It's hot for March, humidity sticking to Michonne's skin even with the car windows down. The road ahead appears like a mirage, midday sun striking the asphalt in blinding waves. Michonne stares at it as she drives, lets it lull her.
Michonnne likes driving, always has. It was her and Carl's thing, way back when- drives around town after dinner, a cheeky stop at the gas station for Dippin' Dots. He'd usually fall asleep on the way back, an ice-cream covered cheek against the window, and Rick would meet them in the driveway to carry Carl in. Andre was the same way- spent a solid six months refusing to go to sleep unless it was in a car. She and Mike had taken to letting him take naps in his carrier and playing traffic white noise for him at night.
Michonne smiles faintly at the memory, resting her bandaged hand out the open window to feel the breeze.
She and Rosita are on their way back from a brief run for building supplies. Rick had been entirely unenthused at the prospect of Michonne leaving for any amount of time so soon after the incident with Spencer. She's still a labeled flight risk, as far as Rick is concerned. But Michonne needed the reprieve and accompanying Rosita on this run hadn't been up for debate.
So, Michonne finds herself yet again in a car alone with Rosita. Although this time, Michonne's driving and she has her own fucking gun back.
"So, what's the constable doing on a run? Didn't think this would be in your job description."
Michonne glances over at Rosita. Neither of them have been particularly chatty during this trip, but it hasn't been an uncomfortable quiet. They're both action-oriented, Michonne's discovered, calculated and precise when they do have something to say.
"I like driving," Michonne answers simply.
Escape, that's likely the true answer- away from the prying eyes of the Alexandrians, Deanna's piercing stare following her, away from the blood stains on her living room carpet and the phantom feeling of Spencer's hands around her neck. She gulps unconsciously, her tender throat serving as a constant reminder.
"Even with the broken wrist?" Rosita asks, obviously bored by Michonne's lackluster response. "I didn't hear how you broke it." Michonne flashes her a narrow-eyed look, to which Rosita rolls her eyes. "Obviously I know that. I'm asking how, specifically."
Michonne lets out a harsh breath through her nose. "Why does that matter?"
"Chill out," Rosita scoffs. "I'm asking 'cause I've got some experience with broken bones- it makes a difference how the break happened."
Michonne puts her claws away. She's been edgy for days, probably unfit for this run if she's being totally honest. But it's better out here, away from it all. Rosita's not bad company, and she's definitely not a bad person.
"He stepped on it," Michonne answers after a long moment. "What does that tell you?"
Rosita stares out at the road, pulls her knee up so she can rest her elbow on it. "Nothing good."
They drift into silence again. They're not far out from Alexandria now, the supplies they'd found rattling in the bed of the truck. Michonne tunes into the sound, tries to imagine it's the traffic white noise she'd play for Andre. She can't quite hear it right.
"So Deanna's letting you stay right?" Rosita asks suddenly. "She's not planning to put your head on a spike or anything?" Michonne's gaze snaps to her in surprise at the crude statement. "'Cause if she is, you could make a run for it, I'd be happy to fake your death for you."
Michonne chuckles with drawn brows, caught off guard by the joke, but glad for it all the same. "No, no, she's not doing anything."
"I can't imagine what Rick would do if she did," Rosita wonders aloud. "I think we'd be gearing up for war."
Michonne's befuddlement grows listening to Rosita speak. Is it obvious to others what they have between them? It's an uncomfortable thought, and Michonne brushes off the comment saying, "It's not like that."
"You're right," Rosita agrees casually. "They wouldn't put up much of a fight, would they?"
Michonne scoffs, shaking her head. "Then I'm glad it didn't come to that."
She can feel Rosita's eyes on her, examining her. Michonne is getting the distinct sense that Rosita can see right through her.
"Aren't you angry?"
"About what?"
Rosita huffs. "That he didn't suffer more? That they're not giving you a purple fucking heart?" She turns so she's facing Michonne, while Michonne continues to stare resolutely out the windshield. "They brought us here to fight their battles for them, right? That's exactly what you did. I think they should feel lucky. So, I wish he would've suffered more, I wish these people had to make a hard decision for once. Instead, it's always one of us."
Michonne listens intently, strangely comforted by Rosita's impassioned rant. It's refreshing to have someone speak so bluntly, to be so in tune with the new world order. She understands innately what it means to be one of us.
"I am angry," Michonne says, low and hushed. "I'm so angry I can't sleep."She thinks about Andre, falling asleep in his car seat, the traffic white noise she'd play him. If she focuses hard enough, she can almost hear it.
