A/N I forgot to include this in my first post. This story is written to one of my favorite songs, Morning Song by The Lumineers. Check it out if you have a chance.
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Rick waited in the cab of his aging, silver pickup truck watching black plumes of diesel smoke drift behind the last train as it pulled away from the station. It had arrived in a rush of noise and commotion, thirty minutes late, and he couldn't help but wonder if the conductor had somehow known she was on board and endeavored to help her keep up her streak of never arriving anywhere on time. He hoped that was the case, but it had crossed his mind the longer time ticked by, that maybe she wouldn't come, that she'd changed her mind or had never been serious in the first place.
The leather seats felt stiff and brittle beneath him from the bitter cold air as he watched travelers filter out in small groups from the front door of the terminal and splinter off into their individual destinations. The initial flurry of activity had petered out, and now, only a few stragglers remained, some looking worn from the trip, some bursting with excitement to be at their destination.
He continued to watch patiently, his gaze flitting between the exit and the barren landscape surrounding the building, made to look dreary and desolate by the sepia colored paint brush of late winter. Dead branches and tawny, withered vegetation stretched out before him, reminding him of the bleakness of this town; the hopelessness. It hadn't always felt that way.
With his next glance at the glass double doors, he spotted her. The vivid plum hue of her wool coat popped against the colorless backdrop, making her appear almost surreal. Her long locs were piled atop of her head, a fuzzy, knit headband wrapped around her ears, keeping them warm against the chill. She wore camel colored ankle boots with opaque stockings that stretched beneath her winter wear, to what he was sure was a dress far too fancy for the occasion. He looked down at his own worn jeans and boots, having almost forgotten this part about the way she made him feel. He quickly gathered the hem of his plain, cotton button down, shoving the loose tails into his waistband as she glided toward the truck. Running a quick hand through his hair, he hopped out of the cab and came around to her side, opening her door.
She hoisted her rolling luggage into the bed of his pickup, before he could get it for her, and he was quickly reminded that only a few hundred dollars worth of designer clothes separated her from the girl he knew she was. She grabbed ahold of his outstretched hand with her gloved one and pulled herself up into the truck with a warm, little breath of exertion that danced visibly on the air. He returned to the driver's side, squeezing back behind the wheel and closed his door to the wind. Smoothing her hands over the fabric of her coat, she turned to look at him. Her brown eyes were drained from the journey, but he'd be damned if they didn't still shine like the sun through the flutters of her thick, black, eyelashes.
"How was the train?" he asked, keeping his hands glued to the steering wheel to keep from pulling her into his arms and never letting go.
"It was nice," she said. "Relaxing."
"And the flight?"
"Long."
"I've missed you," he said. He leaned toward her, his self-control waning, and pressed his lips against her soft skin just south of the intimate line between her jaw and her neck.
"I missed you too. I know I'm…" She started to apologize, probably for the length of time between their phone calls, or the even longer time since they'd seen each other, but he interrupted her with the question that had been burning on his tongue.
"Were you with him?" he rasped, more urgently than he'd meant to.
She turned away, settling her eyes on the same empty parking lot he'd just been watching. "Rick."
"I just...I need to know."
"You and I aren't together, Rick."
He didn't respond, instead fixing his gaze on her profile and studying the gentle slope of her cheek bone as she frowned.
"You know I was," she relented. "I am...when I'm there...home."
The semantics hurt his heart. "This is home," he muttered.
"How's your divorce coming?" she asked, pivoting to a place that caught him off guard. His failed marriage wasn't something they spoke about often.
"It's done."
"And Carl?"
"Every other weekend. Some holidays."
"You never should have married her."
"Yeah, I know," he drawled, dipping his head. "I learned that the hard way."
She nodded, looking sorry for the tone she'd taken. She didn't need to be; it was the same tone he took with himself on the nights he spent reeling over the way his life had panned out.
"I tried to marry you first," he reminded her, his eyes dropping to his hands, now folded in his lap.
Michonne shook her head, still staring at the nothingness around them. "After dating for six months," she said. "And to try to get me to stay." She was attempting to scoff, but the wistfulness in her voice wouldn't give her the strength to drive it home.
"You left anyway. And it's been six years now...after everything else, I still mean it."
"Can we drive?" she asked, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm as the outside air crept into the stationary vehicle.
