Written to the score of . . . 'Bladerunner Blues' (from the original Bladerunner soundtrack), by Vangelis
Captain Rick Grimes powers down his flyer, watching mutely as its systems blink out one by one, the holoscreen fading to sleep mode. When everything has gone dead and silent, he forces himself not to linger.
He always wants to.
Even though he had his Dodge Charger-like flyer repaired and inspected several times over since he finally got her back the year after that fateful morning – no matter how much time passes, it seems he always wants to look over at the empty passenger seat, just to stare at the perfectly-shaped dip she used to fit down into like it was made for her.
As if waiting for her to climb in next to him and settle down into the curve of those springs again.
Any day now.
But of course, Rick knows that's only his demon, thrashing about in the dark, where he keeps it locked up tight. His snarling, untrustworthy, menacing despair. Still going strong, after three long years.
Rick forces himself not to look over at the passenger seat tonight.
He climbs wearily out of his flyer without a backward glance.
After yet another in a recent series of overnight shifts, he feels just about dead on his feet.
His gun and machete weigh him down from thirteen hours on duty as he drifts in his heavy boots through the garage level of his apartment tower. There's no sound echoing through the garage but Rick's shuffling boots and his dog tags jangling faintly against his chest under his black t-shirt.
He scratches at his by now very full, very prominent beard as he makes it to the elevator lift that will jet him up to his three-bedroom, two-level condo he shares part-time with Carl, Judith, and their cat, Nostradamus.
As he gets onto the elevator and gives the voice command for his floor, he stands as rigid, weary, and as silent as he's been for three years, now. Since the day he lost her.
Rick Grimes has two default modes these days. Either he is stoic and withdrawn or he is overprotective and paranoid.
The Family learned the hard way plenty since ODIN which Rick is more likely to appear in certain circumstances. For a while, however, he put them all through quite a bit of worry, fearing he'd gone off the deep end for good.
With some effort (not to mention being forced to be in the present to deal with shared custody of his kids), he came back.
But only just enough to function and see after his family. Truth be told, the formerly revered Peacekeeper is on autopilot most of the time these days. Survival mode. It's just safer this way. For everyone.
Rick stands bathed in pale beams of light rising and disappearing as the levels pass him by, his lifeless blue eyes focused on nothing in particular. He simply waits for a reason to command his body to move again, and then he'll count the steps until he's inside his apartment. A routine he's been performing every day and night since the day part of himself died with the love of his life.
The despondent peacekeeper makes it to his floor, stepping out of the lift to meander much like a walker down the hall.
He pauses before calling for his Companion VAL to open his front door.
Knowing her, Jessie will be waiting up.
She's been doing that a lot, more and more since the divorce was final. She cooks sometimes and has slumber parties with both their kids. She cuts their hair for him, too. Helps him navigate some of Jude's growing pains, along with the moods and whims of his ex-wife. Always with a glint of hope and empathy in her eyes.
Rick is grateful for her help. He needs her, especially now with the stress of shared custody and his . . . grief. She helps keep Lori off his back. She helps keep his kids occupied while he's lost in the fog. They like Jessie well enough, like a big sister or a cool (if occasionally fawning) aunt.
But like their father, they miss Michonne.
It hurts him to no end that they only knew her as his friend, nothing more. Though they, of course, could see that she meant a lot to him and he's been taking the loss hard, they don't know the whole story.
He can't bring himself to tell them. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Rick takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he's about to walk into.
He's grateful to Jessie, but he doesn't know how much more of her futile hope and devotion he can take. He doesn't want to hurt her. He also doesn't want to allow his demon to rage too close to her. She won't understand, not really.
Every survivor in this new world knows grief in one form or another, and Jessie is no exception. She's a strong, good mother and caregiver for his kids – but she can't hold a candle to what he lost.
Telling her that in plain English isn't a fair fight. But he will if he has to.
Clearing his suddenly dry throat, shifting on his tired feet, Rick rasps: "VAL . . . I'm home."
"Welcome back, Rick. I hope your shift went well."
His government-issued Companion VAL greets him, immediately opening the door for him.
As is the trend with a lot of the new ones these days (and much to his annoyance), VAL has an English accent, this one along the lines of LIZZY's. Rick misses LIZZY. VAL, he tolerates. Barely.
