4 – No Angel
"Mr. Gray. Open up. We know you're in there."
The incessant knocks woke him. His eyes snapped open and he gasped, like he'd been electroshocked back to life. He sprang up from his sprawled position on the sofa and scanned the sullenly shadowed room. What time was it? What day was it?
His face fell into his hands. His brain strained to remember, but no recollection came to him. He couldn't remember a thing. He couldn't concentrate long enough to piece together his last steps or make sense of where he'd been. His existence felt out of his hands, weirdly voyeuristic in the way that he hovered on the outside of his life looking in. What was wrong with him?
"Mr. Gray," called the female voice from outside his apartment door.
More short, choppy knocks.
"Mr. Gray. It's me, Detective Lerner and my partner, Detective Lamson. We're here to ask you a few questions."
His eyes shot to the coffee table, where a Vinny's Pie t-shirt lay crumpled in a ball. Against the yellow cartoon pizza, dried blood stained the shirt. He rushed to snatch it up, along with the orange pill bottles. They rattled in his huge hands, the dozen tiny little reminders of how vehemently he'd neglected his recommended dosages. He carried on like that, cleaning up the living room as best as he could.
The apartment was still a mess, but it was a presentable, bachelor kind of mess. In his mind, anyway.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and braced himself for opening the door.
The hallway light blinded him. He squinted at Detectives Dawn Lerner and Bob Lamson. They stared back, suspicion clogging their pores.
"Mr. Gray," said Detective Lerner frostily. "We're sorry to bother again, but we need some clarification from the last time we spoke. Mind if we come in?"
He held the door at minimal-width, half his face in view and a quarter of his broad body. "This is a bad time, detectives. Maybe we can reschedule?"
"We've been calling you for days. We've come by your place twice," pointed out Lamson. He was bald and cocky and looked like he needed to be humbled by a fist.
His grip tightened on the doorknob hard enough to crush human skull. He hid behind his grin despite the fact he didn't remember the phone ringing. He didn't remember knocks. He didn't remember anything…
He lied. "Sorry detectives. I've been out of town."
"Your car's been parked outside for the last week," said Lerner, hardly fooled.
"I took a taxi to the airport."
"Where'd you go?"
"Cali. San Diego."
Detective Dawn Lerner pursed her lips, green eyes lit up. She didn't buy his lies. But she also couldn't disprove them. For now.
"We'd like to talk about October 8th," she said stonily. "I understand this is hard for you given what happened, but you were one of the few on the premises that night. Along with your brother, the housekeeper Jacqui Montgomery and Michonne Gray, maiden name Bishop. We've spoken to Ms. Montgomery. Now we need to speak to you and Ms. Gray."
He closed his eyes against his will. He'd tried so hard to block that night out. His head began to reel as the demented details slowly rolled back in and his hold on reality loosened. What was real? What was imagined?
"I can't talk right now," he said weakly, using the door frame for support. "And unless you got some sorta subpoena forcing me—I'm not repeating myself. Don't come back again."
"Mr. Gray," started Detective Lerner, but he slammed the door in their faces.
The dark apartment bathed him in its shadows as he craned his neck and looked up at the ceiling. The sordid truth was right on the tip of his memory, clambering to break free and crush his world. He wouldn't let it. He couldn't think about it too long…
Michonne.
As soon as his thoughts went to her, his heart lightened. His tension evaporated and he remembered how desperate he'd been to find her. How he'd gone to Biloxi and went to her childhood home and met Glenn Rhee, her childhood friend. Then…?
He shook his head and staggered his way to his desk. Hanging above it was a corkboard cluttered with photos. All of them of Michonne. He'd scavenged and collected them over time. He'd cut out the faces of everyone else, pasting his own in. His own collage of them to keep him going during his search, in reminder of their deep love.
There'd be good times again. He'd see to it. Until then, the pictures would have to be enough…
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
"Mmmmm," Michonne moaned, stretching with a giant smile on her face. "That was amazing."
Rick dropped beside her. Skin flushed to splotches of pink, he grinned at the sight of her laid out. He liked to watch her, drink in her reactions to their quick romps. She let him because…she was usually too overcome with post-orgasmic bliss to protest? Because she sort of relished in his wandering eye? She enjoyed when he watched her?
Michonne didn't know the answer, but what she did know was that she found it increasingly hard to think clearly when around Rick Grimes.
He'd blown her mind away—and her back out.
Over the two weeks since they'd started fucking, she'd grown accustomed to his touch. She'd been spoiled by it so much that she'd talked herself into the idea of carrying on like this. Until she left town. Which would be soon. Very soon. If she couldn't figure out a way to get rid of Rosita, her only option would be to disappear into the night.
But she didn't let herself think too much on that right now. Right now, she listened to the delighted hums trilling throughout her body.
Rick was equally enamored with her, incapable of keeping his hands to himself when in her presence. He never gave up on the possibility of cuddling, trying to her denial. That morning was no different as he settled beside her and his arm swathed over her stomach. His fingers rimmed her belly button and he pressed his lips to her shoulder.
"Are you gonna kick me out again?" he mocked.
She rolled her head along the pillow, biting her lower lip to delay a laugh. "You already know the answer to that."
"What's so bad 'bout us lying 'round for a while?" he asked curiously, tightening his hold on her waist. "You don't want anything out of this—I get it. But what's wrong with us relaxing?"
Fucking Rick Grimes.
He knew exactly what he was doing, sweettalking her with his gritty drawl and storm-blue eyes. Their meet-ups had become a daily thing and it'd also become harder to turn him away. He must've known this. He must've counted on it. She breathed slowly and searched for that steely exterior second nature to her.
Where was it?
She swallowed, unable to find the pokerface she wore when she dismissed him. Her voice was a stammer. "Nothing. I…I have things to do."
"Things? What things?" His question was innocent, but also double layered. It told her he picked up on her charade.
"You don't give up, do you?"
"I told you I like a challenge. You're prolly the biggest challenge in the world, so 'course I'm gonna put up one hell of a fight."
She sighed, though with a slight smile. "Fine. A few minutes can't hurt."
Rick took it as a victory. He cleverly engaged her in conversation, saying, "What are you doing Sunday?"
"Painting the walls yellow. Why?"
He smirked. "'Cuz Sunday it'd be nice to have you over my house for dinner."
"Your place? Dinner?"
"Don't worry, I don't mean some romantic candlelit dinner…just as friendly neighbors."
"Thanks for the invite, but I don't think—"
"It's your choice, but you should come. At least once. We'd love to have you."
Michonne reached up, fingers on his jaw, scratching his stubble. "I'll think about it."
"I'll take that as another small victory. We're making progress." He chuckled freely, squeezing her sides and kissing her nose. She burst into a giggle, charmed by the silly gesture no matter how hard she tried not to be. If this was only partially snuggling with Rick, what would it be like to give in and do it for real?
She pulled away before she could imagine, untangling their limbs. "Five minutes are over. We should get up."
"Alright, forty-four. 'Til next time."
They rose off the bed and found their clothes, talking as they dressed.
"Yanno, you should let me do something 'bout the ceilings," he said, fastening his jeans.
Michonne looked up and hunger stirred in her. He looked so damn appetizing standing there, shirtless and grinning. The modest sculpt of his muscles, formed from years of manual labor, called her name. They whispered to her, asking her to stroll over and trace their every hard line with her tongue. She wanted to, half-pondering the proposition they get back into bed. Thankfully, she resisted by forcing her attention onto the messy sheets and bedding.
