Author's Note: Hey guys! Thanks for the feedback last chapter. I know there's a lot of stuff going on in this story, but it'll become clearer as it goes on (hopefully?). This chapter is super long because I decided not to edit much out, so apologies for the length. Enjoy!
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
2 – Traveling Woman
There was no better way to wake than to cinnamon laced in the air.
He smiled, eyes still closed, because he didn't need to roll over to know she stood there. In the doorway, in that slinky little thing she sometimes wore, waiting to entice him. He couldn't give in. Not if he wanted to leave the house at a reasonable hour. He had a photo op at a Special Olympics event today. ESPN would be there. Later, it'd be featured on their daily sports rundown segment.
"Wake up, baby."
He groaned. Her soft murmur tortured him. She'd pulled out the big guns, using that tone. He paused to get his mind right, springing up in the bed when of sound judgment. She merely bit her bottom lip—that damn juicy bottom lip—and giggled. With a slight shake of her head, she vanished from the doorway, knowing he'd follow. He did. Like a stray dog catching a whiff of his next meal, he did. He didn't remember getting out of bed, but he remembered following in her wake, inhaling her sweet scent as he chased her retreating form.
In the kitchen, he surprised her from behind—or was it a surprise when she lured him there—and he slunk his arms along her hips, kissing her neck. She didn't protest, leaning into him, resting her head on his broad shoulder, and the smile on her lips could be heard. The tiny, breathless intake of air told him he'd been right.
Their little game of seduction never failed to get either of them hot and bothered.
"Mike," she moaned, grinding against him. "Your brother—Jacqui—they'll hear—"
"Guaranteed, those meds have Terry knocked out—and Jacqui's busy vacuuming or some shit—exactly why she won't hear us."
"Andre—"
"You kidding? He's in the crib."
She reached up to grip his nape, the fit of her ass against his front so right. So good. Too fucking good.
"The cinnamon rolls—they'll burn—"
"Who cares?" he whispered into her ear.
Michonne gave in with a giggle and his hands dipper lower past her hips toward the hem of her nighty…
In a jerk, he woke to the dingy, moldy green of the Sea Breeze Motel room. His face fell into the same hands that'd been touching her mere seconds ago. He missed the good ol' days. His dreams reminded him of that perfect past. He hadn't realized what he'd lost 'til she'd left. The king-sized bed empty, he couldn't stand to sleep another night home without her.
But he wasn't worried. He'd find her, or he'd fall off the ends of the earth trying.
This was another game of seduction. Instead of follow her down the hall, into the kitchen for their little escapade, she wanted him to track her down and bring her home. Beg. Plead. Carry her through the front doors and profess his undying love for her in a sweeping romantic gesture like one of those Lifetime movies. She wanted the drama. The excitement. The big, grand display of affection in order to give in. He'd acquiesce if it meant making her happy.
Happy wife, happy life, after all.
Besides, they had too much history for it to end like this.
It'd been love at first sight. From the get-go, they were crazy about each other. The whirlwind marriage happened within weeks, a small ceremony where he made an honest woman out of her. His mother and his brother had warned him about getting caught up, afraid she'd leave him broke. Plenty of athletes, past and present, had fallen prey to these traps. He didn't listen to their cautionary words, categorizing his love for Michonne as 'something different'.
The heart wanted what it wanted. And his wanted hers.
The door shook as angry fists beat against it. He shoved aside the blankets and rushed to open. His giant 6'5" form towered over the feeble man on his doorstep. He wore a seafoam green polo shirt, had crooked and mismatched teeth, and couldn't have been younger than age fifty.
"What the fuck do you want?"
"Checkout time was two hours ago!" the small man fired back. Despite his meager stature, he didn't cower or falter under him. "You ran up a big bill on the pay-per-view feature last night. I understand late-night urges, but we've swiped your card and it was declined!"
"That's impossible. Run it again."
"We've run it five times! As the motel manager, I'm going to have to ask you to—"
He ignored his rant, snatching his wallet off the table and tossing another credit card his way. The black Amex landed in the grubby fingers of the Sea Breeze's manager and he eyed the sparkly card with mingled suspicion.
"Try that one. Guaranteed it'll cover a fucking fifty buck room. Now run it for another day and then get the fuck out my face."
The manager squared his shoulders. "Can I see some I.D.?"
"You know better than that. Anybody who's seen five minutes of ESPN knows who I am," he sneered. When the man didn't budge, he cackled and pulled out his driver's license. "Fine, here you go. We good?"
The manager studied the I.D., shifting his beady eyes to his face and back again. "Yes, sir. I…I apologize for the mix up. I'll return shortly with your card and receipt."
"Yeah, hurry the fuck up."
He watched as the middle-aged man scurried like a mouse to the motel office. Who did the fool think he was questioning him, asking for I.D.? For a shit bag motel like this, he should've kissed the ground he walked on for staying overnight.
His eyes closed and breathed slowly. The grimiest motel would be worth it if he tracked her down and brought her home where she belonged. In a couple hours, he'd be in Mississippi, hopefully one step closer to finding her. Then they could be together again.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Michonne spent half of her first night in Alamo embroiled in a paranoia deep enough she sat on the porch and stared into the dark abyss. At some point around 2 A.M., she trudged inside and collapsed on the springy bed with her .44. There, she slept a few hours, but she didn't sleep soundly. More of a fitful sleep that caused her to imagine a presence looming in the door way. Drifting into the room as she lay asleep, closer and closer it inched…six feet…three…two…one…
She broke free of the lucid dreaming in time to save herself from certain wretched despair. Only, the room was empty. Her eyes blinked close, helpless to thwart the alarmed beat of her heart. The clock read as 6 A.M., and she couldn't bring herself to catch another wink. She wound up where she'd began the night before, on the porch with the protection her .44 offered.
In the early morning, Pine Lake was more peaceful than nighttime.
Alamo hadn't stirred yet. The entire town slept unapologetically in the warmth of their beds. She clutched her mug of brewed coffee and sipped, wondering if she could be like that. If there'd be a point in her life where she could sleep without worry. The fairytale-like thought bordered hilarity and she smirked darkly.
Today, she'd find a job. First stop would be that rinky-dink bar on the edge of town. The house also needed fixing. Badly. Considering her budgetary constraints, it made most sense to pick only a couple fixes at a time. The loose floorboards and the peeling wall's sprang to mind. The boards didn't feel safe to walk on. As for the chipped paint, the sight depressed her more than necessary. A couple fresh coats would be an instant mood lifter. Yellow being her favorite, that seemed the obvious pick.
Grimes Hardware.
Michonne scowled. She didn't want to return to the store, but in a small town like Alamo, zero competition existed. It was patronize Grimes Hardware or live in continual squalor. Sighing, she sipped her coffee and glared across the murky lake. Her neighbor's home bared no signs of life, curtains drawn and property silent much like the rest of Alamo. All the more opportunity to glare uninterrupted…
The door propped open and she choked on coffee.
Rick Grimes walked onto the porch already dressed. In a white t-shirt and dark denim, he looked ready to work. Her immediate thoughts shot to vanishing, but with him on his porch, she couldn't possibly sneak inside unseen. Resigned to the idea she'd be forced to deal with him then and there, she ushered in her earlier devil-may-care moxie. She sat laxly in the chair and sipped her coffee, her revolver at rest in her lap. He saw her straightaway, his storm-blue eyes on her for more seconds than she would've preferred. Still, she met his gaze unflinchingly, holding the intense contact with an uprooting power of her own.