Michonne has fallen victim to anger before, she's let it do things to her and take things from her that she'll never get back. The hard part is coming back after that fall.
"But we've all got things to be angry about, so we've all gotta have a reason to let go of it. That's the way you keep going."
Rosita is still looking at her, a settled sort of understanding on her face, her eyes softer than they'd been a minute ago. "You should show me how to do that sometime. The letting go thing."
Michonne chuckles. "Just as soon as I figure it out myself."
—
Carl lets them in at the gate, jogs up beside the car as it comes to a halt, and greets Michonne with a wide grin.
"You're back," he announces as she steps out of the truck and moves to start unloading their supplies. He follows, assisting Michonne and Rosita without a thought.
"We are- what are you doing here, bud?"
"Dad said I should meet you at the gate," Carl replies as he takes a crate from her hands and sets it aside. "I guess he wanted to be here, but he and Daryl are patrolling today."
She rolls her eyes at Rick's obvious overbearingness. "Well, I'm glad it's you," Michonne smiles, throwing her katana over her shoulder and hoisting up an industrial sized container of screws. "Could you help me take some of this over to the construction site?"
"'Course," Carl nods, grabbing a few power tools and falling into stride beside her.
They head towards the site of the agricultural expansion, and Michonne tries not to notice the way the Alexandrians' eyes follow her.
"You should come over for dinner tonight," Carl says suddenly, pulling Michonne's attention to the boy.
"Was this your dad's idea?" she asks with a knowing look.
"Actually, it was Enid's," Carl smirks, but the expression fades quickly. "I don't think she wanted me to tell you that, so don't say anything." He stops for a moment, seems to debate saying his next words. "I think she's worried about you,"
Michonne's chest aches at the reminder. She knows that Enid is worried, still shaken up over what happened to them. Michonne had been hoping that the time away would settle that for Enid, help her move on. It seems it has not.
"You should tell everyone to stop worrying about me so much," Michonne tells him, only half-joking.
"They just care," Carl shrugs, totally unaware of the weight those words carry for Michonne. She looks at him tenderly, brows drawn, and Carl just grins. "Obviously I do too, but I know you can handle yourself."
The forced maturity of the statement makes Michonne laugh, diffusing her pensive thinking. "Thank you for the vote of confidence, Carl."
They drop their things at the site and begin making their way back to the truck, silence falling over them until Carl suddenly says, "I'm glad you and Dad are getting along again."
Michonne stiffens and tries not to let her surprise show. "Yeah?"
"Yeah, I mean," he starts warily. "I'm not a little kid anymore, Michonne. I know it's complicated. But Dad was like, I don't know. It's like he was pretending nothing was different when we got here, like it didn't even matter that you were here. But that's stupid."
"It is stupid," Michonne agrees, recalling the scathing talk they had on her back patio.
"Exactly. So I'm glad he figured that out too," Carl responds wisely, chuckling as he adds, "I'm pretty sure I heard Glenn giving him a talking-to a few nights ago."
Michonne scoffs, looking over at Carl with a smile. "You're a terrible gossip, kid."
Rosita, passing by with a load of supplies chimes in, "Probably my fault, I'm a bad influence."
Carl laughs, tucking his head as his cheeks turn pink. Michonne smiles at the sight.
"So?" Carl asks after a moment. Michonne turns to him, confusion coloring her features. "You never said if you'd come to dinner or not," he prompts.
Michonne takes in the hopeful look on his face. The thought of Enid asking Carl to ask her is heart-wrenching enough. It outweighs her doubts about facing Rick, about putting herself back into his life. It's like she told Rosita, you've got to find a reason to let go of the shit.
"I'll come to dinner," Michonne promises him, warmed by the excited look on Carl's face. "But your dad better not be cooking."
Carl's eyes widen at the implication. "Trust me, Michonne. I wouldn't put anyone through that."
—
By some twist of fate, probably cosmic punishment, Michonne has ended up alone in the kitchen with Carol.
When Enid and Michonne showed up for dinner, Carl had immediately whisked Enid off to show her something upstairs. And, with Rick and Daryl still not back from their patrol, that left Michonne assisting Carol with dinner.
Currently, Michonne's attempting to dice tomatoes with one hand and trying not to notice baby Judith a few feet away in her high chair. Carol, thankfully, has dropped the harmless housewife schtick for the most part. It seems that the incident with Spencer won Michonne favor with Rick's people and had the opposite effect with the Alexandrians. Figures.
