"Rick, I need your help!" Michonne's voice rings out amongst the farmland, with lush green fields at Rick's feet.
She is standing in front of a barn, naked wood, big, looming, two level, with a giant hole where the doors used to be.
Is this Hershel's place?
She is still mysteriously sexy, wearing an Atlanta Braves baseball cap over her locs, denim cutoffs that accentuate her beautifully toned thighs, not that Rick ever notices, Timberland boots, and a white tank top that rides up to reveal a sliver of her lean waist. Her dark complexion glistening in the sun, she smiles at him and points to a paint roller with a long attachment.
"Can you screw that on for me?" She bats her eyelashes and pouts her already full bottom lip. As Rick obliges, she pours the small gallon of paint into the tray. "This is color you wanted. I hope you like it."
A brilliant French blue.
Rick hands over the improved accessory. "What are you using that for?"
"The barn, silly." Michonne scoffs as she dips the roller. Rick focuses his eyes as the white pad blue itself. "The gang said no, I backed you up. But, between you and me, I think we need to keep the barn unpainted just a little while longer."
"So don't paint it." Rick grins.
Michonne turns her back against the barn door. "You sure? I'm here for whatever you want. Hold this." As she hands Rick her baseball cap, she lifts her tank top over her head, revealing a white sports bra, her pert nipples grabbing Ricks attention.
"I—uh—I—do what's right for you."
Michonne smiles. "Don't act surprised. Those prison shower walls can talk."
A pang of heat. Rick looks down to see that he is now naked in front of a beautiful woman. "They can talk? About what I'm doing in there?"
Michonne nods. "And what you're thinking, too. They told me. I know." She winks.
"I don't know why we're here. Why you're here. You shouldn't be here. I don't know if you would have liked me back then."
Michonne smiles. "And what if I like what I see present day?"
An excessive amount of cicadas fly out, buzzing into the sky.
Out steps The Governor from the hole in the barn, in his Banana Republic best, eyepatch glinting in the sunlight, grabbing Michonne. One hand around her neck with his other hand holding a gun.
"Rick! Help!" A final scream before the barn absorbs them both inside. Followed by a sudden burst of flames.
"Michonne! Michonne!"
The last thing Rick wanted to see when woke up was Daryl's face, but there he was, being as first thing as the break of dawn, staring into his cell in presumably the dead of night. And Rick could not discern if his friend had been awake looking at him all this time.
"What?" Rick said, wiping his face with his hand, in a tone that was above a whisper but below a hiss.
Daryl murmured something, at a volume that no human could hear, with sideswept bangs that covered any discerning facial expression.
Rick would have rather him walk away from the cell and pretend this incident did not happen, but Daryl didn't move.
Rick decided it was time for another approach and walked to the entrance, up close to him. "Was I talking in my sleep?"
Daryl nodded slightly. "It was loud. Sorry."
Rick looked around and saw no one else present. "What was I saying?"
"'Michonne's name. Repeatedly."
Rick pressed his lips together. "I like her, but it wasn't that kind of a dream."
"I wouldn't let you stand this close to me right now if it was." Daryl said.
They both blinked a tacit ode of secrecy.