To her dismay, he started down the porch steps, crossing his lawn, and then the rickety bridge itself. She stared with internalized horror. He was walking over. He was coming this way. Well. Shit. She hadn't planned this far out.
The most viable option was to stay strong and appear unbothered. Men like him, they wanted to intimidate. Railroad over her space and invade her privacy. He'd proven as much last night, demanding to see her and know her name. She wasn't fooled for a second the kind of games he wanted to play. Unluckily for him, he was good, but she was better.
"Morning, forty-four," he greeted, at halt on the edges of her lawn.
Michonne sat in the rocking chair, silent.
He soon regretted his snark and sighed, gaze dipping to the dead grass. "Look, sorry 'bout last night. I didn't mean to seem like I was tryna bully you. It's just…I could feel you watching from my place and I didn't know who you were. Guess I got carried away."
She heard his words, the sincerity in his smoky drawl, and witnessed the rueful lines in his face, but these things meant nothing. Standard tricks of the con artist handbook. Dad had taught her well enough to spot a fraud a mile away. He'd known better than anyone being one himself. It hadn't occurred to her until her life went to hell that Dad warned her about men just like him, as if in some twisted foretelling of the future…
"I slept on it," he continued when she said nothing. "I realize that me coming over like that mighta been alarming—you being new in town. It was dark too. I get why you had your revolver out. You don't know me and I was tryna come up your steps. Hopefully…uh, hopefully you can gimme another shot. Maybe we can start over…as neighbors…"
Michonne ruminated on the offer. Her pokerface gave nothing away. Another valuable learned from Dad, being a skilled gambler. She crafted a polite, slow-spreading smile that never quite reached her eyes.
"Sure. That sounds nice."
The subtle shift in his expression told her he picked up on the artificial reply, but he didn't call her on it. Instead, he let his own grin stretch across that stubbly, pronounced jaw of his, and he chuckled like a joke had been told. He thought her bluff was funny.
Her skin flushed hot, incensed by his mere audacity…
"You're a tough sell, aren't you?"
"I don't know what you're—"
"I can help you, yanno."
"Excuse me?"
"Your house. I can help you fix it up. It's what I do. I own the—"
"Yeah, I know. But no thanks. I'm good."
He raised a brow. His right one. "You're good?"
"Mhm."
Chuckling again, he said, "what d'you mean…good?"
She shrugged. "I mean, I'm good. I'm fine. I don't need any help."
"You're living in the house the Daily Alamo labeled uninhabitable…and you're saying that's alright?"
"Mhmmm."
"If you think I don't know what I'm doing, you can ask anybody. I've fixed plenty 'round here. Just the other day I was patching up Deanna's ceiling—"
"No thank you."
Rick stood with his mouth partially open and eyes narrowed. His stubbornness wouldn't let him drop the subject. "If it's money you're worried 'bout, you don't have to pay me a red cent. Consider it a favor."
"I don't accept favors," she said coldly.
"Not a favor as in…I'm gonna collect or anything. A favor like one neighbor helping another—"
"You're not going to change my mind, Rick Grimes."
The tension materialized between them thicker than the winter morning's fog. He eyed her for a long second like one would eye a dizzying puzzle, and conceded with a nod.
"Alright. Suit yourself. Just thought I'd offer."
"And I appreciate it. But, again, no thank you."
"Guess that's all there is to say. I'll see you 'round."
"Goodbye."
He looked visibly confused turning to go. She didn't bat a lash watching him, steadily rocking in the chair with her mug and revolver. His didn't fool her for a second. He wanted something. He could've been anyone. Some paid-for-hire there to track her down and turn her in. Another sleaze ball bent on personal gain. Regardless, the threat was too great to ignore for a pair of gorgeous blue eyes and a handsome smile. What sort of twisted game was Rick Grimes playing, offering to fix her home?
From the get-go, she'd sensed a darkness in him. She was no stranger to it, well-acquainted to the heaviness in her own shadow. The man might've pretended to be about his family and his business, but she didn't trust him as far as she could throw him. He had monsters in his closet. Ones potentially worse than hers.
Michonne forgot about her lukewarm coffee and closed her eyes. It wasn't totally lost on her that her assumptions could be off-base. She could be paranoid and projecting. But how could she not jump to these conclusions? She'd learned the hard way over and over again. Help had come with a hefty expectation every time. The depressing truth was that nothing in the world was without a price tag. Some were simply more honest than others…
For the time being, Rick Grimes' intent remained unclear. His offer could've been harmless, but it also could've hidden troublesome intentions. She stood up from the rocking chair and decided to operate in her best interest. She'd play nice when necessary, only in order to keep the peace and possibly fix her home. At the first sign of danger, she'd get the hell out of there. That simple, cut and dry.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
That morning, Rick couldn't stop thinking about his mysterious new neighbor. He helped Judy get ready for preschool despite protests, half-distracted by his exchange with Michonne.
"Daddy, I can tie my own shoes!"
"Alright, Lil' Bit. Go ahead and try." He stood and waited as she bumbled with the strings. After five minutes, she gave up and huffed stubbornly about letting him do it if he 'really, really wanted to'.
He dropped her off with her pigtails and lunch pail and he became an afterthought as soon as she spotted her friends. He drove on, headed for the hardware store as he replayed his new neighbor's remarks for the twentieth time.
I don't accept favors.
Did she think he was out to swindle her? That he'd use the home repairs as leverage for something?
The offer had been earnest. He hadn't considered the possibility she'd be wary of it. Her apparent suspicion ushered in many more questions as he wondered if she'd been wronged in a similar scenario or if his small-town line of thinking conflicted with her city state of mind. That is, if she was a city girl. He had no way of knowing.
She was a total enigma and seemed to prefer it that way.
He walked into the store to find Carl already there. His father liked to get his daily steps in by walking to work. Since he'd retired and his health had gone to shit, it was the only way he exercised. He grunted when Rick entered, his form of a good morning. Rick's was a silent nod of his head, and like that, the men began the day's shift.
Rick unpacked the freight boxes and Carl stocked the shelves. Anytime a customer walked in, whoever happened to be closest helped them. The Sheriff himself strolled in to buy a portable generator and Rick assisted him, knowing his father would refuse. As soon as the sheriff walked out, Carl broke out into a rant about his replacement, Jeff Negan.
"He don't got a lick of sense. Alamo's fucked."
"Dunno. He's doing well in the public opinion polls."
Carl bristled. "That's 'cuz the public full of morons. Crime's at an all-time high. You know better than anyone."
Rick grit his teeth, ignoring the low-blow before he dished one of his own. He excused himself from the register and shot for the backroom. The space helped him apply the techniques he'd read about in his latest self-help book. It kept him from wanting to break or tear into anything within sight, falling from the edge he tried so desperately to avoid.
