A/N: This will be at least 3 parts, so stay tuned for updates throughout this Quarantine.

The heat was sweltering, the asphalt below warm enough to burn through the bottom of Michonne's sandals. She lifted her feet, pacing restlessly, ignoring the drip of sweat at it gathered on her forehead and neck. The thin cotton of her sundress provided little in relief from the unrelenting sun, or the way her ex's eyes kept darting to her when he thought she wasn't looking.

"Well, that's it," Rick announced unceremoniously, looking at the boxes piled into the backseat of her SUV. His curly hair was saturated, clinging to his forehead. Packing her car had proven to be much more daunting of a task than either of them could have anticipated.

"Guess so," she swallowed. It was all she could do not to stare. Rick's white t-shirt was nearly see-through across his chest. He'd gotten to work the moment she'd stopped her engine in his driveway. It had hurt to see her belongings piled neatly by the door. It hurt considerably more to watch him meticulously arrange them into her vehicle.

"You got your route all mapped out?" Rick asked, rocking back on his heels. He was wearing his boots, the same beat-to-hell pair she'd sought to replace half a dozen times in the last year. He kept his eyes on them as he spoke, dragging his toes through the loosened black pebbles littering the concrete.

"Yeah," Michonne held in a sigh, "Google, you know?"

"Ah right," he nodded. "You love your phone."

Attached though she might have been to the little handheld device, her cellphone was the furthest thing from her mind.

"You've got drinks for the road?" Rick continued his steady line of questioning, a skill he'd picked up at work and employed often. "It's hot out here, and DC is bound to be even hotter."

"Yeah," she assured him. "There's a sports drink in there, and that cooler you got me when we went camping." Michonne had never been much of one for camping, but a weekend in the woods with Rick had proven to be her favorite kind of vacation. Long uninterrupted hours with him at her side, his arm over her shoulders, holding her close were enough to change her mind on the great outdoors.

She doubted she'd do much camping in DC.

"Good," Rick inhaled, eyes distant. "Don't let me keep you," he said solemnly.

Michonne paused to look at him, fiddling with the hem of her skirt in an attempt to stem the urge to touch him. Rick's blue eyes flickered upward to her at last. What she saw reflected there threatened to send her sobbing down the street.

"Rick." His name came out on a wobble. "Please can we…"

She broke off. Rick took a step close to her but paused at once, crossing his arms across his chest.

"What Michonne?" his tone was gentle, the question hard. "What is it you need?"

I need you to come with me. The words were right on the tip of her tongue. Tears came instead. Michonne covered her face, ashamed, even as salt water streamed down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she sputtered, trembling. "I-"

Rick never let her finish her sentence. He took her by the arm, his calloused fingers cutting a familiar path down her skin as he drew her away from the driveway, and back to the porch.

"C'mon," his thick accent rumbled against her, heartbreaking and comforting all at once. "We can have a drink. Talk about it."

They had talked about it, and at length. For two months the subject sat between them, pushing them apart like an ever-growing chasm. On one end, there was DC, the promise of a job, a future. On the other, there was Atlanta and Rick. A year was too short of a time to compromise such an opportunity, Michonne had reasoned. Hell, Rick had agreed. He'd just made Sergeant, and he had an obligation to his squad. So they decided to stay friends and she had packed up, ready for the next adventure in life.

Rick's house was supposed to be her last stop in Atlanta.

"I'm sorry," Michonne repeated, her mind a jumble. "I didn't mean to."

"I know," he soothed, opening his front door. The cooler was a welcome reprieve from the heat. He brought her inside, shutting the door behind her. The scents of his house, comfortable and clean, calmed her and sent her stomach into knots at once.

"Sit down," he instructed, guiding her to the couch. "I'll grab you a drink."

"You don't have to," she protested weakly.

He only smiled, a slight, wry twist of his lips. "I'll be right back," he promised.

He left her shaking in the living room, staring around at the house she now realized had begun to feel like home. Her plants, now stacked in the back seat of her car, had once graced the end tables here. She'd left books, clothing, pieces of her, of her life, of their relationship. They were all neatly gathered and removed by Rick. She chanced a glance at his mantle, gasping at the sight. Their picture was still there, the one from the county fair, their first date. She'd framed it for their anniversary. Rick had kept it.

Michonne was sobbing in earnest by the time he returned, two sweating glasses of sweet tea in either hand.

"Michonne," he rushed for her, setting the drinks down on the coffee table. "Darling, don't cry."

The pet name, old-fashioned and unbearably sweet, made her weep all the harder. Rick's arms closed in around her, caging her in. She leaned in, disregarding the heat, disregarding her plan, disregarding the fact that they no longer belonged to one another.

"This wasn't supposed to be this hard," she sniffled into his shoulder.

