It's sometime in the very early morning when Rick finally gives up on sleep. It was already late when they got back to their house tonight, and even later by the time they'd all cleaned up and turned in. But despite the exhaustion and the suspected concussion, Rick has been lying awake listening to Carl snore beside him for hours now.
Carl had been quick to offer up his bedroom to Enid and Michonne and, given the state of affairs, Rick agreed. After the events of this evening, Rick isn't sure he wants to let Michonne out of his sight again. The image of Spencer pinning her to that wall, his hands around her neck, the feeling of being physically unable to do anything about it- it's torturous. It's left him restless and reeling, unable to erase the image of Michonne standing blood-covered and shaking over Spencer's body.
It haunts him now, chases sleep away until Rick finally makes up his mind to give up trying. He quietly slips out of bed, pulls the covers up over a soundly-sleeping Carl, and makes his way downstairs.
The house is pitch black save for the glow of candlelight coming from the living room, and Rick follows it to find Michonne. She's folded against the corner of the couch, eyes distant and pensive. He observes her for a moment- her drawn brows and tight jaw visible even in the low-light. She's in pajamas, a blanket piled loosely around her waist. But despite the soft, familiar comfort of the scene, Michonne is noticeably haunted, a ghostly figure in the idyllic room.
Rick drums his fingers against the doorway to alert her to his presence and her eyes snap up to meet his.
"Hey," he greets softly.
"Hey."
"Mind if I-" She cuts him off with a nod, her gaze drifting away from him again. He takes a seat at the other end of the couch, noticing for the first time that she's been staring at Judith's baby monitor. His chest aches at the sight.
"You should be sleeping," she murmurs into the silence.
"So should you."
Michonne looks over at him, really looks at him for the first time. It's a searching gaze, an examination. "How you feelin'?" She nods towards the gauze taped over his temple.
Rick sighs and rubs his hand over the bandage absently. His head is pounding incessantly, but Carol did her best to fix him up when they got home and sent him to bed with a tylenol. Seeing Alexandria's doctor hadn't even been an option, not with Spencer being rushed to the infirmary. His fate is still unknown, Maggie promised to update them when there's news, but Rick is hopeful that the fucker won't make it through the night.
"Just a headache."
Michonne hums contemplatively. "That's why you should sleep."
"That's why I can't sleep," Rick responds, shifting so his feet are propped on the coffee table and his head falls back against the back of the couch. "That, and Carl snores like a diesel truck."
"He does," Michonne huffs and Rick rolls his head to face her, grinning at the nostalgia on her face. "Do you remember the Wild Adventures trip? That hotel in Valdosta?"
"When he snored so loud, we slept on the balcony?" Rick recalls fondly, chuckling tiredly as Michonne nods. "Then we had to get up the next morning and take our four-year-old to a water park."
"At least he was well-rested," Michonne muses.
"Had a crick in my neck the whole day. First time I felt old."
"The first time, really?"
Ricks rolls his eyes, waving a dismissive hand in her direction. "Always with the old jokes."
"It's too easy with you," she replies quietly, her grin dimming as the moment fizzles out. They seem to realize at the same time how strange this banter is for them now, how unfitting it is in this moment.
"We don't have to talk about it," Rick tells her after a long pause, eyes trained on her as her gaze drifts back to the baby monitor.
"What else is there to talk about?" Michonne wonders aloud, voice distant.
They drift into silence, Rick pondering that question. They don't need to rehash the events of the night, they're both devastatingly aware. They don't need to ponder Michonne's future here in Alexandria. Rick can tell at a glance that Michonne doesn't need that. It's a matter of figuring out what it is she does need- and Rick's not certain he's ever excelled at that.
He follows her eyes to the baby monitor once again, watching Judith roll over in her sleep.
"She's not mine." It comes out no more than a whisper, but it echoes painfully into the silent room and Michonne turns suddenly to look at him. "I was shot, before it started- I don't know if you heard, maybe Lori told you… But I was in a coma when it all happened. When I woke up, everything was gone, Carl and Lori…" He stops, rubs a hand over his stubble, gathering his nerve. "It was Shane who got them to safety, right after." He sees the realization dawn on Michonne as she listens, her jaw clenching at the mention of Rick's childhood friend, whom she'd always disliked. "He and Lori… they were together. They thought I was dead." Her expression turns distinctly, unbearably solemn and Rick has to force himself not to look away from her. "I know Judith isn't mine," he tells her in a low whisper. "I love her, she's my daughter… but she isn't mine. I've had to accept that."
