Thank you all so much for your amazing reviews! There is a lot more to come, so buckle up! - Kendra
Once again, Rick wakes to the sun shining in his eyes.
And once again, he is in Michonne's bed.
She's beside him, still asleep, her warm, soft body cradled against his.
He slowly pulls her closer, his fitful dreams clearing from his mind as he stares down at her.
Michonne . . .
Even saying the name in his mind feels good. Personal. Close.
Rick watches Michonne sleep, not wishing to disturb her yet. He enjoys watching her even more up close like this.
Her asking him to be this close makes it all the more satisfying. He thinks back on all those times he stood alone at his favorite window, surrounded by darkness, watching her walk around in solitude from a distance. They're like two lonely islands, his and Michonne's houses. For the longest time he didn't think he could cross the ocean of baggage he carries to get to her. But now he's here, with her beside him. Comforted by him. Unafraid of him. Asking him to be here.
His thumb strokes the smooth skin of her shoulder as he watches the sunlight dance across her beautiful face.
All his life, Rick has felt the need to help people; protect them if he can. He was raised this way. His father was this way and Carl was turning out to be the same.
Rick leans closer to Michonne, reaching up with his free hand to ghost his fingers across her lips, her cheek, her neck. He removes a loc of her hair to watch her heart flutter against her chest. He lets his fingers trace a trail along the valley between her breasts, her stomach, her thighs . . . spellbound by the way she feels beneath his touch.
With Michonne, this age-old Grimes Good Guy complex feels . . . different.
Somehow more potent. Even a little unpredictable.
He wants to be there for Michonne in ways that he hasn't wanted since he was working up the courage to propose to Lori.
There's the positive side to that notion . . . and then there's the dark side. The positive is obvious, natural, easy.
Michonne and Andre make Rick think about making someone happy again. About family.
About trying to piece himself back together for good this time.
He wants . . . to take care of her. Simple, but powerful. At least, for him.
These thoughts bewilder him as he watches Michonne snuggle into him and sigh against his chest.
This hasn't just been an obsession, Rick realizes as he fights the urge to lean in and kiss her tenderly until she wakes.
He is falling in love with her.
He's been falling in love with her since he first saw her.
He lets his fingers trace another trail back upward so he can stroke her lips again with his thumb.
She makes him ache with need – but not only the need to make love to her. He wants to make sure she never wants for anything under the sun. He wants to be someone she can rely on, someone she can trust above anyone.
Someone who will move mountains for her if she asks him.
Someone who will kill for her.
This darker certainty is the unpredictable one. Even so, Rick feels it finding a permanent home inside of him.
He leans in closer, inhaling her scent, feeling himself growing hard. He wants to kiss her, turn her over, ease himself inside her. Show her the truth in his eyes. Make her feel even a fraction of how he feels, even just physically.
But as he thinks about it, gazing at her shapely lips, a hair's breadth from a kiss . . . he decides there is another way he can show her. Make her see him in a different light. Not a stalker. Just a man who cares about her.
But first, he would take a kiss. Just one.
Rick finally leans in and captures Michonne's lips with his, feeling his arousal intensifying as he does so.
Mmm, maybe a few . . . he seeks the sensation of her lovely mouth attaching and peeling away from his a few more times, turning his body to hold her closer. His nostrils flaring with a sharp exhalation, Rick finds his grip tightening as he slides his hand down to take hold of her ass and squeeze.
Michonne stirs awake. A groggy moan escapes her lips against his.
"Mornin' . . . " he drawls softly, watching her wake up just enough to run her fingers through his thick curls.
"Hi, Rick . . . " she breathes sweetly.
He's starting to love the way she says his name.
He loves the way she says it when she's moaning it in ecstasy, too. He wants to hear that again. Hear her talkin' dirty to him the way she did last night. The memory of it is still imprinted in his mind, as vivid as ever. Rick has to stop lingering on it before he spreads her legs and finds her wet. Then he'll be completely lost. He would want to keep her here in this bed and fuck her all morning. All day. All night. As long as she can take it. But he doesn't want her only impression of him to be as the lech voyeur next door, despite her enthusiasm last night.
With a long, deep sigh and a slow last kiss, Rick reluctantly pulls back.
"Sorry . . . " he mutters, his pretty eyes darkening to a mesmerizing, stormy blue.
She offers him a soft smile. "You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about, cowboy."
A tiny frown line appears in his brow as he steals yet another quick kiss. "'Cowboy'?"
Michonne shrugs, playing with his thick curls, feeling warm and safe again tangled up in his strong, sturdy arms, held in the orbit of his prismatic eyes. "You're tough but sweet. You don't talk much, yet your eyes say everything . . . like this cowboy in a book I read when I was a kid." A wistful expression crosses her glowing face. "Like James Dean in 'Giant'."
Rick smiles, imagining a teenage Michonne having a crush on James Dean.
"You have a thing for cowboys, huh?"
Michonne rolls her eyes at him but can't help laughing. "Maybe . . . shut up. "
Rick simply grins at her. He loves to see her smile. He wants to make that happen a lot more.
"Yes ma'am," he can't resist leaning in for another kiss, or two, before moving to leave the bed. "I'll make some coffee. And some breakfast. Cowboy style. You stay put."
Michonne watches him climb out of bed and hunt around for his black jeans, charmed by him. Crushing on him shamelessly. She admires the cut of his tight ass, the dimple she sees flexing in his left cheek as he slides one leg in after the other. He tucks himself in and zips up, turning around so she can get a look at his toned, tanned abs and chest.
Rick lays one of those slow, crooked grins on her again, the sun shining through her windows making his eyes gleam and the silver hairs in his day-old fuzz look gorgeous.
"Come down when the aroma gets your stomach growlin' . . . "
God, all he's missing is a cowboy hat, his gun, and a toothpick.
She bites down on the urge to pull him back into bed, rip his jeans off, and milk his dick until he comes in her mouth.
But he's trying something, and she's curious. It's hard to believe how much she likes having him around.
Michonne nods her agreement, snuggling into her covers. "Can't wait."
Rick takes one last, lingering look at his gorgeous neighbor before leaving the room, closing the door gently behind him.
Rick saunters over to the upstairs bathroom to relieve himself of some of the beer he had last night, hoping he can also relieve himself of some of his lingering arousal. Maybe hunt for an extra toothbrush.
On his way, he notices that the door to what he believes is Andre's bedroom is closed.
Michonne did mention that Sasha's taking it while she stays here. He was wondering if she would come back.
He briefly wonders now how this morning will go. He intends to stick around until at least after breakfast, like yesterday.
Normally, he might be telling himself to get dressed and get out of dodge – or at least Glenn might. Shane certainly would.
But Rick does not intend to do that, at least, not right away.
