Chapter 15 – Rick

"Is she, is she ok?"

"Sheriff, I need you sit down please. Here, have a seat. Please."

"Gotdamit, Carson, stop being so fucking polite and answer me! Just tell me how my wife is. Is she ok?"

"Rick, if you don't calm down I can't speak to you. She needs you to be calm. I need you to be calm. Ok? Here press this to the wound. Please." Offering me a folded wad of gauze, he places his other hand on my shoulder and focuses his gentle eyes on mine. His voice is smooth, and easy, falling over my agitated temper like cool ice. But instead of calming me, it has the opposite effect. I resent the relaxed and practiced way he's going about his duties, speaking to me as though my world isn't crumbling. Along with the scathing heat of the bullet wound to my hip, it only aggravates me more because instead of telling me if my wife and babies are ok, he's trying to get me to settle down. I'll settle down when I know they're ok. Only then. "Rick, wouldn't your wife want you to take care of yourself and settle down before you see about her? Hm? You don't want her to hear you hollering and out of sorts like this do you?"

Closing my eyes to his mention of Michonne, and to block out the sting of the lacerated flesh, I press the gauze to my hip, savoring the twinge of pain that reminds me that I'm still alive.

Bang! Bang! Despite the EMT, Carson's soothing voice, his attempts to relieve my nerves of the taut suspense that keeps me tangled, tight, unstable, it doesn't really work. My ears can't block the sound. I continue to hear the resounding blows. The slow discharge of Spencer's glock narrowly hitting its target, me. Followed by the boom of my Colt fully hitting its target, him. It's all I keep hearing in my ears. The rip of the bullets, the errant one that grazed me, and the one that shuddered through Spencer's chest cavity, taking his life from him. It's an echo that lives and breathes, now accompanied by a vivid high definition replay, in my head, running on a continuous loop along with the events that led up to it and followed it.

From the corner of my eye, I see Michonne collapsing into a shocked, and limp heap as soon as Spencer's gun aimed back my way and discharged. Bang! The burning rip of my flesh, tearing through my uniform shirt. It propels me back a little, but doesn't deter me from my mission to end this. To keep him from hurting her. Grinding my teeth at the pain, anger drives me to raise my Colt and shoot. Bang! I don't breathe. I just watch Spencer's lifeless form hitting the floor, the corpulent flesh of his innards splattered against the wall behind him.

I can't wash it away. Bang! I can't extract the sound from my ears. Inching my head back against the wall of the station's waiting room, accepting the tiny respite from my thoughts, I beg Carson for some minor relief, as I continue to press the gauze into my wound. "Just… is my wife, are my babies ok?"

"She's fine. She's in the ambulance resting. Her blood pressure is elevated, and she has a slight bump on her head from where she hit it when she passed out. I don't think she has a concussion, but it's very clear that she's in shock. I think she's going to be ok. We're going to take her to the hospital to have her checked out though, just to be certain. We'll take you both together in the same ambulance."

"The babies? My babies?" I choke out, somewhat afraid of what he might say. Can I even survive the answer?

"They can check them out with an ultrasound at the hospital. There are no signs of distress that would lead me to believe that the pregnancy is not still intact. Michonne's not bleeding or cramping as far as we can tell. Rick, she's going to be fine I think. We need to get you patched up from that bullet wound though." His brows are furrowed into a slant. His face a jumble of frowns, pulling his face down in displeasure. He's worried about me? Why? Worry about Michonne and the babies. Worry about the blood that decorates the walls and floors of my office, drowning that bastard's flaccid flesh, baptizing it in the viscous fluid of mortality. Don't worry about me. I'm the one who came out on the other end of this disaster alive.

"I'm ok." Carson doesn't look convinced. Pushing my thumb and index finger into my eyes, rubbing away the built up pressure and wetness behind my eyelids, I attempt to convince him again with an unpersuasive tilt of my head, a shrug, and a limp chuckle. "I'm going to be ok."

Still not appearing convinced of even that, he pats my shoulder again, an assuring bit of support that communicates that even if I'm not ok now, he will help me get there. With that, relief, unlike any I've felt all day, washes over me. Pulling my lips into my mouth, pressing down on them, I hold back the tears that threaten to undo my stalwart reserve of cool. To release the pressure valve that has been holding everything back, helping me maintain a semblance of composure on this, the worst day of my life.

Raising my right hand, I rest it on top of my head and try to just breathe. In. 1,2,3… Out. 1,2,3… The same way I have watched Michonne do when she does her yoga and meditation.

"That's good, man. Get your breath." Carson turns away from me, and I'm thankful for the moment absent from his searching eyes. Looking, assessing, analyzing. Trying to figure me out. But, then he's back in front of me again, with some tape, a pressure cuff and a stethoscope. "Let me tape the gauze down, and check you out, Rick. Just as a precaution until the doctors at the hospital can patch you up. Ya know, trauma is physical and emotional. I'm sure you know that being the deputy and all."

"I do. Psychosomatic."

Smiling at me as though he's pleased with my level of knowledge, and the confirmation that I'm not some Boss Hog reject, he continues his thoughts. "Exactly. Sometimes when you witness something traumatic happen, the emotional stress can cause your body to have its own adverse physical reaction. That's what happened to your wife I think. The stress and shock of it all, it's a lot on a person. It can manifest itself immediately like it did for your wife, or post trauma, like with PTSD. There are people you can talk to-"

Shoving him away easily, I swipe at his hand that holds the pressure cuff, and is attempting to reach for me. Agitated by him continuing to press and fuss over me, I offer a curt, "I'm good. I just need my wife."

"You sure?" Raising his eyebrows at me, he questions my assertion. Witnessing the placid stone of my face in response, he hesitantly backs away, obviously still struggling to believe my self-assessment of my own well being. I suppose my haggard appearance and bullet wound do nothing to relay my proffered insistence of good health, and I almost laugh at myself as I catch sight of my appearance in the mirror hanging across the walkway. It was a gift to the department from the mayor, Deanna, after I was elected sheriff. The inscription on the plaque beneath it reads:

'One cannot live with sighted eyes and feeling heart and not know and read of the miseries which affect the world.' – Lorraine Hansberry

I remember asking her what it meant as it was being hung in the entry foyer, the quote somewhat lost on me at the time. Deanna didn't tell me then, but staring at myself, eyes dancing over my weary reflection, a recollection of the last day or so replaying in my mind, I get it. I understand now. It's about what Deanna and I wanted for KC, the change we knew needed to come, and wanted to see made apparent in this quaint, beautiful town, inexplicably overrun with the ugliness of greed and corruption. Racism. We wanted to see and recognize the wrongs with clear eyes, understand with full hearts, and do something to fix it. Make it better, to live up to the potential welling in the spirit of the folks, like my own, who have called King County their home.

