Part Quatre

Rick sat on the edge of her bed, his head in his hands. He was trying not to look as gutted as he felt, but failing miserably. Michonne was laying on her side behind him, her knees pulled into her belly and she was crying without making a sound. He wasn't sure what to make of the silence; filling it was never his first inclination, but if he could just find the right words to say, maybe...

"When do you leave?" he finally asked, keeping his eyes trained on the large window beside them. He'd spent a hundred or more nights gazing out at that view, his arms wrapped around her as she slept; both of them content, happy. He couldn't imagine how he was ever going to go back to before Michonne.

"Two weeks." She reached a hand out to him, flattening her palm against his back and it already felt different. They'd been inseparable since the night they'd met, when he ditched his friend and his plans, and they spent an hour walking the expansive campus where she studied, his coat around her shoulders, then her arm hooked in his. They both had places to be that night, commitments to attend to, but they also understood that they'd just stumbled upon something that couldn't be ignored. Within days, they understood that the only way any of it made sense was if they were fulfilling some preordained destiny. How this news fit into that was something he hadn't yet been able to work out.

"Maybe I'll flop," she said, breaking the solemn silence. "Maybe I'll be back here next year, a washed up actor looking for a nine to five downtown, just like everyone else I graduated with."

It was supposed to be a conciliatory maybe, but she was offering it to the wrong critic. From the day after they met, when he'd gone back to the university to catch her matinee performance, he knew she would be special to more than just him. But he hadn't anticipated her moving to the other side of the world to prove him right.

"I can't help but doubt it, Michonne. Of all places...I don't understand why you have to go to France to do this."

"I've already gained attention in this role, Rick. The audition is a formality...it's a chance to be part of a full scale production."

"How 'bout Broadway?" he said, his pride begging to be allowed to die gracefully, but he was clinging to it as best he could. "You wanna move to New York? L.A.? Let's go...we'll go together."

"I don't have an offer on Broadway, Rick," she whispered. "They want me there." She let her hand fall away from him then, wrapping it around her midsection, just above the sheet that covered only her hips.

"I want you," he said, turning over his shoulder to look her in the eye. "Marry me."

"Rick…"

"I mean it." He readjusted, settling on his knees beside her. "I'll take care of you, of everything. You can focus on making all your dreams come true...here."

He saw the pain on her face dissolve into pity, but he didn't care. If his self-respect was the last of his currency with her, he would gladly part with it.

"My father had the same dream as me once," she said, quietly. "From what I've heard he was good at it. A natural. And not just theater, he was destined for the big screen to hear other people tell it. But he never had the courage to do what it took, to leave this place. He missed his chance, and everything that came after became a constant reminder of what he could have been. My mother, my sister and I, we were like his consolation prize and he hated us for it." She sat up then, touching his hair, and he leaned his head into her hand as his eyes slipped closed. "I know what it's like to be the reason for someone else's bitterness," she said. "I don't want that for you, Rick. Not you."

He nodded slightly, feigning an understanding he didn't possess. He was trying to be rational, but he couldn't help but think that being resented by her for the rest of their lives was still better than being left by her. "So that's it then?" he said. He wrapped his arms around her and lowered them back to the mattress, and she opened her arms so that his head could rest in the crook of her neck. "I have you for two more weeks?"

"You'll always have a piece of me," she whispered. "I never saw you coming, Rick. I'll never find anything close to what we have. I know that."

"But it's not enough to stay."

Her tears sprang to life again then, cutting her words with choked despair. "Who knows?" she cried, clutching him to her. "Maybe we'll meet again someday. Or maybe you'll forget all about me after awhile."

"No, Michonne," he said, as sure as he'd ever been of anything. "I won't."

…

Rick laced their fingers as he walked beside her to the gate, pulling her luggage slowly behind them. The cold had turned more bitter on this last day, with a cover of low hanging clouds holding any warmth the sun offered hostage in the stratosphere, and threatening to spill their contents at a moment's notice.