"What's the price?"
"No price if I get to be 'round you."
"Smooth, Rick Grimes. Real smooth."
They were laughing together when she walked to the bathroom. Half-across the threshold, she asked, "Can I trust you to show yourself out?"
"I'll see you next time," he confirmed. He opened the bedroom door and left.
Michonne lingered for a second and she smiled curiously, wondering what life would've been like if she'd escaped to Alamo years ago? If she hadn't eloped with Mike, but if she'd come to this little town and met Rick Grimes instead?
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Rick gingerly closed the front door to Michonne's house. He turned to walk across the porch and down the steps under the assumption he was alone. The rocking chair creaked and drew his gaze to the woman reclined inside it. Michonne's friend sat laxly, legs stretched and body slumped. The glint in her dark eyes and smirk on her lips contrasted her bad posture. Both denoted a calculated sense of control.
"You're the hunk from across the little pond," she told him more than asked.
Rick's eyes thinned, uncertain if he detected sarcasm. "I live across the lake if that's what you're asking."
"I'm Rosita."
"Hey. Rick," he said awkwardly. He hadn't expected to run into her. He didn't even think Michonne knew her friend was home, lounging on the porch…
"You're Michonne's boyfriend?"
Rick hesitated a second too long. She continued.
"I've known Michonne since we were eighteen," she said in a tone vaguely foreboding. "We used to work together. The Black Onyx—ever heard of it?"
"No," he said. He couldn't pinpoint what, but his gut told him something was off about her.
"It's a strip club in Jersey City."
The shock emptied his lungs. He hated giving her ammo, but his head tilted and mouth tightened. She laughed airily, rocking in the chair at a snail's pace.
"Didn't she tell you?" she asked. "Oops. Guess she's really trying to go with that whole good girl thing, huh?"
This was her game. She toyed with people for fun. The truth was anyone's guess.
Rick eyed her self-satisfied smirk and understood why Michonne rarely mentioned her. What he didn't understand was why she kept her around. Was Carl right? Were these women scammers running a con? Is that why they'd come to town? His shock fell away, replaced by the pinch of agitation.
"I've gotta go."
"Mich isn't exactly what I'd call a good person. She's done a shit ton of bad things…but I think it's sweet she's trying to start over!" she called after him in a sing-song voice.
He strode faster, putting great lengths between them. In the two months since meeting Michonne, he pondered endlessly about her mysterious past. Context clues helped him piece together small bits, but he had largely been ignorant to much outside the bad marriage. She was from Jersey City and she had been a stripper.
Rick thought back to seeing her work the bar counter at Merle's. Her flirtation and mystique had left him and most men there speechless, bewitched by her effortless allure. She racked up tips with seasoned ease, hastily tucking the green away. He hated himself for judging, but it didn't seem like a far stretch this would be her background. He could see it.
That circled him back to his initial irritation. He climbed the porch steps and disappeared into his home, for the first time distrustful of her. What was Michonne Fox up to?
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Michonne pulled extra shifts at Merle's for a number of reasons. The kitschy bar provided escape from the house. Rosita stayed out until late in the night and slept most of the day. Her presence loomed over the household and stifled Michonne's cunning mind. She couldn't think when she was around. Merle's afforded her the chance to do mindless chores around the bar and strategize. There was also the extra green. If push came to shove and she needed to escape Alamo in haste, the more cash the better.
She stocked the shelves behind the counter with their new shipment. The whiskey went to the mid-tier shelf while the more acquired taste options on the top. On the floor, Mary ordered Daryl around. She had him rearranging the tables and chairs. Merle popped in every now and then, already tipsy after a couple of Malt Steele's. Deanna had shown up and sat on a bar stool, fretting the latest past due bill she received.
"Sissy, I've already told you," Mary was saying loudly, "I'll cut you in here if you're interested."
"Why so I can sign my life away to you? No thanks!" Deanna said. She stared at the envelope stamped aggressively with red and drummed her fingers on the bar counter. "Besides, I've got my own business. I don't need yours."
"Put your pride aside for five minutes and take the help. Tell her, Michonne!" Mary called.
Michonne stood on tiptoe, stretching to fit the Jim Beam on the shelf. She turned around, startled and hesitant to be drawn into another sisterly squabble. Both her boss and landlady looked at her expectantly. It was a no-win situation. She improvised.
"There's enough time to talk things through. You two can go in the back office and hash it out—I'll take care of the front house stuff," she suggested, smiling.
Mary and Deanna eyed each other then nodded.
"That's why I love her," Mary said to Daryl as if Michonne couldn't hear. "She's always so dang helpful. C'mon, Dee…let's go figure something out."
Deanna rolled her eyes, but she stood. "I'm not working for you. You can yammer all you want."
Michonne and Daryl watched the sisters disappear into the back. Once gone, Daryl snorted. He shook some hair out of his eyes and stacked a couple more chairs.
"They're worse than me and Merle and they ain't even blood."
"I don't think I've ever seen you and Merle fight."
Daryl grunted a primitive laugh. "We fight. With our fists. These days, Merle's usually shitfaced so he loses. But it happens."
On her lunch break from Merle's, she decided to go on a walk. She tugged on her jacket and left the bar. The afternoon was bright but nippy, full of townsfolk going about their day in usual fashion. The run-of-the-mill mood calmed her enough she missed the creeping presence snapping photos from afar.
Michonne obliviously rounded Jefferson's street corner and Grimes Hardware caught her eye. She smiled involuntarily, the subject of her thoughts shifting to Rick. Popping in to see him on her lunchbreak tempted her, but she resisted. Since when did she pay him surprise visits like a smitten girlfriend? Their time together needed to be relegated to the bedroom and nothing more…
Michonne quickened her pace, crossing the street to avoid the store. To her vexation, the universe conspired against her, and she bypassed a Range Rover. At the trunk, door lifted high into the air, stood Rick. He shoved boxes into the back, clueless to her presence until she snuck into his peripherals. He slammed shut the trunk door and called her name.
There was no choice but to stop. She grimaced privately, before she turned to face him.
"Hey," he said, jogging up to her. "Didn't think I'd see you walking 'round."
She smiled politely. "I'm on lunchbreak. I'm going to get food."
"Mind if I go with you? I'd like to talk."
Rick's suggestion struck her as odd. It wasn't the words themselves, but more so his tone. He had something he wanted to discuss, and if her intuition read correctly, it wasn't good. She scoured her mind for possibilities, investing energy into what thoughts ran through his mind.
"About what?"
"I spoke to Rosita earlier."
Her warm blood iced. She held her breath and uttered, "You…did?"
"Yeah, she mentioned some things 'bout you."
"Why were you talking to her?"
Rick narrowed his eyes as he came to a stop. She stopped too, spotting the distrust on his face.
"Why would it matter if I did? Are you hiding anything?"
"You have no right to care if I am. We're not together."
"I know that. Doesn't change the fact I like you."
Michonne scoffed. "This was a mistake. Now you're snooping into my past…"
"I'm not snooping. She told me. I didn't ask her."
"Yeah? And what'd she say?"
"That you used to work together at some strip club called the Black Onyx."
"So what?"
"So I'm wondering what's up with you? Who are you? What's going on?" he fired off his questions.
