For the Black women who disappear. Into your minds. Into your pain. Into the surreal act of loving and being alive.
NSFW.
"It's gonna hurt, now…Anything dead coming back to life hurts."
Toni Morrison, Beloved
…
Ten Months After the War
Michonne started disappearing at night.
He was dulled by sleep the first time he noticed. Notice was a generous description for the hazy awareness he had of her departure and return.
First—a press of her lips to his shoulder, the whisper of the sheets, the light padding of her feet (muffled as if from a distance)—before he slipped back to sleep.
Then—the slight dip of her side, the tug of the comforter, the weight of her leg over his hip, the warmth between her legs.
He pulled her further atop him. Sleep was hard these days, but the weight of her settled him.
He realized somewhere in his subconscious that the press of her had been missing for some time. He slipped his hand up the back of her shirt and she shivered.
"You okay?"
Sleep beckoned him again. But he felt her lips on his neck, heard her soft words.
"Yes. Go back to sleep."
He did.
Two nights later, he noticed it again.
He was barely awake to feel the kiss to his shoulder. But he felt the emptiness of the bed even in his sleep. He wasn't sure how long she was up or where she'd gone. When she came back, she slipped onto her side of the bed without touching him. He rolled over and wrapped himself around her.
Again, he asked: "You okay?"
She hummed and put her face in his neck. Her warmth lulled him back to sleep.
The next time, she stole away without him noticing.
Something plucked him from sleep regardless. A feeling. An instinct. The sense of something missing.
He reached for her only to find her side empty and cool. He squinted at the clock.
2:53 a.m.
Frowning, he sat up and groaned. The years were catching up to him.
Working himself to the bone wasn't doing his body any favors either. But he needed the distraction. Otherwise the grief would eat him alive.
Their room was quiet, the bathroom dark.
His bladder protested. He heeded it, shuffling to the toilet on sore feet. He came out of the bathroom just as the bedroom door opened. Michonne slunk into their room.
There was no other word for it.
She was slinking.
The way she slipped one foot into the room. The way she curved herself around the small crack in the door, not wanting the hinges to squeak.
It was odd to witness. Not the quietness. No. She moved like a goddamn cat, scaring him more often than he cared to admit.
Her timidity was strange.
Michonne moved with confidence, coming and going as she pleased. There was nothing timid about her. She had been defiant and sure of herself since their very first meeting, even outnumbered and wounded.
Now, she used one hand to turn the knob and the other to press the door closed soundlessly.
She turned and stopped, startled.
Michonne was rarely startled.
"Rick," she said, breathless.
She was only breathless on specific occasions. When she trained. When she fought.
When they made love.
"Did I wake you up?"
He shook his head, dragging his eyes over her. She watched him watching her. Her skin was dewey.
"Is it your shoulder?" she asked.
She went to him, skimming his arm with delicate fingers, careful not to agitate where he'd pulled a muscle repairing the wall. Warmth radiated from her skin. She smelled like lavender and lemongrass—the soap and body oil she sometimes made in her free time. Her voice was low but clear. She'd been awake for some time.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing."
He glanced at the door.
"Judy?"
"She's fine. Sleeping. Is your shoulder hurting you?"
Not anymore than it had been before they went to sleep, and he indicated as much with another shake of his head. She tugged his hand, pulling him behind her. He watched as she climbed into bed and patted the spot next to her.
"I didn't mean to wake you."
He laid beside her, wrapped his arm around her torso, and pulled her to him.
Something pulled in the pit of his stomach. A nagging.
"You didn't," he said. "Everythin' okay?"
She kissed his hand before nestling it between her breasts.
"Yes. Go to sleep."
Sleep might have come easier if her heart wasn't racing under his hand. He drew circles on her stomach, lulling her until her breathing evened.
Rick watched her in the morning as he fed Judith.
Oatmeal and sautéed apples. Judith preferred the latter, growing impatient with Rick's slow, distracted spoonfuls. She squealed and grabbed a handful of apples, smushing them into her mouth. Michonne glanced at Judith and smiled.
Then she yawned and turned to the window.
…
"You're more surly than usual, Prick."
Rick fantasized about killing Negan.
Often.
The fantasy came in many forms.
Rushing forward, yanking Negan against the bars, slitting his throat properly this time.
Beating Negan to death with his own bat. The way he'd done to Glenn and Abraham and all those men in the photos.
Other times, when he was numb, when all he wanted to do was crawl into bed with Michonne and let everyone else figure this shit out, he thought a bullet would be just fine. Quick. Clean.
Would killing Negan soften Maggie toward him? Daryl?
Maybe.
And he had promised Negan once upon a time.
Not today. Not tomorrow.
But he also made a promise to Carl.
That he would try to find another way. That the world could be better.
Killing Negan would risk the delicate truce they had with The Sanctuary.
Not killing Negan would make Rick a liar.
Killing Negan would make Rick a liar too.
It was all fucked up.
"Aw. Don't give me that look," Negan said.
The wooden chair groaned as Rick leaned back. He bit the inside of his cheek. It was best to meet Negan's needling with indifference. Feigned or otherwise.
Rick had taken responsibility of Negan's meals. It was the right thing to do. By keeping Negan alive, Rick had, in a way, foisted Negan on Alexandria, asking them to indefinitely shelter their worst nightmare.
Michonne never volunteered to see Negan. Rick thought seeing him would be too tempting. She never said so, but that was Rick's theory. He knew her. She wouldn't make a show of killing Negan; she was pragmatic in that way. But she had a special, simmering hatred for him—the same one she'd had for The Governor.
But she loved Carl, and Carl had asked. So she stayed away.
Rick was grateful she left this to him. She could handle it. She could handle anything. But he didn't want her anywhere Negan.
"I'm concerned about you, Prick."
Naw, Rick thought,you're just a fuckin' sadist.
A sociopath too, probably. Or was he a psychopath? Even after the Academy, Rick could never keep the distinctions right in his mind.
Rick's father would've just called Negan a loony fuck. Simple.
"Have you always brooded like a little bitch?"
Yes. According to his brother and Shane. Shane used to tease Rick for it, used to say that Rick took things too seriously, that he needed to lighten up. It was frightening how similar Shane and Negan were.
"The crown too heavy for your precious little head, Rick? Hard being the big swinging dick, huh? You need a break? You need a nap?"
Rick nearly snorted.
A nap. That was a thought. He hadn't slept well since Carl died. And now he wasn't sleeping for other reasons.
How long had Michonne been slipping away from their bed?
She didn't do it every night as far as he could tell, but she waited until he was asleep before she left. Then she came back, smelling of soap, and pressed herself against him.
"How's the Missus? I haven't seen her in a while."
With great effort, Rick kept his face still. He glanced at his watch, then at the sunlight filtering through the window above Negan's cell. Voices rose and fell as people passed by.
The window was a kindness. One Negan didn't deserve. In the old word, he would rot in a state penitentiary in the middle of nowhere, only seeing the sun for an hour a day.
The window too was a punishment. A taunt. A portal to a world Negan would never access again. Certainly not in the way he was used to.
The shadow of three people spilled into the cell, stretching and morphing across the space, darkening the sliver of Negan's face that Rick could see.
Rick's heart accelerated and his stomach fluttered at the sound of her voice.
That's how it was with her, what she did to him even now. Snatched all of his attention, made him want to abandon whatever he was doing to see her face.
He couldn't hear her words clearly—only the lilt of her voice, the clear and professional way she spoke when she was working, her quiet surety. It only mattered to him that she was close.
Her voice faded and left him with an acute pang of yearning. He considered catching up with her. He would pull her away under the pretense of consulting her about something. And when he got her alone—he liked getting her alone—he'd kiss her until her knees buckled.
