Author's Note: With my birthday this week, I am so sorry for the delay. You all convinced me; longer chapters it is! Let's see what everyone is up to! Enjoy and as always, feedback is very much appreciated! Thank you to everyone who has left such encouraging reviews. Im so glad you all are enjoying this story.

Title change coming soon! Bear with me, please. I'm sorry xoxo

Smiling faces sometimes pretend to be your friend
Smiling faces show no traces of the evil that lurks within
Smiling faces, smiling faces sometimes
They don't tell the truth
Smiling faces, smiling faces
Tell lies and I got proof
The truth is in the eyes
Cause the eyes don't lie

Undisputed Truth - Smiling Faces

Four Months Since The Turn

Day 128

Woodbury

A dark figure in a high window peered down at Michonne as she stood on a street in Woodbury and she knew; she knew by the uneasy churning in her stomach and by the scowl that ensued on her face, that it was the Governor staring down at her. And now it was no longer a mystery to her where he resided.

She smirked, making a mental note of what floor and window his silhouette stood looming over her and turned, already eager to see her son again as she trudged away, wrapping her arms around herself in the biting cold. She would find some time to explore this town some more, very thoroughly, and the Governor's apartment was top priority. He was hiding something. There was no doubt in her mind. And she would get to the bottom of it.

So far, she had scoped out the areas behind the apartment buildings, but she had not found much. Cages of some sort and military vehicles; nothing more. She was becoming frustrated.

Michonne walked towards the main street, the townspeople crowding her and getting in the way. She pushed past several of them, her aggravation conspicuous, rolling her eyes at their mindless chatter. She saw Andrea in the crowd and she approached her, a glass of lemonade in her hand.

"Did you already talk to him?" she asked. Michonne stopped walking and shook her head, placing her hands on her hips.

"But I'm going to," she said smirking. "Why are you so concerned?" Andrea's face scrunched into a scowl of her own.

"I'm not...I- I...," she stammered. Michonne could tell by her flustered expression and her stuttering voice that she knew full well why she was concerned.

"You're afraid of him," Michonne whispered, eyeing her. "You thought he would hurt me." Andrea said nothing. "You're intelligent, Andrea. I know you're having doubts about him." She remained quiet. "I'm gonna go, okay? I need to check on my son and then I'm going to speak to Phillip. And don't worry about me; I can handle myself."

Michonne walked away briskly, entering her apartment building and climbing the stairs, finding their room and opening to door to find Mike smoking at the window, getting high while his son sat on the floor alone. Andre's little legs were crossed as he played with racecars and hummed quietly to himself, a song that Michonne sang to him often stuck in his head.

Despite her heart warming for her adorable son, she was bristling with anger, frustration fueling her rage, her breathing suddenly erratic.

"Mike," she growled. She was tempted to slam the door but avoided doing so, closing it soundly before stomping over to him. She snatched his pipe from him and flung the window open, throwing the pipe outside and hearing it shatter on the street below them.

"Hey!" he bellowed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" His voice shook the walls and Michonne whirled around, her eyes widening in shock.

Never.

Mike had never ever raised his voice to her.

He had just yelled at her... in front of their son, over a stupid pipe; peering down at her angrily, tired eyes full of unresolved frustration with an odd mix of hopelessness hiding behind the deep brown that used to be rich and chocolaty; now dim and bloodshot.

Michonne was fuming. She wanted to lash out but she wouldn't; not in front of their son. Andre sensed the tension in the room and burst into tears, throwing his racecar down in a blubbering fit. Michonne wanted to run to him, to hold him, to coo to him and tell him it would be okay.

"Calm down, Mike," she said, her voice low through clenched teeth, each word an emphasized staccato. "Now. Don't raise your voice to me in front of our son." He looked stunned all of a sudden, reaching for her tenderly, as if to console her. She recoiled from him, regarding him with a look of disappointment that she knew from his following expression, broke his heart.

Who was this man? This was not the man she had fallen in love with five years ago. This was not the kind, gentlemanly man she'd met at a book signing in the Atlanta Public Library on a blistering hot September day. The man that had asked her out that very night and talked literature with her over dinner and wine. Had kissed her goodnight under the beaming half moon and promised to call her.

The man that bought her new books whenever she wanted the latest bestseller. That helped her pick out artwork to hang in her apartment. The man she had known then was sweet; classy, with a sharp sense of humor and a smile that made her heart flutter. Had always wanted to show her a good time and spoil her rotten, even when she didn't want him to, whisking her off to gallery openings and plays, museums and dinners.

They had always agreed on everything. They never argued.

And he had never, ever raised his voice to her. Not once.

