Chapter 18 – Rick

"Which one, Rick?"

"Which one what?"

"Which dress for graduation?"

"You're wearing a robe to march for graduation, right?" Briefly looking up to her from my relaxed, prone position on the bed, in just my boxers, Michonne is standing in front of me, wearing one dress, and holding up another in her hand. Dropping my eyes from her questioning gaze, down and over her body, her hip tilted out in a seductive stance as she balances on a pair of tan colored stilettos, I am completely lost as to what she and I are talking about. Regardless of that, she does look damn good in the dress she's wearing, though I would warn against the height of the shoes. She always does look good though. In anything. Especially in nothing. This dress is nice. It's snug, tightly crossing over her swollen belly, while also lifting and displaying the plumpness of her highly perched breasts.

"Yes." Rolling her eyes in that way she has, that lets me know she is about to start pouting about me not paying attention to her, she huffs out an exasperated answer to my question.

Shrugging, I attempt to give her a response that will hopefully make her decision about what to wear easier, and less evident that I have not been paying attention to her graduation attire fashion show. "So, why does it matter which dress you wear? I wore a pair of jeans and a t-shirt when I graduated from college."

"Ok, so? You weren't a big ol pregnant woman, graduating from a black college. I have to look good. These women I'm graduating with are not just brilliant, they are also beautiful, Rick. I have to make sure my look is on point. This isn't some southern Cali, easygoing beach bum graduation."

"Hey! Some people wore khakis at my graduation. I didn't, but there was one guy who did. Wait, he also had on flip flops so… Anyway, that doesn't matter, you always look good. Wear the first one." I answer, directing my eyes back to my phone's screen, trying to make sense of my father's text messages.

"You're not even paying attention are you? What did the first one look like?"

"It was beautiful on you. You always look beautiful." Smiling and winking at her, I hope that she will believe me and give me a second to figure out what my dad is talking about so I can respond to his series of messages.

"Rick, the first dress was pink. Do you know that my mother is a Delta, and she might pass out completely if I wear a pink dress to graduation?"

"I'm sorry, what? I'm really confused. Give me a second, baby. My dad sent me a few messages and I can't tell if he's serious or if he's drunk, or what's going on."

Dropping the dress hanging from a hanger on to the chair in the corner, Michonne strolls gracefully over to the bed, tugging at the tie of her dress to allow it open and reveal her form. Nimble and ballerina like, despite the watermelon sized rise of her stomach, her lithe body, dripped in the most divine brush of glowing dark skin I've ever seen, mounts my own. Pregnancy agrees with my girl, and the white dress now open and billowing around her newly curved figure, and with a matching white lace bra and panty set caressing two of my favorite parts on her, she resembles a heavenly angel, poised daintily across my groin with her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of me. Her stomach rests heavily between us on my own stomach, a beautiful reminder of the life we created.

"Your dad is a master texter. The other day he was in a store texting pictures of baby clothes. Then he sent me a video of him in a rocking chair holding a baby doll. I guess he bought all this stuff for the baby. He's so cute. Like, I think I text or talk to him everyday almost. I think Hershel is a little jealous that your dad has snatched me up as his daughter."

"Oh yeah? Everyday, huh?"

"Just about. He called me last week to let me know that Rance is a good name for a boy, and so is Carl. I told him I would think about it. He said he thinks this is a boy also, and he's glad we are waiting until delivery to find out for sure. But he said he already knows what a Grimes boy bump look like."

"Grimes boy bump?" Scrunching my face, I'm further confused by the lingo this new iteration of my dad has been espousing, along with the carefree behavior, and new interest in technology. Texting? Calling? Shopping? Who is this guy and what has he done with my dad?

"Yep. So, what is he texting about now?" Pointing towards my phone, Michonne taps on the top of the screen with her red manicured nails.

"Something about how to approach this lady at the grocery store. But, he's texting too fast for me to understand what his question actually is. Then he sent me this picture of her from behind." Turning my phone for her to look at the series of text messages and pictures from my pop, she breaks out in a loud laugh. With her fingers over her lips, a wide grin takes over her face. Eagerly taking my phone from my hand, she begins to quickly respond to the messages. Eyes full of mirth, with a twinkle to match the majesty of her smile, her thumbs fly over the screen.

Finally satisfied with her response, she turns the phone back towards me for my inspection, then begins to explain. "Your dad has been trying to mack on this lady at the Piggly Wiggly for like two weeks now. She works in produce. He's trying to see if you think she's pretty, and what he should say to her."

"Why did he send me a pic of the back of her head though?" I question, a confused frown on my face as I read through her responses directing my dad to approach her by simply saying hi and introducing himself.

"You are so lost, Rick. He sent you a picture of her booty. See? He said what about her fatty in one of the messages."

"What? I thought he was calling her a fatty. Like asking if she was fat." Dragging my hands back through my hair in frustration, I have to admit that I don't fully understand this transformation my father is going through, nor how to handle it. "This is too much for me. I can't deal with Rance trying to date and chase women. He talks to you about this stuff?"

"All the time. He's a sweetheart, and very charming. I see where you get it from." Rubbing her hands over my chest, her fingers are grazing softly through my chest hair, then up to my beard, soothing my apparent irritation. "He asks me about women, how I'm feeling, how the baby is doing, how you are doing. Remember I told you he came to the city last month and we had lunch?"

