hand. The radio droned on in the background, a mixture of big band hits and recaps of the baseball game. Rick barely heard it. There was a ringing in his ears, a heady mix of emotion that left him exhausted.

"Well," Shane pulled up to Rick's place, throwing his car into park. "Call me if you need a ride in the morning."

"I'll get a cab," Rick told him. He shook his friend's hand. "I owe you."

Shane just shrugged. "Gotta figure we're almost even now." He looked in the backseat where Michonne was at Rick's side. "Go easy on him, alright?" he suggested.

Michonne nodded. Her lips were pursed, that question still swirling behind her dark eyes.

"I'll see you soon," Rick told Shane, helping her out of the car.

His house was blessedly quiet as they entered. The air conditioner kicked on when he flipped the switch, cooling the stale air. He hadn't planned on returning here for two weeks at least. He was glad for the solitude now though. Michonne left her heels in the foyer and her purse on the couch before turning to him.

"Guess I owe you an explanation," Rick draped his jacket over the counter, suddenly nervous. His suit was wrinkled, his tie askew. He tugged it off, waiting for his girlfriend to speak.

"You hit someone," she said calmly. She was still in costume, the sequins of her short and tight little dress catching under the light from the ceiling. He wondered what she had danced tonight, whether the crowd had liked it.

"I did," Rick said. His knuckles were swelling already. Michonne looked at them before sweeping off to his kitchen, Rick hot on her heels. She retrieved a frozen steak from the freezer before wrapping it in a dish towel. She pressed it to his hand. The cold was instantly soothing.

"He was talking about me? About us?" she asked. There was something carefully controlled in her tone that Rick recognized instantly.

"He won't be anymore," Rick promised her. He pushed a stray loc back from her face, needing to see her expression.

Michonne sighed. Her eyes filled with tears suddenly. Rick closed the distance between them at once, holding her close.

"Michonne," he began, seeking to soothe her.

"They're always going to say those things, Rick," she cried into his dress shirt, makeup running. "Always."

He knew the truth of her words, even if he didn't have the wherewithal to articulate how sad that it made him. "Good thing I hit hard," he remarked, rubbing his uninjured hand down her back.

She began to laugh, shaking her head through her tears. "Was it the Enquirer?" she asked. "One of the girls showed me. She says we can probably sue."

"I called my lawyer already," he told her. Maybe he wasn't a mobster, but he did have connections, and he intended to use them. He kissed Michonne's forehead, allowing his lips to linger. "I'm sorry, baby," he whispered. He wished she knew just how sorry he was.

She nodded again. "Me too," she sighed. She pulled back an inch. Rick used the dishtowel to wipe her face. He tossed it in the sink once he'd cleared the makeup and tears away.

"I had a suite booked tonight," he said, holding her again. "We could catch a cab, if you wanted to." Perhaps he could salvage what was left of the night, get them back on the right track.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, looking up at him, her eyes tinged pink from her tears. "What's the occasion for that?" she asked, swallowing thickly.

He had planned to surprise her over champagne and steak, to make love to her afterwards in a California King bed. Still, he found himself dropping to his right knee, fishing the little box from his pocket. The kitchen tile was unforgiving beneath his leg, but he balanced anyway looking up at Michonne. Her breath hitched at once. Her hand, still in his, began to tremble.

"Michonne," he began. "It's been a really good year." The best of his life, despite the whispers and stares. "I've never been so happy."

"Me neither," her voice was quiet, high, as though she barely trusted her ability to speak.

"I was thinking," he cleared his throat, trying to remember what he'd planned to say and coming up completely blank. "We love each other. And it doesn't matter if they stare, or what they say. I want to spend my life with you. And if you do too…"

"I do," she assured him, shaking like a leaf now.

A smile split his face. "Then we should get married," he held up the ring. The platinum band caught the kitchen light, the rubies glinting.

"I think you're right," her voice was strained, tears beginning again.

Rick slipped the ring up her left-hand ring finger. It looked just as beautiful as he'd imagined against her skin. He stood up, kissing her soundly, ignoring the sting of his bruised face as their lips met. "I had a whole plan tonight," he whispered to her, regretful.

She crushed her mouth to his, her lips parted, her hands scrambling to grab a hold of his shoulders. She always kissed like this, with reckless abandon, like it might be the last time. Rick held her, hefting her against him, his hands running familiar trails down her body.

"I don't want to share you tonight," she whispered against his mouth.

Rick understood the sentiment. He picked her up, carrying her to his bedroom. The first time they'd been together, it had been a frantic tumble on his desk in his office. They'd been together hundreds of time since, in a hundred locations. It seemed right tonight that they be in the bed that would soon belong to the pair of them.

It was hard to undress them both with a bruised hand but Michonne assisted, tossing his clothes around like confetti. He stroked his palms up her bare legs, touching her the way she liked until her head flung backwards into the pillows. He wanted to take his time with her, but the heat of her, her plaintive moans, the way she wrapped her legs around him and squeezed made him sure she wouldn't mind if they got right to the main act.

They had the rest of their lives to go slow.

She fit him like a glove to a hand, the tight heat of her making his knees weak as it always did. He really was the luckiest sonofabitch on Earth. Of all the men that could have been at her beck and call, she'd chosen him.

"God, Michonne," he braced himself on his forearms, bending to kiss her as they moved together. He licked and sucked at her neck, in the space he knew made her squirm. She held on, urging him forward, one hand sprawled across his back, the other grasping at his waist and ass.

"Rick," he liked his name best this way, half-sighed, half-moaned while he was inside of her. He kissed her again, unable and unwilling to break their connection. "Harder, baby," she begged. "Please…" her words broke off when he complied, leaning up to go deeper. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, leaning forward until she was nearly split in half.