He has a hunch that showing he's not afraid of Sasha's scrutiny in the light of day feels . . . important, somehow.
He'll see how it goes. She seems to like him okay. He thinks he likes her, too. She's loyal. And funny. He has a feeling she's here to help Michonne deal with Sabine as much as to support her through the danger. It makes him feel better, knowing there is someone here for Michonne outside of the federal government.
While he's in the bathroom, he does his business and washes his hands, his gaze cataloging every detail of Michonne's minimal tastes and personal belongings. He starts quietly looking through things, searching for where she might keep a travel kit or something he can borrow a toothbrush from and replace later (she's low on tampons, he notices). He finds a travel sized one, rinses it off, and borrows a dollop of toothpaste. As he brushes, his mind drifts toward 'the danger' and stays there.
For years Negan was at the top of the food chain as far as international, invincible arms dealers. He's had his hands in everything; his crooked money and connections knew no bounds. It took the F.B.I. and A.T.F. all those years to unearth enough hard evidence to find and trace a trail of things he bought, sold, stole, traded, collected. Including people. Rick knows they probably couldn't trace all of it.
Wolfe is too smart. He's been at this since he was a teenager. He's also a psychopath.
If you take Rick's rapidly developing feelings for Michonne and multiply them by a hundred, that's how furious a man like Negan Wolfe would be at his escaped lover for betraying him. And if he knows anything about Andre, you can triple that.
A woman like Michonne, someone Wolfe once trusted with his life for years, was more than just a concubine. She was his right hand. And now she is a loose end. One who's managed to make him angry enough to not only want to end her life but torture her along the way. Maybe psychologically at first. Fear is a powerful tool. Negan is very familiar with it. You'd have to be, to work with an organization like the Cohort. Either they are after Michonne to lure Negan out, or he is using them to get revenge. Carol is right, Rick thinks as he finishes up, washes his face, and stares at himself in the mirror. Whoever this is, they ain't finished yet . . . not by a mile.
All of this points to one conclusion for Rick. They need to send a message of their own. That Michonne is protected.
Anyone who comes after her is dead.
He'll have to not only spread it – he'll have to prove it.
If someone else tries, he won't stop himself this time.
Rick stares at himself for a few breaths longer, making up his mind. He's killed before. He could again.
For her.
Once he's relatively refreshed, he emerges from the bathroom, his eyes roaming, his mind buzzing.
Rick stalks silently down the stairs, heading into the kitchen to make the coffee. He plans to root around Michonne's fridge to find enough ingredients to make her a special breakfast. Maybe grab the cat food from her pantry and feed the current 'man in her life', Hercules. It makes him smile to remember Michonne's adorably droll expression when she called him that last night. After making love a third time, they just lay in each other's arms and talked until Michonne fell asleep. This made him feel closer to her than anything else, even the sex. He carried her upstairs and was fine sleeping on the couch downstairs, but she pulled him in bed with her, insisting that he stay. So he did. It felt good.
She just keeps surprising him. She makes him feel . . . something like hope. Whatever the opposite is of that devastatingly lonely, empty feeling he's been nursing like an old, open wound since his family was taken from him. That's the feeling buzzing inside him this morning, after only the second night of being with Michonne. It's warm. Pleasant. Satisfying.
This morning he's thinking of making some version of huevos rancheros, something he hasn't made in what feels like forever. He has a hunch Michonne will love it, especially with the way she enjoys eating.
The sun is shining through the windows as he gets to it, knowing he'll easily find most of what he needs. He's watched her making breakfast for herself or her son plenty of times.
It's a hell of a thing. Just a few days ago, he couldn't fathom allowing himself to settle into any aspect of his old life.
Breakfast on Saturdays was always peaceful, no matter how hard he and Lori were fighting at the time. And every Saturday since she and Carl were killed, he's been either drunk or out of the house working, just to avoid facing the memories of it.
Today, though, he wants to make Michonne breakfast, like he used to. Even if that means dealing with a few thorny, painful memories. As he puts on the coffee, he sees himself making the huevos rancheros, or sometimes Lori making omelets, bacon, and a big, messy fruit salad that they would all dig into on the couch while watching the news or sports or cartoons.
Sometimes, when he was very little, Carl would sit on the floor in front of the TV, wearing Rick's old sheriff's hat, and talk to it like it was a person having a conversation with him. He was an imaginative kid. He was smart. Lori doted on his talents, getting him into everything – soccer, baseball, theater, science club, you name it. Before things turned sour between him and his wife, Rick remembers them being happy as clams that they started a family. They were always the happiest on Saturday mornings. This Saturday, however, he isn't feeling quite as gutted as usual when memories of his family creep up on him. The memory passes, and he moves on. The earth doesn't swallow him whole.
He switches gears entirely, thinking now about work as he sets himself up to start cooking.
He needs to call Andrea and give her an update on what he's found so far. She needs to know he believes her. He shares her hope, now that there's a possibility Amy is still alive. Or at least, he can find who took her and bring all this shit to an end.
The coffee pot is just about full and Rick is making a mental note to call Andrea after breakfast when he spots the cat. The fat thing glides into the kitchen expectantly. He pauses to gaze at Rick, mewing as he stretches near his food tray.
Rick scoffs at the little prince, sauntering barefoot over to the pantry to grab the food he knows Michonne keeps there. He almost wants to skip to her reaction to breakfast just to be near her again, watching her eat happily. He should also try to focus on getting to know Sasha a bit, which would help him curb his appetite for his neighbor . . . for the time being.
When he opens the pantry and looks around, however, his feeling of hopeful anticipation vanishes. No cat food. Just like the empty tampon box he spotted in her garbage upstairs, she is out. He didn't even think about how many routines this whole ordeal might have disturbed for Michonne, starting with the one that led to the break-in in the first place.
Or maybe he doesn't know her as well as he thinks he does and she keeps the cat food elsewhere. He could have sworn she usually grabs it from in here, but maybe not. Hercules mewes impatiently, staring over at Rick, his tail swishing. No help from him. His job is to get fed. If Rick can get his act together.
"Alright, alright, hold your horses . . . " Rick mutters sarcastically, closing the pantry with a frown and turning around to eye Michonne's cabinets.
He could just ask her, but he promised her breakfast, and he isn't going to show his face until he has it. He'll let her sleep in as long as she let him yesterday and tend to this cat situation by himself. Cat food can't be that hard to find. He looks around for a while, finding nothing. He has a mind to run out and grab some, but the thought of leaving Michonne isn't appealing. And then again, while he's looking . . .
Rick leaves the coffee and the cat, wandering out into the foyer. He turns to the hallway leading past the stairs, out to the back door, and follows it, pausing at the downstairs bathroom. His mind automatically switches on his cop's senses as he steps in and looks around. This is more of a guest bathroom. He opens the cabinets. It has a shower but minimal supplies. Which doesn't matter, because he is supposed to be looking for cat food, not sneakily satisfying his insatiable curiosity about his neighbor. He forces himself to stop poking around Michonne's things.
