Chapter Text
"lemon scented disinfectant and despair."
Georgia Catalyst smells like a mix of lemon scented disinfectant and despair on days like today. Michonne knows that even if the smell fades, it’ll continue to linger in the air just like the memory of Lizzy's Floral Arrangements officially closing down.
It’s not their fault; they did everything they could to help keep the business up and running for another 3 months. But Ryan Samuels was burnt out after the loss of his late wife, and the safest option for his family was selling his shop and getting a factory job for a more stable income.
Ezekiel King III, Michonne’s eccentric boss, is still managing to find a way to blame everyone currently sitting in the stuffy conference room though. He’s been on a tirade for the past twenty minutes, and by the time Ezekiel lifts a framed photo of the floral shop, Michonne knows this is going to go on for at least another half hour.
When Michonne got accepted into this paid internship, she felt as if all her dreams were coming true. Growing up in the city of Atlanta, small businesses similar to Lizzie’s Florals gave her core memories that she cherished. When the small Black-Owned bakery she visited every Tuesday during college suddenly had a “Closing Soon” sign and two months later a Starbucks opened in the same spot, Michonne knew she wanted to work towards saving her community from gentrification.
Getting a paid one-year internship at Georgia Catalyst was the perfect first step towards her dream career.
She just didn’t think her boss would be so annoying.
She presses her lips together trying not to laugh at her best friend. They met as burnt out college students studying late in the campus library, and have been attached ever since. Sasha got a full time position at Georgia Catalyst immediately after she graduated. Although she would never admit it, Michonne knows that Sasha put in a good word for her before her interview with the company.
Before she can reply ‘Zeke was definitely a theater kid forced into a business degree’, she gets a notification from Instagram.
Michonne Hawthorne has a guilty pleasure.
It started last week when she was aimlessly scrolling through her Instagram feed during a particularly boring lunch break. The pizza that Jerry ordered for everyone was half Hawaiian and half Pepperoni because no one could decide, and Michonne didn’t have it in her heart to say she didn’t like either flavor.
She was nibbling on the crust and scrolling through #foodporn when @ColtPython popped up.
The camera was angled low, only showing his messy kitchen counter, his hands kneading a ball of dough and his biceps flexing with each roll of his palms.
Watching him cook was a bit mesmerizing. He was all precise and even though she couldn’t see his face, she could see his passion for cooking in all of his movements. Or maybe she was just overanalyzing a hot guy cooking on the internet shirtless.
He slapped the dough ball, and she slammed her phone on the table as if she was watching something she wasn’t supposed to. The look Andrea gave her across the table that day made her cheeks flush in embarrassment.
When Michonne clicked on his profile when she got home, there were less than twenty posts and the majority of them were shirtless pictures, crotch shots and cooking tutorials. Judging by the comments underneath those, nobody is ever focused on his recipes for pecan pie or cornbread.
Michonne doesn’t have the confidence to click on the link to his OnlyFans in his bio yet. She also doesn’t have the confidence to follow his Instagram account, but she has his notifications on so that she’s updated on his…content.
“Michonne, am I bothering you?” Ezekiel’s voice booms through the conference room.
The sound of her boss’s voice causes her to drop her phone on the glass table.
Everyone’s eyes are on her. Michonne starts overheating, and it’s not just because she was ogling a thirst trap on Instagram in the middle of a work meeting.
“N-no. Of course not, Zeke.”
“Are you sure? Obviously something on your phone is more important than what I’m saying.”
“Nothing is more important than losing a local business. I was just looking for…lunch spots because I’m treating the office…” She says the sentence like it’s more of a question.
The silence in the room is extremely awkward, as if everyone is waiting for Ezekiel to catch her in the obvious lie and scream at her.
“That sounds like something we need after a day like today.” Michonne breathes a sigh of relief. “You can leave now. I want you to come back with lunch from a local restaurant.”
Usually when Ezekiel gives anyone in the office a task, it’s because he sees their potential. Jerry was assigned to find a vinyl record shop in their neighborhood on a random Thursday afternoon, and a week after his success he was promoted to assistant manager.
“And I want it to be from a place we haven’t tried. You have 45 minutes.”
“I won’t let you down.” She replies. Michonne stands up all dramatic, and strolls out of the office with determination.
