I promised two certain someone's (you know who you are) that this was going to drop LAST WEEK, then yesterday. But see...what had happened was…

My muse can be a cruel bitch sometimes. Unfortunately, she demanded that this chapter be re-written three and a half different times. So, I'm definitely sorry that I made you guys wait two weeks for an update.

I won't take up a ton of time writing nonsense up here. First, I want to thank all of you, as always, for telling me your thoughts, sharing this story, and for reading it at all. Secondly, I implore you, if you love the chapter, hate it, or feel "blah" about it, don't be afraid to let me know your thoughts.

As always, Enjoy!

Eight

If you would let me give you pinky promise kisses
Then I wouldn't have to scream your name atop of every roof in the city of my heart – Mitski – Once More to See You

The process of making whiskey is a long and involved one. It starts with germinated barley undergoing a water soaking process for three full days. After the barley is turned into malt, it's combined with even more warm water to "mash" until it combines into one liquid free of soluble sugars. This process is done three times at varying temperatures. After the "mashing" process, a resulting liquid called "wort" is created. From there, the "wort" gets time to cool off and ferment - usually, this only takes about two days. Then begins the actual distillation process, where the liquid is funneled into large stills, then heated until an alcohol vapor is created. Traditional whiskey is usually distilled twice over before it's poured into large oak barrels to age and mature for a minimum of three years before being bottled and distributed.

Whiskey making is long and arduous and anyone in the business would tell you that it may be laborious, but that labor is ultimately born out of love. Scotch, bourbon, rye, malt, by the time he was 5-years-old Rick was well acquainted with every type of whiskey stocked on the shelves of Morton's Liquors in King County. When he was 10, his grandfather Joseph took him on a nearly 5-hour drive up to Lynchburg, Tennessee. Their first day there, he and the old man went to the Jack Daniel's distillery. The strong smell of harsh liquor hadn't been anything new to his young nose. But the giant copper-colored stills, the loud sound of machines working overtime, and the men who seemed to revel in the making of whiskey had been completely fascinating to him.

Rick wished he could say that he knew right then and there that he was going to open a distillery of his own someday. He didn't, though. It wouldn't be until almost twenty years later that he even considered it and about five years after that, that Kingmaker Whiskey Co. would open its doors of operation for the first time in 2010.

It had been almost nine years since they'd officially opened for business, and Rick and Daryl's small-town distillery had turned their special Georgia whiskey into one of the most popular brands in the country. His company was a success, a major one. Aside from Carl, Rick was almost positive it was the only thing in his life he hadn't fucked up completely. He loved his business, had nurtured it, bled and sweat and cried for it. So, what did it mean that a huge part of his sobriety meant staying as far away from it as possible?

It had been months since he'd set foot in the stilling warehouse on the outskirts of King County. Until he'd embarked on his most recent stint of sobriety, Rick had worked as the Master Distiller - overseeing the creation of every barrel of whiskey within the company as well as managing the entire liquor making team. More recently, someone else had taken over his job, and Rick had delegated himself to doing busy work at home. Looking over plans to expand the grounds, fostering contacts with local distributors for, approving new hires of higher-up staff, hell, even cataloging the backlog of less-urgent maintenance requests. He hated it. Every morning he woke up, had his shower and morning coffee before spending the next six to eight hours sitting at his dining room table looking over bullshit busy work that had been pawned off to him from other departments.

Daryl didn't handle anything in the day-to-day. The two co-founders had appointed an outside CEO, Andrea Craig, about a year after they opened. While he and Rick were both shareholding board members within the company, Daryl enjoyed the monetary fruits of Kingmaker Whiskey Co. by traveling around the country on his beloved bike and using his riches to invest in other businesses. When Rick had revealed his need to be away from the liquor making action, Daryl suggested that he "take some time off."

Rick had brushed him off immediately. He'd been working nearly every day of his life since he was 12-years-old. He couldn't even imagine what he would do with his days if labor of some kind wasn't being exploited from him. There was also the issue of his sobriety. He was already nearly boring himself to death, the work, mindless and shitty as it was, kept him busy. Too busy to be left with his own thoughts for too long and too busy to let himself lean too heavily on the cravings he couldn't seem to fully shake.

Rick's old assistant still worked in the distillery's office for the new Master Distiller, but a few times a week she sent him emails filled with his busy work. The entire process felt cold and impersonal but it seriously limited Rick's need to actually visit the place. It had been three months since he'd even stepped foot on their multi-acre plot of land turned business. Monday morning, when Daryl Dixon called him and told him he was in town then asked him to come to the distillery to see him in the same breath, Rick had half a mind to turn him down. He didn't though.

