The Ones Who Love

Chapter 1 - Rick

“Rick? You ok?”

“Hm? Yeah, I’m fine,” I wave my wife off from the chair by the window, pulling my gaze back in from the dark of the partially moonlit covered pathway that leads up to our cabin, to focus on her instead. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”

Rubbing at her eyes with her left hand, then swooping her hair over to rest on her shoulder, she rolls to her side. With her elbow digging into the cushion of the mattress where my body rested most of the night, she tilts her head into her upturned hand. “I can’t. It’s hard to sleep without you anymore.” Michonne allows the covers to seductively slip easily from their tangled wrap across her chest. Exposing her full, heavy breasts. “I don’t know how I ever did.” She admits on a sniff and a long sigh, her eyes only briefly lowered demurely, shrouded from me under the sweep of her long eyelashes. Then lifted in a painfully slow brush of seduction in her dusky stare. “I miss you next to me, Grimes”

Oh? Her word usage causes my eyebrows to raise. Leaning forward, forearms to my thighs, aroused hunger grips my voice in a hushed retort, “Is that right?”

Lowering the covers even further, gathering in a puddled bustle just under her belly, Michonne pats her graceful palm from her thigh to her hip, “What do you think, Rick?”

Licking my tongue along my bottom lip, more words don’t immediately come. Only the heated flush that greets my wife’s gaze. Sleep deepens her tone, makes it husky, silky and light in a way that drives me crazy. Especially once she pulls the corner of her full, plump lip into her mouth.

Despite having seen her pretty face and her nude form multiple times, in real life, and in my dreams, I’m still never quite prepared for the way the view of her always takes my breath away. Even in the days before we were actually a couple, and we were just playing house I suppose, living together and raising a family, I was never able to fight my eyes’ admiration of her body. Her face. Those lips. I would catch her in her towel, dashing from the bathroom back to her bedroom, the terry cloth straining to fully wrap around her body. Especially her ass. 

We were always close. On the road we couldn’t help but be physically near each other. Proximity and survival forcing us to align, not desire or lust. The world pushed that kind of thinking out of our minds. Replaced it with something more basic than anything sexually carnal. Primal. Life and death bonded us. Our scents, sweat, blood, fear had become almost like a single entity as we huddled together, at once mixing along with the decay of the world around us. 

It was on those base needs, or lowest level of human existence, that my admiration of Michonne was built. It went past superficial thinking of her sensual womanhood and femininity. That was obvious. But Michonne was so much more than just that. She was powerful. Intelligent. Kind. Even though the world could have easily disarmed her of those things. And on top of that she possessed a body that owned the space around her with aggressive, fluid movement. Lunges, kicks. The deathly swing of her sword. And the fragrance of her natural sweat, her pheromones, were easy to be seduced by. As Tyrese once put it, as we both stood in awe and witnessed her take out five walkers at the prison, in mere seconds, seemingly reacting on autopilot, there is a certain physicality to her, along with a softness, that is…arousing. I remember grunting in agitated agreement with his assessment, hating that these things that I had noticed about her had not gone unnoticed by others. 

That’s why following her instincts to go to Alexandria was such a big deal. Once we were safe everything could change. It did change. Just not immediately. 

One day everyone was hunkering down in one house together, grateful for the newfound safety, and then before we knew it, it was just Michonne and I with the kids. A family. Maybe it wasn’t intentional on her part, but I leaned on her a lot on purpose. Wordlessly hinted at how welcome she was to stay. Ensured she had her own room. Space for herself, but not too far away from me. Kept her close. Accessible. It made sense for her to stick with me with her and Carl and Judith being so tight, right? Wouldn’t the kids miss her if she stayed in one of the apartments without them? Anxiety and PTSD were riding me hard in those days, but underneath that, parts of the old Rick remained. Parts that whether I was on edge or not, were possessive and eager to discover this version of Michonne again. Catch the slightest peek of her body revealing itself without the concealment of low cut tank tops and tight jeans. Meet the woman inside of the warrior. 

My imagination had begun working overtime, so the first time I caught the swiftest peek of her hustling from the upstairs bathroom, down the hall and steps, back to her bedroom, I was entranced in a way I had fully expected. I knew she was exquisite. Michonne must have been unaware of my interest though. Must have been surprised to see me as she startled at finding me in the hall, and immediately greeted me quickly and took off. Interest forced me to catalog everything I had seen for later. Her fingers with a tight pinch of the hem of her towel, trying to hold it together across her breasts, but instead causing just a slight gap at the apex of her thighs where the material simply wasn’t enough to fully conceal her gifts. Then there were the few times she would steal into my bathroom in her robe looking for toothpaste, her shapely peaks and valleys no match for the cotton wrap. Or my imagination. 

My fingers would itch to pull those towels and robes off of her, toss them on the ground, offended at them obscuring the woman I desired from me. 

Apparently, in those days, I wasn’t the only one either. After she and I became a couple, but before the whole Negan thing, I found out that the word at one time, superseding Deanna’s death, was that Michonne and Spencer had spent quite a bit of time together. And in the recesses of my mind, I could recall a few times I had recognized an odd familiarity between them as they walked through Alexandria, heads close together in hushed conversations. One time I noticed a slightly different fragrance, a hint of something flowery left behind her hurried exit of our home. Her destination unknown. Carl even mentioned once that he had seen her and Spencer walking in the woods together looking for Deanna’s walker body. I never thought too hard about it, or asked her or Spencer for confirmation. My heart wouldn’t allow me to find out if the rumors were true. If what I saw with my own eyes was evidence of a clandestine relationship making itself known. I’m not sure Spencer would have made it past that confession alive if they had been more than just friends. It would have just been more fuel on an already smoldering fire. Spencer was one of my least favorite people. Could I have been man enough to know that he had touched my girl? Doubt it. That may not be fair for me to have felt that way at the time, but it was true.