He never wanted to go back there again, the steep descent into a part of himself darker than he liked to dwell on. The part of himself without control and capable of anything to exact revenge. He'd gone there once in his life and never intended on going back. He couldn't risk his freedom again. He needed to be around for the beautiful light in his life. The constant pain from losing Carl would be a part of him regardless, but Lil' Bit needed him too much to give in, to fall over that edge…
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Half a block beyond the local junkyard, Merle's Bar and Grill rounded-off an already dead street. The smoke-infused establishment first opened in 1987, suffering no shortage in business being the only bar in town. Alamo's loyalty to Merle's ensured steady patronage most nights of the week. It didn't matter that there were more bulbs burnt than lit on the sign outside, or that it hung crookedly after a particularly nasty brawl on New Year's '94. It also didn't matter the parking lot was nothing more than grainy sand and jagged pebble. Most considered the rundown qualities part of Merle's charm.
Michonne slipped on her boots and walked the entire way to the bar and grill. Though it was January, the mild winter paled in comparison to the brisker ones she'd experienced in Michigan. Even the winters in New Jersey. She bared the bite of the wind, rather enjoying the chance to quietly observe the new town. Many city dwellers would call Alamo an eyesore, and it was, with its decades-old architecture and unpaved streets. The sense of community outweighed these defects, however. Alamo promoted a simple-kind-of-life outlook. Nothing appealed to her more after what she'd been through with Mike.
"Get out, we're closed!"
Those were the first words croaked at her upon setting foot inside the bar. The slurred non-welcome came from the owner, Merle himself. The mid-fifties man looked like he'd recently finished a bender, t-shirt wrinkled and eyes puffy. The scraggly gray fuzz he sported needed a good trim, too, but he didn't seem to care standing behind the counter. He multitasked, wiping down shot glasses while guzzling mouthfuls of malt liquor. He belched after his latest, glancing up when the thud of Michonne's boots continued.
"I said, we're close—" he cut off with a doubletake. His beady eyes expanded, accompanied by a toothy, yellow grin. "Well, what do we got here? Never seen you before."
"I saw the 'HELP WANTED' sign outside. Is the job filled?"
"What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Michonne."
"Me-shawn," he butchered with a guffaw. "That's gotta be a new one. Bet your mama was 'bout as sober as me when she came up with that."
"Is the job still open?" she asked again.
"So…you new in town, I'm guessing?"
"Mhmm."
"And you here alone? By yourself? In Alamo?"
"That's right."
He found that funny, grunting out another sloppy laugh. "What's your story?"
"Who says I have one?"
"Ain't nobody's coming to Alamo for a vacation, sweetheart. I know that much."
"I'm here for the job posting. You can give me whatever backstory you like. It doesn't matter to me."
"Well…why don't you help my imagination a lil'…" he clutched the bottle of malt liquor and grinned.
At once, the dingy bar lit only by natural light streaming in from the window, brightened. The overhead lamps had been flicked on by a stoutly woman standing in the doorway presumably leading to the backrooms. First impression alone, she was friendly. Her kind smile crinkled her eyes and she simpered how one would when reprimanding a puppy or small child.
"Merle, what in tarnation are you doing? Leave the girl alone—she's asking 'bout a job. Not to be hit on by some sloppy ol' coot."
To Michonne's surprise, Merle cracked up in laughter. He didn't bother denying the woman's claim. Instead he held up his hands and croaked, "Mary, baby, yanno you're my one and only. It's this damn Malt Steele doing the talking."
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say," she dismissed. She focused on Michonne and her smile grew. "Honey, why don't you follow me to the back office? We can discuss some things."
Michonne left Merle swaying behind the counter without a second thought. Mary led her into an office that was as cramped as the frontend, with a battered desk and tilted filing cabinet jammed into the tiny room. She squeezed herself into the space between the chair and the desk, the wall offering no give, and then sighed.
"It was so much easier to slip behind here when I was fifteen years younger and thirty pounds lighter," she joked. "Now, I missed your name…what is it, honey?"
"Michonne."
"Michonne. Unique. French?"
"Not sure."
"Well, my name's Mary Dixon. Pleased to meet you." She brushed loose strands from her face, the rest bundled in a ponytail along her back, and snatched a blank form off a tray. "Heard you saw we have a job opening. It's for a part-time bartender. You do well, could be full-time. Here's the application. I'll tell you now, we're desperate…so I'll hire you soon as you're ready to start. The form's more of a…formality sorta thing. As it stands, we've only got Merle's brother Daryl as our bartender. We've been having our waitress Maggie backfill, but that's been a disaster. You ever bartend before?"
"In more states than one," she quipped, smirking.
Mary nodded impressively. "You might be the answer to our prayers, Miss Michonne. Last bartender quit and we've been scrambling ever since."
Fifteen minutes later, Michonne emerged from Merle's Bar and Grill filled with relief. She had a job she started tomorrow even if it was part-time and minimum wage pay. Realist by nature, she hated to let her guard down enough for optimism to grow. Her stroll down the quiet streets, backdropped by the georgic landscape, convinced her slight hope wouldn't hurt.
Could Alamo be home after all?
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
From his research, he'd dug up much of her childhood. He'd gone through the secret storage locker she kept throughout their marriage. Old childhood relics hid inside. Always a different city. Always a different school. They were clues as far as he was concerned. Potential leads as to where she could be present day. Knowing her, she could have ties in any of these places.
He arrived in Biloxi mid-afternoon, surprised by the chill. A silvery fog hung in the air and the shitty roads made it that much more difficult for him to navigate his way. He checked into his next low-key motel then hit the town itself, determined for answers. First, he turned up at the home she lived in as Michonne Wiley. The small bungalow resembled more of a shack than a home and he chuckled to himself.
Of course, it would. She never had come from much. She'd been dirt poor. Even she, for as compulsive of a liar as she was, hadn't bothered omitting that fact.
He walked up to the abandoned home, its wooden fence kicked in and weeds of knee-high length. The place had long since been given up as he peeked through the wooden boards nailed across the windows and glanced at the graffiti-tag sprayed atop the cracked paint. The Wiley's had lived here for less than a year, but Michonne had kept many mementos from her time in Biloxi. Aside from her yearbook, art projects and report card, she'd hoarded a frayed deck of cards and a small baseball cap to fit a child. The baseball cap had a tag that read 'property of Glenn R.'.
It was laughably easy to track Glenn Rhee down. He was a deliveryman for the local pizza joint, Vinny's Pie. The compact little delivery car he drove boasted a large pizza sign on its roof. He tailed him, following him to several delivery stops.
The man couldn't have been taller than 5'8" or 5'9" with a modest build and patchy goatee. He had a naturally awkward air about him, uncertain as he delivered his pizzas. For a long while, he sat in his car and observed Glenn Rhee, watching him interact with customers.
On stop four, a delivery to a low-income apartment building, he got out and trailed in his wake. Glenn delivered his pizza and retraced his steps to his beatdown car. He followed, certain he lingered at a far enough distance to be undetectably in the shadows.
But Glenn Rhee proved to be cleverer than he thought. He stopped and spun on his heels, looking right at him from across the cement walkway.
"Why are you following me?" His tone was surprisingly demanding given what he'd observed.
No longer able to hide in the shadows, he stepped into the light. "Hey man. Didn't think you knew I was. Sorry."
"What d'you want? If you're selling, I'm…I'm not interested."
"Nothing like that, Glenn. I just wanna talk to you."
