Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Fill response to a prompt posted at the TWD Kink Meme: "Michonne/Andrea: Basically the way Andrea called out for Michonne in the sneak peak for 3x03 killed me. Give me anything that may or may not have happened between them up to that point. Sexual or otherwise, I don't even care." *Rated for: adult, language, adult situations, angst, and hurt and comfort.
Warnings: There will be comic book spoilers relating to hints about Michonne's background pre-walker apocalypse in the second chapter. However, it will be nothing specific or detailed. More than anything this is just me covering all the bases so that no one reading the comics is accidentally spoiled.
Legacy
Chapter One
She still wonders how it could have happened. How everything could have gone so wrong, so fast. She'd be lying if she said she didn't have nightmares about it, about being left behind. About reliving the moments where she'd watched the truck, then the car, and then Hershel's old Ford roar out of the driveway. Tail lights swerving and bobbing as they'd put tire to track down that old dirt road - away from the farm, away from her.
She doesn't blame them mind you. They'd seen her go down. The truck had been surrounded, with walkers closing from every side; they'd had no choice but to leave. Besides, she'd known the risks when she'd gone back for Carol. But it still makes her angry sometimes. Not at them, but at the situation. The farm had been their first real home since the world had ended. And just like that, during the course of a single god damn night, it had been torn apart around them.
It just didn't seem fair. Not after everything they'd been through. After everyone they'd lost. You'd think the universe would have cut them a break by now.
Sometimes she wonders if the others were still alive. If everyone had made it off the farm, or if they'd lost people, more people along the way. But sometimes, more often than not, she wonders if they were the only ones that'd made it through the winter. She wonders about a lot of things. But as the days had turned into weeks and the weeks had stretched into months that little voice in the back of her head started reminding her to stop asking questions that she didn't want to know the answers to.
Dale would have called that setting herself up for heartbreak. And hell, maybe she was. After all, it was the not knowing that really killed her. She knew the odds, the reality of their situation. She wasn't stupid. But even then it took her a long time to stop looking for them. To stop writing messages in spray paint on the windshields of abandoned cars and peeling billboards. To stop pausing at the top of every hill and look off into the distance, eyes peeled for the sight of a familiar face or the sound of a familiar engine.
It had gotten to the point that once, about two months after Michonne had saved her ass in the forest. She could have sworn that she'd heard Rick and Daryl's voices echoing just around the corner of the neighborhood they'd been raiding. Even now she could remember the moment clearly. And to be honest, that was pretty much the crux of the whole god damned problem. Because she could still remember how her heart had leapt in her chest. Pulse thundering like a mother fucking freight train inside her head as she'd dropped her bag, cleared the hedge, and started sprinting through someone's backyard like she was back at the Boston marathon the year her ex-boyfriend had convinced her to sign up. Feeling like an awkward, unfit asshole as about two hundred and fifty different people blew past her in the first hour alone, barely breaking a sweat while she was soaked through, sunburnt, exhausted, and already reevaluating their relationship.
But it wasn't until she'd barreled around the corner and exploded into that empty, debris strewn street that she'd made herself face reality. It was the moment where she realized that she couldn't go on like this. That she couldn't take the constant disappointment and heartbreak that came from every false alarm and barely heard echo.
And as she stood in the middle of that trashed cul-de-sac, surrounded by the burnt out wrecks of cars and shattered living room windows. She tried to tell herself that it was for the best. She tried to tell herself that she wanted it this way. That she wanted to forget about Rick and the others and just start fresh. - It was a lie, but ironically enough, it was easier to swallow than she thought it would be.
Michonne had just stared when she'd finally made her way back. Something dangerously close to pity lurking in the back of her eyes as she made room for her at her side. Nudging a couple tins sardines and green beans towards her as the woman took a swig from her water bottle and started rooting around in her bag for the can opener. Pretending not to notice when a small smattering of tears started rolling down her dirty cheeks. Etching tear tracks through the ash and the grit as she'd bit her lip and peeled the lid off her tin of sardines. Absurdly grateful when the woman didn't call her on it, as she complained about the dust and pulled up the bandana she'd taken to wearing around her neck up around her mouth and nose.