"Yeah." He put the truck in gear, taking a precautionary glance around the now empty space out of habit, before rolling toward the mechanical arm at the exit to the parking lot. He rolled down his window and handed the man at the little glass hut a five dollar bill, then waited to be allowed to proceed. Taking another look at her glowing, sable skin as the barrier raised, he let his foot off of the brake and drove out onto the long access road that led out of the train station yard.
"We could have been happy, Michonne," he said, as he steered the truck onto the ramp to the only highway in the little town. "If you'd stayed, either time, we could have been. Instead none of us are."
"Don't do that, Rick," she said, flipping down the visor above her head and removing her glove to run a finger beneath her painted eyelid. "Don't blame me for you and her. You made that choice."
"You're the one who left."
"I couldn't give that opportunity up," she explained again, so many years later. The familiar refrain still held no weight in his mind. "I didn't know what we were going to be, Rick. Neither did you."
"I knew," he said, his eyes on the road. "And the second time? We both knew it then."
The exit he needed approached, and he smoothly sailed the vehicle off of the deserted high speed road. They soon found themselves on the narrower streets of the downtown area, slowing as the population became denser and signs of life started to appear more frequently.
"Looks the same," she noted casually, as her head swiveled to take in the few pedestrians traversing brick sidewalks, coming and going from the necessity shops that lined the way.
Rick hummed out a response, navigating his way to the sharp left-hand turn he was headed for. The business district immediately gave way to rows of small to medium sized bungalows, each with a tiny square patch of land to call their own, delineated by well kept hedges or white picket fences. He drove to almost the end of the road, where it would have been shadier if the thick treeline still bore leaves, and slowed in front of a little blue house with white trim.
"This is it?" she asked, leaning forward a bit in her seat to get a good look at where he lived now. They'd both been renting apartments when they were first together, young and broke and only needing a space to sleep in between long shifts and nights out. He'd settled in a nicer part of town by the time they reconnected years later, when she'd spent the night in his comfortable California King, and eaten breakfast in the large eat-in kitchen, left empty by the dissolution of his family.
Rick nodded affirmatively at the address, pulling to a stop in the short driveway and cutting the engine. He hopped out of the truck, wanting to get to her bag before she could insist on carrying it herself, and he did. He lifted it out as she jumped down from the cab and took a few steps toward the door, still studying the house. He set her bag down on the asphalt, rolling it on its wheels as he led the way to the front door and let them in.
"Sorry it's cold," he said, holding the door while she entered first. "I've been out since this morning. I'll start a fire."
Michonne nodded as he moved toward the hearth to load it with kindling. He caught her eyeing the state of the room pensively while he worked.
"I wasn't sure if you were gonna make me take you to a hotel," he explained. "I woulda straightened up."
She unbuttoned her coat silently, slinging it over the back of an armchair and tossing her gloves and headband on top of it. He looked over his shoulder from his spot, crouched before the fireplace, and watched her in her black cashmere dress, gathering empty beer bottles and ferrying them to the small kitchen on the other side of a half wall. When she had lined them all up on his counter, she returned, moving next to fold the blanket that was bunched up on one end of the couch and fluff the pillow lying beside it.
"You're sleeping out here?" she asked casually, not looking at him. Instead, she perused the handful of frames that lined the wide window-sill behind the couch. Pictures of his son, one or two of his father in his younger years, looking happy and carefree. Even he thought the shots looked out of place in the dark, lonely room, but he didn't have any sadder ones.
"I'm out here when I should be sleeping," he corrected her, finishing with the fire.
"You never did rest."
Rick brushed his hands off on his jeans, then slipped off his tan, canvas work jacket, tossing it next to hers, and dropped onto the couch.
"You could have come with me," she said, turning away and waltzing across the room to a bookshelf that lined the wall beside his TV. "When I left, you could have too." She ran her fingers along the spines of the books as she spoke, stopping every once in awhile to read a title.
Rick chuckled quietly to himself. "What was I going to do in Paris, Michonne?" He stretched his legs out in front of him, staring at his boots. "I'm a cop. I can be that literally anywhere in this country, but you decided to go to another one."
"Right," she sighed. "So you did what you were supposed to."
"Hey," he said sharply, his blue eyes narrowing. "You left me. Both times. Don't forget that."
"And you moved on," she shrugged.
He hung his head then, his voice dropping to a retrospective whisper. "It was an accident," he said. "I won't say it was a mistake...having Carl could never be a mistake, but I didn't plan it. She was pregnant and I..."
"And you did what you were supposed to do," she repeated. As soon as she said it she sighed, her proud shoulders softening. She crossed the room to take the spot beside him on the couch, her small frame sinking into the oversized cushions.
