This is our Second collaborative prompt and we're so excited about who we have on board for this sad but hopeful story! This delicate narrative is being expressed by Tigerwalk with Chapter 1, followed by Sophiasown and then Cranesinthesky will close things off.

Chapter2 will be up soon!

Please check out all of Tigerwalk's engaging, beautifully written stories on her Fan Fiction page.

Enjoy

We're The Ones Who Write

"Rick," Michonne called gently, through the partially open door to their bedroom. The sun had been wrangling its laborers outside for more than a few hours now, but with the heavy drapes pulled on the windows across from their bed, he was able to continue to ignore its demands. Technically his duties around the community started at noon, but lately he'd been sleeping until closer and closer to his necessary start time. It wasn't that he was getting more sleep; she might actually be thankful for that, despite what accounted for it. But, no, she knew the later he rose meant the longer he had spent awake during the night- reliving it.

"Rick," she said again, this time with a little more volume. She pushed through the doorway, crossing the room to where he lay, looking powerful even in his prone position. His face was buried in the pillow, a mess of brown curls the only thing visible against the stark, white case. She touched his upper back, running her fingers firmly between the blades of his solid shoulders. He stirred at the sensation of her hand on his skin, shifting beneath the light weight blanket. The movement caused the covers to slip further down his body, revealing the worn jeans he hadn't bothered to shed before submitting to another torturous round of attempted slumber.

"Baby." She sat beside him, pressing her lips to his hair and he turned his head, the tiny sliver of light from the window causing him to squint like he was staring at the sun. "Talk to me."

Rick reluctantly pushed up on his forearm, looking past her to search out the alarm clock on the bedside table. Seeing the time, he sighed and pushed a heavy hand through his hair before turning onto his side. "I've gotta get ready," he rasped. "I need to be down at the gate in half an hour."

"Take the day," she said, quietly. "I'll tell them you're not coming." She'd said it almost every day since, but she hoped maybe today would be the day he would agree. He looked like he was struggling to keep his eyes from falling shut again, and she knew he longed to finally get some rest.

He sighed again, flopping on his back and resting an arm casually over his eyes. He was still for a few moments and she thought maybe he had fallen back asleep, but the slight twitch of his lip in prelude to his answer gave him away. "I need to keep goin'," he finally said. "I was the one who said it: that we could...that we would. So now I gotta."

"Rick," she whispered, laying herself down in the spot beside him and draping an arm over his torso. She scooched closer until she could place her head on his chest and he brought the hand he had been shielding himself with down around her shoulder. "You will keep going...but that doesn't mean you can't take some time first. Time to heal, to process. He was family. No one expects you to be strong right now, to take this in stride."

"A lotta people lost someone," he said, stoically, unmoved by her justification. "A lot."

"Daryl believed in this as much as you did. He wanted this future for Carl, for Judith, for Maggie's baby. He believed it. Everyone we lost believed it."

"They believed it enough to die for it," he said, his voice filled with longing, and regret, and the type of self-loathing she had prayed he wasn't capable of anymore. "They gave their lives for a war I started, and here I am."

"Yes. So what are you going to do with that?" she urged. "You didn't survive this thing to hide from what we're trying to build. Take the time you need; heal, process, but don't hide from us."

Rick pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing in a long pull of air and clenching his eyes shut, just in time to contain the physical manifestation of his pain. "I gotta be at the gate," he said, kissing her forehead and releasing her from his embrace. He rolled to the edge of the bed and swung his legs over the side, his bare feet pushing into the plush rug as he stood.

Michonne watched him walk away, retiring to the bathroom to shower where she knew he would release some of what was churning in his head, growling and cursing into the mercifully muffling stream of water. She knew because it couldn't completely deafen the sound to her ears. She rolled over onto her back and let the tears come. She wasn't quite sure who they were for anymore, but they kept coming, whether they were assigned a name or not.

She finally dragged herself away from the vigil she was being pulled to keep, reluctantly offering him the solitude he sought. She made her way to the kitchen to drum up some coffee and maybe a little food. He would come back to her, she thought, nodding her head to herself. She knew this, but it didn't make it any easier to keep herself from throwing a lasso around him and attempting to pull him back now.

He'd been here before. She'd seen his pain engulf him, beckon him like a false lover with the promise of redemption for an exacted price, but she'd never seen it beat him. Even now she knew that it wasn't just the death of his friend, his brother, that lodged in his chest and refused to let go. Rick hadn't been foolish about this endeavor, he knew the consequences. No, it wasn't the loss of Daryl, but the way it happened. A way that left just the right amount of 'what ifs' and 'if he'd onlys' to haunt him. Death was inevitable in this world; loss, pain. But careless death? Preventable death? That was what was supposed to separate them from the rest of the world. They didn't go out like that- not anymore. But Daryl had.