The revelation that Rosita told him about her time at the Black Onyx stilled her heart, but she wouldn't let him know that. She couldn't acknowledge the disappointment or the shame or she'd be pathetic putty in his hands. Instead she maintained the space between them and forced herself to stand strong. Her posture straightened and she refused to blink.
"You found out I did some exotic dancing and you jumped to the conclusion you can't trust me?"
Rick snapped shut his eyes and sighed. "I don't mean it to seem that way. But nobody knows anything 'bout you. Then your pal arrives and starts talking 'bout bad things you've done and saying it's nice you've got everybody thinking you're good."
"She…She said that?"
"Earlier this morning. Said you weren't a good person."
Michonne sighed, unsurprised by Rosita's digs. "I never said I was."
"I thought you were," said Rick quietly. "My gut told me that. I wouldn't've been 'round you otherwise."
"So…you don't want anything to do with me anymore." She prayed for her voice to sound leveled, masking the ache of rejection. The finished project sounded closer to misery.
"I didn't say that. I was hoping to learn more 'bout you is all. That's what I've always wanted."
"As you use me to distract yourself from whatever shit is going on in your life," she lashed out. Her hurt turned into anger and she spewed venom his way.
"It started like that. This is a rough time of year for me. Fixing your floorboards gave me something to do," Rick admitted. He stepped closer as if the shorter distance would help her understand. She wouldn't look at him. "But I like being 'round you. I've told you that. I've tried to get to know you, but you won't let me. Rumors in town speculate all kinda things 'bout you. Your own friend says bad things. And you won't tell me shit. What d'you think that tells me? What am I supposed to think?"
Michonne eyed him defiantly, arms crossed and chin high. "What do you want to know?"
Not that she was going to tell him. She couldn't afford to. Logically, she couldn't take the risk. Human emotion begged differently, deep down seeking someone to confide in. It'd been months since she shared how she felt with another living person. At the time, it backfired horribly, stupidly divulging in Mike's brother Terry about her escape plan. Ever since that horrific night, she bottled so much up, it wasn't until moments like these that she realized she couldn't do this forever. Eventually, she would explode. One day, whether or not she wanted to, she'd breakdown and the floodgates would open. Would it be smarter to do so on her own terms?
Rick Grimes was probably the only person in her life she could take that gamble with. She'd always seen sincerity in his gaze and he'd kept his word thus far. No one in Alamo knew about their late night, early morning trysts as far as she knew…
"I dunno," he answered. He gently gripped her elbow and then guided her to the nearby bench. It was for the bus, empty at the moment. The next bus wouldn't make its round for another forty minutes. They had plenty of time before those planning to ride arrived at the bus stop to dawdle. They sat down and stared at the late afternoon traffic lazily driving by. "Guess I'd like to know anything. I'm not asking you to tell me your life story. But hearing something 'bout you would be nice. All you've ever told me was that you were in a marriage that shouldn't've happened. You've never shared any stories 'bout yourself."
Michonne swallowed against the cottony bulge in her throat, breathing shakily. "Rosita was telling the truth. I worked with her at a gentleman's club. It's…It's not something I planned on, but at the time, I didn't have a lot of options. I was eighteen and desperate. The club owner told me he'd get me a bartending gig, but surprise surprise—that'd come later. I couldn't wait and needed the cash…"
"What'd your family think?"
"My family," Michonne repeated with a quick, dark laugh. "They weren't around. It was just me, myself and I."
Rick glanced at her and for the first time, she wanted to disappear under his gaze. She prepped for the sting of judgment and the defensive argument to follow. His opinion mattered. She cared about what he thought of her.
Fuck. It gave him a special superpower to wield over her. She was screwed, bound to fall down that familiar, vulnerable, inevitable rabbit hole.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. His hand fell atop hers, at rest in her lap. "It sounds like you didn't have anybody to count on."
"It's okay. I prefer it that way," she added hastily. She didn't want him to feel sorry for her. She didn't need his pity. The past was the past and she'd made her choices. What she didn't want was another knight dashing in decked in shining armor, trying to 'save' her. It hadn't turned out too happily the first go around.
"Everybody needs somebody."
"I've done fine by myself. Better than when I wasn't."
Rick ignored her insistent claims. He squeezed her hand and said, "You're on your lunchbreak, right? We're right across Sal's pizzeria. How 'bout a slice?"
She rose alongside him. "That's it? That's your response to my confession?"
"It's in the past. I've done plenty of things I wanna leave behind. Honesty matters most in a person. Everything else is background noise."
Michonne wanted to believe him. That he wouldn't judge or desert her no matter what awful things she'd done so long as she was honest with him. The lie was so fantastical she wanted desperately to buy into it. The problem was, 24 years of jaded life experience told her differently…
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Michonne knelt at her luggage in search of a proper outfit for Sunday dinner. Her wardrobe left much to be desired. The Grimes didn't strike her as prim and proper, but presentation factored into perception. Rick's father and daughter would be there. She was his guest. She wanted to look…nice?
She closed her eyes and cringed. The fact that she cared in the first place bothered her. Ideally, she wouldn't care about good impressions. It would make no difference to her if Carl continued to be an ass or if little Judith didn't take a shine to her. That's how she would've felt weeks ago, back when she first arrived to Alamo. She wouldn't give a fuck who thought what about her.
It mattered what Rick thought.
In their time together, he managed to disarm her defenses.
Now, here she was, pouring over her suitcase for a family friendly outfit. There was no one to blame but herself. She ignored the warning signs, buried premonitions and surrendered to the desire burning her up. Her promise to keep him at arm's length had failed. Those placations about limiting their interactions to the bedroom proved to be hopeless. She was misguided for thinking she could mess around with Rick Grimes, a man who she enjoyed being with and talking to, and not develop an ounce of care for him. As soon as the magnetic pull drew her to him, she should've slammed the brakes and avoided him at all costs.
It wasn't too late. She could still cancel. She could still fix this before she fell in too deep.
Her teeth raked her bottom lip as her eyes lowered to the dress folded in her lap. The dress looked right out of a TV sitcom involving a similar 'meet-the-parents' scenario. It was a button-up with softly hued florals and fluttered short-sleeves. She'd worn a similar dress when meeting Ms. Gray for the first time. Modest dresses and docile behavior failed to charm the Gray Matriarch. Her mind had been made up on her new daughter-in-law from day one.
Michonne rose and hung the dress off her front, modeling its appearance for the mirror. She couldn't bring herself to cancel on Rick and his family. He'd invited her out of the kindness of his heart and she genuinely believed that. Besides, it had been far too long since she had been invited to anyone's home for a meal…
For the following half hour, she dressed and primped. Nothing too over the top. She dabbed her lips with a dash of color, a dusky rose that complemented her complexion, and coated her lashes with mascara to give her dark eyes an extra pop. Her locs were left to hang freely down her back as she admired her reflection and butterflies fluttered in her stomach.
Would Rick like how she looked?
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Lil' Bit played in the living room and Carl sat in the recliner watching ESPN. Rick put the finishing touches on dinner in the kitchen, ears perked for the slightest sound of Michonne. If he had his way, tonight would go perfectly. They would share a nice meal and spend the evening soaking up each other's company. He hoped to make her feel as welcomed and comfortable as possible. That seemed to be crucial for her, trusting in the environment and people around her.
His biggest concern was Carl. He lectured him about his bad attitude at least for the night.