It's ironic now I suppose that Deanna would gift the department with this, not long before her son brought to light his own tortured misery. And it leads me to consider my own role in how this day has played out.

After the deposition, I was hurt. Angry. Not with Michonne, though my hasty departure obviously made it seem that I was. I could recognize it in those big chocolate eyes of hers when the elevator doors closed on her pretty face. She was hurt as well, confused by my response. Disappointed in my reaction. How could she not be? In my head I just needed to get away. To sort through everything so that I could return to her, whole, intact, the aggravation stinging my heart shelved for a better understanding of her motivation for keeping her role in this case from me. Maybe she doesn't trust me, and maybe I don't fully trust her, but none of that matters more than how much we love each other. Our brief history is fertile ground for distrust to grow and flourish, we just have to be diligent enough to not let it. To do better. To be better. But like many men, instead of trusting in my ability to be better, I relied on old faithful, and responded initially with anger.

Her love makes me want to be the best version of myself, and I'm ready to do that now. I can do that. I can be the man who deserves her. I know that now as well, and it became more evident to me as I drove back into KC, responding to a call from my secretary that Spencer was there to turn himself in.

Riding in my cruiser, the city and my beloved in my rearview, my phone was plugged in to play music on the sound system, and of course, it just had to add to the melancholy of the day. Maxwell's 'Lonely's the Only Company' came on, sending my already plummeting emotions even deeper. A heavy sentiment of regret lodged in my chest.

"Lonely's the only other company
Less you're the love no other love can be

Since you went away my heart
It's ripped into shreds torn apart
'Cause baby…"

Maxwell's words, backed by the soulful saxophone reminded me so much of my woman that I began to ache for her. To see her. To feel her as though she was right there in the car with me, her hand stroking lovingly over mine, reminding me of who I am. The song continued to play, and stoked a memory of her and I from the other day when we were out shopping at Home Depot.

A few days ago...

"I hate this store."

"I know."

"It's ugly, absolutely no ambiance or style to this place, and I don't know how to use any of this mess. What regular people know how to use this thing?" She asks, running her fingers over the plastic hood covering a sharp looking saw's blade.

Checking on her from the corner of my eye, I chuckle at her explicit distaste for home improvement stores and tools. "I do. It's a compound mitre saw."

"Hm. Well, most other folks don't know." Michonne petulantly shrugs, and smacks her lips around the bulb of the sticky red sucker she's been working on since I bribed her with it to stop here on the way home from dinner. All it took was some kisses and candy. She loves candy. 

Wrapping my arm around her waist, I bring her closer to my side as we walk towards the aisle where I'm expecting to find the materials to repair some of the gutters on her house. "We won't be here long, Michonne. I just need a few things to repair one of your gutters, get those cleaned out, and ready for spring."

"I usually hire a guy for that kind of stuff, Rick. Ezekiel has been doing home and lawn repairs for me forever. Even when I was married to Mike. Oh you know, he paints too. Maybe we should hire him and his company to paint the new house? He's a really nice guy."

Inching my fingers into the softness of her hip, I tickle her, causing a snort of giggles to erupt from her. "I'm the really nice guy for that now, Mrs. Grimes. The only guy you need."

"You are. But, if you don't want to do it, Zeke will. He's not too expensive and he's very good with his hands." 

"How do you know that?"

"Know what?"

"Nevermind. It doesn't matter, and I don't think I want to know. I got this. You won't let me work on the new house, but I told you I'm handy. You can afford to get someone else to do everything, but I like doing things for you. That's what husbands do." I respond, reminding her as I have before. But this time maybe with a tad too much bite to those last few words. Maybe she's had to do things on her own before, but I keep trying to relay to her that I'm not Mike. I'm not the kind of guy to leave things to my wife to hire someone to do for her, what I should be doing. 

For a moment, as we find the aisle I'm looking for, there is only silence between us. Me quietly brooding about some guy named Ezekiel doing my job, and her wandering up and down the aisle on her own, moving away from me, scanning the shelves aimlessly. Watching her I realize that I may have come off a bit abrupt with her. I hope I didn't hurt her feelings. 

It's a constant thing between us, and I hate it. I hate that this back and forth about money, about me doing things on my own, has space in our lives, and keeps erecting this semi-permeable barrier between us. For some reason I can't get over it, and she doesn't seem to understand. It's tiresome, and I wish with everything in me it would somehow resolve itself, but that's unrealistic. I know that. Nothing just goes away on its own. No. These things continue to grow and flourish, until they have stolen from you the very thing you were trying so damn hard to protect. 

My muscles stiffen with tension at the thought of what that means, and I concede, if only to myself, that maybe she doesn't understand because this is more my problem than hers. Maybe?

A deep huff blows a puff of air from my nostrils, and instead of worrying about fixing gutters, I set my mind to fix things with my wife. At least as much as I can right now, because when she finally does find out about Jessie, I pray that the damage from that will not be the final brick that makes that wall insurmountable. 

Setting my eyes on her, I rest my hands at my waist and just watch her for a moment. The graceful gait of my sexy wife, and the unwittingly sensual sway of her softly rounded hips in the mid-thigh length, yellow t-shirt dress she's wearing today. It's uncharacteristically hot for this time of year, even for Georgia. At nearly 78 degrees, it's the first time since we met that I've seen her out of the house like this. Very casual. No makeup. No earrings. In sneakers. Arms and legs out, her fat bottom clinging to the material, showcasing a glimpse of the perfect body that I know is draped by the soft spun cotton of her short dress. Her pretty skin, an intriguing walnut color, cut through with an undertone of an umber or ochre, is highlighted by the way even the stark fluorescent lights of this warehouse like store, kiss her form. With nothing adorning her but the aura of who she is, Michonne is stunning.

A young white guy in an orange vest walks past the end of the aisle where she's standing, taking notice of her with a quick glance. Then he reverses his steps for another. A triple take bringing him back to our aisle, in an attempt to steal a moment with her. I can't hear what he's saying to her, I'm too far away, but I can see the way he's standing just a tad too close, looking down at her, scanning his gaze over the scoop neck of her dress. Over her lips. Her elegant, rounded features. I know what he sees. The plump globes of her growing breasts, cleavage cresting over the top. The way she's probably still putting a hurting on that very lucky sucker. At first I'm pissed at the lascivious glare this man is laying on my wife, clearly not aware that she's mine, carrying my babies. I can feel my fingers twitching, launching themselves into an agitated rub against each other that would put a cricket to shame. 