She thought she'd smelt the worst of it in Atlanta. Having eventually gotten used to the overwhelming smell of death and decay that hovered over the city streets like a particularly nasty cologne. But the truth was that the suburbs were worse. The smell was fresher here, riper. Because when push had come to shove, people had made a stand in their homes. Some of them had held out for far longer than those in the cities had, surviving, hiding, trying to weather it out while they waited for this whole mess to get sorted out by the government and the military. The only difference was that most of them had died where they'd fallen. And as a result, the suburbs were rotten. They were fly-ridden, overgrown, and practically crawling with the undead.
In a word, the smell was downright putrid.
It was so bad that even Michonne seemed affected by it. But the truth was that halfway through the winter they'd simply run out of options. There were only so many farms and out of the way cabins to raid. And most of the small towns and strip malls within walking distance had already been picked clean. Eventually they'd had no choice but to start scouting through the empty neighborhoods and abandoned residential streets. Raiding people's kitchen cupboards and pantries as the winter settled in and hit Georgia hard.
So, like she said, she made herself stop looking after that. She made herself stop writing out messages on abandoned cars and wall to wall window panes. She made herself stop pretending that she wasn't half listening for the familiar sound of T-dog's laughter, or the unmistakeable echo of Rick's colt blaring through the heavy Georgian air. In fact, she stopped listening entirely.
Instead, she started talking.
She told Michonne about them over the winter. During those long nights spent staring into some stranger's fireplace, carefully scraping the insides of dusty jars of tinned food and canned preserves. Slurping spoonfuls of strawberry jam and homemade cherry syrup straight from the jar as they tried in vain to make it last. Licking their fingers and getting giddy on the sugar rush as they moved from house to house. Sleeping side by side in a tangle of blankets and pulling up bits of the floorboards when their supply of dry wood eventually ran out.
Every night she talked until she exhausted herself, until the sudden absence of words left her with a dry mouth and an empty feeling in her chest. Cheeks flushed in equal measures of embarrassment and excitement when she realized just how much she'd given away. But every night when she'd finished Michonne would simply nod. Cocking her head to the side in a way that she'd come to equate to that of a smile - her dark brown eyes warm, as she'd arch her back and stretch. Limbs unfurling like a tom cat soaking up a sun beam before she eventually threw off the covers and added a few more logs to the fire.
Because the truth was, Michonne didn't really smile all that much.
Most nights, when the words eventually petered to a close, Michonne would even ask a question or two. Asking her about her family and the work she used to do as an ethic's lawyer back home as she settled into their pile of blankets and pulled the covers up to her chin. Apparently content to simply sit back and listen as she talked late into the night. Exercising demons she hadn't even known she'd accumulated as slowly, but surely, she gave it all up. She talked about what she missed. About what she wished she could have done when she'd had the chance. She talked about who she wished she could have saved, what she regretted, and what she secretly hoped for in the future.
When it all came down to it, she bared it all.
But some nights Michonne didn't say a word. She just turned away and faced the wall. Her sword sheathed, but within easy reach as she told her to take the first watch. Leaving her at the mercy of her own irrepressible thoughts as the woman pressed her face into the pillows and pretended to sleep - her mood unapproachable and sullen despite all attempts to draw her out.
Those were the worst nights. The ones where her thoughts raced unchallenged, turning tumultuous and dark as her mind replayed the memories over and over. Leaving her with no other choice but to re-examine every second, every nuance, and expression from the first day she'd heard about the infection on the radio. Hours spent gnawing on the inside of her cheek and cursing under her breath every time their parent's phone switched over to voice mail. Desperately clicking through the broadcasts as Amy snored away in the backseat, content and oblivious as channel after channel started reporting the same god damned thing. To that moment on the farm when Carol had screamed and the walker shambling up from behind had taken her down into the grass. Pinning her with its dead weight as the others cried out. The words barely legible above the moans, as she squirmed free only to have to watch the truck rev into gear, tires skidding across the gravel as they'd been forced to leave her behind. - Nearly losing herself in the memories until Michonne finally rolled over and told her it was her turn to sleep.
It didn't stop her from doing it though, and funnily enough Michonne never told her to stop. …It was cathartic she supposed, for both of them.
A/N: Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This is my second time writing Andrea and my first with Michonne so hopefully I didn't butcher anything. There will be one more chapter after this.
"One lives in the hope of becoming a memory." - Antonio Porchia.