He moves on to a hall closet. Opening it reveals nothing out of place at first glance.
Until he notices the golf bag sitting in the corner. He can't be one hundred percent certain (he doesn't know her as well as he wants to fantasize, he must keep reminding himself), but Rick doesn't picture Michonne as a golfer. This bag looks old, untouched for years. And there are no golf clubs in it.
Rick leans in and examines it. He reaches inside . . . and pulls out a small black duffle bag.
He stares at it, warring with himself.
In the quiet of early morning, he slowly unzips the bag.
Standing in the open doorway of Michonne's hall closet, Rick intensely examines what he finds.
Three carefully wrapped wigs. Four passports, securely bound in leather carriers. Two for Michonne. Two for Andre.
There are different names on all of them. One of the sets of names for mother and son are in French.
In hers, Michonne looks absolutely radiant, as usual, but different for each. In one, she has much shorter hair, shorn down into an edgy, neat fade out. What looks like Andre's fourth-grade basketball team photo was used for both of his. These are professional, expensive, virtually inscrutable. Wherever she got them, she paid a pretty penny and worked with someone who either used to work for the government or still does.
Rick also finds a small, black leather-bound address book. Inside it, a page is marked by a red ribbon attached to the spine. The stoic ex-deputy pulls the book out of the duffle. He stares at it, holding it in one hand, the bag still containing the wigs and passports in the other. He wants to open it, but he doesn't.
You're lookin' for cat food, not secrets, he reminds himself.
But he files this information away for contemplation later, deciding not to judge Michonne on it alone.
She was poised to run for years while she was with Negan, he can guess.
There's no reason to think five years of quiet, false safety would override that instinct for good.
It does make him wonder, however, what else Michonne knows about Negan that has her so ready to run at all times.
Andre's existence and relation to the dangerous criminal is a big something, but Rick has this feeling that there is more . . . possibly a lot more. He would be a fool not to realize that a woman like her has many secrets, not just the one she confessed to him in a post-coital haze. Sighing, he carefully puts her things back where he found them and closes the closet door.
When he's out in the foyer again he looks to see that their pillow bed and half-finished drinks are still lying around where they left them in the living room last night. He walks inside, looking up to see the katana set into the wall above the television. It's beautiful. Elegant. Encased in a cream leather sheath and a handwoven leather handle with suede lining
It's a sexy weapon. It suits Michonne.
The fat cat skitters by, headed for another hallway off the living room towards the small laundry room – and through that, the garage. Hungry enough to help me out, afterall, huh? Rick follows Hercules, trailing him into the laundry room, where there's a door at the other end leading out to the garage. Hercules disappears through the cat flap at the bottom of the door. Rick eyes the space before following, just in case he's missing something.
No cat food in sight. Just clean delicates drying on a thin wooden rack that he dutifully ignores.
Rick goes out into the garage. It's cooler in here, but only just.
The first thing his keen blue eyes land on is the car covered in a tarp, parked in the center.
He's only ever gotten a peek inside Michonne's garage a scant handful of times since he's been in the neighborhood.
Rick is once again distracted from his mission, descending the two short concrete steps and walking closer to the vehicle.
He runs his fingers along the course canvas tarp until he reaches the front passenger side tire, where he kneels. The wheels look to be in pretty decent shape, though he wagers they'll need to be replaced before any heavy-duty driving can take place. He hears Hercules meowing somewhere, and then the unmistakable sound of litter being raked around in a box, but he ignores it for a moment, still curious.
Rick lifts the tarp, getting to his feet again as splinters of sunlight beam in through the small garage windows. He pulls it off, admiring the fine vintage Camaro he discovers underneath. Wow, Rick stands back to get a better look at it in the pretty light, Michonne likes her muscle cars. The thing looks pretty souped-up, from the rims to fixtures to the paint job. He'll bet the engine is nothing to scoff at, either . . . and yet it's been sitting in here for who knows how long. He doesn't understand why she never drives it. He can picture Michonne behind the wheel. This, too, suits her – and it excites him.
Rick walks around the front, then around to the driver's side. His fingers make a trail in the light sheen of dust covering the matte black finish. Damn, this is a sweet ride. He continues his exploration until he comes to a stop in front of the trunk.
There are fingerprints already disturbing the dust here. They look about right for Michonne. He wonders what she keeps in here. More escape fodder, likely. The key is nowhere, of course, but then . . .
On another hunch, Rick kneels again and feels around under the trunk until he finds it. He's on the point of taking it when he hears Sasha's voice: "Pretty as fuck, isn't it?"
He lets his hand ease out from under the Camaro without the key and turns to face her. Rising to a standing position, he nods.
"She never drives it, I noticed . . . " Rick speaks up when he also notices Sasha staring at him with that same impressed gleam in her eyes from last night. He shifts on his feet under her gaze.
Sasha sighs and leans against the door frame, sleepy but amicable. She's wearing very oversized pajamas and holding a cup of the coffee Rick made. The steam rises to partially obscure her face now and then. "She's saving it for Andre, for some crazy ass reason," she rolls her eyes and takes a tentative sip from her mug. "Thanks, by the way. It's strong."
"Any time. I was supposed to make breakfast and feed the cat, too, but I wandered out here, lookin' for cat food."
Rick takes a look around and realizes that the cat is long gone.
"There should be some of that fresh stuff in the freezer."
"Ah . . . good. Thanks."
"Yep." Sasha sips her coffee, watching him.
She is still deciding how she feels about him. Michonne obviously has a huge thing for him. And she's satisfied to know that dude is clearly sprung on Michonne. Showing up with purple roses, getting up all early to make breakfast, feeding her asshole cat . . . still . . . that lingering darkness . . . that sadness in him . . . his backstory is tragic as fuck, and that itself comes with its own set of red flags, no matter how good he is with Andre.
Rick leans a hand against the trunk of the Camaro, trying to think of something to break the silence. He shrugs, his curiosity piqued. "She seems like the kinda woman who'd be only too happy to drive it herself."
On the back roads, he thinks, gleefully ignoring the speed limit.
"Who knows with her? Michonne is also a crazy woman if you haven't figured out by now. And I say that with love."
They laugh together amicably for a moment. Rick nods again, rubbing his chin.
"Somethin' tells me that might have a bit to do with me."
"Weeellll . . . " Sasha tilts her head from side to side in concession, contemplating how real to get with him only for a second, "your timing's a bit weird, dude. I mean, Sabine may be the worst, but even I have to admit she was kinda making sense last night. I'm actually surprised Carol hasn't stuck a tracking device up your ass by now."