It's a jealousy that often peeks its head out when I feel her moving away from me, metaphorically speaking. Her star so bright above me. Her true place among the heavens. It's not about her, it's never about her. It's me. And I wrestle and fight that demon everyday. I know the damage that life has done to me, and everyday that I wake with her in my arms I promise to do better. To gather my broken pieces and be whole. Not just for her, but for us. For our kids.

Michonne easily dismisses the guy, with a shake of her head and a gesture of her thumb over her shoulder back towards me. The restless thump of my heart in my chest seems to calm with that. It's not fair to her. She's not Lori. And I'm not Mike. So I look away, giving her the privacy to be free of my issues. To converse with strangers. To flit among the shelves of items she swears she doesn't recognize.

Dragging my eyes back to the shelves, I set about finding the items I came here for, and remember the words my father offered me on my wedding day. Him reminding that Michonne and I are fated. To keep fighting against defeat and to fulfill my personal legend.

And I suppose he's right. Hell George Grimes is always right if I have to admit it, though I'd never do so to his face less I risk him gloating about that for the rest of my life. She is my fate, my destiny. So I relax. And the elephant pressing into my chest, crushing my heart, constricting my breathing, releases me from its grasp, just as I sense the scent of my wife's perfume. And feel her thin index finger, tugging on my own. 

Confused by her pulling me away from the shelves before I'm done browsing for what I need, I begin to obediently, and wordlessly, follow her direction. Leading the way, she guides me towards the back of the store, and through a set of doors that let out into the back warehouse portion of the store, where I'm certain we aren't supposed to be. Navigating us into a nook that is mostly surrounded by large boxes the size of a refrigerator, Michonne backs me into the corner wall. 

The cool cinder block formation of the wall is hard and resolute along my t-shirt covered back, meeting me with its stiff support. At first Michonne's face is serious, eyebrows furrowed, a cute frown dropping her lips into a stern dip that is supposed to freeze me with its sincere tenacity. I can't help but sense something else riding those gloss covered lips, still dangling the stick of her sucker from the corner. She's unreadable in this moment. I can't quite figure it out, so instead of trying to determine what's going on, I offer myself up as a sacrifice to this tense and quizzical moment. 

"I'm sorry."

Crossing her lean arms across her chest, my eyes quickly drop down from her face, her throat, her breasts, her tiny tummy, to her sexy legs, then back. She notices, and releases a tiny huff. "You don't have to be. But I don't want this money thing to be a recurring theme, Rick. This is the same thing with the architect and the house rehab all over again. At some point love has to be enough. Either you accept me and what I am, and what I'm not-"

"You're everything."

"I'm not. I'm imperfect, just like you are. You know that. You've seen my demons. You know my past. And I know yours. My worth is not in dollars, and neither is yours. There is always going to be stuff that we have trouble saying to each other, or admitting, because of how our lives have conditioned us to be. We have love. We'll build up the trust. I believe that because, Rick, you know me. And I know exactly who you are, Richard Grimes. You're the man who followed me into a service hallway, and told me that I belong to you. Told me that you had already won this game. Remember that guy? The guy who said he would never hurt me, just wants to make me feel good. You said that."

Immediately I recognize her words as my own from the night I found her at a wedding with Shane. It wasn't that long ago, and unlike so many memories from my life, it's not a dank sepia toned recall of something hazy and nearly forgotten. It's clear as day. Crystal. 

With her soft palm cupping my bearded cheek, she drags it slowly, to rest on my chest. "That's my man. That's the Rick Grimes who stole my heart, and didn't give a shit about my money. He just wanted me, and oh my god I wanted him. I want him. I'm already wet for him." She says that last bit on a soft breathy moan, and I can instantly feel my cock stirring in my jeans. Damn, Michonne.

My wife's words stir something in me. Arouse my senses. Switching our positions, and turning us so that Michonne's back is to the wall, I press my body into hers, my now bulging cock pushing into her small tummy. Nuzzling my nose at the pulse in her neck, then drifting over, I nudge her soft cottony locs away from her skin to make way for my greedy tongue and lips. Licking at the crook of her neck, then right up below her ear, I bite then tug on the sensitive flesh. "Is that right? You're wet right now?"

Nodding her head, and toying with her lips with the red candy sucker, she answers briefly, hitting the end of the word with a short clipped pronunciation. "Check." A familiar challenge, that my wife knows damn well I would never turn down. 

Pulling back to get a good look at her, to take in the breathtaking artistry of my wife's features, I'm overcome with arousal and emotion. "I love you." Gesturing affirmatively with my head, I utter the words that succinctly capture the purest part of my feelings for her. So simple. 

"I love you too." Michonne returns to me, with nothing but halcyon fire and truth in the firm delivery of her words. Wrapping her palm along the back of my neck, her fingers toying with the overly long curls that wisp and turn at the nape, she brings me back into her atmosphere. This woman, her dark eyes, with the depth of the universe's secrets behind their celestial beauty, has bewitched me.

Ensnared and cloistered by her embrace, I weakly drop my forehead to hers. I breathe in the sweet scent of her, then lick my tongue out to sample the candied sugar coating her plump lips, left behind by the now discarded sucker. She meets my hungry licks with a needy ferocity of her own, sucking my tongue into the inviting tumble of her kiss.

Reaching under the skirt of her dress, I run my palm between her toned thighs, and begin a slow stroke with the pad of my thumb, of the silky skin found there. Pinching at that thick plumpness of her inner thighs, I can feel her pussy's heat at the apex, calling for me to inch my hands closer to its inviting depths. She keeps me in her sights, her breathing shallow, her breasts jiggling, swaying slightly under the light coverage of the snug fitting dress. Against her lips, between pecks and licks, I mumble to my beloved, "Tell me, babe. What can I do to make you happy?"

"Just be you, Rick. Rich, poor, whatever… You already make me deliriously happy."

Impressed again by the uncomplicated intensity of her answer, my eyebrows bounce high towards my hairline, her words an adrenaline shot to my ego. "Deliriously?"

Traipsing the slender fingers of one hand across the planes of my chest, teasing my nipples with the edge of her nails through my t-shirt, gifting them with a slight pinch of her own, she blows out a soft whining huff. "Oh yeah."

"Me too." I promise, and with that there are no further words needed. I have more to offer her than words. My sexy little wife doesn't want them anyway. I know what she needs. I'm the man to give it to her. 

My fingers find the edge of her silky panties, then push them aside, eager and ready to reach their favorite spot. Puffy and slick, the soft folds of my wife are not just wet. They are drenched. Soaking the seat of her panties with the evidence of her arousal. It's all the confirmation I need. 