It sits heavy between them for a long moment before Michonne shifts, placing her arm on the back of the couch and resting her head in her hand as she turns her whole body to face him. "I'm sorry, Rick."
He shakes his head, a sad grin ghosting his face. "Don't be sorry. That's not what it's about."
"What is it about then?"
Rick shrugs, totally unsure. He didn't have a grand point, no soothing platitude for her. Just a piece of himself to offer. "Just felt like you should know."
Michonne gives him the tiniest of smiles, her eyes still so incredibly troubled. "I'm glad you have her," she replies, voice thick.
He nods, emotion almost overcoming him as he considers the grief spilling out of her, coloring her words, imbuing his with an aching earnestness. "Me too."
The drift into silence again. It's comfortable and contemplative, both of them watching the baby monitor with a new weightiness.
"Lori did tell me," Michonne tells him eventually. "That you'd been shot- she told me. And I was going to visit, I tried to… but on my way there, that was when Mike called me, said shit was going down in the city, told me to get home… When everything got bad, I didn't hear anything else. I assumed you were dead."
The confession rushes over him, catapulting him into an alternate universe where the world didn't end and he woke up from that coma to find Michonne sitting beside him. It's impossible to imagine. But the knowledge that Lori called Michonne, and that she'd been willing to come- it burns brightly in Rick's chest.
"I should've been," he whispers gruffly, shaking his head. "I should've died a million times before I got here."
"You didn't," she confirms.
"Neither did you."
She narrows her eyes at him. "You think that means something?"
"Don't you?"
She chuckles humorlessly, shaking her head as she looks away.
"What?"
"You're the biggest cynic I know. You've never believed in anything in your life," she murmurs, resigned, a sardonic grin pulling at the corners of her mouth. "You're just saying whatever you think will convince me to stay."
Rick balks at the accusation, and the stark reminder of the situation they're in. He straightens, ignoring the bout of dizziness that accompanies the quick movement, so that he can move closer to Michonne. "That's not what this is, Michonne."
She ignores him, plowing on. "You saw Deanna, Rick, I'll be exiled by tomorrow."
"Michonne-"
"Or maybe she'll just kill me."
"Don't say that." They've migrated towards each other, legs almost brushing. It's too close, it isn't nearly close enough. "That's not gonna happen, I meant what I said before. She's gonna see reason. We're gonna make her," he tells her sternly, leaning into her eyeline and forcing her to look at him, to see he means it. "And if we can't, we're leaving with you."
"Oh please-"
"I mean it, Michonne. If you're punished for what he did to you? If they want to blame you for defending yourself when he was trying to…" Rick trails off, trying to tamp down his anger and intensity. He looks down to his lap and takes a deep breath. "I'm not staying in a place like that. I'm not raising my kids in a place like that."
She doesn't respond and Rick takes his time to study her, to figure out what he's missing here. Figure out what she needs.
"I know that you've been alone for a long time now, Michonne. I know that…" He turns to face her, rests his arm over the back of the couch to match his posture to hers. It's with a deep steeling breath that he finally says the words he's been thinking for weeks. "I'm sorry about your son." She reels back, brows furrowed and tears springing to her eyes. "I should've said it sooner," he murmurs regretfully, shaking his head. "I can't even… maybe I didn't want to say it because I couldn't think of the words, but there are no words, Michonne, it's…"
She gives a tight nod, cutting him off. Her eyes are closed, lip quivering. Rick hates it. Her pain has always been something he's feared- maybe because it always manages to wound him just as deeply. But he can't run away from it now, he won't.
"I know it isn't much coming from me, but I don't want you to be alone anymore. I know you can take care of yourself, I've seen it… but you don't have to live like that."
He reaches out and places his hand over hers, but she flinches and draws it back. He notices for the first time the discolored, swollen skin of her wrist and the careful way she's holding it in her lap.
"You're hurt." He looks up at her, finds her wiping her face with her good hand, refusing to meet his eyes. "You didn't say anything."
"It's nothing," she mumbles.
Rick gently takes her forearm, pulling the injured hand towards him so he can inspect it. "This isn't nothing, Michonne. This looks broken."
He looks up at her but she's turned her head away to stare at the wall.
"Let me patch you up-"
"I'm fine, Rick-"
"At least put some ice on it."
He inclines his head towards her, urging her to meet his eyes. She finally does, and he sees a level of trust in her that he hasn't since stepping foot in Alexandria. It fills him with a wary sort of hope.