"Or don't come to dinner at all. Stay in your room," he'd told him.
Carl agreed by grunting, "Yeah, yeah. I got it."
Rick lowered the heat on the stove and checked on the dinner rolls in the oven. Above Lil Bit's giggles from the next room, the doorbell trilled throughout the house. He straightened, breathing deep, and announced he'd answer the door. He pulled it open and grinned instantly to the gift of her on his doorstep.
"Hey, beautiful," he flirted.
She stood with a timid but endearing smile, a contrast to her usual self-assuredness. "Hey."
"I'm glad you could make it. Come in, I was just finishing up dinner."
Rick couldn't resist touching her in some way. He guided her inside with his hand grazing the small of her back. Lil' Bit's curiosity bested her and the little girl stumbled breathlessly into the hall. Her amber-shaded eyes doubled at the sight of Michonne.
"Daddy, it's the pretty lady from the store!"
He opened his mouth to explain, but Michonne interrupted him. She knelt low, leveling herself with Judy's 38 inches.
"Hi. I'm Michonne. Who are you?"
"I'm Judith!" the girl answered with comical umbrage. "My friends call me Judy. Daddy calls me Lil' Bit."
"How about I call you Judy?"
"Okay! But what do your friends call you, Meshonee?"
Rick swallowed his chuckle, tickled by the exchange. He half-expected Michonne to correct Judy's mispronunciation, but she surprised him with a reply strangely personal.
"You can call me Ne. Does that work?"
Judy's round face spread into a big, enthusiastic smile. "Daddy, I like Ne! She's real pretty and real nice. Can she eat dinner with us?"
"I dunno. Will she? Let's ask her." Rick's humor bled into his voice.
"I'd love to have dinner with you guys. Especially Judy."
"Finally another girl around! Daddy and G-Daddy drive me crazy."
The four-year-old skipped off innocently as Michonne stood. Rick released that chuckle he'd been holding in and Michonne's eyes narrowed.
"What's that laugh about?"
"Nothing. Just dunno if you realize what you've gotten yourself into. Lil' Bit's something. You'll see."
"I love bold little girls. Reminds me of myself when I was her age."
"Yeah? Why does that not surprise me?" Rick led the path down the hallway and into the kitchen. The delicious aromas struck them upon entry. The lemony garlic chicken blended with the buttery scent omitted from the oven as the dinner rolls baked away. He grabbed a mitten and opened the oven for another check. "I imagine you were a little troublemaker on the playground."
Michonne's smile was mysterious, lighting her entire face. "I plead the fifth."
"That tells me all I need to know." Rick laughed.
"And you were the sweetest little boy? I find that hard to believe."
"That's right. The most perfect angel you'd ever meet."
She heaved as if to avoid nausea. "More like a devil. One that can apparently cook. Do you need help?"
"Nope. You're my guest. I want you to relax and eat as much as you can." He turned off the oven and pulled the tray with the dinner rolls from the rack. She shifted uncertainly on her feet, fingers seeking out the pendant on her necklace. Her uncharacteristic nerves made him want to walk over and pull her into his arms. At last he'd discovered the weakness of alluring, confident Michonne Fox: a domestic situation like a family dinner. Curious as to the crux of her nerves, he asked. "You're not big on these kinda things, are you?"
The Michonne he met weeks ago, who answered questions with questions, was nowhere to be found. Those walls she had built had started to crumble. She inched closer and closer toward letting him in. He wasn't sure if she consciously realized as much as she provided a candid answer to his question with little hesitancy.
"It's been a while since I've been invited to someone's house for dinner."
"Well…you're always welcomed here."
Michonne's brows knitted together. He stopped within inches of her, pulling open a cabinet to gather the dishes. He paused long enough so that she met his gaze. A curiosity of her own swam in the dark pools of her eyes. "Why?"
For the third time that night, the urge to touch her rose in him. Instead he disarmed her with another grin earnest in nature. "Because…I like having you around."
In the seconds following his answer, she drifted closer. So close she hit him with the light scent of her perfume and his pulse raced in immediate response. Brain knocked into a haywire, he barely registered reaching for her, pulling her hips against his and kissing her softly on the mouth. She melted into him with a shared eagerness for affection.
"What in the hell is going on here?"
The grunt belonged to Carl.
Rick and Michonne separated at once, guiltily turning away from each other. Michonne faced the window. Rick grabbed the stack of plates and cleared his throat.
"Ever heard of giving people a moment alone?"
"Why so you can slobber each other down while the dinner burns?"
"Well, I cooked it, so…"
"That give you a right to burn the house down?"
"You know what?" Michonne spoke up loudly, drowning them out. She crossed the length of the kitchen, on target for the doorway. "I'll go. I shouldn't be here. Thanks for the invite—"
"No! Don't go anywhere. If it's anybody that needs to leave, it's Carl. You gonna act right or are we gonna have to do Sunday dinner without you?"
Rick and Carl squared off at opposite ends of the kitchen. Reminiscent to two cowboys in a fast draw confrontation, neither budged a muscle. The silence stretched on as they called each other's bluff and waited for the other to backdown. The wrinkles on Carl's face pulled tight and he snarled his defeat.
"Fine. Have your way."
"Apologize to Michonne."
"Hmm? What kinda—?"
"Apologize to Michonne for being rude."
Carl cracked his neck and glanced in Michonne's direction. "Alright. I've been an ass. You're a dinner guest and I can behave myself while you're here."
Michonne said nothing. The absence of sound weighed on Carl until he grunted something about the game's commercial break being over. Once gone, Rick closed the gap between them. He held her attention with the apology swirling in his blue eyes.
"I'm sorry. You're not still gonna leave, are you?"
"I don't want to ruin dinner."
"You'd only ruin it by leaving. He's like that with everybody in town. You see how he talks to me."
"What makes him that way?" she asked, clueless to the history behind the tension.
"I can't talk 'bout that…right now. It's dinner time. Can you go sit and relax? I'm gonna take care of everything."
"I'd rather help you. It's the least I can do. You've cooked everything."
"Alright, we'll set the table together." Rick acted out of instinct. He laced his fingers with hers, holding her hand like a couple would when walking together. What surprised him most was that she didn't protest or pull away. She let him hold her hand, leading them into the dining room.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Carl Grimes kept his promise to be civil.
The earlier strain palpable in the house loosened up. The food and drinks helped some. Judy's rambunctious spirit and giggles helped more. Rick's hand slipping under the table to squeeze hers helped most. He was so damn attentive. The scariest part about that? His attentive nature felt aggravatingly earnest.
In the beginning, Mike had paid her special attention, too. He doted on her and treated her like a princess worthy of a crown of jewels. Though he eventually won her over and duped her, she never quite let go of the underlying paranoia that it was deep down a ruse. By the end of their hot-blooded marriage, he proved her suspicions right.
But Rick was different.
She trusted him no matter how hard she wanted to dismiss him.
Either she was finally lucky enough to find someone to count on or she was extremely stupid to think that was possible.
The gamble terrified her.
During dinner, she forced these debilitating thoughts from her mind. She tuned into Judy's boasting. The little one bragged about an artsy masterpiece she finger painted earlier that day. She held her child-proof fork in one hand and used the other for dramatic hand gestures. The three adults looked on, thriving off her overinflated confidence.
"And then I painted a piglet 'cuz piglets are really cute. And I wanted to make mine orange but daddy said they should be pink. Didn't you, Daddy?"