Michonne backed away from him, running to Andre and scooping him up in her arms, comforting him with kisses and stroking his tear-streaked face. Mike staggered back, sitting down in the creaky chair next to the window and placing his face in his hands.

Sobs rocked his body and it was the first time Michonne had seen him cry in so long. She'd almost thought that, as of late, he was incapable of showing emotion, but alas, he was not.

"I'm so sorry, Michonne. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I don't know what's wrong with me." He looked up at her, grief-stricken. "What are we doing? Why are we living here in this town, what's the point? I thought about what you said, about you wanting to leave this place if you don't trust it. But I can't even imagine being out there anymore. Not the way we were. It was too hard. Especially on our son. And what will we do if this town falls? I can't take this anymore!" Andre's tears subsided and his crying turned to whimpers, his face pressed against Michonne's cheek, his lips pouted.

Michonne wasn't going to comfort Mike, not even for a second. Nothing but tough love. What happened to his optimism? To his positive outlook? She never imagined he would be like this; that he would lose all semblance of hope, even for their son.

"I don't know what's wrong with you but you better pull yourself together, Mike. Our son needs us. We need to be our best possible selves for him. We need to be strong and ready. All the time. And sober. How many times do I need to tell you that? We can do this. We can do this, even if we have to be outside again. Toughen up." Mike looked up, his face heavy and sorrowful.

"I'm trying. You have no idea how hard I'm trying, Michonne." He stood and closed the space between them, placing one hand on Michonne's cheek and the other on Andre's. "I'm so sorry I yelled," he said with ferocious sincerity. Michonne met his eyes.

"It's otay, dada," Andre sniffed, splaying his hand on his father's cheek. Mike leaned down and placed a small kiss on Michonne's lips, but it was passionless.

"And I won't smoke anymore. I promise," he finished with earnest, looking down at her. Michonne pursed her lips dubiously.

"We'll see," she murmured, turning away to wash Andre's tear-streaked face. "We'll see."

•••••••••••••

Curiousity got the best of Michonne; snatched her up and pulled at her strings like she was a puppet.

She ached to know more about this town, about the Governor, but... Andre. She didn't want to take him with her but she wasn't sure she could trust Mike to watch over him responsibly. It was absolutely ridiculous that he needed to be watched like a child. In addition, even after her quarrel with Mike, there was no way she was going to leave Andre with any of the other women in town, not even Andrea.

The townspeople were out and about on the main street as usual, sipping cold drinks and laughing about nothing. Even Mike was there. She'd asked him to find the Governor, to talk to him and keep him busy while she snooped around.

"Come be a detective with Mommy, Peanut," she'd told her son. He was quiet, no doubt upset about what had happened in their apartment. He was sensitive to negative vibes and clung to his mother when things confused him. If something was fishy, Michonne would take him back to their apartment. She wouldn't endanger him. She just needed to have a look around.

Firstly, Michonne scurried to the armory she had seen in passing for the last few days, in search of her long-lost bladed friend. She checked every last crevice to no avail, and with a heaving sigh of frustration blowing from her lips, she decided to take a gun, tucking a glock 9mm into her pants against her back, covering it with her long sleeved shirt before leaving.

Michonne entered the second group of apartment buildings, close to the gates of Woodbury, Andre in her arms, his face pressed to her shoulder as she ascended the steps and began counting the rooms.

33.

If she wasn't mistaken, this was it. The Governor's apartment. She wrapped her free hand around the doorknob and turned it, freeing the door from its latch and it creaked open. As she prepared to enter, she heard approaching footsteps and turned.

There he was.

The Governor.

He sauntered over to her, his sure, confident steps sounding on the wooden floor, a countdown to their impending interaction. Michonne straightened her spine, clutching her son to her and raising her chin, placing her free hand on her hip.

"Snoopin' around, are ya?" he greeted. Mike had failed to keep him occupied and Michonne was not surprised. She remained quiet and Andre mimicked her to a tee, quieting his breathing and straightening his body, facing the man that walked towards him as he removed his fingers from his mouth.

That's my boy, she thought, smirking.

"Would ya like to come inside? I can tell you wanna talk," he said, flashing a kodak smile, sugar-coated rubbish, an obvious front, as he closed the remaining distance between them. Michonne nodded curtly and the Governor stepped in front of her, pushing open the already accessible door and stepping into his living space.

It was a spacious apartment, with two bedrooms and a vast expanse of wood flooring; a large sitting room and a kitchen. It was surprisingly tidy. Perhaps Andrea kept it clean for him. She smirked again. Boxes of food and scant ammo were placed in corners and on chairs, and a collection of liquors in glass decanters sat sparkling on a dresser atop a white lace doily.

