Easily Spooked

At dinner Carl rolled his eyes when he was asked to remove his earphones. When he was engaged in conversation he grumbled out short answers and gave no eye contact.

He also had to be reminded that he was no longer in the governor's house. There was no paid chef. There was no maid. Rick informed his son that since he bought the food and Michonne had cooked it, clean up fell to him.

Rick had to touch base with Dale about the S.O.C. and their timeline. He disappeared into the spare room where Michonne had created a simple home office next to the guest bed. He always went in there to whisper on his phone.

Over the past few weeks he'd been doing it more and more. There was something going on. She could feel it, and she couldn't understand why he wouldn't share it with her. But, she knew Rick and she tried to convince herself that he had to think he was protecting her from something.

He came out of the room and reached for his coat. He gave her a tender kiss goodbye and promised not to be gone too long. Michonne couldn't help the frown that developed as she watched him slip into the cold night outside.

As time went on, she hoped she could prove to him that she was strong enough for him to lean on.

Maybe if she could get through to Carl, she could help Rick that way. She came back to the kitchen and found the young man rinsing dishes and dropping them indelicately into the dishwasher.

"Hey, you want any help?"

Carl looked back to see her smiling kindly. Instead of accepting her offer with a thankful smile in return, he only shrugged nonchalantly.

She tempted him under a raised brow, "You can finish faster and go sulk in your room, but I'd appreciate verbal confirmation."

Unable to resist the idea of an early retirement from kitchen duties, he accepted, "Yeah. Sure…"

Michonne began picking the cleaner utensils that didn't need a pre-rinse out of the sink, arranging them in a more orderly fashion. She gave Carl a quick look then dropped her eyes back to her task before speaking,

"I'm sorry things are so hard for you right now. If you ever want to talk about it…"

"I don't. Especially not with you," Carl responded coldly.

"No. I wouldn't think so," Michonne conceded. She battled with the impulse to retreat and avoid confrontation. The mother in her won out. "But it's important to talk about your feelings. I've been doing that with a friend of your dad's. He says when we talk about our problems it shows that we respect our feelings. That we respect ourselves." Carl scoffed, but she powered through. "It's helped me… feel better."

"The only thing that could help me feel better is if things go back to normal."

Michonne took a page from Hershel's book and asked, "What would normal look like for you, Carl?"

He stopped to think. It was hard to come up with a viable scenario. It would have to be before his dad met Michonne. Before he switched schools. Before his mom married the governor.

"It looks like me and my dad… and my mom. Like things were when I was little."

Michonne knew how he felt. There's nothing so sweet as the nostalgia of childhood. The ignorance of youth is a beautiful thing.

Andre wanted her back with Mike. When her mother left her father, even Michonne wanted to go back home. It hurt her to think of it now, but the comforts of normality made her forget her mother's unhappiness.

"What about Judith?"

"Her too."

"Won't she want things to be normal, too? Won't she want things to include her father?"

Carl didn't know how to respond. Judith loved everybody. He realized it would be impossible to cut certain people out of his life and still keep his favorites.

The boy stared into the sink speechless. Michonne timidly continued, "Maybe there's a way to find a new kind of normal. Sometimes it's hard to see the good in things unless someone else points it out to us, you know?"

Carl would not make eye contact with Michonne. He simply gathered the last few pieces of silverware out of the sink. Michonne watched him start the dishwasher, hopeful that something she said would make a difference in his attitude.

Still, all he gave her was silence as he left her beside the running machine. He turned off the overhead lights as though she wasn't even there. The smaller glow of the refrigerator and hooded stovetop kept her from being plunged into total darkness.

That was the extent of their chat. He gave her no thank you for her help and no good night in parting.

I should've offered him some tea, Michonne smiled within herself, proud of her attempt. She wiped down the countertops with a towel, sat down at the island and took a deep breath.

Times like this, in the quiet of the evening- with Rick engrossed in whatever he was doing behind closed doors- the loss of her baby was especially painful.

He always kept her busy until the moment he fell asleep. He would engage her in a yammering coloring session at the kitchen table while she cleaned up and packed his lunch for the next day.

