"Michonne."

Rick said her name like a prayer, hushed, reverent, for only her ears. Gliding over his length, hips circling, she arched her back, arms folded over her head, her body posed statuesque atop him; she danced her mesmeric dance as her long hair flowed around her. Rick, in a state of wonder, could hardly contain his emotions. His hands, as they trembled, crept forward, and closed about her slender waist; a bond between them tethered.

She was so beautiful. His manhood ached, strained. He longed to pour himself into her womb- to make her cry with joy- with frantic passion. He repeated her name, tasting it, cherishing it. She was a remedy.

" Rick," she said, but it was not her honeyed tone, not the smooth, sure melody of tonality he had learned hours before; it was another, more frail, somehow shrill despite its timidity. "Rick." Michonne began to blur, the illusion of her being fading. His eyes flew open and, focusing, fell on a face he did not expect to see, and did not want to see; it was the flushed face of his ex-girlfriend, staring down at him, perplexed, and it was Rick's turn to blush. He had been dreaming a divine dream, and wished desperately to still be in the bliss of it, and not staring down at the tent he had pitched beneath his sheets and then up at the face of Jessie Anderson. He sat up and covered himself, his skin heating further, redness rushing over his form.

With his free hand, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, his head aching from a night of booze and bedding and bawling.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, irked by her presence alone. He had made it clear to her on several occassions: he did not wish to see her. After several awkward dates resulting in only talk and tears, and a clumsy shared kiss in the winter of the previous year, he had broken things off. There was an obvious lack of passion. When her lips touched his on his porch last Christmas eve, he had gone cold, and it was not from the new solstice, or from the chill of the wind- it was something else, something somber, something telling. She tasted like the past, like cloying store-bought cupcakes and bitter, bashful depression. And those things were not necessarily negative; Rick simply did not favor it when it came to Jessie.

She was always talking about her seperation from her husband. She seemed to dwell on her move from Virginia, and in the gloom of her impending divorce, lingering in the sufferance of the nights her husband would smack her down onto the carpet and curse her as he stepped over her sobbing body. And when she kept alive this grief, and fed it to Rick by force, so early in their courtship, he would grow silent, and she would demand his advisement, begging for his reassurance, his input, as to whether or not she had done the right thing in leaving her Pete, which he could not give.

Instead of telling her that, yes- she shouldn't have to ask- of course, it was right to leave him. Someone, if not her, the hairdresser in distress, should have ended his miserable life in a terribly violent way. But Rick could not say these things. These things shocked the common housewife. These things set fear into their hearts, and they grew more frightened of the men in their lives.

And so, instead, with pity strangling him, he touched her tear-streaked face, and bent to kiss her, and as her dry lips touched his, Rick was reminded of an agony in his lost marriage: the need for reassurance his wife, Lori, had so often demanded and never returned. She would pressure him to share his feelings, but Rick refused. He couldn't share himself if she denied him consolation. The women he consorted with did not encourage or uplift him. They treated him as if he did not need guidance or support or nurturing. They urged from him his counsel and reciprocated naught. They acted as if he wanted only sex, or mild affection, and nothing more, as if Rick did not need a long, lingering hug and an ear to listen to his troubles. As if a caress and the consideration of his sadness over the loss of his marriage was not something he immensely needed. It saddened him. It enraged him.

He had pulled away from the sorrowful, stiff, stale kiss on his porch in the technicolored lights of the holiday season only seconds after it had begun, and Jessie peered up at him, lost, bewildered, and Rick realized he wanted nothing more to do with her. All he wanted was to push her away and cry, to grieve the years he had wasted on love, and on the petty little relationship that followed, and it was precisely what he had done. Jessie had called after him in her typical timid tone, asking:

" Did I do something wrong?" referring only to herself, not at all asking how he might have felt, though he was crying, though he saw, in the refection of the glass on the door, his expression was sullen.

"I don't want to see you anymore," he had confessed, already in his home and closing the ever-growing distance between them. "We're through." And the dead bolt clicked into the strike plate.

After that Christmas of drinking and loneliness and only one joyful day spent with Carl, Jessie had called Rick nearly every night for months. He knew he had broken things off suddenly and cruelly but he couldn't torment himself with a relationship that brought him only heartache and thoughts of the past. He wanted to move forward. He longed for a brighter future. But through the entirety of the winter and spring, Jessie had called and left voicemails and sent texts, and he had answered a few with a quick response: "No, I'm sorry. We shouldn't," and the more plain "I don't want to go out with you anymore," but she could not let the relationship go. Jessie was certain they needed to 'work things out,' but there was nothing left to work through with her.

And in the present, there she was, standing in his bedroom, somewhere she had never been, staring at him like a dazed bird. He hadn't seen her in months. She had not changed a bit and, scanning her face and her plainly shape, Rick wondered what he had initially seen in her. It was an insensitive thought, but it was the truth. " So?" he started again. "What are you doing here? How did you get inside?" Jessie folded her hands in front of her.

" Lori gave me a key. She sent me to check on you and see how you were doing. We were worried about y-." Rick heard himself chuckling before he realized he was.

" She sent you to check on me? You were worried? Since when have the two of you ever cared about how I was doing?" Jessie made a face.