"Yeah. I'm glad you guys are getting along. He always wanted a daughter. Used to play with Maggie and Beth a lot. He's their godfather ya know. He's gonna be a really good grandfather." I muse, tossing my phone to the bed now that the texts have ceased, and it seems my dad has gotten the advice he needs to pursue the lady at the grocery store. Now my eyes are back on my lady, and my gaze is hungrily taking in the whole exquisite package that is Michonne.

At seven months pregnant, she is the picture of perfection. Not just in a pregnant, matronly way either. No. Unexpectedly, at least to me, I find myself even more aroused by her than before. By the way her body has steadily transformed over the duration of her pregnancy, blooming and flowering to protect and nourish the life inside of her. The life that our love and passion for each other created. The rotundness of her stomach, rounded as though she has swallowed a basketball, is simply the most amazing thing I have ever seen. Watching how it has stretched to accommodate the growth of my child, is like bearing witness to an actual miracle. In a course of peaks and valleys, her body is now made up of a soft cushion of plush curves. Her hips have widened, creating a heart shaped contrast against her tight waist. Especially from the back, where you can't tell she's pregnant, but you can discern that her ass has definitely gotten fatter, with a new, heavier, tear drop globe of jiggle to it. She hates it, but I love it. Who knew I was an ass man?

She's maturing too, though some things about her will never change. There is still the pouting when she's hungry, or doesn't get her way, or like earlier when she's not the center of my attention. But has now developed this astute sense about things, a keen intuition that has guided me past the dramatic estrangement with my mother, and brought me closer to my father. Though I was not aware of how close they had become, I know that her optimism and inspiration have made a way for my father and I, even my once truly foreign to me brother, to establish this newfound relationship. Welcoming my father further into my own family, the one I'm making with Michonne, has brought him to a place where he has been truly reconciling and being fully transparent with his half-brother, and with my brother and I. And with this has come the revelation that even though my father has let my mother rule over him, our family for quite some time, that Rance Grimes, while suffering a great deal mentally, has always been quite financially sharp.

The divorce between my mother and father, which seems never ending, has also bonded us in a way that none of us could have foreseen. Alienating my mother even more with the discovery of her machinations to finagle and hold on to a financial inheritance that is not rightfully hers, the divorce also let us see how brilliant my father and grandfather were in structuring and hiding the true wealth of my family from her. Not fully trusting my mother, knowing that she was always upset at losing financial backing from her own rich family, my grandfather willed numerous properties throughout King County to my brother, and to Morgan and his father. More than just the farm or the lake house that my mother knows about that were willed to my father and my brother and I, there are numerous trusts, that Shane's father Dale is the trustee over. These trusts contain the deeds to over half of the farming land in King County. Most of which is leased to other families, but belongs contractually to our family. The trusts will be dissolved and equally dispersed among the surviving family members whenever my father and his brother decided. On the precarious precipice of finding his freedom from my mother's grasp, my father is ready to do so, as is Morgan's father, Robert. They are just waiting for the divorce to be final so that my mother can not get her hands on it. It seems that even though she was successful in driving a wedge between the brothers when my grandfather first died, over the years they have found a way to make this all right, previously unbeknownst to her. Unfortunately, now reconciled with her own family, she is fighting tooth and nail to try and keep the farm, and whatever else her attorney can dig up that might belong to my father. At the end of the day, my father has maintained his optimistic outlook, and comes off as quite willing to do this legal tussle with her in order to finally give her the fight she has always deserved, but never got.

It's all getting very messy, but despite it, my pops has been keeping close to Michonne and I, finding in her the daughter he always wanted. And maybe for her, she finds in him another father, one she says is very much like Andre Kelly. So, she welcomes him, loves him, hangs out with him, and gives him advice. In turn, he dotes on her, and shares with her all of the stories that my brother and I have long tired of, but are all new and fascinating to her. Her openness and affection for my father, just make my love for her grow and consume me even more. Sometimes I have to even wonder at how perfect she is for me. How do I deserve someone like her? How can she be real?

At the thought of how lucky I am to be blessed with the gift of a woman like Michonne, who's not only beautiful but smart, my hands animate on their own to reach for the object of my lustful affection, and grab a firm handful of her. Enticed by the warmth in one of my palms, I raise my other hand to lower the cups of her white lace bra. Spilling over the drooped cups, the large mound is more than my hand can cover now, and my mouth begins to water with anticipation of the feeling of it filling my mouth.

Intense passion takes over me at the thought that all of her, this angel, belongs to me. Michonne is all mine. Though she is smiling down at me, with an innocent smirk of shock to her seductive lips, the urge to fuck and dominate her, is chipping away at my resolve to allow her to continue talking to me about her clothing choices for graduation. But I can't even fathom being able to summon the willpower to not fuck her right now. So I don't even try.

"Rick… what's that smile? I need to choose a dress. Graduation is in the morning. Can we get back to that now and do this later?" Nodding yes, my sweet girl tries to get me to agree. It's too late though. She doesn't realize that at this point my mind is only focused on one thing. Her polite suggestion otherwise is pointless.

"No." Grinning and shaking my head, I crawl my hand away from her breast and around to her back to release the hooks of her bra.

While she may want to play coy, Michonne knows me. She knows my appetite for her is fully engrossing and absorbs all of my focus, bordering on obsessive. As my hand rises to tickle over the elegant column of her neck, her eyes spark with their own glow of excitement. Sensing that she's going to have to put her dress conversation on the back burner for now, she licks her lips and allows her bra straps to drop off her shoulders and down her arms. Carelessly tossing it to the floor, Michonne's hands are now molded to her breasts, thrumming her nipples with the padded edge of her thumbs.