Rick can't argue with her. He is very aware of that. He suspects whatever Carol wants to meet with him about will end up being just a way for her to keep tabs on him in disguise. But he also knows that as long as Michonne isn't showing signs of discomfort with his forwardness, it doesn't matter much. He'll get through every obstacle he has to so he can continue doing what he's always done – keeping an eye on her. He likes Sasha. So he throws her a bone.
"I'll just have to earn her trust, then. Yours, too. I've profiled men like Negan before. I can help."
"Why would you? You hardly know Michonne."
He sighs, leveling with her. "Michonne isn't just anybody to me. You'll understand that soon enough."
Sasha studies him some more, hearing the truth in his voice and seeing it in his intense eyes. Her best friend is right. When this guy looks at you, it's like there's blue fire burning behind his gaze. He doesn't fuck around, apparently.
Not about anything. Certainly not about Michonne.
She makes him wait a few beats longer while she takes another contemplative sip of her coffee.
"Okay. Fair enough. But, look – Michonne may be hunted by a psychopath, but she's not a damsel in distress, either. She can take care of herself, and she's got friends backing her up. With force, if necessary."
Rick's slow grin manifests, and he grows just a little bit fonder of Sasha.
"Stay keeping that in mind, and we're good."
He raises his hands in surrender. "Consider it noted."
"Consider what noted?"
They're interrupted by Michonne, who appears behind Sasha in the narrow doorway.
As soon as Rick sees her, he loses his breath and his eyes darken.
If they were alone, he would pull her into the garage and fuck her on the trunk of her vintage muscle car in a heartbeat.
She's wearing her robe (a short, black, beautifully patterned kimono) and her locs are swept across one shoulder, framing one side of her face so her cheekbones and lips stand out to him in the warm streaks of sunlight.
Her eyes linger on his as she steps up to lean against Sasha's side. "Sorry. I'm far too impatient to wait for the aroma. And it looks like you got lost, mister," she mutters with a wink to Rick before returning her attention to Sasha. "So, what are we noting?"
"That you're a crazy fool who dotes on your son too much," Sasha replies coolly, kissing her friend on the cheek. "Morning, babe. I see you look . . . rested. And stuff . . . " she sips from her coffee, her eyes sparkling.
Michonne rolls her eyes and bumps Sasha with her hip. "Oh please, not as rested as you look in Abe's pajamas." Sasha winces, caught, and Michonne laughs, looking radiant in the doorway. Rick stands back, trying not to bring notice to himself as he watches them – up close this time, when he's used to witnessing this dynamic from afar.
"We maaaybe slipped in after his shift and napped in Andre's room this morning – but Abe was on the floor. Pinky swear." Sasha pauses and gapes at Michonne. "He's clear or whatever, right? Does he need to sign those government spy papers?"
Michonne shrugs. "Abe is Abe. This is my house. They can't tell me to stay away from the only people I trust."
Both Rick and Sasha notice the bitter undertone in her groggy voice, along with the fiery defiance flashing in her eyes.
"Whoo-WEE! I am hungrier than a pig in shit and twice as horny! Who's down for some flapjacks?"
They're interrupted by a booming, country twang. Rick's eyes rise from Michonne's tense face to the doorway. Standing there, grinning at them all with a mixing bowl caught between his big hands, is a tall, broad, bear of a man with a ginger handlebar mustache and matching ginger flat top.
He's practically a hairy-armed version of a G.I. Joe action figure – complete with the haircut, tank top, the dog tags, the boxers, and the boots. His grin remains frozen in place as he continues dutifully stirring something in the mixing bowl.
Michonne's demeanor lightens considerably. "Rick, Abraham. Abe, this is my neighbor Rick."
Abe gives Rick a cordial nod. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Neighbor Rick. Sorry for interruptin', 'Chonne. But if you're all done gossipin' like a bunch o'grandmas out here . . . " Abraham wiggles his bushy red eyebrows, "it's chow time!"
Michonne is secretly relieved for the interruption. She can see that the tarp covering her Camaro has been taken off, likely by Rick. A few minutes more, and he might have started asking questions she can't answer.
Breakfast goes off without a hitch, despite the somewhat awkward introduction.
Abe makes his "famous flapjacks" (complete with whipped cream and cherries on top) and Rick makes his ranch eggs with all the fixin's. He even cooks the rest of the bacon while Abe brags about his team's odds at the all-day qualifying rounds for a bowling tournament he's hoping to compete in this weekend.
Rick likes Abe, too, he finds. A bit of an oddball, but the charming and funny kind. And he's head over heels for his girlfriend. They make a good couple, their temperaments complimenting each other's perfectly.
What Rick likes most about Abe is that he doesn't ask too many questions. Plus, he fills silence.
As he's been hoping, their company means Rick gets to watch Michonne enjoy her food, with relish. They have a veritable breakfast feast spread out before them, complete with grapes and clementines Sasha scrounged up as a contribution.
They're all gathered around the kitchen island while the big ginger recounts the tale of how he nearly wrapped Sasha's Audi around a neighborhood light post, wearing nothing but his boxers and his boots that time, too. He's been letting their dog out in the backyard, a Black Lab-Pit mix named Punisher who somehow escaped.
"So I'm sleepy as shit, lightin' up a cigar, not paying attention. Goddamned dog just takes off!" Abe shakes his head as he saws the air with his free hand. "So hell, I panicked! Sasha's prissy ass car was parked last so I got the keys, hopped inside, and took off after him! He shot clear across the neighborhood, I swear. And my ass is sweatin', and I'm yellin' out the window like a lunatic: 'HEEL, PUNISHER, HEEL! GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE!'"
"In his drawers, y'all . . . " Sasha rolls her eyes at him, taking over to describe the scene after the accident.
She and Abe standing on the curb with a tuckered-out but happy Punisher finally leashed properly (by Sasha). Abe in nothing but his boxers as she gives him the silent treatment and watches the tow truck take her Audi away.
Rick enjoys being around a happy couple for once, but of course, he can't help being distracted by the pleasing visual of Michonne interacting with her friends, either. She is radiant. Relaxed. Funny. And still the most alluring thing he's ever laid eyes on. He realizes that he's grateful to them, for being here to make all this easier for her. Take her mind off the danger she's in; off being separated from her child.
When he lost his family, he shut everyone out, even Shane. He pushed anyone who cared away, and then – sooner than he ever imagined – he found himself completely alone. Going mad with grief. Those were the darkest times of his life.
Michonne has love, and light that she is willing to let in. Witnessing it makes him fall even harder for her.
They wrap up breakfast, get dressed, and Abe says his goodbyes.
Rick watches Michonne thank the giant man for dropping Sasha off and wish him luck during his tournament.