" Of course we care," she balked, obviously offended.

" News to me," Rick muttered, his erection rapidly softening. He rubbed his eyes again and shook his head. " And she gave you a key? The key I gave her for emergencies? So you could barge in here while I'm sleepin' to 'check on me.' Goddammit, I really am the dumbest man alive for dating my ex-wife's best friend." Jessie began to cry and Rick held up a hand. " Oh, God, don't start." She cried harder.

" Why are you being so mean? What's wrong with you?" she inquired. Rick tilted his head.

" Nothin's wrong with me," he replied. " I'm fine. " And even though he had learned only hours ago of Jody Remington's death, Rick realized there was truth in his retort; he felt good. He had spent the night, and his tears, in the arms of a goddess, after all. When he found himself smirking and gazing off into the distance, past Jessie and at the wall behind her, his thoughts on Michonne, he noticed the blonde, sniffling woman moving towards his nightstand, her hand outstretched.

" What's this?" she asked, taking notice of the articles of clothing Michonne had left behind: the small orange top and torn brown silk panties. Rick snatched her belongings away before Jessie could touch them, appalled by her audacity, and her condition deteriorated. "Are those-? Are you seeing someone else? " Jessie demanded to know, eyes filling with tears anew. No longer embarrassed, Rick flipped back the sheets and stood up; he was still only in boxers, and it was the most of him she had ever seen, or ever would see.

" What do you mean 'someone else,' Jessie? Like she's a second choice. Like I'm still seeing you? We're not together anymore. I don't know if we ever really were. I'm seeing someone; not someone else." Rick could hear his voice raising and his cheeks burning with feeling. He placed Michonne's clothing with care atop the pillow where she had been sleeping only hours before. Jessie was shaking her head, and she crossed her arms and crushed them to her chest, huffing out an exasperated breath.

" Men are all the same. I didn't have sex with you, so you don't want me. You found some cheap slut to do it with and now you won't give us a chance anymore." Rick hadn't heard much of what she said once the insult left her thin lips. He lost his temper.

"What did you call her? Get out, goddammit. You come into my house, wake me up when I haven't slept- haven't dreamt- in weeks, and you insult someone I care for? Someone you know nothing about? Well?! What are you waitin' for, Jessie? Get out! If I didn't make it clear enough before, I don't want you." Her tears increased and without permitting his sympathy to flourish, he prompted, with an extended hand, her exit, following along after her and adding the final blow of insolence while she made her way sniveling down the hall. "If I did, I would've fucked you a long time ago." Jessie glanced over her shoulder at him in horror as she stepped out of the house. "And leave that goddamned key on the porch," he called after her. Rick slammed the door and checked the time on his watch.

It read five minutes after ten; Michonne had only left three hours prior and, being more tired than usual, he figured he could catch another hour or two of sleep before starting his day. No one was expecting him. He had nowhere to be. For a moment, the observation saddened him, but he closed his watering eyes and took a quavering breath, and he thought of Michonne: of her enchanting smile, her long locs of beaded hair and her pneumatic form, his sweet Panacea, and the melody of her moans, and his heart swelled. Merely the image of her, and the recollection of her sound, made him feel better. Rick knew, without a doubt: if he had not met her the night before, he might have spent the dark hours and the morning after drinking, and treating himself to some hair of the dog. It had been his custom in the recent months. But instead, he had made love to her and released his sorrows in her arms. With a smile on his face and a new, growing erection, he ambled back to bed, hoping to enjoy another vivid dream of the goddess who was stealing him away from the cold, bleak inhabitance of loneliness.

~•°•*•°•~

In Atlanta, by the brilliance of noon, Michonne was in the outdoor leisure of her lunch break at a small bistro she and Andrea frequented. Typically, by ten, she was starving, and could hardly wait to eat, but today, as she stared down at her uneaten salad, rolling a cherry tomato across a sea of spinach and romaine lettuce, she realized the last thing on her mind was food. She shifted in her iron chair and tried to cross her legs, biting her lip as the muscles in her thighs tensed, aching in places they hadn't ached in months. She could do squats until she passed out- she could run for miles- and her body would never hurt in the same way.

His rapacious efforts to please were intoxicating. His attentive mouth at her throat and at her breast had left her breathless and bashful. And the orgasm he had given her- she literally sighed aloud. All the tension in her body, from her overworked brain, down to her aching arches, had been relieved by the power of that climax. Her mind had dissolved into a comforting pool of carefree conceptualisations, and falling asleep with Rick's strong arms about her, and his tears drying on her breasts, and his warm, sweet liquor breath and sexy scent enveloping her as he moaned and pressed her closer to him in his slumber, had left her wanting more- more of him, more of everything that came with being next to him.

Thoughts of Rick were overwhelming her and Michonne felt her pulse accelerate. Between her legs she was damp and sticky. Her lips were sore- both pairs. What her mind could ply, in the moment, was a memory- a record- of the sounds he made in bed. For a few minutes, she was lost, unable to cerebrate. He really had fucked her brains out.

" God, you're a mess," Andrea marvelled, setting down her tuna melt and wiping her hands on a folded black napkin as she chewed. Michonne, provoked from her reminicences, left her fork on her plate and gathered her locs to the left side of her face, smoothing them.