None of that matters now I suppose, and I have never asked Michonne about any relationships she may have had before me, or while I was “dead”. Again…I don’t know if my heart will allow me to know for certain if some other man was brave enough to ever step up and try to take my place in her heart and arms. Between her legs. I’m not the same man who accepted my best friend and wife having an affair. Michonne feels different to me than what I had with Lori. And I’m different with her than I was in my first marriage. It’s just not the same. 

Sometimes though, like now when I satisfy my sleepless restlessness by keeping watch over my wife as she sleeps. Keeping an eye out around the perimeter of the cabin housing my family, my silent ruminations intrude on my peace and my thoughts wander. I wonder if there was ever another? I think about Michonne’s confessed loneliness and drive to protect the kids, even as she herself felt unsafe. What did my sacrificial death on the bridge really do to her and the kids? What did it represent for our friends and family if everyone could so easily turn their backs on my wife and kids? Didn’t Michonne say she and Daryl were left alone to fight and defend themselves against a madwoman while she was seven months pregnant with my son? Where was everyone else to stand with her and keep her safe, as she and I had done countless times for them in the past? My thoughts tussle and break over these questions, and even to some degree harden my heart. Especially as I consider how my own choices and delusions contributed to her being in that predicament. Alone. Afraid. Pushed away. Vulnerable to other men’s lustful desires. To crazed intruders who harmed her. To fickle friends who didn’t honor familial bonds.

Every night since she found me, my brain conjures these scenarios. Fights with the what ifs. Some nights, like tonight, they do not let me find rest or peace. Even while she snored softly, safe in my arms.

“I think you’ll never have to know a night without me next to you again, Michonne.” My promise to her is honest and true. Its veracity constantly lives as a worshipful prayer of penance on my lips. And like a priest, my devotion to that vow obsessively consumes my life. Especially now.

Michonne rises from the bed, bearing her full nude form to my lustful gaze. Lithe and lean in some places, full and round, softly curved in others. The sight of her, the smallest hint of the moon’s kiss cast in a ribboned band across half of her face, the color of the sweetest chocolate, stiffens my manhood in my boxers. Causes me to sit up straighter on the ridgid wooden chair. 

Two small steps deliver her body to me, and immediately my gaze falls in a long, hungry sweep from her alluring face, to the tiny striations of lightly colored flesh across her hips and ass. The moderate swell of her belly, down her thick thighs and toned legs, to her toes. Michonne is so pretty, so breathtaking to me. Even more so now I think, as everything about her glows, lights up and fills out. The life we made growing safely inside of her, illuminating her glowing dark skin and soft features from the inside out.

Standing tall before me, she grazes her fingers over and over in a methodical cadence through my hair, softly tugging at the ends of the curls while holding my face nestled between the cushioned warmth of her breasts. The motion lulls me, soothes some of my nightly irritation, but does nothing to cool the heat building in my groin as I move my greedy mouth to suck and pull at each of her tight blackberry nipples, lapping with my tongue at the large areolas. 

Nudging my head back on the last pass through my strands, with just the slightest grip and sting to my scalp, she kisses my lips and whispers into our mingled breaths. “Why can’t you sleep?”

On a deep sigh, shaky air rushes in through my nose as I sample the lightest waft of my wife’s scent and shake my head wordlessly back and forth. Shrugging, I find there is no cogent answer that will suffice. And honestly, I don’t want to burden my pregnant wife with my unsettled anxiousness. There is too much pain and hurt, and time that has grown heavy and tall between us that I simply just want to be with her without the weight of what troubled sleeplessness could mean. 

Delicate palms frame my face as Michonne kisses my eyes with gentle pecks. Then the scar on my shoulder. The subdued sweetness lulling me with something almost as powerful as a magical sleeping spell. Is it any wonder why I’m so obsessed with her, I think to myself as my right hand caresses the back of her silky thigh.

“Let me help you sleep, Rick.”

Lifting her leg, she inches herself over me to straddle my lap. Lowering, and with a little wiggle, Michonne rests her full round bottom on top of me. Her pubic hair on my thighs is wiry, warm, slightly damp with her desire. Grabbing my forearms, she first raises my left one to her lips, and with the tenderest care, while maintaining full eye contact with me, drops a kiss where my hand used to be. Pulling my arms to band around her waist, she encourages me to engulf her in my hold.

Gulping down staggered pants, the love that lives in her touch, in her eyes, nearly stops my heart. Almost overwhelming my senses. I pause and allow myself to calm some. To remain in this moment with the love of my life, accepting her adoration and care. Acknowledging how sorely I missed being touched this way for nearly 9 years. Metaphorically died from a lack of it. 

Though she’s giving me a chance to adjust, to appreciate that we’re truly in this moment together, she’s also slowly grinding against my cock. The tiniest wind of her hips continually sending her womanhood bumping seductively over my lap, as she leans into me and begins licking my neck. Full lips sucking at my throat. Palms massaging my beard, my chest bulking and sinking with the effort to breathe.

“Make love to me, Rick. Be here with me, baby.” She begs into my ear, as a deep, slow whine escapes with my name on her lips. Does she know how lovely she sounds when she says my name? How many days and nights I yearned to hear it, heavy with passion. Or scorn. At all?

Michonne wastes no time, even as her plea still hangs between us, and lifts just a bit to drag my boxers to my knees, exposing the fullness of my manhood. Hard, long, thick, it rests between us, the head kissing my abs until she grips the stalk at the base. A steady, tight fist lightly twisting enveloping me with rushing pleasure. 