Rick stroked her back, tangling his hand in the long locs of her hair. "I know," he whispered, pressing his mouth to her forehead. "You-we decided though, Michonne. You can't miss out on this opportunity."

"Come," she begged flat out, dignity forgone. "Rick, please, come with me."

He was silent for a beat, holding her tighter. Then, "I can't, darling. Not now."

"I can wait," Michonne heard herself saying, heard the argument she'd pushed down for weeks bubbling out of her mouth. "I can come home once a month, and we can try and then when you're ready-"

Rick tilted her head up, cupping her chin in his palm. "You don't have to do that," he told her, voice low.

"I want to, Rick," she assured him. "I don't want— the job doesn't matter as much as you do."

His eyes searched her face, perhaps looking for hesitation, or the tell-tell signs of a lie. Michonne held his gaze, reaching back for him. She smoothed her palms down his jaw, cording her fingers through the stubble that was quickly becoming a full-blown beard. He caught her hand, holding it against his face as he turned his head to kiss her palm.

"Michonne, that ain't as easy as you're making it out to be," he murmured.

"I never said it would be easy," she argued.

Rick drew her closer until their legs were pressed flush to one another. "You're going to get to DC, 'Chonne, and you're gonna need to focus on your new life there. You can't leave part of yourself here in Atlanta."

She remained silent, feeling something like a pit burning a hole down from her heart straight through her body.

Rick continued, voice tight. "It's gonna be a year, probably two before I can think about transferring. That's not fair to you, darling."

She sniffled. Rick pulled her closer still.

"I don't want to let you go," he was on the verge of crying now. "But you can't wait for me, Michonne. That ain't fair."

He buried his head in her shoulder, shaking. Michonne's arms came around him, her fingers curling into the cotton of his t-shirt. Rick drew her into his lap, his body searing hot against her own.

In a second, it became clear that they were not close enough. Something between them snapped. Michonne coaxed Rick's shirt over his head at the same time that his hands clambered at the hem of her dress. They fell over into the cushions, an ungraceful pile of limbs and grasping hands. Michonne fumbled with the thick leather belt on Rick's jeans, pushing it and his pants down inch by inch. Her dress ended up in a loop around her neck. Rick tugged it free, replacing the soft fabric with his lips. Michonne gasped, hooking her arms around his neck.

He lifted her, sitting up, balancing her in his lap again. Michonne straddled him, pressing herself down against him, desperate. Calloused fingers yanked at her thin cotton panties, urging them to the side. She cried out, tears running down her face when Rick entered her.

"You ok?" he gasped against her ear, pausing for a breath.

She wasn't, not remotely, but she didn't want him to stop. Michonne leaned into his touch, digging her fingers into his shoulders. He tilted his head up, drawing her down, sealing his lips against hers as she screamed outright.

Their skin grew slick as heat continued to flare in the scant place between them. Michonne's mind ran blank, the whole of her consumed with feeling. The tight stretch of him, the rough grasp of his hands, the softness of his kisses, his desperate grunts and gasps- it was enough to send her spiraling.

"God, Michonne," he cupped her face between his palms. "I love you so much."

She burst into tears, falling forward, shaking in his arms. Rick thrust harder into her, pushing them both over the edge. They trembled against one another, catching their breath, reality rushing back in.

"I love you too," she whispered, sealing this promise with a kiss.

Rick held her afterwards in the shower, his chest pressed against her back, one hand around her hips, the other tugging gently at her locs. Michonne leaned into him, committing it all to memory. Their hair was still wet when he walked her back outside, dressed again. She unlocked her car, watching as Rick opened the door.

"Be safe," he said quietly, reaching for her hand. "And if you need anything at all-"

"I'll call you," she nodded, stepping closer to him.

They met in the middle, kissing sweetly, clutching at one another. Rick pulled back first, taking a step away from her, watching as she climbed into the car. Michonne waved, starting the ignition, ignoring the ache in her entire body, ignoring Rick crying openly in his driveway.

Silently, she steered up the road, leaving Atlanta in her rearview mirror.

-l-l-l-l-

His bed still smelled like her, even after being laundered.

It was a fact that pained Rick as much as he looked forward to the scent. His sheets seemed to be soaked in it: coconut oil and vanilla, the same fragrance of her hair. It offered some comfort when he laid down to sleep on the right side of the mattress, still unable to to commit to the middle of the bed, even weeks later.

A month had gone by before he could drag himself out of the house for anything but work. At least here at home, there were traces of her- her favorite wine in his cabinet, that oat milk she loved (but Rick couldn't stand) still sitting in his refrigerator. He kept her picture on the mantle, their picture, though he did his best not to look at it. She would be better in DC, working her dream job instead of stuck at the one that was killing her. He was happy for her, truly. But Atlanta was darker in her absence.

