A/N: I had a terrible case of writer's block, but a weekend of romances (both dramatic and comedic) shook this last chapter free. I hope you all enjoy!
"Michonne, go on in the house," Rick instructed, his tone firm but not unkind.
From her place by his side, Michonne shot him a disbelieving look in the low light. The night stretched on before them, the fire still glowing like an ember in the distance. All was quiet, almost deceptively so, as though they had not just fought for their lives merely an hour ago. The smoke was clearing, revealing the stars, set bright and clean against the inky darkness of the sky.
"I'll go inside when you do," Michonne told Rick in no uncertain terms, her sword still unsheathed and at her side.
"I don't want you to see this," he told her lowly, stepping closer.
"I've seen worse," she reminded him.
"Don't mean you have to keep on seeing it," Rick looked distressed at the very thought.
"Neither should you," Michonne argued, reaching for her husband's hand. She clasped her fingers around his, her concern rising at the coolness of his palm. He'd changed into dry clothing but had yet to warm up after his fall into the river. She'd almost lost him to that swirling current teaming with the dead. The shock of the moment had yet to leave her.
"Somebody has to," Rick muttered. He squeezed her hand tighter.
"Together," she said simply.
"He ain't ever going to forgive us for this, you know," Rick's voice was heavy. A tell-tell wrinkle creased his brow. He rubbed it away with his freehand.
"I think he'll understand," Michonne looked off to the house, where Daryl had disappeared. "He knows the kind of man his brother is."
"Still, family is family," Rick sighed. "Don't matter how bad they are. It hurts to lose them." He swallowed thickly.
Michonne stayed silent, but moved closer to her husband. She lifted their joined hands, letting her lips linger on the back of his palm. He responded by holding her hand to his own mouth.
"I love you," he whispered.
"I love you too," she assured him. "Let's get this done, and go to bed."
With a resigned nod, Rick looked over towards Morgan. His friend was standing in the distance, a length or rope in his hand.
"We have to do it," Morgan reaffirmed. "The family isn't safe until we do."
"You ready?" Rick nodded, walking towards them. Michonne kept pace, refusing to release his hand.
"As I'm ever going to be," Morgan sighed. "Still don't have the stomach for this," he said.
"We got to do this, for Duane," Rick told him. "For Sophia, and Carl, and Judith," Rick looked off toward the shed.
Merle had gone kicking and screaming to what would be his final prison, hollering and cursing them all to high heaven. Daryl had made a plea for his brother, attempting to negotiate for his imprisonment. In the end, he'd been voted down. Glenn, Theodore, and Morgan would not abide Merle anywhere on the property, nor could they let him go.
"Let's get this done," Glenn looked pale as well, but resigned.
Wordlessly, Morgan handed the length of rope to Theodore. The younger man set about securing it to a tree a few yards off, hidden behind the barn where no one from the house could see it. Michonne's stomach turned at the sight of the noose, but she kept her chin up.
"Bring him out," Rick instructed.
"Shouldn't he get final rites, or something at least?" Glenn spoke up suddenly.
"Hershel's been in to talk to him," Michonne said. "Merle wasn't interested." The eldest Dixon had choice words for the preacher.
"He's been in there a few hours at least," Rick spoke. "If he had anything to say to God, let's hope he said it."
"He's been silent enough," Morgan said. "Mayhaps he did take the time."
Michonne glanced curiously at the shed, suddenly aware of the silence. She didn't think that Merle would stop cussing at them all until his last breath. A streak of foreboding ran suddenly up her spine.
"How long has he been quiet?" she asked.
Glenn shrugged. "At least ten minutes now."
"He was tied up?" Michonne asked.
Rick raised a brow at her. "I did it myself," he told her.
"Where did you put Walsh's body?" she asked, lifting her sword.
Rick looked towards Morgan.
"The shed," Morgan answered. Comprehension began to dawn on both men's faces.
"Be ready," Rick stepped forward, keys in hand. "Whatever comes out of there, be ready." He turned the lock, pulling the door open slowly.
Shane Walsh stumbled out, or at least, what remained of him. Gray and pale, his lifeless eyes glanced listlessly at all of them. Michonne had seen plenty of the dead, even fancied herself immune to the horror of it all by now. Seeing a familiar face though had a stomach churning effect that she could not deny, even if it was the face of an enemy.
Rick looked similarly shaken, his face creasing as though he were in pain as the dead Shane set after him. Rick backed up, raising his hatchet. He wasn't faster than Michonne's sword. Walsh dropped dead a second time, landing unceremoniously in the grass beside them.
"Glenn," Michonne called for her friend. "Bring the light." She did not want to see, but she needed to know.
"Let me," Rick stopped her, stepping forward in her place. Together, he and Morgan disappeared inside the shed. Glenn bent to inspect Shane's body.
"He wasn't bitten," Glenn remarked. "But he turned. Everyone else who's turned was bitten."
Michonne allowed that knowledge to sink in slowly, casting a fearful look at her friend. A sound like an axe falling rang out in the shed. Seconds later, Rick and Morgan emerged.
"He turned," Rick announced without preamble. "Shane must have bit him."
"But no one bit Shane," Glenn informed him.
The group stood in horrified silence.
"Let's clean them up," Rick said at last. "We can talk about it tomorrow."
The silence continued as the men set about their tasks. Glenn and Maggie retired to Hershel and Beth's cabin. Carol and her baby had long since gone to sleep, Duane seemed eager to be back at Morgan's side. Theodore and Sasha engaged in a quiet but intense talk before they headed to Daryl's cabin, Tyreese in tow. For her part, Michonne made herself busy getting the children ready for bed.