She watches me watch her come alive, lust blooming across her features while she works me into a tight frenzy. My wife has always enjoyed this. There is something about her making me wild for her that pleases her. Arouses her just as much as it does for me. I love that about her. The way she loves me is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in my life, and I pray that she knows this. How grateful I am for her love. That she feels the strength of that love back to her from me, tenfold.

“Did you miss me, Michonne? As much as I missed you?”

“More.”

Dancing my palm slowly up, skimming along her ribcage, then through the valley between her breasts, I rest there. Feel her rushing heartbeat like that of a scared rabbit. “That’s impossible. I dreamt of you this way, Michonne…so sexy…like this, every night…”

My fingers continue to ascend. Arriving at her mouth to play against her lips, not really wanting a response. I don’t need more words, even though I like to hear them. That she’s as in love with me as I am with her. That she could have missed me anywhere near as much I missed her. My hand cups her chin. She sucks my thumb into her mouth. It’s too much, the visual. And her moans. Because I know what she can do with those lips and that mouth, I’m gulping down what oxygen I can find in the electric air between us. But passion trips through my veins, blood rushing on an excited high through my limbs, almost suffocating me. 

Tilting my head to the right, I can’t lose myself in the moment, even as I witness both love and emotion swimming in a restless pool of need in the roasted amber of her round eyes. Removing my thumb from her mouth, I inch my hand back down to grip a handful of her hip. Then in a light, worshipful tickle over her little round tummy, and deep into the valley of her womanhood. My middle finger starts a slow strum of her damp slit while the other fingers work to open her silky plump flesh. Back and forth. An easy rhythm played on her pearl, bringing the sweetest moans to rise in waves from my wife’s lips.

Plaintive sobs increase when I pick up the pace. Michonne’s hands are now gripping me around the neck, tugging harder and harder at my hair when I finally plunge three fingers inside to find her depths, a heated sticky mess. Bathing in her, increasing their firm dive with a crushing press of my palm on her clit, my own breaths escape quickly, syncing with hers. And I can hear the break in her needy cries. Familiarity with her body tells me that she’s about to come. She’s wound tight and ready to break. But that’s not what I want. I want… I need to feel the vibrations of her spasming on my cock. Sucking the cum from me and into her womb because she’s too high from the orgasm I’m giving her to release me. Too greedy to waste my seed. Even if she is already pregnant with my baby. I want that carnal drive from her to take everything from me because she knows that everything I am belongs to her anyway. 

Quickly I stand, balancing her just so. My wife is the most precious thing in the world to me outside of my kids. So I grip her close to me in a hug, tightly using the muscles in my left arm to safely drag her up and into me. Holding her strong and firm against my torso, my right hand finds its favorite place, and grabs a handful of her bottom to carry her until I’m pushing her gently against the wall next to the window. 

Michonne anchors herself to me, her heat wet, thick, dripping against my stomach. Wrapping her legs around my waist, her arms around my shoulders, her mouth fused to mine, devouring me with hungry kisses. 

The intensity of her passion pushes her tongue into my mouth, meeting the fire of my own that sweeps to taste hers. To consume every bit of her. Kneading her warm flesh, I push my hips up to meet her slippery folds, while dragging her down to seat her firmly on my cock.

That initial plunge of her stickiness engulfing me in a glove tight fit is always my favorite. When she’s too breathless and full of me, too stretched to fully capture any words other than my name. Gasps steal her breath. Slacken her mouth and features. Her tongue is lazy against mine as I lick at her, tasting the wetness. Savoring the way her body is pliant in my hold, eager and ready for me to drive her insane. Leveling her sexy body against the wall, my face is pressed into the crook of her neck. Lips sucking at the thrum of life in her throat as every thrust pulls a throaty gasp from her, makes the intense desire to possess her insane. To take everything she’s offering, what’s already mine.  

God how I’ve missed this. Witnessing her head lolling side to side, falling backwards against the wall, her features sliding from excited tightness as I open her up, to a weakened repose as she blossoms around me, greeting how I fill her. I love to watch the interplay of emotions ebbing and flowing, the bliss resulting from every gyrating thrust, and pummel of my hips bruising against hers. And nothing is better than the sweet whimpers my wife gifts my ears when it’s good to her. When she’s so close and I’m hitting that spongy bundle of nerves deep inside of her. 

“Rick… Rick…”

“Feels so good, Chonne. So good…”

Rising and squeaking in a series of whispery pleas of “Rick…please…” Michonne closes her eyes and drops her head forward. Forehead kissing mine as she mumbles incoherently through a spasming rumble that’s gripping her lean body in a rippling orgasm around me. 

The sensation is simply exquisite. How snug of a grip Michonne’s womanhood has on me as she’s coming. My own body aches and enlivens from the kinetic energy she’s giving off. Our connection feels more than electric, dynamic. 

Awash with the evidence of her climax, a pool of wetness blessing my dick, I’m enjoying taking a moment to savor my wife wallowing in a state of pure ecstasy. Limber. Stretched. Exquisite. 

Slowing my pace to a soothing wave of my groin, a steady series of easy strokes, I’m chasing my own climax. The edge of it already sharp and clear. Creeping up my spine. I hoist Michonne’s left leg in my right hand, then push it out, widening the space between her thighs for me. Grunting, feeling the tingling onslaught of my orgasm, I kiss her cheeks and her lips, sampling the lightest sheen of her sweat as she begins groaning loudly again, mewling through another orgasm. 

“Shh shh…don’t wake the kids, Chonne.” Gently I’m pressing my hips into her, each pump ending with the slightest hint of punishing pressure to her clit, driving her and myself crazy, nearly feral with the need to simply fall. Go over the cliff together. 