He'd always ask her what she was packing for his lunch and she'd always respond with a ridiculous answer. 'Bananas and frog feet', 'octopus and ice cream', 'fish eyes and scrambled eggs'. Each time she tried to think of something more disgusting to get a bigger more hilarious reaction out of him.

Then bathtime, storytime and finally bedtime when she fell over into her pillows completely wiped out from so much fun. Michonne opened her phone and played one of her favorite Peanut videos. Andre was in the kitchen trying to moonwalk across the floor.

He was about three years old. He had just seen someone do the moonwalk on Youtube and it blew his mind. He tried to copy their footwork step by step and Michonne quickly began to record to send to Sasha and Tyreese.

Andre squenched his face in concentration, paying no mind to the phone in his mother's hand. He was so excited, his syllables were slipping.

"Look momma! Is this the 'woomwalk'?! Look momma! Is this how I do it?! Look momma! Watch this! This the 'woomwalk', momma, ain't it?!"

Michonne laughed and cried at the same time in the dimly lit kitchen. Hershel advised her to remember what a happy life she had made for her son. It was short, but full of joy. It was one thing to be grateful for.

She wiped her tears when she heard footsteps enter the room. Her glistening eyes looked up and saw Carl. He stopped in his tracks. Face to face with her tears, the permanent scowl he wore vanished. His expression softened but he couldn't bring himself to say anything to her.

What could he say?

Michonne sniffled and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

He grabbed his backpack from the floor next to her feet and walked away. He paused to look back at her still drying her tears, on the verge of tears himself. He knew she had lost her son. But it hadn't actually moved him until now. Until he heard the little boy's jubilant voice.

The part of him that was Rick Grimes told him a kind deed was required of him now. His muscles tensed and his jaw clenched. But the part of him that was Lori Blake pushed him pensively back to his room.

XXX

Rick knocked on Abraham's door. The big officer opened the door wide, allowing Rick to enter. Two other men followed the sheriff in. Abe got a good look at the strangers and offered them a civil nod.

They were law enforcement, Abe could tell from the look of them. The collar shirts and nondescript neckties under the classic wool trench made them look like they had stepped straight out of a crime novel. He could tell from their gait that they were armed.

"The other guys are downstairs," said the man of the house in his flannel robe. "I'm going back up to tuck the kids in. Then I'm hitting the hay. Just lock up when you guys are done."

Rick knew Abraham was hurt that he wouldn't tell him what was going on. But Rick also knew hurt feelings wouldn't have any bearing on Deputy Ford's loyalty and discretion. The respect between them was clear.

Rick knew he could ask anything of Abraham no matter the danger involved. By the same token, although Abe didn't know all the details, he knew he could trust that Rick's late night meetings in his basement would never endanger his family. Abe didn't ask questions.

Dale and Morales were not so understanding.

Dale did a double-take from Rick's acquaintances to his cameraman, speechless.

Morales spoke the words Dale failed to articulate, "Who the fuck is this?"

"Special Agents Terry Pittman and Paul Rovia."

"Yeah? What the fuck are they doing here?"

Rick sighed, "Look, I understand you want all this under wraps for your story. But there are too many lives at stake. People's lives are more important than your story. Now, these gentlemen are here to help us out. They can mobilize a small army, if necessary. Stop thangs from gettin' outta hand."

Morales kept a suspicious eye on the newcomers and leaned into Dale. "Hey, I don't like this shit."

Agent Rovia spoke up. "You don't have to like it. We are specially trained in dealing with terrorist organizations. Now we agreed with Rick to let you guys go forward with your plan for now. But if things go sideways and your mole can't get these lunatics to stand down, we're moving in."

"And just so you know," Agent Pittman folded his arms, "The only reason we're not taking over and shutting you down right now is because Sheriff Grimes thinks that you can upset the entire order of the S.O.C. countrywide… but if we can't get a clear shot of that bigger picture we'll settle for mugshots of Negan Jeffries and his local chapter."

Dale, who had yet to speak, stood up from his barstool seat. Everyone was ready for his pushback. "Alright. Fine," the newsman said unexpectedly, "Let's get you guys caught up. We got work to do. My source says one of Negan's judges paroled 3 violent offenders and guess where they ended up..."