He could smell it as soon as he entered the parking lot. It was odd to describe the burning of ethanol as appealing, but he couldn't think of it any other way. The strong scent made Rick's tongue feel thick and dry. It was already warm outdoors, the hot sun unrelenting on his bare arms, but sweat began to bead along his hairline. Two parts of him raged, one wanting to leave and one wanting to enter the warehouse and drink in the smell even further. Rick swallowed and looked up at the modern glass building only a few yards away from the stilling warehouse. One booted foot in front of the other, he walked. He wasn't sure how long it took or who he spoke to on the way, but the next thing he knew he was in Daryl's unused office on the top floor of the building.

"How you doin' man?" His best friend grabbed him up in a hug and Rick breathed in heavy, consuming his leather vest and cologne to rid his nostrils of the scent of alcohol.

"Hey," he grunted back. "I've been good. How about you?"

Daryl pulled back but kept a grasp on Rick's broad shoulders for a few moments before he propped himself up on his desk. "You look good," he commented quietly. "Better than the last time I saw your ass."

"Oh," Rick chuckled. "Over a year ago you mean?"

"I'm a busy man, Grimes."

"Busy man my ass. You missed your godson's birthday, dick."

Daryl narrowed his eyes. "I sent him a gift!"

"And that reminds me, you can't send an 11-year-old a check for three thousand dollars."

To his credit, Daryl looked genuinely confused by Rick's statement. "Why the hell not? We would have killed for money like that when we were his age."

"And we would have blown it in days," Rick laughed. "Just like Carl would have done had Lori and I not let him buy a damn PlayStation and deposited the rest into a savings account he can't get to yet."

The man across from him made a rude noise from the back of his throat. "Next time I'll give him cash-in-hand and see what you boring assholes do about that."

Rick rolled his eyes, knowing his best friend wasn't bluffing. Rick had money, much, much more than he'd ever expected to have. By extension, Carl did too. He was a simple man and had no problem with Carl having a lot of the things he wanted. But he'd be damned if his boy grew up as some entitled little prick who didn't know the meaning of a dollar. Daryl, on the other hand, didn't seem to give a shit about that. He fully planned on intercepting any fistfuls of cash his best friend tried to hand his son, but he didn't care to share that.

Rick took a seat in a chair next to where Daryl was leaning on his desk. He leaned back in it, groaning quietly as the tight muscles in his back and shoulders stretched and released. Taking a deep breath in, he realized that the smell of ethanol was incredibly fain in the room. The interior of the building, though, smelled heavily of aged whiskey. Rick gripped the arms of the chair briefly and stopped the inhalation through his nose, deciding to breathe only through his mouth until he left.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming home?" His voice was a little nasally when he spoke, but he couldn't find it in him to be embarrassed. "And why the hell did you have me come all the way down here?"

"I wasn't plannin' on being here," Daryl answered. "I had to talk with the lawyers about some thangs, I figured now was just as good a time as any."

Rick sat up a little straighter in his chair, the look on his face full of concern for his oldest friend. "The lawyers? You in some kind of trouble?"

"Nah," the shaggy-haired man shook his head back and forth. When he looked up at Rick again through his bangs, there was a small smile on his face, one Rick had never seen before. "I got married."

The loud, barking laugh that left Rick's throat couldn't be helped. He assumed it was a joke. Had to be. Daryl Dixon was notoriously allergic to commitment. Hadn't had a relationship that lasted longer four months his entire adult life. For him to suddenly come up married seemed laughably ridiculous.

Daryl wasn't laughing along with him though. He was staring at Rick intently. His partially covered brown eyes wide and imploring.

"Fuck…" Rick whispered out quietly. "You're serious."

"Yeah, man. I'm serious."

Rick threw himself back in his chair again, releasing a big breath and inhaling air. His nose hairs tingled. "Well, who is he?"

"His name is Jesus...Well, his real name is Paul, but everyone calls him Jesus."

His first instinct was to criticize a man who referred to himself as "Jesus" unironically. He didn't though, he sat silently and waited for his friend to continue.

"We met in Black Rock City, at Burnin' Man," Daryl continued. "He's got a bike too. We hung out for a few days and when it was over, rode up to Big Sur together."

"And somehow this lead to a marriage?"