She missed alcohol, surprisingly enough. She hadn't had a drop in months. She missed wine the most, and a chilled glass of sauvignon blanc would be delectable at the moment but she couldn't see herself enjoying the pleasure of a drink anytime soon. As she'd told Mike, sober as a judge. Protecting Andre was top priority.

The Governor walked to a door on the opposite end of a room, closing it and locking it quickly and Michonne was already dying to know what secrets lie beyond that door. She wondered if she'd have the chance to find out.

Michonne spotted a gun cabinet on the far side of the room, nestled in a corner by the window where she had seen the Governor glaring down at her. She watched him walk over to it, opening it gently and pulling her sword from it. He strolled back over to her, gesturing towards a red easy chair in the centre of the room.

"Would ya like to sit down?" he offered. Michonne obliged, readjusting Andre on her hip as she settled into the chair, her eyes never leaving the Governor's grey-blue icy stare. "Want a drink?" Michonne smirked, answering his question without saying a thing as he poured himself a glass of bourbon and sat down adjacent to her in an identical easy chair, swirling his glass and taking a sip. He drank it easily, disregarding the burning liquor as it no doubt scorched his waiting throat, Michonne's sword still in his other hand.

Michonne met his gaze, taking her opportunity to stare into his eyes as the situation granted perfect access to do so. He sat only a few feet away in thr quiet room, no distractions around them and Michonne stared into his eyes.

Windows to the soul, her mother always said. And there they were; grey-blue and icy cold. A lack of warmth so unnerving that Michonne felt her hand tighten into a fist. He'd killed many times before. She could see it, and she wondered if, like her, it had been in times of self-defense. She doubted it.

His pupils were the size of a periods, and his eyes said a thousand things. He smiled at her yet again.

"I don't like you," Andre said suddenly, clear as a spring day, his eyes on the Governor, and Michonne sat stunned for a moment, a hearty laugh escaping her lips before she could help it. The Governor kept smiling.

"Out of the mouths of babes," Michonne said, raising her eyes to meet his again, her expression intense. Andre was such a smart boy. She loved this child. "He's so adult in his perceptions for a boy of only three and a half, don't you think?" she asked, patting her son lovingly as he turned his face, nestling it in the curve of her neck. She was not expecting a direct answer. And of course, as she thought, she didn't receive one.

"I think you've got the wrong idea about me," the Governor said, taking another sip of bourbon. "I can sense your mistrust but the snoopin' around isn't necessary. I've got nothing to hide." This was going to be entertaining. The fact that this man thought his smooth talking was going to charm her was laughable enough.

"People with nothing to hide don't usually feel the need to say so," she retorted, her eyes studying him. Her feelings of unease were gone now.

Replaced instead by a sudden abhorrence as his eyes regarded her in return, a look on his face that made her want to turn up her nose in disgust. It was almost... sexual; the way his eyes scanned her seated frame, lingering often on certain areas, his lips curling up into sickening smile. In the presence of her son, nonetheless. He downed the rest of the bourbon and stood up, peering down his nose at her and licking his lips. Michonne narrowed her eyes at him and gritted her teeth.

She wanted her sword. She wanted to cut his head off of his shoulders and watch it bounce when it hit the floor, see his blood seep into his fancy little rug. She wanted to wipe that stupid smirk off of his face.

"I get where you're comin' from," he said, walking to his dresser and placing his glass down with a thud. He turned, her sword still in his hands. He rested it against a wall and began to pace. "I like you, Michonne. I admire your skepticism, your need to protect your child. You could be useful here and your son can have a place here too. Mothers and children fit well into our community."

"I'm not like other mothers and Andre isn't like other children," Michonne said, holding her head high.

"Why is that?" he asked.

"Because we're not falling for your bullshit." It was quiet for a long moment proceeding her declaration. The Governor had even stopped walking and the room was still. All Michonne could hear was her son's hushed breathing.

"I'm not a bad man," he finally said. Who was he trying to fool? "The people in this town need a leader and I wanna do right by them. I'd do anything to protect them. They deserve that, don't you think?"

"I'm sure they do."

"Don't you wanna be one of those people? Don't you want your son to be one of those people? Your husband?"

"He's my boyfriend. And no."

"So you have a problem with authority?" he asked, his booming voice unnecessarily raising an octave.

"When that authority hides its true self behind a facade... blatantly, to my face, I want nothing from him." It was quiet again. He began to pace once more and Michonne was becoming agitated "I'd like my sword back," she said.

