A/N: I know I'm not the only one having a hard time waiting for richonne, so here is a reunion fic. WARNING: it is full of spoilers, and I can't say which part is spoilers but you were warned, so proceed at your own risk. I will do my best to update this fic at least every two weeks since I'm busy being a mommy now, but please enjoy it in the meantime, share your excitement for "The Ones Who Live" and leave me some feedback if you can. Love, MP
Her laugh- music. Her smile- a glimpse of paradise. The petite, lithe curves of her lean, dark body spread across his bed made a deep cavern in his belly ache with heat. His room was brilliantly bright, and the pale daze surrounding them was sunrise yellow. She was there with him again, at last, but he could hardly see her.
" You're not with me." he murmured at the realization, hearing her faded laughter heighten, watching her perfect teeth shine. " You're not here."
Slowly, his eyes opened, reality setting in. He was alone, in his bed, in his room inside the civic republic, and another alluring dream about Michonne was behind him. A lump in his throat swelled. The ache of missing her never truly spared him. He had tried to hide her and wait on her hand and foot in the warm rooms of his mind where she remained a pleasant long-term memory, a haven. But often she would burst through the temporal doors of his upper story, and take a limbic stroll in the pathways of his psyche, asking questions, demanding answers...
And when Rick was really out of it- when he had completely lost it- she was right in front of him, as clear as day, kissing him, encouraging him, the way she had on the bridge... before their last moment together. Every day, it was a little bit harder to get out of bed. Rick longed to remember what it felt like to have Michonne's support. What her body felt like wrapped around his again, her words firm but soft... sweet, her skin smooth... her-
" Rick! " A knocking came at the door, and Rick heard the passing of shuffling feet on the floors. " Okafor wants to see us at ten; you up?" Thorne's voice was rested, amplified by her energy. She seemed ready to go. Her footsteps retreated.
Rick did not match her enthusiasm. He wished to stay in bed. He wanted to lay around and think about Michonne a bit more, to imagine what Judith might look like, and to question, for the thousandth time, the efficacy of his pursuit to secure a future with Michonne.
Had they made a child together? Had all their efforts been rewarded? Was a young girl or young boy racing through Alexandria with their older sister- his eyes filled with tears. He would kill to know...
Maybe it was time to try escaping again. Rick pondered the possibility with a veil of warm, watery emotion blurring his vision. Perhaps at night, before bed, he would mull over the idea. For the day, he felt too weak to fight, to run. He wanted coffee and clothes and a distraction.
But what he truly wanted, was a hug from his family, and a kiss from her and her... tongue, her power, her ecstasy- the thought of her swollen with child, fierce, protective, radiant, entered his mind. His manhood shifted, and the loss of bloodflow to his brain prompted a maddening ghost of guilt to bombard him. He knew that the image of him blowing up on the bridge had haunted her as she birthed their child. Rick, as he had time and time again, imagined her loneliness, her desire, her need for comfort- comfort she might seek in the arms of another-
He rushed out of bed to a waste basket by the window and vomited a bitter belch of bile. The tears raced free as he wiped his mouth and tossed his curls from his eyes. Suddenly, he was desperate to leave his solitude. He needed the bustle of peers passing to shift his mind. He dressed quickly in his full uniform, rinsed his mouth and splashed water on his face, neglecting his reflection. When Thorne called again, Rick opened the door, catching her mid-knock.
" There you are. Okafor wants to-."
" See us at ten- I know. I heard ya," Rick replied, avoiding Thorne's gaze as he started down the hall.
" You okay?" she asked, falling into step with him, her lips pursed.
" Fine," Rick huffed. " Need coffee." He glanced at the time on the wall. He had eight minutes to walk the plaza. " I'll see you at the caravan in five, alright?" Thorne nodded and parted ways, changing halls and power-walking towards a back exit.
" Hey, grab me a pear," she demanded before she was gone and Rick waved her off in agreement as he stepped out into crisp, biting cold and descended the stairs. His tacticles fit comfortably- they were well broken in- but he still missed his old cowboy boots.