Daryl nodded his head. "Just a few weeks later, we found a preacher and got married on a cliff overlookin' the ocean."

"How long ago was that exactly?"

His best friend had the audacity to look a little sheepish. "About a year ago."

Rick raised his eyebrows. "A year ago?"

"Yeah, the ceremony was in August."

Rick was stunned into silence. The hurt that welled up in his chest was strong and immediate. He and Daryl had been friends since they were six. They'd nursed each other through all kinds of growing pains and struggles. Rick had been the first, and only, person Daryl came out to for years. When his asshole father and brother had disowned him, the shaggy-haired man had taken up permanent residence on the floor of Rick's childhood bedroom for the entirety of their senior year of high school. They were adults, with their own lives, and their own secrets. Rick didn't need to be privy of every part of Daryl's life, just like there were many things he wasn't too keen to share immediately. But knowing that his friend had kept something as important as marriage from him was equal parts troubling and hurtful.

He couldn't even find it in himself to suck up his emotions and pretend like everything was alright. "Any reason you kept it from me?"

Daryl looked away, his stance shifting a bit from his perch. "I never thought I'd get married, Rick. You know that. And when I did it, I wasn't sure if it was gon' last. I didn't want to drag you into it if it didn't end up workin' out."

"Yeah, okay," Rick swallowed. He understood the reasoning, but that didn't make the news any easier to bear. "And now you're sure it's the real deal?"

"I know it is."

"So, when am I goin' to get to meet the guy?"

"We'll be in town until Sunday, then we're headin' off to Wyoming to check out a horse ranch. We're goin' to be havin' a little dinner at the barn on Friday. I want you to come and bring Carl."

Rick nodded. "Yeah, we can do that."

Daryl straightened himself up and Rick stood too. The two men stood chest to chest, the weight of their relationship hanging between them. "Rick, I'm sorry. This whole thang was more about me than it was about you. I didn't want you to think I was crazy or be disappointed in me."

"Jesus, Dixon," Rick laughed. "I feel like I've spent years disappointin' you. Your secret marriage to a man named Jesus ain't even a blip on my radar."

It was a lie, Rick knew it, Daryl probably knew it too. He also knew that nothing would keep him from supporting his best friend just as the man had done with him for so long. The hurt, just like the scent of newly stilled Georgia whiskey permeating the air around them, would have to be ignored.

Rick got to the First Baptist Church of Madison earlier much earlier than usual. The evening sun was only just beginning to settle behind the clouds and the sky was a beautiful, dusky orange color. He parked right next to the spot Michonne normally took. Dead center to the entrance of the church. He didn't expect the doors to be open yet and had no desire to sit inside the truck. Grabbing his keys, a bottle of water, and an old worn copy of East of Eden by John Steinbeck, Rick got out of the car and climbed into the bed of his truck. Slender legs dangling over the edge as more and more cars filled the parking lot, 15 minutes later, his reading was interrupted when he noticed Michonne's clean, white sedan pulling into the parking space next to him.

The sun had fallen even further, but her beauty was just as blinding as its rays would have been in the middle of the day. She was dressed a little more casually than usual. A crisp white t-shirt that read her bakery's name, a pair of tight black skinny jeans, and clean white sneakers. Her long locs were piled up on top of her head with a black and white checkered scarf tied around them. It was almost unbelievable, how beautiful she managed to look at the most ordinary of times.

"Hey," she smiled at him after pressing the automatic lock on her key fob and coming over to stand in front of where he sat.

"Hey there," Rick smiled back. He wanted to spread his legs a little farther apart and compel her to come stand between them. To feel her warm body pressed against his as the late summer breeze swirled around them. "How are you?"

"I'm alright," she said. "I thought I was supposed to save you a seat. What are you doing out here?"

Rick raised up the opened book in his hands. "Got carried away."

Gently, Michonne took the book out of his hands, Rick biting the inside of his cheek as their fingers brushed ever so slightly. She kept her small, slender thumb in place to keep the page as she flipped it closed and read the title. "Is it any good? I haven't read any Steinbeck since Of Mice and Men in high school. I'm more of an Octavia Butler and Alice Walker kind of girl."

"It's pretty good," Rick took the book as she handed it back to him, sitting it on the bed of his truck. "One of my favorites. Not as good as Kindred though."

They shared a small intimate smile before Rick looked over and noticed a large portion of their AA group congregated by the front entrance of the church. "Let's go see what's goin' on over there."