"Do you want to leave Woodbury?" the Governor asked, ignoring her statement.

"No," Michonne lied. "I don't."

"Good."

The Governor walked over to the chair where she sat and stopped behind it, reaching down and placing his hands on her shoulders.

She jumped to her feet, pulling herself away from his grasp, clutching her child to her with one hand and pulling the glock from her waistband with the other, pointing it at his face.

"Don't you ever touch me again," she snarled. Andre was alert now, staring at the Governor. He held his hands up defensively, his Adams apple moving as he swallowed.

"I'm sorry." he said, moistening his open mouth, gazing down the barrel of the polymer pistol staring him in the face.

"You will be if you put your hands on me again." Michonne kept the gun raised, walking backwards toward her sword. She tucked the handgun in her waistband again and snatched her sword from where it rested, eyeing the Governor as she back towards the door and flung it open.

He said nothing else, watching her leave in a fury, her son eyeing him with curiosity and discontent. He let out a breath and she was gone.

••••••••••••

Michonne rushed back to their apartment, furious, Andre bouncing with each step she took.

"Mommy, whatsa matter?" he asked. She blinked, trying to keep the animosity from peppering her voice before she spoke to him.

"Mommy doesn't like that man, Peanut. Mommy doesn't trust him. He makes me angry." Her son clutched her face with a small hand.

"It's otay," he murmured. "Don't be mad." She stopped walking, looking into her baby boy's honey brown eyes, calming her erratic breathing. She touched his face and kissed him between those big, gorgeous eyes of his, feeling his long, dark lashes tickle her cheeks.

"I love you. You know that, right?" He smiled.

"I love you too, Mommy." She smiled back and began to walk again, rounding the corner of their apartment building after ascending the steps. Down the hall stood Andrea, her arms crossed, her back against their door. Michonne rolled her eyes as she approached.

"What do you want?" She pushed her aside to open her apartment door, stepping inside. Andrea followed.

"Did you talk to him? What did he say?" She was whispering for some reason. Michonne glanced around their apartment, discovering that Mike was not there, closing the door and sitting her son down on the floor so that he could play with his toys. She ignored Andrea's inquiry.

"I can't believe you're with that man," she said, shaking her head. "I don't trust him. He's not who he pretends to be." Andrea was quiet for a bit.

"Sometimes I can't believe I'm with him either... but he's not a very bad man,"she said finally. "I was so lonely when I met him and he was kind to me. I just- I just dont know what he's up to all the time. I wish I knew. Why are you trying to figure him out?" Michonne faced her, trying to decipher her body language.

"The side he shows you is someone else, Andrea! It is a front. Don't keep falling for it!" she hissed. "He is secretive because he's hiding something, and he's hiding his true self from you as well. Can't you see that?" Andrea looked down at her feet.

"Do you want to leave?" Andrea asked.

"I need proof that he is what I think he is," Michonne said. "If I get clarification, then yes, I want to leave. Even if that means taking my son out there again." Suddenly, the door flew open and Mike entered, sweating profusely.

"Michonne! Michonne," he called, doubling over and placing his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Michonne ran to him, clutching his shoulders.

"What's wrong, Mike?" she asked.

"I'm- I'm sorry I couldn't keep him... busy, but... I just overheard something. I snuck around the back. He and some of his men... were discussing something. Something about a group outside the walls that they want to go meet... they said they want to take their shit and kill them. They're leaving soon to do it." Mike explained through labored breaths.

"What?!" Michonne and Andrea said in sync. Michonne met Mike's eyes as he stood up. Andrea looked bewildered, as if she didn't believe him.

"Are you positive you heard correctly?" Michonne asked. Mike nodded fervently and Michonne turned to Andrea.

"This is what I'm talking about," she said. "He's not a good man, Andrea. This is how he 'protects' his people." Andrea's pale blue eyes filled with tears and she looked angry.

"We have no proof," she said. Michonne smirked.

"Then we are going to get our proof, Andrea," she told her. "We're going to go with them."

••••••••

Thirty minutes later, she and Andrea were far from Woodbury, hidden in the back of a military truck, weapons ready, eyes and ears sharp, waiting for what they both knew was going to happen.

Seven Months Since The Turn

Day 215

Outside Jesup, Georgia

Rick's breathing was steady and true, but he lay in the midst of a feverish dream, mumbling, his skin flushed and slick with perspiration. He lay on a bed in the home they had just found, splayed across the mattress, his clothes still on, his feet still in his worn old cowboy boots. Michonne sat down on the edge of the bed and brought a hand to his forehead, gazing down at him, her face scrunched with concern.