"I love you, pretty girl." I choke out, the words bubbling up from my heart at will. A sincere gift of devotion to my wife.

"I love you too, Rick."

"I love you more."

"Not possible." She promises. Though I don't believe that she could possibly love me any more than I love her, the sentiment threatens to burn me alive with how hot it makes me. Needing to quench my desperate thirst, sate this blazing fire for her inside of me, I lift and drag her body forward. An exclamation of shock bursts from her mouth, leaving her lips parted on a surprised gasp.

With her pussy now hovering right above my lips, I raise my eyes to see that the crotch of her white panties are now translucent, glistening with her moist arousal. And dear god I can smell her. Pungent and sweet, the heady, familiar scent of her womanhood is lulling me into a wanton daze. I want to devour her fat, wet lips. Suck, and lick, and greedily gulp every ounce of pleasure from her. Swallowing my aggressive desires down a bit, I appreciatively caress the outside of her panties, along the split of her lips. Feeling the slickness of the lace on my thumb, I try to remember that she has been spotting again. That though the doctor is not entirely alarmed, it worries me to some degree. I can't take any chances with my wife, with the well being of her or my baby. So I try to remember to be easy. Easy, Rick. Nice and easy.

Michonne is stubborn though, and has been dismissive of any concern regarding the spotting. I think she can't help it. Her libido has been voracious. Freaky. Nasty. At the oddest times, the strangest places, she has reached for me. Sometimes it's slow, deep lovemaking that she craves, where she rides me for minutes on end, rising and falling on me until her orgasm freezes her tightly around me, and my toes curl and bend through my own climax. At other times though, when I wake up in the middle of the night to the wet pull of her mouth on my dick, I'm pulled under, drowning in enveloping pleasure. Or when she dragged me into the family bathroom at Target, lifting her dress over her ass and encouraging me to fuck her bent over the sink. Maintaining eye contact in the mirror, she threw her ass back on me, swallowing my dick with such tight precision, that I could barely last for fifteen minutes before I exploded deep inside of her.

On one hand it's exciting. The way she toys with me, teases and titillates until I have no choice but to give her what she wants, when she wants it. On the other it worries me how malleable I am in her hands. How easily she can sway and bend me to her will, or that I could break, dissolve into nothing without her. She owns every part of me, and the truth is that I love it. I love following her lead. The path she creates for us always ends in a joyous, happy ending. But, it concerns me too, that it might be dangerous, this passionate allegiance I have to her and her commands. That on her direction, I might not practice the proper amount of restraint at the right time, make the right decision when I should, and it could cause her or the baby some harm.

Like right now, when I'm wound so tight that a part of me wants to flip her naughty ass around, face down, ass up, and ride her until we are both too sleepy to think about graduation, dresses, or my father needing dating advice. Kissing and licking at the creamy flesh of her thigh, I take my time, trying to decide how to partake of my wife, when her wandering fingers flow through my hair, across my scalp, and pull me from my thoughts. The sensation is familiar and exquisite. She knows this is a sure fire way to get me going. This and rubbing through my beard.

"Be nice to me, daddy." Despite my apparent hesitation, my plan to be delicate with her while we both find satisfaction, her whispered request finds me submerged under my vow of temperance.

"Oh fuck, Michonne…" I growl, closing my eyes to the sight of her damp womanhood, just a lick away.

"Please…" she begs, her need so evident and alive in the breathy plea.

"You want me to eat this little fat pussy?" Smacking my fingers against her clit, I can feel Michonne squirm in my hand that's still roughly grasping her ass.

"Yes. I want to feed you. Then I want you to fuck me good, Rick. Nice and rough." Reaching behind her, Michonne places the tips of her fingers on my chest, holding herself steady. Widening her thighs, she raises her legs, stilettos now spiking into the mattress on both sides of my head, offering herself to me. With amazing balance for a woman seven months pregnant, like that of a trained gymnast, she stabilizes her gorgeous form, and spreads open her bountiful gift.

"You smell delicious, baby. Come here."

Pulling her pussy to my mouth, I gingerly tug the seat of her panties to the side, and direct her to drop herself on to the suction of my waiting mouth. Stealing a long, grateful sniff of her, my nose is pressed against her clit, and filled with the fragrance of the most luscious and sinful place on earth. My most favorite place in the world. Losing myself to the frantic and reckless need to not just sample, but to ravage her, I limply lap my tongue through her folds, sampling the pungent sugar awaiting me there. Sticky and slick, I keep at it with long languid strokes, ending in a tight suckle of her clit between my lips.

Writhing, squirming, begging, and whimpering, Michonne threatens to topple herself from my face in her ecstatic enjoyment. Mobilizing my hand to support her back, I urge her to sit up straighter, to give me even more control of her pleasure, her body, to keep her safely latched to my greedy mouth.

"Mmmmm…you taste so fucking good!" I mumble across her wetness.

"Rick, it's too much…" She whines, gyrating away then returning to shove her pussy back on to my lips.

"Stay right here." I roughly command, my raging need for her now straining my voice. "Didn't you say you wanted to feed me?"

"Ye- ye- yes…"

"Then feed me, pretty girl." Giving her a little stinging bite of her dripping lips, a tiny punishing reminder to sit still, I stiffen my tongue to explore as much of her canal as I can reach.

"Oh god, Rick! Oh my god!"

"Mmm…"

"Fuck, right there!"