"Is the bad man gone?" Judith asked, her voice a sleepy whisper.
"He's gone," Michonne promised, kissing Judith's brow. She repeated the action with Carl. Both children stared up at her, wide-eyed.
"You and dad are ok?" Carl asked, settling into bed beside his sister.
"We're ok," she promised. "Are you all ok?" she asked in turn.
"We're ok too," Carl ensured her. He mustered a smile. "I'm glad you were here today," he told Michonne.
"Me too," she kissed the children again.
"Make sure daddy's all right," Judith yawned sleepily. "He gets sad sometimes."
"I will," Michonne promised.
"I love you," Judith called after her. Michonne paused, tears in her eyes, looking down at both children.
"We both love you," Carl confirmed, looking seriously at her.
"I love you too," Michonne managed to get the words out before her tears could fall.
He nodded, satisfied, before curling up beside Judith. Michonne watched them.
She shut the door on them a few moments later, when she was certain that they were both asleep. Filled with renewed energy, she headed for the washroom instead, eyeing the large metal tub. She'd spent her first night in this house there. Rick had reluctantly recounted to her how he'd cleaned her while she'd been unconscious, warmed her, then carried her off to his own bed. Whatever forces had driven her here, she counted herself lucky to have encountered Rick Grimes.
She exhaled, wiping her eyes before turning to the tub, then set about her task.
-l-l-l-l-
"Michonne, sweetheart," Rick called his wife's name quietly. The whole of the farm had retired to their corners already. He was exhausted to the bone, but his mind was racing. He'd found their bed empty, the sheets still neatly made, Michonne nowhere in sight. "Michonne," he called again, following the flickering candlelight in his hand to the washroom door. He pushed it open.
His wife was indeed there, clothed only in his long shirt, the first he'd let her borrow when she came here. Two tall candles were stationed beside his bathtub, their flames throwing shadows across the wooden walls.
"What are you doing?" he asked bemusedly.
She stepped towards him on light, bare feet, reaching for his hands. Gently, she guided him inside before shutting the door firmly and latching it. She reached for his face, cupping it between her hands.
"You're still cold," she remarked, concern coloring her lovely features.
"I was hoping you'd warm me up," he admitted. "But you weren't in bed."
She smiled, and despite the horror of the day he had, Rick felt the burdens on his shoulders lighten just the slightest. "Come here," she tugged at his hands. Wordlessly, Rick complied. He stood quietly as she removed his hatchet, lying it to the side, then his belt. His boots followed next, then the thick damp socks, his long sleeved shirt, then his pants and undergarments. When he was bare before her, she guided him gently to the tub. He sank down into the hot water, letting out a shudder of contentment.
"Better?" she asked quietly, stroking his hair.
"Almost," he reached for her. "Join me," he caught her hand.
She shed her shirt, setting it aside before climbing in slowly. "It's too small," she lamented, standing at his feet.
"Come here," he guided her down atop him, pulling her into his arms. She laid willingly on top of him.
"This was supposed to be just for you," she whispered, kissing his cheek.
Rick held her tighter. "Don't matter. Everything's better when you're here." He pressed his lips to hers, sighing against her as she melted into his embrace. The taste of her was enough to relax him.
"Are you all right?" she disengaged, sitting up just enough to look at him in the way of hers.
"I will be," he promised her. "You saved me," he told her. The water of this tub was far preferable to the rush of the river.
"You saved me first," she reminded him. She stroked his hair, washing his face with gentle affections. Rick leaned into her. The emotion of the past few hours hit him at once, creeping around him like the mist from the tub, heavy and suffocating.
"I killed my daughter's father today," he said quietly.
Michonne did not still in her motions, but moved her hands down his head to his shoulder. She began to knead at him, as though she could rub the pain away.
"He didn't leave you a choice, Rick," she kissed his head.
"Didn't make it easier," he admitted. "I ain't seen him in years. Convinced myself that I hated that man, that I hated Lori for what they both did. But when I look at Judith…" he broke off, a soft sob escaping him.
"I know," Michonne leaned her forehead against his. She continued to stroke his skin, pressing warmth into his body.
"Shane wasn't bit," he continued. "I would have seen it. So would you. But he turned."
"He did," she said simply, pressing harder.
"Everybody must turn," the thought was terrifying. The threat could be endless.
"Maybe," Michonne mused. She settled into his lap.
"There's always going to be an enemy at those gates," Rick looked up at her. "Another war to fight."
She paused at that. Her strong hands came to his chin, cupping him until he could look up at her. "There's always another fight, Rick," she reminded him. "Maybe it will be tomorrow, or a year from now, or a decade." She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulder. "But we'll weather it."
Overcome, Rick kissed her. She parted her lips and he held her to him, drinking from her like a man dying of thirst. She let out a contended sigh, clinging to him. "Together," he murmured against her lips.
"Together," she promised. She leaned forward. Rick eagerly met her again, pressing against his wife until there was no space left between them. His body responded to hers despite his exhaustion. She gasped against him as she felt him, lifting her hips just enough to allow him to maneuver. Water sloshed inside the tub but neither of them minded. Michonne let out a shaky moan as he entered her, falling forward against him. Rick smoothed his hands down her warm, wet skin, committing it all to memory.
"How did I get lucky enough to find you?" he asked on a groan, pressing his lips to every part of her within reach.
"I was just wondering the same thing," she exhaled, burying her head in the crook of his shoulder.
"Must be fate," Rick caught her mouth in another kiss, his pace unhurried.
The water went lukewarm and the candles dissolved into waxen puddles long before he picked up his wife and took her to their bed, but he found that he did not mind. They fell asleep, tangled around one another.
The morning dawned, bright and cold, and found them the same way.