"Find a cloth for me, Daryl, and soak it in water," she instructed. Daryl caught his breath and left to seek what she had asked for. She still couldn't believe how worried she was for Rick. With all he had done for her yesterday, the least she should do was return the favor.

She began to unbutton his denim shirt, her fingers grazing his burning chest, tickled by his chest hair as she did so. She lifted his languid body and pulled his arms from the sleeves carefully. As she settled him back against the pillows, she removed the bloody, wet gauze wrap cautiously. It peeled away from his skin and she at last caught sight of his wound. Michonne grimaced.

It looked terrible. Deep, jagged wounds where the rifle rounded had grazed his flesh were left behind, the two sights of contact infected. They were swollen and bright red, pus seeping from the openings, an absess formed around it, blood caked about the wound in a dark, sticky border. It left trails down his arm and flaked off as she removed his clothing. No wonder he had a fever. Thankfully, she had fever reducers and antibiotics.

Daryl returned with a small cloth, retrieving his water bottle and soaking the cloth thoroughly before handing it to her. She folded it and wiped Rick's face with it, pushing his curls away from his skin before she placed it on his forehead. It stuck to his sweaty skin, the water dripping into his hair and running down his face, mingling with the beads of sweat that blanketed him, making his thick, dark lashes stick together.

"His wound looks awful," she said to Daryl. "I don't know how the infection got so bad but... I'm going to have to drain it and... I don't know. Shit," she muttered.

"Ain't like you never dealt with an infection before," Daryl said sarcastically, pacing the floor. "Hurry up, woman, we aint got all night!" He was getting anxious, his frustration evident. Michonne rolled her eyes, slipping her backpack off of her shoulders and opening it, taking out the antibiotics and tylenol, as well as a few packaged syringes she had scoured from an abandoned pharmacy when she'd went on a run after discovering Daryl.

"Get me another washcloth," she hissed at Daryl, waving a hand at him, feeling no need to be cordial after he had yelled. She was already under an immense amount of stress over the duties she was about to perform. Daryl left without saying a word as Michonne tore the syringe from its package and pushed the plunger all the way down.

She took a deep breath, steadying her hand and inserting it directly into his raised, pus-filled absess. Rick awoke, shouting, sitting up in the bed and startling Michonne, the needle scratching his skin and flying from her grip. She winced and let it fall to the floor, mildly frustrated.

"Carl!" Rick shouted, sputtering awake with a cough, his eyes darting around the room. He tried to flee, to rise from the bed but Michonne stood and placed a heavy hand on his chest, feeling his frenetic heartbeat against her palm, pushing him back against the pillows and trying to soothe him with a steady voice. Daryl dashed back into the room, alarmed by the sound of Rick's cry.

"Rick," Michonne said, surprised at the calm in her voice . "You're fine. Everything is fine. Stay still. I'm trying to help you, okay? You need to stay still." Rick chest heaved with labored breaths and he sat back against the bed frame, meeting her gaze. His crystal blue eyes filled with tears.

"Carl," he murmured. "I was- I was dreamin' about Carl again."

His emotion made Michonne's heart twist into a knot. It made her feel warm all over... and she hadn't felt warm in so long. She tried to ignore but... he looked so vulnerable. His concern for his son was endearing and she knew it must be a struggle for him to be away from him for so long. She dreamt of Andre all the time. Her dreams were the only place she could see him; hold him. "The same damn dream," he choked, lost in thought.

Her presence pulled him from his line of thought. "Wait a minute. Michonne? How..?" They had been looking for her; that was the last thing he remembered, and now she was here... and they were somewhere, in a small room and he was in a bed. He didn't linger on the details; he was just glad that she was back.

She was grateful he was awake now. She could keep him talking while she took care of this infection. Michonne heeled the syringe she had dropped, pushing under the bed and out of the way

"Tell me about your dream," she said, sighing and preparing herself to take care of him.

Daryl handed her another cloth drenched in water and she sat down next to Rick on the bed again, their thighs touching as she leaned forward to wipe the caked blood from his forearm. He grimaced and wiped a tear from his eye with his other hand. "Go on," Michonne coaxed, "tell me about your dream," she prodded.

Rick had a hard time staying still. He felt cold. He suspected he had a fever and it resulted in causing him to shake. He realized he was shirtless and that Michonne must've removed his denim shirt. It made him smile a little. He saw Daryl take another cigarette from his pocket and leave the room.

Rick met Michonne's gaze after she watched Daryl leave, before she turned her attention back to cleaning his arm, being as gentle as she could, her long fingers brushing his skin. Why was she being so nice to him? Damn, this woman was perplexing. And to his surprise, as he had discovered when they awoke earlier that day, she was so easy to talk to as well. Rick felt no need to conceal anything from her.