Michonne had to squeeze her Volkswagen bug into the last spot on the side of the busy street. Before she slides her last quarter in the meter’s slot, she flips the coin to determine if she’s going to walk left or right to find a new restaurant.
It’s tails, which means she’s walking left.
Michonne doesn’t like using Google to find small businesses. She likes stumbling into them with no plans or motivations. It’s how she’s found the cutest cat cafe (where she adopted her cat Catana three years ago), and how she found the best Shawarma restaurant in Atlanta.
She’s walking in 4” heels in the sweltering Georgia heat, and she’s five minutes away from just giving up on finding a new place and telling Ezekiel she failed. But that’s never been how Michonne operates.
And also, she turns the corner and sees two men fighting outside of a restaurant on the corner of the street underneath a projecting sign that says Grimes’ Garage.
Michonne almost doesn’t want to walk to the restaurant, but a couple walk past her holding two styrofoam containers stacked on top of each other. The smell of barbecue sauce and fresh cornbread waft through the air when they walk past her.
The scent makes her remember being young and helping her grandmother clean her collard greens the night before Thanksgiving, and waking up extra early on Sunday mornings to pick ripe green tomatoes with her mom in their garden before church.
And then the couple that walked past her mumbled, "He's such a dick, but at least the recipe hasn't changed since Clay died. It’s actually kind of better."
That’s when Michonne decides Grimes’ Garage is the lunch spot for the day.
“You were sellin’ out the goddamn drive thru window?!” A man with shaggy brown hair and a cut on his thin lower lip pushes the older man in front of him.
“I’m helpin’ out more than you are, baby brother. You’re just wipin’ tables and scaring people away. And with all that yellin’ you’re doing, the cops are gonna come you fuckin’ idiot.”
“You’re the one yellin’!”
Before the redneck’s fist collides with his brother’s face, a young Asian guy runs out of the restaurant and pulls him away.
“Stop! You guys are scaring away the customers!” On cue, two elderly ladies cling to the edge of the sidewalk as they’re walking past. Their eyes are obviously glancing at the three people arguing. “Daryl, get inside. Merle, go home and come back tomorrow.”
The mediator has his hands on his hips, obviously in distress watching Merle reluctantly walk off towards a rusted pick-up truck.
Michonne must look like a deer in headlights standing a few paces away from the entrance and clutching her purse for dear life, because the Asian gives her a small smile and his customer service voice comes out.
“Hey! Come on in, we’re still open!”
Both him and ‘Daryl’ walk in, as they just know she’s going to follow and she just didn’t witness something she should probably call the police about.
But she has a good 25 minutes before she has to get back to the office, so with a deep breath she walks inside.
Grimes’ Garage smells like pure southern comfort and looks like it would’ve had the charm as well…if it weren’t for the flickering lights, grease stained tables and the woman in front of her yelling at the man behind the counter.
“I called over the phone and whoever answered said you catered. Now you suddenly don’t?”
The man behind the counter has a ‘Rick’ nametag and baby blue eyes that just so happen to be glaring at the woman in front of him. His jaw is clenched and he looks like he’s struggling not to yell in her face. He’s gripping the edge of the wooden counter.
“Ma’am…it was probably the previous owner. We currently don’t have enough staff to cater a wedding.”
“Call the previous owner then.” She yells with a wave of her head and a condescending voice. “Call him right now. I’ll wait.”
“I would, but he’s 6 feet under the ground so I doubt he’d answer.” His eyes squint and the sarcastic smile on his face stops Michonne from gasping out loud and clutching her imaginary pearls.
This is like a soap opera.
“Who’s your manager? Bring him out.”
After an irritated nod and a slam of his notepad on the counter, Rick walks to the back of the kitchen.
And then he walks back out.
“I’m the manager. What’s the problem?”
The woman is fuming; her cheeks turning red and Michonne thinks she’s about to storm out. But then Rick makes the stupid decision to keep talking.
“And I’m also the owner so if I tell you there’s no more catering, there’s no more fucking catering. Now get out.”
Hardly a second passes before they both start yelling at the same time. There’s cursing and yelling coming from the back of the kitchen and the front of the restaurant - and Michonne swears she hears a baby crying somewhere - until an older woman with short gray hair walks out from the back and everything dies down a little. She whispers something to Rick before she escorts the fuming customer out with apologies and a back rub.