He tosses a half-answer to her, now stalking into the cool, dark house with relief. "Sure . . . the kids still up?"
Normal fathers maybe wouldn't have to ask, but Carl and Jude have a nasty habit of finding things to do well into all hours of the night, especially when Ron and Sam are around. Nostradamus is likely perched at the foot of someone's bed. Good. Rick and the skinny little black thing don't exactly get along.
"Snoring like bear cubs. Judith even skipped her evening ritual, much to my relief. Jessie is downstairs. Ron and Sam will kip here for the night, with your permission, of course, Rick . . ."
"Yeah, that's okay," Rick nods stiffly, listening while he takes off his gun holster and utility belt, depositing them into the invisible safe set in the foyer wall.
His nine-year-old little girl likes to use VAL to hack into the cloud and listen to chatter. Though she never picks up anything more than domestic jabbering, world news, and watercooler gossip, she still fancies herself a little sleuth, absorbing far too much geek lore from Eugene and Heath about the 'lost Companions'.
He's already stopped bringing her around to the BDP when he's working shifts on his turns to watch her. He's threatened to make hybrids out of his bull pin boys every other week it seems but he isn't surprised that their promise to stop filling her head with that hacker bullshit has gone unheeded. Judith is headstrong, like her mother, and a born skeptic, like her father. This hacker phase might not end anytime soon, he knows. Grounding her is the opposite of helpful, Lori is at a loss, and he doesn't feel comfortable talking to Jessie about it like he might've with . . . Michonne. He's running out of options in his playbook.
Rick scoffs, moving through the dark.
VAL is well aware that he prefers the gloom these days, so she avoids turning on the illuminators to light his path.
He grabs a cold beer from his fridge and makes his way through the dark some more, taking a long, much-needed swig of the biting, ice-cold liquid. He pauses at the top of the stairs leading down to his den (and sleeping quarters, for the most part). Rick calls out to VAL again softly:
"You said Jessie's downstairs?"
"Yes, Rick. She's been waiting up for you . . . again."
VAL answers, her disembodied voice sounding somewhat tentative.
He makes another in a thousand mental notes to get one of his kids to crack open her settings and dial down her proclivity for human melodrama. He just needs the facts, not the faux sentiment.
"Thanks," he grunts. "Goodnight, VAL."
VAL heeds his command and shifts herself back into sleep mode without another word.
Rick takes another swig of beer and exhales heavily through his nostrils before sauntering as quietly as he can down the stairs in his boots.
Jessie is indeed downstairs, reclined in his chair, her eyes closed.
There's an old-fashioned hardcover book in her lap (one from a collection Carl saved up to buy at auction for Jude's sixth birthday). This one is 'Wuthering Heights'.
He sets his beer on his cluttered desk, turning to gaze down at her laying there in his usual spot, her face at peace.
Her messy blonde ponytail flops over onto her shoulder as she shifts around in her sleep to get more comfortable. Rick stands still, watching as her eyes blink open and she finally registers his presence. She smiles softly at him.
"Hey . . . " is all he can think to offer in greeting. He waits for her to wake up fully.
Being around Jessie these days is like being around a ticking bomb. That hope in her eyes . . . it's always there. Even now, as she's rising from a nap in the wee hours of the morning.
"Rick. Hey," she returns his cordial whisper, extending her slow, lethargic smile as she stretches in his chair. "The boys down at the BDP finally let you off the hook, huh?"
"Yeah," Rick shifts on his feet, remaining near the desk across the room from her.
"How was your night?"
"It was okay. The usual," he mutters, unsure how to tell her that he's not really in the mood for company.
"I think I had a bit of a breakthrough with Judith," Jessie's smile turns into a somewhat amused frown as she sets the book aside and climbs out of his chair, closing the space between them anyway. "When are you gonna let me get my hands on that beard, Peacekeeper Grimes? Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately? You need a haircut bad, mister."
Rick remains as still as stone as she reaches up to glance her fingers across the long brown hair growing out of his face. She is obviously feeling emboldened tonight, though he can't understand why. Nothing has changed.
Rick takes a minuscule step back.
"Sorry . . . " Jessie mutters with a sympathetic wince. "The kids are fed up with my meddling. I think I heard one of them call me a 'busybody' today. I guess you're all I have left to fix . . . "
Rick tilts his head at her 'joke', still silent. She realizes her poor word choice too late and crushes her eyes shut in embarrassment.
