Don't worry, we're getting a little closer to Daryl and Beth actually meeting.
Michonne stood at the doorstep of 2535 Cherry Street, knocked on the wood door twice in three rapid successions. No response. A beat up truck was parked in the drive. She noted the engine was cold as she briefly placed a hand on the hood as she walked past on her way up to the door.
Leaning over the iron banister she peeked through the gauzy curtained front window. No sign of anyone inside either. The home appeared empty of more than an occupant. It felt empty.
When she was a little girl, her mother called her empathetic. Said she was always soaking up other people's emotions.
What her mother said was true enough. She felt other people's moods. Felt their anger or sadness or happiness. Felt it inside her own body when someone was ill. Felt it when her mother became sick with cancer. Felt the phantom ache in her own body right where the tumor had grown inside her mother. She also knew the moment she died. In the middle of a sound sleep, Michonne sat upright in bed. Not sixty seconds later she got the call.
To her, it didn't feel like an ability so much as a hindrance. As she grew into an adult and a police officer she learned to reign in her own feelings and block others out. Using her empathic abilities only when she wanted to. Why would she voluntarily feel someone else's pain? On the other hand, it's why she became a police officer. She wanted to help. She thought of becoming a doctor, helping ease the pain others had. But she liked the idea of putting away the bad guys that sometimes caused the pain. She'd always had a penchant for righting the things that were unfair.
Even though she'd learned how to put her own feelings aside as well as others, occasionally though, like today standing on the front stoop of the yellow house, the empath beat her reasonable side to the punch and emptiness mixed with a hollow sadness hit her.
The crack of a gunshot caught her attention, bringing her back fully to her senses. She placed an open hand on the butt of the gun holstered at her hip. Quietly she walked back down the three concrete steps and along a path that once had been lined with flowers and was now filled with weeds. Cautiously she rounded the back of the house, following the popping firecracker sound.
Peeking around the corner, she saw a man holding a Glock outright, aiming at a makeshift target of empty beer cans that were set up on a fence post backing against a bank of trees.
Most likely it was nothing. Just a guy target practicing. In the middle of town. But you can't bet your life on "most likely". Flipping the release on the holster she palmed the grip of the revolver. The cool zig-zag pattern pressing into her palm was comforting. Solid. Real.
Michonne yelled authoritatively, "Police. Stop firing and put down your gun and step away from it!"
The man, long and lanky, spun around, his gun pointed to the ground. Weathered face. Blue eyes squinting at her, dark hair brushed back from his face laced with strands of grey. A greying beard adorned his handsome face. He stood about 5'10".
Michonne took all this in in a split second. It's what she was trained to do. The fact he was unquestionably handsome was neither here nor there.
"There a problem, ma'am.?" He asked in a slow drawn out Georgia accent.
"Put down the gun and there won't be," she demanded again and when he didn't respond, she unsheathed her gun. Pointing it toward the ground, she took a step out from behind the corner of the house.
The man put a hand up in mock surrender. "Okay, calm down." Moving his thumb to the correct button, he hit the safety and then disengaged the clip, placed both the clip and gun on the wood picnic table next to him.
Michonne only marginally relaxed. "Good. Now step away from it," she instructed.
The man actually had the gall to roll his eyes. Ever so slightly, but she saw it. "What's your name?" She asked.
He rounded the picnic table and sat on the other side, out of arm's reach of the gun. Reaching into his breast pocket, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes. He took his time lighting one, placing the lighter and the pack of smokes on the bench next to him.
He peered at Michonne through the haze of smoke he'd just exhaled. She raised an eyebrow in challenge. "You gonna' tell me your name, or do I have to find out myself?" She really disliked purposeful insubordination when dealing with an armed person. Admittedly, it did at least make the day a bit more interesting and she got the feeling he wasn't dangerous. Still, a cop could never be too cautious.
"I don't think that'll be necessary." Inhale, exhale, smoke floated around his precocious, yet sad, eyes. "Names Grimes. Rick Grimes."
Shit. The former sheriff himself. Michonne hadn't had the chance to meet him personally as of yet. He kept a low profile, kept out of trouble - until today. She'd heard the stories about him, some true, others, she was sure, not so true. You could only take what people said with a grain of salt. There was one person's truth, the other person's truth, then the actual truth.
. . .
Daryl didn't know how or why he let Michonne talk him into these things. She seemed to have an inordinate amount of get-togethers, most of which he got roped into going to. He told himself he wasn't going to this one. All the way home from the station. As he got home, as he turned on the tv and sat in his chair, settling in for the night, he was determined not to go.
If he didn't go, though, he'd catch hell next time he saw Michonne. It was easier to just show up for an hour and quietly sneak out.