As he stands by to let the friends part ways, an idea occurs to him. He wonders if he would be really pushing his luck to suggest it, but he wants very much to continue exploring the warm, close feeling he's been coasting on all morning. After so long of watching in the dark, he finally has a taste of what it's like to live in the light, and he wants to linger here. He is no longer interested in denying himself.
"I need to get goin' into the city," he drawls as she approaches him now, letting Sasha escort her boyfriend to his truck. "I was thinkin', maybe . . . if you want, we can stop by your hospital. Get those stitches you insist I need."
Michonne smiles, closing the distance between them. "I'd love to."
"Good idea," Sasha interrupts, closing the front door behind her. "Can a girl bum a ride to work?"
"Sure," Rick obliges easily.
That settled, Sasha disappears upstairs to change, leaving Rick and Michonne alone in the quiet, sunny foyer.
Michonne lifts herself slightly on her tiptoes to kiss Rick's soft pink lips. "I'm technically still off, but I need to talk to my supervisor, anyway. And you do need stitches, mister."
"Yes ma'am."
He's still in his clothes from last night, his tie hanging out of his back jeans pocket. He doesn't want to leave her, but he needs a shower at home, plus he has some calls to make and some plans to confirm. Besides, he's done enough snooping around her place for one morning. He makes up his mind not to do that again. Trust works both ways.
Instead, he will ask her what he wants to know, in due time, at the right time. It'll be up to her whether she wants him to. This thing is still very new, after all. God . . . it feels like it could be love. But that's only for him to know. For now.
Rick wraps his strong arms around her slender waist and kisses her tenderly. She wears her robe open, looking as delectable as Abe's cherry-and-whipped-cream-topped pancakes in a pair of thin little sweatshorts and a low-cut tank top that allows him a peek into her amazing cleavage. His hands are roaming downward to knead her buoyant, muscular backside before he gives it a second thought. Their kiss deepens as Michonne rakes her fingers through his curls and kisses him harder before letting him go. She tastes of sweet cherries.
He'll be hard as stone and fiending for her if he doesn't retreat to his side of the moon for a shower.
"See you soon?" she breathes, having mercy on him.
"Not soon enough . . . " Rick replies huskily, causing a sliver of desire to attack her.
He takes hold of her cheek and pulls her in for another succulent kiss before reluctantly letting her go.
Rick stalks back to his house under the morning sun, the trek feeling pleasantly familiar on his second round.
He wonders how many more times he'll make this trip from Michonne's lawn to his. He can't wait to find out.
It's the little things with Michonne that make this so exciting. The comfort and safety of routine . . . part of those little domestic treasures most people don't even realize are part of falling for someone. With the way he's feeling right now, there's no point in denying it. That is exactly what's happening.
It's like an adrenaline rush. A high that hasn't coursed through his old bones in a long, long time.
It feels damned good.
Buzzing with purpose, Rick lets himself into his dark, cool house. He showers and quickly dresses in jeans and a cream button-down. He holsters his Python, checking that it's loaded, and stalks down his stairs.
Before he heads back out to meet Michonne and Sasha by his Bronco, he makes some calls. Glenn is out or sleeping, so he leaves a message. They need to talk about The Cohort, though he doesn't name them directly, sticking to 'that Illuminati shit you mentioned earlier'. Next, he arranges to meet up with Andrea at some point today to fill her in. She's in court until late afternoon, so he'll have to make it work. Finally, he sends a quick text to a friend he plans to visit today out in Greenbriar – a fellow retired "badge guy", Morgan Jones. The Bullet Man, they call him on the block.
He is revered in his legendary little corner of Atlanta. What he doesn't know about guns and ammunition, Rick would be hard-pressed to find. He gives Shane a run for his money. It's time to find out about those oddly-shaped bullet holes in Amy's car. And a lot more Rick only trusts Morgan with.
He meets the two friends outside by his truck and they load up to head out for the day.
Once again, it's shaping up to be sweltering. Summer has kicked into high gear. Heat radiates from the pavement in visible waves as Rick's Bronco shoots down the hill. An F.B.I. unit with Rhodes behind the wheel and his partner in the passenger seat leaves with them, following Rick into town. He drives fast and smooth toward Grady Memorial while Sasha and Michonne talk about how good he was with Andre at dinner.
"Seriously, that whole 'Rocky' speech you gave him last night? I thought Sabine was gonna fall over, she was eavesdropping so hard," Sasha compliments him from the back seat with a wide grin. His shiny blues flicker up at her shyly through the rearview mirror as she puts her dukes up. "You should be a coach."
Michonne watches Rick nod with quiet politeness as he plants his eyes back on the road. She chimes in, just to see him struggle to accept a compliment some more.
"Andre was in heaven. I'll bet he'll be obsessed with getting you to teach him boxing when he comes back."
She feels a lump in her throat form, thinking of the possibility that 'when he comes back' could be a hundred days from now.
"Carl was obsessed, too, when he was Andre's age . . . " Rick offers unexpectedly, pulling her out of her momentary sadness as he switches lanes and gets them near the exit toward the hospital.
The sleek, black F.B.I. unit following them stays at least three cars behind, but they keep up easily. After a moment in which neither woman knows exactly what to say to fill the silence, he continues.
"He used to spar with my best friend at the time, Shane. I helped out sometimes, but Shane made it more fun for him, I guess. He was pretty good . . . " Rick sighs, remembering it with a heavy mixture of fondness and pain. "But after all that trainin', he lost his first couple o'big matches, and then . . . that was it. His heart just wasn't in it the same after that. My wife Lori was pretty relieved when he quit, though."
A wistful smile plays at his plush lips, even as sadness swims in his beautiful eyes.
Again, neither woman has anything to respond with.
Michonne reaches out and strokes one of his hands that grips the steering wheel. He turns his fingers around to grasp hers in his, bringing it up to his warm lips to kiss the smooth skin on the back of it.
The moment passes and the trio makes it to Grady Memorial in good time.
Rick hates hospitals.
He's done okay for years patchin' up his own wounds, and he's been lucky enough so far not to be critically impaired doing the kind of work he does. He has a few gnarly, crooked scars to show for it but that's just fine by him.
He was only half-kidding when he marveled at Michonne's ability to withstand the queasy, bleak atmosphere that saturates these places like a dense, invisible fog. It clings to the air, seeping into his pores and crawling down into his lungs, making his head start to pound as soon as he sets foot inside. He keeps his mouth shut, however, jaw clenched, as he follows Michonne and Sasha through the labyrinthine parking lot.
As they go, Rick tries very hard not to think about the last time he walked into a hospital of his own free will, back in King County. And that time, his legs and feet felt like they were filled with cement. It was a painfully gut-wrenching day. The hardest of his life. The day he was called to the hospital with the news that his wife and son were no longer alive.