" I am?" she asked. Andrea laughed and had a sip of water.

"Not in appearance- in comportment," she replied. " You haven't been focused. You won't even eat. Was it really that good?" Michonne fought the urge to smile. She reached for her lemonade and took a long drink. " He's big, isn't he? He looked big." Michonne sputtered, tart-sweet liquid nearly spilling from her lips.

" Andrea!" she scolded mildly, placing her cup back on the table.

" He was, wasn't he? You can hardly walk." Andrea started laughing, her bright eyes twinkling. " The sight of you stumbling down the block in his shirt and last night's mini- I should have taken your picture."

" Shut up," Michonne jabbed, narrowing her eyes.

" Oh, come on. You don't want to talk about what you and the sheriff did with his big dance floor boner? You've never been shy about sex before, Michonne. Dish." Michonne went back to rolling her cherry tomato around with her fork.

" No," she huffed. The image of Rick's face when her body had fully accepted his length flashed into her mind. Her face heated. Squeezing her thighs together, she blinked and stabbed the tomato, juice bursting forth.

" Aww, really- nothing? " She met Andrea's gaze, defiant.

" Nope." Andrea pouted.

" Oh, fine. Must have been bad if you won't even talk about it," Andrea prompted, still pressing. Her efforts were not rewarded.

" Nice try," Michonne muttered,

" Party pooper," her best friend said, and Michonne rolled her eyes.

" You're the one who can't focus. We should get back to work. I've got to see Ms. Peletier before five and we have paperwork to review." Andrea took several more bites of her sandwich in quick succession and chewed them vehemently.

" Hell no- I can't focus. I wanna hear about Officer Big Dick Grimes," she declared around her masticated food. Andrea had lost her manners, but the silly, and accurate, nickname alerted Michonne.

" How do you know his name?" Andrea threw the crusts down on her plate and wiped her mouth.

" Hmm?- Oh, I looked him up. Saw his ID number on his squad car outside when I left." She read the expression on Michonne's face and explained. " My best friend went home with him- I needed to know." Michonne pursed her lips. " Don't be upset. After your last relationship, I worry for you." Saying nothing, Michonne stood and readjusted her mini skirt with a few firm tugs. Rick's white linen dress shirt fit her quite well. He had stored it beside his coats and sports jackets, and the fabric smelled faintly of him, and so did she: of aftershave and sweet-wood dark tobacco cologne and a hint of coppery blood with the potent musk she had caught a whiff of when he had picked her up and set her down on his pillows with his stony manhood buried so deeply inside her, she could sense his pulse racing through her sex. Her stomach fluttered again and she took a breath, willing her mind to focus on her work at hand. She smelled like sex and she loved it.

With a flourish of her hand, Michonne called the waiter over- a dark, tall man of thirty years or so- and, offering him a curt smile, asked for a takeout container, hoping not to waste her food. The waiter, inspecting her darkly, licked his bold lips and left to retrieve her request, and when he returned and prepared for her the leftovers, she drank the remainder of her lemonade, took her salad from him, and started off, on scrapping, chunky heels, towards Andrea's car on the curb. A gust of wind blew by and ruffled her skirt, caressing her nakedness. The sensation, mixed with the delicious discomfort left over from her torrid night, felt so pleasurable, she softly moaned. She indeed, was a mess. Rick was to thank- he had left her thoroughly used and pantyless.

" Hey," Andrea called from their table, standing and fetching her brown leather bag from the ground, " you making me pay?"

" Yup, you owe me," Michonne replied, glancing over her shoulder. A group of men who had been seated behind her in the outdoor court of the bistro were eyeing her with a hunger their meals could not sate as she shifted back and forth on the sidewalk, each of their expressions more dumbstruck than the last, and Michonne was certain she had flashed them all a lovely view of her backside. She smirked. She looked good, of that she was certain, and something about giving off the odor of another man made all the rest gawk enviously; it was satisfying. Andrea soon joined her, and, noticing her friends behavior, unlocked her car with haste and nudged her towards. Michonne shot her a look of warning and Andrea relented.

" What's gotten into you? " her closest friend inquired a few minutes later as they made their way to Michonne's condominium with the task to drop her off; she needed her car, a case file and a pencil skirt. Michonne herself wondered what exactly had gotten into her as well. For many months, her once lively condo had been dull and empty. She despised going home; she simply could not bear being there, and spent many nights in Andrea's guest room or in her own office at the firm. Nothing helped alleviate her pain- not liquor nor harmless flirting, not food nor the distraction of work. Michonne had passed the dawn depression a long time ago, and after everything she had been through, losing Carol Peletier's case had been the final fiber in the ever-fraying fabric of her sanity.

She had gone to The Big Apple the previous night in hopes of dancing and drinking away enough grief to keep from losing her mind altogether. Instead, the face of a silly early fringe television news crush had passed her field of view, and Michonne had done something reckless- the unthinkable: she had spent the night in the arms of a stranger. And this stranger, who had fucked her good and cried himself to sleep in her bosom, was giving her a charge that struck unlike any substance- any diversion. Spending the night with Rick had given her something to look forward to, and her confidence had returned; she was thrilled. And, so, to answer both of Andrea's questions, Michonne said, grinning:

" Several inches of Officer Big Dick Grimes."