Quickly I toss a look over my shoulder, checking to ensure that none of the orange vested employees have spotted us, sequestered in our little boxed in world. Sensing no movement and no sound outside of the quiet words spoken between Michonne and I, I decide that my need of her is too great. With a naughty grin, I think I'm going to have a little taste of my queen. Right now. 

No longer satisfied with just playing in the dampness of her sticky honey, I part her thighs with my leg, opening her to me, and lift my wife against the wall. I sweep her legs around my waist to keep her steady and secure. Arching her back against the wall, her womanhood thrust against me, Michonne is writhing, eager for my touch, waiting for my next move, tugging the crotch of her own panties aside. She doesn't have to wait long. Holding her steady with one arm around her waist, I use the other to release my dick from the confines of my jeans and boxers. And in a swift movement, we're connected. 

"You're wet as fuck..." I exclaim, somehow unprepared for how slippery I find her. "Gotdamn," I mumble to myself, blinking, and halting my stroke so as not to quickly succumb to the feel of her. 

My legs are weak, slightly shaky. She's so silky and wet. Snug, her pussy seems hotter than usual, engulfing me in her flames. Wetter than normal, drowning me in her ocean. Breaths, rushing in a tight hiss from between my teeth at the exquisite constriction, are returned by a relieved sigh from my wife, as though this is just what she needs for the budding desire inside of her.

"Mmm… Rick…"

"Shh, shh…" Latching my lips over hers in a deep kiss, our tongues meet, and I swallow my name living on her lips, along with the tiny whimpers and wails that escape with each of the first few rolling crushes of my pelvis against hers. It's an easy tempo. One that keeps our bodies pressed closely together, our lips fastened in a candy sweet clasp. My wife's mouth is my playland, and I can't figure if it's the taste of the cherry red sucker, or simply the taste of her that has me intoxicated. 

The sound of my dick bathing in her slippery juices, stoking her fire, rises loudly in the cramped space. I'm certain it will give us away. I don't care. Michonne's legs are wrapped tightly around my waist while she's winding her hips in a loose swivel, meeting my every thrust. Her pussy is swallowing my thick length, sucking in each inch until there's nothing left but the smack of our groins, grinding against each other. 

These measured strokes and swivels are good, exquisite even. Their evenly paced in and out allows me the wherewithal to enjoy my lady, and the naughty decadence of our secret tryst in this public place without falling apart too quickly. I know Michonne though, there's a method to the madness behind that pretty face, and she didn't whisk me away to this tiny corner behind a row of boxes for sweet lovemaking. Nah. That's not her style. While there are times that she's satisfied with this, the calm yet lovely waves and curves our undulating bodies create. But just now, there was fire behind those dark eyes. A stubborn jut to her chin. A naughty little beast, ready to be set free. Ready to feast. Shit. 

I should have known better, but it's too late now. Michonne pulls away from my lips to catch her breath, swallowing down a few rough gasps of air before raising her hands to my hair. At first it's just a graze of her fingertips, the sensation of which delights me, causes me to roll my head back in enjoyment of her touch. Then I sense her pushing her body up, positioning herself to suck on my neck. It catches me off guard for a brief moment, but I love it. The pressure of her lips suctioning, biting. Her tongue licking. Then she increases the sting of her bite, the compressing squeeze of her lips. All while steadily increasing the strength in the bounce of her ass, the quickness of her downward strokes on my dick. 

Before I know it, that familiar tension is building. A swirling hurricane of tingling pleasure dances over my skin, and I have to clench my fist against the solid wall to launch an attempt to hold off my orgasm. Fuck! I can feel her wrenching it from my balls. Wresting my control away. My lady is owning me. Fucking me so good with her practiced movements, a cacophony of swirls and grinds that traps me under a haze of lust. Completely controlled by her spell. 

"Fuck, Michonne, slow down, babe! Shit!"

"Fuck me, Rick! Fuck me!"

"I'm gonna fucking cum…if…ah ah…slow down!"

A hoarse, raspy groan rumbles in my chest. I clench my ass to stave off the overwhelming creep of an orgasm that's inching dangerously close to the surface, ready to burst from cock. Not yet. Not yet I tell myself, as I close my eyes trying to fight off the climax I desperately want, but cannot have. Not yet. Fuck, Rick, not yet! 

My hold on her tiny waist is crushingly tight, and I lament the fact that we're still clothed. I'm missing the sweaty slap of our bodies, as I try to lessen her frantic pace to a slower one that allows me to gain back some sense of an easier soundtrack to our rhythmic lovemaking. A cadence that helps me feel less wild and out of control, but still gives my lady's tight little pussy those hard, rough bangs she craves. 

The beauty of her is fully on display, as the swollen globes of her breasts bob and jiggle freely from the cups of her bra, pushing them up against my chest. Her sexy form is riding my dick hard even though I've tried to slow her down by pinning her between me and the wall. A heightening wail releases from her lips against my neck. I use my free hand to cover her mouth. To muffle her cries of pleasure, rising, growing louder and louder. My thumb laves across her lips, which she pulls into her mouth. 

She releases my thumb, then begins picking up the swiftness of her pace again. 

"Oooh, Rick, baby… Fuck me harder!" 

"Fuck! Mi- Mi…mmm… Not yet, babe, damn!" 

Pitching forward, to bury my face in her breasts, Michonne's powdery scent engulfs me, swaddles me while I dip my tongue between them, sucking and biting at her buxom flesh. It keeps me from grunting too loudly. Temporarily pacifies my own burgeoning need to thwart her greedy beast and simply consume her. At least for now. Michonne's fingers continue to play in my hair, as I steady myself and begin to drill into her, fucking her just a little harder, and harder still, trying to reach that fleshy bundle of nerves, deep within my lover. That little spot that will get her to pop. Make her naughty ass behave.

"Uh, uh, uh… Rick, oh god! Rick!"

Few jumbled words escape me and join her breathy pleas in a chorus of satisfied mumblings. "Damn! Michonne, babe you feel so fucking good! I'm gonna…" I drop both of my hands to the cushion of her ass. Handfuls, squeezing, attempting to halt the press she's continuing against me. I deliver a few swats to her ass, the sound of the smack echoing off the walls of the quiet store room.

"Ah! Ah!" Michonne squeals, a delighted little burst following each pop of my hand against the cushion of her ass. 

"Behave, Michonne. You're gonna fucking make me cum too fast!"

Rolling her hips over my cock, I can feel her catch and release with the tight muscles of her canal, tugging my length mercilessly. "Oooh, Rick…"

Swat! "Michonne!"