"Um, n-not that you need fixing, Rick. Ugh, sorry. That came out wrong."
His longtime babysitter laughs nervously, tucking errant blond strands behind her ears and looking down at her socked feet. She doesn't move back out of his personal space, however.
"It's alright, Jessie," Rick reassures her quietly, waiting. She lingers, braving another look at his sexy blue eyes. She feels her heart fluttering as he tries to elaborate. He's so cute when he's tongue-tied, God help her. "Thanks for watchin' over the kids for me so late. You shouldn't wait up, though. I can't ask you to do that."
"Oh, it's no trouble at all, really," Jessie shakes her head, her ponytail swinging, "I wanted to."
That river of hope in her eyes again, threatening to spill out all over him. He swallows thickly, now taking his turn to avoid her gaze. "I-I know you did, Jessie, but . . . the thing is . . . you still shouldn't."
"Oh," Jessie's face falls and she bites her lip, now slowly crossing her arms to hug herself.
As if he's wounded her with his low, carefully chosen words. Shit. And just like that, everything is on the table.
"I'm not even making a dent here . . . am I?"
Rick can't meet her eyes just yet, but he shakes his head, placing his hands on his hips.
"I see . . . wow."
He finally looks up at her, wanting to remind her that he's done everything he could not to lead her on. But somehow, 'all he could' hasn't been enough. She looks deeply disappointed for a beat, practically biting her bottom lip raw, before nodding to no one in particular. Finally, her watery eyes lock onto his, and she asks the question he's been dreading.
"Will I ever?"
That hope, threatening to spill over again. He needs to extinguish it for good. He hates himself for it. But it has to be done.
Blinking almost imperceptibly, his jaw stiff, his posture as tall and unmovable as he can muster, Rick shakes his head.
He wants to say he's sorry, but he doesn't think she'll believe him. Words aren't enough in some situations. This is one of 'em. He just hopes she can see the truth in his eyes. He cares about her, but not the way she wants him to.
Jessie looks crushed, but stoic. She takes a deep breath, trying not to feel so drawn to him, even now that he's given her a good kick in the heart. Rick Grimes is one of the sexiest, kindest, bravest men she's ever met. She's wanted him since the day he saved her son's life and protected her from her abusive ex-husband. He's been her savior, time and again, and she's been hoping against hope that she could be his for so long now she's honestly embarrassed.
She can see it, now, as plain as day. The look she's been denying she knows is there, hidden behind all the sorrow in those gorgeous blue eyes of his. The truth. Rick doesn't want her. He doesn't love her, despite all her efforts and all her hope.
There is only one woman he'll ever want the way Jessie wants him.
The woman he still watches holoscreen footage of, late at night – something he doesn't think anyone knows.
The late, great Captain Michonne Snow.
The ghost in his eyes. The spirit haunting his heart.
Jessie lost Rick a long, long time ago.
If she's honest with herself, from the first time she saw them hanging out with the kids together off-duty years ago, and how beautiful Michonne was, and how easy she made everything seem, and how Rick looked at her . . . Jessie never stood a chance against Michonne. Not when she was alive. Certainly not now that she's dead. If Michonne is the Titanic, Rick's grieving heart would be the iron the anchor at the end of an unbreakable chain tethering him to the deep, dark, cold bottom of the ocean forever for all Jessie knows.
Suddenly feeling sick to her stomach, Jessie can only continue nodding as hot tears stream down her face.
"Jessie, hey . . . " Rick finally takes a step forward, reaching out for her. She flinches away from him as though his touch will burn her. "Look, I'm sorry."
"No, it-it's okay. Really. No worries . . . I totally get it," she's now looking around for her shoes, blinded by tears. To Rick's tired eyes, she somewhat resembles a panicked, jittery bird trying to find its way out of a cage. "Um . . . I-I'm gonna go now, okay? Ron and Carl are off from Command Academy tomorrow, so, I-I'll just see you later, Rick. Goodnight."
He watches her grab her things and scurry out of the den, up the stairs.
A few seconds later, he's engulfed in silence. Finally alone.
Relief and regret wash over him simultaneously. Rick abandons his beer, headed straight for the hard stuff. Lowering the illuminators in the den until he's surrounded by cool gloom, Rick retrieves his bottle of vintage whiskey and pours himself a heaping glass. He slides out of his boots and carries the glass full of numbing potion to his chair, taking periodic swigs as he goes. Finally, he eases himself down into the chair facing the holoscreen on his wall.