~•°•*•°•~

When Rick woke at a quarter past noon with no new dream to dwell upon, he reluctantly rose and began his late day. He decided against a shave; he brushed his teeth for far too long and showered even longer, then dressed in a warm brown tee nearly too small for him and a pair of relaxed fit black jeans. His gunbelt was hugging his hips and his boots were on his feet before the one o'clock hour struck.

Jessie's intrusion and the interruption of his arousing dream had left Rick feeling distressed. It had been nice to sleep in, to dream. Seeing Michonne again, even in dreamland, had lifted his spirits, but seeing Jessie had reminded him of his past, of its bleakness, of his sadness in the winter months. He hoped he would not have to encounter her again anytime soon. He wasn't in the right frame of mind.

Rick had a black cup of coffee with a pinch of sugar for breakfast, and then, using his home phone, he called a cab to drive him to Atlanta to collect his squad car. While he waited for his ride, he recovered his father's two old revolvers from a small safe in the linen closet. It was a difficult choice between a worn, rare Colt Detective Special with a three inch barrel, and a polished Smith and Wesson Model 19, but Rick went with the Colt; he missed his Python, and hoped the station would return it to him in the coming weeks. He didn't care if it had a body on it now- he loved that six shooter dearly. Ensuring the barrel was loaded with a new set of .38 special rounds, he tucked the sidearm into the holster on his gunbelt and eyed himself in the mirror at the end of the hall, wondering how awful he looked after such an unsettling day.

To his surprise, he didn't appear as haggard as he thought he would. The dark circles under his eyes, though they had not disappeared, had diminished greatly. The color in his skin was vibrant; he found himself blushing at every recollection of his night spent with Michonne and the dream he had dreamt, of her breathy whimpers, of her knitted brow, of her warmth, her sweet kiss. A car horn sounded outside and shook Rick from his amatory thoughts. He left his quiet home with a swagger in his gait, snatching up the spare key Jessie had left behind on the porch and stepping out into the dazzling sun and the sweltry late June heat.

The birds were thriving on the swarms of daytime insects, singing their merriment and the squirrels bounded across the red clay earth with glee. The scattered employee snuck home to feast on the contents of their refrigerator or the solace and succor of their stay-at-home wives.

The neighborhood was restful, at ease, but Rick thought to himself, how somber the front yard seemed in his son's absence from that mirthful half acre. He had another week to brave without his little boy, and he was lucky he had met Michonne, and that there was a possibility of seeing her again soon, because Rick had no idea what to do with himself in the time being.

Sighing deeply, he realized with wonder, that for the first time in many months, he was looking forward to his day. And he had Michonne to thank for his positive outlet. He entered the cab and directed the driver, with a cool, calm tone, to his desired destination- The Big Apple- before resting against the seat and closing his eyes to daydream of Michonne, and of his first kill. As he roosted in the backseat, he noticed his driver eyeballing him in the rearview mirror. Rick thought the man would speak but he did not; he simply continued to study him, and Rick finally assessed the matter, with a bit of last night's Michonne to assist him. She had mentioned watching Rick on the evening news. He had done countless interviews with the local station whenever something, grand or insignificant, had occured. And presently, he was certain his identification photo was being shared and broadcast all over the media for killing Jody and facing charges of-.

Charges of what, he pondered. Murder? Rick felt abruptly sick.

It had been a good shoot. In spite of the pressure on his shoulders, Rick had assessed the situation, and with his suspect under the influence of a powerful drug, and a hostage in danger before his very eyes, he had to make a harsh choice. Jody deserved that bullet. The projectile had his name on it. It was either Jody, or the girl, or Rick and Shane. And Jody was the obvious choice.

Luckily for Rick, the cab driver was a quiet man, like the one from the previous night; the man did not converse with him, and Rick was free to indulge in fantasy and memory. He didn't hear the man's voice until they had arrived at the bar and club. The building seemed an entirely different place in daylight. Rick observed the spot on the sidewalk where he had pressed Michonne's lithe little body up against the bricks and kissed her plump perfect lips, his tongue challenging hers. His stomach clenched and his blood raced as his ride pulled in; he flung open the rear door, stepping out eagerly, and he closed it with force behind him before paying his fair and a generous tip.

The block was relatively empty, save for the few homeless men shuffling about on the sidewalk. The hum of the city buzzing around him, Rick rushed across the street, scuffing his cowboy boots on the asphalt in his hurry to get to his squad car. It was untouched- not many people were asinine enough to mess with an abandoned cop car- and he unlocked his prized vehicle and sank into the driver's seat, closing the door behind him. The leather was warm beneath his body from the attention of the noontide. He clenched the steering wheel until his knuckles went white, as his mind's eye witnessed again, from the archives of his memory, the sight of Jody Remington's head being blown back as the magnum round entered the fine sweet line between his temporal and sphenoid bones, parting his flesh and delving into his scalp to exit in a crimson spray from his occipital.

Despite the heat, a chill raced through Rick. The image played again, skipping and repeating, and each time he felt more alive. His heartbeat fluttered in his throat, trapped. His fingers twitched; his lungs expanded with a profound ache, constricting with vigor and abetting the fire now blazing in the very core of his being.