Rick forces the memory of that horrible scene from his mind and tries to see the actual hospital he's in as he follows closely behind Michonne. One of the agents who followed them out here stays parked near the emergency room while the one he met last night keeps close. The trio takes the elevator while their protector takes the stairs. When they reach the first floor from the parking garage, the elevator doors open out into the ER nurse's station.
"Michonne!?" A bright-faced, green-eyed Southern Beauty in a peach nurses' uniform rushes toward Michonne out of nowhere, tucking her short dark hair behind her ears. She pulls Michonne into a tight hug, rocking her to and fro affectionately. "Thank god you're okay. Sasha said you had a break-in?! I was textin' you all day, yesterday, missy!"
Michonne flinches at the sharp frustration in Maggie's voice. She has been avoiding her messages. She hasn't known what to say. She's been caught up in her own worries. And with Rick . . . who Maggie is now noticing with keen interest, her frustration disappearing as she takes in the handsome stranger with the intense eyes hovering protectively near Michonne.
"Oh. Hello," Maggie offers her hand to Rick, beaming at him. "I'm Maggie. Don't worry, I'm allowed to freak out like that, I'm Michonne's best friend." Sasha steps out from behind Rick, clearing her throat and crossing her arms. Maggie rolls her eyes and corrects herself. "Well, her other best friend. Nice to meet you, mister . . . ?"
"Rick. Grimes," Rick shakes her hand firmly, his brow furrowed with curiosity. "I'm Michonne's . . . neighbor."
He feels dissatisfaction in having to stop at 'neighbor', but it's still the truth, and relevant enough for stitches.
Maggie grins at him with that same sparkle of excitement Sasha's been using on him. Of course. She already knows who he is because she's heard from Sasha. Michonne's 'other best friend' holds him hostage, turning his bandaged hand over in hers, examining it as if it belongs to her. "Holy mackerel, Rick . . you did beat the shit outta that robber. Did you punch him in the teeth or somethin'? You need stitches bad." Yeah. She's all caught up, then.
"Thank you for your completely unnecessary professional assessment, Maggie. I was just about to get a suture kit."
Michonne removes an awkwardly bemused Rick's hand from her curious friend's. Her face is as hot as coals as she both ignores and answers her coworkers's inquiries in turn. She's leading him away in the next breath, before Maggie can shoot any more nosey questions at him. "Be a muffin and let that tall guy in the suit know we'll be in the suture room."
Rick can hear her friends immediately start gossiping as he is being led away, but says nothing, though he doesn't stop himself from eavesdropping as long as he's within earshot.
"Wow . . . " Maggie whistles like a rodeo spectator.
"Homeboy can cook, too," Sasha reports. "And he shut Sabine down at dinner last night, twice. You should've seen it, girl. It was like watching Dr. Phil."
Michonne rolls her eyes as she leads Rick into the suture room and pushes him gently down onto a stool, closing the door behind her so their distant, conspiratorial chatting is cut off.
She disappears into a cabinet for a moment, digging out a suture kit and some sterile gloves. He watches her, finding his anxiousness about being in this environment easing off. At least, a bit. Being close to her is a welcome distraction.
Michonne feels Rick's eyes on her in the quiet little suture room. She tries to ignore how it makes her skin tingle.
He can see Sasha and Maggie huddling at the nurses' station through the open blinds in the window behind where Michonne pulls up her own stool across from him. She sets up the suture kit, betadine, bandages and giant cotton swabs on a little medical tray held up by a portable table she's positioned between them under a tall lamp.
Beyond the nurses' station, Rick can see the waiting room filled with bored or distressed-looking patients.
He refocuses on Michonne as she turns on the lamp, which casts a warm glow down onto the tray table that bounces off the metal equipment. He watches her glove herself before taking his hand and gently unwrapping his soiled gauze.
His eyes rise from her slender fingers turning his palm around between them to land on her shapely lips. A soft smile plays at them as she tries to focus on what she's doing. Even here in her hospital, with her coworkers pretending they aren't watching behind them, she can't help the affect Rick's intense focus has on her.
"You never stop, do you . . . ?"
"Stop what?"
"Watching."
" . . . does it make you uncomfortable?"
She keeps her focus on what she's doing as she shakes her head. He doesn't answer. It's all the confirmation either of them needs. She changes the subject, now cleaning his wound. "So, what does a private investigator do on a Saturday?"
Rick's eyes flicker across her beautiful face as she irrigates with saline, then swabs the deep, nasty gash with betadine before gently laying his hand down onto the tray.
"Follow up on leads, mostly," comes his quiet reply.
She continues listening as she works, and he continues watching her.
He keeps talking to keep his mind off what she's doing and the smell of the sterilized air around him.
"I'm goin' out to my friend Morgan's place in Greenbriar to follow up on this case I'm workin' on now. Missing girl. It's . . . complicated." Rick winces as Michonne very carefully sticks him with a numbing agent. She gently blows across his knuckles, momentarily distracting him with the formation of her succulent lips and the pleasant, cool breeze she creates to soothe the retreating sting. When he's numb, she sticks a needle driver into his skin and begins to thread the stitches, closing up the wound. "I'm also meeting with Carol today . . . " he watches for her reaction.
Michonne stitches, sighing. "She's taken an interest in you, I noticed."
"She doesn't seem much like the trusting type," Rick probes, trying to ascertain why exactly he's getting such special treatment, though he is certain it itsn't something innocent.
"She isn't. Which means she sees something in you that makes you useful to her, I suppose."
Her tone is mysterious, almost inscrutable. He flinches again when she hits a sharp angle just beneath his knuckle cartilage.
"Good to know who I'm workin' with. I'm not much of the trusting type, either."
She nods slowly, still concentrating. In the ensuing silence, Michonne feels the same surge of curiosity she had the other night after he rescued her from the man in the mask. If he's really going to start poking around her ex's affairs, he's putting himself in grave danger, too. She heard him say it before, but still . . . the reality of it makes her uneasy.
She's managed to keep a lid on her searing fear pretty well up until now, but it's very much still there. Not just for herself, but for her child – for Sabine, and Sasha, and Abe, and anyone else close enough to her to get burned by what she did.
That now includes Rick.
"Rick . . . why are you helping me? Really?"
She continues to sew slowly as she waits for his answer, still not looking at him.
Rick decides to keep telling her the plain truth. It's been working so far.
"Before I met you, I didn't live for much," his low, sincere drawl disturbs the quiet in the little room. "I got up every day . . . I went to work . . . I did some good, sometimes. But I wasn't livin'. Not really." Rick leans forward, his voice softening with tenderness, "but gettin' to know you these last couple of days, and your family, even just a little bit? It's been more livin' than I've done in God knows how long. That's not somethin' I take lightly. It's somethin' to protect. At least, for me."