"S.O.C. headquarters," Morales answered.

"Are you fuckin' kiddin' me? They're goin' that hard in the paint?" Rick was surprised.

Either this group was not too bright or they were backed by some powerful people and weren't worried about a mess of paroled felons assembling and drawing attention to themselves. Rick always assumed the latter. After seeing a man like Jared Collins get away with so much, it wasn't hard to imagine.

Morales explained, "A guy in for possession of explosives and two expendable braindead bushwhackers."

"Autopsy says Dwight's suicide was staged." Rick added a new detail, "We're not releasin' that to the press. Jared Collins is off the radar. We can't get a location on him. Either we'll find him floatin' in the reservoir or he's got help from the upper echelon.

"Which would make him a central figure in all this," Rovia added.

"What about Merle Dixon? He still committed to the cause," Rick asked, almost nauseated.

The hardest part of all of this for him was the knowledge that Merle was going on with his life unpunished. Everyday that went by, it killed Rick thinking that Daryl's brother was living life uninterrupted while the woman who shared his bed found it difficult to sleep at night.

"He's sitting at Negan's feet like his favorite pet, but like most people, Negan doesn't know what his pet does all day," Morales smiled smugly into a cup of gas station coffee. "He's carrying out orders but he's in the bottle more than he's in the plans. Saw him out on his mother's old property shooting cans by himself."

"The information I'm getting from the inside is that he seems disgruntled. They say Negan took a bite outta him for second-guessing one of the boss' planned targets."

"Oh yeah," Rovia was intrigued. "Which one?"

Morales guessed, "One of the non-profits has a daycare in the basement."

Agent Pittman scoffed, "Bullshit! Isn't he the cop who shot the kid in the traffic stop?"

"That was an accident," said Rovia.

Pittman's face twisted in disbelief, "You really believe that? With him being on Negan Jeffries all-star team?"

"I mean there's no doubt he's a racist piece of shit," Rovia admitted. "But eyewitnesses saw that boy's father try to run him over. You know what it's like in the field."

"Yeah, I do. A routine stop can end up being a shoot out with a cartel king… just like an exonerated deputy can end up being a member of our country's most notorious white power organization," Pittman pointed out.

Unable to answer, Rovia retreated to a seat on the bottom stair. Rick kept quiet. He knew it was selfish, but he wanted that bastard, Merle, all to himself.

"Well, I'm not sure what they disagreed on." Horvath clarified. "The first part of his conversation with Negan was in private. My source says Negan followed Merle through the house screaming about how he would decide when they were going too far and how every member of the S.O.C. belongs to him. Wouldn't let him leave until he said he was Negan."

"What do you mean?" They all looked confused.

"He made Merle say he was Negan. Like, Negan was his name… I don't know. They're all a bunch of crackpots." Dale waved off anymore speculation and changed the subject, "What about his baby brother? He gonna help us or not?

"I hope. I'm still workin' on him," Rick answered.

"Well, shit, I get that's his brother but how hard is it to decide if a bunch of innocent people deserve to get killed," Morales wondered out loud, annoyed.

"It's harder than you think. I work with undercovers and informants all the time. Human connections are tricky. To be perfectly honest, I'd rather pull him in slow, than to force him to agree and then have him flake at the eleventh hour."

Morales nodded, unconvinced.

XXX

Rick crept into bed with Michonne. She wasn't asleep, just lying there looking out into the night through the sliding glass windows of their room. When she turned to face him, he hung his head and apologized.

"Sorry it's so late." He dropped in beside her, no longer worried about disturbing her. He blew out a long breath. "I'm beat."

"Are you sure everything is okay, Rick," Michonne asked as she found her way to his chest.

"Of course," he promised. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She deflected, then pushed up on her elbows to look him in the face. She spread her open palm across his wide chest. "I can just feel how tense you are. Something's not right. You know you can talk to me, don't you? About anything."

"Of course, angel. It's just work stuff," he told her, snaking one of her locs around his finger. He quickly turned her over on her back to distract her with a kiss. "I talked to Maggie," he said, changing the subject. "She invited us for Christmas. I didn't tell her yes or no."