Goddamn, he muttered, expelling another breath. He had ended his Friday with blood on his hands and a beautiful woman's nectar on his cock. He was alive, and he was glad. Rick jammed his key into the ignition and steered the Crown Victoria away from the curb, glancing back one last time, with a small smile, towards The Big Apple before making his way to the outskirts of Atlanta to a small mobile phone store in a strip mall to buy a new device. He sped most of the way, inviting a fellow officer to pull him over simply for the thrill. He was anxious to add Michonne's number to his contacts.

After parking and locking his blue-and-white, he sauntered through the lot and into the establishment, noting the gaze of every individual falling on him. A brunette in a painter's apron with her hair cut in an odd style ogled Rick as he made he way to the clerk and he offered her only an expression of discontent. With much difficulty and a heated discussion with an associate, a pale, round, middle-aged man of short stature and short temper, Rick had a new smartphone with his same old number and a red protective cover, an upgrade from the last one. He rushed back to the Vic and into the driver's seat, recovering his wallet from his back pocket and pulling out Michonne's business card. He quickly saved the number in his contacts, his fingers darting, and he grew hesitant, as he peered down at the screen, fretfulness devouring his fortitude.

What if Michonne didn't truly want to see him again? What if her departing kindness in those early morning hours had been ingenuine and their time spent together was only a one-night stand?

At the first hint of negativity, Rick's mind went to a dark place. His eyes began to burn; he squeezed them shut and longed for eupnea as the rate of his breaths increased. He thought of his son, of his laughter, of his brother, of his embrace, and Rick thought of Michonne, of her kiss and her words as he had sobbed. His heart calmed. When he opened his eyes again, a semblance of hope dawning in him, he jumped. A few yards to the right of his cruiser, swaying on the sidewalk, was a bloody Jody Remington, his head wound weeping onto the shoulder panel and chest of his midnight blue hoodie. His worn Beretta dangled from his twitching hand, a restless finger on the trigger. Rick glared at the bleeding ghost of the young man he had killed, and the urge to shoot for the second time overwhelmed him. His right hand moved to rest upon the wooden grips of his Colt. Abruptly, his new phone rang. Rick, startled, looked away in his effort to retrieve it, and when he glanced up again, his phone pressed to his ear, Jody was gone.

" Hello?" Rick answered, his voice trembling.

" Hey, man! You okay?" It was his friend, Daryl, a man he had met the previous year during a local search party for a missing little girl. The two had talked during the inquest, and after Daryl's tracking had proved useful, and the little girl was found and returned to her foster family, the two men had decided to meet up again and bond over their similar interests. On occasion, they fished together and visited an outdoor gun range. In the last two years, Rick had needed a friend, and Daryl was a good one.

When Rick did not respond, the worry in Daryl's voice became evident. " Hey, Rick, you alright? I been callin'. Phone kept saying your number wasn't in service. Everything okay?" Rick, eyes still fixed on the haunted spot on the sidewalk, finally spoke.

" Yeah- hey. Sorry. Busted my old phone. Just got a new one."

" Oh, okay." Daryl said. " Had me worried. We were supposed to go shootin' this morning- remember?" Rick's free left hand came to rest on his damp forehead. He had completely forgotten about their plans, but with his trigger finger still itchy, he was in the mood to let out some frustration.

" Shit, you're right. I'm sorry, brother. I'll meet you there. Right now if you want." Daryl hesitated.

" You sure-? I mean, after-?" Rick hastily interrupted.

" Yeah, I'm sure. See you there." He hung up and started his car, peeling away from the curb without looking for oncoming traffic and silently daring Jody to show his face again.

~•°•*•°•~

The State of Georgia Versus Carol Peletier had caused quite the stir in Atlanta. Michonne had represented clients involved in prominent cases before, but none quite like Carol's. Local and national news alike had taken an interest in the case. To some, Carol was a hero, a shining example of a woman taking back control and defending herself against the injustice of spousal abuse. To others, she was a cold-blooded murderer who deserved to rot in prison. The Georgia Coalition Fighting Domestic Violence and a large group of radical feminists had consistently protested Carol's arrest in the year and a half since her preliminary hearing. She had been tried for first degree murder, and the previous day, Carol had been found guilty by the Superior Court of Georgia. She had refused a plea bargain, against Michonne's advice.

Carol was devastated by the verdict. In the conference room of the Clarkson Prison for Women she expressed to Michonne how let down she felt by the jury of her supposed peers, insisting the killing of her husband Ed was not premeditated; she had acted out of self-preservation and the defense of her young daughter Sophia one cold evening in November when Ed attacked his family after an afternoon of drinking with his friends.

Mrs. Peletier a quiet woman. Michonne wondered if Carol had always been so placid- if the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her late husband had influenced her manner of speech or if she had always been silent. So Michonne was surprised on this particular day, to see Carol Peletier in a rather talkative mood.

" So, you can appeal the case?"

" Yes," Michonne replied. " The sentencing is on Wednesday. And we have sixty days after that to present the appeal to the Supreme Court of Georgia. I will claim there was not enough evidence to make the conviction. Because there wasn't."