Looking up at my wife, her chocolate kissed stomach, swollen with my baby inside, blocking me from the bounce and sway of her large breasts, my excitement is peaking. Feasting on the decadent taste of her arousal, slippery and slick on my tongue and lips, I continue my strategic pace of fucking her with my mouth. On the bed in her Atlanta apartment, I'm enjoying this moment of raucous, and vibrant intimacy, with no concern for impressionable ears, or nosy parents. Raising her throaty hums of delight higher and higher with each swipe of my tongue, Michonne is pressing her fat pussy lips tighter to the wandering fasten of my mouth.

Squeezing and massaging at her round ass while she rides my face, her keening moans of satisfaction are making my dick so hard, that I might come if she keeps it up. For that reason, I gently lift her from my face, returning her delicately to perch on my chest. Breasts heaving, attempting to catch her breath, Michonne focuses her sexy coffee eyes on me.

"Why did you stop? I was about to cum."

Rubbing my hand over her full, heavy breast, I flick and softly tug at the pointed flesh of her nipple. A hissing breath escapes her full lips, and she bites down, sucking the cushion of her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Fuck, Michonne. You were so wet, tasting so good, and moaning so loud I was about to cum too. I don't wanna come yet." Wiping my hand across my lips, the scent of her is all over my hands and face. My beard is damp and saturated with her essence, and I would have it no other way. In fact, I would like one more taste, just a little more.

"Turn around and lean over." I command, making up my mind to saturate my face with her sweetness again, and to fuck her just the way my dick wanted to all along.

Turning to stand up at the side of the bed, my girl balances lightly on her tiny feet, then kicks off her shoes and removes her panties. As I watch her, I remove my boxers, easing them down and off my hips and thighs to release my dick. Pointing stiff and proud up towards my belly, a hint of pearlescent cum glistens in the slit. Rubbing my thumb through the sticky fluid, I take a strong hold of my dick, and a shallow kick of enjoyment relaxes me into the bed. Swiveling my head, I observe as Michonne, with her back to me, crawls atop my lap, and plops her round ass down across my groin.

Glancing at me over her shoulder, hungry yet soft eyes, rove over my face then down across my chest. In a demure voice, one she uses to incite my senses even more with its subtle hints of submission, she inquires, "Is this how you want me, Rick?"

Wanting to get inside her as quickly as possible, as deeply as I can get, but still wanting one last swallow of her juices, I command her to scoot down even further and off of my lap. Still facing away from me, Michonne is between my wide spread legs on either side of her. On her hands and knees, the dark slick invitation of her pussy, covered in a fine sprinkle of black hair, is begging me to finish what I've started.

Lifting to reacquaint her with my mouth, I grab her ass and pull the cheeks apart, marveling at the tightly knotted hole found there. We have never gone there, not fully. Though I've licked and tasted every succulent inch of my lady, I have been hesitant to explore this part of her with my dick. Even though I have a feeling that she would not only agree to and enjoy the wanton pleasure of this foreign sensation, I fear that her welcoming me in this way would only further enslave me to her. I'm not sure how that could be possible, as I have gladly handed over to this woman the reigns to my head and my heart. But I'm almost certain that the heavenly experience we could mutually find there would surely seal my fate.

Pulling myself back from my appetizing thoughts on how Michonne could further her hold on me as the best type of drug like vice, I jiggle her rounded flesh in my hands, and place a wet kiss to each of the cheeks. Submerging my face in between each, my tongue immediately licks at her sensitive hole. Squirming and whimpering, Michonne jumps a bit, then jerks forward.

"Rick!"

"Sh!" I deliver a stinging slap to her ass, ordering her silence, which is accompanied by her defiant whimper. Biting down on my bottom lip, I stifle a laugh, knowing that she is both aroused and steaming at the bossiness of my direction. Soothing the sting of my slap with the warmth from the palm of my hand, I grin at how well she obeys. I belong to her, but Michonne also belongs to me, and she knows that everything I do is for our mutual enjoyment.

Sucking and licking at each of her holes, as well as the sensitive patch of skin between the two, I'm no longer able to withstand the tease I'm laying on her, as my dick is tingling with a pulse that is bordering on painful.

With one final lick and bite of her ass, I lean back some, and bend my legs at the knee. In this position, with my palm flat to her back, I ease Michonne down on to my stiff dick. Her petals blossom and open easily to my intrusion. Slick and slippery, her pussy stretches and welcomes my girth, while her lips release a long satisfied moan of appreciation. Laying back fully, flat to the bed, my hands tightly grip her hips, and instruct them on how to ride me, up and down, in and out. Our rhythm is a practiced one. We know it well. It's a dance that we have perfected together in this bed, and many other places, as well as one that gets better every time.

Snaking and swiveling my own hips around and up to meet every drop of her fat ass to my groin, I'm searching for that spot, the spongy bundle in the back of my lady's pussy that will set her on fire. That will increase the already drenching stickiness between us. Roaming my sweaty hands up to the sinewy expanse of her lithe back, and around to her bobbing breasts, then back down to the slope of her wide hips, I'm pumping and thrusting, driving us both dangerously close to the edge of release. Then I pull back with just a short shallow bang of my hips against her ass, wanting to prolong our descent into the crazed madness of our shared and eventual climax. Holding her tightly in place, not allowing her to bounce and fuck me back, I move my hips in a back and forth wave like motion that elongates my stroke. It has the desired effect and my lady begins to sweat even more. And beg.