Negan tutted, his face shadowed in the corner.
"Ah, so that's what's got your little dick shriveled up. Trouble in paradise?"
No. They were okay. Rick knew that. Because it was Michonne, and she would tell him if they weren't. Things didn't fester between them. She was too direct for that, and he couldn't bear to leave things unspoken with her. Not the way he'd done with Lori.
But there was something, something that took her away from him in the late hours of the night.
"Not getting fucked enough? I'd be sad too. She's a fucking smoke show. How'd you pull that anyway? You don't seem like her type."
Hell if Rick knew. He only knew that somehow—miraculously, impossibly—she loved him. Greater still, she loved him as desperately as he loved her. He tried not to question it too much. Especially after Carl.
He tried.
But sometimes it haunted him. The possibility. That one day she'd wake up and realize she needed something else. That he and their life together weren't enough for her. Rick hated Mike more than anyone he'd never met, but, sometimes, sometimes, he understood him. He understood worrying that what Michonne needed was far greater than what he could offer.
His stomach plummeted at the thought.
Naw. Don't go there.
Rick realized too late that Negan's taunts had hit soft tissue.
That was a mistake, one Rick didn't make often with Negan. It was a strong indication that something was already festering in Rick, and he'd let Negan talk long enough to find it.
Because Michonne occupied Rick's thoughts, he took a page from her book. She was masterful at silence, at letting others prattle on and on while she watched. He could admit now that it unnerved him when they first met. Her silence, the way she regarded him, that he could only know of her what she allowed. Which, at the time, was nothing.
A lawyer through and through.
She was more open to him now, open in ways he could have only dreamed about before.
But there was something he couldn't reach. Something she was keeping from him.
He let his thoughts of her consume him until Negan's voice blurred and disappeared.
…
He waited ten minutes before he followed.
He came up short at the two empty nails on the wall. Where her sword had been only hours earlier. The one she'd taken effort to remove without a sound before she slipped out the door.
His stomach flipped with panic. He nearly ripped the door from its hinges and thundered down the hallway. But he waited.
Judith slept. A mess of blonde hair, limbs, blankets, and stuffed animals. Rather than re-tucking her, he covered her with an additional throw blanket, leaving the door cracked the way he found it. He crept down the hallway.
And he was creeping.
He avoided the creaky floorboard on the landing; the fourth step from the bottom that groaned if you put too much of your weight to the left; the baby doll he hated but Judith loved, the one that reminded him of Talking Tina from The Twilight Zone; the Bird of Paradise that tended to slap his shoulder as he passed.
His slinking proved fruitless. Michonne wasn't downstairs. Or anywhere else in the house.
He waited.
Fifteen minutes—hands pressed to the kitchen counter, listening for her return.
Thirty minutes—fiddling with the coffee table books. One about New Orleans, a place that Shane had loved, but Rick had never been. Another about fashion. Vibrant, hypnotic improbable outfits brandished in poses that put a kink in Rick's back.
Nearly an hour—standing on the veranda, baby monitor in hand, forearms sore from his weight. He kept absolutely still as a few late night strollers passed, not wanting to be seen. It occurred to him then that he was being ridiculous, skulking (or sulking) outside of his own home.
From the monitor, Judith whimpered, then snuffled. Then she rolled over. Once. Twice. Before settling again. Normal, all things considered. She was a wild sleeper. Had been since she was seven months old.
But was his fretfulness filling the house? Traveling up the stairs? Settling over Judith? He wondered too what Michonne would think when she found him here siting in the dark.
Christ.
He owed Lori a litany of apologies. How many nights had she spent awake, waiting for him, wondering why prowling the quiet country roads was easier than being home?
At the prison, he'd ruminated on his many absences. Late nights at the station. Long drives down I-85. Shifts taken that he hand't needed to take.
And even when he was home, there was the silence. The quiet longing. The musing.
You're always disappearing, Lori used to say. Where do you go?
He never had an answer for her. How could he explain the way his heart wandered?
He never found the words to covey that his heart often journeyed away from him to some then unknown place. And try as he might, he couldn't get it back in time to give her what she needed.
He felt sorry for that. For where his heart had gone back then, unbeknownst to him. Traveling time and space and realities to embrace a woman he hadn't even known, hadn't even imagined.
Where do you go?
What beautiful, painful irony that he would be the one asking this question. Waiting. Wondering.
It would be cosmic justice if he felt at all punished by it, creeping down the stairs, sitting in the dark. He felt obsessed, yes. Clinging and needy. But not punished.
Because as much as he longed for her, wondered about her, worried for her, Rick knew Michonne's absence wasn't punitive. In some ways, he might have preferred reprimand for some undisclosed transgression. But no.
This, her near nightly disappearance, it was guarded. Circumspect and protective in the way she'd been upon their meeting, when they were nothing more than wary strangers.
Back when she only spared him the occasional word of greeting. Back when she never spent more than three consecutive days at the prison. Back when she'd ignored all of his timorous, delicate attempts at persuasion.
Carl likes it when you're here.
(Rick liked it.)
It ain't safe out there.
(He worried.)
You don't owe us anythin', Michonne.
(He owed her.)
It ain't so bad here, you know.
(Stay.)
First, she met his nudging with silence. Then, a forbearing look. Eventually, snappy remarks. He liked those early glimpses of her dry humor.
But he never got around to saying what he really wanted to say.
Sometimes, I want to go with you.
I know what it's like, not bein' able to keep still.
What're you runnin' from?
Groaning, Rick hauled himself from the couch. His trek up the stairs was less clandestine than his trip down.
Judith had found her way to the far edge of the bed and tucked herself against the wall. Rick pulled the door all the way closed.
Things had been quiet for a while, but he got paranoid. The chances of a walker making it into the house were slim, but Rick was reminded of the worst case scenario every time he passed the empty room across the hall. The one that would have been Carl's.
He lingered at the door and imagined what should have been.
Carl, wrapped in his sheets. Hair wild. Snoring.
Carl, up late, reading some fantasy or comic book, the plot points of which he and Michonne would discuss in glorious detail over breakfast, to Rick's never-ending confusion.
Carl, perhaps embracing the conventions of teenage rebellion, sneaking from the house in the middle of the night. Rick had done the same at that age, back when their two-story farmhouse seemed to pinch at his skin, until he felt suffocated and claustrophobic.
Would Carl have grown to feel that way? Restive and seeking and ever-shifting? Extending, reaching, grasping towards something he couldn't utter? Not for lack of wanting, but for lack of words. Like his father. Quiet but always thinking. Looking and seeing what he could only vocalize in sporadic, vulnerable moments.
Hadn't Rick already perceived that in his son? Before the outbreak, yes, but certainly after. When the world made less sense. When beingmade less sense.
Rick jerked away from the door. Unable to face the room's emptiness, he sped down the hall.
Inside, their bedroom was quiet. Void. Lacking.
Their bed creaked as Rick crawled in.
He wanted to build Michonne a new one. Something heavy and wooden and big. Like the one they'd encountered on a run during their early days in Alexandria, just after the herd, when Carl was tired of them "hovering around."
They'd found a house. Bigger than their Alexandria house. Bigger than anything Rick could have afforded before. Michonne absolutely hated it—a red-bricked, Tudor-style mansion.
It's too English for me.
But he remembered, vividly, everything about her reaction to the bed in the master bedroom: the way she lingered in the doorway; her slow approach across the hardwood; the way she uttered in a low voice, "Now thisI like."; the way she skimmed the oak headboard with a gloved hand; the way she looked back at him, toeing off her boots, smiling with rare mischief, before launching her lithe body onto the mattress.
The bed didn't make a sound.