Why? Why did it feel like he could tell her anything?

"I'm havin' this recurring dream of him..."

Michonne unwrapped another syringe as he spoke, listening to the way his voice rumbled deep in his chest. She pushed the syringe plunger down. Rick squeezed his eyes shut and continued his story as she inserted the needle and pulled the plunger out, slowly draining his absess. "I see him again. And I'm so happy and overwhelmed and he runs to me, screamin', excited as ever. I hug him and pick 'em up but... suddenly I hear him growlin' and I pull back and look at his face and he's turned. And he bites my fuckin' face off til I'm screamin'" He swallowed and looked away. "It's not the part about him bitin' me that scares me the most..."

Michonne had filled the small syringe nearly all the way. She wondered if their short swim in the river had really caused him such a dreadful infection. It appeared so. She had to admit she was worried. If she couldn't get rid of his infection and if his temperature didn't drop... they were going to have a big problem.

She set the syringe aside and looked at Rick, waiting for him to turn and face her again. He finally did, his eyes still filled with tears.

"Is it the part where you realize you're too late, that you can't do anything to help him?" she murmured, fighting back her own tears, keeping them at bay as dark memories of her past washed over her. She couldn't believe she'd just said that. But Rick's dream sounded so very familiar and empathy bombarded her.

"Yes," Rick replied immediately, staring into her eyes as the room darkened around them, noticing her somber expression and wanted to comfort her, even in the midst of his own grief. Her proximity was a soothing consolation to him, his skin warm where she set with her leg pressed against him. "And it's the worst feeling in the world."

He blinked at her, their eye contact becoming increasingly more intense. He looked away again quickly, his face warming, hoping she couldn't tell in the darkened room. He could still feel her piercing gaze and it made his heart beat furiously in his chest.

Michonne rose from the bed and pulled a pack of matches from her back pocket, along with a candle she kept in her backpack, lighting it so that she could see as the last rays of the sun disappeared and the night snatched all natural light away.

She set the candle down and picked up the bottle of antibiotics she kept handy, then the tylenol, pulling the pills from the container with her long fingers and holding them out to Rick.

"Take these," she ordered, clutching his hand and letting the six pills fall into his cupped palm. His hands were rough and callused, dirty and scarred. He took the pills from her and popped them into his mouth, accepting the water she handed him and gulping it fervently, until it spilled past his lips and covered his chin, falling in drops to land on his chest. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and threw the bottle aside, catching his breath.

Michonne looked at him, realizing that a weight had eased off of her shoulders after she had disclosed that tiny bit of information to him. It was something she had thought about again and again over the past three months, and after seeing his vulnerability, his concern for his son, it had flown easily from her lips. Even though his son was still possibly alive and her son was not, she had experienced the feeling she had described to him firsthand...She knew its torment well.

And she hoped he never had to experience it.

Rick was distracted as well by what Michonne had said to him; about being too late to help someone. Who had she lost? Rick desperately wanted to know. She'd lost everyone close to her; she had no one, himself and Daryl her only companions. Rick would never take for granted the fact that Carl was most likely still alive. Only his worry made him skeptical.

He needed to have faith in his son, and perhaps in Lori too. He didn't want to experience the grief of arriving to Cumberland Island and discovering that Carl hadn't made it. The guilt alone would kill him.

Have some faith in him, Rick, he told himself. He's a good kid. He deserves to live. Michonne's presence shook him from his thoughts again.

"You got any pain killers?" he asked, taking notice of her vast collection of pills. Michonne shook her head in response.

"The tylenol should help," she said, sitting down on bed again. "But Daryl might have something. His brother left him with a lot of random shit."

His brother?

Of course. Daryl had lost someone too.

"I'll ask him then, I suppose," he muttered, looking over at her, his eyes scanning her. "Were those antibiotics you just gave me? I've got a fever, don't I? I'm freezin'." Michonne grabbed his arm with both of her hands, examining it thoroughly. God, her touch felt so good, even when he was in pain. She took out some ointment and, after squeezing a copious amount into her hand, she covered his wound with it. "I have gauze," he said, scanning the room for his backpack.

Daryl had brought it inside and it rested on a chair in the corner. Michonne retrieved the gauze from inside and returned to her seated position next to Rick on the bed, wrapping his wound in the fresh bandage.

"Yeah, I gave you some antibiotics. If we can't reduce your fever or get rid of the infection... I'll have to find some antibiotics to give to you intravenously. I hope it doesn't come to that. How are you feeling?" she asked. He swallowed, reaching down and unbuckling his gunbelt, pulling it off and setting his revolver on the bed next to him.