"Daryl and Rick should be back soon," Carol reiterates for what must be the third time now.
"Great," is Michonne's same flat response.
They're both noticeably uncomfortable being left alone with each other, likely due the gun-sized elephant in the room. They both know that they both know- an infuriating feeling. Michonne sighs deeply and puts down her knife, leaning against the counter to face Carol, who pointedly refuses to return the favor.
"Let's settle it now- this deal with the guns."
"We took them for protection, didn't realize one was yours," Carol replies shortly, her eyes fixed on the pan in front of her. "I think you get it, Michonne. That's why you haven't told Deanna."
Michonne narrows her eyes. "I get why you did it. Doesn't mean I think it was right."
Carol glances up at her, eyes landing on the visible bruises on Michonne's neck and her braced wrist. "The gun saved you, didn't it?"
Before Michonne has a chance to process that, Judith begins to cry. "Oh shit," Carol murmurs uncharacteristically. " Pasta's about to come off and I've got to watch this sauce- could you?" She gestures with her head to Judith's high chair, to which Michonne shakes her head vehemently.
"No, no, I can't-"
But then, Carol is walking over to Judith, scooping her up and placing her into Michonne's arms.
"I think she needs a change, if you don't mind."
Michonne can hardly think. She's holding the baby on her hip, staring at her scrunched face in horror. She very much does mind, but Carol has already turned her attention back to her sauce, leaving Michonne no choice but to mindlessly carry the baby upstairs.
Her heart is pounding wildly, discomfort stirring deep in her gut. Judith's cries are earth-shattering and Michonne flinches at the sound as she carefully places Judith on the changing table. She freezes momentarily, caught by the sight of the nursery. Once upon a time, it's obvious this room belonged to a little boy- baseball decals on the walls and blue gingham curtains on the windows. It aches so sharply that suddenly, it doesn't hurt at all. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, attempting to flip off the switch to her grief.
Her movements are robotic as she changes Judith's diaper- she's immune to her cries, unbothered by the practiced familiarity of this routine. She doesn't feel it, she can't.
It isn't until she finishes clipping Judith's onesie back on and scoops her into her arms again that it hits Michonne with stunning clarity. The smell of her soft head, the feel of her in Michonne's arms, the quiet whimper of her fading cries. It rushes over Michonne as if for the first time, accompanied so vividly by images of Andre. She can feel her composure crumbling as she holds the baby closer, cradles her head to her cheek. It feels like waking up, as if she was on pause until this very moment. Michonne closes her eyes, nuzzles her nose against the baby's forehead and welcomes the memories.
It's awful, it's beautiful. It's breaking her into pieces, it's putting her back together. She doesn't quite realize that she's crying until the wetness begins to reach Judith's peach-fuzz hair. Michonne laughs helplessly at herself, pulling away so she can wipe the tears away from Judith's head. She's looking directly at the baby now and it overwhelms her how much she looks like Carl. It's doubly heart-wrenching in that way.
Judith has stopped crying now, and her eyes are clear and inquisitive as she gazes up at Michonne. A tiny hand reaches up, grabs hold of one of Michonne's dreads and sticks in her mouth. Michonne laughs again, genuinely this time, joyfully.
She takes a long moment to feel it, the grief and the pain and the reminders of the good. It's impossible to reckon with. Michonne knows she could live ten lifetimes and never see the end of this feeling. But sighs shakily, roughly wiping away her tears and hoisting Judith up on her hip. This is a start.
She turns to leave and finds Rick standing in the doorway, looking caught.
"Sorry," he rushes to say. "I didn't mean to- I just-"
Michonne shakes her head, turning to wipe her face again. "It's fine."
"I can take her, if-"
"I'm fine."
He looks at her with his head tilted, his eyes tender. He wants to say more, she knows he does. But he seems to decide against it, sighing as he says, "I know you are."
She gives him a tight grin and goes to leave again, expecting Rick to do the same. But he stops her in the doorway, reaches out to gently brush an errant tear away with his thumb, his hand resting against her cheek. Michonne looks up at him, searching him. She can tell at a glance that he knows what this means for her. It feels like he's the only person in the world who could. He's unbearably earnest and she closes her eyes to the sight of it, turning her head in his hold to press a kiss against his palm.
"I'm glad you're back," he says, his voice low and hushed.
Letting go and getting on, Michonne feels closer to it. It's the first time in days that she hasn't felt the urge to run away from it all. In more ways than one, she's back, and she knows she's better for it.
"I am too."