He hopes she understands. He doesn't want to overwhelm her or cause her to feel any more boxed in than she already has to be feeling. After a moment, she nods, finally lifting her eyes to his in wonder as she pauses her suturing.
"You're so different," she breathes, completely mystified by him. "I don't know who you are, really . . . but you don't scare me. You don't scare my son, either. That's not something I take lightly."
"He's kinda hard to say no to," Rick grins crookedly, fighting off a sharp intake of breath when she tugs on his skin a little too hard with the needle driver.
"Are you kidding? He's got stars in his eyes over you."
She waits to see how he'll react, closing in on the end of the long gash across the base of his thick, hard knuckles.
"I'm glad to hear it," is all he says, remembering how his own son emulated him when he was little, wearing his old deputy's hat like a good luck charm. These memories still hurt, but not nearly as much as usual.
Michonne watches ghosts pass like shadows across Rick's face.
"I know that's a lot to throw at you," she assures him firmly, her voice low and hesitant. "We just met and my kid isn't your responsibility. So if you're feeling like all of this is a bit too much for a woman you hardly know . . . "
"I'm done stayin' out of it," he responds without a second's hesitation. Michonne stops her suturing to look up at him, finding comfort in his gaze. "I'm not goin' anywhere, Michonne. I meant what I said – anythin' you need."
Michonne feels a swell of gratitude and desire rise up inside, making her breathless. She forces herself to concentrate on finishing his stitches instead of leaning over to attack his lips with hers in full view of her nosey coworkers. She decides to make conversation while she finishes him up to distract herself from her immense attraction to him.
"So . . . what are you going to tell Carol?" She scoffs. "She probably knows more about you than I do by now . . . "
"I'm guessin' she wants help. From someone she can control. Off the books, so to speak."
"What makes you think she feels like she can control you?"
Rick eyes her carefully as she finishes her handiwork and reaches for clean gauze. If he's going to get closer, he's going to have to be honest. At least, as much as he can be right now. "I have . . . methods. They aren't exactly by the book."
Michonne stares across at him as she cuts strips into the gauze. She remembers watching him kick that guy's teeth in. Okay. She gets the gist. And she knows Carol. Which makes her fear for Rick.
"Rick . . . don't underestimate The Co . . . them. Or Negan."
"I don't plan to," he agrees, watching her wrap his hand. Questions start to pile up in his mind as he leans forward on the uncomfortable hospital stool. "Can you think of anythin' else I should know? Anyone you can remember from before, when you were with Negan? Someone we could potentially I.D.? Or, maybe . . . is there anythin' he could be after besides Andre? Any little bit helps."
Michonne secures the gauze around Rick's hand and gradually lifts her gaze to meet his once again. She wants to tell him.
"Michonne," Maggie interrupts from the doorway. "The chief wants to see you in her office."
Rick and Michonne are froced out of their fixation on each other.
Michonne tosses the used supplies from her stitch job and gives Rick an apologetic smile. "Don't go anywhere, okay?"
He gestures that he won't, his eyes following her as she leaves the small room to go and speak to 'the chief', who he guesses is the chief of staff here. Maggie steps into the doorway, smiling warmly at him. "She's gonna be a minute. You need anythin' while you're waitin'? Water, coffe, juice?" Her accent reminds him of back home.
Rick shakes his head at her. "No, thank you."
She leaves him with a wink. He refocuses on the waiting room and glimpses of partially-curtained off hospital beds he can see beyond the nurses station through the window. He rubs his newly bandaged hand, watching Maggie walking over to the waiting area to question a patient. Shasha is gone now, probably starting her shift. Rhodes is likely tailing Michonne, probably standing guard somewhere near wherever the chief of staff's office is.
Rick continues his study of the waiting area, scanning the faces of the eclectic group of incoming patients there. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary at first, his eyes land on Maggie again. He pauses, watching her speak with a patient who has their back to Rick. There is . . . something odd . . . about this person, whose face he cannot see.
It's not necessarily that this person is tall, nor is it the interesting haircut, or that they're dressed in all black, that makes them stand out to him. Maybe it's their body language, which, for a hospital emergy room, seems just a little too . . . relaxed, nonchalant, even flirtatious . . . for Rick's liking. A quick flit of his gaze to Maggie and back reveals that she, too, seems taken aback by this person, though she is being friendly, as her Southern roots dictate.
The person starts to turn their head in his direction. Rick leans forward, squinting hard through the blinds in the suture room window. The person – a woman, he can see now from her profile – looks directly across the ER floor, right at the suture room. Maggie, who appears to be trying to find the answer to some question on her hospital-issued iPad, doesn't notice Rick and the tall woman lock eyes through the window.
They stare at each other for a beat, the cold glint in hers giving Rick a warning tug in his gut. He doesn't like it.
He stands up from the suturing table, on the point of leaving the room and heading over to the waiting area. Someone passes by, blocking his view – and the woman disappears before he steps one boot out of the door. Rick makes up the distance in a few urgent strides, reaching Maggie as she is checking in another patient.
"Maggie? Who's the woman in the black trench?" . . . in this heat, he thinks to himself as Maggie's mouth drops open, surprised by his sudden appearance.
She looks around, trying to catch sight of whomever he's referring to. "Oh, just some friend of a patient. Wrong part of the hospital, though," he informs him nonchalantly. "She needs to head up to x-ray, on the third floor. Why?"
That doesn't ease the feeling in his gut. "Never mind. The guy in the suit – is he with Michonne?"
She raises her eyebrows at him, leaning in conspiratorially. "Yeah, he's on her like white on rice. You know what's goin' on with her?"
Rick offers her a polite smile. "Not much. Just that, if anyone you don't reconize comes askin' about Michonne, tell 'em you don't know her and call me." He hands her his business card. She takes it hesitantly, nodding her agreement. "Which way would the chief of staff's office be?"
She points behind him, examining his card, concern etched into her normally bright face. "Third door on your left as soon as you turn the corner . . . "
"Thank you, Maggie."
Rick heads in that direction, keeping his eyes peeled for any more sightings that give him pause, his senses on high alert.
"Hey, you see Michonne?" Rick asks as soon as he finds the agent in question.
Rhodes nods, gesturing down the hallway with his chin as he pretends to read a surgical magazine. "Still making nice with her boss. She's had some conduct issues, apparently."
Rick ignores his aside, the fingers of his good hand flexing at his side. "Yeah, good. There's someone I saw – a woman, tall, dressed in black, dead in the eyes – sound familair?"
Tobin frowns skeptically, his attention piqued. "Yes. Where?"
"Waiting room. The nurse on duty says she's headed to the tird floor."
Rhodes is already calling for backup. "Wait here with Ms. Hawthorne."
