Impositions - part 1/2: Want
The Walking Dead is not mine, yadda yadda yadda
No infringement or disrespect intended, etc., etc.
Please don't sue me, full stop.
Btw, this takes place in my head canon (Rick and Michonne are together and Michonne's pregnant and Noah's not dead, not because I love him or anything, but I needed his character for this) but otherwise tries to follow the show.
A/N - you know those ideas that seemed good at the time as the floated in your imagination, but became something else altogether, and not necessarily better, once they're imprisoned by words in the real world? (thank you Northrop Frye). Well, that's what happened here. A succinct one-shot became a two-parter that strikes me as melodramatic in places, perhaps making it longer than it should be (shrugs). And I'm quite commitment-phone so I shy away from writing part anythings. But I really wanted to get this out so the show would not completely crush my head canon. So, ta dah!
Quick thanks for other 'things':
Thank you Siancore, dancer4life5, BabyKay47 and Soul93 for your kind words and encouragement on 'Little Things,' as well as anyone who read, favourited or followed it - so abashed and grateful!
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Part 1: Want
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in...
Michonne lay prostrate on the bed - her bed - in the room that apparently was now hers as well. The white noise of the ceiling fan, droning above her, was strangely soothing and helping her forget the ice-pick headache that had been making itself at home in her skull since she opened her eyes that morning. If truth be told, said headache was actually born the night before when Rick had shown his ass and in caveman-like fashion, ended what had begun as a discussion between them as a demand. Actually, Michonne succinctly ended that argument when she told Rick to go fuck himself before firmly, okay loudly, shutting the door to Rick and any chance of reconciliation.
The source but not root cause of the argument was the uniform now hanging on the door to the - her - closet.
When Deanna first assigned Michonne as Rick's co-constable, he did not exude anything approaching reticence. Michonne thought it was the perfect arrangement; she was given a responsibility that she would not find brain-numbing with the bonus of being able to spend her days with Rick. In fact all seemed fine for the next few days, wasn't even mentioned actually.
Then last night, as Abraham kept throwing out innuendos aiming yet failing to accomplish his goal of inciting some angry sex from Rosita, it all went south. Feeling done for the night, Michonne had yawned, stretched and unfurled herself from the couch where she had been playing footsies with Rick for the better part of the last hour.
Carl tore his eyes from the game of Halo (what he had called his 'old school game', much to Michonne's chagrin) he was playing with Noah. "Going up already Michonne?"
Michonne shook out the throw she had been using and began to fold it. "Yes, I'm leaving it up to you, young gamer, to find the Force within and represent tonight," she laughingly said in a terrible Obi Wan imitation. She placed the back of her hand beside her mouth and stage-whispered,"But you know, if I was at 100% I'd own you both".
"Whatever you have to tell yourself" Noah retorted monotonously before informing Carl in a very unsportsman-like manner that he'd smoked his Playstation-loving ass again.
Turning away from the inevitable peacock fight that was going to start between the boys, she placed the folded throw on the couch. "Gotta get a good night's sleep in," she smiled at Rick, " tomorrow's a big day".
Rick reached up for her hand as she was about to walk away. "Hey," he began, giving her hand a light squeeze, "Thank you."
"For what?" the smile intact.
"For...for all of it, I guess. For being what we need when we need it," he paused, his voice sotto voce, "For being what I need when I need it."
Still holding his hand, she cocked her head to the side to regard him. She beamed.
"Just trying to keep up with all the things I have to thank you for, Sheriff Grimes". Rick lifted his chin slightly and Michonne took the hint. Leaning over him, swaying his arm slightly to and fro, she bent over him to kiss him good night. A sappy 'awwwww' came from where Rosita sat by a now neutered and contrite Abraham.
When Rick's lips separated from Michonne's, he had a goofy grin on his face. "And speaking of needs, you need rest. Don't worry about gettin' up with me tomorrow. Sleep in - get as much rest now as you can, you know? Why get outta bed that early if you don't have to?"
His lazy smile was met with a look of confusion. Michonne squinched her nose at him, her fingers going limp in Rick's hand.
"What are you talking about?" confusion infusing the laughter in her voice, "Of course I do."
