Chapter Eight

Michonne stared at the box in front of her, still as stone and barely able to fight the onset of that familiar deadness spreading through her insides.

In many ways, the last week had brought relief: the court appearance and subsequent legal victory, the defeat of the Governor and elimination of Woodbury as an immediate threat. Everyone around her was tired but optimistic. It was nice to have the room to breathe after the last few tense months.

It had all come at a steep cost, though, and it hit Michonne the hardest.

Woodbury was on its way to being no more, dissolved amidst a massive scandal. The Governor had skipped town, leaving most of his employees to take the fall for his misdeeds: the illegal contracts, the extortion rings, the running of guns and drugs through their company. The executives he'd roped into his inner circle when he'd gone on the attack against AGD were all now facing criminal charges, left to hang for their part in the nefarious operations. Maybe some of them would escape serious punishment given that the Governor had certainly deceived many of them in the process of gaining their participation. But many of them also had known that they were working on the fringes of legality and had gone forward anyway instead of speaking out against it. Perhaps they feared for their jobs and genuinely believed they were doing what was best for the Woodbury, not that it mattered when they were the ones left holding the ball.

As for everyone else left in the ruins of the company, Rick had insisted they hire some of the laid off workers for AGD and was waiting on the Board's all but sure approval for it. There had been more serious casualties though—the officers injured when they'd closed in on Woodbury's organized crime connections and the narrow escape of the whistleblower who'd finally confirmed the Governor's true intentions. Then there was the most shocking fallout of all: the Governor's second-in-command, Milton, turning up dead in his office, a gunshot wound to the head.

They found Andrea a few feet away, unable to make it out of the room as she bled out from a fatal shot to the neck and shoulder.

It was anyone's guess what had gone down; Andrea had died in the ambulance before they could even stabilize her for transport to the hospital, much less get any answers. When Michonne rushed to her side, there were no last words as the normally stoic woman wept for her dear friend. Only that familiar smile and a weak squeeze of her hand passed between them before the end.

It had the Governor's machinations written all over it. Michonne wiped at the extraneous tear that escaped as she relived that tragic scene.

Right before the gruesome discovery, she'd been with Daryl and Rick, along with a newer Woodbury employee Tyreese—apparently, he and his sister escaped the company's fallout by opting out at the last minute when things didn't feel right. The small group of them had been outside waiting to give statements to the police who were still investigating what had happened. Speckled and smeared with Andrea's blood after leaving her body to the paramedics, Michonne returned to them as they loitered a short distance from the ambulance. Her two employers tried to be supportive. But seeing Andrea like that in the end had gutted her. She'd broken down right in front of them, too distraught to care about the veiled shock on their faces.

It had taken her many minutes to pull herself together, to walk away and reach for the numbness she thought she'd packed away. Thankfully, it hadn't receded too far inside her during the weeks spent at AGD. It had hovered at the front of her emotional reserve, somehow knowing she'd need it soon.

She'd thought they'd find a way to come out on the other end, she and Andrea. Yes, she'd been angry and hurt by her; she'd known that the resolution to their situation wouldn't be pretty and wondered if they'd ever recover their friendship. The option of not surviving, though, hadn't crossed her mind. It shouldn't have had to.

Now they're both ghosts, one released into the hereafter and she doomed to walk alone. Again.

That led her to this moment, a week later. The dust had settled. Andrea's affairs had been handed off to her family, her sister Amy taking over all of the arrangements, including the discrete service they'd held for her the day before. Michonne kept her practicality about her and thought it best to start closing the door on this part of her life.

Yet she sat in her temporary office at her temporary way station of a job, stalled and lacking the inertia to take that next step. Her weight took the form of the box in front of her from Andrea's Woodbury office, her effects and things she'd brought with her from their business. Someone had delivered it several days ago. Michonne hadn't opened it.

The box's existence stifled the atmosphere of her office, untouched except to move it to the corner of the room and then to her desk. Michonne simply bore silent witness to the remnants of her and her friend's former partnership. The hours passed with her doing busy work, trying her best to ignore the ticking time bomb waiting in her very tiny space. She didn't even know what was inside, but its presence threatened to invade her every move and thought, intent on defying her distance as it once more became this known thing.