"Rick… please, daddy, please…let me cum? I need to cum…"

"I know, I know… me too, pretty girl. You feel too good though. Don't you wanna feel good?"

Nodding franticly, Michonne looks back at me, focusing on my sweat drenched face and chest. Licking out her tongue to sample the salty perspiration above her lip, she promises on a strained break of her voice. "I want to cum on your dick so bad, Rick. Let me make it wet." The words drip from her pretty mouth, lips puckered into a sexy, naughty pout. She's winding me up now, teasing me like a matador does a bull. Waving her wanton words in front of me, raising my ire, driving me to quickly fuck her to completion.

Licking at my own lips, feeling my fingers release and regrip the cushy plumpness on her hips, I blink and attempt to gather my thoughts. But her dusky skin is shining, glowing in the moonlight straining to land on her heavenly body through the blinds. Witnessing how it dances and skips across her back, slashing over the beauty of her face, I'm blinded by how it highlights her coffee eyes so intently focused on my own. And I can't do anything but accept the challenge she's laying down.

Wanting to feel the shower of her cum bathe my dick, I furiously pick up the pace of my pistoning hips. Gifting my enraged libido with her delighted screams, I tightly close my eyes, and hold on as I pound away at the very back of her.

"Rick…that's iiiiiiiit…" Michonne whines, her body frozen, petrified with the flush of her growing orgasm. And I can feel it. How it's suffocating my cock, extracting every ounce of cum from my heavy balls, and up through the pulsing shaft, to bathe her soft womb.

"Michonne… Michonne… Michonne…" I chant, punctuating each quick hiccup of cum from the tip of my dick, and jerk of my hips.

Her head drooped forwards, pulling away from my now deflated dick, but still on my lap, Michonne is quietly puffing out her exertion. Coming out of the fog of my orgasm, I sit up again, and drop my legs back flat to the bed, and gather her even closer to me, her back warm and cozy against my chest. "Come here, pretty girl. You ok? Did I hurt you?" I ask, kissing softly behind her ear and to the back of her neck.

"Nope. I needed that." Slowly her head drops back to my shoulder, and I hug her to me, with one arm snug across her chest, her breast soft and pliant in my hand. My other arm drapes over the peak of her belly, down by her popped out belly button. Roaming my hand across the blush of her velvety skin, across my baby, I can feel the tense pressure of a little push against my hand. Then another just below it. "Feel that, daddy?"

"My little girl didn't appreciate that disturbance, huh?"

"Yeah, our son wants you to simmer down out here." She confirms, settling her tired body fully into a calm repose in my welcoming arms.

Chuckling at her confirmation, I wonder if her and my dad are correct in their adamant predictions that this baby is a boy. Maybe this is a Grimes boy bump? Stubbornly, I shake away the thought, and continue to enjoy the quiet of this moment with my family, my wife and my baby safely in my arms.

July 4th (michonne's birthday)

"Oh Mrs. Greene – I mean, Mom, these ribs taste amazing! Man these are good!"

"I didn't make them, your fiancée did, Rick. Where is she anyway? She snuck out of this kitchen quick! I know it's her birthday but I need a little help."

"She went to lay down. The doctor said it's normal for her to be so tired now that she's getting into her 38th week. I can help you. I just need to run and pick up my dad for the cookout. He said he's not feeling well enough to drive. Is that ok?" I ask Michonne's mother as I finish eating the meat from the rib bone. Sucking the sauce from the bone, then my fingers, I can't help but feel proud that my Michonne made such a good meal. It's not surprising though. Since we have both been living here right after graduation, Michonne has shown herself to be every bit as good of a cook as her mother. In appreciation for all of the good cooking going down in this house, I have gained a good ten to fifteen pounds to account for it. Michonne said my thighs are getting thick, and that it's from the eating in addition to sympathy weight from her pregnancy. I don't know about the sympathy weight thing, but I do know that I have been eating well, sleeping a lot, and I recently needed some new wranglers and uniform pants.

"Your dad is still feeling sick, huh? He was asking me about these chest pains he has been having recently. I told him to go to a cardiologist friend of mine in the city months ago when he said he was diagnosed with some coronary heart disease. Same as Michonne's father. I think he went. Do you know anything about that, Rick?"

"No, ma'am. He never mentioned anything about it. He did pop up in the city once and take Michonne to lunch, but he didn't say it was to see a doctor. Is he ok?" Worry causes my face to frown, and I assume that Mrs. Greene can tell because she comes to sit with me at the table. With a gentle hand placed atop my fist, clenching and releasing, I wonder at this new discovery regarding my father's health.

Mrs. Greene softly calls my name, gaining my attention. "Rick, you might want to talk to your dad about what's going on with his health, honey. I have probably said more than I should, but heart disease can be serious for people our age. With the stress from his ongoing divorce, angina, or chest pains, can be a sign of something much more serious. Add to that some of his unhealthy behaviors of late, eating a lot of fatty foods, drinking, smoking those cigars of his. I know he's enjoying his newfound freedom, but he might need a little reminder about his health. Or if you want, Hershel or I can talk to him. Sometimes parents bristle when their kids try to act like the parents. Not me, mind you, but some parents do." She lightly laughs, softening the serious tenor of her voice as she describes some of my father's health concerns, none of which he has shared with me.

"Yes, ma'am. I will check in with him when I pick him up now. I'll go do it before Michonne wakes up from her nap." Rising from the kitchen table, I realize that Mrs. Greene is maintaining her hold on my hand. "Is there something else, Mrs-, uh, Mom?"