It took him seconds to stash the book and water in the front of his truck. His bare arm constantly brushing against Michonne's as they took strides across the parking lot. Neither of them got a chance to inquire about the small ruckus before the door opened. A small, older white woman peeked her head out front. "Sorry y'all," her voice was soft and frail, Rick had to strain to hear her. "The meetin' for today has been cancelled. Hershel had some personal family business come up and we don't have anyone who's…" she coughed. "Well equipped to take over the meetin' for the night."

"What about later in the week?" One of the men standing in front of her asked. "Should we even bother coming back?"

"As far as we know, Hershel should be back to host Friday's meetin'. If not, we'll post about it on the church's Facebook page beforehand. Now, if you'll excuse me I have some work to get back to. Y'all have a blessed night now."

Slowly, the crowd began to separate. Each person scattering back to their cars with malcontented grumbles falling from their lips. Rick turned to look at Michonne and noticed her furrowing her brows. He thought back to the conversation they'd had Saturday night. The one where she'd agreed to explore some type of...something with him. The meeting was canceled, and as disappointing as that was, Rick wanted to use it as an opportunity to take her up on her promise.

"Come get dinner with me," It wasn't a question, but both of them knew that Michonne had ample room to deny him. "I know a place around here with a burger that will knock your drawers off."

"My drawers?" She asked with a smirk.

"Right off."

Michonne laughed, a sweet low sound before she nodded her head. "Okay, sure. I'm hungry anyway. I'll just follow you there in my car I guess?"

"I'll take us and bring you back here after, save you some gas."

"You just love getting me in your truck, Grimes." She joked as she started walking towards the large black vehicle.

"What can I say, sweet thang. You were made for my passenger seat."

He couldn't stop the endearment from slipping out along with his bold statement. It had been on the tip of his tongue for weeks and it felt good as hell to finally let it out. Her back to him, Rick noticed her pause for a beat when she heard it. He half expected her to turn around to say something clever, but she didn't. She just flashed him a small smile over her shoulder before she continued the short distance to Rick's truck.

Even nearing 5-years-old Selma's was the newest restaurant in Madison. Diner style and situated in a train car, it was a favorite among locals. Rick had been there twice before, both times after meetings at First Baptist. The food was hearty, the service was good, and it lacked any and all pretension. The restaurant was relatively full when Rick and Michonne walked in. Aside from the numerous curious stares they were treated to upon arrival, they were seated relatively quickly in the booth Michonne requested.

Their teenage waitress, clad in cuffed greaser-style jeans and a black t-shirt brought their drinks and took their orders before disappearing, leaving them to stare alternatively at their menus and one another.

"Did you have a good day?" Michonne asked, her eyes still on the laminated paper in her hand.

"Yeah, it was alright," Rick replied, gaze focused on her. "I went by the office."

She looked up at him with those big, chocolatey eyes. "The distillery? How was that?"

Rick's first instinct was to downplay the issues he'd had earlier in the day. Sanitize his fears so as not to trouble her. Then, he remembered who he was sitting across from. Michonne was just about the only person he knew who could intimately understand the things he'd felt. He wanted to share those feelings with her, needed to even.

"You ever been to a distillery?"

She shook her head no.

"Well you can smell the alcohol as soon as you drive up," he continued. "And it doesn't go away. The closer you get, that alcohol starts smellin' like real whiskey. Once you're in the building, you might as well be staring straight down into a glass of the shit."

Michonne's eyes widened at the realization. "That sounds dangerous, Rick. Did you have to actually see any of it?"

"No, but somehow that made thangs even worse because I wanted to. So damn bad. And it was weird because I almost didn't recognize the feelin'."

"I feel that," she said, putting her menu down on the table. "It's like, sometimes you can forget about it. You can go hours or days without even thinking about drinking, then all of a sudden you're in the grocery store looking at some Maker's Mark and your mouth is watering like you haven't eaten a good meal in days."

Rick took a sip of his Coke. "It was exactly like that. Once I left, it the cravin' went away but I can't stop thinkin' about it. About how easy it would have been for me to…"

"Hey," Michonne interrupted him, reaching across the table to take his hand in hers and squeeze delicately. Rick closed his eyes at the feeling of her soft digits on his. "You didn't though, and that's the only thing that matters. That's something you can be proud of, Rick."

He shook his head. "I don't know…"

"It is. Trust me, learning how to accept and feel proud of personal progress is something I've been working on perfecting lately."