"Like shit," he chuckled, pointing to his arm, "This thing burns. And it's throbbin'. I feel cold, and a bit sick to my stomach." Michonne had a sudden realization.

"Have you eaten today?" she asked admonishingly. Her scolding was heartwarming.

"No," he confessed, a crooked smile on his lips.

"No wonder you passed out!" He stopped smiling and looked at her, her beautiful face scrunched into a scowl, her eyes sparkling in the dark.

"I forgot to eat... I wanted to find you," he whispered, his eyes twinkling in return. She softened instantaneously and she was angered by it. This man and his ridiculous southern charm. She'd always liked the cowboys in those old westerns her daddy had watched on Saturday mornings when she was young.

She'd wake up early and watch them with him, a bowl of cereal in front of her as she sat cross-legged on the floor, fascination by the old-fashioned single action revolvers, the high-speed horseback pursuits and the old dusty ambiance. Saloons and whiskey. Dirty clothing and duels.

With his gunbelt, his cowboy boots and his long barreled revolver, his beard and his southern drawl, and that country boy personality, he epitomized that air perfectly. Her face warmed and she stood up, feeling silly and flustered. Damn. Did she really have a crush on this man?

No, she told herself, I saw him naked and I thought he was attractive. That's it. Nothing more.

"You should eat something. It will help you feel better," she told him. Daryl walked back into the room loudly.

"The hell you two in here whisperin' about? I'm fucking starvin'. Y'all wanna eat somethin'?"

"Yes, I'm famished," Michonne replied, walking to a chair in the corner of the room and sitting down, exhaustion leaving her body heavy and aching. An orange glow from the candle covered the room, demanding quiet and Daryl's next utterance to Rick was whispered.

"Hey, Rick, I meant to tell ya, I found your duffel bag washed up on the riverbank before I found yall. I took the stuff out and put it in my bag." Rick sat up, noticably excited by the news. Daryl walked out of the room and returned with his backpack and the camel jacket Rick had left behind in the truck, handing them to him and smiling a little.

"Thank you," Rick said. "I'm real glad you found it." He unzipped it and pulled a brown hat from within, beaming as he placed it atop his head. "It's my sheriff's hat. I wanna give it to Carl when I see him again." Michonne caught herself before she smiled. Another adornment in his cowboy collection.

Rick had such a positive outlook; it was almost enviable. She watched him smiling, searching through the bag like a child opening gifts. He looked so innocent. He hardly was but he looked it. She hoped to meet Carl one day soon, wondering how similar they were.

Rick retrieved his sheriff's badge from the bag, rubbing it with his thumb and shoving it into his pocket. His portable stove was there as well, and he was grateful for that. It was always handy in a situation like this one, when they needed to make food but couldn't start a fire the way they could if they were outside, but he wondered if the water had damaged the gas cans. They'd soon find out.

"Oh, and this too," Daryl added, pulling something from his pocket. He placed it in Rick's hand. "Didn't know you were married."

His wedding band.

Rick twirled it between his index finger and thumb, staring at it. He thought about putting it on his finger again, a relflex, and changed his mind, tucking it into his pocket as well.

"I was, but... I'm not anymore," he replied. Michonne watched him curiously and then stood, picking up her backpack and searching for some food.

"I don't think your portable stove will work after our little swim," she told Rick. He smiled.

"You're right. Probably not," he replied. Daryl snatched Michonne's backpack from her and dug inside for a can opener and can of pork and beans.

"Don't know about yall but I ain't tryna chit-chat. Ima eat these cold beans and go to bed," he barked. He sat down on the floor and opened the can, eating the beans with his fingers loudly and sloppily. Michonne stook her head and got herself a can as well, along with some spoons, handing them to Rick. She opened her food and tossed him the can opener.

They all ate in silence, surprised at their hunger. When tensions were high, it was easy to forget to eat and they were all famished. Daryl left when he was done, discarding his can on the floor with a clatter.

"'Night," he grumbled. "I'll secure the door and sleep on the couch."

"Goodnight, Daryl," Michonne called after him, listening to him mumble all the way down the hallway. Michonne set her can down on the floor and wiped her hands on her jeans, walking up to Rick again. He watched her as he set his can aside on the end table beside him. She sat down on the bed and touched his forehead and he closed his eyes, relishing in her touch, breathing quietly, still sweating and practically swooning. "Your fever is still present," she whispered. "I'll give you more tylenol in the morning. Don't sleep in your boots."