Glenn's features hardened. "How d'you know my name? Who are you?"
He held up his hands and grinned kindly. "Hey, slow down. No need to be suspicious. I know I was following you, but I'm looking for somebody. That's all."
"Yeah, who?"
"Did a little research," he said, bridging the gap between them. Glenn stepped back and the distrust in his dark-eyed gaze was clear. He looked suspicious as hell creeping behind him in some apartment complex, knowing his name. Totally understandable. But he wasn't about to give up. He needed answers. "I know for a fact you know my wife. I was hoping you could help me find her."
"Yeah, who?" he repeated, colder.
"She goes by different aliases. Her and her family. Rhiannon. Portia. Tiara. But I'm sure you knew her as Michonne. Michonne Wiley."
Comprehension spread across Glenn's diamond-shaped face as the name rang a bell. He seemed to recall their past in that fleeting second, mulling over the times they'd shared.
"Ne?" he murmured. "This is about Ne?"
"Yeah, Ne. She's my wife and I'm looking for her."
"If she's your wife…why would you have to?" Glenn asked smartly. "Wouldn't she be with you?"
Anger flamed up in him like a ball of fire, begging for a quick release, but he snuffed it in time. Instead, his grin widened as he chuckled and moved closer. "Glenn, my man. I don't think you're understanding me. I'm not out for trouble. Are you?"
"No…" Glenn eyed him skeptically, face lined with confusion. "Why would I—? I'm trying to finish my route."
"Exactly. And I want you to. But you've gotta help me first. All I want is to find my wife. She's unstable. She's off her meds and I'm afraid she'll self-destruct if I don't get to her soon. So help me and I'll help you. That sound good?"
"Off her meds?"
"Yeah, she's a lot to handle. I bet she was like that when you knew her."
Glenn looked conflicted for a second, caught between a rock and a hard place. His jaw tightened and he distanced himself with another backwards step. "I don't know anything. I haven't talked to Ne in, like, fifteen years."
What a fucking liar.
His grin didn't go anywhere, but it lost its feigned kindness. He no longer cared how menacing he came across.
Glenn wasn't going to help him. He didn't trust him. He saw him as the enemy. He saw Michonne as the victim. His loyalty to her, no matter how many years it'd been, remained intact. But he was an intimidating man, straightening to his full height as he towered over Glenn Rhee and his eyes iced over.
"You sure about that, Glenn?" he asked quietly.
The delivery man hesitated for a second, stammering. "Ye-Yeah…I mean…I haven't…"
"You know who I am?"
Glenn's eyes darted left to right. "Should I?"
He laughed, invading the pizza guy's space yet again. "I'm Mike Gray. Former Quarterback for the Jets."
"What? B-But—?"
"Let's go somewhere and talk," he interrupted loudly. He gripped the crook of Glenn's neck, the way someone would when giving a massage, and used his brute strength to steer him toward the parking lot. "We need to set some shit straight. Don't you think?"
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
When of sound mind again, Rick reemerged from the backroom and ignored his father's pointed glare. He returned to aisle four, where he finished unpacking a box of variously sized lightbulbs. He wouldn't give Carl the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten to him. That's what he wanted, to know his dig had struck a nerve. That he'd been right about the decline of Alamo.
It was an ego thing, and he refused to feed his father's.
He wanted him to admit the town suffered since he'd retired. In many ways, it had as his father had admittedly kept the streets safe and the bad guys locked up. Contrasting him, Sheriff Negan seemed more concerned about his popularity and gaming the system. His charm helped him pull the wool over the eyes of King's County, but Carl was the toughest nut to crack.
Still, Rick wouldn't acquiesce his father's ranting and raving. Out of stubbornness, but more so out of resentment, he'd never give that to him.
The shop door opened and Rick thought nothing of it. Too focused on arranging as many bulbs onto the shelves as he could, he pulled them from the boxes and sulked over his poor relationship with his father. Through the fog of his sour mood, he picked up on a voice he'd replayed countless times since dawn. He abandoned the shelf and walked toward the front of the store, lightbulbs in hand.
Michonne looked as enchanting as he'd come to expect, aglow on the dreariest winter days. Today she had her locs hanging freely down her back, dressed in jeans and a knitted sweater that hugged her curves too distractingly. She stood at the counter inquiring about floorboards with Carl. He interrupted before he gave it much thought.
"I'll help you," he volunteered. "Follow me. Aisle six."
He'd only caught half of the conversation, but Carl had been staunchly impolite. Apparently Michonne's aversion to him was great enough that she hesitated leaving his unhelpful father to follow him. He didn't know what to make of that other than the fact he'd truly offended her.
"Alright, first things first," he said, rounding on her. She stood several feet away in buffer to him. Her gaze further revealed how leery of him she was. "Do you got a power drill?"
"No…"
"You're gonna need one. Screws?"
"Yes…"
"Hammer?"
"Mhm."
"Wood filler?"
She frowned. "I don't know what that is."
He plucked a yellow jar off the shelf and held it up. "This," he said, "is wood filler. It helps smooth things over when you're screwing in your boards."
"Oh. Right."
"You ever fix floorboards before?"
Rick hadn't meant the question to come across as condescending, but as soon as he asked, it occurred to him how defensive she might get. One of the few things he'd learned about his neighbor was that she easily took umbrage. He hadn't yet figured out if it was a natural personality trait or reserved only for him.
"I mean, I've done it before," he clarified huskily. "So, uh, so if you've never…I can…help."
Her small smile bemused him. Was it snide? Was it grateful? Why did she have to be so damn confusing?
"I know what you meant." She reached for the jar in his grasp. Her fingertips brushed his and his eyes flicked to hers. To the casual observer, the exchange must've looked run-of-the-mill, with a man handing a woman a jar, but that couldn't be farther from the truth. They weren't privy to how the soft graze elicited a jolt through his veins reminiscent of an electric current. They didn't know what it was like to look into her bewitching brown eyes, on the receiving end of the allure shining in them. The thousands of secrets begging to be unearthed, to be revealed someday…
He licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Good. I take it that's a yes? You need the help?"
Michonne clutched the jar, moving on to appraise other items on the shelf. She was doing that thing again, where she dismissively tuned out. He'd begun to notice a pattern, and what had been an aggravation a second ago now slightly amused him.
"Hmmm?" she hummed.
"With your floorboards?"
"Oh. I already told you I don't do favors." She had her back to him, faking interest in a bottle of superglue. "You have your store to run. I'm sure I can figure it out."
"And I already told you I help plenty of people in town. I can show you how at least. That work?"
She set the superglue on the shelf, turning to face him. "You'll show me. That's all?"
"Yeah…you don't even need to buy a power drill. We can use mine."
For the briefest second, relief flickered across her features with his latest offer. The prospect she wouldn't need to buy the expensive tool set her at ease. He suddenly felt terrible for his remark about her home. Maybe it'd was what she could afford and she'd had no other choice.
"Okay," she agreed. "But I work the next couple of nights…"
"I'm free whenever you are."
"Does…Saturday afternoon work?"
He kept his posture lax and tone nonchalant so not to scare her off. "Yeah, that's fine. I'll come knock."