Holding her up against the wall, my breath is broken, an uncontrolled staccato joined only by Michonne’s own melodic and less disjointed moans. Cottony soft locs conceal half of her face from me. I hate that. She’s too lovely for me not to see all of her. Easing her gently to the floor, I use my palm to sweep her hair to the side. Holding her hand, I take one step back on weakened legs, to admire her. Exhausted. Relaxed. Flushed a reddish burgundy, the sated cast of a well satisfied and deeply loved woman. There she is. 

“God, Rick…” she huffs, her hand rubbing away the sweat from her forehead. Her smile is wide, pulling at the corners to meet her eyes, but almost bashful when she tries to cover it from me with the back of her hand. I don’t let her. Gently I brush it away, then move back into her space and deeply kiss her until she begins to giggle softly into my mouth. 

Meeting her eyes with mine I confess to the love of my life, “I love your smile. I love you just like this, Chonne.”

Lips find her hand, her wrist, and I guide her over to the bed. Lowering her gently, I place her on the middle of the bed then ease up behind her. Snugly fit into her body, I wrap Michonne in my arms, and pull her even closer to me with my thigh over hers. The connection between us is unbroken. Our bodies touch at almost every juncture. Whispers of kisses ride her shoulders, and the back of her neck as I finally settle my right hand over her little pregnant belly where our baby resides. Safe. Loved. 

A tiny trace of Michonne’s now hoarse voice flits to my ears as I feel my body relax into hers at the sound. “Rick, you ok now?” She asks, reaching high and behind her as the fingers of her hand find the strands of my hair and lightly coil around my curls. 

“Yeah. I’m always ok when I’m with you, Michonne.”

“You need to sleep more. Rest. It’s ok to rest.” Halting the twirl of her fingers, she turns in my hold, facing me. “You don’t need the fight anymore. I don’t. And we’ve earned it. Being free.”

“You’re right. You don’t need it anymore. I need you to rest for the baby.”

Grinning, she pecks my lips. “I need you to rest for the baby. You won’t get much sleep once he or she is here. It felt like RJ never slept a wink until he was almost 2,” She teases wistfully, a far off look in her coffee colored eyes as she remembers her time alone with our son. Melancholy doesn’t color her words, but her recall pierces my heart in a sharp sting all the same.

“I remember that with Carl.” Clearing my throat I probe a bit, wondering about something that I’ve wanted to ask about before. “Was it…ah…was it like that with your first son? Andre? With that other guy.”

Words don’t come at first. Michonne closes her eyes against my question, and I almost wish I could take it back. I never want to cause her pain, hurt her. Just as I’m about to change the subject, she opens her eyes, and her lips carry the tiniest hint of a smile. “Oh…everything was different with Andre, Rick. I was different. Mike was different. We were young and in love. Desperately in love. But, we- we weren’t ready for kids. Not really. I wasn’t even supposed to be able to have a baby. Irregular periods from a hormonal thing. But he came anyway, and two young, career obsessed people in love, unmarried, found themselves with a newborn. And I spent every minute from the moment I knew he existed more in love with him than I knew possible. Mike too. Until I wasn’t. Mike wasn’t like you, Rick. He wasn’t…a fighter or a protector. He was selfish. That’s why they’re both gone. And my love for Mike went with him. But my love for Andre wasn’t gone. It didn’t die. Just like my love for you didn’t die. You were still here.” She takes a hold of my left arm and threads her arm around it, bringing it to her heart, her face transitioning from the tight control of a woman painfully walking through a life of hurt, into something akin to joy. “And Carl is still here. Judith, RJ, our new baby will be here too. Our kind of unselfish love doesn’t die, Rick. This is different.”

“You deserved a better man than that.”

“Maybe.”

“No, you did. I promise to be that better man.”

“I trust you to be that man, Rick. That’s why I knew it could only ever be you. You’re it for me.”

Moved, sensing the choke of tears in my throat, I try to gather myself. Clearing my throat I hug my wife tightly, delighting in the feeling of her small belly pressed into my abdomen. “I missed so much…”

“Shh, baby. Let’s not talk about what we missed anymore, Rick. I just want us to be happy now. Don’t you? It’s unfair that all of this happened to us, I know. That’s why I’m ready for us to just love on each other without the outside world interrupting. I want that.”

“Of course! I do to! Please let me just say this, Michonne.” Smiling, I hope Michonne can see the happiness on my face. Recognizes that my words, and the tears in my eyes aren’t from anger or sadness. With my palm resting lightly on her cheek, I try to get her to understand me. “I love you so, so much. And…this new chance for our lives, means everything to me. I want sleepless nights with our baby, homework with RJ, and scaring off boys trying to date Judith. I want to get back everything that was taken from us. There is just always the what ifs, and I struggle with that, with what happened to you because of me. But… bear with me. Please. I have to rediscover all of these missed and stolen pieces of you and the kids, and myself.” Halting to rub away the tension building in my forehead and across the bridge of my nose, I continue, “You once told me that even if I couldn’t figure things out at Alexandria, you were with me. I need you to know that even if I’m restless, or angry, or I can’t sleep, it’s just me struggling to figure things out. How to be here. But you have to know that you and our family are my priority. I’m with you. Sometimes, I just have to work things out in my head. In my time. But, I’m ok.”

Nodding, she seems to be accepting of my words. “Alright. Ok. You’re ok, Rick. Because, I’m ok too.” Michonne declares, her words throwing me back to our early days together on the road with Carl. A time where like now, the darkest parts of me are apparent. They had been laid bare as I ripped out the throat of a man threatening my family. She should have been scared then. Maybe she should have been scared back at the Civic Republic too, listened and left me where she found me. She could have run from me when she saw who I was now. Instead, she still saw her Rick. The real me. And as I was ok with that part of me, so was she. 