"Ah…" Pulling at the strands of my hair, egging me on with the grasp of her hands, Michonne encourages the little reproachful smacks. "Harder! Harder! I'm about to cum, Rick! Please!" Michonne whimpers, and I'm right there too. Right on the precipice of a punishing thrill, so decadent, so sweet… 

If we were at home, and I could really have my way with her, my beast would flip her over. Pull her backwards towards the edge of the bed and feast on her dripping pussy. Rim her tightest hole with my tongue, then ride her harder. Pummel her pussy into submission. Stroke her just right until she fell apart, screaming my name. But right now, I decide to march her little petulant ass to the finish line. 

My hips pick up speed of their own volition, tunneling and digging, jutting upwards, bouncing her body up the wall. My hands are still tightly filled with her ass cheeks, as I direct her movements up and down on my dick. Pushing her down on me harder, faster, harder. Head thrown back, ecstasy plays over her pretty features, restricting then relaxing them. Michonne bites down on her bottom lip, and savors the wave of pleasure she's surfing, and that's how I know she's close. A few more gyrating whips of my hips, and she's coming undone in my arms. 

Michonne's eyelids begin to flutter. Her juicy lips tremble, then slightly part as her satisfied whimpering peters out to a beat of stuttered pants. A tightening, clenching, clasp follows, ushering in the climactic strength of her release. Squeezing, constriction suffocation follows and yanks my cum from my balls as I close my eyes and ascend to heaven, as her orgasm continues washing over me, drenching my cock and balls with a squirting baptism.

A debilitating blitz of gratifying pleasure shocks my body. The titillating tingle firing over my sweaty skin, tensing and freezing me in the moment. It's followed by a long rush of air faintly carrying the only bit of sound I can utter, "Micchhh..." as the muscles in my abdomen constrict in a throbbing tightness, pushing the word from my lips and onto her sweat slickened cheek. Back hunched, bowed into her form, I can feel the spurting tick of my cock, spraying her womb with my cum, followed by a long series of guttural growls. The sounds more akin to those of a feral beast, than a love sick man. Or maybe not. 

Resting my forehead against hers, a position we often find ourselves in, I close my eyes and savor the quiet after the storm. The air is still, but fully charged by our emotions, and the musky scent of our coupling, floating between us. I just hold her close, so complete and at ease in her arms. Nothing matters in this world but her. This love between us. 

Finally, after the moments have ticked by, and we've clearly lost track of time, completely forgetting the public nature of our tryst, Michonne's soft, husky voice reminds me that at some point I have to pull out of her. I don't want to. I could live inside of her. This warm, cushy place with my name on it. Home.

"Baby, I can feel wetness everywhere. I think…"

"Hm?"

"I think I squirted on you? Or something?"

"Hm? Ok." I sigh, regretfully pulling back from her, withdrawing my flaccid length. Glancing between us I can see that the bottom of my t-shirt and whole abdomen is soaked. "Yeah. Looks like you gushed all over me."

"Rick!" Michonne groans, her palm hiding her face as though she's embarrassed to have so thoroughly enjoyed herself. 

Gently swiping at her hand to remove it from her face, I lean in and peck her lips reassuringly. "Your panties are ruined." Tilting my head, I can see the rip along the edging of the crotch of the panties, completely drenched. "Take 'em off." Easing my wife down the wall, helping her to the floor, I grin with a twinge of male pride at the initial wobbly uneasiness of her legs. 

Steadying herself against me, Michonne gingerly bends and removes her panties, then as though it's nothing, hands them to me. "For your collection." 

"What?"

"I'm still missing my thong from New Year's Eve. I assume you've got them squirreled away somewhere. You can add these to your collection."

Caught, I can feel a rush of a heated blush covering my face, but I don't even try to deny her assertion. Instead I lift the tiny garment to my nose and breathe in a long whiff of her essence that dampens the silk. 

"You're so nasty!" Whopping my arm, Michonne pulls down her dress, and attempts to straighten herself up. Fixing her dreads from the lopsided splay of them, tilted and draped to one side.

I use the panties to try and wipe up the remnants of our impetuous lovemaking from her womanhood and thighs, as well as my cock. Collecting myself, I rezip my jeans, and shove her panties into the pocket of my jeans. Remembering that I still need to pick up some things for the house, I take a hold of Michonne's hand then proceed to lead my lady from the back of the storeroom. Before we hit the doors something causes me to pause my steps, and I halt, a question burning brightly in the back of my brain.

"Michonne, what was that about?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean." I answer, gesturing my head back towards the boxes in the corner that hold the mystery of our Home Depot indiscretions.

"Oh. That. Just another reminder. At some point, Rick, love has to be enough, or it isn't." Winking, she pops me on the ass, then walks past me and through the double doors, leading her back out on to the main floor of Home Depot. From behind the swinging doors, I can hear her stop and ask one of the orange vested associates. "Excuse me, what aisle are the gutter supplies in?"

Recalling that moment, Michonne's naughty way of reminding me, I know what she has been insisting I accept all along. She accepts me. I accept her. And at the end of the day, between her and I, love either is enough to carry us forward, to help us build up the trust, or it isn't. But as people sometimes do, they stubbornly look past what's right in front of them. They forget their promises, at war with the deeply enmeshed damage of their wounded psyches. I'm guilty of that. I am a man in love, but I'm also a man who has a lot of his own shit to deal with. His own memories and demons. I can concede, with an open heart and clear eyes that my obsession with having her, superseded the work needed to keep her. Now it's time to put in the work.

I didn't need this memory to remind of how I've failed to uphold my end of this relationship. I know that I fucked up. I know that. How many times have I promised to not hurt her? To not let the bullshit get between us? I've lost count with every time that I've done just that. My head and heart in conflict, both trying to do their version of the right thing. It's the true burden of my own secrets that caused me to overreact with Michonne. A defense mechanism to try and level the playing field. But just as Maxwell croons away, alerting me to the fact that my own stubbornness, has left my love-sick ass out in the cold with my woman, I know in my heart that I can't let my own inadequacies estrange me from the thing I want most in this world. Michonne.

But anxiety, despair. Fear. Plain, fear. It's gnarly claw a living breathing entity, that has absconded with so much of my life, finds me drenched in its stench and brings me full circle, almost crippling me. Hands wrapped tight around the steering wheel, the shiny platinum of my diamond encrusted wedding ring catches the brightness of the sun, nearly blinding me with its brilliance. My car eats up the road beneath its tires, the distance between my wife and I growing wider with each mile passed. I've been here before, cornered, trapped. When I busted my shoulder. When I foolishly married Lori to hold on to a semblance of the baseball star I once was. When I stayed in that marriage for far too long. Here I am now, letting the woman of my dreams slip through my fingers because of my own issues with money, inadequacy, maybe a misguided sense of masculinity? My transgressions are piling up. Dry kindling for the fire that could set a detrimental blaze to my marriage. And the reality of that fear cages me behind a wall, that I hope our love can scale.

