Title: As You Are, So Am I
Author: Meridian
Rating: PG (discussions of death and its repercussions, a curse word or two at most)
Summary: What Michael was best at, Nicole sorely needs.
Author's Notes: It's funny how, without noticing, we fall into shipping for certain people in Dawn of the Dead-there's the obvious Michael/Ana ship and the Terry/Nicole ship. Then there's the group dynamic. But, as I think Allison Lane proved with her second chapter of "Scenes From A Mall" (a must read for this fandom), there are some awesome stories to be told about two characters who aren't flirting, dating, or sleeping together. This is just my attempt to explore one of them, one that I can see being founded between to survivors of a very personal loss. Also, it's just funny how some things in the movie work out, as I hope you'll see!

***

"Um."

Michael banged his head on the steering wheel case as he backed out to see who had spoken to him. She tried not to smile at his surprise. He had been expecting Ana, surely. Ana always went and got Michael and the others to come up for lunch. Today was different. Today, Michael was working alone, rewiring and testing the plow controls for Bus #1. Everyone else was taking the time off to rest or play; there wasn't any point reinforcing the buses if the plow wasn't there to clear a path for them, so everyone was waiting for the okay from Michael. This was her best chance to talk to him without anyone else around.

"Nicole? Hey, what's going on?" Michael rubbed the back of his head, absently, scanning her face for any sign of trouble.

"Nothing, nothing," she held up her hands, waving them to assure him all was well.

Michael looked at his watch. "It's a bit early for lunch, isn't it?"

"It's not ready yet." She knotted her fingers together; a visibly nervous tic. Michael was staring at her, confused and a tad wary. He'd kept his distance, for the most part, since her Dad...for a while, anyway, and she hadn't approached him. Consequently, he seemed to think she hated him for what he'd said and what had had to be done. She didn't, but he thought she did, which made this tougher. "I just, uh, wanted to..." she shrugged, looking away.

"What's on your mind?" Michael slid into the driver's seat, leaning his elbow against the steering wheel. He nodded at the empty space up front, and she sat down across from him. When she glanced up from her tangled fingers in her lap, he still wore an apprehensive expression. "This about your dad?"

Her jaw dropped. Immediately, a defensive, overly emphatic, "No!" escaped before she clapped her hand over her mouth. Michael's eyebrows jumped; he said nothing, just waited for her to calm down. Nicole felt her face settle into an ugly look. People weren't supposed to say what they were really thinking all the time. It wasn't polite. "You're kind of rude."

"I've heard that before," Michael sighed, half-smiling and rubbing his forehead. "I'm sorry, honey, I just don't do well with politically correct subterfuge."

She blinked at him as this sank in. He didn't seem to notice that he called her 'honey.' It hurt, just a little, but he didn't mean it to. It felt natural, sounded as though it slipped from some forgotten memory. That was what she wanted to talk about, but first things first. She cleared her throat. "It's called 'sensitivity.'"

"Not my strong suit either." He took a deep breath, held it for a pregnant moment and let it out in rush. "So, what's up?"

"We didn't get to talk much during dinner the other night." They both knew which dinner she meant. Every dinner since the generators had gone out, since four people-five, including the baby-had died, every dinner since that 'dinner the other night' had been just another meal. It was like saying 'that morning;' everyone knew which morning you meant.

"What did you want to talk about?" His tone was guarded, more cautious as the conversation had unexpectedly moved from her personal territory to his.

"I just wanted to know..." she swallowed, hard, pushing herself to ask. You've come this far, just ask! "Iwantedtoknowaboutyourfamily," she said, a one-word sentence. Michael opened his mouth, making an 'oh' shape, then closed it, firmly pressing his lips together. "Please?" She added, almost an afterthought.

"What," Michael began, interrupting himself by fighting to take a deep, even breath, "what do you want to know?"

"You had kids?" She tried to make it sound benign, like she were inquiring about something as mundane as whether or not he'd had a lawnmower. It failed, she could tell, mostly because there was no way to ask that kind of question without the ghost of loss haunting them in the silence.