Settling our conversation, we both allow the bit of unease that will live within and between us for some time to remain. Always in the back of our minds, carefully reminding us of our fractured time apart, and our promise to find a way to be ok with it as we move forward.

“Get some sleep, Mama. Fishing in the morning.” I remind her.

“Ugh. I hate the smell of fishing.” She sleepily grumbles into my neck.

XXXX

“You like fishing… uh…Dad?” RJ asks, his youthful voice breaking the silence of our trio, as he curiously bounces his wide eyes quickly across my body to where my left hand should be. The three of us, RJ, Judith, and I are quietly bobbing with the steady sway of the small boat fishing poles in their hands, while I balance mine precariously with my right hand, the left nub that RJ seems so interested in, and the edge of the boat. 

“Sure, yeah. It’s quiet time you don’t always get. Especially now when the world seems so loud.” Adjusting the drag on my reel’s handle, I lean over to my left, towards Judith to instruct her on how to adjust hers while she’s looking off into the distance across the landscape, not paying much attention to either her rod or the water. Then I lean the other way and check RJ’s as well, but I immediately recognize that he’s already taken note of what I’ve done to mine and expertly mimicked it. Proudly I nod and wink at him, the toothy beam on his face animating my lips to crack into a smile as I continue answering his question, index finger to my lips in a shushing motion. “And you gotta be quiet when you’re fishing or you might scare off all the fish. So, you get to either have some time to think on your own, just you and the fish, or spend some time hanging with your favorite people.” Still grinning at my son and patting him on his shoulder, I’m marveling as I have been since we returned, at something so simple as him just being here. Alive. Safe. At us all being here together. “What do you think? You like fishing, son? Judith?”

Inching her shoulders to her ears briefly, Judith sweetly answers, “Honestly, I like hanging with my favorite people. The actual fishing, not so much. Fish tastes good though.” She offers, her bored gaze still off somewhere else, stolen by the breeze dancing in the leaves by the shore, unaware of how much her simple presence delights me. Even if she would rather be somewhere else right now, I’m ecstatic to be here with her and her brother, and so impressed with the resilience of this young woman that I’m so proud to call my daughter. More than almost anyone I can think of, she is a true survivor of the apocalypse. Born into a world of death and chaos from day one, Judith has beaten every dark call upon her life and remains stalwart against every challenge. 

A rumbling chuckle at her answer accompanies a memory, clear as anything as it drops into my brain from wherever such precious things were shelved during my enslavement. “Honesty is good, Lil Bit. You never liked fishing if I recall. It was stinky stinky. Right?” 

“Dad! Oh my god! You remember that. And you called me…Lil Bit…” Judith whips her head towards me and smiles brightly, boredom chased away by joy. Resembling Lori so much it freezes me. Soft freckles across her nose, and the dark, watchful eyes of my old friend Shane. And regardless of the pain that should be apparent in acknowledging what they’d done, my heart only leaves room for the gratitude that my wife’s love brought me back to a place where I can remember the faces of my loved ones and friends at all. 

Angling my body towards hers, I hug my little girl to my side, and drop a kiss to the top of her head, recording in my heart this closeness and love that I missed so much. “It’s coming back to me, Lil Bit. All of it.”

To my right, rustling against the wind, RJ shoves his hat down onto his silky, dark curls, smashing them to his head and preventing the same breeze from stealing the hat from him and off into the water. Turning fully towards me, his plaid shirt reminds me of how Carl’s were also always a little oversized, cloaking his lean body. The sun is illuminating his round, tanned face, with his small grin tilting in a twin version of my own, and growing with the energy that only exists for a child who is about to barrel you over with words in a voice much too loud for the quiet of fishing. “I do like fishing Dad! I think I do. Mama doesn’t like it though. I remember the last time we were here together she said she also hates the smell. And she didn’t seem to like the quiet alone time either. We slept in the bed with her a lot, stayed together most of the time, cause she used to say the quiet was too loud and she wanted our noise with her. Whatever all that means.” He confesses, bouncing a bit and shrugging with childlike intensity, possibly shaking off confusion around his mother’s comments, while his words keep racing forward. “But, Uncle Zeke took me fishing once before with Uncle Jerry and his kids while you and Mama were gone. And I was reading about the difference in types of fishing and rods. Saltwater and freshwater. Fishing like in the south. The Gulf of Mexico I think it was. You could catch other kinds of fish there. Grouper. Tuna! The kind of water they inhabit, and what they eat changes how the fish taste. I would love to taste that kind of fish. From the Gulf!” Large, brown eyes like his mother’s remain steady on me, excitement lighting them while also seemingly studying my face. Perhaps he’s gauging my reaction to his request. Maybe even holding a little shyness at how excited his words rushed out.

RJ, or Junior as I have been calling him, has had plenty of these bursts of dynamic questions and little confessions about their lives before my return. Their closeness as a small family. My son is perceptive and somewhat reserved at times, kind like Michonne said. But he’s also transparent and open in an innocent way that I’m proud of, and I can only assume he’s telling me these bits and pieces because he wants me to know these things. What his life has been like. Despite the challenges of a “dead” father, and the year long absence of his mother, RJ is the purest distillation of the love and hope that Michonne and I had when we considered growing our family, and everyday, every moment we share together he allows me to learn a little bit more about him. 

Through his eyes, his childlike innocence and curiosity, I know I’m the dead hero risen from the grave, maimed and grizzled. His newfound something of interest. With wide eyes, and stolen glances, RJ analyzes me, my hand. There appears to be a processing of me as his father, this new person in his life, that’s going on behind his intelligent gaze. How did I come to be this way? Why? Cataloging all the pieces and parts of me to see what’s real, and what’s just another part of the lore of The Brave Man. The Brave Man is a character in a story. His father though, the man who showed up with a gray beard, and a missing hand, is very much real. And despite the brief rundown of events, still probably a mystery that my son needs to solve.