"Viewers . . . " he speaks, closing his eyes wearily.
The wall-to-wall viewers in the den start to close at his command. Rick listens to the faint mechanical whirring as they shut, blanketing the room in further dimness. He tries for a few minutes to put Jessie's terribly hurt expression and gushing tears out of his mind. After deciding that he'll think of what to do to repair the damage tomorrow, he opens his eyes again and sighs. Putting her out of his mind, he begins his nightly ritual.
"Holoscreen . . . Cloud Archive . . . "
Momentary guilt slithers through him for a brief moment. Shame. Obsession. It's an inescapable part of the experience.
Rick ignores it. He needs this. He always needs this.
He won't be able to sleep otherwise.
"File Code: BDP. October thirty-one, twenty-thirty-two . . . "
The holoscreen blinks to life, casting lights and shadows across the room, bathing him in reflections of cherished memories. This one in particular is one of his favorites. He's watched it so many times, it's a wonder he even has to voice the command anymore.
Like always, he hears 'The Monster Mash' projected over LIZZY's surround sound in the past.
A second later, he's thrust into the past.
[ Booting]
[BDP Cloud Archive]
. . .
[Bottom District Precinct . . . 10/31/2032]
. . .
The classic 'Monster Mash' is blasting from the BDP surround sound.
It's Eugene's birthday, which also happens to be Halloween.
Everyone's drunk, happy, looking good, and riding a sugar high from Rosita's orange and black chocolate cake.
Michonne in particular. She's dressed as Catwoman tonight. She looks amazing.
Rick's heart stops dead when she sashays into the BDP wearing skin-tight leather, carrying a whip, and licking her blood-red lips from behind a sleek black cat mask. All night, everyone treats her like she's made of catnip, including him. Lori's working, as usual. This is before Michonne and Mike get together.
It's one of the most carefree times they've ever had, Rick and Michonne.
He comes this close to telling her everything. How he wants her. How he loves her.
But, like so many other times before, he chickens out, struck dumb by her coolness and undeniable beauty.
The bullpen is all covered in stupid decorations.
Naked pictures of some of the full-figured women that inspired Eugene's LIZZY programming (all from old Playboy magazine archives). Parts of sexbots, holographic Millennium Falcons and ghosts zooming about, and a bunch of other silly shit Abraham and Shane thought up in their immature minds.
The Family is all gathered around, blowing on noisemakers and wearing stupid costumes. Holographic confetti is everywhere, 'sticking' to everything, including Michonne's gorgeous locs and leather-clad body.
Rick only has eyes for her.
Everyone else is a blur as he zeroes in on that radiant smile of Michonne's. A dagger stabs him straight through the heart as the sound of her laughter reaches his ears.
Abraham, having been obsessed with documenting everything through a vintage digital camera back then, is using it to flirt with all the women at the party, especially Sasha and Michonne. He's currently chasing Michonne around, trying to get her to take off her mask and give him a smile. The camera eye zooms in on her gorgeous face as Michonne laughs and shies away.
"Get the hell out of here with that thing, Abe," she snaps good-naturedly, grinning despite her annoyance.
"Come on, darlin' just gimme one of those big, beautiful smiles yours first," Abe begs. "Mask off . . . pretty please?"
"I'm trying to eat my cake, stalker! Don't make me crack this whip."
Michonne swats half-heatedly at the camera with her whip, rolling her eyes behind the black mask as she turns her back on Abraham. Rick is standing off to the side, his eyes roaming the length of her body as she walks around the bullpen through the crowd of monsters and characters all waving and making faces at Abe's camera as she goes.
He can't help watching her move with her exquisite curves trapped in all that tight leather; the cherry on top being her amazing backside. Those long, tightly coiled, shining dread locs bounce across her elegant shoulders, held back by the black strap of her mask and a headband adorned with black, metal cat ears.
He's so in love with her.
"Rick! Sasha! I need you! Our weapons specialist is cruising for a beat down over here."
Michonne is giggling now, making her way over to where Rick (dressed as Bruce Wayne) is talking with (still a friendly back then) Mike and Shane. Both of them are dressed as Blade and Hans Solo respectively. Then Abe's booming, enamored voice:
"Belay that, Cap! How 'bout you tell Miss Snow she's just too darn pretty to give up that easy instead?"