She'd heard the cars coming and going outside of her window, now mostly going as the workday had ended a while ago. She'd heard the people pass back and forth on the other side of her door, the occasional cadence slowing as someone contemplated knocking. No one ever did. They left her to her processing. It's not like she expected anyone anyway. AGD had come close to using her as bait against the Governor, had put a plan into action carried out by Merle and ultimately leading to his death. They'd done it with Rick's approval and Hershel and Daryl's acquiescence. Their inability to go through with it in the end only slightly softened the sting of that. Although she accepted that they had to consider it—had eased Rick's mind on the matter for the sake of both their consciouses—it's not something easily forgotten.

Her status here couldn't even be categorized as an official employee. With the dissolution of Woodbury and the end to their emergency tactics to fight them, it was questionable how much longer she'd be around. Sure, they'd extended her contract for the standard six weeks—they'd been doing the six-week clause extension since she started. But she hadn't responded to Rick or HR yet. It might be better to just sever ties right now, move out of the area and get on with her life. She'd endured too much tragedy here. Abandoning Atlanta had been about leaving all of that heartache behind, not causing more.

This indecision felt awful and so unlike her. Her hesitance to abandon these people made no sense. She didn't really have a relationship with anyone that wasn't borne out of convenience, except for Daryl, perhaps, who'd kept a respectful but ever-present distance around her at all times. It probably had more to do with his sense of obligation for the company they'd shared after Merle's death than anything else.

A knock at the door startled her.

Before waiting for a response, the door opened and Daryl entered her office. The lights beyond him had been dimmed, signaling that they were one of the few people left on the floor. Most of the offices that she could see were darkened and there was no activity beyond what the mostly silent man caused himself as he walked towards her.

In his hand he held a bottle of whiskey. Despite her dark mood, Michonne smiled.

Had it only been a few weeks since he'd lost his brother in a similar manner and she'd shown up at his office with that moonshine, understanding that he was hurting in this way that most people could not understand? He didn't strike her as the kind of guy who needed a hug or a kind word. He simply needed to be. And she'd like to think she'd helped him with that. It hadn't been with the expectation of anything in return, just a genuine desire to give him some silent support.

When she'd dropped him off at his house, she'd gotten the distinct feeling that, in his drunken state, he'd been considering another more physical kind of distraction to numb his pain. That would have been disastrous, and deep down he'd known that too. But she'd been tempted. The look in his eyes before he'd apologized reached into her soul and took hold. She wasn't the only one who recognized the quiet appeal of Daryl Dixon, the unconventional good looks, the strong physique and rugged charm. Part of his desirability was that he had no idea how enticing he came across. So when he'd reached for her, she imagined letting him touch her, letting him guide her to his bed and clumsily explore her in his drunken state until he got what he needed to bring him a little peace. It might have brought her some peace as well. It was the idea of what came after that ultimately made her fight against the impulse. They worked together, even temporarily, and there was no going back from an affair like that.

So instead, she'd made sure he got tucked in and then took her leave. The next time she saw him, it'd returned to business as usual. They weren't buddies nor did they act more familiar. They behaved as if nothing noteworthy had transpired between them. But that night had changed things, if only subtly.

Instead of setting the bottle on her desk and taking a seat, Daryl stared down at her.

"Where are the glasses?" she asked, noticing that his other hand stood empty. Drinking straight from the bottle was certainly his style and he'd poked fun at her a few times for being prissier than he could tolerate.

Daryl went around her desk and reached for her arm, pulling her to stand. "Don't need no glass. Come on." When she'd grabbed her bag to follow, he lifted the box from her desk and led her out of the room.

Michonne wondered why they didn't just have their drink in her office, sparse and depressing as it was. Not that his office was any better. Maybe he thought to head to AGD's small cafeteria where they'd find something to drink out of. At the end of the hallway, he called for the elevator but instead of hitting the button for the lobby or the cafeteria, he hit the top floor.

The roof. She'd never been there but she had heard of other employees going up there to smoke or gossip, sometimes even to eat their lunch when the weather was mild.

As they stepped onto the rough, uneven surface of the open space, a soft gust of wind immediately caressed her across the cheek. The evening air was warm but pleasantly humid. From their vantage point, they could see the mostly empty parking lot, save for a smattering of vehicles, her SUV and his truck included. It surprised her that he hadn't come in on Merle's motorcycle that he'd taken to driving to and from work.