Rick sighed. He was homesick quite often, especially during the winter, but what he was feeling in the moment was too much. It had been abrupt, and harsh and mocking and he had only been awake for ten minutes. He breathed deeply and focused on the present matter at hand.
The square was abuzz around him, people walking or breezing by on their ticking bikes, or browsing the stands and kiosks. Rick inhaled and exhaled and concentrated on the birds playing overhead.
Another day on duty. He was expected at headquarters for a meeting with Okafor, Beale, and his fellow soldiers, followed by a count of inventory at the armory and a gun cleaning session. His humvee carpool would leave base in less than five minutes and the only thing Rick longed for as much aa he longed for home was a hot cup of mediocre coffee.
After a short walk east, he found the coffee stand where it always was, rickety and welcoming. Ambrose happily moved a cup toward him, and when Rick offered a small smile, and thanks in return for the pear he took from a basket and shoved in his pocket, he took a long, pleasant sip and turned to leave. What- or rather, who- he saw ahead of him, many meters away, standing under a tree, made his heart stop. The cup slipped from his grip. Hot coffee burst out of the dislodged lid and splattered onto the concrete. Rick heard a muffled, distant version of Ambrose, and a ringing in his ears, and... a memory of her voice.
" We're still alive, Rick. So much has happened. So much that we shouldn't have lived through. And... in spite of it, or maybe because of it, we did. We're still here, the two of us. We're still standing, and we're gonna keep standing. So, what do we do with that? How do we make that mean something? We're the ones who get things done. You said that. We're the ones who live."
It was happening again. He was seeing Michonne.
" She's not there," he said under his breath to himself, standing immobile on the walkway. " She's not real." Her words of joy and sarcasm and anger and lust were racing through his mind. His entire being breathed, beckoned, Michonne. The phantom of his left hand recalled how soft her skin was. His lips remembered the plushness of hers, his tongue the flavor of her tears. Rick thought he might faint. Before he could, he turned and scurried away towards the caravan lot, fearing he would again vomit.
Was she still near? A glance behind him answered his question. She was closer, a rare rose of a woman in a handful of average cosignees. They were all dressed in their mandatory brown jackets, the thick orange stripe hugging the sleeve. She looked daring: relaxed, yet intimidating. Her hair was longer, her presence stronger. Rick stopped again, the apple of his eye at his back, his pulse pattering.
He had seen her a thousand times, in gardens, in the water, in the clouds, in the trees, in his dreams, at his fingertips... but he had never seen her in republic garb. His kidneys panged, adrenaline flooding his bloodstream.
What if she was truly there with him? What if she was real...? He turned again and faced her. She was closer, clearer. He stood stunned, unmoving. He could see the details of her face. Rick stared: had her visage not aged a day? Sparse greys peppered her locs but her features were the same. He was glad his memory had been so accurate in perceiving her, but she was more beautiful than he remembered. She couldn't be real.
And when the doubt arose- when the image of her became a question of his sanity- it was as if Michonne sensed it.
She had come so far. She had infiltrated the organization holding her true love hostage, but there he was, in the distance, a shy soldier. And despite the years apart, despite the disconnect, some of the mystery of their time apart was no longer a puzzle to her. From her place on the sidewalk, she noticed his reactions of fright, of uncertainty. He seemed to think she wasn't truly present, and her heart throbbed for him. As her little group paused to talk about their coming orientation, Michonne stopped beneath a young birch and faced Rick. He was thirty meters away, unsure, looking repeatedly, nervously. With her eyes finally on him again, Michonne understood the severity of all his suffering. Her eyes filled with tears.
Slowly, as a sea of people moved around them, they saw only each other. Michonne raised her right hand to her chest and placed it over her heart.
It was a gesture of love they had together adopted. In that dark cell, on that night so many years before, she had tapped his heart with her passionate finger. In the van, on that trip, he had kissed her hand and placed it over his heart to remind her of their reason for living, for fighting. In their room at the Sanctuary, she had kissed his hand and placed it over her own heart to reassure him: they deserved happiness. They were lucky to be in love.
They were the ones who live.