"Abe, shut up and go sit down. I think you've had too much cake, babe," Sasha (dressed as Foxy Brown) calls from the background.
In the present, Rick watches his memories unfold before him on his holoscreen, riveted.
He leans forward in his chair, forgetting about his drink as he watches Michonne rush toward his past self to hide from Abe's camera, catching him off guard.
He would give anything to be back there again. Start over. Do things the way he should've from the get-go.
The much more haggard, much changed Grimes of the present can see quite plainly how her touch affected him, even then. He can still feel it. Back then, the slightest bit of her attention sent his heart into a tornado and made his dick twitch in his pants. It only got worse, never better.
Nostradamus slinks downstairs, rubbing his back against Rick's legs before walking through the holoscreen with a swish of his thin tail. Swallowing down an intense surge of grief, Captain Grimes rubs his beard, ignoring the cat, watching himself nervously try to shield Michonne from Abe in the past. This part, he can skip. There is something he wants to see much more than the good times they had just hanging out on a rare night off.
"Fast forward. Three – scratch that – four hours."
The holoscreen pauses the image mid-frame (Michonne offering Mike a piece of her cake while Rick looks on, obviously jealous) and clicks rapidly forward until it finds the footage he's summoned.
[Resuming Playback]
[BDP Cloud Archive]
. . .
[Bottom District Precinct . . . 10/31/2032]
. . .
Past Rick is working the camera, now, Abe having passed out in full Chewbacca costume on the floor of the bullpen.
The party is emptying out. The Family is fading fast, now having dispersed into separate corners.
Heath and Eugene are dancing with an inflatable sex toy someone brought.
Cowgirl Maggie, Cyborg Rosita, and Foxy Brown Sasha are huddled together, gossiping.
Shane and his scantily-clad, Princess Leia-ponytailed firecracker Andrea snuck off to fuck somewhere.
Cowboy Glenn is passed out, sitting upright with swear words drawn all over his face.
Daryl is nowhere to be found. Probably brooding somewhere smoking a cigarette, knowing his reputation at parties.
Rick wanders around with Abe's camera, zooming in on Michonne and Mike flirting quietly in one of the long tunnels leading toward the locker room.
He sighs hard. He suspected it – that they're getting together. He feels gut-wrenching jealousy from behind the camera.
Still, he can't stop focusing on the budding couple. He decides to break up their little huddle session.
"I'm headed out, if anybody needs a ride . . . "
In the footage, the Peacekeeper's slightly inebriated voice sounds hollow with something like hope – and annoyance.
"Ooh! Me!"
Michonne's attention is on him again as she grins, her cat mask and ears still going strong. She shoots her hand up in the air.
"I'm drunk as hell and there's no way I'm riding on the back of your bike in all this slippery leather, Mike . . . "
The camera picks up both Rick's quiet intake of breath and Mike's expression at the mental image her slurred words create for the two men. She stands from her leaning position against the tunnel wall and kisses her teammate (and future boyfriend) on the cheek, leaving the last of her crimson lipstick on his skin. Mike clenches his jaw but nods in acceptance, his eyes drifting to Rick and the camera as Michonne makes her way haltingly toward them.
"'Night, 'Chonne. Gonna get you your favorite for breakfast tomorrow, alright . . . ?" Mike calls after her.
"Deal. Sausage and pancakes. That's my favorite . . . " she agrees over her shoulder, still headed toward Rick, her beautiful face getting closer and closer to the holoscreen's edges.
The camera footage cuts out and then blinks on again a minute later as the two of them are drunkenly walking out to Rick's flyer in the misty night. Michonne is laughing. The sound of it makes past Rick's heart soar.
"Et tu, Bruce Wayne? For real? Will you turn that thing off!" Michonne demands as she stumbles to the passenger side of the flyer, radiant in black.
"No can do, princess. Abe's orders. 'Till sunrise, he said. We got . . . " the camera pans down to the streets as his arm comes into view and he checks his watch, " . . . another hour and some change to go. Get in."
"You're too drunk to drive, boss . . . "
"That's what LIZZY's for. Get in and buckle up."
The camera cuts out again once Michonne's beautiful, cat-eared head disappears into the flyer.