"Y-yeah," he murmured. It was the only time she could remember him stuttering. He usually spoke so clearly, resolutely, and with purpose. His sparseness of phrase was what she had meant when she called him insensitive; there wasn't much room for the superfluous in his speech. "Yeah," he said, slowly, stammering again, as if he couldn't remember if that was the right answer, "I did."

"How many?"

"Two."

"Boys or girls?"

"One of each, actually." A fleeting tremor, what could have been intended as a smile, passed over his lips. Anticipating her next question, he continued, "My daughter's older. She's ten, and my son is eight."

Noticing his use of the present tense-my daughter is ten, my son is eight-she tactfully adjusted her own language. "What are their names?"

"My daughter's name is Genevieve, but we call her Genny. My son's Gabriel. Gabe, for short."

"That's...pretty," Nicole fumbled, awkwardly.

"We tried to think of names that were unique but could be shortened for nick-names. Made it easier on us." This time, Michael smiled freely, eyes on her but unfocused, lost in memory of better days.

"We? Your wife?"

"First wife, yeah."

"How long were you married?"

"Listen, Nicole," Michael shook himself, "I don't want to interrupt, but-"

"Then don't," she cut him off, surprising them both. "Please, I want to know." She drew her knees up and locked her arms around them. Tears struggled to escape her suddenly moist eyes. "No one will talk with me about their families." Well, not no one, but she no one she felt comfortable talking to. Not Steve or Monica, certainly. Not Kenneth-he was too intimidating. C.J. and Tucker weren't that approachable-they both called her 'kid,' a lot. Ana and Terry, she could talk to, but neither one was forthcoming on that subject.

Then they'd had that dinner. Maybe it was to earn their pity, maybe he was wallowing; nonetheless, Michael had revealed painful, intimate information about his family, about what his life had been before Crossroads. She'd thought about it constantly since then, just waiting for this opportunity to..to what? To feel better by sharing, digging up the past again? Mom would have done it. Mom always bugged her to tell her what was wrong because a burden shared was a burden halved. How to communicate that to him? She wasn't sure she could, wasn't even sure she knew what this would do for either of them.

"Tell me about your dad, Nicole."

Squeezing her eyes together to keep from crying, she pictured him and found herself starting to voice what she saw somewhere along the way. "Dad took me to Chicago to look at Northwestern last summer because I didn't want to go to Wisconsin with Doug and Paul."

"Are those your brothers?"

"Yeah," she sniffled, opening her eyes. Michael was listening, his posture intent. Really listening. "I wanted to go to a big city school, but he wouldn't let me go to the University of Chicago because it was in a bad neighborhood." Michael nodded, gesturing for her to continue. "We took the car, it was so nice to be on a car trip together. We're the most alike, you know?"

Michael laughed. "You are most like the parent of the opposite sex. Genny and I are peas in a pod. Gabe and his mother...well, let's just say you can tell they're related."

"Yeah, my Mom always had the toughest time with my brothers 'cause they were so alike. They tried to pull all this stuff on her, but she always knew what they were up to. I got away with more with her, but not with my Dad." Nicole giggled and didn't wipe her eyes when tears fell; happy tears didn't sting. "Once, I was over at my boyfriend's house, and I told my Mom I was at my friend Justine's working on a school paper. That way, I could stay out past curfew." She paused, seeing Michael screw his face up, a look of uncertainty; he hadn't gotten up to curfew problems with his kids. "You know, 'cause it's school work, which doesn't count as fun?" He smiled-that, he understood. No kid, young or old, likes homework. "Well, my Dad showed up at Scott's-that was my boyfriend-house right at eleven! He knew the whole time! He said on the way home that he'd done the same thing when he was my age."

"Sounds like your Dad's no pushover, Nicole." His complement was genuine. "Me, I dunno. My wife always said Genny was Daddy's girl. She would have had me wrapped around her little finger by your age."

Nicole stifled a giggle. That was hard to imagine. Michael, who didn't blink at Steve's vulgarity, Kenneth's profanity, or Monica's sensuality, him, slave to a ten-year-old girl? After a second thought, yeah, she could see it. In the way he indulged people, let them talk, let them go just far enough with some childishness before bringing them back, making them understand that now they had to behave, act like grownups-please? He never demanded, just sort of wished they would. As a lot of the 'adults' in their group were little better than children at times, it was little wonder they all listened to him.

