Michonne watched the minute hand of the alarm clock on her nightstand complete a full revolution to land on the five again. She rubbed her hand over her eyes, sighing as she pulled it down over her face then turned to her right to the vacant spot beside her. It had been one hour since he'd told her he'd be 'up in a few minutes,' but it had been two days since he'd come to bed at all. He opted for the chair downstairs instead because he said it was more comfortable than lying flat. And she didn't question it at first, having witnessed him being dragged across the ground, twisting and turning like a rag doll, with every rock and divot in the ground. She'd also seen the bruises and cuts that marred his strong chest and back, a reminder of a night so horrific that she found herself averting her gaze when just a few days before she would have let her eyes linger, enjoying the glimpse of his beautiful body while coming out of the shower or getting dressed.

Her eyes shifted from the empty spot beside her to the bottle of aspirin and heating pad she had placed on his nightstand the night they returned from that clearing in the woods somewhere between home and the Hilltop. They were unmoved and untouched, the dozens of white pills she could see through the clear bottle at the same level they were the day she'd taken them from the infirmary. She knew what a beating like this felt like because she had been there many times before, and she could almost accept his reasons if not for the fact that he seemed to be avoiding being alone with her all together for two days.

Their home had been quiet, interactions kept to just the bare minimum required when sharing a living space and caring for two children together. And out in the community, it was much the same, their minimal all business talk not seeming out of place in the somber community that was mourning the loss of two of their own. Their grief was all consuming, and the silence was so deafening now that it was all she could hear.

She pushed herself up, and gingerly swung her legs over the edge of the bed, letting them hang for a moment to let the pain subside before she brought it on again by standing. She stiffly moved to stool in the corner of their room to retrieve the jumbled light blue mound of cloth that was her robe, then slipped it over her shoulders then tied it at her waist before heading downstairs. She bit the inside of her lips and held her breath with each step she took, feeling the grinding of bone on bone with every bend of her knee.

When she finally arrived downstairs, she found him sitting in the corner of the dark living room in the armchair that he had turned to face out toward their front window. His legs were straight in front of him, and he had one arm bent with his elbow propped on the arm of the chair, and his head hanging low, resting in his hand. She couldn't see his eyes, but she was certain he wasn't sleeping.

"You still hurting?" she asked in a quiet voice as she stepped in front of him.

She watched him shift uncomfortably in his chair; he was awake and aware of her presence, but didn't bother to lift his head from his hand.

"Yeah."

She folder her arms across her chest, and felt tears began to sting her eyes. He was right there in front of her, but felt a million miles away.

"You haven't touched the medicine I got for you…"

It wasn't an accusation, it was a hopeful shot at finally engaging him. But it was a futile attempt as he just dismissed her offer with a low throaty grunt.

"Rick." Her voice betrayed her, cracking with emotion as she said his name. "Believe me, I understand needing space, but it's been two days…"

She reached up to wipe a tear out of the corner of her right eye as she waited for some kind of response from him. Her mind could fill in the horrific blanks of what happened to him when Negan took him or the blame he was placing on himself for the group's fate that night, but she needed to hear him say it because if they didn't talk, they could never move on. After a few moments of silence, she assumed he still wasn't ready until she saw his hand fall away from his eyes into his lap.

"...but it's been two days…"

The tremble in her voice caused a pang in his chest; she had called him out in her gentle, heartbreaking way. He didn't want to talk about it, and he didn't want to accept her comfort because he didn't deserve it. Why did the man who walked away from that night with his son and the woman he loved get to move on so easily? Share a bed and the warm embrace of his love? Come home to his happy, healthy baby girl who was blissfully ignorant of what her family had been through, and of how lucky she was to still have them all? He didn't, and he was punishing himself by not letting himself feel any of it. But in that moment, upon hearing her voice, he realized another failure to add to his long list. He had failed to be there for her.

He dropped his hand from his eyes, letting the limp, heavy limb drop into his lap. He then slowly opened his eyes, keeping his chin down as he worked himself up to meeting her gaze. His eyes moved from the hands in his lap to the space just in front of him where she stood. The fabric of her robe began to split at her thighs, leaving an opening right around her knees. Her swollen, bruised, and abraded knees. He clenched his eyes shut at the sight, the visual reminder of the pain she had endured that night from staying on her knees for hours on end. She was strong and tall as he was dragged away, and she still was when he returned. And he had no doubt in his mind that she had remained that way the entire time, in solidarity with him, as if she could transmit her strength to him wherever he was.

And she did, as he summoned images of Carl and her to draw strength and the will to keep fighting against every seemingly impossible obstacle Negan threw his way. And again in that moment upon his return to the group when he allowed himself to glance at her, with the quick look and nod she gave him that said everything without saying anything at all.

You okay?

Yeah.

I'm okay.

I know.

How? 'Cause I'm okay, too.

The feel of her fingertips gently coming into contact with his thighs, and the sound of a sharp inhale summoned him out of his thoughts. He opened his eyes to find her bending at the knees, trying to kneel down in front of him in an effort to come to him if he still wasn't able to go to her.

"Michonne," he whispered as he reached out for her arm, stopping her from going any further. "Come here."

He pulled her in closer, placing his other hand around her waist to guide her into his lap. Once seated in his lap, she rested her arms over his shoulders, letting her hands cradle the back of his head. He could feel her eyes on him, and after a deep breath, he was finally able to meet them.

He found himself stuck, not knowing what to say. He wanted to apologize, but he knew she wouldn't accept it. He wanted to know what happened to her when he was gone, but he knew she would say 'nothing.' He wanted to tell her how guilty he felt, but he knew that she could see it on his face and in his actions. So instead, he wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her into his arms, burying his face in her chest as he relaxed into her arms, finding refuge in the easy silence between them. There was nothing else to say with words tonight.

-This drabble was inspired by the song Easy Silence by The Dixie Chicks.

Children lose their youth too soon

Watching war made us immune

And I've got all the world to lose

But I just want to hold on to the

The easy silence that you make for me

It's okay when there's nothing more to say to me

And the peaceful quiet you create for me

And the way you keep the world at bay for me