Rick storms off to the back, yelling “Shane, get the next person!” Then a bulky man wearing a sweaty t-shirt and a dirty apron comes out to take her order.
“What does the pretty lady want?”
“Shane, don’t call women that. We’ve told you a thousand times.” The older woman shimmies past Shane; apparently having successfully calmed down the bridezilla.
That’s when she remembered that she didn’t even know what to order, and the menu above Shane on the back wall was so faded and illegible that she probably needed a good ten minutes to actually choose something.
“Can you surprise me? I’m getting lunch for my co-workers and I have to be back in the office in like…25 minutes. I’d appreciate anything you can throw together to feed 12 people.”
“Anything for you, princess.”
“Don’t call her that either!” Someone yells in the back.
“I’ll be back, I’m gonna ask the boss man what he can make you real quick. Glenn, ring her out!”
Glenn - the nice guy from earlier that surprisingly doesn’t look the least bit startled despite everything that happened - goes from cleaning the tables near a jukebox in the corner to jogging to the spot Shane was in earlier.
“What did you order?” He asks with a smile on his face. The only one she’s seen in this chaotic restaurant since she walked in.
“Um…I just asked him to give me anything that’ll feed 12 people. I don’t know what that is on the menu…” She doesn’t know anything that’s on the menu, actually.
Glenn leans over the counter.
“Don’t say anything, but it’s on the house.”
Michonne’s eyebrows furrow.
“What’s on the house? The food?”
“It’s our apology for everything you witnessed today. We’re not usually like this.” There’s a crash from the kitchen. “We’re a great family establishment-”
“Fuck! Who used my knife and didn’t sharpen it?!”
Glenn cringes and hangs his head.
“I’m sure you are…” Subconsciously, Michonne starts playing with the tennis bracelet on her wrist.
“You’re not a lawyer by the way, are you? Or like…in law enforcement at all?”
Before Michonne can answer, Rick comes out holding two white plastic bags in one hand. She’s nervous the styrofoam containers stacked inside will burst when he places them on the wooden counter.
“Charge her $30.” Is all the owner says before storming back off yelling about a bandaid.
The duality of men is fascinating.
“There’s no way you’re giving me all this food for free. I promise I won’t call the cops about what happened…earlier.”
“It’s fine-”
“Glenn.” With everything that happened, going on a first name basis feels natural. “I’m not doing that. And $30 is a steal. That’s ridiculous.”
“Well it’s usually $35 but Rick’s mad right now and probably forgot.”
“No. Nope, I’m not doing that.” Michonne pulls a bill out of her wallet. She thinks it’s a $50 bill, but when it’s face up on the counter Benjamin Franklin is staring back up at her. At this point, she doesn’t even care. She has less than 15 minutes to get back to the office after this debacle.
She grabs her bags of food, leaving a stunned Glenn and walks out.
This food better be worth it.
When Michonne opens the door to Ezekiel’s office, he’s still eating the food from Grimes’ Garage.
“You did a good job finding this place.” He mumbles with a mouthful of macaroni and cheese.
So he’s the one that took the rest.
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. The restaurant I went to earlier.” With the wave of his hand, Michonne gets non verbal permission to sit across from her boss. “I did some research on my lunch break. They’ve been in business since 1989 and the owner Clay Grimes passed away months ago. They’re hanging on by a thread, Zeke.” During her lunch break, she chaotically ate, researched and printed anything she needed for this inevitable intervention with her boss. “Here’s a comparison of their reviews from last year to this year.”
“You figured all this out in thirty minutes?”
Michonne Hawthorne has never waited to get what she wants. Her father told her she had to work twice as hard as everyone else when she was 12, and she’s never forgotten it. From being in the honors society in high school to graduating as valedictorian at Spelman, she’s always worked to get everything she wants in life.
She’s never passed up an opportunity for success in her 24 years of life, and she’s not about to now.
Michonne wants a coveted spot at Georgia Catalyst, and she’s going to get it.
“I want to help them.” She insists. “If you give me three months, I can fix Grimes’ Garage.”
It’s quiet as Ezekiel is looking through the stack of papers Michonne placed on his desk. He’s never this quiet. She stares at the photo of a tiger on his wall instead of watching his every movement.
