A/N: 8 hour flights are good for writing! I hope you enjoy! Thank you for all of the positive feedback! Let me know what you think!
"You two think you won this one?"
Milton Mamet's nasally inflections shattered the tranquility of the moment. Michonne hastily wiped her face, rubbing away the remnants of her tears. Her back nearly hit the vending machine behind her. She was still reeling from emotions of the day, free falling. Rick had pulled her away from the courtroom minutes ago, away from the jury, the judge, the spectators, the press, away from everyone. She did not stop him. She was so exhausted that it was a wonder she could stand up.
"What did you say?" Rick turned around in the narrow lounge, putting himself between Michonne and Milton. Venom laced his words. His face, now creased in irritation, had been the picture perfect example of All-American southern manners not an hour ago. She'd woken up three days ago in an empty but comfortable bed to be greeted with the sight of a clean shaven Rick. Through the whole ordeal of the trial he looked very much the way he had six months ago, when he was an officer of the law, the night Mike was killed. Michonne found that she preferred his beard. Still, she'd spent every subsequent night at his house, feeling safer in his presence than she did alone.
"I said," Milton began again, tilting his chin up defiantly, "You two think you've won? A guilty verdict doesn't mean anything. We're going to appeal."
"Good for you," Rick cut his eyes at Blake's lawyer, turning back to Michonne. He touched her arm, gently steering her to grab her bag. She was angry, but had no strength now to fight. She said her piece in the courtroom, to the jury, and to the reporters outside. She had no words left for a man so small as Milton Mamet. The culmination of six months of anxiety was weighing on her. Michonne wanted to be anywhere but still in this courthouse.
She stepped closer to Rick, ready to leave. "Let's go," she told him.
Rick nodded, furious, but as compliant to her wishes as always.
"Look at you," Milton scoffed, his voice raising in timbre. "How long was your husband dead before you started sleeping together?" He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "I bet you were screwing before he even died! Who makes friends with a cop who watched her husband die—"
Rick moved faster than either Milton or Michonne could anticipate. She was just able to catch Rick's arm before he landed his hit. Her fingers curled around his bicep and she yanked. Milton flinched, falling backwards against a folding table as though Rick had actually struck him. Michonne rolled her eyes.
"Don't," she warned Rick. She would give Mamet no ammunition to fuel his hateful fire, would not allow Rick to become a target. He'd been grilled enough up on that witness stand as it was. She had watched for the better part of a week as everything from his service record to his marriage and personal life had been peeled apart in front of the jury. When Mike proved to be above reproach, even in death, the defense team tried to paint Rick as an emotionally unstable widower, an unreliable witness who projected his pain onto Michonne. Perhaps they did share a pain now, but it was neither of their doings. Up on the stand, Rick's stoicism and charm had been marvelous. Now, he seemed seconds away from a long overdue breakdown. "Rick," she rubbed his arm, massaging gently, "Let's go."
Rick paused, glancing back at Michonne. He was flushed, his face creased in anger. There was a dangerous edge to him and Michonne knew if she couldn't stop him now, he'd likely beat Milton to death in the break room of the state courthouse. "C'mon," she tried again, tugging at him.
Rick dropped his arm. He seized Michonne's bag. She coaxed it gently from his hand, leading them both past a red faced Milton.
"I'll be seeing you again!" He yelled after them. Michonne did not slow down until they made it to Rick's truck. Rick opened the door for her, helping her in before slamming the door on his own side. He proceeded to unleash the most ungentlemanly wave of curse words that Michonne had ever heard from him.
"Pencil-dick, cowardly, racist, mother-fucking prick!" Rick wrapped up his tirade, pausing for a breath. "He's lucky I didn't have a gun," Rick punched the dashboard. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving.
Beside him, Michonne began to laugh. The gesture caught both of them off guard. Rick stared at her, wide eyed as her chuckles escalated, tears steaming down her face.