"I bet you were a great dad." His answering smile made her heart ache, and, too late, she realized that she'd said were.

"I thought so," Michael shook his head, but the sadness did not leave his eyes. "I did my best."

"Did your kids stay with you after you divorced?"

"Yes, they did, for a while."

"Really?" That was impressive. So few fathers won custody in divorces, an old prejudice in family court.

"Yes, really," Michael chuckled. "They lived with me and their mother saw them some weekday afternoons and weekends. We split holidays and school vacations."

"What happened?" There was a but in his story. He'd said for a while. Well, sure, he'd been happy living with his kids...for a while. It was like saying she'd been happy with her Dad, finally safe after five hours inside a truck...for a while.

"I lost my job, had to move out of the house. By then, their mother had remarried, so it just made more sense for them to move in with her and her husband and not have to cram themselves into my apartment." Michael shrugged. "I hated it, but these things happen."

"But you still saw them a lot, right?" Of course, he would have. Being a parent was his favorite job, some part of her mind reminded her, he'd do anything to be a good dad. Right?

"We switched schedules, their mother and I, but we spent the same amount of time together."

"Do you know...did you try to find them?" Like 'dinner,' like 'dawn,' this question needed no elaboration-all the questions that went with it were understood. What happened? Why aren't you here with your kids? Is it for the same reason my Dad isn't here?

"No, honey, I didn't. I couldn't. The roads were a mess, and it was too dangerous. I wouldn't have made it, and I'm no good to them dead. I just had to hope they'd be okay. There was nothing I could have done to get to where they were." Michael stared at his hands, wringing them, like she did sometimes.

"They might have made it out of town." She struggled to think of something less lamely impotent than that reassurance. How hollow a hope it seemed to offer him, how pathetically meager.

He raised his head to look at her. "They're dead, Nicole. I love them, and I want to believe what you believe, but I know," he never faltered, holding her gaze, "I know they're gone, sweetie."

Finally, this brought forth the salty, crusty, hurtful tears. This finality in his voice, the certainty that was so familiar when he talked about anything else. It was denial, refusing to share, to indulge. This was the grow up, Nicole moment. Why had she ever imagined he would be more open about this? Where had she gotten the idea that he would ever play along with her fantasy? Somehow, this betrayal burned worse than Terry not being able to tell her about his family at all. Because this time she had hoped...had believed it could be different. Tears blinded her, obscuring the world as they filled sore eyelids that had cried so much, too much.

And then someone was rocking her, soothing her, telling her to cry but not to worry. "Cry, honey, but don't worry," someone was saying. "Go ahead and cry." Instinct taught her to hug back, to rock with the gentle swaying and the gentler voice. "Everything will be all right, Nicole. I promise." All the pins and pricks dug into her skin, irritating, scratching at her. She shivered. That was what Dad had said when Mom's car flipped over, when Paul crawled out with his mouth bloody and his eyes crazed, when he'd kissed her forehead and told her not to watch. Everything will be all right, baby. She was his baby. Grief-addled, being cradled like his baby, she could process only that this was fatherly, this hug.

"Daddy," she whimpered. The rocking slowed, off-beat, then resumed, a glitch in the rhythm, nothing more. It was enough; she realized her mistake even if Michael did not correct her, did not intrude on the fantasy she created. He would not partake of her kind of denial, but he did not dispel it. Not actively. Pulling away was awkward. It meant looking at Michael again, pretending his arms didn't linger around her, protective, just a fraction too long.

"I was thinking," he said, kindly, wiping at an errant tear in the corner of her eye.

"Yeah?" He didn't say sorry. He didn't apologize, he didn't reprimand her for calling him 'Dad,' even though it must have hurt him to hear it. This was better than anything she could have expected.

"I saw the work you did in the stairwell. Very nice."

"Thank you," she wiped her nose, a trembling smile forming. "I used to...I had a studio at home. I did a lot of mixed media pieces. I also," she lowered her voice, leaning towards him conspiratorially, "doodled in class a lot." They both chuckled at that. The unease was fading, practically forgotten already. How did he do it?