" Why does it all have to be so complicated?" Carol complained, rolling her eyes. A strand of her greying hair fell into her face and she blew it away. " I just wanna get outta here. I can't stand to wake up one more day with a cockroach on my pillow. And the food- don't get me started on the food." Her green eyes filled with thick tears. " And God, I miss Sophia. I can't tell you how much I miss Sophia." Michonne felt her chest tighten. She couldn't imagine Carol's grief. " How is she? Will you call her foster parents for me and ask about her? They won't let me speak to her." Michonne nodded her head, her dreads dancing, beads clattering.

" Yes, of course, give me the number and I will call sometime this week. I promise." Michonne moved to grab her briefcase from the floor, and as she reached out, she caught a scent of Rick on his shirt. She closed her eyes and inhaled, comforted by his fragrance.

" What more evidence could there be anyway?" Carol asked as Michonne opened her briefcase and took out a sticky note pad and a gold fountain pen. " He hit me so hard, I could barely move. He was dragging Sophia away- I had to do something. " Michonne adjusted the hem of her pencil skirt and placed the pen and a sticky note within Carol's reach, silently indicating that she write down the number.

" The prosecution is so convinced you planned it all out. That the knife you forgot to wash was too conveniently placed. That by standing up to Ed for the first time, you provoked him. Sophia testified and confirmed you had never done that before. She said you looked angry. She... said you laughed at him. " Carol grew restless. She shuffled her shackled feet, wringing her hands and rubbing her reddened wrists where the handcuffs dug into her skin. " Are you certain you're not leaving out any small detail? You have to be truthful with me, Carol. I'm your attorney. You can tell me anything, and I will still represent you. I will still appeal this sentence. I will still do my best to get you off. " Carol's mouth twisted into an odd little grimace, and it seemed as though she was about to say something, but she quickly changed her mind, and her mouth set into a straight line. Instead of answering, Carol picked up the writing impliment and scribbled down, with fleeting slashes of the fountain pen, a local phone number.

" Can I see my case file?" she asked Michonne, and Michonne dawdled a bit, but yielded, and handed it over. Carol rifled through the contents of the manila folder, skimming as if not truly interested, her cuffs clanging, and then she tucked the documents away and pushed them across the table with the sticky note pad on top with the pulled sheet and its subject. " So, Wednesday, huh?" she asked. Michonne slipped everything back into her briefcase and clipped it shut.

" Yes. Wednesday."

" Do I even have a chance?" Michonne sighed and shifted in her metal chair. As it screeched against the floor, she tensed, and the muscles in her thighs twinged.

" It's going to be a fight. It always is. It's hard. If I say there is not enough evidence, and if I find a mistake of the law during or before your trial that hurt your case - then yes, you will definitely have a chance. " With no comment from Carol, Michonne went on. " Would you like to discuss anything else before I go?" She sensed Carol was holding something back, but the woman said nothing; she only shook her head, and turned away, her bottom lip trembling. " Okay, " Michonne murmured, unconvinced. She seized her briefcase and started out of the room at a leisurely pace. " See you Wednesday. Please call me if you need to talk about something. " Michonne left the conference room slowly, her feet aching as she strode down the endless concrete hall to the exit. She sighed. Her job never granted her an easy day. A part of her wondered why she had chosen the career, but she envisioned the agony in Carol's eyes, the silent pleas for help, and she quickly remembered why. Sometimes, people didn't deserve to suffer for taking a life. The world was full of people who didn't deserve to live; the opinion was a harsh one, and widely debated, but it was Michonne's opinion nevertheless.

Halfway down the hall, she was jolted from her musings. Her fountain pen! The look in Carol's eyes! The defeat! Michonne turned on her heel and ran. When she reached once more the barred entrance, she peered into the conference room, her heart in her throat, and saw Carol still seated at the table, the tip of the fountain pen embedded in her left wrist as she forced the point down the blue line of her median antibrachial vein. The guard was still standing in the hall next to Michonne, on his phone, unawares, unalert. She flew into a rage.

" What are you doing, you idiot? She's in there cutting her goddamned wrist and you're just standing here!" The guard's pale skin went whiter, flushed of color as he dropped his phone and yanked his keys from his belt loop. The lumbering fool eased past Michonne, hands shaking, and unlocked the door. Michonne pushed her way inside and Carol reacted, holding the pen out in front of her defensively.

" I'll cut the other one! Stay back!" Her deep dark blood was seeping out, sliding along her forearms and spilling into her lap. Michonne did her best to remain composed, but her eyes began to burn with tears, and when she spoke, her voice quavered.

" Don't do this, Carol. Don't give up hope. I'm going to do everything I can for you- I swear it. Think of Sophia!"

" That is who I'm thinking of! I might as well off myself now so she can just grieve me and get it over with. She's never going to see me again. I'll miss everything!" Carol tried to move, but with her shackles binding her, she only inched back to the edge of her seat, her lids drooping as she lost more blood. The guard was still frozen at the door, unresponsive.