"I like you, Rick. I hope you know that. You are a welcome addition to this family, and you have been taking such good care of my baby. I know she's your baby now, but, you're just what she needs. She's lucky to have you. Thank you for that."

"No problem. She means everything to me. I love her and the baby more than I could imagine loving anyone other than myself. She makes me... I don't know… It's more than happy. I guess you don't realize that you weren't really as happy as you thought you were, until you truly experience it. Michonne has given me that. I'm the lucky one, Mrs. Greene."

"How about you're both lucky?" She questions and smiles. A smile so bright, that her twinkling eyes crinkle in the corners, and her dark skin flushes with an undertone of a radiant red. In that moment I catch a flash of my Michonne. Older. More mature. Just as beautiful as the day I met her. It causes a heated rush through my veins, and sets my feet towards the steps that lead upstairs to where she is resting.

"I'm gonna let Michonne know I'm leaving. Thanks, Mom!" I wave goodbye, and hustle up the stairs, an unrecognizable need pushing me to lay my eyes on her pretty face before I leave. Opening the door, I find her asleep in a fetal position, turned away from me and towards the breeze wafting in soft undulations through the open window. Only wearing one of my t-shirts, that is straining over her protruding belly, and her panties, she is perfect. Lightly snoring, her hands cradled under head, sweet puffs of her breath leave her slightly open mouth, and I can't help myself. I lean in and kiss her on the lips. Grazing my hands across the creamy, dark russet skin pulled tightly over my baby, my heart is near bursting with love for this woman that has given me absolutely everything. Continuing to kiss and sip her breath from her full lips, I travel my hand to her ass, and rub in soothing circles against the jiggle. "Pretty girl, I'm going to pick up my pops. I'll be right back."

"Rick?"

"Yeah, I'll be right back, ok?"

"My back is hurting a little, so don't be gone long ok?" She pleads, a tiny whine underneath the soft whisper of her voice.

"Is it bad enough to call the doctor? Want me to get your mother?"

"No. It's probably those Braxton-Hicks things again. It just hurts. So hurry back, ok?"

"Absolutely, baby. Give me twenty minutes, then I'll be back to rub your back for you. Promise." Kissing her lips, I crouch further down her body to speak directly to her belly. "This is your daddy speaking. Go easy on your mama please."

"Pop! Pop! Open the door!" I yell, as ringing and knocking on the door have not roused my father, or anyone else to answer the door at Dale's house. Only seeing my father's brand new Escalade truck in the driveway, I'm becoming slightly agitated that he has not answered yet, knowing that I was on my way to pick him up. Picking up my phone to call him, while digging through the pocket of my jeans, the unexpected sight of only his booted feet pointed upwards towards the ceiling in the entry foyer, and the rest of his body eclipsed by the wall to the front room, causes a panic to rise in my chest. "Pop! Pop!" I scream, and continue banging on the door.

Trying to gather my wits about me, I pull on my deputy's training. Realizing that coupled with the information Mrs. Greene shared with me about my father's health, and the fact that he said he was not feeling well, I come to the conclusion that my father might not be able to answer the door at all. Fear and dread mobilize me to act, and I begin backing up and rushing my body to blast against the door, trying to break it down. The door doesn't move though, and I'm quickly devolving into a full on panic. Anxiously I reach for my phone, ready to dial 911 when Shane hurries up the front steps of the house.

"Hey, man, what the hell you trying to break the door down for?"

"My dad is in there. I think that's him collapsed there in the foyer. Maybe a heart attack or something!"

"Shit! Hold on, I've got my key."

Opening the door, throwing it open so swiftly it knocks into the side table behind it, Shane rushes inside, with me following closely behind. As I suspected, my dad is passed out, half in the foyer, half in the front room. The only sound in the room is the blare of the speakers in the front room playing one of my father's favorite songs. In an eerily melancholy, yet needy strain, Otis Redding pleads to his lover.

'These arms of mine, they are burning
Burning from wanting you

These arms of mine, they are wanting
Wanting to hold you

And if you,

Would let them, hold you
Oh how grateful I will be

Come on, come on baby
Just be my little woman
Just be my lover, oh…'

"Shane! Call 911! Quick man! Please!" I spit nervously over the sound of the music, checking my dad for his pulse. My hands are sweaty and fidgety though, and with the scattered wild thoughts in my head, I think that I can only pick out a small weak throb in his wrist. Deciding to try his neck, I scramble to place two fingers into the thick bush of his long, white beard covering his neck. My efforts to locate a pulse there seem even more futile, and so I begin CPR, as it's the only thing that comes to my fuzzy brain at the time.

"Come on, Pop! Come on, Pop!" I chant, pressing in the syncopated compressions required by CPR. Recalling the compression to ventilation ratio of 30:2 for adults, I begin to provide my father with mouth to mouth, then check for his pulse again. Finding nothing, I begin the compressions, pressing down on my father's barreled chest once more. In between my pleas that he wake up, and my prayers to God to save my father, I can feel the tears rushing in strong heavy streams down my face, and on to my father's favorite new t-shirt with the words 'Super Grandpa' emblazoned across the front, over a Superman styled 'S'. Michonne gave it to him. She bought one for him and Hershel, and I know he was wearing it today just to make her smile, and to piss off Hershel.

Continuing my rounds of compressions, mouth to mouth, and checking for his pulse, I'm lost in the steps of the process, my heart devolving into a puddle of despair and hopelessness in my chest, when I feel Shane pulling me away from my father's body.