At Michonne's two-story home Michonne lived in he made his way to the back entrance. It was a quiet neighborhood cul-de-sac down one of the side streets of town. Yellow siding with dark blue shutters, a backyard the butts up to a ravine giving the illusion of space when in reality she didn't own much more than the land her house sat on. It was perfect for Michonne and convenient to the station even if it was, in fact, two blocks from the station, not one block as she claimed.
Following a low tune of some pop song pumped through Michonne's Bluetooth speaker connected to her phone. He was certain of this because Michonne was predictable in a lot of ways. She'd definitely be playing something he never heard of and didn't like. Never any Lynyrd Skynyrd or Willie Nelson to be had at Michonne's.
Entering through the back door there no need to knock. No one else was there yet, or at least no other vehicles were parked at the curb or in the drive. He may have planned it that way. Arrive before anyone else and cut out early. Least amount of people interaction as possible. He might just be a damn genius.
As he made his way through the hall to the open concept kitchen and living room, Michonne was at the stove stirring something spicy scented in a big pot with one hand, a can of diet Dr. Pepper Cherry in her other hand. It wasn't surprising she was drinking soda despite the fact it was her night off. She didn't drink much. He never did. Things were pretty lax in their county, but they didn't want to risk being called out on duty and being a little tipsy. Besides, he'd wasted enough time on alcohol. He had no desire to go back.
"You came," she said, giving him a big smile over her shoulder.
"And miss all the merriment? Never," he retorted, making his way to the island that separated the kitchen and living area. His back to the marble top, he sat at a bar stool facing her.
Pulling his cap down low over his head to fight off the blaring setting sun that came through the sliding glass door opposite him. The trees swayed in the wind. It was one of those days where the sun shone brightly, but the wind was bitter cold. The weather had been mild up till then considering it was still the end of fall. He could still get away with a hooded sweatshirt in lieu of a coat during the day.
"Don't think you're leaving early neither. Don't you think for a second that I don't notice you slipping out quietly."
Damn, maybe he wasn't as smart as he hoped.
"Why are you so against socialization?" She questioned. "You are the Sheriff. It's good for people to see you in an unofficial capacity." She turned to face him, looked over him, the disapproval clear on her face. "Well, it's not like you gotta dress up or anything, but ya' think maybe you could wear something other than that ratty old sweatshirt and stained jeans?"
"Now that ain't fair. I normally wear my uniform shirt."
She rose that eyebrow at him, she knew as well as he that that's exactly what he wore under the sweatshirt.
In contrast, she looked festive in a low cut red sequined top and black skinny jeans that hugged her body nicely. She also wore make-up, something she never wore at work.
Before she had a chance to say anything else, he quipped, "Yeah, yeah. You know, you should just marry me. The way you nag me it's already like we're married."
Michonne threw her head back and laughed, her long dark braids banded by a tie almost reached her belt. "You couldn't handle me."
That was probably true, she was too smart for him. They were friends, co-workers. While she was attractive, smart, kind, good at her job. All admirable things as well as a smile that was enough to melt the toughest of men, it was best to keep things platonic.
Changing the subject completely, he asked, "What was the drunk and disorderly about? I was gone before you got back to the station. You were gone a long time."
She quickly turned back to the stove. "Hmm?" She asked. "Oh, on Cherry?"
Daryl squinted his eyes at her back, there was something she wasn't saying. The way she turned her back to him. There was something more that she wasn't going to give fully up to him. He read people and he read Michonne easily.
"Yeah. The one and only call we got all afternoon," Daryl reminded dryly.
"Oh, he wasn't drunk. Just target shooting. The people that called it in are new to the town, aren't quite used to people shooting for no reason."
"Well that is a residential area," he needlessly reminded her. It was a small town, people owned guns. It was just a fact of life in those parts. Shooting in the middle of a neighborhood in town wasn't allowed though.
"I reminded him of that. He knows the laws. Said he didn't realize anyone had moved in next door. He apologized, said he wouldn't do it again."
"Who was it?"
"Oh, umm," she hesitated momentarily. "It was Rick Grimes."
"Grimes?" He questioned, mildly surprised. "As in the former sheriff? He should know the laws then. Did ya write him a ticket?"
"Na', you know he is down on his luck, doesn't need more trouble."
"He's been down on his luck for a while now. Just cause he was an officer before doesn't mean he gets to break the law now."
"I know that. He knows that. But I think what he needs right now is a little compassion."
Daryl made humph noise deep in his throat. He wasn't so sure about that. "Kind of like Jesus needs my compassion once 'n a while, wouldn't ya' say?"