Michonne hovered for another second, torn on what to say next. It bothered her to rely on him. Her expression might have been the vague default she reverted to, but he could tell by other subtleties. Her hard swallow and the slight shift of weight between her left and right foot. She didn't like accepting help from him one bit.
"Thank you," she muttered at last.
"It's no trouble. I wouldn't run a hardware business otherwise."
She gave a nod and then left him in the aisle. He stared after her without shame. He couldn't decide if his curiosity was born out of an innate attraction to her or a genuine interest to know about her. It could've been both. She was undeniably an attractive woman. Judging by how fluidly she carried herself, she seemed to use it to her advantage. On the other side of the same coin, she was more than a woman with a pretty face and noticeably nice figure. Her mysterious air convinced him there was much more to her than met the eye…
Rick shook his head and picked up his next freight box. He had too much on his plate as is. What made his alluring neighbor tick was no concern of his. She happened to be interesting to engage with and easy on the eyes, and he liked the idea of helping repair her house to give him a distraction. He needed that given the fast-approaching anniversary to Carl's passing.
But that was it.
That's all she was to him. A quick distraction to keep him busy and take his mind off certain things. Nothing more.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Work at Merle's was easy. What Mary categorized as 'peak hours' consisted of crowds smaller than Michonne anticipated. Her experience in busier cities meant that Alamo's modest thirty-person turnout paled in comparison. She wasn't complaining. She preferred the smaller, more intimate crowd. By her fourth shift, she was memorizing the names of regulars.
The patrons tipped generously. Another thing she liked. The more Jameson she poured, the more the glass jar filled with green bills. The drunker many grew, the more extra dough they forked over. She'd gracefully accept the tips and shoot them her best long-lashed, doe-eyed smile. When she arrived home, first stop was her next hiding spot to stash away the cash for the inevitable rainy day.
Her co-workers accepted her with open arms. Maggie was a chatterbox from the get-go. She seemed to make it her mission to take her under her wing. Starting with her first shift, the brunette gave her the 411 for dealing with Merle's casual customer.
"If you're really into tips, you've gotta flirt a little," Maggie explained bluntly. She'd multitasked, loading her tray with four cokes. "Especially with a lotta the older men—they're lonely and feel neglected by their wives. Nothing over the top. Just harmless. Giggling at their jokes and pretending to listen to what they say—act like you care. Trust me, as the night wears on and they toss back more drinks, you'll double and triple your pay."
Michonne had smiled. "I think I can manage that."
"Be careful for Merle. He's a sloppy drunk. He's fine enough sober, but he gets bold when he's drinking," she added. "Don't lock up with him. But Daryl's usually around so…"
Daryl's first impression wasn't the best. Michonne found the surly, grungy-haired, beady-eyed younger Dixon brother too caveman for her tastes. By the end of their first shift together, he surprised her and stepped in when Sheriff Negan and his deputies got out of hand. They'd made a ruckus that raised her threat levels. Any other man, she'd have cut the demure doe act and kicked them in the balls, literally and figuratively. She'd have them turning tail, feeling like idiots in under five.
But Negan's gold star and wide-brimmed hat protected him, and her stomach lurched as she knew it was in her best interest to play it safe. Enraging the law in town was the last thing she needed, considering her tumultuous past.
That's where Daryl stepped in, cutting Deputy Simon Fuller off after an inappropriate comment about her backside. An argument ensued, where neither the bartender nor the deputy wanted to relent. Sheriff Negan interrupted with his horse-toothed grin and eyes shining. He tossed a hundred on the counter and announced their exit. His deputies didn't object.
"Thanks," said Michonne.
Daryl shrugged. "They're assholes."
She worked in amicable tandem with Daryl after that.
Most importantly, by the end of the month, she'd earned more money working at Merle's than she had in her last two towns combined. Her growing nest egg gave her much-needed respite, drowning out prior doubt she could survive this long. When she'd left Jersey, she'd had only her suitcase and two hundred bucks to her name. Plans fell through, and she didn't know where she was headed or if she'd even survive, but she knew she couldn't go back. If honest, she'd given herself a month at most before her house of cards fell down and her life was over.
Now, she was going on month four…
Her home on Pine Lake helped ease her mind, too. In the days following her initial agreement with Rick Grimes, she first decided to fix the floorboards herself. Pride, stubbornness and mistrust made her attempt the floorboard repair without help. On the Thursday evening before Rick was slated to come by, she'd gotten off Merle's early and came home an insomniac.
So, she took to the porch as she'd done her first few nights in Alamo. This time she armed herself with a hammer, screws and the wood filler Rick sold her. She peeled back the first floorboard and set to work. The burning porch lamp offered paltry lighting at best, but she didn't care. She couldn't sleep and she needed the loose floorboards fixed. Better on her own than by the hands of anyone else.
She didn't care about looking ridiculous to outsiders. On her knees with a hammer and screws during dusk hours, brow furrowed, revolver holstered on the belt hanging off her hips. They could think what they wanted. Outsider opinion hadn't mattered since early childhood. People's derogatory and harsh judgments went through one ear and out the other. She didn't need to care because she didn't need them. She'd survive on her own.
The swing of a door interrupted her hammering away. Sweat lined her brow and she wiped face, sitting up on her knees. Across the lake, now dark thanks to the twilight, Rick Grimes walked onto his porch. The lights in his home illuminated his lean yet sturdy frame. His arms rested on his waist and his face engulfed in shadows, but she didn't doubt for a second he stared across the way, right at her. His gaze carried an inexplicably weighty quality. Both intense and heavy, it felt capable of piercing the most impenetrable forces. Herself unfortunately included.
The worst part was when he started walking. He left the porch and strode across the creaky bridge. She closed her eyes and cursed under her breath. She had half a mind to direct some of those profanities his way. Why couldn't he leave her be?
"Hey, forty-four. Starting early?" he asked.
"Mhm."
"You need help?"
"No."
He raked his teeth over his bottom lip, suppressing a laugh. His amusement didn't charm her. In fact, she scowled under the shadows the porch light missed.
"I can show you what to do."
"I'm trying on my own first."
"Alright. But, uh, be careful. You're not off to the best start."
Michonne eyed the hammer and screws in hand and then the floorboard she'd loosened. The wood had splintered and there was a giant nail caught between. When she tried to retract it with the hammer's metal hook, the splinter worsened. She growled before she could stop herself, skin flushed even in the January cold.
"Fine. Tell me how."
"I'll show you—"
"You can tell me from there."
Rick again looked half-amused. He gave a slight nod. "Alright, for starters, you removed the floorboard the wrong way. You've torn it off and now it's splintered."
"I can see that."
"Then you'd know you're gonna need a new board."
Michonne shot him a wide-eyed look of surprise that was outside her usual pokerface. "A new floorboard?"
"Yeah…that one's a goner. You'll be able to screw it down for now, but it'll still be loose—actually, it'll be faulty to the point you might not wanna step on it. Could break in half altogether," he explained. He edged forward, boot hovering the porch's bottom stair. "Look, can I show you?"
Her plan to teach herself hadn't included her encroaching neighbor. Fixing a floorboard hadn't seemed like an impossible task she couldn't learn through trial and error, but apparently, she'd underestimated the repair. For as hardheaded as she could be, screwing up on step one was indisputable.