Hints, clues of his methodical manner of studying me are rampant in just our short time together. First thing in the morning during my workout and run, his small frame often rises and remains safely at my side, while I maintain a slower pace, allowing him to keep up, and I catch him stealing glances. When I’m cooking for him and Judith before they leave for school, and RJ monitors how I cut up tomato slices, absconding with a few of what I’ve learned is his favorite food in the process. When I’m chopping wood, and his lean, long arms that remind me of Carl’s, ropy and gangly, copy the smooth and powerful swing of my ax with his own smaller one. The other day he sat next to me while I was reading on the porch, and just kept his eyes on me from a watchful side eye that was supposed to be focused on his own book about planets. 

It never makes me uncomfortable at all, the way I’ve become another thing for him to study. Nothing odd about it, I suppose. A boy should be curious about his father. His father and mother are his first teachers. My own mama used to say that and I was always interested in what my father was doing, what he liked or disliked, who he was as a man is who I wanted to be. So, I watched him work too. His mannerisms, how he talked to people direct but kind, and cared for his family. My brother Jeff and I were his world, always with him, his two living shadows.  And that man sacrificed everything for our family, burning down his own inheritance to revive it as something better. The reminder of that sacrifice lived in the painful penance of the visibility of his scars that he took great care not to hide from us. In my mind, as I considered my father’s legacy, as an adult, I imagined that he didn’t hide who he was because he wanted us to know him. To see that he maneuvered through his world with uncompromised singular, simple goals, driven by love. Always love.

I witnessed it everyday. Memorialized it in my bones with a nearly religious dedication to duplicate it in my own life, because there was a reason that despite life’s challenges, moments of good decision making and bad, our family was intact and happy until and past the day he died. That meant something right? Wasn’t it meaningful how he doted on my mother? Weekly flowers, thank yous, laughter, playing her Patsy Cline records to entice her to dance with him. And plenty of hugs and kisses. Showed her so much gratitude for everything she did. For who she was. That was a good marriage. That was the manifestation of love between a man and his woman. I wanted that. 

Everytime I look at Judith or RJ, at Michonne, I get who my father was in a way that has never been more transparent to me than it is now, viewed through the lens of my own fears and loss. Like my father I bear the scars that tell my story. Even in my marriage to Lori. When she and Carl and I were a family, it wasn’t like this. This feels different. This version feels hard fought. Realized through blood and loss. Yearning that only a man enslaved against his will, and kept from the love of his life and his children, can understand. Perhaps that’s why rage still courses through me. Livens my blood with a dangerous reminder of the kind of violence I’m capable of at the mere thought of experiencing that kind of loss again.

Thorne once cautiously reminded me, in what feels like a moment that belonged to another Rick, a fearful and angry version of me that desired only one thing, something impossible, that they weren’t dead. Michonne wasn’t dead. I was. She urged me to accept that. Move past my dreams of being with them. The cold reality of what my “death” meant haunts me unlike anything else. Burns and twists my heart over the smolder of memories charred to lifeless ash, love lost to an enslavement that I alone could not overcome. Tortures me with those ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ I told Michonne about last night. Scenarios play with theatrical clarity, the same as any of my dreams, a traumatizing glimpse of what my absence from their lives was like. 

Absence is no longer relevant for me. My family will never again have to remember and love me fondly in memories, or captured stares. I’m here now, and I’m ready to be the father and husband that mine was. I want that for my wife, and daughter. And for my son. I need that. For  him to see me as I was able to see my father. Maybe see himself in me as I see myself, my father, Carl in him. Which is why I’m also thankful that he doesn’t seem to blame me for the choice I made on the bridge that day that kept us apart, from his conception until recently. The simplicity of his pure gratefulness that The Brave Man returned, just like he believed I would, humbles me. The Little Brave Man’s acceptance humbles me in that same shared gratitude that makes me curious about my son too. 

I have caught myself keeping an eye on him just as much as he does me. I was not ashamed when Michonne walked upon me watching him sleep from his open bedroom doorway the night we returned. My eyes laser focused on his chest moving up and down with signs of his breaths sustaining his young life, while his eyelids fluttered with what dreams I could only imagine, but was almost overwhelmed with thankfulness that he could safely have them. He’s such a handsome, strong, kind, and smart boy. My boy. Michonne calls him my little twin, and my heart and mind simply marvel at how right she is. Junior resembles just a tanner version of my own school pictures that captured my 8 year old face. Maybe even more than Carl did at that age, and that’s saying a lot I think. 

At the end of the day, my kids and I have such a large chasm of time and experience to cross, and I don’t mind at all that he appears to be trying to burn my face, its reactions, my mannerisms and presence into his young memory. Perhaps though, it’s the reason why that again hits me hard in the chest. In the place that is carefully created and protected just for my wife and kids.

Before I’m pulled away from the melancholy of my thoughts and get the chance to respond to his blizzard of information about fishing, Junior’s twisting his lips thoughtfully, as though he’s unsure of how to proceed, and offers a quick flurry of followup questions, “Dad. Dad?” He asks, waving his hand in front of my face to gather my attention. “Could we do that sometime, Dad? Me and you? Did you used to do that with your dad? Like I’m doing with you? But in the Gulf? Or like I did with Uncle Zeke?”