Now she did glance over her shoulder and grinned, subdued. "Touche." She tapped the spoon on the side of the pot as she spoke, "No more shop talk. It's finally the weekend. Have a soda and just relax. I know it's hard for you, but I think you can do it," she teased.
She was being evasive about something. It annoyed him but he let it go for now.
She says he should relax. Like it was that easy. He couldn't relax around a bunch of people. He had to be sheriff, even in his downtime. It was a position that meant he couldn't fully unwind. It had nothing to do with him, it was the job. Or so he told himself.
Nevertheless, he stood and made his way over to the stainless steel fridge. Reaching through various Tupperware containers of dip and a plate of veggies and a something labeled Hummus, as well as a few other leftover containers of Chinese food, he grabbed a can of Coke. He couldn't help but notice the six-pack of Miller Lite on the second shelf partially hidden by a gallon of milk.
Instinctively his hackles rose and it wasn't because he no longer drank. It never bothered him when others drank around him. It was like his taste of alcohol all but disappeared once he was settled back home and in the position of sheriff. No, he went on edge for a completely different reason.
He popped the top of soda, stood back up and took a long swig before he spoke, the carbonated bubbles tickled his nose. He wasn't one to mince words, bluntly he asked, "So, why the Miller Lite?" There was only one person they knew that drank Miller Lite that Michonne would specifically buy it for because she sure didn't drink that stuff herself. If she did drink she was a Budweiser kind of girl.
"Anyone that wants it," she answered evasively, busying herself with prepping a loaf of some sort of bread for the oven. The scent wafting through the air told him it was garlic bread.
Back at the island, he kicked out his long legs, rested an elbow on the counter behind him. "Anyone in particular?"
Michonne sighed, her shoulders rising and falling dramatically. "You damn well know who it's for."
Before he could respond, muffled footsteps sounded from the stairway in the back of the house where the bedrooms were. Well, he assumed that's where the bedrooms were, he'd never been upstairs.
He turned toward the sound as the footsteps got louder and the last person he wanted to see appeared from the darkened hallway. Mike, Michonne's ex-boyfriend. Or so Daryl thought he was her ex.
He was shorter, small of stature, skinny. Daryl would describe him as weasley.
"Hey there, Daryl," Mike said, slithering over to Michonne. Putting his spider leg like hands on her hips, leaning in, giving her an exaggerated hug from behind, a noisy kiss to her bare neck.
He didn't reply to Mike's greeting. Michonnes quick glance at Daryl, an apology on her eyes, didn't escape him. He sat his coke on the counter behind him, he suddenly wasn't thirsty. Or hungry. Mike might have others fooled, he didn't fool Daryl. He didn't think he fooled Michonne anymore either. Not after their last break up. Not after Mike's temper gained momentum over the months they were together and definitely not after it bubbled over and Mike shoved her across the room.
The guy was no good. Daryl had done his best to like him at first. Well, that wasn't quite true. He tolerated him for Michonne's sake. After all, there wasn't too many people Daryl outright liked. There were plenty of people he tolerated. His circle was small and he liked it that way. But he just couldn't like Mike. From early on he saw right through him.
Daryl had been relieved when they finally broke up after a long and tortuous, for both him and Michonne, year. Apparently, and unfortunately, Mike was back. The way he leaned into Michonne, nuzzling her neck, Daryl wanted to punch him so he just looked away instead.
. . .
The dinner went onward regardless of Daryl's dislike for Mike. There was a good number of people there which made it a little easier to ignore him. He was boisterous and loud. The guy seemed to seek Daryl out. They both knew of his dislike towards him. Daryl made that abundantly clear when Michonne dumped his ass and Daryl was lucky enough to be a witness to it.
He stayed in pretty much the same spot, doing his best to blend in as they all sat around the kitchen island and as they mingled about before and after the meal. People would find their way to him, made small talk, then moved on. Small talk, socializing, dinners - they just weren't his thing. Work. Being out in the woods. Being alone or with the few people he tolerated. Those were his things. Michonne was correct in surmise that he needed to be seen among people if he expected people to trust him in an official and unofficial capacity.
For the most part everyone did accept him. It was rough going at first, him being a Dixon. No one really believed he'd be a good sheriff because of his family history. He kept his eyes down and stayed focused, did his job. Those who were suspicious of his ability came around eventually.
His appetite returned, and ate two helpings of dinner, talked to everyone that talked to him and was now ready to call it a night. At the late time of nine p.m. It was an hour past what he initially planned staying for. He wanted to scope things out. Just how serious were Mike and Michonne? Pretty serious if you judged it by the fact that he hardly left her side. Was always touching her, holding her hand, a hand on her arm. It made Daryl simmer deep down.