Posture stiff and tone tart, she said, "Okay. Just once."
Next thing she knew, she blinked and found herself within inches of him. He knelt beside her, closer than she'd prepped herself for. His proximity irked her. Built leanly, an inch or two under six feet, he wasn't the biggest man in stature, and yet his presence imposed. There was a strength in him that heated her skin as she sat back and watched him toil away. He explained how to properly remove the floorboard, but she didn't listen. She was too distracted by his skillful hands and the muscles ridged under his shirt. Born from years of hard labor, his lats bulged through the fabric when he applied force. A hunger she'd forgotten in recent weeks stoked to life as a small spark. Her imagination ran wild and she pondered what it'd be like to glide her fingers across his bare back. How it'd feel to touch the knotted muscle now at work. She inhaled a leveling breath, embarrassed by baser desires, and averted her gaze to Pine Lake.
None the wiser, he kept talking. He'd gone from explaining floorboard removal to tips and tricks for sealing one up. He offered his power drill again if she insisted on doing the rest herself. She stirred from her thoughts and considered his offer. Earlier she'd decided to let him help if for nothing else to save her trouble and have someone do the hard work for her. It's just that the someone else happened to be the man she was reluctant to accept help from. She battled between a hard head and the practical mind kept inside of it, and in the end, decided on the obvious.
"If you don't mind," she said, fiddling with the hammer, "maybe you can help me with the rest…"
Rick had paused then, eying her intently. The shock of blue really stood out in the dark. Looking into them reminded her of being plunged into icy waters. That intense gasping effect robbing you of breath compared to his focused gaze. She avoided it, baring him directly for a couple seconds before she employed her usual evasive techniques. By standing, she gained a maneuverability her twisty insides thanked her for. Rick stood too. Again, his presence carried an energy that was arresting.
"Saturday?" he asked.
She nodded, speechless.
He'd walked away and she'd stood and watched him go. She flicked off the porch light, shrouded in darkness, waiting for him to disappear inside. Only then did she exhale a long-held breath.
That Saturday, Rick showed up at peak afternoon hours. It was a couple minutes 'til 2 P.M. before he knocked on her screen door. She'd been in her bedroom, foot propped against the nightstand as she painted her toenails. Hearing his knock, she had half a mind to turn him away. In order for him to fix the floorboards, he'd need to come inside her home, and she wasn't sure she was ready to invite him.
He might not have understood, but having him set foot inside the four walls she considered her safe space in Alamo, was no easy feat. She liked saving the little home for no one but herself. The idea of an intruder walking through, no matter how temporary and helpful, unnerved her. While life in Alamo was on a trajectory brighter than her previous stops, she was no fool. She didn't trust anyone in town, especially Rick Grimes.
She answered the door with lips pressed tightly, eyes cold. He picked up on this, tilting his head as he asked if he could come in. With tense reluctance, she stepped aside and let him. Her .44 was hidden in her bedroom and she also had her buck knife strapped to her thigh for extra backup. Most would've cataloged her behavior as morbid and dramatic. She liked to think herself prepared for the worst-case scenario. For all she knew, Rick was a paid for hire, out to track her down and ruin her life.
"What room were you thinking?"
"You can show me here…in the living room. I'm sure I can pick up from there."
"The whole house prolly needs to be retooled," he told her, setting down his drill. He wore a tool belt along his waist, dressed in his standard white tee and jeans. Oblivious to how good he looked, she had to give it to him. He focused on the task at hand, no chaser. "Alright, so first things first, I like to use a molding bar to pry the boards off. It works easiest and saves you the trouble of ruining the board."
He plucked the long metal bar from his belt, holding it up for her appraisal. Kneeling low, he demonstrated on the first board, prying it away from its brethren. The board peeled off with ease compared to her clumsy attempt a couple nights earlier. She nodded studiously, hands on her knees.
"See these big nails? Don't force 'em out. It'll crack the wood and make the hole bigger. The wood filler only does so much. You've gotta remove 'em carefully," he said.
"I guess that's where I went wrong. I was trying to yank them out…"
"Yep. That's why the wood splintered. Again, I use this molding bar. It comes in handy."
Michonne stood by as he popped the nails out of the wood with utmost ease. The little metal spikes rolled aimlessly along the floor until she collected them in the palm of her hands. Rick moved on to the next floorboard.
"So, what's your plan?"
"Hmm?"
"Yanno, for this place…are you gonna fix it up?" he asked conversationally. His tone set at ease, she couldn't take offense even if she wanted.
Instead she shrugged. "I suppose so."
"It has a lot of potential…"
Her eyes shrunk and lips pursed. "You think so?"
"Yeah. It could be a real nice home if cared for," he grunted, prying the second floorboard off. "Matter of fact, from what I've heard, it used to be before the last owners. They let the place go."
"If I'm here long enough, I'd like to make some upgrades." The instant the sentence slipped past her lips, she regretted it. She kicked herself for letting too much information go. It wasn't like her to reveal too much and she hoped he'd skip over it.
"If?" he questioned. "You plan on leaving soon?"
Of course, he wouldn't ignore such an obvious slip up. She grimaced and irrationally hated him for his curiosity. Meanwhile she searched for a quick throwaway line.
"You never know. I like to keep my options open."
His large hands flattened along another board. The power in them pried the third off its nailed hinges, led by the molding bar, but she didn't miss the crease on his forehead or the clench in his jaw. He thought her comment odd.
"Most people don't move often," he said simply.
"I'm not most people."
"Right…" Rick set aside the third board and rested for a couple seconds, seizing the opportunity to glance up at her.
Those damn blue eyes were hard to bear. Even after twenty plus years of practice at a proper pokerface, she struggled to keep a hold of composure. A lustful, sinful part of her wanted to thrust herself at him and feel his mouth on hers. Another, more sensible part of her, wanted to talk to him—really talk to him. No pretenses. No veneer. No mystique. Just a real damn conversation between two people. It'd be her first one in…she didn't know how long…
Weeks? Months? Years?
She swallowed the urge, and changed the subject. To him. "Why a hardware store?"
The question amused him, earning a hearty chuckle. "Why not a hardware store?"
"I don't know. I guess I've never met anyone with an interest in home repair."
"Well," he said, considering her remark, "I coulda easily went into law enforcement—was gonna actually—but changed my mind 'bout following in my father's footsteps. He used to be Sheriff for King's County. Seventeen years. Longest running one yet. I hated how his job was his life. Forget everything else. That's the last thing I wanted…plus I…I had other things going on…"
"Other things?"
He shrugged and suddenly, that darkness she'd sensed in him returned, however latent. "I got a young start. Me and my girlfriend at the time had a child when we were still stupid kids ourselves. We got married before we even graduated high school."
For some reason that caught her off guard. She thought to the little pigtailed girl she'd seen in the store and across the lake, and frowned adding up her age. She couldn't be more than four or five…
"Anyway," he said gruffly, "I could've followed in his footsteps even then—he thought I would. But I didn't."
Michonne folded her arms, interest long ago piqued. "Why?"
"Dunno. Guess I wanted to show him I could make it without him. I could go my own way, yanno? I didn't need him," Rick answered. He grabbed the jar of wood filler and used the brush applicator to layer the edges of the empty spacing. "Might not make sense, but I always looked up to him…then I decided I needed to live in the real world."