"Paramedics are here. Let them help him now. You did good, Rick. Come on let them help." Standing me up, and wiping the tears and sweat from my reddened face, Shane is telling me it's going to be ok, and holding me up. "You alright, Rick? Rick?" I can hear him, but I don't answer. My lips won't move, and my face is as placid as a wall of stone. I can't tell if I'm still crying, if I'm still chanting, begging, praying. I can't even see anything anymore, with the exception of my father's cowboy boots, still pointing heavenward in the foyer.

"Rick! Rick! Your phone is going off, man! Michonne's mother called, Hershel called. You have a bunch of texts. Do you want me to check them or what?"

"No! No! Nooooo…" That's my mother, wailing, screaming, crying. I can't comfort her right though. I can't answer Shane's frantic questions either. I can hear it all. The beeps of machines tracking someone's life force. The bustle of doctors and nurses rushing about, saving people. None of them is my pops though. He's dead. He's gone. A heart attack stole my father from me. How poetic that I should lose my father the same way that Michonne did. And with that, the cloud in my head leads me to thoughts of my wife. She's not feeling well either. Back hurting. I should call her, tell her that my dad is gone. That my dad is dead. He's dead.

That's what the doctor said when he somberly walked into the waiting room with his head hung low, his hands wringing against themselves. He looked me in the eye and told me my father was dead from a heart attack. That he had coronary heart disease, and that it appears he was on medication, but either it was not working or he wasn't making the amendments to his lifestyle to help him manage it properly. Now he's dead. My dad is dead.

It helps to keep saying it to myself in my head, to try and shock my brain into believing it, and figuring out how to file away and compartmentalize what it means. Dead? My dad is dead. Dead? Yes, Rick, dead.

Shane is here, my best friend. Always my best friend. Well, second best now that I have Michonne. Michonne. She's not feeling well either. Back hurting. I should call her, tell her that my dad is dead, is gone. That my dad is dead. He's dead. Yes, Rick, dead.

"Rick, listen, man. I'm trying to calm your mother over here, but you gotta handle your phone. Something must be up, cause it's blowing up, man! Check in with Michonne, ok? Can you do that?" Shane asks, eyes rolling over the tight set of my features. His hand is on my back, and he's hugging my mother with his other arm, trying to calm her down. They called her because technically they are still married, and she's listed on his Red Cross blood donor card in his wallet as his next of kin. So she's here. Crying. But I don't care. Her tears are empty, affected, void of true emotion. It's Ellen's act. She's always played this role so well, the sad victim, but the truth is…she's empty. She fought my father every day, tooth and nail for what's his, mine, his brother Robert's, Morgan's, Jeff's. His real family. The people who loved and supported him. Not the one person who should have taken care of him, but who instead preyed on him.

No, I don't care about her vapid shrieking. Seated in this uncomfortable plastic waiting room chair, my eyes are focused on my open hands hanging helplessly between my legs. I have my father's hands, he always said that. Long, slender fingers. But strong and nimble. He could always fix anything. Me too. I have his hands, and I can fix almost anything. Just like my dad. Not today though. I couldn't fix my dad. But, Michonne always teases me and says that the real reason she loves me is because I can fix anything. Even her heart. What a sweet thing to say. She doesn't know it, maybe she does, but my pretty girl, she fixed me first. I love her more than my own life. Michonne… She's not feeling well. Back hurting. I should call her, tell her that my dad is dead, is gone. That my dad is dead. He's dead. Yes, Rick, dead.

"Rick! Come on, man! Listen to me. Here is your phone. Check your messages. We're gonna leave ok? There is nothing else you can do here tonight. I'm gonna take you and your mother home. You have to check your phone, man! Here!" Shoving my glowing phone into my hands, Shane begins ushering my mother away from the secluded waiting room. Feeling the weight of dread and sorrow anchoring my weak bones, tiring me more than the spastic crying jags I've experienced since finding my father, I focus my red eyes on the screen. There are 30 texts, and 20 missed calls. What the fuck?

Michonne: Rick I don't feel good. Where are you?

Michonne: Hey, my back is killing me dude! Where's my massage man?

Mrs. Greene: Rick! Michonne's in labor. Call me back!

Mrs. Greene: Hershel is driving us to the hospital. Meet us there!

Mrs. Greene: Did you get my messages? Come to the hospital here in KC Rick. Michonne had the baby. She needs you now!

Snapping out of my fugue state, my eyes focus on the words on my screen, and all that matters, the thing that gets my feet moving are the ones that say: Michonne had the baby. She needs you now!

Running. Yeah, I'm running. My boots are clacking against the hard grey floors of the hospital, and I'm not even sure where I'm going, I just know my wife and my baby are here. Somewhere. And…she needs me. Now! Momentarily forgetting the sadness of losing my father, I tuck it away, deep, deep. Somewhere I can find it though, still access that truth. To pull it out later and feel the stinging purge of anguish over my loss. But now? Not now. I stop a nurse who's ambling by, moseying about as though she has nowhere to go, no lives to save, no babies to deliver.

"Ma'am! Ma'am! My wife came in today; she was in labor. I need to find her."

"Um, she would be upstairs on three. Labor and Delivery. You can take those elevators over there."

"Thank you!" I take off running again, but I don't have the patience for an elevator, so I rush up the two flights of stairs to get to her. To Michonne. Hurrying from the dark stairwell, back in to the bright, sterile lights of the main floors I find a huddle of people all gathered around the main desk. Instantly a flush of coldness stops me where I stand. I know these people and they all look sad, unhappy. None of the joy of a new birth is evident in the drooped shoulders, or the frowns marring the faces of those gathered.