"Alright," Michonne finally agrees, allowing Rick to lead them into the kitchen. He grabs a soft ice pack from the freezer and tenderly sandwiches Michonne's injured wrist between the ice pack and his palm, both of them leaning their hips against the counters. It's dusk now, soft light filtering through the windows and shrouding the room in hazy blue shadows. They're unashamedly watching each other, rediscovering each other in the gentleness of this moment.
"Can I ask you to do something?" Michonne whispers.
"Anything."
"Take care of Enid." The simple sentence has Rick's brows drawing in alarm, his posture stiffening. "I'm not giving up, Rick," Michonne quickly assuages with a shake of her head. "I'm just asking you to promise me that she'll be looked after- if something happens. You've done a good job with Carl and Judith, keeping them alive-"
It strikes him through the heart, everything unspoken in that statement. "Michonne-"
"So I'm asking. She needs people, people who really care. She deserves that. So if I'm gone-"
"We'll take care of her, Michonne. I'll take care of her," he tilts his head, shifting closer to her. "But you'll be here too. And you'll protect her just like you did today."
Michonne manages a small, sad grin. He can't tell if he's truly convinced her, can't tell if she's planning to bolt the minute he turns his back. But he knows he can't push anymore, it's not fair to her. Not like this, not after everything. He wants to hold her like he did earlier, cocoon her until he's sure the world will have to get through him first. That's what Rick's love looks like, and he knows without a doubt that Michonne has it. She always has.
A knock sounds on the front door, alarming both of them. They pull away from the near-embrace, Rick handing the ice pack over to Michonne as he goes to answer it. As he expects, it's Maggie. She's got her arms crossed over her chest as she steps into the entryway, her mouth set in a harsh frown.
Rick can feel Michonne behind him, the silence deafening as they wait for Maggie to deliver the news.
"He's still alive," Maggie announces grimly. "He made it through surgery, they're not sure how the next few hours will play out."
"Should've saved themselves the supplies," Rick seethes, heart dropping at the knowledge that there are people fighting for that fucker's life.
"I've tried to talk to Deanna but it's been… I'm not even really sure what happened-"
"It's alright, Maggie. You've done good, you should get some rest," Rick assures her.
Maggie nods, gaze drifting to Michonne. "Are you guys okay?" Her tone tells him that she knows, on some level, what's happened tonight.
"We'll be fine," Michonne asserts, the conviction in it surprising Rick. He looks over at her, catching her eye. They exchange a silent promise, a commitment to making her statement true.
"If you're up to it, Deanna wants to go ahead and speak with you," Maggie says, drawing Rick's attention back to her quickly.
"She is not speaking to Michonne, not until-"
"You, Rick. She wants to speak with you."
Rick stops short. The last time he spoke to Deanna had been yesterday morning, right before everything went down. It hadn't been a particularly civil conversation, with Rick all but telling Deanna to throw her son in jail. He figured she'd have no interest in addressing Rick about this situation, certainly not first. In Deanna's own words, 'We've talked enough, Rick.'
"I really think you should hear her out," Maggie insists and Rick gives her a grim look. "I know, Rick. And I don't know what happened to you guys tonight, but I know what Deanna's told me about Spencer. And I know what she's about to lose. And maybe it's not my right to say it, but I don't think this is the end for us here. I really don't."
Rick looks at Maggie with his hands on his hips, considers that for a long moment before he nods. "Alright. I'll talk to her. But I need you to do me a favor."
"What's that?"
"Take a look at Michonne's hand, I'm pretty sure it's broken."
Michonne groans. "Rick, I'm fine-"
"And maybe try to convince her to get some sleep," Rick continues, looking only at Maggie.
"I'll see what I can do," she smiles. Rick nods, flashing her a silent thank you before turning to face Michonne.
"Don't do anything stupid," Michonne warns.
"I could've used someone telling me that along the way," he muses wryly. She huffs, the sound hollow. "I'm gonna fix this, Michonne."
It's a promise, and he can tell she only half-believes it. But maybe she needs to hear it anyway.
—
The infirmary is just another one of the many suburban dream homes that line the Alexandria streets. The operating room is just a dining table, and Spencer's hospital room has gingham curtains and matching shams.
He finds Deanna at her son's bedside, head bowed, praying under her breath. "Didn't take you for a religious person."