"Lonely's the only other company
Lonely's the only
Less you're the love no other love can be
Since you went away from me…"

She called my phone a few times, but I didn't answer. The picture of our left hands intertwined flashed across the screen of my phone, as she called. It's the one that I saved to her contact info in my phone. I reached for my phone every time she called, my thumb hovering over the button to answer her. I wanted to hear her voice, even if it was to yell at me. To harangue me for leaving the way I did. I owe her an apology, I just can't form the words to express it and my regret just yet. How do I even begin to explain how complex this all feels? That once again I have disappointed her with my inability to just be who she thinks I am?

What if I couldn't dig deep enough to explain that I share that disappointment in myself? What if Michonne confessed that she did see me the same as she saw Spencer? A cop is a cop is a cop? What if my beloved looked at me with those beautiful eyes, and admitted from those sexy lips that she can't trust me, not really? Could I survive that truth? It's a question that I often struggle with. How much can I take? I can take a bullet, hell that was the easy part. But, Michonne not believing in me, loving me, trusting me? I won't survive that.

Am I making this all too hard? Have I done the very thing that my father always accuses me of? Making this shit just too damn complicated. I can hear George Grimes' voice right now telling me it ain't calculus, son! And he's right. I need to stop hiding from her, and myself and be honest. It's the only way I can put us back together.

Resolved to that, I reached for my phone. And with it in hand, finally reading through Michonne's messages, I saw one that instantly set me on edge.

Michonne: Rick please text me back, or call. I just left your house in KC. I know

She knows? She knows. She knows about Jessie. The house. Fuck! My fingers began typing a response immediately. Like an avalanche I was being buried under the amount of things I needed to explain. How could this day get any shittier? I didn't want her to find out like this. From Jessie of all people.

I began typing out a long winded explanation…

Rick: Michonne, I know you are probably upset, and I deserve your anger. I'm sorry, and I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I hope you will give it. If not now, then in time. An opportunity presented itself for me to give you everything. I needed Jessie to buy my house, so I could make a home for us. I have the love and the will, but I don't have the means…

I paused to think over how to admit my faults to her, to help put my way of seeing things in a way that she could understand. As I was walked through the doors in to the department, I was distracted from responding as I was met with a few lazy 'heys' and 'what's up, sheriffs' from the guys. A petty but predictable, 'you look like shit' tossed out over her shoulder from Natalie. I responded with a couple 'heys' of my own, a head nod here and there, and a grumbling 'I feel like shit' for Natalie. Nothing seemed amiss. It was how things always are with the deputies. Nothing tipped me off that this day was about to get even worse. Nothing. Not even when I entered my office, stopping just before I finished and could hit send on my response text, and found Spencer there, a placid, stoic visage, quizzically still dressed in his deputy's uniform.

Perhaps something should have tipped me off then? Did it make sense for him to turn himself in wearing his uniform? No, but maybe he thought it would engender some sense of respect for him that he doesn't really deserve. He used to do odd shit like that. Spencer was the kind of guy who thought leading a conversation with the announcement that he was a Monroe was the way to make friends. In KC it wasn't. At any rate I can't really recall what finally tipped me off that something was wrong, but I know that at some point shortly after entering my office, my training kicked in past the daze of my mind's racing thoughts of Michonne. As a peace officer, I've been trained to detect a threat. To assess the danger presented in a situation. Once I focused on Spencer, today was no exception.

Though few words had been spoken between us prior to Michonne's entrance, my feelings for Spencer had not changed since I met with Deanna the other day and heard his full confession. Pity was not one of those feelings. Deanna had confirmed to me and to their family lawyer Dale Wilson, that Spencer was a troubled man. Angry. Bitter. Deanna positioned him in her narrative as a person who had been swayed and swooned by the dark side of life. Hate. Beliefs espoused by the lowest dregs of society, that imbued him with an undue sense of entitlement. Though Deanna seemed intent on fostering some sense of kind compassion for Spencer's plight, I shirked it off like so many false proclamations that followed the tragic fall of such characters.

Spencer, and those like him are not victims in this story. They are not even the victors. They are the deplorables that worm their way into positions of power, sometimes backed by the privilege of their color or familial affluence, to prey on others. Because of that, Spencer's confession, and his family's subsequent settlement offer for Mr. Rhee signaled the beginning of the end of my time in KC. My ability to survive the day to day business of such darkness, while trying to flourish in the light, was impossible. I had decided this before I even knew what Michonne's role in this tragedy was. Before I even knew how it would end. No matter. What's done is done. My mind was made up.

My recall is pure, lucid, as though I'm watching it on TV, the volume much too loud. Spencer in my office, his usual cool demeanor slowly lost, replaced by the wildly unhinged ramblings of a man that's out of time. The rapid fire of his words, when he raised his gun towards me. His gaze landing to glare at Michonne, anger, hate welling in his eyes as they scan her form, apparently wondering who she was.

When that psychopath turned his department issued weapon and his virulent rage on my wife, the woman I would happily die for, it did nothing but call to arms my final act as Sheriff. Michonne and my babies would survive this encounter, even if I did not. Even if Spencer did not. I had resolved myself to that when she began talking to Spencer, telling him who she was regardless of my efforts to divert his attention away from her and to focus his rage on me. Gotdam this stubborn woman!

She may have wobbled a bit with fear at first, but when she found courage, the heat of her own displeasure finding the surface, I knew I had to do something to not only neutralize this situation, but to get him away from her. To end this charade of false bravado on Spencer's part, to out him as the coward I know he is, and simply end this.

I'm not sorry that Spencer is dead. I have no regret that I was willing to accept that mad man's bullet if it meant he let Michonne go. My only regret is that she had to see this. That my beloved had to witness this disgusting, husk of a man, attempt to rob her of the life she has yearned for. From the happiness that we are trying to enjoy together. Now, for all of her days, this fool's act of cowardice, his reluctance to face head on the consequence of his actions, would darken her memories. I will never forget her high pitched scream that followed the blasting shot of Spencer's glock at me, dislodging his fate from its barrel, to pierce my skin. My brain will never be free of the way her body seemingly gave out on her, collapsing my beloved to the floor, before she could witness me end him.

Releasing my Colt, in a flash, the briefest speck of time, I was there with her. Holding her in my arms, after an unsuccessful attempt at catching her fall, my own anger crested as I refused to give that weak recreant the gift of my pity, or to even spare his dead body a glance. He didn't matter to me. Michonne. Michonne and my babies. My boys. My family. That's what mattered when the other deputies rushed my office, responding to the gun shots, traipsing past where I held my wife's limp body cradled to my chest, trying to arouse her. To waken her seemingly lifeless form, which I did not release until the EMTs took her from me.