"No…that makes sense…" she mumbled.
"My grandfather left me a nice little inheritance when he passed. Enough for me to open up a shop here."
She'd tried to show disinterest in the tidbits of his life, but it proved more difficult than anticipated. He worked away on the floorboards in the living room and she fired away questions he mostly answered. The blooming curiosity was a first in a long time, as she hadn't cared to know anyone else or bother enough to ask about them. Not that she cared about Rick Grimes. She didn't, she quickly reminded herself. It's just that for some strange reason, his life intrigued her, and spurred her on, seeking more.
He left that Saturday afternoon with a bulk of the floorboards in the living room fixed. Crossing the threshold from the inside to the outside, he turned to face her. "Are you good now? Or would you like me to do the rest?"
Michonne had wanted to say she was. She could handle it on her own. Maybe that was true. Maybe it wasn't. But she looked him in the eye, saw a keen glint sparking, and answered on feeling alone.
"Alright. How 'bout Tuesday afternoon?" he asked.
That set a tone between them. Before she knew it, Tuesday rolled around and he showed up, again with his tool belt and weighty eyes, and he asked for entry she obliged. He finished the rest of the living room into the sun setting. They made conversation along the way. She assisted him, on her knees beside him as he talked about life in Alamo.
"It's a decent town," he said, nailing the floorboard in place. "It has its ups and downs…but so does everywhere. There's a real sense of community here. But you'll also notice that everybody knows everybody."
She smirked, handing him a nail. "Yeah, already noticed working at Merle's."
"How do you like it there?"
"It's fine. Paying the bills," she answered vaguely.
"Merle's an interesting guy."
"Why do you say that?"
He shrugged, sticking the nail she offered between his teeth. "I've heard a lot 'bout him from my dad is all."
"He likes his malt liquor."
"Yeah. He does."
"So, your father used to be Sheriff," she said nosily. "Does that mean he's friends with Sheriff Negan?"
"Hell no. They hate each other. My father'll tell you that. Negan? He'll act like your best friend."
"Your father's not the nicest guy. No offense."
"I know. And I'm sorry. I know he's a rude S.O.B. He's always been kinda dickish, but he's gotten worse since…" he paused with the power drill, tensing up.
Michonne frowned. There was obviously something on the tip of his tongue, but he refrained from saying anything else. Far from an expert on him, she questioned if it was her place to gauge whether his reaction warranted further probing. He'd been wholly upfront until then. For him to react in such a manner, she considered the possibility they'd reached a boundary. She didn't press for more.
He returned over the course of the next two weeks. January faded away on the calendar and February arrived grayer and frostier. Rick moved on to the floorboards in her bedroom. When that was done, he suggested the tiling in the kitchen and bathroom. She rejected the suggestion at first, citing costs, but he convinced her he already had much of what was needed. It'd hardly cost her a penny.
The most cynical part of her hated how she gave in. The cold, whispery voice reminded her that the more she invited him into her home, the likelier he was to invade her space. The more leeway she gave him, the more he'd take advantage. Give them an inch, they take a mile, she reminded herself whenever his next visit lingered. But for as self-reliant and independent as she wanted to believe she was, she'd be lying if she said she didn't…enjoy his company.
During her off time, Michonne found distraction in Rick Grimes.
He annoyed her with his astute assessments, handy work and good looks, but he also happened to be a great conversationalist. He was easy to talk to. Too easy. The kind where you slipped up without even realizing it. The dangerous kind of easy.
"You a good shot?" he asked one afternoon.
She defaulted to defense mode and replied, "good enough."
He laughed. "I bet. You handle that revolver like a pro. If I'm honest, when I walked up that night, that was the last thing I expected to see."
"Why?"
"For one, didn't think you'd be my mystery neighbor," he answered, shrugging. "Number two, guess you don't see too many women sitting on their porch at night polishing off their weapons."
"It's just a pass time."
"Guess so. Learned that the hard way," he said, standing. He wiped his brow, where sweat collected as beads throughout his hard work. Dirt and grime smudged his pale skin and clothes, somehow adding to his raw appeal. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt to his elbow, revealing his veiny arms and wrists, and she fought focusing on them. "Where'd you learn to shoot?"
"A friend taught me."
"Yeah? That's impressive. Maybe we can go practice one of these days."
Her eyebrows arched, expression severe. "Practice?"
"Yanno…target practice. I've got a couple firearms in my collection. Sometimes I go for fun. You been lately?"
"No…" volume failed her as her answer emerged as a hollow whisper.
Rick gathered his tools, slipping them into the holders on his belt. "Well, lemme know if you'd like to. It'd be fun. It's a good distraction—something to do to let loose…"
He left that afternoon and she shut the door with a racing heart. Before he went, they arranged for his next visit, but she wasn't so sure she wanted him to come again. Now he was inviting her to activities outside of the home repair. Though it might've seemed harmless to the unsuspecting eye, she considered it a sign her initial apprehension had been correct. He wanted something. He wanted to lull her into a false sense of security and then go for the jugular. Was he volunteering to fix her home as an excuse to get close to her? To spy on her or rat her out?
Michonne rubbed her temples, lost as to how to interpret interactions with people. Men in particular, evoked an automatic, undeniable distaste in her. The vehement reactions made it near impossible to decipher if she was being irrational or justified in her distrust. It was like once she'd slipped into a web of paranoia, she couldn't escape. The fear was there, quelling under the surface in agonizing wait.
She shook it away and decided it was imagination.
At least for her sake, she hoped it was.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
In his search for a pass time, Rick picked up home repairs for Michonne. They started off with the porch, moving onto the living room and eventually the rest of the house. Soon he was retiling the bathroom and kitchen as well. The repairs ate up hours of his time, usually those blocks in the day where he'd otherwise struggle to keep his mind off February 21st…
His latest book on grief recovery suggested he limit his visits to Carl's grave. He decided on once a week, on Sunday mornings when the rest of town slept 'til later, and the silence granted him the peace of mind to face the loss. He'd scowl finding white lilies on his grave, quickly plucking them off. His father visited on his walks to the store each day and insisted on polluting Carl's grave with these things, leaving them to wither and die.
The way he saw it, filling his time at Michonne's benefited them both. She got to walk safely on the floors and he got to stay busy. He'd bet she shared a similar sentiment on their arrangement. She saw him volunteering to fix her home for free and took it. He couldn't blame her, being new in town. Funds were most likely low based off how selective her purchases were. She'd taken up working at Merle's and he'd heard through word of mouth, she racked up hefty tips each night.
He'd also heard no one had succeeded learning her origin. Her background story hung as a giant question mark to everyone in town. Rumors started. Everything from she was a runaway bride to some sort of gypsy bouncing town to town, there to con them all. Some thought she looked familiar, but couldn't quite place an exact where.
The details might've been unknown, but as the son of a Sheriff, Rick had inherited his father's observational skills. He sussed out enough subtler hints to piece together a few things about her. She always paid in cash at the hardware store. She hadn't bothered unpacking her belongings. She redirected the topic whenever it required her to reveal personal details. He was also certain, aside from the .44 he'd seen her with on occasion, she kept other weapons on her person.
She was running from something—or someone.