Rick reached for her hand in the space between them and breathed a sigh of relief when she didn't pull away. "You had been gone a long time by then, Michonne," he whispered.
She wiped at her eye again, pretending to be fixing a smudge of makeup.
"What kind of man lets you take this trip alone?" Rick said, after a few moments of contemplative silence had passed. "He should have wanted to be here for you. You deserve better than that."
"It's not a big deal," she said, waving a hand at the suggestion. "It wasn't worth the trouble. Besides he has work...I'm only here a short while." The list of excuses sounded so comfortable flowing from her mouth that he wondered how often she had to repeat them.
"It is a big deal," he said, turning to look at her as she stared down at her manicure distractedly. "Michonne."
"Rick," she breathed out, an air of exasperation ringing in her tone.
He dropped her hand and reached for her face, cupping her jaw in his large hand and stroking away a phantom tear he imagined on her cheek. "If you loved him, you wouldn't be here with me."
"It's not like that," she said, pulling away from him to stand. She meandered toward the fire, holding her hands out in front of it to capture some of its heat in her palms. "He doesn't ask me to choose."
"If you were mine…"
"I'm not anybody's," she said, firmly. "I come and go as I please."
Rick stood to follow her across the room, stepping into her space and pressing his chest against her back. "That's what it always was, right?" he asked, stopping short of touching her with his hands. He spoke against her ear, letting his breath tickle her skin. "This thing with me was gonna hold you back...a small town cop…you had bigger things than me on your agenda."
"It wasn't that," she protested. She moved to face him but he stopped her with a soft grip on her wrist.
"I get it," he said quietly. " But you've done them now; you've seen the world."
"I wasn't afraid you'd hold me back, Rick," she said, finally twisting in his grip to look him in the eye. Her chest was puffed out, the way it always was when she was about to deliver one of her indisputable points. It had always riled her when he challenged her by calling attention to something she thought only she knew about herself. "But I couldn't stay here for a chance. I couldn't do that to either of us."
"Michonne, look, I know I'm not making a whole lotta people happy these days, least of all myself...but I could make you happy...I know I could...if you'd let me."
"I never doubted that," she said. They stood, staring at each other for a few long moments, as the fire hissed and lapped at the air behind them. Finally, she pulled away, reclaiming her seat on the sofa. He followed, standing before her with his hands on his hips, begrudgingly allowing the moment to pass.
The sun was setting outside; the filtered light slipping through the drawn curtains grew dimmer, and the dusk sensing night light on the kitchen wall switched on. He glanced at his watch, confirming that the afternoon had passed and a cold winter evening was about to settle in.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, watching as the corners of her mouth curled upward at the question. She never turned down food.
"I have some soup my sister-in-law dropped off," he offered, sharing in her first grin of the day. "She thinks I don't eat."
Michonne's smile persisted as she ran her eyes up and down the length of his torso. She paused on his slim waist, and raised an eyebrow at him.
"I eat," he replied, arguing with her implication. He made his way to the kitchen, and she followed.
Rick opened the fridge, pulling out a large glass container full of homemade chicken stock with dumplings and vegetables, and he poured it carefully into a pot he had wrestled free from a pile in a lower cabinet. Michonne came to stand beside him, watching him stir for a few moments, before nudging him out of the way with her hip and adjusting the burner temperature.
"That night," he started, after pouring them both a short glass of whiskey. "I didn't even know you were back in the U.S., let alone here in town."
"We hadn't spoken in years at that point," she defended, but he continued as if she hadn't reminded him.
"That night meant everything to me."
"It shouldn't have happened," she said, her eyes on the pot as it began to bubble.
"It should have. It did."
"You weren't in your right mind, Rick," she argued, turning her face to him. "God, you had just...if I had known it had just happened that day, I wouldn't have…"
"Wouldn't have what? Let yourself feel what you did? You're right, Michonne, I wasn't in my right mind. That should have been the worst night of my life, finding my wife with my best friend...my partner." Even now the memory caused his chest to constrict and his jaw to clench tightly as he spoke. "I walked into that bar with the intention of drowning myself in a bottle until I couldn't see straight, but there you were," he said. "Like a goddamn ghost." His voice trailed off as she met his intense stare with her own.
She went silent and he thought he could see her own memories of the night flashing briefly across her face as her incredulous scowl softened.