Michonne simply looked up at him, resolute in her chosen course of conversation. Still, he pivoted. "I know you weren't ready at Thanksgiving, but it'll just be her and Glenn and us this time."

Still Michonne stared into his face, penetrating his aloof act. She raised a brow at him and he could no longer sidestep her initial question.

He chuckled innocently, "What? What's that face for?"

"I'm just waiting for you to tell me the truth."

"About what?"

"About all your secret calls and your late nights and these worry lines creasing your forehead. Is this about Shane? Are you guys hanging out and you're afraid to tell me?"

"What? No! I haven't heard from him."

"Because if you are, you don't have to hide it from me. I know I lost it after the funeral but…"

"Look. I promise…"

"That was just an emotional day for me."

"I'm not hidin' anythang from you," he lied, planting a kiss to her lips.

As soon as the words left his mouth, he felt queasy. He swallowed, touching his forehead to hers and praying this never came back to bite him in the ass. He couldn't let her find out what he was up against.

After she let loose on Shane, she could never find out about Merle. Rick was going to make them pay and make sure none of it ever touch the purest part of his life, even if it meant he had to lie to her.

His heart beat steady and sure. My whole future is here with her. Decades. This is the only lie I'll ever tell her.

"Trust me," he said.

Michonne held his gaze for a second longer. "You know I trust you, Rick Grimes." Her rigid disposition softened. She allowed the Christmas conversation to continue, "So tell me what's Christmas like at the Rhees?"

Rick tilted his head upward to think. "Well my sister gets a little tipsy and makes out with Glenn a lot." Michonne giggled at the thought and Rick shook his head on a sigh. "Yeah. It's not pretty. And Glenn hates ham, so the menu's not so traditional. But he makes these delicious lamb skewers. Last year, Shane ate so many…"

Rick stopped his story abruptly and the bright smile on Michonne's face dimmed. So much of his life included Shane Walsh. Not seeing him was one thing, but cutting him out of his past completely would be near impossible.

It wasn't Michonne's intention to make him feel like 'Shane' was a forbidden word. But her face always lost expression when she heard it. Rick assumed that he knew why.

The reason had less to do with his involvement in the shooting and more to do with her regret over her outburst. She had actually wanted to have a civil conversation with Shane. When she saw him in the church parking lot, her spirit was kindled and she was poised to do just that … until she wasn't.

Just like she was enjoying this retelling of last year's Christmas, until suddenly she wasn't.

This is so not fair to him, she thought as she tried to reanimate her features.

"It's okay, Rick, really." She encouraged him, running her fingers through his curls, "How many did he eat?"

She could see him debate briefly whether to continue and then his face lit up with a grin again.

He tried to read her earthy brown eyes, like tea leaves in the bottom of a mug. But he trusted her. If she said it was okay, he believed her.

"That idiot ate so many that there were only four left," Rick stuck his thumb to his palm, presenting four fingers and wide eyes. "He kept sneaking more and nobody knew until my sister went to plate them. I thought she was gonna kill him!

"Oh no! Poor Maggie," Michonne winced.

"We were there to help get thangs ready," Rick's southern twang thickened as he chuckled. "No one else had shown up yet and the main dish was completely demolished. So, Shane, you know, he's standin' there lookin' like he could see the hangman knottin' a noose… then he says he'll run to the store to get more. Like it's no big deal…"

"I never see lamb at the store. Let alone on Christmas."

"Wouldn't matter anyway," Rick said, falling on her neck and wheezing in a fit, "The lamb came from Glenn's grandpa… who slaughtered it special for their Christmas dinner… and had it flown in… fresh… from California."

Rick in hysterics, the meat being flown in, the mental picture of Maggie on the verge of murder sent Michonne sputtering out a raspberry before she joined him in full throated laughter.

Their giggling could be heard in the next room. It was contagious and Carl couldn't resist the smirk that grew quickly across his lips. It had been a long time since he'd heard his father laugh like that.

But, the boy was too bitter to give in to sentiment. He decided on anger. Rolling his eyes, he put in his ear buds and turned the volume way up.