A/N: Turns out I wasn't quite done with this one. The good news about waiting for a hurricane is that you have tons of uninterrupted time inside to write. So without further ado... Here's chapter 2.
Look forward to one or two more chapters, coming soon. Let me know what you think!
"You're tired," it was not a question.
Michonne blinked at the man beside her. Officer Rick Grimes was peering at her with those piercing blue eyes of his.
"I'm all right," Michonne protested. Inconveniently, her body disagreed, choosing to betray her by releasing the largest yawn known to man.
Rick's face creased as he shot her his best skeptical look. "Michonne…" he sighed. "We've been at this for 6 hours," one glance at his phone confirmed this. "You need to rest."
"I can work a few more hours," Michonne assured him. Stamina she had in droves, developed over many all-nighters at law school and her first few years of motherhood.
"I've no doubt you can," Rick reached for his half empty glass of water, draining it. "But we're going to be in court tomorrow and you need to be sharp."
"I'm always sharp," it came out harsher than she meant it to. Rick recoiled a bit, but recovered quickly.
"I know that," he kept his voice amenable, "You've been working on this for months, Michonne. The best thing you can do now is get some rest."
"They're going to grill me tomorrow," she was terse, irritable. "I need to be ready."
He reached for her, laying his hand on top of hers. Michonne paused, looking at it. Since she'd cried in his arms that fateful night six month ago, Rick had refrained from so much as rubbing shoulders with her. Michonne knew why. Guilt haunted his every step, colored their every interaction. She pretended that it didn't bother her, the way he tip toed on egg shells around her, around Andre. In reality, it was a stark reminder of the reality of her situation. The most faithful friend she'd had in six months was an officer in the precinct that had killed her husband.
"Michonne, you're ready," he told her, applying light pressure. "There ain't a better lawyer than you in 10,000 miles—"
"That's not true," she cut Rick off, the first tendrils of a panic attack beginning to seize her. She inhaled shakily. "Blake's lawyer is notorious for getting guys like him off." Milton Mamet had built his reputation on protecting officers like Phillip Blake. He was the pale, unassuming face seen in the background of America's most notorious trials. "I have to be ready for anything Mamet throws at me…" she attempted to pull her hand back and return to her work. Rick held fast.
"Michonne," he began again, his thumb rubbing patterns into her skin. "Look at me," he instructed gently.
The palpitations were beginning again, the shortness of breath, the terror looming over her. She rocked dizzily in her seat, clutching the edge of Rick's kitchen table with her free hand. Never before had a panic attack seized her in another's presence. She felt mortified, weak.
"I'm sorry," she gasped.
She could hear the faint sounds of Rick's kitchen chair scraping across the hardwood beneath the thrumming in her ears. He released her hand and Michonne was quick to pull it back to her chest. She did not count on him bending down mere inches from her, caressing the back of her head.
"Michonne," he leaned towards her, tilting her chin up. "Look at me," he repeated. "Look at me and breathe."
"I'm ok," she told him, still shaking.
"Of course you are," he smiled at her. It was just a faint twist of the lips, barely of flash of teeth, but Michonne's eyes were immediately drawn to it. She had never seen Officer Rick Grimes smile in half of a year. "I just want you to breathe with me, ok?" he said soothingly. "In and out," he took a deep breath by way of example.
Michonne imitated him. She exhaled shakily.
"Good," he praised her. "Good," his hand slid down her arm, trapping her wrist. Her pulse fluttered against his fingers. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
"I'll be ok," Michonne assured him, inhaling and exhaling in a measured rhythm.
"That's not what I asked," Rick said. He released her, reaching behind him to drag his chair closer. He dropped himself back into the seat, looking at her expectantly.
Michonne stared back, "How am I feeling?" she asked, incredulous.
"Yes," he said simply. He leaned over, elbow on the table, cradling his head in one hand. Michonne stared back at him. He looked…disheveled, tired. His hair, normally slicked back and tidy, hung in loose curls around his face. He had the makings of an impressive beard dusting his cheeks, and bags beneath his eyes.
"You need to clean up before tomorrow," she managed to say.
He chuckled, almost in disbelief. "Michonne, you know I will," he fixed her with that stare of his again. "We're not talking about me. I asked about you."
"Me," Michonne let out a broken chuckle. "How am I feeling?" she repeated. "Let me see," she began, borderline frantic, "my husband is dead, our son walks around carrying all this grief, and his murderer has the best damn lawyer in the country." She inhaled, gaining steam. "And tomorrow, tomorrow I have to get up, I have to stand in front of a judge, and a jury of white people who have no idea the kind of man Mike was, and I have to convince them to give Mike justice." She began to shake again, pressure releasing behind her eyes all at once. "And even if I do all of that, if I do the impossible, Mike still isn't coming back."