He remembered the way she laid there, spread across the bed and eyes closed, smiling, clueless to his galloping heart, to the warmth in his stomach and pelvis, to the eruption of feeling. The same burst of feeling he'd repressed a lot since their meeting, either due to wariness, grief, or pragmatism.
Because her eyes were closed, he let himself watch her, let himself imagine the benefits of a large mattress and sturdy wood.
When her eyes opened and remained on him, as they did sometimes, his skin grew warmer. At that point, she knew him better than anyone, better than anyone ever had. But she remained an enigma to him in many ways. He turned away and cleared his throat, muttering something about finding more supplies.
A first aid kit. Batteries. Canned goods. The usual.
She'd hummed in encouragement. The sheets ruffled behind him and Rick, helpless, turned back to see. Just a peek. She'd turned onto her stomach. Rick considered how inconvenient it would be to have a heart attack.
I always wanted a bed like this. Let's stay here for the night.
Her voice was lower. At least it seemed that way to Rick. But he couldn't be sure with all the blood rushing to his ears.
It was a nice bed. Bigger than the one they had now. Quieter too.
He'd have to find the right wood. Maybe get some tips from Tobin. Tobin didn't like him very much, but he seemed quietly fond of Michonne.
Rick was drifting back to sleep when he heard a creak.
Slight.
Another just seconds later.
The top stair.
Then, the soft padding of feet. So soft he wouldn't have heard them had he been asleep.
He waited.
The sound of footsteps didn't fade as much as they disappeared altogether and Rick wondered if Michonne had stopped in the hallway. Perhaps to look in on Judith. But there was no sound from the hallway. Nor did their bedroom door open.
Another faint creak.
Above him this time. On the third floor.
Rick sprang out of bed before his brain registered what he was doing. He lingered at the door and listened.
Hand on the doorknob, he told himself to get back in bed and wait for her. He told himself to that she would come to him when she was ready. He told himself that it was weird to sneak around his own house. He told himself that this wasn't him, that he didn't do things like this.
He almost listened.
He even took his hand off the doorknob, prepared to get back in bed.
But then he was easing the door open, slinking up the stairs, inching down the long hallway. His heart leapt in his throat.
The third floor was split into two spaces: a den and a second master bedroom with an ensuite.
At Michonne's insistence, Rick offered the space to Daryl. As an olive branch of sorts. Daryl declined. He didn't spend much time in Alexandria anymore.
They didn't use the third floor often. At least Rick didn't.
Rick crept towards the bedroom. The door was closed. No light shone underneath.
The ensuite door was ajar. Not by much. But enough.
He heard her before he saw her.
The slight groan of furniture. The whisper of fabric. A sharp inhale. A whimper.
Rick peered through the bathroom door. In the mirror's reflection, he could see a good bit of the room beyond, illumined only by the moon's glow.
He registered her in pieces.
The toes of her left foot pressed into the hardwood, nails burgundy and shimmering.
The delicate gold anklet he'd found in a boutique jewelry store. The single charm—a heart—wobbling as her foot dug into the floor.
Her leg, long and taut, the calf flexed.
Another whimper. A whispered word. Too low for him to hear.
Her flimsy nightgown—the one that made him want to swallow his tongue—bunched around her waist.
Her right leg, draped over the arm of the lounge chair.
Her hand, grasping the upholstery.
Her other hand, between her legs, rubbing in steady circles. The gold bracelet he'd gotten to match her anklet, glinting in the moonlight.
Her breasts, free, heaving.
Her head, tossed back. Her locs, much longer than they were when he met her, flowing over the back of the chair.
Her lips, parted. Then pressed together. Open again.
A moan. Louder than she expected. She pressed her hand against her mouth—the one not circling her wet pussy—and seemed to sigh in relief. Her hand moved faster. She groaned.
Winding her hips, she pushed her foot harder into the floor, looking for purchase. It slipped. She lost her rhythm. Huffing, she moved her fingers from her clit.
"Fuck."
Rick heard it, despite the roar in his ears.
Sighing, she gripped both arms of the couch and took a series of slow, deliberate breaths. Eventually, her body relaxed again—back into the cushion, limbs softened, the pinched look of frustration receding.
She lied there. Soft. Liquid.
Rick's skin bristled. He was sensitive to everything.
Her luminous skin. Her breathing. Her slick pussy.
Her hands slid from the arms of the chair, and he tensed, watching with rapt attention.
Her hands moved. One to her mouth, where she traced her lips with a slow finger. The other to her breast, where she kneaded it and then pinched her nipple between her thumb and forefinger. She gave it a gentle tug. Rick knew from experience how sensitive she was, how much she liked to be touched there. She tugged again and sighed.
Her other hand fell from her mouth to her knee, then to the inside of her thigh. She lifted her leg and again draped it over the arm of the chair. Then the other. She was spread wide.
Rick's heart stuttered.
Jesus.
Her pubic hair glistened in the minimal light. She slid her fingers to her swollen lips. Her touch was light, feathery. Her back arched when she slipped her middle and forefinger inside until she was knuckle deep.
"Yes."
Quiet. Pleased.
She added a third finger. She stayed just like that.
Rick was aflame. His heart thundered in his ears. He felt hazy, lightheaded. He gripped the doorframe for leverage, worried his knees would give out.
Michonne pressed her hips into her hand and groaned.
"Yes," she said again. "Yes."
Get the fuck outta here.
Rick knew he should. Everything was telling him to flee. But he was rooted.
She was gorgeous and breathless and pleased. It had been a long time since he'd seen her like this. A very long time.
Fingers still buried insider her, she fumbled for something on the end table. There was a soft thud, and she froze. Rick froze too as her eyes opened, sure that she could see him through the mirror. But then she pulled the item into her lap. He could only see the outline, but he knew what it was. He'd been there when she got it.
…
Before the War
A small shop. A garish sign. A tickled Michonne, indifferent to Rick's abashment, oblivious to his curiosity.
Vividly colored silicone. Borosilicate glass in odd, intriguing shapes. Leather harnesses and straps.
She teased him.
"See anything you like?"
A loaded question. Not that she knew how loaded.
"Yes," he said.
A single word. As veracious as any truth he'd given her over the course of their friendship. And she looked at him, inscrutable. He endured her stare until he couldn't anymore. He turned and fumbled, knocking over the contents of a shelf.
When nothing dead or living appeared, Rick, blushing, glanced at what he'd knocked over.
Dildos.
In various sizes.
He cursed to himself.
"Sorry."
As if they were hers.
The thought brought heat to his neck.
Michonne squatted to retrieve a dildo encased in plastic. She inspected it and wrinkled her nose. She tossed the box away. It landed with a heavy thud at Rick's feet. He read the box.
REAL COCK. 10" WITH BALLS.
The tagline read: BIG WHITE COCK.
He cleared his throat.
"Not your style?"
She rummaged.
"No."
Rick tried not to read into that.
Another box hit the worn tip of his boot. The faux appendage was prodigious. Brown. Veined. Curved.
KING COCK. 12". VIBRATING.
Questions. So many. None of which he could or would ask.
"I don't like the flesh-colored ones," she said. "Never have."
She discarded another. Despite what Rick perceived to be a deep commitment to privacy, Michonne didn't seem the least bit coy about trawling through a pile of sex toys. What if he seized the opportunity to whet his curiosity? If only a little. He turned away so she wouldn't see his reddened cheeks.
"Why—" He swallowed. "Why not?"
"Tacky."
Rick nodded as if that made sense to him.
"Right. Yeah."
She regarded him. Did she see his blush? His pulse hammering in his throat? Did she hear the question in his tone?
She stood, leaving the pile behind. The littered floor and narrow aisle forced them close. Rick inhaled. She smelled of lavender, rosewater, and sweat. He inhaled again, taking an involuntary step forward.