Rick woke up with a start in the darkness of the morning, blinking into awareness slowly. He groped blindly beside him, hand clenching at nothing but cool sheets. The sensation shocked him back to consciousness. Somewhere on his nightstand, his phone was buzzing loudly. Rick sat up blearily, reaching for it.

"Sergeant Grimes," the title was new but it came easily.

"Sarge, hate to wake you, but there's some strange shit going on."

"What is it?" Rick asked. He ran his hand down his stubbled face, attempting to focus.

"I ain't seen anything like this, not in ten years on the force."

"Homicide?"

"It's… something," the sheriff stuttered. "I think you better get down here."

"I'll pick up my squad car and head out," Rick agreed, stepping out of bed.

The sun was just making its way over the horizon when Rick arrived at the address his sheriff had listed. It was warm already, the humidity causing his uniform to cling to his skin. Rick tugged at it, slipping his hat on as he climbed out of his squad car.

"What's this all about?" Rick picked carefully through the muddy grass, waving at a few members of his squad. They were clustered near the fence, staring in at something just beyond. They turned as one towards him, faces grave in the golden glow of sunrise.

"Sarge," one spoke up, pointing. "You ever see any shit like this?"

Bracing himself, Rick walked to the fence to look.

"Oh fuck," he breathed to himself, stomach churning.

The field beyond was pure carnage, a grotesque mixture of crimson clotted in the grass and dirt beneath. It looked like a battlefield, long gashes of mud smeared with blood, the ground pockmarked. Dozens of corpses were spread out, the remains of horses and cattle. A breeze kicked up, carrying the smell of death with it. Rick recoiled.

"What happened?" he asked the nearest of the sheriffs.

She shrugged. "Delivery guy came by this morning. Says he drops off supplies once a week. Nearly fell over. Had to send him to the hospital up the road for shock."

"And the owners?" Rick looked around, off in the distance towards a house.

"We were waiting on you," she reported.

"All right," Rick calculated, wetting his lips. "Three of you come with me," he pointed. "The rest of you, stay here. Call this in, get the lab out here. And animal control."

You think another animal did this?" a sheriff asked.

Rick grimaced. "I hope so."

He led the way, creeping along the fence to the house. They paused at the door.

"Be ready," Rick instructed over his shoulder. His right hand strayed to the Colt Python in a holster at his waist as his left hand knocked sharply on the door. "Sheriff's department," he announced himself loudly.

There was no answer. He knocked again, but this time, the door swung open a crack.

"Hello?" Rick called in, listening to the echo of his own voice. In the distance, there was an answering sound, almost like a deep murmur.

"Shit, Sarge," someone groaned behind him. "Sounds like someone's hurt."

"Do you need help?" Rick called in, nudging the door wider open.

The moan sounded, louder this time.

"All right," Rick titled his hat back, reaching for his radio. "We've got signs of a break in, here," he reported. "Possible wounded civilian. We're going in." He clicked it off when dispatch muttered a garbled affirmative. "Weapons out," Rick cautioned.

They entered together, filthy boots leaving tracks on the hardwood floor beneath. Rick moved quickly, following the sound through the foyer and past the kitchen. The back door was wide open, the sliding glass smeared with streaks of blood. Gun drawn, Rick stepped forward, hugging the wall to look out.

Someone was outside, crouching in the large yard. His bathrobe, dirtied and stained, hung open in the breeze, slipping off one thin shoulder. The sounds of crunching could be heard even from the distance. Rick realized in horror that the person appeared to be eating something.

"Step away and put your hands up!" he bellowed, aiming.

The perpetrator paused for a moment, shuffling as though in pain. The moaning sounds escalated as he turned, staring with lifeless eyes at the sheriffs.

"Oh fuck," someone behind Rick cried out.

"Hands on your head!" Rick instructed again, moving cautiously outside.

The man gave a roar like some kind of an animal, staggering to his feet. His meal came into sight at once. The air got knocked from Rick's lungs.

People. He'd been eating people. The bodies were sprawled in front of him, mutilated and twisted, wearing pajamas like their attacker.

"Shit," Rick muttered, calculating. The man was on the move, face a crimson ruin, gnashing his teeth. "Stop or we'll shoot!" Rick gave it one last-ditch effort, thumbing the hammer.

The first bullet struck him in the leg, slowing him for less than a moment. Rick fired twice more, going so far as to aim for the knees. The man took the impact and kept coming, advancing on the shattered remains of his legs.

"What the fuck?" a rookie behind Rick shouted, raising his gun to fire as well.

From the side of the yard, the rattling moan got louder still. Rick saw movement out of the corner of his eye. More blood smeared bodies were ambling towards them, all dressed in tattered pajamas, one missing an arm, another with a hole in their abdomen.