"Rick. Rick, come here, son." Hershel is approaching, and oh God, his face. His face is like mine was a while ago. Placid. Set in stone. Worry is dipping his brows sternly between his clouded eyes. "Come over here, son. Where have you been? The baby is here, but Michonne…" Reaching out to me, he grabs a hold of my elbow and begins leading me over to the group. Sasha is here. Spencer, Maggie, Beth, Mrs. Greene.

"Honey, Rick. The baby is here!" Michonne's mother exclaims, though there is some happiness in her voice, in her words, the look on her face tells another story. Clad in a pair of green scrubs, and a cap, she latches her gaze on to mine.

Looking away from the practiced pensiveness in her eyes, and the cloudy sorrow in Hershel's I begin scanning the halls, turning, spinning, inspecting the rooms nearby, looking for my wife. My Michonne. My baby. "Michonne! Michonne!" I scream, needing to see her. I need her to tell me where she is so I can see her, my baby. I keep recalling Mrs. Greene's text message. Michonne had the baby. She needs you now! "Where is she? Where's Michonne? Tell me!"

"She's here. Michonne had a lot of back pain, and went into labor. In the car she started bleeding. A lot." Calmly, Mrs. Greene holds my face steady in both of her hands, while she delivers the news that threatens to break me, to split me in two. "He was trying to come very fast. We got her to the hospital, and God love that little bugger, he held on and came via c-section because of the bleeding. But, Michonne kept bleeding, and they couldn't get it to stop. She began passing clots, and they were massaging her uterus to try and get it to stop. But, she needs surgery, possibly a transfusion. She's still in the OR, but… They wanted to know if they can't stop the bleeding should they do a hysterectomy. I told them that's your call. Not mine. So you need to get yourself together, son, and speak to the surgeon. He'll be back shortly before they begin. Michonne needs you to be strong for her, and for your son, Rick. If she's going to make it, she needs you to do that. Because of the blood loss she's in a bad way right now. This can be very dangerous."

"What? No, no, no!" Thrusting my hands to my eyes, I use the backs of my thumbs to stem the rushing flow of tears. "Oh nooooo! No!" The strength of my desperate emotions animates my feet into a quick pace away from the crowd. From their prying, wondering eyes, full of pity. I let my hands brush the curls of my hair away from my forehead. I've been growing it a little longer for her. For Michonne. She likes it this way. Says she likes the curls. To run her fingers through them. When we make love, she pulls them so tight sometimes it stings. It's a good sting. A pleasurable pain. Not like this pain, with its searing heat lashing against my tender flesh. Bringing forth the river of tears that redden my eyes and stain my already scarlet tinged face.

Catching up with me, Mrs. Greene slows my frantic walk, and takes hold of both of my arms. Wiping her fingers, softly and gently across my eyes, over my cheeks, she swipes away the salty rivulets. "Listen to me, Rick. I need you to listen now. It's called a placental abruption. There is nothing either of you could have done to prevent this. Sometimes it just happens. It was sudden, and it means that the placenta somehow separated from its attachment to the uterus. Right now, the baby is strong. Your son is fine. But we need to focus on Michonne because she did lose a lot of blood, Rick, and she could experience failure of her kidneys or other organs. We don't know what damage is done yet, so let's just get ourselves together and prepare to help our girl fight. Ok? Look at me, Rick. Ok?"

"I can't…"

"You can. I'll help you. We will help you. This is it, Rick. This is being a husband. This is being a father."

"Mr. Grimes?"

Tears continue. I can't stop them, and Mrs. Greene's fingers can't clear them away fast enough. My heart is thumping, racing strong and hard against my chest. Back and forth, my restless feet carry my scared body, my battered emotions, across the floor. How much more can I take today?

"Mr. Grimes? The cesarean is complete, they will be wheeling your son to the nursery in a moment and you can see him. But I need to worry about your fiancée now. Do we have permission for the blood transfusion, and to perform a hysterectomy should the need arise? If so, sign here." A man, tall, white, another frowning face. Another face set to stone. Emotionless. Pushing a clipboard out towards me I take tentative hold of it with my fingers. Long, slender fingers. I have my father's hands that can fix anything. I can fix anything. Can I fix this?

I look to Mrs. Greene, the woman who is my real mother now. "What do I do?" I sniffle, lip trembling, a wounded howl threatening to escape instead of the broken, slight bass left to my voice. "Tell me what to do."

"Tell them yes to the transfusion, and yes to the hysterectomy. They need to do whatever to save her life, Rick. That's what's important. Ok?"

"Yes. Yes, ok. Yes, you have my permission." Wiping away at my nose, dripping with snot, with the back of my hand, I use my hands, hands like my father's to sign. To try and fix this.

"Ok. We will update you all when surgery is complete. There is a chance that there may be damage to her organs. More blood loss than anticipated. The hysterectomy will mean that she can not carry children again. But we don't know that yet. I need to get back in with her. We'll know more soon."

The next thing I know my legs give out on me, and I'm in another uncomfortable plastic chair, looking down on my hands. My hands are like my father's hands. They can fix anything but this. Or my father. They couldn't fix him either. My father is dead. He's dead. Yes, Rick, dead. And now I have a son. A son. Just like Michonne said. Just like my father said. I wonder if my son has my hands?