His father had dealt with a wide array of cases throughout his career. From the sidelines, he had witnessed his fair share of a woman on the run from the crazy ex, and she fit the bill. He decided he wasn't going to bring it up or ask any questions. If she wanted anyone in Alamo to know, she would've offered up the story when she arrived.
As it stood, she was a woman in freefall searching for a foothold. Alamo happened to be that stability for the time being. Her fresh start in a town where nobody knew her name and her background. He couldn't—and wouldn't—fault her for it. Truthfully, sometimes he wished he could do the same. Take Lil' Bit and go somewhere to forget his losses if for nothing else but his sanity. Beginning again must've been therapeutic on multiple levels.
It was on a late evening in February as he finished up the last tile in the kitchen that an idea came to him. He stood, sweaty and dirty from the tiling, and he inhaled a deep breath. They'd been talking about their struggles with insomnia when he glanced at her. She leaned against the kitchen counter, a distracting sight anytime, but especially in that moment. Even at a standstill, she oozed a raw sex appeal that had his brain in a haywire. He didn't know what was worse, her beguiling brown eyes framed by long lashes or her full, dusky lips that looked impossibly soft. He tried not to be that guy and go there. She must've gotten enough of it at Merle's, dealing with drunken slobs. It's just that being so close to her made it near impossible.
Rick scrubbed his hand over his stubble and blurted, "Why don't we go out sometime?"
For once, she looked visibly startled. She uncrossed her arms, no longer leaned into the counter. "Go out sometime?"
"Yeah, on a date or something."
Michonne's answer was a small, hoarse laugh as if so stunned she could think of nothing else to do.
"I'll be honest. I enjoy spending time with you and I'm pretty sure you enjoy being 'round me too. So, lemme take you out," he said forwardly.
The momentary slip of surprise erased itself from her full features and she smiled politely. Another word he'd used to describe it would be detachedly, separating herself from their bonding over the past few weeks, however slight.
"I don't date."
"You don't do favors. You don't date. You're an interesting woman, forty-four," he teased.
The very corners of her lips curled. "I thought we had a deal—you're only here to help me fix the floors."
"I remember that deal. But now seeing as that's done, I'm thinking we need a new one," he said, shrugging. "What d'you think? One date."
Her left brow rose. "One date?"
"Mhmmm," he answered, using her own weapon against her.
His cheek must've tipped the scales in his favor. She stopped holding back and laughed. This laugh was earnest. Maybe the most genuine one he'd gotten out of her yet. She matched his shrug and rearranged her features nonchalantly.
"Alright," she said. "One date."
Rick grinned at her. He'd never tell her, but it amused him how close to the chest she held things. She clearly believed in playing it cool. To keep sync with her, he would too.
They walked to the porch for good nights. She left a comfortable distance between them. That would've discouraged several men. For Rick, it goaded him on that much more. Spending time with her had started as a distraction, and in several ways, it was still one, but his curiosity to get to know her had increased, too.
"I know you work weekends. My daughter's with her mother for the next few days. How 'bout Wednesday?" he asked.
She nodded. "Wednesday works."
"Good. I'll be here at seven." He reached out to give her shoulder the slightest squeeze. She muttered goodnight and disappeared inside. His chest swelled out of what he did not know. But he'd bought himself a two-for-one special. Another distraction. More time with her. They weren't mutually exclusive. He could want both at the same time and that wouldn't make him disingenuous. It didn't mean he was using her. Right?
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Heading inside, Michonne resisted the urge to peek over her shoulder. She wanted to. So badly. Just one look. One glance at him with the smallest, slightest smile. It would play seamlessly into her coy, cat-and-mouse persona, and he'd be none the wiser. He'd interpret the gesture as a flirty goodbye, and it was that. But the smile fighting for life on her full lips derived from something else too.
Inside of her, a confounding weightlessness spread. However momentary, the buoyant sensation pleased in a way she couldn't logically put into words. It enveloped her in a brightly tinged haze that muted the frequent visitors known as suspicion and paranoia. Instead, the dark corners of her mind filled with idealistic snapshots of a future. A real life in Alamo, where she could hold down a job for longer than six weeks and lay her head at rest in total, uninterrupted peace.
God, it was so pitifully naïve to dream about these things.
She shut the door, leaning against its wooden frame, and she recognized the delusions of it.
Not yet ready to let them go, she smiled wider.
A few more minutes of her imagination running away with her couldn't hurt.
This once, she'd allow it.
Michonne stood, strolling through the barren living room for one of her most expensive possessions. Besides her .44, her boombox cost her a pretty penny. She'd gotten it discounted at a yard sale in Knoxville, Tennessee, convinced she'd live in the town longer than twenty days. The portable sound system had been hauled city to city since. She pushed play and the King's County Hot 100 was playing.
The tail end of "It Wasn't Me" played, charming a repressed laugh out of her. She grabbed the broom and began sweeping, dreaming up the ways she could liven up the dingy home. Her decorative muse showed her a future where the walls were pale yellow and leafy plants hung off the shelves. There'd be a giant, shaggy area rug that begged to be walked through barefoot, and a nice armchair near the corner window for reading and relaxing. She imagined these things as the next song played in perfect symmetry with her uncharacteristically hopeful mood.
Broom in hand, she swayed and mouthed the lyrics to "I'm Like A Bird". For once she didn't think about who could be on her doorstep or who could be watching, but let the keen ideas swirling inside her head win out. The simplicity of a nice first date and those nerves and build-up to the goodnight kiss. She'd forgotten what that felt like. It'd been so long. The modest pride of a paycheck earned in full, no matter how meager or inconsequential the job. The check to cash, the green bills her own to spend as she liked. One day—someday—reaching a point where she didn't need to run anymore. She could be free…
Michonne hummed the last chorus to the song, gliding in tune with the sweep of the broom. The song reached its last few notes, replaced by more than the Disc Jockey's announcement for the commercial break. Someone pounded on her door. She froze and the broom loosened in her grasp. Heart hammering a thousand beats in a minute, the dreamy-eyed hope vanished like it'd never existed in the first place. The darkly invasive paranoia and suspicion steamrolled in, reclaiming its rightful spot.
Unsure of what to do, she stood there without moving a muscle.
The person banged their fist on the door some more.
She was debating on if it'd be worth going for the .44 if trouble were outside. If she were already found out and it was over. Or would she go out with a fight, in a blaze of glory? What did it matter? Her entire life was no longer hers…
"Answer the door! I know you're in there, Mich. A lil' birdy told me."
The voice was recognizable at once. Female and feisty in spirit, with the kind of tone ready for a mischief at any given moment.
It couldn't be…could it?
The urgent need to know propelled her forward and she strode to the door.
Yanking it open, she immediately regretted the rash decision.
Rosita Espinosa stood on her doorstep as she remembered her. The brunette wore her signature giant hoop earrings, paired with a décolletage top and hip-hugging jeans. Her old friend's face lit up with a devilish smirk and glint in her eyes.
"You're not gonna leave a gal freezing out in the cold, are you?"
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Author's Note: Not sure when chapter three will be ready, but I always appreciate any reviews until then. We will find out more about Michonne's past with Rosita. We will also see Richonne's first date, first snag in the road and just lot's of firsts next chapter, lol! Thanks for reading!