Noah and Rosita exchanged quick, nervous glances. Rosita had seen this coming. Being with an alpha like Abraham for as long as she had, she had been highly suspicious of Rick's ease with Michonne taking on a law enforcement role in her pregnant state. Not that Michonne needed his permission, mind you, but as bad as it sounded, men like Rick did not let their women, especially women pregnant with their child, take on any kind of unnecessary danger. Alexandria might be Mayberry reborn, but if a person carried a gun in this place, the potential for danger was there. And where there was potential danger, there most definitely would not be Michonne, if Rick had any say in the matter.
Rick straightened himself up on the couch. And dropped Michonne's hand. He placed his on his thighs, fingertips beginning to tremolo in place.
"I mean I really appreciate the gesture, but you don't have to get up to see me off on my first day going solo." Rick was touched, and, if he had to admit it, found it sexy and a boost to his ego, that Michonne wanted to 'see her man' off to work like that. But two pregnancies with Lori had taught him that expectant mothers were tired a lot, often because they overextended themselves. He had also learned that women who were expecting needed their rest, even if they wouldn't admit it, especially because they were...
"Rick, the hell nonsense are you speaking?"
...hormonal.
Michonne had lowered her voice, eyebrow raised, hand on hip.
Noah mumbled something about needing to get some fresh air as he looked anxiously at the front door.
"C'mon, time to hit the sack," Rosa chorused, tugging on Abraham's arm.
"But I'm not tired yet," Abraham whined, petulant and a bit confused. The mood had suddenly changed and while for the life of him he couldn't figure out why, he knew Rosita knew, and suspected that it had to do with Michonne...Women.
"Either am I honey," Rosita's voice saccharine, then, "but maybe I don't want you tired" she purred.
Eyebrows to hairline Abraham puffed out his chest, failing his half-hearted attempt not to smirk. "Well folks, that's my cue. 'Night people."
He acquiesced to Rosita's pull which had become much more forceful.
"Slow down, sugar," he said, "no need to rush, I ain't even a little tired." Just before they disappeared up the stairs, he advised. "If you're a light sleeper, you may wanna wear ear plugs tonight!"
"Gross." Noah screwed up his face. Carl hadn't even rolled his eyes, his eyes apprehensively rivetted on the couple now emanating tension. Noah felt it too and knew it was definitely time for him to also beat a hasty retreat.
All of them could make out Abraham's bawdy laughter from the floor above, followed by a cheeky, "Or maybe not!"
A door slammed upstairs. Almost simultaneously a downstairs door snicked Noah's departure.
And then there were three...
By now, Michonne was breathing deeply, fists clenching and unclenching. Rick had stood up, body almost perpendicular to her. Eyes hooded, body tense. Fighting position.
"I hope you're not tryin' to tell me you plan on taking up Deanna's offer, because really Michonne, I just can't see that happening." His tone all forced civility.
Michonne barked a laugh. "Well I hope you're not trying to tell me what to do about Deanna's offer, because I promise you Rick, I sure as hell can't see that happening".
"This doesn't make a lick of sense. It's reckless and foolish. This is not you, Michonne. Why are you doing this?" He was avoiding eye-contact. Bad sign.
"Dad..." Carl began, his voice a warning.
"Go to bed Carl!" they shouted synchronously.
"On this you choose to agree," Carl mumbled. He tossed his controller in a basket and moodily began to make his way upstairs.
"Remember you're both adults," he chastised then quickly added, "and Dad, for the record, I think you're way off on this."
The retort that was on the verge of Rick's lips was silenced by the smug look on Michonne's face. Rick waited until he heard Carl begin to ascend the stairs.
"How can you even think about doing this," his voice all whispered accusation, "considering that the reason I even agreed to stay here at all was because it was a safe place Judith and Carl. A safe place for you and -"
"You agreed to find me a safe place?" She threw her hands up in frustration. "I was always thinking 'we', Rick. Always. Or am I now selfish as well?"
He scrubbed his hand over his face in frustration, his eyes glinting a cool blue. He tried a new tact. "no, I wouldn't say selfish...Damn it, we talked about this!"
