Some people have been asking if I'm going to tie this fic in with season 4...
To be honest, there's a lot about this season that I haven't liked. For example, I wasn't a huge fan of the flu story line, which felt like a lazy way to thin the herd by killing off a bunch of Woodbury Red Shirts. And don't even get me started on Carol's arc. There are a couple of things that I definitely want to include, though, like the Governor's assault on the prison, but it won't necessarily happen when or how it did on the show. So basically, I will be remixing the remix (and drawing from the comics) to tell my own story.
Chapter 2.
"Any change?" Rick asked, walking into Hershel's cell with Judith.
It was morning, but it felt like an extension of the day before. The elderly veterinarian was gone, presumably to lie down on one of the empty bunks – not that there were many of those anymore –, but Michonne was still there at Andrea's bedside, keeping vigil over her friend.
It was hard to tell if the IV was having any effect; some of the colour had returned to Andrea's cheeks, but she still looked as listless as ever.
"Her fever peaked a while ago," Michonne told him without looking up. "She got pretty delirious. Kept saying things like, 'I just didn't want anyone to die'."
"Talking is a good sign, though, right?" Rick asked her. "It means she's starting to come to?"
"I don't know," Michonne admitted. "Could be. Could also be that her brain is shutting down." Her tone was impassive, but Rick could see the agony in her dark eyes.
In his own mind, he grappled with the same morose thought. What if it was all for nothing?
Too little, too late.
That might as well become his creed. First Dale, then Shane, and Lori… and now Andrea. Ever since this accursed apocalypse started he was always just a little too late.
"You've been sitting with her for hours," he pointed out gently, forcing himself to focus on Michonne, who was still within the realm of his help. "Why don't you go get some rest? Judy and I can take the next shift."
Michonne remained seated, shaking her head stubbornly. "I'm not tired," she argued, but the weariness in her expression betrayed her lie.
Rick felt as worn out as she looked, but before he could even begin to contemplate closing his eyes for a well-earned nap, his daughter had woken from hers, howling for his attention.
"I'm gonna be up for a while anyway," he insisted, showing Michonne the bottle he was carrying at his side. "At least one of us should get some sleep."
Michonne studied him wordlessly for a long moment.
He wondered what she was thinking. She was so hard to read.
Anyone could see that she loved Andrea like a sister, and yet Rick struggled to imagine the two of them interacting. The Michonne he knew was all steel and hard edges, impenetrable; Andrea, meanwhile, despite her bravado, was all softness, easily hurt and painfully fallible.
Maybe that was it, he thought. Maybe Michonne felt the same conflicting urges to shake and protect her that he had ever since he'd encountered her in that department store back in Atlanta.
His first impression of Andrea had been that of a little girl playing dress up with her daddy's gun. She'd wanted so badly to show the world that she could be tough, to conceal the fragile heart that he'd seen almost decimated by the death of her sister.
It pained him to think now that that heart – the same one that had prompted her to swallow her pride and apologise for a threat she'd never intended to carry out – was the reason she was lying here in this bed. If only she really were the stone cold killer she'd professed herself to be.
Michonne broke the stalemate by rising from her chair. "Thank you," she agreed stiffly, offering him what almost passed for a smile.
He watched as she cast one last concerned glance at the unconscious woman on the bed, before striding out of the cell, leaving them alone.
When she was gone, he eased himself into the chair that she had just vacated, carefully repositioning Judith so that her head was resting against his bicep.
"Bon appetit," he said, sliding the teat between her tiny rosebud lips.
Once she had latched onto the bottle, sucking contentedly, he shifted his attention back to Andrea.
"After I got shot, when I was in my coma, people used to talk to me," he told her. "I don't remember the words, exactly, but I think it helped, just knowing that they were there."
Her eyes were still closed. He searched her face for a hint that she was listening, but her only response was a faint, almost imperceptible moan, which he decided to take as a sign that he should continue.
"I'm not sure if you can hear me – maybe you're too far gone for that – , but I just wanted you to know that you did it. Those women and children – all those people – , they're safe now because of you."
He kept talking, explaining to her that a bus, driven by Tyreese, and carrying the last denizens of Woodbury, had arrived at sunrise. Since then, he and the others had been busy assigning cells and meting out rations.
Watching the two groups commingle with all of the pride of a father on his child's first day of school, Rick thought he finally understood what Andrea had been fighting for all this time. Here were the stirrings not just of a larger group, but a community. A new beginning, for all of them.
He just hoped that she would still be around to see it.
The longer she stayed asleep, though, the less chance there was of that happening.
Come on, Andrea, he thought. You didn't cheat death this long just to let something like this beat you.
A woman like her, who was brave enough to take down a herd on her own, deserved a better end than this.
Then again, he could say the same for most of the people they'd lost.
It wasn't until some hours later, when Rick was on the verge of nodding off himself, that Andrea finally started awake, expelling an audible gasp.
Before he could fully register what was happening, she had bolted upright; his first thought was that she was a walker now, but then he saw her eyes, the same striking shade of sea green as always, only at that moment, they were darting around her with the panicked expression of a wild animal that had woken to find itself trapped in a cage.
"It's okay, Andrea," he told her, trying his best to placate her before she hurt herself, or him. "You're safe. You're at the prison."
He kept his voice low to avoid waking the baby, who was sleeping in her basket at his feet.
Andrea's gaze landed on him, and she stared at him as though she had never seen him before. "Rick? Is this…? Am I dreaming?"
The fear in her voice broke his heart. How many times had she dreamt of someone coming to save her, only to wake up in that room, in that chair?
"This is really happening," he assured her gruffly, his own voice thick with emotion. "Daryl, Michonne and I went to Woodbury looking to hunt down the Governor. That's when we found you. You were unconscious, damn near dead."
He hesitated as he tried to figure out how to phrase the next part, wanting to be delicate with her, but lacking the patience for it.
"What happened, Andrea? How did you get there? What did he do to you?"
She brushed his questions aside in favour of one of her own. "Did you get him?" she asked quietly. "Philip… The Governor… Is he dead?"
A wave of dizziness seemed to crash over her, and she cradled her head in her hand, sinking back against the pillows.
She was still weak; Rick was tempted to lie to her so that she could finish her recovery in peace, but she was going to find out the truth eventually. Better that she be prepared, should the Governor ever resurface, and something told him that he would.
"He wasn't there," he admitted. "According to Karen, he had some kind of psychotic break and took off. No one's seen him since."
The hope drained from her expression and she looked like she might burst into tears.
"He's insane, Rick. He stabbed Milton right in front of me, just to prove a point. What kind of person does something like that?"
She lost the battle then, sobbing silently into her palm.
Milton. The name sounded vaguely familiar. Rick figured he must have been the walker the Governor had tried to use to murder her.
Judging by her grief, he was also someone she'd cared about, someone she'd considered a friend.
Rick reached across the space between them for her free hand, squeezing it gently in one of his.
"Hey. I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but it's gonna be okay," he told her. Deep down he knew that they were just words, but as inadequate as they were, they were all he had to comfort her with. "You're safe here. You're with us now. We're not gonna let him hurt you again."