Ezekiel. His name has come up a lot in Junior’s recollection of his life experiences that he’s been sharing with me. Pausing carefully on a deep sigh, I tilt my head, thinking to myself to make sure I thank Ezekiel for everything he has done for our kids when I see him again. Even as the consistent mention of his name in my family’s narrative during my absence gives me a feeling in my chest that I can’t yet name. But...it hurts and I’m not sure why. Pierces me in the hollow place where my love and memories had died. Pain still exists there and for now I settle on the simple thought that hearing his name so often and so fondly from my son hurts. For now I decide to leave it there. Visit it again when I’m awake at night, like last night, alone with my thoughts, and my son’s watchful gaze isn’t wandering over my face. Rapidly blinking away the unintended injury from Junior’s recollection gathering in my eyes, I clear my throat and move on.

“Maybe someday we can, Junior.”

“Cool!”

“Cool…” I mimic, happy to see the joy light up his features even more. “And yeah, I did fish with your grandfather a lot. Not in the Gulf too much though. A few times down on the islands off Savannah. Plenty of good fishing in Georgia where we’re from,” I recall from the cloud of my own stored memories, and witnessing the wonder crossing Junior’s face at discovering something new about me, I’m motivated to share more. Fill in some of the swollen gaps that my absence from his life have left. Scratching at my beard, I remember, “Matter of fact, your grandfather was a better fisherman than he was a farmer. That’s saying a lot for a man who owned a farm, and grew up on a farm. It was really all he knew. Wasn’t always that great at it, though he never gave up and was a hard worker. Him and his brothers, my uncles, were all good fishermen. Except my uncle Tommy. He was only good at fixing things. The man could fix just about any car or truck, boat, you had, but didn’t care a lick for fishing. And then there was my uncle Trace. He was just an old nerd I guess. Lived in books. He was a school teacher. You kind of have a bit of him in your face. Here around your chin.” I chuckle and tap RJ on the tiny cleft of his chin recognizing my favorite uncle there, along with thoughts of my other uncles, and even my father’s burned skin from the fire at our farm still clear in my mind.

“Oh wow! That’s a lot of brothers! Uncles…”

“Mmhm.”

Interjecting, bringing in another few thoughts here and there as she has done all morning, filling in some of the silence, Judith adds, “Mom told us about Georgia before. What it used to be like. About her family. Aunt Elle and Mom’s parents. But no farming or fishing or stuff like that, Dad. That’s different. Mostly Atlanta, like city stuff. Going to college at Spelman. Shopping, and art museums. Concerts. Clothes and restaurants! Mom lived in a condo in the middle of the city with a guy named Mike, and her first son…Andre. She was a lawyer like they have in the Commonwealth. Remember she told us that, RJ?”

“Yeah. Mama told us…” He pauses, and even I freeze a moment hearing that Michonne has divulged so much of herself to our kids. Mike? Andre. “And, I wanna go to a college someday.” RJ nods, agreeing with his sister. “Like Mama did. Did you go to college, Dad? Do they have colleges where you were? At the Civic Republic?”

“I did. And they kind of do.”

“Wow… A real college? Not just a school with like five teachers? If they do then I wanna go there too. I think I wanna be a lawyer. Like Mom.” Judith continues, briefly glancing at me over her shoulder with something more than teenage indifference adding shyness to her tone.

“Ooh! I would like to see that place maybe. The Civic Republic. You were in charge there?”

“Not exactly.”

“Commonwealth is a big place, and Uncle Ezekiel is in charge there. You should see it, Dad!” He pauses to take an excited breath that doesn’t last long. He keeps going, “And he told me he worked at a zoo with animals, kind of like he did at the Commonwealth. He said he had a tiger before, but I don’t believe him. But he said I could do that too. Work with animals like him.” Tilting his head in an oddly familiar way, Junior halts for a second again, maybe chewing on his next question. “But wait. Did you say my grandfather? Your dad? You had a brother and grew up on a farm? Did you have animals? What kinds of animals? What did you do on a farm all day? Was it like in my books? Did you milk a cow?”

“So… I grew up on a farm. We did have some animals-” 

Whipping his head towards his sister and leaning forward, past me, Junior accuses in a nearly comical way that only an eight year old could do, “I didn’t know any of this stuff about Dad, Judith! You never told me! You only said the sheriff and the bridge thing!”

Rolling her head back as though she’s caught off guard, Judith protests in surprise, “I didn’t know all that! Can’t tell what I don’t know, RJ! I tell you everything I know, dude. Calm down.” 

“But when I asked you before about Dad-”

Back and forth between each other they go for a bit, fussing like siblings often do. I’m tuned in, actually enjoying their banter. Nothing harmful is said. Just childlike frustration and teenage sarcasm. I’m overjoyed to hear it actually. I never thought I would hear Judith’s voice again, let alone know anything about RJ even existing. 

And that realization is what does it. That’s when I catch my mood changing again, its mercurial swing something I try to control when I can fight against the mournful state my fractured mind had once consigned me to. My shoulders stiffen. A grimace catches my lips in a frown. I can’t help but feel the now familiar rush of anger at missing so much time with my kids, and I connect with the pain Michonne must have felt when she was pleading with me to come home with her. Back to our kids. 

This kind of bickering and noise that most families are known for is normal. Not watching my junior grow in his mama’s belly, isn’t. Not getting to hold him as he was born. Supporting Michonne through that time, being the man she deserved. Not watching Judith go from a toddler to a young lady. None of that is the way it should have been. That’s all time wasted in servitude to an entity that didn’t care about me or my family. Hurting my wife, pushing her away because I was too afraid to face my own failure and loss, frailty. 

