AN: Don't own TWD or Richonne.
Summary: Rick thought he had more time to declare his feelings for Michonne. Is he too late?
Did you leave me to suffer
Just to shuffle and breathe
Did you pick through the litters
And just settled on me?-
Your Good Fortune by Mavis Staples
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He didn't lift his head as she spun the wooden chair around and plopped down in the seat parallel to him. Her arms rested against the table and she waited.
"Do you?" he asked. He downed more of the Scotch Whiskey Deanna had given them as a housewarming gift. The liquid rushed quickly down his throat and he knew it was making him testy. He could be an angry drunk, if he was not careful. It didn't help that he had the burning rage of discovering her having sex with his friend already racing through his veins. He couldn't get the look of her open pleasure out of his mind and it pitched his already troubled brain where it never should have went.
He felt, rather than heard, her soft sigh. Somehow, it vibrated across the spacious kitchen. It seemed to bounce off the shining marble countertops and white cabinets.
"I don't belong to you, Rick."
He looked up then. His bloodshot blue eyes looked into her expressive brown ones. Was that what she thought he thought of their relationship?
"I never reckoned you did," he answered.
She pressed her long, thin fingers against the high back of her chair.
"Then why are you like this?"
"Anyone could have seen. Anyone could have walked in. Daryl. Carol." He paused, "Carl," he drawled.
"No, they wouldn't have. Everyone else knocks. You're the only one who goes barging into rooms unannounced."
He knew she was right, but he wasn't ready to admit that so he changed directions. "You love him?"
She scoffed at that. "We're fucking, Rick. Not that it's any of your business. Were you in love with Jessie?"
He closed one hand into a fist and picked up the bottle with the other, sloshing the glass of Scotch with the movement before tipping it back to down more of the amber liquid.
"That's a low blow." He felt the alcoholic heat crawling up his cheeks. Jessie had been gone for two months now, her body swallowed into a walker herd that swept Alexandria. He was still haunted by her anguished cries, could still see her face etched with fear. He felt responsible for her. He felt guilt that he'd brought a curse onto her and her dead boys; that he'd brought a curse to the people of Alexandria.
Still, he contemplated Michonne's question. He'd contemplated it a lot recently. Jessie was sweet and kind and not cut out for the kind of world they now lived in. He'd been infatuated by that innocence and it had pulled him in. It was none of her fault that he'd taken a liking to that essence. Jessie was so much like Lori and he thought he saw her as a second chance to fix his mistakes.
"No, I didn't love her," he answered, but when he gazed at Michonne she looked mournful.
She bowed her head briefly, her dreadlocks shifted and spilled over her shoulders. A hint of sweet coconut oil drifted in the air between them. "I'm sorry. You're right. That was a low blow."
They didn't talk about Jessie. She was like Lori, Michonne's boyfriend and Andrea. They were all important, but tucked away, out of reach so the varnish wouldn't wear off; shiny things they could place on their personal pedestals without fear of them shattering.
"Are you with him?"
The alcohol had lowered his inhibitions and they could both hear the jealousy dripping from his tone.
"We're fucking," she repeated.
"Not always a long line from fucking to something else."
"I think you forget whom you're talking to," she said with a chuckle. Bitterness rang in her laugh.
He shook his head. "No, I know exactly who I'm talking to. You're not the stone cold warrior people think you are. Have a man show you some affection and it might turn your head." He placed the bottle on the table with a thud.
He knew he was being cruel. He used her vulnerability of wanting to open up to his advantage. It was a punk move he used to despise when pulled by a couple of bully co-workers he'd seen interrogate visitors traveling through King County. He was worse. She wasn't going to be sent home with a smirk and a pat on the back.
Her fingers gripped the table. Fire settled into her eyes and firmed up her mouth. "We've been friendly too long so I'm going to chalk your new sterling personality skills up to that bottle you just consumed." She stood up fast and fluid, grace evident in the way she stepped from the chair. He always admired her ability to silently glide away from difficult situations.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd gone too far. They would debate, stare hard at each other and sometimes yell, but when she distanced herself he knew he was in trouble. If she left now, she might not come back to him. Physically, she would return. She would do anything for Carl and Judith, even if that meant putting up with him. But emotionally she would check out and he needed her. He had leaned on her to get through Jessie's death and Carl's shooting and surgery and the clusterfuck of being the de facto leader to a group of people he never signed up to lead. She was his emotional rock, his solid foundation through all the storms he weathered now. He knew that he was her confidant. They were a give and take union, but lately he'd taken too much from her and given nothing in return.
"I wish it was me," he said. His voice deepened with the admission. He needed to put everything out there. He needed to place his long held vulnerability in plain view for her to see.
She froze with her back to him. He could see the muscles on her upper arms flex as she listened to him.
"I wish I was the one in your bed," he declared, looking her straight in her eyes when she faced him.
She didn't flinch or cower. Instead, her voice lowered to that gentle tone it took on when she was about to get very serious. "It could have been you."
The pain from her words hit him in his gut. He subconsciously pressed a hand against his forehead. He was almost afraid his fingers would come back stained with his blood, as if she'd taken her katana to his face.
He was the most oblivious man alive. Instead of looking at the woman who he knew was there for him, who he already craved, he'd made a play for someone else's wife out of nostalgia.
She hesitated. Her concerned eyes watched his emotional display before turning around and walking away.
A/N: This is my first Richonne fic. Please hang in there. There's at least one more chapter. Thanks for reading.