They'd gone to her sister's that morning, after making love one last time, and he'd made small talk with her family while Michonne dressed and packed, all the while feeling his stomach threaten to expel the meager breakfast they'd shared. The sensation still hadn't subsided, and now his lungs were also betraying him, rejecting the very air he was trying to take in and forcing him to take sharp, shallow breaths that did little to sustain any substantial flow of oxygen to his brain. The result was a mild dizziness and the odd perception of being out of his body, watching as two people, desperately in love, prepared to say goodbye for a reason he'd never felt was good enough.

He took solace in the fact that she gripped him back this time; the disparate level of emotional exposure displayed in their greeting had shifted to a more equitable allocation of agony. Just as when she'd departed from their last reunion, she was visibly shaken by the prospect of leaving him; of once again betting against her true heart. That time he'd asked too much and told her too little. But this time...

"It hurts more this time," she said, "...each time." They stepped onto the wooden platform, approaching the doors of the station lobby, and she hesitated just enough to cause a beat to skip inside his chest.

"I know."

She turned toward him, touching his cheek with her leather clad fingers. He covered her warm hand with his cold one, tipping his head to the sky and pulling in a long breath of air. She laughed quietly then, as her eyes spilled freely, and with abandon. "I supposed you do."

They could hear the whistle of the incoming train in the distance, reminding them that their days together had dwindled to minutes, and he reached for her, wrapping an arm around her waist and clutching a handful of her wool coat between his fingers. Shutting his eyes to the world, he hoped to fill all of his secondary senses with her essence; the feel of her body pressed against his, the scent of her hair and skin, the taste of the love they'd made that morning lingering on his tongue and threatening to drive him mad. Maybe that ship had already sailed, though, when he'd decided to take such an irrational chance on loving a woman like her.

The ache in his chest doubled when he felt her shudder with sobs against him. He'd selfishly assumed he bore the weight of all of their pain, but he could see now they shared the burden. Only one of them had the ability to set the world right, however, and he couldn't see her off without another promise. "We can't leave it up to chance," he said. "Another wedding or a funeral…"

He felt her nod against his soft, suede jacket. "We won't."

"Then when?"

"This show ends in six months. Give me until then."

"I told you I'd wait. I will."

"And next time I'll stay longer...maybe I can finally meet Carl."

"I'd like that," he said with a nod, the thought offering him at least a little bit of comfort.

The doors to the station opened then, and a rush of travelers filled the space around them, cloaking them behind a curtain of mass preoccupation. She took the opportunity to kiss him, harder than he'd expected. "I'll call you as soon as I can," she promised.

"When you land."

"It will be two in the morning here," she laughed between sniffles.

"I don't care."

"Ok...I promise."

"That's you," he said, as a muffled voice announced that the current train was boarding.

"That's me." She pulled away from his embrace, turning over her shoulder to see the line beginning to form. "Rick…"

"I love you, Michonne," he said, wanting to say it before she could choose a safer parting declaration, but she surprised him.

"I love you too," she said. "These last two days…"

"I know." He kissed her one more time and he did know it. She was a little closer, a little less sure now, and he would take it.

"I'll call you then." She dipped her head, wiping at her eyes, and reached for the hard handle of her rolling luggage. Taking a step toward the train, slowly, she let her arm stretch out all the way, before her fingers finally slipped from his.

Rick watched her climb the short, metal steps, and disappear into the car, hoping to catch a glimpse of her purple coat in one of the windows as she searched for a seat. He didn't though, and a few moments later the whistle sounded again and the train lurched. The loud groan of steel on steel barely registered in his brain as he struggled to conjure the sound of her voice, and play it on a loop in his head.

When the long tail of smoke had finally dissipated, and he was once again alone on the platform, he looked down at his boots, willing them to move until somehow he made it back to his truck, then eventually back to his house.