“You think you can fix this place in three months? Why?” He looks up at her and crosses his arms on his steel desk. “What’s so special about it?”
“I mean, clearly the food is good.” She waves her hand towards his empty plate, but he doesn’t laugh at her poor attempt at a joke. Her throat clears before continuing.
“I don’t want this place to be another empty building like Lizzy’s Florals. When I walked in I immediately thought of my mom. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a dump and she’s probably looking down at me and glaring right now. But…in an odd way it was the personification of southern charm. There’s so much potential, Zeke. I really need you to trust me on this.” Fidgeting hands and the picking of her nails are the only thing that shows her anxiety.
“And it looked so bad in there that if the food wasn’t bad I wouldn’t be in here asking you for this opportunity but-” Ezekiel can tell she’s rambling at this point, so he finally interrupts.
“I’ll have Jerry and-”
“No. I want to do it alone. I’m asking you to trust me on this.” Michonne is all faux confidence that only a perfectionist or actor can replicate.
The scent of lemon disinfectant and despair start to tickle her nose, but it disappears when her boss finally speaks up after a few moments.
“You have two months and I want a weekly report including their progress. If you can actually get this done-”
He can’t finish his sentence because Michonne lets out a squeal of excitement.
“I won’t let you down!"
To celebrate her success, Michonne opened a bottle of wine she’d been saving since her birthday last year. Whether it’s from pent up excitement or the alcohol in her system, she can’t sleep. Her tossing and turning irritated Catana so much that her cat sprawled on the edge of the bed instead of sleeping close by.
After thirty minutes of unsuccessful attempts at falling asleep, she finally pulls out her phone to bore herself. She’s in the middle of the 213th level of Candy Crush when Instagram sends her a notification.
@ColtPython posted a new story.
She finishes the game level before clicking on it.
He’s only wearing sweatpants in front of his floor length mirror. The phone is in front of his face to hide his identity, and most importantly his dick is clearly outlined through the material of his pants.
Her phone is so close to her face that she almost drops it on her head. The caption is simple: Thanks for joining.
He attached a link to his OnlyFans right underneath.
In theory Michonne knows sex can be a lovely thing. There’s no need for shame or embarrassment when it’s mentioned. But that doesn’t change the fact that pleasure is something she’s never been comfortable with.
Her friends have always been confident when expressing their desires and stories about one night stands. They also made sure to communicate with her that it’s not her fault for never having an orgasm.
She got her first boyfriend in her first year in college. Mike was more experienced than her, but still came before she’d start getting into it. She told herself it was okay; that she loved connecting with Mike and an orgasm wasn’t actually necessary. He never validated her though; he never told her how beautiful she was any time she gave herself to him.
Her second boyfriend Spencer never gave her an orgasm either. She was always too in her head when she was with him; wondering how he viewed her because he’d never talk. He’d just grunt on top of her and she felt more like a ragdoll than a desirable woman. One time she practiced for an interview in her head while they were fucking.
That’s when Michonne started assuming she was the problem. She knows sex could be a wonderful experience. She just... she has trouble doing it. Partly because of failed experiences with disappointing men, and partly because of overthinking it all.
Sasha, Andrea and Rosita brought her a vibrator for her 24th birthday, and it’s still in her nightstand drawer untouched. Her face goes warm every time she looks at it, a warmth pools in her belly and then a wave of awkwardness hits her.
As a matter of fact, she’s feeling the same exact way while looking at ColtPython’s Instagram story.
Before she can overthink it - like she does everything else - she clicks on the link. The webpage immediately tells her to make an account so that she can view his profile.
That’s when she should stop. But she doesn’t. Instead, Michonne is sinking deeper into her bed so she can’t look at Catana’s judgmental face while she makes an account.
ColtPython’s page is as racy as she thought it would be. Which isn’t disappointing because her thighs are already pressed together looking at a photo of his hand in his sweatpants gripping his enlarged cock.
Not all of it is risqué though. There’s a video of him cooking in nothing but an apron, and some of the same photos that are on his Instagram.
There’s a few blurry pictures and videos blocked by a subscription fee. She’s not awake enough to pull out her credit card and spend money - especially since she just spent $100 on lunch when she could’ve gotten it free.
Instead, she throws her phone on her nightstand and turns on her side. Sleep comes easier when she’s not thinking about ColtPython or her job.