He couldn't help but smile at her. "How's that comin' along for you, exactly?"

Michonne rolled her eyes playfully, pulling her hand back much to Rick's regret. "It's not so easy to learn new things as an adult, Rick. Everybody knows that."

Just like that, she'd succeeded in making him feel better. She hadn't patronized him, pitied him, or given him useless advice. She'd only listened and told him what she knew. She was right too. He sure as hell didn't feel pride in his lack of relapse earlier that day, but at least he recognized that he should have - that his self-control in the wake of such temptation was a major step in the right direction.

"What about you?" He asked, breaking their silence. "What did you get up to today?"

"It wasn't nearly as exciting as yours. But I've been working on a recipe for a new chocolate cake that I feel like is finally ready to be introduced to our customers."

Rick ran in tongue over his pinks lips in an outwardly lascivious manner. He couldn't help but smirk as he saw Michonne's breathing deepen a bit as she watched the slick slide of it. "Chocolate cake, you say?"

"Yeah," her voice was a little shaky. "We've been using my same recipe since we opened. I feel like it's time for a change."

"What's so different about this new one then? Isn't all chocolate cake pretty much the same?"

Her eyes widened in offense. "No, Rick all chocolate cake is not the same. They all have their very own flavor profiles depending on the ingredients you use."

She became a little more passionate than normal when she spoke about her work. Rick wanted to keep the energy alive. "So, what's so special about your new one?"

"I'm not telling you all my secrets, Rick Grimes. But, long story short, it combines chocolate, coffee, and hazelnuts. It's extra decadent."

"Damn…"

"Yeah…" Michonne gushed back.

Rick caught her eyes from across the table. "I might have to make another drive down to Atlanta to get a slice or two of your chocolate cake."

She caught the innuendo and played along. "Maybe I'll make a special house call and bring some to you."

Their conversation was paused by their waitress bringing two plates of steaming burgers and fries to them. Both of them dug in immediately, Rick's jeans tightening around his dick as his ears were filled with the sounds of Michonne's low moans.

"Holy shit."

He nodded, his own mouth full of food.

"This may be the best burger I've ever had," she continued.

"I know," Rick agreed. "It's juicy as hell."

"Shiiiit," she took another large bite, so big that it made Rick laugh. "We have to come back here."

"I'll bring you anytime you want, sweet thang."

Michonne didn't seem so keen to let the endearment slide twice. Immediately, Rick's hackles raised, afraid that he had pushed a little too far.

"You and that nickname," she said softly. "Where did that even come from?"

"You're a sweet little thang who makes sweet little thangs," he told her. "It fits."

Her eyes and lips widened. "I am not a sweet little 'thang'."

"Yeah you are, you may not want to admit it, but you are. Sweet as goddamn cherry pie and all but tiny, Michonne Clement."

Michonne swallowed harshly and popped a fry in her mouth, chewing slowly and silently. "I don't think anyone has called me sweet since I was a little girl."

"Well, they must not have been seein' you clearly, because you are."

Her eyes were bright as she stared at him from across the table. "How do you always do that?"

"Do what?" He asked, genuinely confused.

"Make me feel..." She paused. "Make me forget that I'm not supposed to be rushing my feelings for you."

It was one of the rawest, most honest things she'd ever said to him and Rick had to flex his hands to keep from reaching out and drawing her into him.

"I'm not tryin' to make you forget yourself, Michonne. I just don't want you to doubt the fact that my feelings for you have been here for a while and they ain't goin' nowhere. I ain't goin' nowhere."

She let out a little curse under her breath. It was quiet, but Rick caught it. "You're too damn slick for your own good."

"Not slick, just honest."

She rolled her eyes at him again. "Keep playing, we'll see if I ever grace you with my company over dinner again."

Rick perked up, suddenly recognizing his next chance to take her out. "Speaking of. How about you join me this Friday?"

"Join you where?"

He reddened a bit and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck to calm himself down. "My best friend is havin' a little get together over. Just a few friends, nothin' special. But I want you to come. I know Carl would love it."

"I don't know, Rick…"

"I promise it's not a big deal," he was lying without remorse. "Very casual. Now, you don't have to come if you don't want to, but I figured I'd extend the offer."

She kept her eyes on him, narrowing briefly before she took a long, drawn out sip of her pink lemonade. "Fine," she answered finally, causing Rick to release a breath he didn't know he was holding in. "But only because I want to see cute little Carl again."

"You know what, I ain't even mad at that."