And there it was. Her widened eyes. Her tense shoulders. Her stuttered breath.
Panic. Memory.
Her daughter.
Her dead boyfriend. Mike.
The one she rarely spoke about. A man that Rick had conjured up in his imagination many times, curious about the kind of man that Michonne could love. Had he given her the 'M' necklace that she often fingered?
The one she fingered now as she took a step back. She maneuvered around him.
Regretful, Rick stepped away to give her the space she needed. He cursed his intensity and that primeval leaning in. He reached for her. Two fingers. Index and middle. The only touch he permitted himself.
"Sorry," he said. "It ain't my business."
She perused another shelf. These were more colorful than the ones he'd knocked over. He tapped the shelf as he passed, intent on giving her the privacy he should have given her to begin with.
"The flesh-colored ones are meant to be realistic," she said.
He stopped and turned to her. She continued to scan the shelf, moving boxes around.
"I never needed that."
The box she selected had a picture of the toy printed on the front. It was magenta. Vibrant and veined. Smaller than the ones she'd discarded earlier. Girly, in a way.
"But I do like them to be pretty."
She opened her backpack and plopped the box inside. As if she wasn't revealing a lot to him. Rick trailed after her as she went to another aisle. He dug his thumb into the palm of his hand.
"Pretty, huh?"
"Yes. And effective. Obviously."
Rick coughed.
"What—" Heat swirled in that space just under his belly button. "What makes it effective?"
"It reaches the right spot."
She winked at him, and Rick shook his head, smiling. She tickled him as much as she overwhelmed him. He moved his thumb from his palm to his eyebrow.
"I see."
He wished he were more like Shane. Smoother. Bolder. Shane was many things—including a fucking lunatic—but he'd never been afraid of himself or his desires. Though he should have been. In the end.
She filled a duffel bag with condoms and different kinds of lubricant, muttering something about preferences and allergies.
"Seems like we're runnin' out faster than ever," Rick said.
She nodded.
"Things are quieter now. There's time. Alexandria gives us time."
Rick wished that her "us" was narrower than it was.
"Yeah," he said. "It's good."
She titled her head.
"It gives you time too, you know. Especially with your face like that. You've got the suburbanites thinking ungodly things."
She circled her forefinger around her face. Rick's hands immediately went to his stubble. Groaning, he blushed. Like a damn schoolboy.
"Don't start, Chonne."
"They want to see why you're so bowlegged."
"Jesus fuckin' Christ."
"They've got something for you to investigate, Constable."
He damn near scurried away from her.
"Quit bein' an asshole."
"Just give me a heads up. I don't wanna overhear anything scandalous. I'll take the kids out of the house."
At that, his good humor faded. The mention of his children—their children, for all intents and purposes—reminded him too acutely of what he wanted and could not have. He didn't want Michonne out of the house. He wanted her in his bed. Or him in hers. The kids safe and asleep down the hall.
"Is that somethin' I gotta worry about?" he asked. "Overhearin' somethin'? It ain't just me who has time."
He stared at her, finding the boldness he'd coveted just moments ago. He stepped forward and she stepped back until her back hit a shelf.
"And whether you notice or care, Chonne, you got plenty of options. Whatever you think about my prospects, I promise you got way more."
He wasn't blind. He saw the way men stared at her, the subtle ways they vied for her attention and approval, the way their shoulders deflated at her remoteness.
The 'M' necklace. Tugged between her fingers.
The dead boyfriend. Her daughter.
Raw. Inflamed. Her heart had to be so bruised from her losses. And Rick knew better than anyone how one's silence hid the nastiest wounds.
She had carved out so much room for Carl and Judith. For their people. For Alexandria. And here he was, selfishly fantasizing about her making room for him too. Hoping, praying she wasn't making room for another man.
Rick retreated.
"You ain't gotta worry about nothin' like that from me," he said. "That's our home. Your home. You already share enough."
Tugging at the strap of her backpack, he smiled. She deserved things that were just for her. God, if anybody deserved pleasure, it was her.
"And trust me, I ain't gon' complain if I overhear anythin'."
In a surge of boldness, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. Then he left her standing there, stunned.
The Present
With one hand, she circled her clit. She inserted the dildo with the other. It slipped in easily, the stimulation to her clit making her soft and pliant, open.
She sighed.
She didn't thrust. Instead, she pushed it deep. All the way. It squelched as she rotated her hips and ground against it.
Her breath hitched.
"Yes. Yes. Yes."
It wouldn't take her long. He could tell by her stammered breathing, her open mouth, the frantic way she gyrated.
Jesus Christ.
He was looming. He was looming in the doorway like a fucking creep.
He spun and hurried down the hall, the sound of her fading as he reached the stairs.
Down. Avoiding the ones that creaked. Slipping their bedroom door closed without a sound. Maneuvering onto the bed so it didn't groan.
Fuck, he needed to build her a new one.
His heart hammered. He laid on his stomach and hissed at the pressure. Above him, the love of his life was pleasuring herself, and he was here, hard, heavy, his pajamas pants sticky with pre-cum. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so aroused.
And he had more questions than ever.
Where had she gone earlier?
Why had she taken her sword?
Was this what she did every time she slipped away at night?
How long had she been doing this?
It wasn't that she had to talk to him about it. Of course not. She was free to come and go as she pleased. Do as she wanted. He'd known that about her since their first meeting.
But why hadn't she spoken to him about it?
Weeks. She'd been leaving for weeks.
And she kissed him awake in the morning and then went about her day as usual.
Besides the occasional yawn, she never indicated her nightly activities.
Just tired, she would say.
Indeed.
He was standing at the prison fence again. Waiting for her to return. Wondering where she was.
The stairs creaked, and Rick froze, unsure what to do. He'd been pretending to sleep the last few days when she returned, wrapping her in his arms and waiting until she fell back into slumber. He wasn't sure he could manage it this time.
Michonne entered their room as quietly as she had the first time he'd seen her do it. Rick lifted his head from the pillow.
She paused, not as startled as the last time, but surprised all the same.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
She climbed onto the bed, straddling his back for a moment. Rick sighed at the heat of her. She kissed his shoulder and moved to her side of the bed. She preferred to be by the window.
Lying on her side, she faced him, caressing the nape of his neck.
"You okay?" she asked, tugging his earlobe.
Rick gripped the sheet under the pillow. He was hard. Still. Harder now. He turned his head to her.
"Yeah."
"What are you doing up?"
"Should be askin' you that. Everythin' okay?"
He kissed her wrist. She hummed, moving closer until her breasts were pressed against his shoulder.
"Yes," she said.
It was all she said.
Rick stared at her, and she stared back. Her fingers whispered across his eyebrow. His eyes closed.
"You're frowning," she said. "What's wrong?"
"I ain't frownin'."
He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her even further against him. He stayed on his stomach, waiting for his erection to disappear.
"You are."
"Am not."
"Bad dream?"
"No."
"Good."
"You?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"No. Just up. You know how it is."
He did. Sleeping had been near impossible for the first few months after Carl. Grief turned his stomach, unsettled his very being. He understood restlessness.
"Your daughter is a contortionist," she said.
He snorted, smiling.
"Where is she now?
"Damn near off the bed."
"Gonna have to build a net or somethin'. Feel like we're gonna wake up one day and she's on the floor."
"Probably."
They shared a laugh, and it felt good. To laugh with her. To lie with her. Despite his misgivings.
She continued to caress him: his neck; his ear; his shoulders; the length of his back. He melted into the mattress, groaning. She lifted her leg and crooked it over his back.
"Chonne."
He turned on his side to face her, prepared to say something.
Where do you go?
What's wrong?
Please talk to me.
"Is this why you're awake?" she asked, pressing against him.