He reached out again, running his fingers over her collarbone, down her shoulder, and he felt her shudder under his touch. "I knew there was a reason for it, me seeing you again," he whispered. "Holding you...feeling you in my arms…" His hand came to rest in the dip of her waist, and he rubbed his thumb across the soft fabric of her dress. He leaned in, unabashedly breathing in the scent of her hair. "And here you are again."
"You know why I'm here this time," she argued, weakly.
"But you're not just here...you're here, with me." Rick reached in front of her, turning the burner off, and took a step closer. He took a deep breath, then pulled aside the loose collar of her dress, brushing his lips across the back of her neck. He pulled away to see her eyes closed and her hand gripping the countertop in front of her. "We're sharing a meal," he whispered, his bottom lip brushing her earlobe. "A bed."
"But to what end, Rick?" she asked, spinning against the counter to stare up at him. "I'm in town to do what I have to do, then I'm going home, just like I did last summer."
"This is home," he said again.
"Rick…"
He didn't let her protest any further, quieting her with another kiss. He captured her mouth and her lips parted immediately, inviting him in. She clutched at his shirt with her empty hand, reaching blindly behind her to set down the glass she was holding.
"This is no different than that night," she said, when he let her go. "This time it's me not seeing straight." She stepped away, pacing the small path between him and the refrigerator. "My father's dead and I'm home to bury him. It's sad and confusing, and you're getting in my head like I did to you that night after Lori."
"Maybe," he said, satisfied with the effect he was having on her. "Or maybe, on nights like this, me and you are the one thing that make sense, and we both know it."
She paused to face him, and defiantly wiped away the tears gathering in her eyes.
"You're beautiful," he said, unable to help himself from baring his heart, even while she was trying desperately to deny hers.
"Where are your bowls?" she asked, turning back to the pot on the stove.
He pointed to the cabinet behind her and she opened it, standing on her toes to reach for a couple. He gathered spoons and napkins and set them on the table while she dished out their meals.
They ate in comfortable silence, Rick stealing glances at her over his spoon as she blew cooling breaths over her bowl. He studied the texture of her dress, the soft, feathery hairs caressing her curves as she sat with her legs crossed and her back straight, taking dainty little bites. He wanted to scoop her out of the chair and lay her across the table. He wanted to whisper everything he'd ever felt for her into the dips and valleys of her body until she admitted she felt it too, but he just watched her eat.
When they were finished, he gestured for her to leave the remnants of their meal to be dealt with later, and he led them back to the couch. Only the light from the fire remained in the dark room, but it was enough to watch her by, as she leaned down to unzip her boots and kick them aside.
"I'm gonna be there tomorrow," he said, when she had settled in beside him.
"You don't have to."
He breathed out a short laugh through his nose. "I know. You're not mine, right? But I'm gonna be there anyway."
She nodded, pulling her legs up underneath her and resting her head on his shoulder. He reached for the small black remote on the table beside him, pressing a series of buttons until music started playing softly in the background, filling in the silence between declarations.
They both knew it was her turn, and he waited patiently, soaking up the feel of her against him, like a parched plant when the rain has finally come. "That night meant something to me too, Rick," she whispered after a while, then a grin began to frame her words. "'Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world'...right?"
He chuckled at her penchant for speaking in lines written by someone else. It was her life's work, after all. "What's your latest part over there?" he asked, his fingers trailing her arm absently.
"You won't believe me," she laughed softly.
"Try me."
"I'm playing the wife of a powerful government man, sort of like a senator, but it's different there. He's having an affair...it's scandalous, lurid. He leaves me in the end and I tell all his secrets. I take down the whole government with them." Her eyes were alive as she filled him in on the fictional pain and love she felt freely and without abandon.
"I believe that," he said.
"Yeah?"
"That a whole country would come crashing down by your will alone? Yeah, I do."
She smiled alongside him. "It's funny," she said, "you always were the one who thought I could make something of myself. That's why it hurt so bad that I had to leave you to do it."
"You could stay with me now," he said quietly. "This could be some sad story we tell our grandkids, how we wasted so many years apart before we finally figured it out." He shifted beneath her, until he could see her face and she sat up to meet his gaze. "You could try writing the story, instead of just acting out the parts."
"That's never been a talent either of us possessed," she retorted. "Right, Rick?"
"Michonne," he said, shaking his head to argue with her, before thinking better of it. He reached for her shoulders and pulled her into him, their lips meeting with even more fervor than before. She slid her fingers into his hair, her displeasure still evident in her grip, and he growled into her mouth when her other hand clenched around his bicep, her nails digging into his skin.