When he arrived at his door, he turned his key in the lock, the familiar double click the only greeting he received as he entered through the door and toed off his boots. He padded down the quiet hallway and into his bedroom and fell face first into the unmade covers. Settling his head on his bent arm, he beckoned back all of the pieces of her that he had committed to memory, and wrapped himself in them for the much needed respite of sleep.

…

Rick's brain pounded out a message of displeasure against his skull as he took to the large, chocolate brown sectional. He was attempting to trick his body into reclaiming some of the sleep he'd forfeited with a change of venue, but the bright midday sun reflected off of the hardwood floors, bouncing around the room and assaulting his eyes from the other side of his lids. Between that and the anomalous silence that settled into the hole left by his family, it seemed the entire room was staging a preemptive strike against his rest.

It had been two days; two days since he'd held his son; two days since the bar. He'd spent the previous day an impromptu plus-one at Michonne's sister's wedding. Her family had been ecstatic to see him, greeting him with a flurry of excited embraces and sentimental smiles.

It was as if they'd all been praying the same prayer as him and the sight of them together was some divine antiphon. The connection they had, the intensity, it wasn't lost on bystanders, and the women who loved her and hoped for her return, knew he was their best shot.

It had felt strange to smile, knowing exactly how he'd landed in what he still feared was a dream, but he had. He'd smiled, and laughed, and danced with her in his arms, barely registering the torn heartstrings that dangled inside his chest; the painful severing of which allowed him to be there freely, and with no question of conscience. It should have hurt more, he thought, forcing himself to conjure some guilt to accompany his mirth. But the undeniable joy he felt at his good fortune wouldn't allow it.

He had only been trying to escape the waking world for a few moments, when he heard a knock on the door. From the corner of his foggy brain, part of him had hoped for a split second that it would be her, answering his plea for her to stay. But he'd dropped her at the train himself; watched her wave goodbye from the postage stamp sized window, and she'd already called to say she was boarding the trans-Atlantic flight that would whisk her away from him again. He pulled himself from his supine position, the sound of his boots on the floor echoing into the void as he crossed to the door.

When he opened it, his fists clenched at his side and his eyes narrowed as he took in his old friend standing on the doorstep. Shane's shoulders were hunched, but he peered up at him unapologetically from beneath his bowed and tilted brow.

"Why are you here, Shane?" he asked, the rasp of his parched throat lending itself to the ire he wished to convey.

"Lori wanted me to pick a few things up." He met Rick's eyes in a self-assured stare he'd hardly earned from his position.

Rick stepped aside, suddenly finding the thought of her stuff being hauled off soothing to his furious heart. He turned his back, taking a few steps in the opposite direction to put a distance between himself and the anger he hadn't yet had a chance to tame.

Shane strode straight to their bedroom and the ease with which the other man made the journey wasn't lost on him. It only took a few moments for him to gather bits and pieces of Rick's life and pack them up for their new home. When he had stuffed a bag full of clothes and toiletries, he stepped back into the living room, his hands on his hips and his head bowed once again.

"This thing with you and Lori," Shane said, keeping his eyes on the ground. "What ya'll been doing…"

"You mean my marriage?" Rick spat.

"We both know what it was, Rick. And we both know it wasn't what either of you thought it would be. Truth is, you never had any business offering her what you did. See, your heart wasn't yours to give anymore, and you knew that."

Rick spun on his heel, running a hand through his hair and retreating from his friend and the accusations he thought he had the right to make, even while Lori's scent still lingered on his skin.

He stepped briskly into the kitchen, and the first vision that popped into his head wasn't of his Lori, or the two years worth of meals and conversation they'd shared there, but it was of Michonne. It was of the bottle of wine they'd shared there the night before, both tipsy and fresh off of the high of watching two people who loved each other pledge to never be apart. The two of them sat at the long, granite island, sipping, and talking, and feeling utterly enamoured with each other once again.

Shane followed, lingering in the doorway, watching him sort silently through his thoughts. Maybe Shane was right; maybe he did hold some of the blame. There was only one woman who his empty heart was missing, and it wasn't the one whose personal effects were packed into the bag his friend was holding. Still, the fact remained that regardless of whom he'd given his best to, or whom he'd wished he could, currently he was alone.