"No," he said. "I—"
She ground against his erection.
"Shit."
"But it's keeping you awake."
Among other things, yes.
She nudged his shoulder. Powerless, he rolled onto his back. His hands were helpless too, coming up to grip her waist, his thumbs resting just under her breasts.
"Want me to help you sleep?"
I want you to talk to me.
He lifted his head and kissed her torso through her nightgown. She hummed. Then she pushed him back onto the bed.
"Michonne."
"Hm?"
A slow swirl of her hips. His came off the bed. His neck strained.
"I wanna—"
Know. Talk. Fuck.
"Mhm."
A harder wind of her hips. He groaned.
"God. Fuck."
He gripped, grinding up.
She was misunderstanding him. He couldn't blame her. He wasn't saying what he wanted to. He opened his mouth, ready to speak. Maybe.
But then they were kissing. Filthily. And his hand was under her nightgown. She wasn't wearing any underwear. She was still slick.
"Oh," she said, breathy and light.
She shuddered against his fingers. He pressed the heel of his hand against her clit. Her mouth opened.
"Oh God," she said.
"There you go."
She grabbed his wrist, keeping him there, grinding against his hand.
"There you go." He pushed his hips into her. "That's it."
She fell forward, her hand falling beside his head, holding herself up.
"Wait," she said. "Baby, wait."
He stilled.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
She pulled his hand away and kissed it. Perhaps tasting herself on it. She shook her head.
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong."
He sat up to study her.
"Michonne."
"Lay back down. Please."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm okay. Just lay back down. Unless you want to stop. We don't have to…"
He didn't want to stop. He wanted her to be honest. He wanted to touch her.
"We don't have to, Rick. We can stop."
"I don't wanna stop."
She took his face in her hands, meeting his insistent stare, searching. He got the impression that she was trying to tell him something. He didn't want to stop, no, but he needed to know she wanted whatever this was.
"You're okay?" he asked.
"Lay down. Please."
Her voice was low and beseeching. He acquiesced, nodding. Surrendering.
"Stay just like that," she said.
His balls tightened. She rolled away, and he reached for her.
"Where you goin'?"
He kept his hand on her thigh as she rummaged in the bedside table, not wanting her to go too far. The bottle of lubricant landed next to his head, nicking his ear.
"Sorry," she said, massaging his lobe to soothe him.
He didn't give a good goddamn about his ear. She kissed him. Soft. Just a peck. He chased her.
"Come here," he said.
"No. Put your hands behind your head."
Fuck.
He knew what she wanted. They'd done this before. Back when their relationship first started. In that quiet week after their raid on the satellite compound. When he had only just begun to learn what she liked.
"Do it," she said.
Heart beating like a drum, he laced his hands behind his head and relaxed into the pillow.
"Breathe, Rick."
"I'm tryin'."
She wasn't making it easy for him. Smiling, she kissed him.
"Try harder."
"Asshole."
He loved her.
His skin warmed each place she put her lips. His neck. His chest. Right under his belly button. She drug her nails down the line of hair on his navel, just under the waistband of his pajama pants. She slid her hand further and Rick rose his hips off bed. He hadn't meant to. She played with his thick pubic hair because she liked it. Kissing his chest, she plucked his waistband.
"Take these off."
He shoved them down his legs and off the bed. As if they'd offended him. She giggled.
"I love when you do that," he said.
"What?"
"Giggle."
"I don't giggle."
"Yeah, you do."
"Hush. And put your hands back."
"Yes, ma'am."
Settling back against the pillow, he watched her, scanning the lines of her face, her neck, her breasts, her legs. She rested her head on her fist, dragging her other hand over his mouth. He nipped her finger.
"You're beautiful."
"Don't distract me," she said.
"I love you."
"I know."
Eyes sharp, he asked, "Do you?"
Frowning, she said, "Of course."
They laid there. Staring at each other. Doing their best to impart something without saying anything. It was an odd ritual for them. One they hadn't done since they were first warming to each other. She looked away first. He didn't have time to consider that. Her hands went between his legs, to his inner thighs where he was sensitive. She used multiple parts of her hands to touch him.
The back of her fingers. Soft. Trailing.
Her palm, gripping, kneading.
The tip of her nails, dragging. (He came off the bed; He liked that.)
"You okay?" she asked.
He grunted a "yes" through gritted teeth. She kissed his cheek. He turned to capture her lips, but she moved away. He nearly whined. That seemed to tickle her. He might have too if she hadn't taken a handful of his balls. She was gentle with them, rolling them in her hand, massaging them. It wasn't something he'd known he liked until her. He leaked. His toes flexed.
Another kiss to his cheek. To his nose. To both his eyelids, her minty breath washing over him.
Tutting, she grabbed the bottle of lube, still massaging with the other hand.
"I should have gotten a towel."
Her words were casual despite having a handful of his balls. He felt like he might come off out of his skin at any moment. It had been a long time since they'd done anything like this. And his brain was working overtime flitting between her, before him now, and the images of her from earlier.
"It might be a little cold," she said.
"I'on care."
His words jumbled. She hummed and sat up, removing her hand from him. He sighed with disappointment and relief. He reached for her.
"What are you doing?" she asked, using her nail to peel the dried lubricant from the cap.
It had been a while.
He pulled at the strap of her nightgown.
A request. A plea. He wanted to look.
"Okay. But then put your hands back."
That was a titillating part of the dance for her sometimes. Touching without being touched. Him only being able to watch as she touched him.
Gently, he pulled the nightgown until the straps slid off her shoulders and it pooled at her hips. She gave him a stern look. He put his hands back behind his head and stretched.
"Impatient?"
"No."
He meant it.
The cap popped open. Rick's dick flexed. She squirted a generous amount in her hands and rubbed them together, warming the liquid. Then, without warning, she grabbed his dick and spread the lube by giving him a firm, long stroke.
"Ah. Shit."
"I'm sorry. I tried to warm it up."
He gave her a look. He didn't care about that, and she knew it.
She bit her lip, pleased, and let him go. Gently, she smeared more of the lubricant around his balls. Despite her teasing, he was hot. Blazing. On fire. Her hands were warm and slick.
He would not last long.
"Chonne…"
"Hm?"
"I ain't gonna…I can't…Fuck…Give me a minute."
She understood and smiled, holding her hands up as if to say, "See?" He exhaled, his chest rising and falling. She resumed her earlier position, lying on her side next to him.
"I like you like this," she said.
"Like what?"
Apparently unwilling to elaborate, she kissed his cheek. It was a sweet gesture. In contrast to her sudden grip on him. Not rough, but determined. He knew then that she would have no mercy on him. There was something about her tonight. Hungry. Voracious.
She gave him two hard strokes.
"Stop fighting it."
"Oh. Fuck. Goddamit."
"Tell me when you're about to come, baby."
Three strokes this time. Rick moved his hands under the pillow. He needed something to hold onto.
"I mean it, Rick. Tell me."
He whimpered.
A sound he'd never made during sex until her.
"Say okay."
"Okay."
"You're being very good."
"I am good," he said. "I'll be good."
"Does it feel good?" she asked.
"Yes, Chonne. Yes. Fuck."
Better than anything he'd felt in a long time.
He groaned as she stroked him. He was loud. He knew that. But what could he do but surrender? To the tightening in his balls? To her gentle encouragement. To her sporadic kisses, the way she tugged on his lip with her teeth.
He did what he was told and kept his hands behind him, gripping the pillow as if his life depended on it.
Every one of his muscles strained.
"I love you like this," she said.
He nodded, devoid of words. Not coherent ones, anyway. He was right fucking there. Right there.
"Chonne," he said. "I'm close."
She released him. He fell back against the bed, heaving. She soothed him. Patting his chest. Tugging his earlobe. Kissing his jaw.