Michonne found that her mood had quickly accelerated from annoyed to highly pissed. She stepped towards him. "No. YOU said YOU thought it was too dangerous and was something YOU'D never even consider, let alone suggest. I," she pointed at herself forcefully, "was never asked what I thought or I wanted."
Rick stepped back and turned from her. He began pacing as he tried to rein in the roiling frustration coursing through his veins. He failed.
"What the fuck, Michonne" all pretense of lowered voice abandoned, "I get it, you want to feel you're valued. You want to matter. But you have nothing to prove, and you don't owe these people a damned thing. We're finally safe - can take a bloody piss without worrying about some damned walker getting us - and you're making a choice that intentionally puts you in harm's way."
He slapped his thighs before raking his hands through his hair in frustration. He couldn't read the look on Michonne's face. He'd never seen it before. He waited for her to respond. When all he received was a tight-lipped stare, he soldiered on.
"I don't get it. Of course I didn't ask. I figured you'd use that common sense that has made you a survivor. How can you act so, so careless?"
She glared at him. Still silent.
"You say you've been thinking about all of us, but I think you've forgotten about the one you're carrying."
"Really." It was not a question but a dare.
"Yes, really," incredulous, "You can't just think in terms of what you want, or even what I want. Even though we're here," he spread his arms expensively, "we can't fall into the trap of making decisions based on wants. It'll make us soft."
He sighed, deflated and reached out to her, gripping her forearms and stooping a bit to look in her eyes. "I love you, I know you know that. My place is with you as much as yours is with me. I love this baby, what it means for us. All of us." He pulled her rigid body towards him, enfolding her in his arms." He rested his chin on her head and she felt his chest expand with a deep breath. The pounding of her heart mirrored by he drumming of his. "It would kill me if something happened to you, either of you. I couldn't come back from it again." His voice wavered at the end.
Michonne waited a moment, to savour it. Then, "Rick, do you still trust my judgement?", she leaned back to look at him as he replied.
Rick opened in quick response, then he knit his brows. He knew where this was going. He composed his face, but was fatally incapable of exercising the slight tinge of patronage from his tone.
"Yes, Michonne, I trust your judgement. Absolutely. Don't ever question that". He felt her pull away slightly and the tell-tale inhalation before she spoke. He tightened his grip.
"But...sometimes, sometimes we can't stop ourselves from doing and saying things we shouldn't out of some," he shook his head, "pig-headed, misguided sense of righteousness or making a point." His eyes forward, over her head, focused on some non-existent scab in time that may well never heal because he kept picking at it.
"I'm not you, Rick."
"What did you say?"
Fate was whispering to Michonne's soul, warning that an event horizon loomed, that they were teetering on the precipice of no return. She leapt.
"I'm not you. Don't project what you perceive as your past failures on me."
He released her, then, actually pushing himself away from her.
"What the hell do you mean by that?"
"What I mean, Rick, is don't let your guilt about your past dictate the way we deal with our present."
Anger flashed hot in Rick's eyes. Inhaling deeply through his nose he shook off some ethereal albatross. "How did we get to talking about me when this all about you?" He felt defensive. And scared for some reason. He was choosing flight.
Rick headed for the kitchen, stepping around the expansive centre island to make his way to the side door. "We need to cool down." His eyes scanned the coat hook looking for a jacket. "I'm going for a walk or something to get my head together and we'll finish this later."
Michonne leaned against the opposing wall, arms crossed, feet shoulder-width apart. "Later..."
"When I get back. We'll talk when I get back," Rick said, dismissive, his annoyance audible as his eyes roamed, looking everywhere but at her . Bingo, there it was. He grabbed his jacket and began sliding his arms through the fleece-lined sleeves. Rick felt an overwhelming a sense that he had to go. Now.
"And I just sit here waiting until you decide you're ready to finish this?" Her voice flat, eyebrow raised.
Rick paused at the door, his shoulders a resigned sigh. He turned the handle to open the door a crack.
"I won't be long. I just need a few minutes to get my head together." Turning to face her he offered a weak smile. It wasn't returned.
"That may have worked in the past, Rick, but that won't fly with me."
Rick firmly closed the door. When he whipped around to face her, it was the Rick that lived outside the walls that stared her down.