"What do we do?" someone yelled.

Rick made his decision quickly. A headshot dropped the first man at last, leaving his body smoldering in the grass. Rick turned as the others closed it.

"Take them out," Rick instructed. Nothing about the situation made sense, but he'd be damned if these dead walkers made it to his squad.

There was a barrage of bullets, the pops ringing as they opened fire, spraying the group. They staggered and jerked, some falling, but still, they kept coming.

"The head!" Rick shouted, but his instructions fell on deaf ears. Panic began to set in like a wave as the sheriffs began to realize the gravity of the situation. One of those enemies was a woman, another appeared to be a teenager. The sight was enough to make Rick sick.

"The head!" he yelled again, but it was too late. The nearest of them fell on Rick's rookie, biting down with the force of a wild animal.

"Help!" the sheriff let out a pitiable cry. Rick spun on his heel, shooting the body at point blank range. It fell, mouth full of gore, leaving a 6-inch gash in the rookie.

The world became a blur of movement. Rick was vaguely aware of him speaking into his radio, of throwing the rookie in the passenger seat of his squad car as they tore off towards the hospital. Reports were flooding in from dispatch, homicides piling up by the minute. Rick listened, watching as his rookie sweated and bled, teeth clenched. It wasn't until he was in the hospital, blood-splattered and bewildered that Rick paused enough to think.

"Hundreds of cases," the dispatcher reported through the radio. "Never seen anything like it. We can't keep up."

Rick nodded absently, watching as the ER rushed around him, shuttling in people by the dozens.

"Is it something in the water? Some kind of sickness?" he asked.

He got only radio silence in response. A group of doctors ran past him, ushering in a group of terrified teenagers, all clutching wounds and crying.

"Sergeant," someone called for him sharply. Rick spun dizzily, shuffling forward.

"How's my-"

"He didn't make it," the doctor delivered the news curtly. "I wish I had more time to tell you this nicely, but I've got 50 more people dying in there. You need to notify next of kin. I need you to come sign the papers."

"What's going on?" Rick grabbed his arm. "Someone bit him. Someone who was eating people-"

"Do I look like I know?" the doctor yanked his arm back. "People are dying all over the place. Coming in with bites and fevers…" the doctor shook his head. "Some kind of pandemic."

"Is it contagious?" Rick demanded.

"It's spreading for sure," the doctor said, distracted already. "Shouldn't you be out there, doing your job? I need to do mine."

He pushed Rick roughly in the direction of the room, already sprinting off, yelling instructions at nurses as he went.

Rick walked in, mind a jumble. It looked like a triage in here. He picked his way around the dead and dying, heading for the ashen body of his rookie. Someone shoved a pen in his hand, and Rick scratched out his signature, allowing himself to be pushed back out and into the waiting room. He collapsed into a plastic chair, head spinning.

The phone in Rick's hand burned into his palm. He ought to call the rookie's family, ought to call his precinct, ought to head back out into the fray. Instead, he dialed a familiar number, pressing the receiver to his ear.

After four rings, it clicked to voicemail. "Hi! You've reached the phone of Michonne Hawthorne. I'm sorry to miss your call. If you leave your name and number…"

"Michonne," Rick clipped out, surprised at how hoarse he sounded. "Darling, I don't know where you are, but I need you to get inside, right now, you hear me? Don't wait. Go straight home, lock yourself in. I'll explain, but I need you to call me back. Ok, Chonne? Call me back when you're safe inside."

He paused, eyes widening as someone began to scream in earnest down the hall.

"I have to go," he said. "I love you, Michonne. Be safe."

He stood out of his plastic chair, hand reaching for his gun again as the screams escalated, the sounds of blind panic cresting like a wave. Rick heard the moaning again, the same from the farm this morning.

"Shit," he cursed as the swinging doors burst open, admitting a hoard of the dead. People began to run, knocking over one another in their haste to get away. His phone clattered to the ground.

Rick managed to take out five in quick succession, freezing for a moment when he noticed his rookie among them. His pale young face was unseeing, all traces of humor wiped clean. He was another monster with the rest of them.

The dead broke over the crowd, yanking people down and digging in. In moments, the tile floor of the hospital was flooded red with blood. Rick ran through the crowd, pushing open the doors to the parking lot, shepherding people outside.

"Let's go!" he yelled, intending to bar the doors behind him.

The chaos was nearly as bad in the streets as cars honked and swerved, each trying to flee with no thought for others. Their feet beat a path forward crunching everything below. Rick turned to run with the rest of them, pushing women and children forward, yelling.

In the lobby of the hospital ER, his abandoned cell phone's cracked screen lit up with a picture of Michonne, her call going unanswered.