"Why're you tryna kill me?"
"Never."
"I'm an old man. You gotta take it easy."
She rolled her eyes.
"You're thirty-nine. Hardly old."
"Keep fuckin' me like that, and I'm gonna have a heart attack."
"I'd kill you if you died. I hope you know that."
Though he'd been teasing, he regretted his words. The very thought of her death paralyzed him, sent him into a space so desolate that it weakened his knees. It was likely the same for her. They'd already lost so much.
"I'm sorry." He leaned up to kiss her breast. "I shouldn't joke like that."
"I want us to joke. If you feel ready for that. It's okay if you don't."
"I'on feel ready for anythin'," he said. "But then I end up doin' it anyway with you."
It was a confession. Praise.
It hit her. Somewhere. Because she turned away, her lip quivering for a second. He chased her gaze. Whatever she was feeling disappeared, and despite his frustration, he met her lips warmly.
"Relax," she said. "Lay back down."
He did. If only because he saw the vulnerability in her desire. In the need to return to some former version of herself.
She caressed him again, as she'd done before, starting with his inner thighs, moving up to his belly, then his pubic hair, bringing him back to that needy, desperate place.
When she began to stroke him again, Rick widened his legs, bringing up one to bend his knee.
"More?"
He nodded.
She sat up again, crossing her legs. She grabbed his balls with her other hand, massaging and stroking simultaneously. When she felt he was getting close, she'd focus on his balls, lightening the pressure on his dick. She brought him close to orgasm a few times, but denied him, until he damn near sobbed and begged.
"Chonne. Fuck. Please. Please."
"Please what?"
"I wanna come, baby."
"Look at me."
A gentle command.
His eyes sprung open. He nearly cried at the soft look in her eyes. She stroked him harder.
"I know you love me," she said.
Good. He wasn't coherent enough to comment further, but he was glad she knew. He didn't doubt that she knew, but sometimes he needed it confirmed.
"I know you love me," she said again. "I see it everyday. I know, Rick. I know."
Yeah. He was close, and he knew he would come like a fucking train.
"But tell me anyway."
"I love you," he said. "I love you so fuckin' much."
He repeated it as he barreled towards his orgasm. It was a liturgy.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
"Good. Now come for me."
A brilliant light danced behind his eyes. His hips rose off the bed. He bellowed, and Michonne pressed her hand against his mouth, whispering encouragement, praise. His cum spilled over her hand and it only added to the delicious slide.
That's it, baby. Come for me. Don't stop.
He thrust wildly into her hand. Breath abandoned him. He wondered if he would pass out.
You're okay, Rick. I love you. You're okay."
He felt insane, actually. Delirious. Completely out of his fucking mind.
He trembled, his dick sensitive and achy. She released him. Her hands, one of them sticky with cum, grasped his face.
"Hey," she said.
He struggled for air. The room shrunk.
"Rick."
The words sounded from afar. As if through a wall or several rooms.
One of her hands went behind his hand, grasping the hair at the nape of his neck.
"Open your eyes, Rick."
He did and was met with her steady ones.
"Do you love me?" she asked.
Panicked, he nodded. Of course he did. Why was she asking him that? Hadn't he just said so many times?
"Then tell me."
"I love you."
His throat was raw.
"Again."
"I love you."
She made him say it until his heart rate slowed. Until breathing wasn't so painful and laborious. Until the room wasn't distorted with odd shapes and lines. He took a final, shuddering breath and was calm.
"There you are."
Her hands were still on his face, and he he held her wrists.
"I'm okay." He inhaled. "I'm okay."
"I know."
He remembered the first time she'd said that to him. One of the first acknowledgments of the rare sameness between them.
She waited until she was sure he was okay before leaving to grab a wet towel. She cleaned the cum from her hands, his beard, his groin. The bed couldn't be helped. When she moved to place it in the hamper, Rick took it and tossed it across the room. He didn't want her getting up again. He opened his arms to her and she fell against him, now as tired as he was. He rolled until he had her pressed underneath him. She liked his weight. It often put her to sleep. He buried his face in her neck.
"Thank you."
"I don't know if you should thank me for that. You really almost had a heart attack. Jesus, old man."
He pinched her side. She giggled.
"Been a while."
"It has." She looked at him, serious. "But you're okay? It was okay?"
He nodded.
"Course it was. Damn near killed me."
She slapped his shoulder and they fell into silence. He massaged various parts of her body until her muscles loosened and her breathing evened.
Rick eventually fell asleep, as euphoric as he was grieved.
…
Michonne kept disappearing at night.
Rick did not follow her again.
When she returned to their bed, he received her touch with desperate, greedy hands, coming with her name on his lips.
He missed her desperately.
Ten Months After the War
Things were brittle between Alexandria and Hilltop.
After Negan, the once affectionate relationship had soured into something more pragmatic and businesslike. Even if the people of Hilltop liked the Alexandrians, they'd taken on Maggie's distance. And Daryl's.
Rick hardly blamed them.
Things with the Kingdom were different. Under the leadership of Ezekiel and Carol, they welcomed Rick and Michonne often.
King Ezekiel wasn't the vengeful type. He was effusive, warm, forgiving. To a fault. It had certainly rankled Rick upon their meeting. But he took comfort in it now.
And there was Carol. Pragmatic to a deadly degree. Never fully at ease. But changed from the woman who'd rescued them from Terminus.
She was tired. Of killing. Of fighting. Prepared, certainly. But weary. Based on what Rick knew about Ed, Carol had been fighting long before the outbreak. The Kingdom—Ezekiel—assuaged something in her. Rick was glad for it.
He and Carol stood side by side.
It was a sunny day. The Kingdom was bright with greenery and Ezekiel's boisterous laughter. He had joined the lesson too.
"She's good with that," Carol said.
"She's good at everythin'."
Michonne was teaching The Kingdom newcomers to use bladed weapons. She preferred her sword. It was an extension of her. But she was scarily good with a hunting knife and a spear, which the Kingdom had an excess of. She was so good that the Kingdom's blacksmith had made Michonne a custom spear. Michonne ignored Rick when he teased her about it the blacksmith's obvious crush.
"I remember the first time I saw her use that sword," Carol said. "Scared the shit outta me. I'd never seen anything like it."
"I think she scared all of us."
"Especially you."
Her voice was teasing. Rick blushed.
"Yeah. Yeah, she scared me somethin' good."
"It is good. Look how it turned out."
He was still mystified to this day. Not that he had fallen in love with Michonne, but that she'd fallen in love with him too. He wondered if he would ever get used to the knowledge.
"People sneak up on ya," he said.
Carol rolled her eyes. But her lips curved, and Rick didn't push further.
"How are things? In Alexandria?"
Rick put his hands on his hips.
"Good. Better. People are settled. As much as they can be with Negan there."
Carol was the neutral party between the communities. The one not married to either decision. Negan could live or die and she would feel the same. Even with Daryl feeling sore about it all.
"How's Daryl?" Rick asked.
"You know Daryl. Off doing his own thing when he's not at The Kingdom or Sanctuary. But that's how he likes it"
"Yeah."
"You two will find your rhythm again," she said. "Give it time."
Time mended some hurts. But not all.
Rick wasn't sure Daryl or Maggie could accept keeping Negan alive. Hell, Rick didn't always accept it and he'd made the decision.
For Carl. For a better world.
"How are you?" Carol asked. "Beyond Alexandria and Negan. You holding up?"
Rick shrugged, his heart shrinking.
"I'm okay," he said. "I'm tryin' to be."
"That's how it is."
Rick met her sympathetic stare with his own. Carol was like Michonne. She'd lost Sophia early after the outbreak. She didn't blame Rick. He knew that. But he'd never stopped feeling like he'd failed them both.