"That's right, Lil' Bit."
"But it's my painting. So I made them orange anyway."
Michonne choked on her tea, racked by a laugh much too abrupt. Carl sailed on the same boat. The grandfather coughed and chuckled, unable to resist his granddaughter's brazen honesty. Even Rick laughed. His ears reddened and the blue in his eyes sparked as he nodded along and admitted she was right.
Only Judy seemed lost on the joke. She swung her legs and fidgeted, finding it increasingly harder to sit still for such a lengthy dinner. At one point she began piling her mashed potatoes into a tiny mountain much to Rick's chagrin.
"Daddy, can I paint my nails like Ne?" she asked suddenly. Her amber brown eyes lit up, intently focused on Michonne's nail polish.
Michonne glanced down at her neatly manicured and painted yellow nails and smiled. The phrase monkey see monkey do really did apply to small children…
"I don't see why not," said Rick. "What color do you want?"
"Yellow looks really pretty on Ne. Will it look pretty on me too?"
Michonne cut in, falling prey to the cute little girl. "Judy, it would look beautiful on you."
"Really?"
"I'm sure of it."
"Daddy," Judy said, manically breathless now, "can Ne paint my nails? Pretty please?"
Rick's knee bumped into Michonne's and he smiled at her. "Maybe if she promises to come by again for dinner."
That set Judy off. Like a hummingbird, she vibrated on the seat out of pure excitement. "Oh, please…please, Ne!"
How could she turn down Rick's affection, his hand finding hers under the table again, and Judy's round-cheeked little face pleading for another visit?
"Sure. I'd love to."
Warmth flowed through her body feeling Rick's hand squeeze and seeing Judy's cheer. She half-smiled, in that same timid fashion that felt foreign but also kind of nice. Pleasant in how pure it was to sit beside this man and his daughter, basking in the simplicity of Sunday dinner. Memory failed her when she racked her brain for a past similarity. There was nothing to compare it to. She simply felt…at ease.
Heavy eyes interrupted the pleasant vibe. She looked away from Rick and Judith, across the table to Carl. He hadn't let up on his frosty disposition so much as he silenced it for the evening. From the other end of the table, he scowled at her with unmistakable contempt. His message was clear: she might've won his son and his granddaughter, but she'd never win him over. He saw right through her—picked up on the bad things she'd done, regardless if it'd been for survival.
Michonne averted her gaze, for the first time panging guiltily as a criminal would.
Carl Grimes was a former Sheriff. Seventeen years. That counted for something. What the hell was she doing having dinner in his son's home?
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
"Was the food alright?"
"Are you kidding? It was delicious. Thank you."
Pride pumped through Rick's bloodstream sitting on the porch swing. The night blinded them to their surroundings, so weighty in darkness that only the porch lantern lit up the foreseeable area. Michonne sat beside him, content with the comfortable silence if his gut read her correctly. They spent a good hour and a half at dinner and then another forty minutes in the living room. Now, they sat alone on the porch as it was past Judy's bedtime and Carl retired to his recliner.
Rick wanted to be closer with her. Not physically. On another level that she'd previously shut him out of. That he'd been compliant with being denied access to, because he convinced himself he wanted her as a distraction. He'd stopped fighting the stone-cold truth: he wanted her as more than a physical companion to pass the time. He wanted her.
Question was, would she ever truly let him in?
"I know I already told you. But I'm glad you came."
"I'm glad I did. I almost canceled."
Michonne flattened her palms across her lap, smoothing the lines in her floral dress. Her locs fell forward, past her shoulders, hiding some of her face from view. He couldn't resist. He reached out and brushed them away, keen to observe her every nuanced facial expression. His touch inspired the uppermost corner of her lips to curl.
"Are you coming over?" she asked.
"How 'bout we do something different? Let's talk for a while. Is that alright?"
She tightened up at once. The scant curl on her lips vanished and she said, "Talk about what?"
"You. Me. Anything. I'd love to hear more 'bout you."
"This again?" She laughed his suggestion off, but he caught the underlying apprehension.
"How 'bout we play a game—it'll help us get to know each other better."
"Rick," she said slowly, shaking her head. "It's…It's just sex. Remember? Now you're inviting me to your house and wanting to know about me—asking me questions. It's too much."
"I don't wanna make you uncomfortable. I'm sorry. Guess I wanna know you is all."
The notion confused her. She raised a hand to brush her forehead, the frustration clear. He captured that same hand in his before it could fall back onto her lap.
"Doesn't have to be anything heavy. Let's keep it fun. I'll go first. Ask me something."
Michonne ruminated on the proposal for another couple seconds. She nodded, concluding his request was harmless enough.
"What's your favorite food?"
"Too easy. Chicken wings. You saw how I ate to the bone at Spinner's."
She giggled. "Okay, do over. Most embarrassing memory?"
"Shit," Rick cussed. Michonne giggled again on that alone. His face heated up at the mere memory. "In sixth grade, some jackass named Nick pantsed me in gym class. All the girls were there, too. It, uh, it wasn't a good day."
Michonne's hands covered her mouth, stifling the snicker threatening escape. "I'm sorry. That sounds awful. But I bet whoever Nick was, he was jealous."
"I appreciate you tryna sugarcoat things. But that was before I hit puberty so I was an 11-year-old runt who wore tighty whiteys bought by his Mama." Rick chuckled throatily.
"Stop it. I'm sure you were adorable."
"Alright. My turn. What's a talent of yours most people don't know 'bout?"
Easily one of Rick's favorite attributes of Michonne was her enigmatic aura. Even then, exchanging questions and answers about each other, he could tell there were so many layers to her. Her dark brown eyes flashed with a thousand different answers and he didn't doubt for a second, they weren't each true. Michonne was clearly a clever woman—being a Jill of All Trades wouldn't surprise him in the least.
"I'm a pretty good chess player," she revealed.
Rick quirked a brow. "Really?"
"Mhm."
"How good?"
"I won a city championship for the junior chess division when I was twelve."
"Wow. That's…impressive."
For fuck's sake, was there anything she couldn't do? Anything she wasn't good at?
"Did you keep playing?" he went on to ask.
Michonne shook her head. "I stopped not long after that. We moved and I lost my set. Then I had other things going on."
"Bet you could've been a prodigy."
"Maybe," she mumbled. She changed the subject, launching into another question. "Greatest phobia?"
"Not being enough," he said. His heart ached, automatically zapping to his role as a father. His previous role as a husband. He sprinkled in humor by adding on a second fear. "And clowns. Who's not scared of those red-nosed assholes?"
The swing dipped deeply. Michonne folded her legs under her, reclined beside him. He scooted closer, putting his arm around her. He liked the light weight of her, pressed into his side.
"Where do you see yourself in ten years?"
Her lax body stiffened and he regretted the question, fearing he'd gone too personal.
"I don't know," she confessed quietly. "Alive? Free?"
Those responses were distinctly grim, but he made a promise to keep things light. His arm bundled her deeper against him and her head fell to his chest. He rested his chin atop her head, kissing her scalp out of reassurance.
"You're unbelievable."
"You've already told me that."
"I know. And I feel like I can't tell you that enough—you're not like anybody I've known."
"Is that a good or bad thing?"
Rick glanced down to find her eyes upturned, focused solely on him. He gently tipped her chin upward and leaned forward. His lips touched hers, achingly slow and tender.