The footage picks back up an untold few minutes later. The frame jangles around a bit as Rick gets it situated. When it finally stills, it reveals the breathtaking view of the sunrise over the city of spiraling towers.
They're in hover mode. He flew them far up past the Skyscrapers, to the very top of theTop.
"Take over for me, would ya, LIZZY?"
"Of course, Rick. And good morning."
LIZZY's very missed voice can be heard confirming his order as the flyer shifts into autopilot.
"Mornin'. It's a beautiful one, don't you think?" Rick answers nonchalantly, at ease for once.
"I do indeed, boss. I imagine Captain Snow will as well . . . that's why we're here, isn't it?"
"I keep forgettin' how well you know me, LIZZY."
She does. She always has. Eugene's a genius in that way.
Rick turns the camera toward the passenger side as brilliant streaks of pinkish, orangish, and purplish light begin to break through the fog. There, asleep next to him, looking more beautiful and radiant than ever, is Michonne.
She's curled up in her passenger-side bucket seat, swathed in all that leather, at peace.
There's a long pause, in which Rick simply films her sleeping peacefully as the sun rises. Then his gentle whisper:
"Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. The sun's risin' . . . you're gonna miss it."
Rick's hand travels into view again, and he reaches out to touch her, stroking her cheek softly, moving locs of hair out of his way.
Michonne stirs, leaning her face into his touch. She groans and stretches as Rick's hand hovers, laying back to curl up into the seat again, still not opening her eyes. "Mmm . . . where are we . . . ?"
"Up Top. Small detour."
She chuckles sleepily, looking so beautiful it's painful.
"You're such a sap. Lori's gonna murder you . . . "
Rick returns her laughter at his expense, the camera shaking a bit with his body.
He continues stroking her cheek with his free hand.
"I'll make it up to her. This one's pretty good, though. You should open your eyes and catch it."
"Breakfast . . ." Michonne mumbles nonsensically, rubbing her smooth cheek against his thumb.
"What's that, princess?" Rick breathes from behind the camera, now moving his thumb to stroke her gorgeous, red-tinted lips.
The camera can't truly capture it, but there is pure, unbridled longing in the gesture.
Michonne raises a perfectly arched eyebrow, still refusing to open her eyes and watch the sunrise with him.
So stubborn . . . so damned sexy, even in her sleep.
"That's how you make it up to her and the kids, Grimes," she finishes her thought smoothly. "Breakfast. I'm hungry . . . "
"Good thinkin'. Where to, hot shot?"
" . . . Pancake Hut . . . ?"
Rick chuckles again from behind the camera, stroking her skin tenderly.
"Alright. Pancake Hut it is . . . hey, 'Chonne? I'll make a deal with ya. Open your eyes and watch this sunrise with me, and I'll get you your favorite for breakfast, how's that sound?"
"Mmm . . . sausage and pancakes . . . okay, I'm waking up. Right meeooow . . . " she purrs, still pretty damn tipsy.
Rick laughs again. She is so goddamned adorable when she isn't kicking ass and taking names.
Michonne lingers in a half-sleep with her eyes closed for a few moments. He waits patiently, some part of him hoping that she enjoys his touch; that she wants him to keep touching her.
He wants to stay right here hovering up Top in the beautiful sunshine, touching her, kissing her, holding her, letting every tender thought he ever had toward her spill out of him.
"Any time's good, princess," he can't help himself from disturbing her again.
"Shh . . . just a minute . . ." Michonne frowns in mock concentration behind her fluttering eyelids. "I'm dreaming about sausage. . . mmm . . . I love sausage."
Another pause. A moment cemented in Rick's memory forever. The moment he almost confesses to her.
"You know what I love . . . ?" he drawls softly, stroking her lips with his thumb again. Michonne's eyes flutter open, finally, and she gazes over at him through Abe's vintage camera. She waits. Rick's fingers pause their movement, and he takes a deep breath. "Sunrises. Now quit stallin'. It's beautiful and it's almost over."
Michonne grins and rolls her eyes at him, swatting his hand away to sit up straight in the seat.
"Fine. You're bossy in the morning, huh?"
"I'm not bossy, I'm the boss. Now it's quiet time for ten minutes. Shh . . . "
The camera cuts out again and then resumes ten minutes later as the bright morning sky fully blooms before their eyes. Michonne smiles softly, watching the city wake up below them. "You were right. This is beautiful."
