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From the staircase, Jesus leads them into a hallway. It’s too open, wide enough to lay comfortably across and far too long to outpace an enemy. If compromised, there would be nowhere to hide or reassess.
That was probably the point, Michonne concedes. She’d felt a distinct plantation vibe just at the sight of the mansion. This hallway and the comment about windows that could see for miles only confirmed her suspicions.
“There are several bathrooms, but only a few showers,” Jesus continues. He pauses for a moment, probably expecting an interruption. However, the last thing anyone wants to do is get naked and vulnerable in an untested territory, and so the silence lingers.
It grows and festers until Maggie seizes both the moment and Glenn, disappearing behind the first open door.
Abraham can’t hold back a laugh. He ducks his head down and smirks, but when he looks up after composing himself his eyes lock onto Rick (and by proxy, Michonne) and his face burns as red as his hair all over again.
“Like I said,” Jesus hedges awkwardly. “There are only a few showers, but there are at least a dozen washrooms. Gregory is a pain, but he won’t fight you if all you do is clean your face.”
“It would be rude of us to refuse your hospitality,” Rick says, the tone of a Good Southern Gentleman tiptoeing sarcastically over his hostility. “We’ll wash up properly.”
He heads into a bedroom and then infuriatingly, frustratingly, predictably—he stands at the door and asks, “Michonne?”
She buries her head in her hands as he closes the door behind her. “You’re gonna kill me, Rick.”
“I don’t want to kill you,” he says, but she’s not quite sure if she should take that as a personal reassurance or as a threat towards someone else. Probably both.
She lowers her hands just as he drops his shirt to the floor. He waits a moment before doubling back to the door to rest a chair against the knob. He mutters something under his breath as he does this, but she can’t make it out.
“Are you okay?” he asks. She almost misses it because his tone has changed so abruptly. There’s no hostility in his voice, not a trace of distrust.
So it is easy to reply, “Yeah, I’m okay.”
His fingers trail the length of her arm before he replies, “I’m okay, too.”
“I’m completely fine,” he continues. He turns to check the safety on his gun before removing his duty belt. “And I’m completely clean, too. This is all pretty unnecessary.”
“You’re completely clean,” she confirms, setting her katana on the bed behind her.
“Mostly,” he concedes. “I mean… I could probably use a breath mint.”