Deanna's head snaps around to see him. She's the face of anguish, so similar to how she'd looked when she'd learned of Aiden's death. That same stony resignation dims her eyes. "I'm not," she replies bluntly, nods towards the folding chair across from her on the other side of the bed.
Rick saunters into the room, drops into the seat with a sigh. His head is still pounding and his vision is shit in the low light, but he observes Spencer's pale, unconscious face with pure disgust. "What do you want from me, Deanna?"
"I want you to tell me what happened," Deanna replies icily. "Let's start there."
Rick rubs a hand over his jaw, folding his ankle over his knee and leaning back in his chair. "Well, your son broke into Michonne's house, held Enid at gunpoint. Michonne shot him in the arm, I tackled him. Enid got away safe, I got knocked out. And then Michonne was left to fend him off alone. While he tried to kill her, tried to rape her. So she fought him off, she shot him. And I'm glad she did."
Deanna's staring at him with unblinking eyes, her jaw impossibly tight. "That's your story?"
"That's what happened."
She nods, gaze dropping to her son. "I believe you."
The revelation doesn't endear Rick to her. In fact, it just makes him angrier. "So what do you plan to do about it?"
She grabs hold of Spencer's hand, clinging to it like a lifeline. "It's not that simple, Rick. He's my son. I know if it were anyone else, we'd have dealt with it by now, you don't have to point out the hypocrisy to me. But he's my son, Rick. Do you want me to let him die?"
"Yes."
The blunt response seems to sober Deanna- she takes a deep breath, drops Spencer's hand, and stares down at the sheets. "You can hate me for my choices, Rick, but you have to understand that I've been dealing with this for a long time. Spencer has always been…" She trails off, Rick leans forward with piqued interest. "Reg and I always wanted a big family. Five kids, a million grandchildren… But after Spencer…" She looks up at Rick with renewed resolve. "He was the last, he had to be. We knew early that something was off. He was violent and… unsympathetic. We took him to a dozen child psychiatrists, spent his entire adolescence trialing meds, meeting specialists. Some things would get better, some would get worse. It was manageable before… but after it all started, things changed. He got worse. Reg tried to warn me that this might be the final outcome for Spencer. That's what we always feared for him, and it just got worse once we were here."
Deanna stands from her chair and paces for a moment before coming to rest against the bedpost, her eyes roving Spencer's prone form. "This was my nightmare."
Rick thinks bitterly that he lived out his nightmare too, watching helplessly while Spencer attacked Michonne.
"He's going to die," Deanna states stoically. "I can feel it, the same way I knew Aiden was gone when you all pulled through those gates. And the terrible thing is, I'm relieved, Rick. I'm relieved that I don't have to decide his fate. We tried to save him, I can have peace knowing that we tried. But now, he's gone. And I think we're better for it."
Rick is stony in the face of her grief, sympathetic but ultimately unmoved. As a parent, he can understand the fierce unflinching love felt for your child. But he looks at Spencer and sees nothing more than a monster. "What about Michonne?"
Deanna visibly flinches. "What about her?"
Rick scoffs. "I want to know how you're moving forward here, Deanna. That's why we're sitting here talking right now."
"She killed my son, Rick-"
"She was defending herself-
"She didn't have to kill him!" Deanna exclaims, raw grief pouring out from her stoic facade. She quickly reels it back in, calmly saying, "She didn't have to use deadly force, she could've-"
"What would you have done with him if he lived, Deanna?" Rick cuts her off coldly, standing to face her. "You said it yourself, it's better this way. It was always gonna end like this- you can't punish Michonne for that. I won't let you." Deanna doesn't respond, can't even bring herself to look at Rick. "Y'know she's probably the reason I didn't take my people and leave within that first week. I was going to, but she believed in this place. She agreed to help you protect it, Deanna, she gave Aiden the dignity of asking how he wanted to go. She's a good person and Spencer isn't. It's as simple as that."
At that moment, Spencer's chest seizes with agonal breathing. Rick knows what it means, and he watches the realization dawn over Deanna. She slowly, wordlessly moves to sit beside her son and once again takes his hand.
Rick turns his back while Deanna has her final moments with him, he has the decency to give her that. Long minutes pass until he hears the distinct squelch of a knife entering a skull and he knows it's over. He turns around, early morning light spilling through the window as Deanna sets the bloody knife on the nightstand and wipes her hands on her pants. It feels final, it feels satisfying, cemented as Deanna turns to him with tears in her stolid eyes and says, "Michonne can stay."