Slouched against the wall, eyes closed, I can hear Carson return.

"Rick, we're gonna head to the hospital. Can you make it out to the ambulance on your own?"

"Yeah."

"Don't strain yourself, I can help if needed."

"Nah, I got it." I grit out, grinding my teeth, a hard gnash against the searing pain in my side, radiating throughout my body.

Watching me intently, Carson offers me his hand, that I do not take. "Ok then. Follow me."

Ambling slowly, my boots shuffling one in front of the other, Carson and I reach the back of the ambulance. With the doors thrown open I can see her. Sitting up on a stretcher, Michonne is propped up, seemingly waiting on me. As soon as she sees me she's reaching for me, arms outstretched, fingers grasping.

"Rick!"

"Michonne!" Rushing to her despite the pain, I gingerly wrap my arms around her, the banging in my brain finally silenced with her now safe with me. She sinks against my side, and a small grunt of pain tips her off to my wound. I kiss her face, her head, not knowing where the lump is from her hitting the floor, but wanting to cover her wounds just the same.

Pulling back, her soulful brown eyes, wide and glossy with the remnant of tears already shed, roam erratically over my form. Starting with my face, then over my shoulders, arms, chest, her hands travel, looking for the evidence of harm. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine."

Seeing the rip in my uniform shirt where the gauze is stuck to the blood of my wound, she gingerly taps at the dampness with her fingers. "Oh god… You're bleeding? Rick!?"

"Bullet grazed me. It's nothing."

"He shot you?"

"Grazed me."

A fountain of tears rush forward from her eyes, and through the staggering hiccups making an attempt to trap her voice, she tries to speak, "I'm so sorry, Rick. This is my fault. I came to find you, and, and… I heard someone in your office arguing with you. I thought maybe my presence would calm them down. I didn't realize it was Spencer until later. By then, I saw him holding his gun on you and I just couldn't let him take you from me. I couldn't."

"It was foolish of you to put yourself in harm's way, Michonne. What if he had hurt you or the babies? I wouldn't survive that. I couldn't."

"He did hurt you, Rick. If he had killed you I couldn't survive that either." Nestling her forehead into my chest, her hands crinkling the folds of my shirt in her fists, her voice trails off, and the levity of what could have happened had his bullet fully hit its target, is not lost on us both. "He could have taken you from me. I can't lose you."

"He didn't. But, Michonne, hey, babe. Look at me." With my index finger crooked underneath her chin, I lift her face to mine. Witnessing the distress clouding her features, I lean back and wipe away the tears from her cherubic face. So beautiful. "You can lose me. I can lose you. We can lose our family, and our friends. And one day we will."

"No!"

"Wait, hey. We can. And me surviving this thing with Spencer doesn't change that. One day we will lose everything we love. But, not today. When he began speaking to you, looking at you, putting the puzzle together about who you are… When he focused his gun on you, I knew that I wasn't losing you today. Not to him, and not to some bullshit that I've done. That's why Spencer won't be able to hurt anyone again. I-"

"Is he dead?"

"He is. When you passed out, he tried to shoot me. He missed, and barely got me on my hip. I didn't miss."

"You shot him?"

"Mmhm."

Briefly she's quiet, and in that second I wonder if this will also be a point of contention between us. Lori always hated my job. The danger it posed. The potential it held that I might get shot, or might shoot someone. It never rested easily with her, and was often the catalyst for our arguments that never really put emphasis on her being afraid of losing me in particular, but more of losing the life she and I had. But Michonne doesn't disappoint. Threading her fingers with mine, she inches her legs over my lap, making the little stretcher enough for us both. "Ok. Good." She sniffs, the finality of those few words seemingly settling it. At least for now.

"I'm sorry to interrupt. May I come in?"

"Deanna?" I squint. Widening my eyes against the pulling droop of sleep, to make out her visage in the dimly lit room.

"Deanna Monroe?" Lifting her head from the bandage she's smoothing over my side, Michonne jerks her attention to the slight form of the diminutive woman who's entered my hospital room. The wound to my hip is not severe, having done nothing but stolen a bit of my flesh, but the doctors did have to remove bits of shrapnel, which necessitated the need for me to stay overnight.

Which was fine by me, as my body seemed to finally give out some, growing weary under the stressful events of the last 24 hours. After reaching the hospital, I demanded that Michonne receive an ultrasound before I receive any care, and as the sheriff, well known in this small town, I got what I wanted. Watching the now familiar grainy image of my babies resting peacefully in her womb, still intact, and growing stronger, brought a smile to my face, and a peace to my heart that finally afforded me the opportunity to relax. As soon as the doctor on call, Siddiq Rammurthy, pronounced that my wife and kids were fine, Michonne went into full on wife mode, and demanded that someone attend to my bullet wound.

Procuring a private room for me to rest in after the removal of the shrapnel, and a couple of stitches, Michonne has not left my side. I had to beg her to at least let the nurses bring her some food for her and the babies. That woman is stubborn in her love and protection of me, even as I know there is so much still unsaid between us. So many words of apology unspoken.

But now, just as I'm about ready to doze off, the pain meds taking their toll, and pulling me towards sleep, Deanna enters the room, and I can't help but feel some kind of way about her intrusion. Obviously, by the way she says her name, Michonne must be feeling the same.

"Yes. Is it ok? I just-"

"Yeah. Come on in."

Whipping her head around towards me, Michonne questions my decision with her eyes, her piercing stare letting me know she would have decided otherwise. She verbally levies no argument though, and waves her hand as though she is in agreement with me, even if I know she probably doesn't really want her here.

"Thank you. I'm sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to tell you both how sorry I am about what happened. Rick, you know this is not how I envisioned things going with Spencer."

"I'm sorry, how did you envision them then? Your son tried to murder my husband."

"Mrs. Grimes I presume? Michonne?"

Tilting her head a bit, proudly jutting her chin forward, Michonne doesn't bother with an answer, just keeps Deanna in her sights. I give her hand a reassuring tug and squeeze, letting her know that she can relax. I don't want her to feel like she has to be agitated by Deanna's presence. She may not have a concussion, the babies may be safe, and her blood pressure is now lowered, but I still need her to relax.

"Fair enough. I know who you are. You're not just my sheriff's wife, but also the attorney who represented Mr. Rhee in his suit against my son. For that I have to say thank you." Stepping closer towards my bed, Deanna, dressed more casually than I'm used to seeing her, in khakis and a white button up shirt, offer her outstretched hand to Michonne. A greeting that my wife does not accept. Withdrawing her hand, Deanna instead drops them into her pockets, and just offers Michonne a well practiced smile that I've seen her use on angry constituents before. But Deanna doesn't know Michonne. She's probably never met a woman like her. Her slick politician's smile does nothing to smooth over my wife's ruffled feathers.