Daryl didn't linger in that direction. He walked them to the other side of the space and set the bottle on the ground in front of a sturdy bench that looked out into the wooded exterior of the building. It wasn't what she'd expected, but the beautiful view demanded her attention.

The sun hadn't fully set and shades of lilac and coral streaked across the sky. The smattering of white clouds darkened at the horizon until all that brightness faded into the night and blended with the tops of the trees swaying in the wind. To one side, the occasional sign of civilization peeked out from the natural landscape: the back entrance to the facility, a dirt road leading out to the fields. To the other side, the tree line gave way to brush and then to well-worn lawn and on through to concrete and steel.

And rght next to her, sitting on the modest bench and leaning down to deposit the box on the ground, sat a simple man and a reciprocal bottle of liquor he offered to ease her overwhelming grief.

Michonne placed her bag to the side and took a seat next to him. Not speaking a word, Daryl opened up the bottle and took a swig before passing it over to her. She gingerly took the whiskey and followed his shot with a burning swallow of her own. They did this for a while until the sky inked out and the stars chased the last of the twilight beyond the curve of the earth.

They went back and forth with the bottle for a while, getting more and more relaxed as they went. After a time, Daryl called it quits, but Michonne kept going. She needed the courage to go through the box at their feet, the last traces of her friend and the life they lived intensely for what seemed like an incredibly short time.

It was Daryl who took the lid off of the box, glancing over at her to make sure it was okay.

The first item he pulled out was a shawl. It was actually Michonne's shawl that she'd kept in the tiny office they shared before Woodbury and AGD. Back then, their worries were the usual mundane matters of making rent and getting their next client. They'd pull the occasional all-nighter in that little office, and Andrea had always made it feel like a girl's night in rather than a work deadline. And her friend always insisted that they keep the heat low to save money but would often not dress warmly enough for the workday. She constantly stole Michonne's shawl until finally Michonne just forgot to ask for it back, and it ended up living with Andrea.

Michonne smiled as Daryl handed it over for her to inspect, looking back into the box that he'd placed between them. He then pulled out the keys to that tiny office space and a stack of their old business cards. Michonne picked one up and thought of all the missed opportunities, all the dreams they talked of that just evaporated at the first sign of trouble. They'd been friends before they were business partners and it seemed such a damn shame that it ended the way it did. A solitary tear slid down her cheek at the reflection.

There were a few more odds and ends, more items that Michonne had had no idea that Andrea would tote around: a tacky cat paperweight that Michonne had given her and also the soft-covered planner that Andrea favored over electronic calendaring. They were little reminders of the ways in which she'd known the woman better than most anyone else. Had Phillip Blake understood her bullet method of task management or the code she used for marking important events? Had he bothered to figure out when she was most likely to want to leave work early and get pedicures and ice cream cones?

Daryl pulled out the final item and whistled to himself. She'd forgotten about the bottle of wine.

Michonne reached for it and the tears began again. Seeing this brought it all home, the loss, the regret, the love, the hate and the abandonment; the failure to reconcile until it was too late. She ran her fingers over the label.

"We were supposed to open this when we felt like we'd finally made it together, not just freelancing and taking on a few projects but when we really established ourselves. We had all these plans …"

Daryl nodded. Retrieving the wine bottle from her, he put it back in the box with the rest of the items and closed it up. He reached into his back pocket and took out a brightly colored handkerchief and handed it to her. She wasn't quite sobbing but she was close to it and she spared a fleeting thought that she must look a mess to him.

"You should keep it," he said as she dabbed at her eyes. "The wine, I mean. When you think you done right by her, you can have yourself a glass." He bit his lip and bowed his head, no doubt sensing the embarrassed blush rise across his face. Cutting his eyes to her briefly, he grinned. "You gotta save me a little though. That looks like some good shit, right there."

Michonne laughed lightly; she couldn't help it. They both knew he didn't know anything about fine wine. This new lightness wasn't just a reaction to his joke, though. Rather, it reflected her relief because he got it. He understood.

Removing the box from the bench, Daryl returned it to the ground and pushed it underneath them where they couldn't see it. He made no move to get up. In fact, he draped an arm along the back of the bench and stretched his legs out in a casual and comfortable manner. Her eyes continued to leak tears but they were receding slowly. The handkerchief he'd handed her smelled of a crisp freshness and that delicious musky scent that she associated with him.