"It's better than good. You're a very special woman. That's what my instincts tell me. They're never wrong," he finished after. To his delight, she smiled sublimely and curled into his arms. Another comfortable silence fell upon them, but they didn't mind. They rocked in the porch swing and stared out into the darkness, unafraid when together.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
"Honey, I need you to calm down and come home," cooed Mom. She used the same tone from childhood, when she'd tucked them in at night and read them bedtime stories. Being a year apart, they'd shared bunkbeds and she'd sit locked in the bedroom with them. Book propped open in her lap, they'd pretend Dad wasn't angry on the other side.
He didn't think too much about that, though. He sat at his desk, cordless phone dug into the crook of his neck as he sorted through the sheaf of papers. The documents presented various clues to Michonne's whereabouts, but nothing concrete enough to go off of with absolute certainty. In the time since Detectives Lerner and Lamson visited, he'd had enough sense to calm down and clear his head. He'd refocused on his mission, no medication needed.
"I'm good. Don't worry," he said.
"How can I not? You've been a mess. Worse than ever. It's time we talk about more treatment."
"No!" he snapped. "No more doctors—those shrinks don't know shit."
"I know about the credit cards, honey. The last one's have been cut off."
His nostrils flared and he clenched his teeth. "You can't do that…I've got a couple mil in the bank."
Mom clucked her tongue. The condescension pissed him off. She had the fucking gall to pity him. Who the fuck did she think she was? Without him, she wouldn't be driving the Benz or living comfortably in a paid-for townhouse. She needed to be humbled.
"Where's Andre? I wanna talk with him," he demanded.
"Who? Honey, what are you talking about—?"
"You know who I'm talking about! You keep playing these games, acting like I'm making shit up!" he yelled, his vocal cords aching.
"I'm coming over there. And I'm calling emergency services. You need immediate help."
"I'm on my way out. I've got shit to do."
He hung up on her before she could protest. He'd packed his bag and filled up his gas tank. His car keys lay in wait, but first he had another call to make. He shook off his distressing phone call with Mom and dialed a number he'd used multiple times in recent weeks. His blackout had prevented him from checking in with his hired P.I. Listening to the rings, he expected a new lead from Ezekiel Taylor. He answered knowing it was him.
"Long time, no talk," said the private investigator. "I called you a couple times, but you didn't answer."
"I've been busy. What's the latest?"
"You'll be happy to know it's good news."
His heart soared as his lips stretched into a relieved smile. "You found her?"
"Yes," confirmed Ezekiel. "Told you I've got connections everywhere. I put some feelers out and found an informant that's seen her. She took pictures of her on a sidewalk and sent them to me to confirm it's her—it cost a pretty penny, but the shots are good. They're clear. Unless she's got an identical twin we didn't know about, they're her."
"Where is she?"
"Alamo, Georgia."
"Alamo, Georgia," he repeated feverishly, standing up. "How long ago did this informant say she was there?"
"These pics are fresh as of a few days ago. She's probably still there."
"I've gotta go. I've gotta get there. Right now." He began to pace his living room, frantically losing his grip as desperation accelerated his speech and breathing.
"There's something we need to tackle first. Your card's been declined," said Ezekiel sternly. "And the informant in Alamo is having money troubles, so she requested an advance. She's been paid, but that was out of my funds. You're going to need to cough up the amount you owe me."
He hung up. It was a panicked reaction, but he had nothing to offer Ezekiel Taylor other than thank you. His credit cards no longer worked and the little cash he had he'd need for his road trip to Georgia. He snatched his car keys off the table and grabbed his bag, feeling closer to his love than he had since she'd cruelly left him.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
On February 21st, it was impossible to concentrate while at work. The hardware store was quiet and empty. There was a pallet of freight which needed to be stocked. The inventory books needed a good scrub. The light fixtures in aisle eight needed replacing. Rick struggled to do any of these things. He couldn't stock the shelves or track inventory when grief swallowed him up whole. His mind descended into the past, heart laboring with each beat, and he could feel that edge creeping up on him. He could feel himself on the verge of giving in, about to fall over the edge and into the dark abyss…
Every time he blinked, Carl's little freckled face smiled gummily at him. He'd lost his first baby tooth that day, one of the front ones on the top row. He'd been excited about the idea of placing the baby tooth under his pillow when he went to sleep that night. He'd never gotten the chance for the tooth fairy to visit him. In a split second, he was gone forever.
Rick dropped the cardboard box from his hands and scrubbed his stubbled face. His eyes glazed and his chest rose, fighting for air. He couldn't carry on like two years ago today wasn't the day his worst nightmare materialized. The self-help books urged him to keep a normal daily routine—even today—and to pay tribute in healthy, measured ways. The worst thing, they warned, was for misery to consume him. He could make no worse mistake than to wallow in the past, undoing the progress he worked toward for the last three years.
But he couldn't shut it out. He couldn't silence the inescapable grief plaguing him. It would never go away. It might've slipped under the surface, but its incessant ache still tortured. In reminder of his little boy, the gut-wrenching, heart-tearing loss would weigh on him for the rest of his days.
Why couldn't it have been him instead?
The question was a frequent thought on his mind, especially in the months that followed the grim crime committed. If there was some way he could've been there…if he could've protected him as a father should…if he could've taken the bullets gone astray…he would've died at peace, knowing his family was safe.
Rick locked up the hardware store. On autopilot, he hopped in his Range Rover and drove to the outskirts of Alamo. The iron cemetery gates stood tall and forbidding as he pulled up. The grassy grounds were vacant except for a faraway black town car rushing off. It disappeared along a bend, speeding up as if to avoid his arrival. He slammed shut his door and his legs led the charge. They carried him in a steadfast stride up and down the knolls, past the many rows of tombstones, and to grave number eighty-eight.
Carl's headstone appeared amongst the infinite others. The desperate need to be near his son intensified exponentially. He increased his pace, breaking into a trot. He slid onto his knees, denim stained by dirt and grass, the scratchy blades pricking him, and his gaze fell onto the giant bundle of white lilies resting on the stone. His glassy blue eyes shrunk, narrowed at the mysterious bouquet of flowers left for his five-year-old son.
His father was at home with Lil' Bit. Even in his grief-heavy stupor, he'd had enough sense to call before he left the store and check on them. He stared at the fresh lilies, a clear recent purchase from a flower shop, and then presented at his son's grave in remembrance. Sweet Blossoms was the only flower shop in town, owned by mother and recent divorcee, Carol Peletier. Who would stop by the flower shop and visit Carl's grave to honor his memory? Who would do so frequently, often enough that almost every time Rick visited, he found these lilies on his son's grave?
His knees sunk into the earth and he fell forward. Only his palms caught him, outstretching to flatten against the dirt and hold himself up. The white lilies slipped to the backburner as the monsoon of grief whisked him away into acute pain. His entire body hurt. His lungs burned and his heart panged. Tears poured to freedom and his throat scratched when an anguished cry reverberated into the gloomy afternoon air.
Rick surrendered in full. He collapsed on his son's grave and sobbed for an indeterminate time. He grieved his precious little boy until physically there were no more tears left to cry. His body gave up on him, convulsing in a fight against the pain gripping him. He rubbed his eyes and sucked in corpus amounts of air, the sorrow fading for redder emotions. Rage awakened from hibernation, rising up in him against his will.