There had been a plan, but eventually Daryl's own well deserved lust for revenge got the better of him. Circumstances had changed, Rick knew it too, but he wanted to forge ahead while his brother wanted to amend the strategy. If he'd listened and gone with him, if he'd been a better leader and convinced him not to go, if he hadn't started this in the first place. Rick had expressed all of those sentiments to her, through gritted teeth and a strangled voice. He couldn't make sense of it, where it had broken down, and more than that, he couldn't reconcile that the last time he saw his best friend they were at odds. It was a suicide mission alone, but that's how he had let him go to the Sanctuary, a faulty stick of dynamite and rage his only weapons. Now Rick was on his own mission to punish himself for the transgression.

She heard him on the hardwood floor, his boots clomping heavy steps her way, and she knew he wasn't going to take her advice, and stay. Not today. He came around the corner, dressed in layers for the cold day, and she took a deep breath at the sight of him. His eyes were dim, like the winter sky without the full force of the sun to sharpen its cerulean hue, and the dark stubble that had been filling in over the past few days of neglect, was again being left to its own devices. She noticed he was back to using the handmade notch on his belt, yet his pants still hung low on his hips, highlighting the fact that eating didn't seem to be much of a priority for him. He slept through breakfast, worked through lunch and often found ways to avoid the shared dinners that alternated between the houses in Alexandria.

Michonne stood when he approached, handing him a plate with an egg and a cut up apple, served with the most stern look she could muster. She wasn't budging on this one. He took it begrudgingly, turning the meal into no more than a few large bites, then dropped his plate into the sink. He used a napkin to wipe at his mouth, then filled a glass of water, taking it down in two large gulps.

"I'll see you in awhile," he said. He rested a hand on her hip, physically reaching out for her where he couldn't verbally, and she returned the gesture. She stepped into him, her hands smoothing the soft fabric of his dark plaid shirt, while he spoke to her with his eyes.

She reached up to stroke his cheek and he turned his face in her hand, letting his eyes close as if he were memorizing the feel of her skin on his. "Be careful," she whispered.

He leaned in to leave her with a kiss that told her that he promised, that he was sorry, and that he was still with her even when he wasn't. She exhaled, answering with her own stare that said she trusted him, that she forgave him and, though she missed him, she would wait. Then he turned and left.

It was dark when Rick got home, and Michonne was in their room, reading by lantern light. It wasn't quite late enough to go to sleep, but the cold weather made it more logical to spend the evenings huddled under the blankets of their own beds, rather than trying to keep the entire house heated. She'd put Judith to bed and said good night to Carl as he retired to his own room. She heard Rick walking through the house, stopping briefly in the kitchen, and she smiled at him taking another meal. After awhile, he found his way to her.

"How was your shift?" she asked, setting aside her book to follow him with her eyes as he moved around the room, divesting himself of the day.

"It was...quiet."

"Quiet is good."

"It is."

He shed the last of his clothes, and crawled into bed naked beside her. He didn't speak; he didn't have to. She missed him even when they were face to face, but in the evenings, when he curled an arm around her waist and his lips found their place on her breasts, her belly, everywhere, she could forget for a moment just how far away he was.

Sex had become as much of an indulgent habit as his late mornings. Maybe he was trying to put off what he knew would come when he closed his eyes to sleep, or maybe he was substituting one closeness for another. It could be he just wanted to remind himself he was still alive. Either way, she welcomed it, sliding down into the bed so he could move above her. His frame nearly covered her completely and as she settled beneath his warm embrace, she remembered the safety, both physical and emotional, that he offered her. She did her best to return it, clutching at his hair with her fingers and accepting his silent monologue of intimate ministrations without prodding him or making demands. He felt good on top of her, inside her, and finally close to her and she wouldn't ask for any more right now.

He slipped his hand into her hair, gently tugging until she bared her neck to him and he pressed his mouth to the hollow of her throat. The scruff from his unkempt face burned her skin as he devoured her hungrily, while positioning himself between her legs.

"I love you," she whispered, as he pushed into her like a plug tapping into its energy source, streaming everything he needed from her through their connection.

He sucked in a deep breath, his forehead pressed against her shoulder as he thrust and focused on the physical gratification.

"I love you, Rick," she said, without any expectation of the return just yet. She was urging him on, coaxing him to release his fire inside of her so it wouldn't burn him up.

"Michonne," he grunted as he finally let go, the force of his last bruising thrust nearly knocking her into the headboard. He collapsed, panting in her arms and she held him so tightly, her arms began to shake with the exertion of her muscles. "I love you too," he said, when his breathing had settled. "God I love you."