She really hoped his fever would pass. If it didn't he could... he could die. And she knew she didn't want that. And if his infection didn't heal- She winced at the thought.

She yawned and covered her mouth with her hand, standing up and preparing to leave. "I'm going to sleep down the hall in the extra bedroom, alright? Holler if you need me." She turned and Rick reached out and gently touched her arm, hoping she wouldn't recoil from him.

She didn't. His fingers tickled her wrist.

"Stay with me?" he murmured. "I um... I don't wanna be alone tonight." Michonne turned back around and peered down at him.

"Okay," she said, surprised at her lack of hesitation. She returned to the chair in the corner and sat down, setting into the pillows and placing her sword on her lap, folding her hands over her stomach. She couldn't help but wonder why he'd asked for her to stay...

"Here's to a some sleep with no nightmares," Rick whispered, tipping his sheriff hat and then removing it, along with his cowboy boots and laying them aside.

"Agreed." He settled back onto the pillows.

"Thank you, Michonne. For everything," he murmured. He cocked his head and looked over at her, her silhouette looming in the corner, her eyes sparkling. She didn't answer. She just watched him fall asleep, listening to him snore softly, exuding that innocent air that came to him during slumber again. The candle flickered out and the house was quiet.

And Michonne was left to brood over her son.

And to think of the man sleeping a few feet away from her that left her feeling something peculiar she hadn't felt in a long time.

Day 216

In the morning, Michonne woke, the room bright and alive, and she was surprised she had slept in the chair in the corner. She rose, her body aching, and checked on Rick. He was still sleeping. She rested her hand on his forehead.

Still warm. Warmer than before.

She carefully unwrapped his bandage.

Oh no.

It was worse. Much, much worse. The swelling had not gone down causing the redness to become more amplified. His arm was purple and bruised now and his wound was an array of sickening colors, an obvious display of worsening infection.

Michonne scurried from the room, finding Daryl awake, sharpening his arrows and messing with his crossbow.

"His infection. It's worse. I have to find antibiotics." She was on the verge of panicking.

"I thought you had antibiotics?"

"Not intravenous. He needs antibiotics intravenously. We have to go find some. Or he'll get septic. He'll die." She rushed back to the room as Rick opened his eyes. He looked woozy and pale. Michonne stood over him, hovering, making him worry.

"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting up, sensing the negative air. "I feel like shit."

"Daryl and I are going to look for a pharmacy or something. We need to find you some antibiotics." Rick frowned.

"You're leavin'?" He didn't want to be alone.

"We have to," Michonne said. "We're going." There was no point arguing with her. "Lock the door behind us. We've got a map, right?" Daryl nodded. "We'll be back before dark, before then perhaps. I know you're tired and you're probably feeling weak, but stay awake. Be on the lookout for anything. For anyone." Michonne could think of nothing else. She was already on a mission.

She threw her sword over her back and her backpack on her shoulders, glancing back at Rick before she left.

"Good luck," Rick called after her, feeling feeble and anxious. He heard her sigh drift through the hallway and into the room. He was sweating as he threw his legs over the side of the bed, already wanting to go back to sleep badly. Daryl nodded towards him as a farewell and followed Michonne. They left with a slam of the door, the truck rumbling away, Michonne driving them, dead-set on getting the medicine Rick needed.

He has to see his son again, she thought, speeding down the road, Daryl watching her curiously. They deserve that.

Rick stumbled to the door and locked it behind them. He hoped they'd be alright; that they'd return soon with the antibiotics, knowing they'd be able to handle any obstacles. He had faith in them and he was so grateful for them. He shuffled back to bed, laying down and staring at the ceiling, still cold and shirtless, shaking and sweating.

"HEY! IN HERE!"

Rick had fallen asleep. He didn't know how long it had been, but he'd passed out; had dreamt heavily again.

Shit!

He grabbed his revolver, his heart pounding as the front door was kicked in, the walls of the house shaking. He leapt from the bed, seeking refuge in the bedroom closet and shutting the door behind him, trying to quiet his breathing.

"Someone was just here," a voice said. A man. "I smell 'em. There's cans of food and trash and needles and shit."

"Well, we can wait for them to come back," another voice said. Another man. "We'll just kill 'em and take their shit. We need things. Looks like they got medicine, too."

"Sounds good to me."

Through his drowsiness and pain, his worry and his weariness, Rick's will to survive was never pushed aside. Not for anything. He cocked the hammer to his revolver as quietly as he could and waited.

A/N: Credit to Angela Kang as the writer of episode 4.05 'Say The Word' for her "People with nothing to hide don't usually feel the need to say so" line. One of my absolute favorite Michonne lines.