He left the cemetery. He got in his Range Rover and headed home. He parked the maroon SUV sloppily, crookedly in the driveway and rushed into the garage. He could hardly contain himself, pulse skyrocketing to extremes as he sought distraction at his workbench. None of his current projects sufficed. The cabinets he worked on for Deanna couldn't take his mind off the anger welled up inside him. The toaster oven he tinkered with certainly wouldn't either. Lost as a stray dog hoping for solace, he paced the garage in search of something.
Carl couldn't see him like this. Lil' Bit couldn't see him like this. He needed to fix this now.
Rick grabbed the wood saw and headed for the workbench. If he started on the cabinets maybe he'd cool down. After a couple minutes, regardless how unnatural it felt in the beginning, his heart would cease its frantic racing. His body temperature would lower and his hands could stop shaking. He powered on the saw and held it close to the chunk of wood destined to be a cabinet. In his red-hued anger, he miscalculated and the saw sliced into his free hand. He pulled away immediately, but the damage was done. The blood seeped from the deep gash across his palm, staining his skin and dribbling onto the garage floor.
Scarily enough, he didn't feel a thing.
The slice from the blade silenced his anger while it also ushered in nothing to replace its vengeance.
Rick stood there like a lost soul, bleeding and blinking. Blank-minded as to what to do or say, the wood saw fell from his grasp and he leaned against the edge of the workbench. He didn't have the strength or tenacity to do anything else. Spots filled in before his eyes…
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Since Rosita's arrival, Michonne's favorite time at home quickly became whatever block in the day the buxom brunette was not home. That evening, she sat on the porch, gliding in her rocking chair, and polished her .44 with the peace of mind that she had the place to herself. Rosita had gone out, alluding to a night-long bender, and Michonne sighed in relief. Not only would she have the house to herself, but with Rosita gone, she'd have plenty of time to strategize on how to permanently get rid of the blast from her past.
Michonne drizzled oil onto the revolver and wiped it down with her rag. An unmistakable sheen gleamed off the steel barrel, instilling a strange sense of pride in her. Lesson number one when she first learned to shoot had been gun safety and care. Always take care of your firearm. Treat it delicately, showing it the T.L.C. it deserved. Though it'd been years since she'd learned, she took principles like these to heart.
Tires crushing gravel caught her ear. She looked up from her lap to spy Rick's Range Rover parking crookedly in the drive. He leapt from the SUV and hurried for the garage, lifting its large door midair. Her lips softened into a frown, watching as he paced the garage's length as if in a total state of disarray. The sight worried her. She'd never seen him like this.
Was this what Maggie Greene and the other ladies at Merle's meant when they said Rick Grimes had baggage?
Suddenly, he stopped. He picked up what looked like some kind of saw and hauled it toward his workbench. He flipped the switch and lowered it to a wooden slab, but in a clumsy attempt unlike his usual efforts, he lost control and the saw cut into his left hand.
Michonne shuddered. Blood brightened his hand at once, coating his palm and fingertips. The saw dropped to the ground and Rick fell back against the workbench. If not for its stability, he would've wound up on the floor. Not that he'd care. The distance of her little timber-style home to his larger one, the Pine Lake between them, couldn't hide the indifference in him. He stood bleeding like a faucet as if out of no real consequence. He was numb.
She rose from the rocking chair, utterly alarmed. He needed help. He was bleeding and didn't care. Gone untreated, he'd soon lose consciousness. She slipped her .44 into her holster where it belonged and ditched the rag on the rocking chair. In several fast strides, she ran from the porch, across the bridge overlooking the lake, and into his open garage.
Rick looked right at her but didn't look at her. Meaning, his eyes were on her, but they were empty. He stared at her like he didn't recognize who she was. She pulled off her sweater and yanked his hand closer, wrapping his deep gash in the cottony material. He stood limply, lifelessly letting her without protest.
"What's gotten into you?" she asked frantically, tightening the fabric around his palm. "Let's go inside. This is going to need to be cleaned."
Michonne tugged on his arm in an attempt to guide him toward the door leading into his kitchen. He resisted, slowly regaining his senses.
"No. I can't. I…I can't go in there."
"Why not?"
Rick swallowed hard. "I can't let 'em see me like this. I can't."
She studied him out of bemusement, brows low and chin tight. There was a shame element to his tone and how glassily his eyes shone signified how deeply troubled he was. And then it occurred to her what he meant; he refused to let his father and daughter see him a mess, because he was supposed to be their rock. He was the head of household, after all.
"Come with me," Michonne whispered gently. She held onto his uninjured hand, clasping her fingers between his, and hoped he'd follow. She started for the rickety bridge with Rick in tow, sneaking him across the way to her place. Up the porch steps they tiptoed, delicately drawing the front door open.
In the bathroom, she held his bloodied hand under the faucet to wash away the red. Then she grabbed a towel and applied pressure to the gash, working silently but diligently. He braced himself against the bathroom counter and watched her in something of a daze. The bleeding stopped and she lifted the terry cloth from his palm, checking on the slash.
"This is going to burn," she warned, grabbing a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Hesitantly, she tipped the bottle over, spilling the clear liquid onto his hand. He winced once, but held still as she dabbed the wound and ran it under more water. She finished by bandaging it up, using a professional-level gauze that clearly surprised him. "It should be fine in about two weeks. It's a pretty deep cut, but it should heal on its own without stitches."
Rick gawked at her, taken aback.
Michonne's insides jittered. She blinked. "What?"
"You're a nurse too?"
She shrugged, putting the supplies away in the medicine cabinet. "I've had to treat a lot of injuries. It's no big deal. Are you okay?"
"I'm…I'm fine. Just…" He hesitated as if thinking back to her prior dismals. "Never mind."
Michonne ignored the tremor of guilt. "Rick, you can tell me."
"No. I really can't."
"Why not?"
"It's too personal. It's too heavy for what we've agreed is going on between us."
Rick walked past her, out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. His entire body language changed. Seconds ago, he was wilted and lethargic. Now he was rigid and quick-moving. Michonne followed in his shadow.
"Rick!" she called, rushing around him to block his path. "Tell me!"
"It's just sex, remember?"
Ouch.
The words hit Michonne heavier than she was ready for. She rattled out a breath and averted her gaze, incapable of countering his remark. He was right in his implication. For the past two weeks, she'd constantly reminded him nothing real existed between them. He was only in her life as an occasional fuck and vice versa. That's what she told herself and that's also what she told him. They were not boyfriend and girlfriend. They were not tender lovers. They were not even friends…
"Rick…" she whispered, raw in tone. "I…I didn't mean for it to sound like—"
"Like what? You don't give a shit 'bout me? Funny, 'cuz that's exactly what it's sounded like!"
"Hey!" she fired back, temper flaring. Her hands curled into fists as her tenacious spirit roared to life. "You're not innocent in this—I told you what I wanted and you still fucked me how many times? Save the noble man act…if you really were going to pull the hurt card, you should've at least denied the pussy."
Rick scoffed and shook his head out of disbelief, the kind of reaction to a ridiculous joke. "After our first night together, I wanted more. I wanted to be closer to you. You ran from me. You pushed me away."
"And you let me! You agreed to our arrangement!"