"Michonne," his rant ended abruptly. "I'm sorry—"
"Rick," Michonne reached for him. His hand was warm beneath her fingers. "Fuck Milton," she echoed his sentiment. Blake had left that courthouse in handcuffs. His charges carried a minimum sentence of 10 years. It would never be enough, but it was more than she dared hope for.
Rick stared at her in shock. "Michonne, are you ok?" He asked cautiously.
She laughed again, a gurgling, watery sound and wiped her face, makeup rubbing into her eyes. Rick reached over her, opening his glove compartment and handing her a crumpled drive-thru napkin wordlessly. She accepted it, cleaning mascara tracks from her face.
"We won," she said. "Blake is going to jail."
"But Milton is going to—"
"Fuck him," she repeated, louder this time. "My husband was murdered, Rick. His killer is going to prison. Do you think I care what some pencil-dick lawyer says?" She borrowed his phrasing. Milton could appeal endlessly for all she cared. They both knew he didn't have a leg to stand on.
"So, you're ok?" Rick asked, clearly worried.
"No, not at all," Michonne answered honestly. "But we got some justice today." She flipped down his sun visor, wiping at her skin, inspecting her appearance in the small embedded mirror, and tried to ignore Rick's measured stare.
Rick considered this, drumming his hands on the steering wheel.
"Michonne..." he began.
"I really want to eat," she told him. "I want French fries."
"French fries," Rick repeated. She thought he might call her crazy, but he nodded. "Anything else?"
"A brownie," Michonne felt ravenous for the first time in months. "With ice cream." He considered this.
"All right," Rick started the truck. "I know a place."
The mom and pop diner hadn't been remodeled since it opened sometime in the 70s. The vinyl booth felt sticky, the table wobbled, and the fluorescent lighting could induce a seizure. The coffee was burnt, her head hurt, and Mike was still dead.
But Phillip Blake was going to prison, Rick remembered that she preferred barbecue sauce to ketchup with her fries, and he agreed that they should eat dessert first. That was something.
"You know," he ventured, setting down his spoon. "Mamet...he isn't the only one who's asking about our relationship."
"I know," she took another bite. The brownie was too hot, burning the roof of her mouth, but the ice cream on top of it was like a soothing balm. Michonne scooped more into her mouth.
"I don't care what they say about me," Rick sounded like he believed it. "But I don't want them talking about you."
Michonne sighed. "They've been talking about me my whole life, Rick," she reminded him. "But I know what you mean." Even her mother had wondered aloud about Michonne's friendship with the former officer. Michonne questioned it herself often. None of the questions mattered. It all amounted to the same thing: Rick was the best friend she'd ever had. "We're friends," she told him certainly.
"Do you think we would have been if Blake hadn't—" he stopped.
"Hard to say," Michonne looked at Rick. "I can't say I'd ever have been in Kings County if I could help it. And I wish a million times I would have made Mike take a flight to Mississippi instead of driving. But—" she paused. Rick was hanging on her every word. She ventured a small smile at him. "I think you and Mike would have liked each other a lot."
He looked pleased at that. "I wish to God if have met him under different circumstances. Met you under different circumstances."
"Me too," Michonne said simply.
A silence stretched between them. "I'm thinking of moving," Rick said. "For Carl. Lori's family is in Virginia and..." he broke off, rubbing his head in distress. "Less people know there. Carl and I can start over." He paused to look at her. "You could come. You and Andre."
Michonne felt her heart clench. "My mom says Andre is doing well in California," she began. "I think we could both use the break." She needed family right now. She needed time.
"Makes sense," Rick nodded. He picked at their French fries. "I'll miss you," he said suddenly, looking up at her.
"I'll call," she promised him. She knew she would one day. "And I will miss you too."
Beneath the table, he reached for her hand, squeezing. Michonne squeezed back.
"We should get pancakes," Rick glanced at the plastic menu. "Want to split?"
"I do," Michonne agreed, eating the last bit of brownie.