"Would you consider decorating the plow for me?" Michael jerked his head to the left, indicating the big mass of steel on the other side of the control panel. She opened her mouth--to speak, to protest, to shout for joy? Yes! Yes! She would, she would! But no, no! Not if it was pity-work, not because she felt bad and he felt worse for her. Sensing her hesitation, he elaborated, off-handedly, "It would get you out of the mall. Away from Monica, away from Steve. It can't be healthy to spend that much time with either of them."

She laughed, freely, until her sides hurt. Monica, Tucker, and she were in charge of stockpiling supplies, though Tucker found excuse enough to help in the garage when he could despite his foot. Nicole couldn't blame him. Since they'd started on the buses, staying out of the garage meant extended periods with Monica and Steve. Neither one was her favorite person-Monica made no effort to hide how childish she considered Nicole, and Steve leered at her, which was just creepy. Plus, he wasn't doing a damn thing. However, hanging around the working crew wasn't the same as helping, and she'd rather help everyone than just be where she felt better.

"What do you say, Nicole?"

"What design would you want?"

Michael backed away, bringing his arms up, palms facing her in surrender. "I wouldn't presume to dictate to the artist. But, if you're asking me for my opinion, I'd say something scary."

"Scary?"

He shrugged, "Well, it would make me feel a lot better. Tougher, you know, like we're more dangerous to that crowd outside."

"How about teeth?" Giggling, she held up clawed fingers, baring her own set of pearly whites. "Like grrrr! Chew right through them!" Michael's smile disappeared for a second, his whole face went curiously blank, and then he was millions of miles away. She dropped the goofy gestures, panic flashing red alert. "What? What? Michael?" What had she done? What had she said!? Ready to scream with tension, she blew out a relieved breath when he shook his head, his grin returning more brilliantly than ever she had seen it.

"Nicole," he swore, "god-damn!" He leapt up, reached down and pulled her to her feet. "You have just given me an idea. A great idea."

"What? What is it?" Still clutching his hand, she followed him out the anterior door. He noticed, squeezed her hand back as they headed back to the mall. His long legs carried him farther than her per stride, so that he reached the top of the stairs and the EMPLOYEES ONLY door to the garage while she was at the bottom.

"Why don't you find some paints at Kay's Hardware? I'm going to have a look around Sears. We need to do what you said." Those three sentences, together, made no sense. They were all non sequiturs that could only be understood in Michael-sense, which she didn't have.

"What did I say?" We need teeth? Was that what she had said? Her brain was whirling. This whole conversation hadn't gone how she planned. Better or worse she couldn't decide, but it was definitely more confusing. Things were moving too fast.

By the time she emerged into the bright neon lights of the main corridor on the first floor, Michael was rounding the corner towards Sears. Terry, Ana, Kenneth, and Tucker were in Hallowed Grounds, their heads turned in the direction Michael had gone. Nicole walked toward them, trying not to draw attention to her puffy and irritated eyes. Steve sat on a bench with a crossword puzzle book in his lap, not looking up, though obviously noticing Michael's sudden appearance and swift departure.

"Guess he fixed the plow," Steve commented, uninterested.

Ana looked at Nicole as she sat down and handed her a water and a napkin. Terry walked around the counter to sit next to her, slipping his arm around her waist. He was offering her comfort, moral support, but she didn't really need it at the moment. Her head was still spinning, too dizzy to be upset, though she dabbed at her eyes with the napkin and blew her nose.

"Where's he off to in such a hurry?" Tucker waved, indicating the direction Michael had gone.

"I have no idea," Nicole answered, truthfully. She leaned her head against Terry's shoulder.

"Everything okay, Nicole?"

She knew the answer to that one at least. "Yes."

Not five minutes later, Michael reappeared with a large white box. Without a word, he retraced his steps, heading back to the door leading to the garage. Everyone watched, hardly breathing, let alone daring to ask. The box had a picture of a large, red-bodied, gas-powered chainsaw on it. He slipped through the door and disappeared from sight.

Steve, having looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of the package under Michael's arm, glanced over at the silent, gawking group at the coffee bar.

"Then again, maybe he didn't."