" You're still standing there?" Michonne shouted at him indignantly. " Get your shit together! Call in the emergency response team!" The guard took his walkie from his belt and paged in as he left the room. Michonne turned her attention back to Carol and found the woman losing consciousness. Michonne rushed to her. Dropping her briefcase, she tore the sleeve of Rick's linen shirt and used the fabric to tourniquet Carol's wound, zoning out as she held the woman close to her; she checked her pulse with her fingers on occasion, her mind numb, her body buzzing.

When Michonne snapped out of her spacey state, she heard out in the hall the dialog and discourse of a group of men. She gingerly let go of Carol, guiding her upper body to rest her against the table, and she went out, pointing the men back inside as they delayed their duty- as if they wanted her to suffer for a little while longer. They wheeled the stretcher into the conference room and the guard unlocked Carol's shackles. One tall, brawny, dark man lifted a limp Carol from her chair and tucked her into the stretcher, where she was again cuffed, and then escorted out. Michonne stared at her fountain pen on the floor and, leaving it there in a little puddle of blood, she followed, in a daze, her briefcase swinging from her hand.

Outside, she watched Carol as they lifted her into an ambulance with her guard at her side. They slammed the doors and drove away, siren blaring, leaving Michonne standing there on the street, alone. And in her solitude, she wept.

~•°•*•°•~

The scent of gunpowder filled Rick's nostrils as he fired his old Smith and Wesson M&P. Though he had set his targets to thirty yards, each round hit its mark each time, and with every jerk of the handgun's recoil, Rick saw a flash of Jody, head blown back, blood spraying, limbs akimbo. The muzzle flash burned a bright image into his vision. With every crack of the small sonic boom, his heart jumped. His flanks ached as adrenaline pumped through him, kidneys pained by the excretion. The slide locked back, another magazine emptied. Rick pressed his thumb into the mag release, caught the empty, placed it on the table and jammed another one into the well before aiming his sights down the range again. The slide released, and he pulled the trigger again, once, twice, a third time, a fourth. Jody kept catching .40s- one in the eye, another in the nose. One struck his cheek, and he came back for more, taking another in the forehead. Jody's brain matter rained. Rick's nostrils flared. His eyes filled with tears. He fired again.

Through the cushions of his ear protection, Rick heard a series of cadences as he emptied another magazine. He ignored it, but when he felt something on his shoulder, he took his finger off the trigger, made a sharp about-face, and brought down the grips of the M&P, striking Daryl in the nose with such force, he bled upon impact. Rick winced and Daryl blenched. Yanking off their Earpro, they exchanged words.

" Shit, Daryl, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-."

" S'alright. Not your fault; it's mine. You're on edge. Shouldn't've suggested the range."

" No, man, it's my fault. Let me apologize- make it up to ya somehow." Daryl brought his navy blue t-shirt to his nose and pinched it over his nostrils, leaving a black spot soaking into the fabric.

" How so?" Daryl asked, intrigued. They laughed and Rick felt a bit of his strain diminish.

" I got a bottle of Blanton's bourbon I been savin'. You want it?" Daryl's eyebrows shot up. He wiped another tear of blood from his nares and philtrum.

" Hell, yeah," he agreed. " Let's share it."

The men emptied their guns, packed their bullets and belongings into their range bags and returned to their vehicles. Daryl threw his things into the bed of his truck and nodded to Rick, informing him that, after a trip to the pharmacy for some gauze, they would meet on Rick's porch. Rick, standing in a cloud of dirt as Daryl drove off, waved to his friend, and after tossing his bag into the trunk of his cruiser with his rifles, he took out his phone. Jody was gone at last. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sun beat down on him. He sighed, at peace again, and his mind drifted to Michonne.

He was missing her. Ruminating, he thought about what she might have done for the day. She had mentioned some type of court appeal. It sounded stressful. Rick wondered how she was feeling and he wondered if she, too, was missing him. Biting his lip, he seized the opportunity, feeling a boost of confidence at the thought of her, and he tapped the little green phone next to her name in his contacts. He pressed the device to his ear and waited as it rang- once, twice- no answer. He pouted and hung up, kicking at the dirt like a little boy begrudged. Not willing to give up, he sent her a text, hoping that no matter where she was or what she was doing, he could make her smile and let her know she was on his mind.

Hey, Michonne. It's Rick. Saved your number...

Thinking about you. Hope you had a good day.

He debated whether or not to send one of those silly smiles, or a big red heart, but he decided against it. Instead, he would stop by the store on the way home and buy her a little treat for the next time he saw her. Perhaps, he contemplated, she liked snacks.

•••

Rick pulled up to his house and parked his squad car. As he stepped out onto the asphalt, he glanced up and saw Daryl on the porch, waving at him. Rick waved back and, copping his purchase from the passenger seat, headed for his home.

" Took you long enough," Daryl berated. " Goddamn. Where were you?" Rick chuckled.

" Sorry. Stopped by the store to buy somethin' for- uh..." Daryl touched a finger to his chest.

" For me?" Rick laughed harder.

" No. I... I met a woman last night. I picked something up for her. Hoping to see her again." Daryl smiled, a rarity.

" Good for you, Rick. It's about damn time." Rick was still smiling as he unlocked his front door.