He wasn't pulling away this time. He remembered that he'd never been successful in talking her into anything, let alone his arms. Instead, he slid his hands down her back, and under her thighs so he could lift her, then lay her beneath him on the couch. She kissed him back, her tongue and lips telling him exactly what she wanted without saying a word.
She ran her fingers hungrily along his back, as he moved down her body, feeling his way along the path he'd memorized long ago, then memorialized in his dreams. Being back here now was almost too much to handle.
He arrived at the hollow of her throat, letting his tongue slip out to see if she tasted the same and her moan let him know she remembered this too. He could feel her stockinged feet running the length of his leg, and he suddenly wanted to touch her there too. He sat up, leaving her lips parted and her eyes still carefully on him, and he used his palms to push up the hem of her dress until the fancy, lace garter of her thigh-high stockings appeared, like a secret treasure only he knew how to find. "You were always overdressed," he said.
"And you were always good at fixing that." She let her knees fall farther apart around him, offering him a glimpse of the dark green satin between her legs.
He continued to draw her dress up over her hips, then her midriff, dipping his head to kiss the skin below her belly button as it came into view. She lifted her pelvis, then her back, urging him to keep going, and he did, carefully pulling the fabric the rest of the way, until he could lift it over her head.
Michonne didn't play around with her fashion, so instead of tossing it on the floor, which was his inclination, he folded the garment carefully and set it on the coffee table beside them. The gesture caught her attention and she offered him a plaintive smile, as if he were somehow hurting her feelings by showing her the consideration she deserved.
"Years keep passing," he said, running his eyes along her newly exposed skin. "But you don't change. You're still the most beautiful thang I've ever seen."
"And you still say all the right things." She laughed under her breath, turning her face away.
He took ahold of her chin, gently bringing her face back to his. "Look at me, Michonne." He kissed her lips again, softer than before, but with just as much need. His hand slipped from her face down to her throat, his other traveling down her belly until he felt her warmth begin to caress his fingers.
Her hips rose to meet his touch, her breaths coming faster. "I can feel your heart beating inside your chest." His hands continued on, his left sliding from her neck to the rigid cup of her bra. "Tell me he makes you feel like this," he whispered into her neck. "Tell me he does and I'll stop. I'll forget about you and me, and I'll spend the rest of my life being happy that you're happy."
He waited, his fingers hovering at her entrance, until enough time had passed that he knew that confession wouldn't come. When he finally touched her, fresh tears welled in her eyes, and he prayed they were born from the same longing coursing through him.
Instead of wiping them away, she reached for the buttons on his shirt, exposing his chest as the drops rolled over the glowing planes of her face. She craned her neck to press her lips to his pecs and shoulders as he hovered above her, searching her face determinedly for any sign that she would stay. She smiled at him, her fingers ghosting along the stubble on his cheek, and he kissed her again before gathering her into his arms. His hands cupping her thighs, she wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms circled his neck while he carried her down the hall to his empty room, already made less lonesome by her company.
...
He'd fallen asleep at some point, his bed feeling foreign to him with Michonne's warmth and weight tucked into it. He had tried to will himself to stay awake, to guard against any opportunity for her to slip away, but her presence caressed his heart in such a way that it demanded the rest it had been missing since she had last left him. His eyes had fallen shut in a contented, sated slumber. Now he could sense her stirring in his arms, wrapped tightly around her naked waist.
"I should go," she said, looking past his shoulder at the numbers glowing in the early morning darkness, from the clock on his night stand. "It's been twelve hours since I got in, and my sister doesn't even know I'm here."
"It's early yet," he whispered. He tightened his grip, knowing full well he couldn't keep her much longer. "You'll see her soon. What's a couple more hours?"
"Ok, Rick." She lay back down beside him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he buried his face in her hair while bringing their hips to meet. She opened for him once more, and just as before, he settled inside of her as if they'd never been apart.
"It can be like this forever," he whispered, finding her lips again. He tried desperately to hold onto her with every stroke, to prove to her that home was where they could be together like this. He knew though, despite the look in her eyes that told him she felt it too, when he woke again, she'd be gone. For now he would close his eyes and pretend she was his, that she'd always been.
Just as he expected, when the first rays of sunlight greeted him, shining on the pillow beside him, they found it empty, save for a note written in her scrolling, flowing cursive. It was in French, and it was too early for him to try to decipher the prose, but he recognized the parting valediction as the same she'd left him with before. Mon coeur t'appartient à jamais: My heart is yours forever.