"I think you should go," Rick said, placing his palms on the counter and leaning all his weight against it.

"I love her," Shane replied. "I have for awhile now, and it's time she gets that from someone. Of all people, you should understand what that means." He turned then, agreeing that their time for constructive words had ended. Rick heard the doorknob turn and the slight squeak of the hinges as Shane prepared to leave. "Lori never had a chance with you, Rick," he said as he stepped out into the light of day. "Anyone could see that."

…

Sleep had proven a poor substitute for Michonne's company, so Rick made his way back to the living room. It was finally raining, after threatening to do so since the morning had broken. Even the weather knew to mourn the moment, he supposed. He leaned over the couch, pulling the curtains closed to block the somber view, and turned on a table lamp. The dreary light of a winter afternoon was replaced by the cozy, yellow glow and the room felt warmer already. With nothing else to occupy his time, he meandered around, straightening up the room and clearing the kitchen of the remnants of their last meal together.

Though he was acutely aware of her absence, he didn't feel like breaking. She'd left him with just enough hope to keep him from dissolving into the same puddle of self-pity he had become after the first two farewells. This time, she'd be back. Before they'd said goodbye to her family, and headed to her train, her sister had told him the same. It was time, she'd explained. Michonne should be proud of what she accomplished, but the kind of love that he offered her was what she'd truly been chasing all these years. She just had to realize that for herself. It had been six years, and even if they didn't have a plan, he finally had a promise; it was more than he'd ever had to hold when she'd left before.

He rinsed off the dishes they'd dirtied, swirling warm, sudsy water in a wine glass that still had a bit of her lipstick around the rim, but stopping short of wiping it away. Instead he piled everything in the sink and stared absently out the window at the street. The rain was heavier now, the drops thundering against the roof and windows on a sideways breeze that splayed them out in a wall of water against the panes. Every few minutes the sound got sharper as a few of them turned to ice and pelted the walls. He switched on another light and walked a few more steps into the living room intending on lighting a fire to keep him company. Before he made it to the hearth, however, the sound of tires caught his attention, sloshing to a stop in the standing water that had collected outside. With the curtains drawn, he had no sightline to the street, so he abandoned his route and pivoted toward the door just as a frantic knock called to him from the other side. He pulled it open in a rush of cold, wet air and there she was, soaked to the bone and smiling, as a cab pulled away down the nearly flooded street.

His eyes darted around her face for a few seconds, hoping he wasn't falling victim to a hallucination of materialized longing. Finally, she chuckled out his name, snapping his senses back like a rubber band, and he reached for her waist, pulling her out of the rain and into his firm embrace.

"What…how?" he stuttered out, before his lips abandoned the question and pressed excitedly against her cheek instead.

"I missed my flight," she laughed, wrapping her arms around his waist and burrowing into his affection and the warmth his body provided against the still howling wind. "I couldn't think straight, Rick, and I couldn't stop crying." She spoke against his chest, as he reluctantly let her go with one hand to shut the door behind her. He led them to the couch and pulled her down beside him. "I went to the wrong gate," she explained, as he pulled a blanket from the end of the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. "By the time I figured out which way I was supposed to go, the plane had left and I was still here. You tried to tell me, Rick, the last time I was here, you said this was the how and I didn't believe you, but, as the plane took off without me, it felt...right."

He pushed her shoulders out, his eyes running the length of her as he studied her words for their fidelity. "It is right," he said, finally, his mouth twitching into a tentative smile.

"I don't know how it's going to work; what I'll do…"

"We'll figure it out," he said. He leaned in to kiss her again, her wet hair falling over his cheek as he tipped his face to hers.

"We will," she agreed, in between passionate pecks. "Tomorrow...or the next day. I just know I'm not supposed to leave tonight. I'm supposed to stay here with you."

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A/N: Thanks for reading reviewing :). The next installment will be the last.