" My sentiments exactly," he said. He went inside, leaving Michonne's little gift on the kitchen table, taking two glasses from the cupboard and rummaging through the closet for the old bottle of Blanton's he had hidden away five years before. He found Daryl on the steps smoking a cigarette and ashing it in the perinneals. He had two pieces of gauze hanging from his nostrils. Rick stifled a snicker.

" That it?" Daryl asked, gesturing with his dark-scruff chin towards the gorgeous and rotund glass bottle of aged single barrel bourbon whisky in Rick's hand.

"Yup," Rick said, handing him a glass and popping off the horse stopper. He poured them both a generous serving and sat down in the porch swing. They clinked their drinks and took a swig, and Daryl whistled his approval.

" Shit- that's smooth," he murmured. Rick nodded and lifted the glass to his nose to inhale.

" Citrus. Caramel," Rick noted. Daryl tipped his head back and downed the entirety of his portion.

" I don't give a fuck what's in it- long as it gets me drunk." Rick poured his friend another glass, and, for a while, they shared a silence, but Daryl, fueled by his second glass of bourbon, spoke again. " You're all over the news, man. Local and national. They're eatin' it up." Rick groaned and sank down into the porch swing, spreading his legs and leaning his head back.

" I know. People won't stop lookin' at me. Everywhere I go. I hate it." Daryl finished his second drink and took out another cigarette, lighting it and taking a drag.

" You alright?" he inquired. Sitting up, Rick sipped his whisky and shrugged.

" I'm alright," he offered. Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket and his heart leapt, its pace doubling. Hoping it was Michonne, he fished it out of his pocket. It was.

Hi, Rick. Thought about you today, too.

And no, I did not have a good day.

All of Rick's anxiety about one night stands and ingenuine offers vanished. Michonne had responded. She was thinking of him. And she wanted to keep in touch as much as he did. He wondered what had happened- what had ruined her Saturday. Working on the weekend seemed hard enough. Rick set his glass down on the porch railing, and typed back a reply.

You okay? Do you need anything?

He slid the phone back into his pocket and looked up to see Daryl staring at him, a wide grin on his face. " What?" he asked.

" You're red as hell, man. Are you blushin'?" Rick felt his cheeks heat. " You are!" Daryl laughed, another rarity. " That the woman you were talking about? On the phone?" He walked over to Rick, cigarette hanging from his lips, tattered jeans flapping, and he slapped him hard on the back. " She's got you smilin' and blushin', you depressed son of a bitch. I'm so happy for you." Rick found that he was indeed smiling. And his friend cared about his love life; it was a kindness he had not anticipated.

" Thanks," Rick said, and his phone buzzed again. He pulled it out again and read a simple message. A single word.

You.

His face burned hotter. His arousal blossomed. Daryl laughed harder.

" Oh, shit. I'm gettin' out of here. I got a feelin' she's coming over and I'm gonna get the fuck outta the way," he announced. Rick watched Daryl snatch up his new bottle of bourbon and stumble down the steps, flicking his cigarette down before his booted tread and stomping it out.

" Hey, be careful, brother!" Rick called out after him, a bit panicked to see someone preparing to drive while under the influence. " Let me call you a cab!" Daryl climbed into his truck and rolled down the window to give Rick the middle finger. And, then, he started the engine of his pickup and sped off, his odd music choices echoing down the block. Rick silently wished for his friend's safety and turned his attention back to his phone.

After only hours, he was going to see Michonne again. He couldn't believe his luck. He longed to hold her again, to ask her about her day, to kiss her sugar plum lips. He tapped away on the keyboard a response, smiling, throbbing.

Come and see me then.

~•°•*•°•~

Michonne slammed the driver-side door of her luxury sedan, briefcase in hand, and set her sights on the entrance to Rick's attractive little home. The day was going to end precisely the way she wanted it to- no more surprises, no more stress. It had dragged on for what felt like so very long, going awry precisely when she had reached her limit, and the pressure against her to request an appeal had already been enough to concern her. Seeing Carol at her lowest point made Michonne realize that she could not fail her. She figured she could take just one day off- one day of leisure, making the following day an easy Sunday before she dedicated all of her strength to appealing the case. She was livid, and hopeless, but it was her job to defend her client, no matter the crime.

Ascending the steps, the sidewalk path soon behind her clicking heels, she made her way onto his porch and caught a whiff of cigarettes and alcohol. Michonne glanced over and saw two empty glasses and an array of discarded cigarette butts. Rick didn't smoke- she was sure of that. She would have tasted it on him. Perhaps he had had a friend over, and, by the looks of it, one of them was very drunk, if not both.

She tossed her locs over her shoulder and pressed a painted fingernail to the doorbell. She hadn't changed or gone home, but she didn't care. She hadn't stopped thinking about him, and she couldn't wait to see his face again- couldn't wait to melt away under the heated touch of his attentive hands. She knew he could kiss her worries away and she was going to allow him to do exactly that. Michonne sighed, peering down at her foot as it started to tap an impatient, rushed beat. She listened to her heartbeat thumping in her ears and the sound of approaching footsteps on the other side of the dark green door.

As the entrance crept open, eyes met, smoky quartz on pale blue sapphire, and Michonne felt her body come alive when Rick's sculpted pink lips curved into a crooked smile. He scanned her, and slowly, stretched out his hand to invite her in.

a/n: chapter three is up!