Michonne had never been shy when it came to sex. Tonight was no different. Her pleasured cries were loud enough to echo, uninhibited. He knew he was making plenty of noise of his own.

"You're so beautiful, baby," his voice was a clipped growl in her ear. She tightened around him as he spoke. "So damn perfect." There were a million things he loved about Michonne, the sound of her voice, the way she danced, her laugh, her walk, the feel of her skin. He loved the way she never hesitated to chastise him when he was being stubborn, that she would sit up with him watching tape of dancers for hours on end. He loved that she would show up at the studio, dinner in hand, to help him edit, loved that she practiced her choreography in front of him before each big performance. He loved that her friends all knew his name, loved that her parents wanted him over for Christmas, loved that when it was just the two of them nothing else seemed to matter in this whole cruel world.

Her hands found purchase around his biceps, her new ring pressing into his skin until it was sure to leave a mark. Her eyes were on his, no longer tear-drenched, but now glowing with something that made him sure that they were going to be alright, that they were sure to make it. She tangled her hand into his hair, pulling his face down to kiss him again.

"I love you," she promised against his mouth. "So much baby," she tightened around him. "So damn much."

He fell over the edge before she did, but reached for her again, rubbing until she screamed outright. Their skin was slick against one another, a contrast of color that they had both stopped noticing long ago. He kissed her, leisurely this time, enjoying the sensation as she eagerly reciprocated.

Michonne reached for her hand, inspecting the knuckles under the light of the lamp. She kissed each one, then his bruised eye in turn. "This isn't going to be easy, you know," she whispered, her eyes on his.

"I know," he'd known before he ever asked her to dinner, before he'd picked her up at the Moulin Rouge, before they'd ever stepped foot into that first party together. From the moment he had seen that bright smile of hers up on stage, he had been sure she was worth any inconvenience the world could conceive to throw at them. "You know what we have is worth it, right?" he asked her in turn.

She smiled brightly, stroking her hand down to his chin. "I know," she confirmed, kissing him gently.

"I had another surprise too," he told her, nuzzling closer to her. "One that damn cop didn't manage to ruin," he swallowed the anger, focusing instead on Michonne.

She laughed lightly, a musical sound, "I was still surprised," she promised him.

"That I was in jail, or that I was planning to propose?" he asked, half-joking.

She laughed all the more. "I thought you might be thinking about it," she admitted. "But-"

He cut her off, kissing her soundly until she melted against him. "No buts," he told her. Grinning, he reached beneath her to smack her on the ass. "This one's the only one that matters."

She threw her head back, giggling. "Rick," she admonished. "That was awful."

He only smiled. "Stay here," he begged, leaning up.

"I'm not going anywhere," she assured him. She watched curiously from the tangle of sheets as he found his suit pants and retrieved his wallet. The tickets were blessedly no worse for the wear. He held them up for her inspection. "Paris is supposed to be really nice at Christmas," he said.

Her eyes widened. "Rick, are you serious?"

He nodded, handing them to her. "Sammy suggested it. Said there's lots of nice things about Paris. I thought maybe we'd go have a look."

"There's no return flight," she said, surprised.

Rick shrugged. "We can always book it from there," he tried to keep his tone light. "There's no need to rush it. You earned a vacation." She hadn't had a real night off in months.

She stared up at him, her face lit up with excitement. "What if we end up loving it?"

"They've got dancers there, same as here," he said. "Got a friend out that's been begging me to help him with a show. They'll need a choreographer too," he told her. "If we like it."

She considered this, carefully controlled wonder sparkling behind her eyes. "If we like it," she repeated. She handed the tickets back to him. Rick reached over to stow them in his wallet again. From behind, Michonne wrapped her arms around him, her palms stroking down his waist, skimming over him until his breath caught.

"Already?" he chuckled knowingly. He'd heard other couples complain about a lack of enthusiasm in bed, but so far, he and Michonne hadn't struggled on that front.

"Shane said you knocked that guy's teeth in," her voice was husky, her hands wandering.

Rick turned, surprised by her reaction. "Broke a few of them," he admitted.

Michonne crawled into his lap, straddling him. "I hope you didn't stain your suit," she remarked, settling in his lap.

"No," Rick confirmed, holding her tightly. "But his is ruined."

She grinned outright. "You probably shouldn't make a habit of it," she cautioned.

"No?" Rick lifted her then tugged her down again. She cried out as he filled her. "If they keep their mouths shut, I'll stop breaking teeth."

She braced herself on his shoulders, lips parted, eyes heavily lidded. Rick watched, entranced as she bounced.

"Besides," he continued, laving at one nipple, then the other. "Kinda seems like you like it."

She didn't bother to protest, only moving more fervently. Rick cupped her cheeks in his hands, urging her down faster.

By the time they finished, Rick was glad that they'd skipped the hotel, if only to spare the salacious tabloid headlines about how loud the couple could be in the bedroom. He watched Michonne as she slept, her face buried in the crook of his arm, completely at rest. From the corner, the record player crooned softly, a familiar song.

A cigarette that bears a lipsticks traces

An airline ticket to romantic places

And still my heart has wings

These foolish things remind me of you

A week later, the skin around his eye was more yellow than purple, prompting funny stares as he moved through the airport with Michonne on his arm. Rick barely noticed, his attention on his fiancée, and not the nosy rabble around them.

It wasn't long before they stared in Paris too, but only because they recognized Michonne from the posters around town. A month turned into two, then three, until Rick stopped counting. Vegas would be there, along with his office, his connections, his house. He knew he'd return, and Michonne with him, but he was in no hurry.

Not every guy was lucky enough to travel the world with the love of their life. If they stared, let them stare.

As long as they kept their mouths shut, he wouldn't have to break anymore teeth.