"You want to finish this now? Fine. It's finished. Done. You're not doing it. Got it? I'll talk to Deanna in the morning and get you reassigned. Maybe you could help Maggie or work with Carol. Frankly, I don't give a fuck." He began using his fingers to count off the parts of his edict. "But you will not be in danger. You will not put yourself in danger. You will avoid any situation where you may find yourself in danger. You will not do things where I can't protect you -"
"You've lost your damned mind", she interjected. "Like I said before, this He-Man routine doesn't impress me. 'I will not'... Not with me, sir. You may have been able to talk to Lori like that, but don't think you'll ever do the same with me. I'm not her!'
"You're damned straight you're not her - as if you could be!" his eyes wild, pupils blown so large his eyes were almost black.
Upstairs, Carl, who did not go to his room as instructed, was seated on the top step, hand gripping the staircase spindle for physical and psychological support as he leaned down as far as he dared in order to hear and not be seen. When he heard this he leaned back in shock and anger. And dread. He knew he should get up and scurry to his room as fast as he could but his body chose that moment to rebel with a state of immobility.
Rick took two steps towards Richonne. "Lori did everything to keep Carl safe. Lori would have rather died than see her child harmed - gave her life so Judith could live."
"You saying I wouldn't do the same?" her words escaping in a rush of air. "Of course I'd do the same. What kind of mother do you think I am?" Michonne's body began to ache. Her eyes burned with tears she fought to hold in.
"Michonne, I know you're a great mother. Every time I see you with Jude or Carl I'm more sure of it." He moved towards her, getting close, as if maybe his proximity could make her see where he was coming from. Feel how much he loved her through the anger. Sense his fear that he'd lose her.
"I just don't understand, Michonne, why you can't see how easily things can go wrong. That even though you're doing what you feel has to be done, you end up leaving your loved ones vulnerable. Look at what happened to Andre, you were just..."
Rick felt the look Michonne gave him more acutely than if she had slapped him in the face.
Well. Then.
The tears that she'd been able to dam up now flowed freely down her cheeks. But she wasn't sad. The change in her demeanor, subtle and undetectable by all but three or four people, alarmed Rick in its thorough expediency. The Michonne staring back at him was the Michonne of another age, an apparition bearing life even as she fought to stave off death. A wraith at the gates whose vulnerable form defended its self even as its painful cry confessed its mortality.
Without realizing he was doing it, Rick reached out to her. Michonne jerked her arms up and away. Hurt but seething, she bit out a familiar warning. "Don't you ever touch me again!"
Rick backed away as if electrocuted. For a moment, the only sound was their heavy breathing. Things had spun out of control and no one was holding the reins.
Reaching out in apology, his body language implored his need for her to stay. "Look, Michonne, I'm -"
She jerked away from him again. "Go fuck yourself, Rick" She levelled a stare more substantial than any wall she could ever build and left the room.
Rick slammed his hands down on the island.
"Shit!"
Torn between following her upstairs, or getting that space he spoke of, Rick chose distance, telling himself she wouldn't listen him now anyway.
He didn't even lock the door behind him when he left.
Still rooted, Carl released his grip on the banister, his hand sliding down to thunk on the carpetted step. He was so shocked by his father's words that he could not even muster the anger to confront him. He knew his dad had crossed the intangible but formidable binary line that separated the forgivable from the unforgivable. He knew his dad knew this too. He also knew that by bringing up Andre that way, using him as a weapon against Michonne broke something between them.
Michonne stumbled slightly when she rounded the landing and saw Carl sitting there. In one shared glance she knew he heard everything and he knew she'd never forget it. Ashamed, for reasons he would not be able to put into words, Carl cast his eyes downwards, staring at a darkened loop of fibre in the berber carpet beneath his feet.
He did not hear Michonne pass himself as much as he felt it; the draught caused by her movement disturbing the air about them. When she was on the step above him, he felt her hand caress his cheek before he felt her lips on his head. Then she trailed her hand up through his hair, tousling it slightly, and was gone.
Carl figured that Michonne's countenance would be a maelstrom of indignant rage. Instead, her face was blank, her eyes hollow and focus-less.