Rick watches the agent retreat to follow up on his sighting, keeping his own eyes peeled as he backs up toward the third door on the left. He can hear Michonne's voice somewhat, and eventually the response of another person in there with her.
He stands guard in place of Rhodes, waiting impatiently. After a very long ten minutes, Michonne emerges from the office, looking pensive but resolute.
"Hey . . . " Rick immediately closes the distance between them, reaching up to gently brush her cheek with his fingers. "You wanna get outta here?" He keeps his voice soft and steady, trying not to alarm her too suddenly.
"God yes," Michonne leans in and kisses him. He accepts, but she can't help noticing his body language. "What is it?"
Without hesitation, Rick steps back and takes Michonne by the hand, turning to lead her away and get her clear of this hospital. "Could be nothin' . . . or the opposite."
Michonne says nothing, eyeing him intensely as she allows him to lead her away. She can guess what's got him so on edge. As she rounds the corner, she doesn't see Maggie or Sasha anywhere. "Where's Maggie . . . ?" she finally speaks, tugging on his hand to get him to slow down. He is bypassing the nurses' station, headed for the exit stairwell instead of the elevator.
"Out of harm's way, if Carol's men did their jobs," Rick mutters, still walking.
Michonne snatches her hand from his. "Wait," she hisses, her heart pounding, her lips pursed into a hard line as she steps back to scan the triage area for any signs of Maggie, or trouble. Rick reluctantly lets her go, pausing with the exit door cracked open, clenching his jaw as he surveys the scene with her. She spots her friend, safe and sound, in the very same suture room she just shared with Rick, tending to another patient. There's a hospital security guard standing dutifully in front of the nurses' station, watching the floor. It doesn't feel like enough, but it'll have to do.
Sighing with relief, Michonne makes up her mind to call and check on Maggie later. She turns back to Rick.
"They're not after her, Michonne . . . they're after you."
His handsome features are softer, but his eyes still burn with urgent concern. He's right. She gives him her hand back, and he squeezes it gently, pulling her through the door and down the two short flights of stairs, out into the sprawling garage.
Their escorts are waiting for them as Rick and Michonne make their way out of the stairwell.
"No sign of her," Rhodes reports. "I suggest we move on."
"What?" Michonne's eyes cut from Rick to the surly agent and back. She drops Rick's hand again. "She, who?" Rick refuses to stop walking this time.
"Someone I've got a bad feeling about . . . "
She feels her stomach lurch when she puts two and two together. Whoever 'she' is, she is dangerous. Sent here by either Negan, or The Cohort, or both. Michonne is all at once furious and terrified.
Their escorts break off to retrieve their vehicle, which is parked a few spaces down from the exit, leaving Rick and Michonne alone by the passenger side of the Bronco. He steps up to her, gazing down into her pensive eyes.
"I don't want to go back there right now."
She doesn't have to elaborate. He knows what she means. He imagines she feels like a sitting duck at home, regardless if Sasha and her boyfriend are there to cheer her up or not. It's dangerous to remain out in the open, though. He isn't one-hundred percent certain of what he saw but he's sure enough that she shouldn't be out of his sight.
If not in her home, where? Rick's crystal blues flicker across her face. His protest dies on his lips. He wants to give her what she needs, so he hears her out.
"I want . . . I need . . . a distraction. Any distraction. Please."
"Alright," Rick relents, giving her a soft, sweet kiss before backing up to open the door for her. "Get in. Gimme a minute."
Michonne rewards him with a relieved smile, doing what he asks. His blue eyes follow her as she climbs in and he closes the door behind her. Michonne watches Rick jog over to the F.B.I. unit through the rear view mirror.
He knocks on the window and Rhodes rolls it down. Rick leans in a little. "Change of plans. We're not headin' back to her place."
The two agents exchange glances. "I'm not sure that's advised."
Rick nods, appreciating the situation. "Me, either. But – where I'm goin' there'll be plenty of extra security. I know the lay of the land, and it's somewhere you can lay low while I keep her close."
"We'll have to call it in," Agent Number Two chimes in.
Rick nods and gives the side of the car a couple of knocks. "Good. Do that. And follow me."
She's only been staking out the E.R. waiting room at Grady Memorial for about twenty minutes when in walks her gorgeous target for a visit. Interesting. She's supposed to have the day off.
This was bound to happen, the idea being to prepare accordingly, but her showing up so soon after they sent their messenger is . . . impressive.
The mothership will want to hear about this. She's a fighter and survivor, they said. They were right.
The target is now followed, of course, by the feds. And . . . my, my, my what a handsome guy. New boyfriend? Ex-cop. Armed. Stoic. As Southern as they come. With very keen eyes that will, inevitably, land in this direction.
She is very skilled at remaining unseen – or at least, unnoticed – until she wants to be.
But this handsome stranger is a watcher, like her.
She can see it radiating off him like a dark, shadow-filled aura. It seeps from his pours. And it is reflected in his eyes that remain perpetually locked on the lovely, former Mrs. Eva Wolfe. When they aren't cataloging everything around him, they are watching Mrs. Wolfe's – ahem, Ms. Hawthorne's – every move.
Michonne's other watcher makes herself scare when the federal agent tailing them shows up, slipping behind the curtain of one of the unoccupied beds next to the waiting room. She can still just make out the target from this vantage point, through a tiny sliver of space open in the curtain. She's in the suture room, sewing up her new boyfriend/bodyguard.
So we wait. I won't touch you now, Beautiful. Not yet.
Nothing she's witnessed about the target so far has prepared her for the possibility of a boyfriend. Let alone a trained one.
No matter. She'll simply do more digging. More observing. Wait a little bit longer for her opening.
When the game presents its jugular to her knife, just so. Then she'll strike.
The target is called away, taking the watchful agent with her, but not the boyfriend.
She waits, deciding to get a closer look, and perhaps some more information. Stopping the gossiping nurse, she steps out from behind the curtain once the target and the agent have cleared the hall.
"Excuse me, miss . . . ?"
"What can I do for ya?"
"I'm supposed to meet a friend here . . . she's having x-rays," she lays on the charm, turning her back so the boyfriend can't see her face should he decide to look. She points in the direction the agent took the target. "I can't seem to find her, though, is it that way?"
"Oh no, you'll need to take the elevator in the other building to the third floor, it's back out that way."
As the pretty nurse talks, she can feel the boyfriend's eyes on her. She decides, as the hairs on the back of her neck rise to stand on end, to let him glimpse what's coming for him. What he'll have to face, and kill, if he has any hope of protecting the runaway Wolfe from her fate. Just one little glimpse. For fun.
She turns and stares right at him.
He is watching, alright.
She smiles.
He gets the message, even if he doesn't quite realize what's clicking into place yet. He will.
Time to go.
"Thanks," she tells the nurse, and slips away, feeling the burning gaze of her new enemy slip away with her.