A light elbow to the arm caught Daryl off guard and he turned to see Connie, a friend of Michonne's, scoot up to the stool next to him. She was deaf but that didn't harm her communication skills much.
She scribbled something on the little pad of paper she carried with her, slid it over for him to read. "What do you think of that?" When he looked back up to her for clarification she looked pointedly at Michonne and Mike.
Daryl shrugged. "It won't last long," he told her quietly, hoping no one was eavesdropping.
More scribbling, "How do you know?" Her eyebrows rose in question, worry creased her forehead.
"Just do," he reassured, brushing a hand over hers to which she smiled. "Don't worry. Ya' know Michonne can handle herself."
Mildly comforted, she then wrote, "It's good to see you out, call me sometime. We can hang out."
Daryl nodded, watched her walk away. He found Connie intriguing. She was sweet. Smart. Sassy, if he used words such as sassy. And they shared their dislike for Mike. Something told him she was interested in more than hanging out. But being sheriff also made dating difficult. Well, in all honesty, he made dating difficult. Along with it being difficult, he didn't want to hurt Connie and inevitably that is what he'd do. People, relationships. That just wasn't his thing either.
Mike was loading the dishwasher, showing off what a "great" guy he was when Daryl finally had had enough and cut out.
He was halfway to the Bronco parked at the curb when Michonne caught up with him. She had a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Once the sun had gone down, the wind had turned brittle. Their breath puffed out in little clouds of smoke on the cold air under the dim yellow street light.
"Hey," she said a few steps behind him. Grasping him by the elbow to stop his long strides he was taking to get the hell out of there. "We okay?"
"Why wouldn't we be okay?" He asked. He'd never let Mike or anyone come between them.
"You know why."
He dropped the facade. He'd hoped to avoid this conversation altogether. Michonne had other plans. He could always count on her to say what was on her mind. More so if it made someone uncomfortable. She said the most important conversations were usually uncomfortable. And this conversation would definitely make him uncomfortable. Anything the consisted of sharing one's feelings made him uncomfortable.
"Listen, it's your life. Far be it of me to tell ya' what to do. You know how I feel 'bout him. But you're a grown woman, ya' can date whoever you want." Even an asshole like Mike.
"Daryl," she appealed for him to understand.
"He ain't good for you," Daryl told her, not for the first time. "Just know when he hurts you again, I'll be there."
Surprising him, Michonne's eyes shone with unshed tears in the streetlight.
Damn .
"It's not like last time. It'll be different."
She was so smart, why did she have such poor choice in men? Or, in this man in particular. "Do you really believe that?" Taking a step towards her, he asked genuinely concerned.
She didn't answer. After a few seconds, he spoke again. Softer, only when he tried to speak gentler, his voice just became gruffer. "You best get back inside, it's cold out here tonight."
Instead of turning to go, she only stared at him, pleading with her eyes. He rose a hand and lightly touched her cheek. Thankfully those tears did not fall. If they had he'd have to go beat Mike's ass right now. A preemptive beating of sorts, one that happened before Mike had a chance to hurt her again.
"We okay?" She asked again.
"We're okay."
She smiled thinly and he nodded in return. Nothing more really needed or could be said that hadn't already been spoken. Words weren't necessary. He had her back no matter what.
. . .
Now what? She couldn't go back. Wouldn't know the way even if she wanted to. Couldn't go forward, didn't want to risk getting further into the forest and up the mountain and becoming more lost. She needed to find a way out.
When she came to a clearing a shack came into view. The main part of the house was once a cabin years before. It'd seen better days. It had been added on to with plywood, metal sheeting, and a mix of different length boards.
Taking in the landscape, the makeshift home, the broken down cars surrounding the house, the ancient truck in what was the driveway - a path that led from the clearing through the woods, machine parts strewn here and there, a playpen with the netting ripped out, she hit a mental as well as physical, wall. She was unable to move any further. Frozen, she leaned against an oak tree. Breath ragged, as much from exertion as well as panic. She tried her best to slow the puffs of air that rushed from her lungs. Her shaky legs slowly gave away and her knees met the solid earth.
Smoke spiraled from the chimney of the house before her. She wanted badly to go to the house. Knock on the plywood door. Walk in. Be enveloped by the warmth of the fire.
This house was in the middle of nowhere up on the mountain, it was clear whoever lived up here wanted to be left alone. What if the people inside weren't friendly? What if they were like the others. One thing she had learned in the last few years was that you couldn't trust anyone. Sure, the average person was friendly, helpful, at first, but eventually, they'd show who they truly were.
She leaned her head against the dense bark of a tree behind her, closed her eyes, stuck in her ambivalence. The plywood door opened a crack and a woman stuck her head out, eyeing her suspiciously. She was too exhausted to care.