"Thank you?" Michonne and I both respond in unison. The tone denoting a clear question, not a statement. Neither of us is expecting the conversation to take this turn.

"Thank you. Without you helping Mr. Rhee, I would not have known how far Spencer had gone. He was a troubled man. Mentally he has struggled with depression for a good deal of his life. And that's not an excuse, it's just a fact."

"There is no excuse for police brutality. For attempted murder."

"I agree. And I know it's unrealistic that I could expect you and your husband to ever forgive him. But, I hope that you can one day find a way to do that. As Rick knows, I am trying to fix so many things. Some with hard work and tenacity. But also with my family's money, a good deal of which should have never belonged to them in the first place. The Monroes, and other families like the in KC have grown wealthy from corruption and greed, feeding on the naiveté of small town folks who put their trust in them. Foolish I know."

"Yes it is."

"I've looked into you Mrs. Grimes. I know who you are to our sheriff, but outside of that, I'm very impressed by Michonne Alexander-Anthony. That's why I offered the settlement to Mr. Rhee. I was hoping to give Spencer a chance to seek the medical help he needed, and to make amends with Mr. Rhee. Racism is not something we tolerate in our family."

"Spencer learned it somewhere. And for the record, money can't buy forgiveness, Deana. You can't use your wealth to buy indulgences, or absolution from your son's sins. If you know me like you think you do, then you know I do not have a record of accepting settlements when justice is not served."

Somewhat taken aback by the unvarnished truth of Michonne's words, Deanna lowers her head to her chin, and blows out a long breath. Raising her head again, she invites my wife and truly see her. The stress, the sadness and worry animating the lines of age across her face, and her thinly pursed lips. She's hurting. Recently she lost her husband. Today she lost her son. For that I am sorry.

Drooping her shoulders, as though she is admitting defeat, she laughs a little to herself, then nods and points towards Michonne. "Rick, I can see why you love her. She's honest and she's sharp. Michonne, you're right. So I will cut to the chase. I have lost my son. I lost Spencer long before today. For the same reason I offered a monetary settlement to Mr. Rhee, I'm offering one to your husband, Mrs. Grimes. To you, Rick, and your family."

"I don't want your money, Deanna. You keep it. Use it here in KC to keep trying to fix things. I'm done. I'm going to serve out my term as sheriff, but after that I think it would be best if I move on."

"I unwillingly accept that. But KC owes you this now, Rick. The people here, your people, they owe you this. I know that you have been working under the same salary for the past ten years because of a supposed freeze on increases. Even after you were elected sheriff. This money is rightfully yours, Rick. There was no need for a freeze on the salaries of government employees. The last sheriff, DA, and yes even my own dead husband, the last mayor, did so much wrong to this town. Including taking money that did not belong to them. Paying you what is owed to you, is the least I can do. I hope you will accept it, along with my apologies. Had Reg and I not coddled Spencer and his brother, made them face their demons, then things might have turned out differently. I pray that you both can do better by your sons than I did by mine."

With that, she drops an envelope on the side table next to my bed and takes her leave. Wordlessly, Michonne retrieves the envelope and begins reading over the documents inside.

"This says that the Monroes are offering you a settlement of five million dollars, Rick. This isn't because of them not only paying you what is owed to you from your salary, this is also a settlement for Spencer shooting you. She doesn't want us to sue their estate. This is a drop in the bucket for what Spencer is worth, and she knows that. I can't believe this shit! If she thinks-"

"Michonne, babe, hey, hey. Hold on."

"No. She's trying to buy your silence. You've been working with her, you know everything. All the dirty ugly things that can bring this whole ugly thing come crumbling down. If you take this money, and you have to sign this to get it, then you are also basically signing an NDA. Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah, I do."

"She's trying to buy your silence. That's what people like her and her family do. Are you ok with that?" she asks incredulously, her head jerking back a bit in shock.

"I think… I think the money can do good for our family. You heard me, after my tenure is over, I'm leaving KC anyway. I've done what I thought I could to help this town. That's how I ended up here. That's how I got shot."

"Rick, you ended up here because you and Deanna refused to let justice take care of that creep Spencer."

"Well, Michonne, he's taken care of now isn't he? He's dead. I shot him. I don't want to argue with you, sweetheart. I want to rest. And I want to apologize and clear the air between us because we need to do that. We do. Just… not right now." Sighing, the weight of my head and my thoughts seemingly heavier than before, my words now cottony in my mouth, I reach for my wife, "I'm sorry, Michonne. I have so much to make up for, to explain. But right now I'm tired. Your blood pressure is just now back to normal. All I can say right now is if you don't want me to take the money, I won't. If you want me to tell everything I know about this town, I will. I'll do or not do whatever will make you happy, sweetheart, because I know I'm disappointing you right now. Again. I am the man who loves you, but, maybe I'm not always the man you thought I was." Letting my head finally drop back to the nest of pillows behind me, I can feel myself losing the battle with sleep, the drowsy demands of the sandman nearly too urgent for me to withstand their command.

Resigning herself to accept the white flag I've offered in surrender, the fire in my lovely wife seems to have abated to a smoldering simmer. She's not done with me or this town. Not in the least. But right now, I see that she wants to accept this tiny first step of a peace offering. Brushing my wayward locks away from my forehead, Michonne clears her throat and tosses the envelope back to the table next to my bed. "Rick, you're right. We can talk through our problems when you're not in the hospital, and I'm out of the woods. Right?"

"Right. Let's just try to rest first. Lay here with me?"

"No, I'm gonna go out to the waiting room where our parents and the kids are. I'm sure everyone would like an update on you now that you're all stitched up."

"Let them wait. I need my wife right now. Come on, lay here. There's room." I scoot over, and turn to my side. Looking down at me, presumably thinking over my proposition, Michonne finally gifts me with the tiniest of smiles as she relents.

"Fine. You're right, I could use some rest. It's been a long day."

Feeling her inch into the bed next to me, her backing her bottom up into my groin, to settle into our usual sleeping positions, a sense of calm envelopes me. My arm secures her in my embrace. My leg is thrown over hers. Holding her close, I move her hair aside so I can kiss along her nape, causing a tiny squeal of delight to leave her lips, followed by a breathy sigh that carries my name. "Rick…"

"Michonne…"

"We've made a mess of things."

"I know." I confirm, as I close my eyes to the truth of her words and my admission. With sighted eyes and a feeling heart, I concede that things have to change. "When we get home, babe, I will fix everything that's broken. I promise. Even me."