"You're right. I did…because…because I didn't want to rush you. Because I'd take anything over nothing!" he shouted. His neck colored with splotches of red as his voice went hoarse. "In case you've missed the memo: I like you. I know things started between us kinda sketchy, but that was then. I've come to care 'bout you and every time I've been turned down, I give up more and more. So, I'm sorry if I'm skeptical that, all of a sudden, you're concerned 'bout me!"
Michonne opened her mouth for a fiery rebuttal, but silenced herself. She didn't want to shoot at the hip, because he truthfully had a point. Deep down she knew that. He had good reason to be suspicious of her sudden tender behavior with him. Oftentimes, it'd been the exact opposite, as she treated him standoffishly and he worked to ease her defenses.
"It's true," she confessed feebly.
Rick sputtered, surprised to her admission.
"I've done nothing but remind you it's physical between us. But…But," she said, pausing for a breath, "for as much shit as I've talked, I do care about you. If I see you upset, I want to help make it better somehow. I'm sorry for giving mixing signals."
Michonne ended with a deflating sigh, shoulders slumping. Rick stepped closer and grabbed her, pulling her in for a kiss. It took her by surprise, but her lips curled against his, delighted for the affectionate interlude. He held her by the hips, guiding her closer to the bed. She listened, playing off his energy in perfect sync. They sprawled onto her bed side-by-side, facing each other, in a doting manner sparked by an intimacy beyond pure sexual attraction. He wanted to lie down and relax with her, curled up on the bed until his traumatic episode passed. The old her would've cussed him out on the spot, but there was a real part of her susceptible to his request. The greater, larger part of her, she learned, as she lay beside him and breathed. He stared startlingly into her eyes, in something of a gauging inspection. She didn't shy away.
"Are you going to tell me?"
"It's a lot to handle."
"Tell me."
Rick sighed, slipping his bent arm under the pillow. He scooted closer and said, "Today is the worst day of my life."
Michonne failed to hide her confusion. Brows curved closely, she eyed him carefully. She wanted to understand him. "Explain."
"Michonne—"
"Explain. I want to know. Don't hold back." Her hand fell onto his cheek, its coarse growth scratching her soft skin. She never let her eyes waver from his.
He picked up on this. She felt the underlying meaning in his gaze. He would trust in her…
"A couple years ago today, I lost my son," he said tiredly. He shifted so close that his body barely brushed hers. "He was murdered in a drug deal gone wrong. He was five-years-old."
Michonne's heart snapped crisply in half, broken by the revelation. She rutted a gasp. "Rick…I didn't know. I'm so sorry."
"It's nothing you need to apologize for. The killer's behind bars. What's done is done. But for me? As the father? It'll never stop haunting me," he explained. He sighed heavily and in a surprise move, buried his face into her chest. His cheek pressed against her warm breasts, seeking total comfort in her enclosing embrace. "I didn't mean for you to see me like this. I didn't want anyone to see me like this.
"It's okay. It's nothing to be embarrassed about."
"My boy," he muttered sadly, "his name was Carl. My…My boy…"
"Rick." Her throat ached, pulling him tighter against her body. "I wish I knew a way to fix this for you…"
"There's no fixing it. He's gone. I know that."
"How can I make it better?" She posed the question in a desperate bid to bolster his spirits, but the desire to also registered as new. She hadn't cared about improving his mood in the past. In the past, she hadn't cared about him beyond what he could do for her.
Now, Michonne cared about Rick Grimes the man.
Clueless as to how else to offer him comfort, she kissed him.
"No. It's alright," he mumbled. He froze under her gentle kiss and pulled back. "I know you think you know what I want…but that's not what I want right now. I…I just wanna lie down. Cool off. Is that alright?"
Rick had told her before he wanted something more from her, but she kept him firmly in the fuck buddy category. Her cynicism hadn't let her lift the label and sort him any differently, under the assumption what he deep down wanted from her was sex. He pulled away and stared intently, eyes open and honest, filled by an eagerness to engage her in conversation.
"I bet Carl was really special," she whispered.
Rick's lips twitched. "He was. He was a smart little boy. He was so happy to be a big brother."
"I wish I understood why bad things happen to good people."
"I've had that same thought a thousand times. Then I wonder if maybe I'm not so good after all…"
"Rick," she said urgently, "You're a good man. I can tell."
His brows rose. His body remained so close to hers she could feel his heat roll off him. "You really think that?"
"Yes. I've seen my share of bad men in my life. And you're not that."
"You really think that?"
"I do. I know."
"Thanks. You're a lot softer than you try and act, yanno that?"
"Excuse me?"
His arm slunk over the curve of her hip and he brushed his lips against hers. "You've built a fortress 'round yourself. Deep down you're actually kinda sensitive, aren't you? I can tell."
Michonne's skin flushed and she fought the slow smirk emerging on her mouth. It was hard under Rick's probing gaze and grin, and he refused to let her go. His arm held onto her hips, keeping her body against his so not to separate themselves. She caved by kissing him in full, clutching his face as she distracted him with her softly pouted lips.
"Tell me something," Rick said after. His grip on her hips tightened. "I know you keep a lot locked away—you keep it hidden from everybody. That's gotta weigh on you. I wanna help you feel better."
"This isn't about me—"
"'Course it is. I wanna know 'bout you. I've told you this. So tell me."
Michonne frowned. "Tell you what?"
"You're running from something, right? You've got a thousand secrets under lock and key. You can tell me anything."
"No. I can't. It's not…Rick…it's not the same—"
"But it's bothering you. Whatever it is, it's keeping you up at night. You strap a gun or a hunting knife onto you wherever you go. You can tell me anything. What is it?"
"I can tell you anything?"
"Michonne. 'Course you can."
She turned to look him intensely in the eye. "Anything?"
Gooseflesh sprang up onto her skin as her mind descended to the places she had long since ventured. The dark realm she'd shut out since she escaped New Jersey and Mike's clutches. The memory of that last night replayed itself. She lay still in Rick's arms, transported in time.
"'Course," he said. He smoothed his calloused palms up and down her arms to warm her up. "I've already told you…anything you tell me is between us. I'm a man of my word."
"Things didn't end well with my marriage. I was trying to leave him, but he made it almost impossible," she confessed. The words slipped out one right after the other 'til she couldn't stop them.
In his grasp, she could feel Rick harden as if affronted on her behalf by what she implied. She plunged on.
"Mike found out I was leaving. And he wouldn't let me go."
"He's after you? That's why you've been on the run all this time?" he predicted knowingly. He secured his grip on her waist out of reassurance. "I'm here for you. If he shows up, he's not getting away with anything. I won't let him hurt you. And my father—he might be a dipshit—but I've told you how he's the former Sheriff. He's handled a dozen domestic abuse situations like these. We've got your back. We'll help you."
"No." She shook her head. "It's…It's not that."
Rick's brow creased. "Then what is it? Michonne, you can tell me."
"He wouldn't let me go," she repeated, swallowing against the pain rising up. "He wouldn't let me leave alive. He wouldn't stop."
Rick's silence spoke for him, still puzzled as to where she led the confession.
Michonne's voice embellished with a twisted sort of satisfaction as she said, "So I killed him."
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Author's Note: Soo chapter five is going to switch things up. It will take place largely in the past, featuring Michonne and her backstory. We will see more of her childhood and learn about her marriage. We will also finally see if she manages to get rid of Rosita and our lovelies will grow closer :)
It's been awesome reading your reviews and speculations, so please do leave more! As always, thanks for reading!