After a few moments of sniffling and wiping at her cheeks, she noticed movement next to her as Daryl dropped his arm from where it had rested next to her. He'd drawn it into himself but not fully. The limb hung between them, arched awkwardly near her. Just as she processed the action, he reached over and took her hand, not looking at her as he did; a study of his expression showed a contradictory mix of uncertainty and absolute resolve. His hand felt cool in hers but was rapidly warming as she held fast to him, hoping he wouldn't reconsider and pull away. Understandably, his grip conveyed both companionship and tension. His shoulders sat tightly coiled and his eyes would flicker down before squinting off into the distance despite the sun's long ago departure.

The contact hadn't been something she'd asked for or had even thought about as they sat together on the bench. But the moment he'd offered it, it seemed like yet another way in which he intuited exactly what she needed. Michonne readjusted so that their fingers intertwined and still he remained next to her, not facing her and with a gaze searching beyond the horizon.

She remembered another faraway look from him those few short weeks ago as she sat at the edge of his bed and gazed down at him. Again, she remembered that undeniable pull towards him that night, one that had started crawling up her spine once more the moment he'd walked into her office with that bottle.

As these unfiltered thoughts drifted in and out of her mind, Michonne wondered if maybe they should stop drinking together.

Yet their ability to pull each other from the edge suggested just the opposite. She realized it would disappoint her to surrender the emotional stability he'd brought her tonight. That this felt so completely unlike her was unsettling and she pushed that to the side as well.

They continued to sit in this realm of compartmentalized closeness, accepting the persistence of life around them despite their recent losses. As the minutes crept by, the urge to move closer into his warmth grew stronger. The whiskey bottle sat at her side. She'd slowed her pace but still took a drink every now and then with her free hand to keep from seeking a similarly wicked satisfaction from the man sitting beside her. Eventually, Daryl had relaxed his hold on her and allowed the natural comfort to flow between them; despite her tipsy state, she had more sense than to scare him away by being too aggressive. Even during this short time knowing each other, she'd gotten an idea of his preference for keeping people at arm's length unless he invited them in.

On the other hand, being a source of strength and an outlet for grief, reaching for someone's hand? That's invitation enough, isn't it? How can a person offer an opening like that and then shut out the inevitable plea to get closer? How could she hold back when that grief recedes in the presence of this person at her side who fills her up in inexplicable ways?

The lilting intoxication swayed to and fro inside her body as she lost herself in the weight of his hand surrounding hers. She wanted to move next to him, lay her head at his shoulder and curl into his body. Maybe he'd put his arms around her, and she'd allow this man she realized she'd come to trust protect her from everything, including herself.

Instead of doing any of this, she took another swig from the bottle.

Hours after he first strolled into her office, he drove her home in his truck. As her head rested against the window, the world already spinning from all the alcohol, she allowed her pull towards him to maintain its hold on her. She thought of asking him to come up to her apartment, into her home and into her bed; stay with her and help her forget the past week ever happened. She could so easily get lost in a man like him, so genuine and uncomplicated but deep nonetheless. At his core, he remained kind despite the scars of a hard life.

But those were also the reasons she refrained from asking, especially in her inebriated state.

When he pulled up to her building she assured him she could get to her front door without incident and left him at the curb. As she stumbled into the lobby and into the elevator, she saw that he waited at her front step still. Entering her apartment, she turned on the light switch and just happened to look out of her window in time to see him hold his spot for a beat and then drive off, assured that she'd successfully gotten in safely.

She washed up and plugged her phone into its charger. She noticed the blinking light indicating a text message. Daryl.

Pick you up tomorrow. Call me when you get up.

Michonne smiled. Daryl Dixon was a keeper, for sure. She sighed. Maybe they all were, Rick, Carl and the Greene family; all the rest of the AGD crew she'd grown to genuinely like. Andrea would want her to stay around people at a time like this.

Especially someone like Daryl—or so she convinced herself before drifting into a listless slumber where his hand touching hers was only the beginning.

TBC …

AN: I promise I'm done with the melancholy chapters for a bit. The next series of scenes takes us into new territory, one that's a lot more relaxed and fun as Michonne and Daryl get to know each other even better. I'm hoping to get that chapter up in a few days. Also, since I'm not using a beta for this, apologies for any typos or wonkiness.

As always, thanks for reading and hang in there!