For the first time, in a long, long time, he was terrified.
When Michonne slammed her door shut, he jumped.
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Michonne's night had been without sleep, but she was not tired. Her ability to be alert a cloying remnant of a time she hoped to see as different from her present incarnation as her six-figure, power suited one was to the Michonne that was before this one.
At first, she had expected Rick to come to her that night, soft-tapping his apology on the closed door with whispered pleas for absolution. Then, while her fury held her pride around its shoulder as it licked its wounds, came expectation. A Heathcliff-ian Rick, mad and unsatisfied at her door. Using his anger as a battering ram, forcing his way into her presence. Trying to force his demand on her.
At some point in the early morning hours, she had softened, and made as if to go to him; one scenario her anger gale-force, the other, her heart, and self, offered as penance. Neither scenario played out, of course, and here she lay, sun streaming in without warmth, the silence suffocating.
Michonne lay stretched out on her back, staring at the bleach-white ceiling winking at her through the blades of the ceiling fan. Atop the sheets of her still-made bed, evidence of her sleepless night, she could feel the unfamiliar give of the springs meant to offer support. Her jacket lay haphazardly on the bed in the same spot where it had been angrily thrown the night before. Michonne cast her eyes around this spartan room absent of anything marking it as her own. Devoid of anything anchoring her to this place.
Amidst all this pristine order, Rick was proven right. Well, partly so. After all the horrors and harrowing experiences, the group was now in a place which seemed to give them what they had tried to build for themselves, and saw prostituted by those with sinister motivations. Despite the losses they had suffered, the last ones so gut-wrenchingly pointless, and Tara...they were finally in a place offering safety. Yet despite what the sword tacked to the wall downstairs near the door might imply, Michonne had not left a single stamp of herself anywhere here. Perhaps that was more telling than she wanted to admit.
It was then she noticed the t-shirt in her hamper by her closet - the one Rick and Carl had picked up for her once on one of their runs in that other time before this one. Hanging on the door directly above it, almost, was her newly provided uniform. The source of the strife that pricked and poked at her heart and soul, and frayed one of the precious few ties she had made.
Mind weary, Michonne dragged herself up and out of bed and headed for her closet. She picked up the soiled t-shirt, pulling it taut for a moment, before hesitantly bringing it to her face. It reeked of Then, and when she picked it up, she realized that the smell of it - the sour stench of sweat and gore and dirt - was overwhelming, if not repulsive. She was struck by the dichotomy of her sensitivity to that smell, now, contrasting with a strange bittersweet longing for it that squeezed at her heart.
But she refused to be shackled by the past. She'd been a phoenix once before, she could rise from her ashes once again.
And decision seemingly made, Michonne returned the shirt to the mound of items soon to be purged of the grime and ghosts of the past. She pulled out her uniform and laid it on the bed: her discarded jacket on one side of the mattress, her waiting uniform on the other. Her jacket, a skin of allegiance easily donned, yet also a symbol of her acquiescence, on one side. The uniform, a shield of autonomy and a commitment to staying, fitting in, existing as a human being again, on the other. But the cost of that individuation could very well be Rick. As furious as she was at him, she still loved him, and needed him. And wanted him.
For a moment she blankly regarded the vestments, then, weighed down by the heft of the choices they represented, sat down beside them in exasperation. Michonne, her past, and her future, lined up, it seemed, on a bed in a limbo-room devoid of colour and connection. Hands on her thighs, she closed her eyes. She still could make her choice. What, then, was she going to choose?
A knock at her door interrupted her thoughts.
"Come in".
"Hey," Rosita entered, uncertain and strangely embarrassed after what had gone down the night before.
Michonne was not in the mood for pleasantries."How is she?"
"Stable." A half-truth. A beat. Rosita crossed her arms. "Hanging on. I'll go back there later." Then, more truths. "I think Sasha may have spent the night in the tower."
"She's still up there?" Her mind reeling.
"Well, Abraham's on watch but she hasn't been back yet. Nobody's seen her."
Immediately and without further thought or hesitation, Michonne grabbed her own jacket, and strode past Rosita, out the door. .
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End of part 1