Rick remembers thinking: So are you. I love you.
But he can't bring himself to admit it. So he doesn't.
"Yeah . . . it is, isn't it?" he ends up uttering, at a loss for what else to say.
He should have. He wasted so much time. That's the hardest part to accept.
Rick sits forward in his chair in the dark, gripping his empty whiskey glass, his watery eyes latched onto Michonne's smiling face on the holoscreen.
This expression is not unlike the one she gave him before she jumped.
Except nothing was guarding her heart from him in that moment, as he can plainly see projected back at him now.
His eyebrows rise into his slicked-back curls as a long, heavy breath of emptiness moves through him like Michonne's ghost itself. He stares at her holographic, smiling face. Not a day goes by when he doesn't long for that sunrise again. That moment to do over. He should have told her. Rick clears his throat, realizing that it's late, and he's gonna drive himself crazy if he sits here all night watching playback from days he can never have again.
"Reverse playback . . . " he speaks for the first time in nearly twenty minutes.
The holoscreen footage clicks backward steadily until he spots the moment he's looking for.
"Stop."
On the holoscreen, Michonne is lying next to him in his passenger seat, her eyes closed, looking comfortable and content as he strokes her cheek and tries to coax her awake. In the present, Rick stands up from his chair, his old bones and still-toned though weary muscles singing to him with each movement.
"Isolate."
The holoscreen carves out Michonne's image and everything else in the scene falls away – the car, his hand, the sunrise, and the sky bridges below. He continues giving orders, somberly gathering himself for bed.
"Enhance. Resize. Match specifications to BDP Personnel File Snow. Michonne. She was . . . five feet . . . nine inches. One-hundred-and-thirty pounds, give or take."
The powerful grip of sadness and exhaustion starts to drag him down as Rick pours himself another shot of whiskey and gulps it down. In the background, the holoscreen silently executes his voice commands. His chest burning, he turns to watch Nostradamus licking himself, having stolen his owner's seat in the recliner.
The holoscreen finishes isolating and resizing the footage of Michonne asleep in his flyer.
"Clip file. Infinite loop. Download to portable holoscreen," Rick rasps, sitting his dirty glass down on his messy desk next to his not even half-finished beer.
The holoscreen does as he commands and a few seconds later the portable pad amongst all the clutter pings with a notification. The download is complete. Rick picks up his holopad and carries it to the back wall of his divorcee's den.
Yawning, he touches the smooth, white wall, and his biosignature activates the hidden bed behind it.
Rick watches the bed fold out from the wall and then tosses the holopad onto it next to where he intends to sleep. He takes off his shirt and tosses it aside. Then he peels off his dirty black jeans.
Tugging off his boxer briefs last, Rick climbs naked into bed, slipping under the cool sheets, his entire body deflating with relief. Immediately, he rolls onto his stomach, reaching out to activate the holopad.
A life-sized hologram of Michonne's body is projected next to his on the bed. A memory. She's still sleeping in her catsuit.
Rick smiles sadly, a tear running down his cheek before dropping away to be absorbed into the sheets.
"Alter image . . . isolate catsuit. Isolate boots. Isolate cat ears. Pull back layers . . . "
The hologram of Michonne glows to life as she stirs in her 'sleep', her beautiful lips curving up into a slightly annoyed smile. As though she's real, and she knows what he's up to.
Rick watches sadly as layers of her clothing are stripped away until there's nothing but her underwear.
"There . . . loop playback."
He watches her 'breathing', her eyes closed, snuggling up into the sheets next to him, the perfect curves of her body calling out to him. Rick lets his hand slide across the sheets toward the hologram, stopping just before he touches her.
If he touches her, his hand will go right through her. Though she is almost as beautiful, she isn't the real thing.
Not even close.
The real thing is asleep forever.
Anguish rises inside of Rick like an overpowering ocean current and he finds tears disturbing his view of her.
"I miss you so much, baby . . . " he moans pitifully into his pillow, his abdomen contracting with his silent sobs.
Michonne's hologram doesn't respond.
She remains 'sleeping', her expression forever hovering on the verge of opening her eyes and looking at him.
Rick falls asleep staring at her.
Eventually, VAL rouses herself and detects that Rick is no longer in need of the hologram, so she turns it off.