"There's a girl here. She looks like Sophia. I hate looking at her."
It was a bald statement. Confessional in a way that Carol normally wasn't with him.
"The pain hides after a while. It doesn't go away. But it gets easier to live with. Some moments you want to die right along with them. And sometimes it feels okay to, I don't know, keep living. To laugh."
As if on cue, Ezekiel bellowed with joy. He was on the ground, the tip of Michonne's blade inches from his nose. He got a kick out of being bested by her. Michonne occasionally indulged him. It made the kids laugh.
"It's easier. With Michonne. She—"
He wanted to say she understood their pain. But Michonne and Carol weren't close. There was something incongruent about them despite their similarities.
"She was a mother. Before."
Rick balked. Carol shrugged.
"Not hard to figure out."
Perhaps not. Not for a fellow parent. Not for someone as perceptive as Carol.
"Naw, I guess not."
But the revelation of Michonne's loss had indeed surprised him. She'd camouflaged her grief well. At least from him.
"How is she?" Carol asked.
Rick wasn't willing to say much. Not about Michonne. Not to Carol. He trusted her with his life, sure, but he didn't trust many with the delicate webbing of Michonne's heart.
"She's everything'. I wouldn't be here without her."
It was all Rick was willing to say. Carol accepted that.
"She's tough. Maybe tougher than any of us. Besides Daryl. They're a lot alike, those two."
It was a truth Rick had noticed long ago. Daryl and Michonne's similarities. It was probably why Daryl still held great affection for Michonne—a kiss on the cheek, a quiet checking in, a soft look—even when he could barely make eye contact with Rick.
"But she's not invincible. People like her and Daryl, they hurt deep. I know you know that. But still."
She patted his shoulder before walking away. Rick ruminated on her words. On their implication. He was so caught up that Michonne's hand on his neck startled him.
"Hey."
"Hey, beautiful."
She was gorgeous today. Sweaty. Strong. Lithe and sensual in an Adidas workout set that showed off her midriff and toned arms. Her hair was up in a high pony tail. He loved seeing it up and away from her face.
"I need a volunteer," she said.
He raised his eyebrow.
"You got a few eager ones over there," Rick said gesturing to a few of the men who'd watched her walk over.
"I want you."
A fist clenched in his gut. She didn't let him touch her much when she made him swear and come. But he wanted to touch her, wanted to give her the pleasure she seemed intent on giving him.
"What ya need me to do?"
It didn't matter. He wouldn't deny her.
"I need a sparring partner."
"You just wanna throw me around."
"Maybe I want to be on top of you."
He tugged her ponytail.
"You ain't gotta orchestrate anythin' to be on top of me, Chonne."
"Good to know. Come on. I need you."
Rick allowed himself a self-pitying moment to wonder how much that was true.
…
His mother died when he was twenty-seven. A random accident. A nasty fall from a horse that she had walked away from, only for Rick's father to find her dead three days later.
Epidural hematoma. A brain bleed.
Rick had heard stories from people about seeing dead loved ones. He'd never believed them. He didn't disbelieve that they had seen something. Easy to do when you were out your mind with grief. Hungry for any vestige of connection, a sense that your person wasn't gone forever.
But Rick hadn't put much stock in it.
Not until his mother died and he was desperate for just a glimpse of her. Her death defied all logic. He'd seen her the day before she died, and it didn't make sense to him that she could be gone. Just…not in the world anymore.
Oh, how he'd wanted to see her.
He'd stay up late, waiting.
But she never came.
But he'd seen Lori. And Shane.
Hallucinations, he'd come to accept. Grief. PTSD. The worst form of coping.
After a while, when he stopped seeing them, he decided that he didn't believe in ghosts. He only believed in his own insanity.
And when Carl never appeared to him, it confirmed Rick's belief that people's spirits probably didn't stay. It was cruel to hope they did.
Their bodies lingered if they turned. Decomposing and rotting above the ground. And that was an inconceivable ending.
But it wasn't them.
There were no ghosts.
He had earnestly believed that.
Until Lettie.
He saw her more often now.
It wasn't like seeing Lori and Shane. Full-bodied. Material. Verisimilar.
Lettie flitted about. A movement in his periphery. Gone when he turned his head. Diaphanous and fleeting.
As before, it didn't frighten him. And he found himself wishing she would linger. That she would speak to him.
She'd become a fixture in the house. Coming and going. Running from one room to the other. Appearing and disappearing in the same moment. As if she were playing hide and seek.
Michonne never indicated that she could see her. Her eyes never darted to the corners when the shadows moved. She didn't seem to notice the hand on her shoulder, her leg. During those moments, Rick held absolutely still, waiting.
Lettie disappeared and Michonne was none the wiser.
And Rick assumed—what else could he assume?—that he was hallucinating again. That his brain had broken with reality, as it had before. Only this time, he'd conjured Michonne's child instead of his own. (Though, perhaps unfairly, he'd long come to think of Lettie as his too.)
An illusion, yes. A strange dissociation.
He had always been strange. At least Shane and Jeff had thought so. He accepted that this was just his way of dealing.
That was, until Judith saw her too.
He sat with his back against the couch, watching with affection as she played with her toys. Michonne was off, tending to some crisis.
He loved these quiet moments with Judith.
Take those walks. She'll remember them.
That's what Carl had said to him. One of the last things he'd written as he was dying. One of his last impartations of wisdom.
Rick had a handful of toys. Judith brought him some intermittently, muttering to herself. He wasn't much more than a storage bin at the moment, and he was honored to be included in her semi-private game.
"Daddy, hold this."
She was like Carl. Learning and words came easy to her. He was always amazed at what she retained, at how easily she could place ideas where they should go. She loved being read to, loved the sound of words on he and Michonne's lips, loved mimicking them until they sounded just right to her.
"Okay, sweetheart."
And on it went. Until Rick was covered in dolls, stuffed animals, and tiny houses. A plastic brown horse here. A cow with faded spots there. Rick's attempts to mimic the sound of the animals did not go over well. Judith gave him a look so reminiscent of Michonne that Rick laughed until his sides hurt.
"Daddy won't do that anymore."
Judith patted his knee in appreciation and went about her game.
It was only when she'd kept up a steady stream of words—decidedly not for him—that Rick inquired:
"Who ya talking to, sweetheart?"
Those are the kinds of questions a father asked. Just so he knew all of his kid's friends. Even the imaginary ones.
"Lettie, Daddy."
Every limb of Rick's body ran cold. It felt as if his heart collapsed into his stomach.
"Who, baby?"
"Lettie."
Rick cleared his throat.
"How do you know that name, Judith?"
"Told me."
"Lettie told you?"
Judith nodded.
Rick was at a loss for words. He darted his eyes around the room, searching and finding nothing.
"Is she here right now?"
"Yes."
For some reason, "Yes" always sounded like "Yesh" from her. It tickled he and Michonne.
"How long has she been here, Judy?"
Judith considered. Then shrugged. She went back to her conversation.
"Is she always here with you, Judy?"
"Yes."
Yesh.
Rick looked around the room again. Nothing. He swallowed, determined to approach this calmly, to not lose his shit.
"Does Mommy know?"
"No."
"Why not?"
Judith looked at him then. There was a lucidness to her gaze that frightened him. It was shrewd, worldly.
"Mommy sad, Daddy."
The look disappeared and she squatted to pick and up and discard a doll, back in her own world again.
"Judith," Rick said, throat raw. "Who is Lettie?"
Judith sighed without looking up. She'd reached the limit of this conversation with him.
"She Mommy's. Like me. And Carl."
Carl was Cawl.
Her face scrunched in thought and she looked up at him.