She began to cry in earnest, the tears escaping without her permission. In front of her, Rick grew blurry. She felt his hand on hers once more, the calloused surface warm and surprisingly comforting.
"It ain't fair," he stated the obvious, his voice heavy. "You didn't deserve this hand, but no matter what happens tomorrow," he squeezed, drawing her attention back to him. "You are going to be all right. You're the hardest working, most intelligent, most deserving woman I know. And you're going to keep right on being that. But you need to rest, Michonne. Andre can't lose you too."
"What would you know?" it was unkind perhaps, but she could not help the question from slipping past her lips. Rick was not offended.
"My wife wasn't killed, true," Rick said, "but she did die. And our baby with her." He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "I didn't even know she was pregnant until the autopsy report."
Michonne froze, tears still wet on her cheeks. "I didn't know," she said.
Rick ventured a weak smile. "I never told you," he said simply. "Its hard to talk about."
For months, she hadn't given much thought to Rick's personal situation. She knew he had a son, a bright, polite boy with a winning grin. Andre had taken to him immediately. Michonne had supposed that his mother was elsewhere, a weekends and holidays type parent. "How did—" she began.
"Car accident." Rick swallowed. "There were plenty of times in that first year where it felt like I couldn't breathe. Sometimes I wished I'd just stop altogether," he confided. "But I have Carl, just like you have Andre."
"Does it get better?" she asked.
"You learn to live with it. Some days its hard, others…" he shrugged. "But you need to take care of yourself. You can't be strong all of the time," he reminded her.
Michonne sat quietly, processing this. "Maybe you're right," she said.
Rick pressed his advantage. "You've worked on this nonstop for half a year. You've prepared every argument, counter argument, opening and closing statements, cross examinations," he listed them on his fingers. "No one is more ready for this than you. Rest now," he told her.
She nodded, feeling the exhaustion of half a year collapse on her suddenly. "Maybe I should go home," she said. Andre was with his grandparents, 2,500 miles away in Sacramento. She wanted him far from this three ring circus, far from their scrutinizing glances, far from the Kings County police department.
"No chance," Rick stood up. "You're dog tired, and I'm not leaving you alone tonight," his tone left no room for argument. "I have a spare room. You can rest there. I'll drive you home in the morning, and then we'll go to court," he paused. "Together."
It hit her in this moment, just how much Rick had sacrificed. He'd been there beside her, an immovable object, even when his fellow officers berated and threatened him, when he was fired under some false pretense, when his son came home from school, claiming he'd been followed. Rick had endured all of this without complaint, for Mike. For her.
"All right," she nodded, wiping at her face.
He looked surprised for half a moment before he helped her to her feet. She knew the lay of his home by now, but did not stop him from showing her the bathroom, where the spare towels were kept. She accepted a pair of gray sweatpants and a worn Braves t-shirt from him as pajamas. She washed her face and brushed her teeth with the toothbrush she'd taken to carrying in her purse. He bid her goodnight quietly.
Michonne laid awake in Rick's guest bedroom, her head on the worn but comfortable pillow, listening to the sounds of the shower. The house was unbelievably quiet, almost eerily so. She wondered where Carl was tonight, whether Rick had send him away like Andre. She wondered if Rick was worried too, for himself, for his son, for what life would be like if they lost. She could hear him stepping out of the bathroom, padding to his bedroom across the hall. She stared at the ceiling, unable to rest, wondering how many nights that Rick had done the same.
She was across the hall and knocking on his door a few moments later, almost in a trance. He opened it, bewildered.
"Michonne," Rick said in surprise, quickly pulling on a faded brown t-shirt. "Are you all right?"
"Couldn't sleep," she swallowed. "It's too quiet," she told him. "Too empty."
He looked at her hard for a moment. "Do you want to come in?" he asked cautiously. Michonne nodded. He stepped back at once.
Rick's bedroom was modest, adorned only with necessities and a family portrait on the dresser. Michonne recognized a young Carl at once. She paused to look at the waifish young woman holding him.
"Lori," Rick said simply, following her gaze.
Michonne walked closer, bending to look. "She's pretty," she announced.
"She was," Rick agreed. "A good mother too."
"You were so young," Michonne observed. She almost couldn't believe it. They looked like country Barbie and Ken, bright-eyed, bushy tailed, and fresh-faced.
"Too young, maybe," Rick mused. Still, he smiled. "C'mon," he directed Michonne away from the photograph of his old life. Instead, he drew back the covers on one side of the bed. Michonne climbed in, refusing to think about it.
"Where's Carl?" she asked as Rick settled next to her.
He left a respectable distance between them, rolling to his side to face her. "With grandma and grandpa in Virginia," he said simply. "Andre?"
"California," Michonne replied. Her eyes felt heavy already. The bed was filled with Rick's comforting scent, with the warmth from his body.
"Sleep," he instructed. He touched her again, a slight caress as he pulled the blanket over her.
Michonne obeyed.