A/N: A teeny tiny ficlet to celebrate what we're all hoping is the greatest episode of all time coming up (7x12). Enjoy!

"What's this?" Rick Grimes looked down at the pile of fabric that his girlfriend had just dropped into his lap. He was in bed, per her instructions, elevating both his injured hand and injured leg, resting. There was work ahead, things that needed scavenging, plans to be laid. Presently, Michonne had declared them finished. Work could wait until morning.

"It's for you," she smiled at him, her teeth glowing brilliantly against her bronze skin. Without further preamble, she stripped out of her soiled clothing and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Rick fumbling with the cloth in his lap.

He reached for a light on the bedside table, fumbling for the switch with his heavily bandaged palm. The bulb illuminated their bedroom just enough for him to make out the familiar pattern of his favorite pair of jeans. The material was worn thin in more places than he cared to count and the edges were beginning to fray. Michonne had often expressed animosity for this pair of pants, attempting to get him to replace them. Rick never much entertained the idea. This pair of black jeans had seen him through hell and back, had been there when he arrived at their new home, had experienced the sensation of Michonne's fingers running under the waistband for the first time. They were bonded, by blood and experience. Throwing them out was out of the question.

Today they had ripped, snagging on mountains of trash and a spiked walker. It had been a small price to pay for their success, to see that wide smile grace Michonne's beautiful face as he limped back. Still, he couldn't help being just the tiniest bit disappointed as she peeled them off his bleeding body for what he thought was the last time.

He leaned forward, squinting in the low light, his eyes taking stock of the tight, neat row of stiches holding the fabric together. He grinned to himself in disbelief, tracing Michonne's handiwork with his uninjured palm.

She emerged from the shower clutching a balled-up damp towel, her body shielded from his view by a blue robe. Her long locs were loose down her back, swinging freely as she walked towards him.

"Do you like it?" she asked quietly, almost bashfully.

"Come here," he reached for her in response, setting his favorite pair of pants beside him on their bed.

"One second," she smiled again, moving towards the bedside table. With a flourish, she revealed his gift to her from earlier. The metal sculpture of a cat now gleamed impressively in the low light of the room, rust-free.

"Did you shower with that thing?" he asked incredulously, laughing already.

"What?" she shrugged, setting it down carefully on the table, adjusting it so that it was angled towards them. "She needed a bath."

"It's a she?" his chuckling escalated.

"Of course," she sat at the edge of the bed beside him. Rick wrapped his arms around her waist, his hands instinctively slinking beneath the folds of her robe to touch her skin. It was smooth, unblemished save for the scar on her upper thigh. He traced it lightly, following its twists and turns almost instinctively. He had a gunshot wound to match on his chest, one wound of many. His body was a roadmap of his struggles, his fight to survive.

"You fixed my jeans," he rumbled into her skin, pressing his face into her lap, ignoring the pain in his leg as he shifted to pull her deeper into his grasp.

"For the last time," she warned, glancing sternly down at him. Still, her face broke into a smile. She glanced delightedly at her cat sculpture again.

"What are you going to call it?" he asked her teasingly.

"Priscilla," her answer was instantaneous. With a flirtatious smile, she stood over him, reaching for his newly repaired pants. She shook them out gently, folding them carefully before returning them to the dresser. Her task complete, she shed her robe, climbing into bed next to him.

"Good name," he complimented, rolling to face her. Michonne reached out to adjust his pillows, making sure that his cut leg remained propped up.

"It was a good day," she told him, her full lips curving gently as she laid her head down beside his.

"A very good day," he agreed, leaning forward to kiss her.

Her fingers forged a trail over his body, dancing over each of his scars in turn. It was her nighttime ritual; a task Rick wasn't even sure she realized that she was doing. She took inventory of him with her hands, gently massaging every raised hill of skin, as though she were trying to soothe away some past pain. Rick closed his eyes, exhaling as she continued her work, finally reaching the curls at the top of his head. She kneaded them rhythmically. He wished he had the physical and mental dexterity to return her affections in kind. Despite his best efforts, her felt himself losing the fight against his exhaustion.

He reached for her, curling his arm around her waist, twisting his body around hers. She responded eagerly, pausing in her ministrations just long enough to reach over him to turn the light out and draw the blankets over them.

"Goodnight," she whispered, her lips brushing his shoulder.

"Goodnight," he kissed her, falling asleep with his face pressed against hers.