"Lettie Daddy's?"
"I—She's…"
No. Not in the way Judith could understand. Or that even Rick could understand.
"Lettie Daddy's."
Resolute. Brokering no argument.
The tears came and Rick was helpless against them.
"Yeah, baby. Lettie is Daddy's too."
Judith nodded, satisfied. Back into her own world she went, oblivious to Rick's bewilderment.
Later that night, Michonne draped herself across Rick's chest. He played with her hair.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" he asked.
She sat up to look at him, searching his face.
"Is it Carl?" she asked.
And he loved her for asking as if it were the most normal thing in the world. As if she wouldn't blink an eye if he was seeing Carl.
He swallowed and shook his head.
"No."
"Lori?"
He shook his head again.
"No, not Lori."
Her nose scrunched at his refusal to elaborate, but she let him have it. She bit her lip, her eyes drifting to the window.
"I don't know. My mom and sister did, in a way. My grandma too."
"Yeah?"
She nodded.
"They didn't call them ghosts. Lespri. It's not the same as ghost. Spirit, more like. But yes, they believed in them. Spoke to them. That sort of thing. My sister could still see and hear my mother after she died. I never could. My Grandmother called it The Gift. Or The Sight, sometimes. Some people have it. Some people don't. I guess I don't."
Rick had a hard time believing that. Michonne saw everything. Even when others couldn't.
"Your boyfriend. The one you used to talk to."
Michonne tensed. Then she shook her head. She laid back down on his chest.
"He was a walker. I took him around with me. I told you, as punishment. But then I cut him down, and I couldn't see him anymore. And I stopped talking to him. The last time I spoke to him was right before I found you after the prison."
That surprised and intrigued Rick. He gently tugged on her locs.
"Why'd you stop talkin' to him?"
"I didn't need to anymore."
…
It was quiet in Alexandria. It had been for a long time.
It was busy. With life. With development. With new people.
But it was quiet.
Alexandria was quiet.
But Michonne was still.
…
They needed to prepare for fall and winter. It was better to stock up months in advance. Runs were harder when the weather was colder. Especially in Virginia where temperatures dropped and snow was prominent.
They settled on Arlington. It was bigger than the smaller towns surrounding Alexandria. That made it a risk. Any city was. But it wasn't DC, and that mattered.
It was a large operation. One that required the manpower of Alexandria, The Kingdom, and The Hilltop. But, if it went well, they'd be set for months.
It was in the preparation leading up to the trip that Rick noticed a change in Michonne.
She was cautious and alert, as always.
But she was also lighter. Dare he say eager? Energetic in a way he hadn't seen for a long time.
Since the war. Since Carl.
He kept his eye on her in the weeks leading up to it. Relieved. Curious.
She had stopped leaving as frequently in the night, often falling asleep in his arms soon after they laid down.
He watched her closely the day they left for Arlington.
Strapping her sword to her back. Loading the handgun she carried when beyond the wall. Filling up their van with supplies. Checking on their companions.
Aaron clapped Rick on the shoulder, a gentle smile on his face.
"It's nice," Aaron said.
Aaron had become a dear friend. A steady and compassionate confidant for both he and Michonne. He and Gracie had become part of their family, as their unit had become a part of his. He was grateful for him. And forever regretful for punching him in the face.
"What is?" Rick asked.
"Seeing her like this. It's been a long time."
Aaron clapped him on the back and walked away. He said something to Michonne when he passed her and she slapped his shoulder, grinning. It nearly knocked Rick sideways to see her smile like that. She bounded over and kissed him.
He blinked in surprise.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothin'. Do that again."
She did. Slower and more sensual this time.
"Like that?"
Rick was dazed. Aroused. Suddenly quite cheerful.
"One more."
She indulged him and then bounded away just as quickly as she'd appeared. Someone else appeared at his side. Rosita. Rick was popular today.
"Everythin' look good?" Rick asked Rosita.
She hummed. Rosita was one of their most capable. She had an endless set of skills to go along with her plainspoken nature. He was always glad to have her on board. And, privately, he was glad she hadn't migrated to another community. He wasn't keen on Michonne losing anyone else. She gestured with her chin to Michonne.
"It's good to see her like this."
"Aaron said the same."
Rosita folded her arms. She was quiet for a moment.
"I was worried about her. I guess I still am."
Rick glanced at Rosita. It was direct, as she was always was, but uncharacteristically open. Rick shifted to his other leg, suddenly desperate to talk to someone about what he'd been feeling. And this wasn't Carol. Michonne and Rosita were close.
"Why worried?"
Rosita shrugged.
"She reminds me of my sister."
He didn't know Rosita had a sister. But he didn't know a lot of things about her. That's how it was now. Giant swaths of people's lives that remained a mystery until a random revelation.
"Your sister?"
Rosita pulled her cap lower on her forehead.
"Yeah. Someone who just handles shit because it needs to get handled. But they aren't really there. They're somewhere else."
Goosebumps broke out along Rick's skin. Rosita had succinctly put to words what Rick had been worrying over for some time.
Rosita watched as his mind whirled and things clicked into place. She looked forward. Perhaps not wanting to give the appearance of a casual conversation.
"I know she had another kid. Before."
Stunned, Rick looked at her.
"She told you?"
"Yeah. Not the details. But she mentioned it. A daughter?"
Rick nodded.
"Yeah."
"That fucking sucks, man."
He was quite fond of Rosita.
"It does."
"She's good for this place," Rosita said. "But she ain't here. Most people don't notice. They wouldn't with a woman like Michonne. But I see it."
"I know," Rick said, eyes closing. "I know somethin' ain't right. But she won't—she won't talk to me about it."
He didn't mention that Michonne had been leaving at night, going God knows where.
Rosita gave him a sympathetic look.
"What does she say? When you ask?"
Rick put his hands on his hips.
"I ask if she's okay. She says yes. But I know she ain't. I'm waitin' for her to come to me and she just…won't."
Rosita's sympathetic look faded into confusion then exasperation.
"You men are so fucking useless sometimes. Jesus."
Rick reared his head back, not offended as much as surprised. Rosita's irritation was palpable, a hard switch from the worry she'd displayed mere moments ago.
"Useless?"
"Yes. Listen to yourself. What the fuck are you talking about?"
Her voice had lowered to a harsh whisper.
Rick thumbed his eyebrow.
"Don't give me that damn puppy dog look."
Worried about repeating the 'damn puppy dog look,' Rick squinted. Rosita sighed from somewhere deep in her chest.
"Look, sometimes you have to push. At least try. She will fucking vanish on you if you don't. I watched her knock your ass out when you were losing it. Because she could. She was the only one who could."
Rick remembered that vividly. He remembered how untethered he'd felt from himself. And it was Michonne who brought him back, who'd reach out her and grabbed him, held on.
"Women like Michonne, the ones who can handle shit, the ones used to handling shit, will just keep doing it. Don't let her."
Rosita's lip quivered and it surprised him. He didn't know what to do with this rare display of emotion so he kept absolutely still.
"We care for her. We love her. But we aren't you. So do something. I don't give a shit what it is. But man the fuck up. There are a lot of ways to lose people. They don't have to die to disappear."
A single tear slipped down Rosita's cheek and she shoved it away, angry at being exposed. Rick was as stunned by her emotionality as he was indebted.
"I—" He swallowed. "You're right. Thank you."
She nodded. Then, with a gentle hand, she touched his forearm. She cleared her throat and marched away.
He didn't believe in God. And he'd only just begun to believe in ghosts. But he thanked something for their community, for the people they had been surrounded with, for the people that loved them.
Rick watched Michonne as she flitted about.
Rosita had put a name to it.
The odd inertia he couldn't put a name to.
The stillness.
It was the act of vanishing.