Bruising shame almost suffocates me along with the anger. Guilt that I couldn’t get back to them sooner twists me up inside, tangles my heart and mind in a war that is taking a long time to be resolved. But the flare of agitation from all of this, hot in my gut, continues to remind me how my family and I were robbed of so much time, and in the meantime instead of me protecting and loving them, as I should have, they have stories about Ezekiel as a zookeeper. Again, I’m thankful, but…

Clearing my throat, pushing through my disappointment and remorse, my response to the kids finally comes on a mumbled, “Alright, kids. Alright, that’s enough.” Rising from my seat I begin reeling in the last fish on my lure, then lean down to finish storing the fish we caught today, packing them down into the cooler under the ice pack, while keeping one close eye on Junior and Judith also moving to begin packing up our things from the boat. “Your grandfather, my father, used to take my brother Jeff and I fishing all the time. Soon as the season hit. Piling up in his pickup truck to hit a lake for fishing and swimming. Me, Jeff, and uh my friend Shane.” My memories betray me a bit as the words tumble out in a wave of remembrance, my eagerness to now fill in the empty blanks of who I am with my children, causing me to stumble over that last bit. It causes me to almost panic and travel my eyes to linger on Judith’s profile to see if I notice a hint of any reaction to me mentioning my old best friend. And her biological father. 

Does she know about him and Lori I wonder? I’m sure she knows Michonne is not her biological mother, but what does she understand about me? About Shane? What has she been told? She was only four when I “died” and was kidnapped. Who even would know enough of the story to tell her other than Michonne, who would probably never broach the subject with her. Maybe Maggie or Carol? Neither of them have really been around from what I understand, so probably not them. 

Either way a slight fearful tightness stills my limbs as I wait for a response that might bring this otherwise beautiful day spent with my kids, trying to bond with them, finding familial comfort, in a completely different direction. I am still learning about who they are. Getting to know your own daughter who you haven’t seen since she still took afternoon naps in my arms, is hard. Refocusing my brain on being a dad and not a soldier is even harder. What do I know any longer about what kids need? Especially kids growing up now. It’s not like when Carl was alive. Judith and RJ are different in a way that I’m still trying to understand. 

Judith has been shot. Fought both humans and walkers with the same toughness as her mother. She carries my gun and a version of her mother’s katana, but talks and acts like a teenager from before. Junior is apparently a certified genius who has been growing up in the shadow of an almost superhero like caricature as a father. And apparently idolizing a king.

I don’t want to wallow on that though. Because again… it hurts. Like so many things in my life, it brings pain, and God knows I’m working everyday to move past that. Trying to live in what’s in front of me now. The joy of being with the love of my life again. With my kids. 

The feeling of the sun on my face, the warmth easing some of the ache in my knees that has begun to bother me is dissipating, and the presence of my kids keeps me anchored right here in this moment where my attention is still on Judith from the corner of my eye. I see that my daughter’s pretty face doesn’t drop its soft smile even a bit from the mention of Shane’s name. She hustles about the small boat with her fishing pole in one hand, a tackle box in the other, and a slight readjustment of her katana resting across her back. Her bliss is unshaken, and for that I thank not only the universe that gives her peace, but her mother for protecting her innocence in a way that she hasn’t had the benefit of most of her young life. 

Hoisting his backpack over his lean shoulders, I take a prideful notice of the small Wyoming license plate with the name “Junior”  stamped across it, dangling from one of the straps. I know Michonne said no one has ever called RJ Junior, but I couldn’t help but double back and shove the small gift into my back pocket, hoping that my son wouldn’t bristle too harshly at the gift. Or at me being the only one to use the moniker that ushers so much warm pride and joy from my heart at him being named after me, that even if he hated it I was going to secretly always think of my boy, my namesake and little twin, as Junior anyway. And again, I find myself thankful to Michonne for being the kind of woman and mother who protected my son and my legacy, even when she thought I was dead. 

Ambling close by her brother’s side, Judith tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder with a slight tilt of her head, angling her ear down towards her brother and laughs softly at something, teasing him as he loses his balance a bit, wobbling with the sway of the docked boat against the pier’s planks. Their tiny argument is forgotten, and their playful demeanor has returned. 

“RJ, why did you say it like that, silly? Of course dad’s dad is our grandfather. That is the first I’ve heard of a brother though, Dad. Jeff?” 

“Yep. He moved, lived in Spain. We were thick as thieves though when we were growing up. Like you two are. But, I didn’t get to see him much after I graduated college, became a deputy. He left soon after, and I guess…he’s out there or gone like everyone else.” Choking up a little at the thought, I host a sad smile but try to keep it light despite the possibility heavy in what I’ve just shared.

“We get along ok. When RJ’s not being stubborn.”

“I’m not stubborn! You are!” RJ grunts at his sister. 

Hopping off the boat, and on to the pier, he reaches back to offer his sister his hand, pulling her out of the boat. She’s older but he’s clearly catching her in height, and strength. I’ve noticed that he’s always helpful in this way with her, and I marvel at witnessing their sibling dynamic encapsulated in this brief moment. Judith mothers and protects him, kindheartedly teases him, while he’s usually a bit more serious, sharing the innumerable facts and tidbits he’s collected over his short 8 years with her. My son is a good wingman though, and his careful manner means they move in sync very well physically. Him always a step or so ahead, kind of barreling forward with a cataloging stare. Fearless, brave, noticing things, thinking. Maybe even a bit naive. Perhaps unaware of the danger around him, but not uncomfortable with his environment at all. While Judith follows behind him, protective. Wary enough for the both of them, carrying the weight of my old Colt at her hip, and her katana across her back. While RJ carries the hatchet Michonne and I brought him, but seems somewhat uneasy doing so. As I suspected, maybe it’s not him, but he dons it much the same way I do, perhaps in reverence instead of practicality.

Shyly, Junior glances back into the boat, seemingly keeping one eye on me, probably making sure I’m coming and he hasn’t lost me for our short trek back to the cabin we’re staying at here at Oceanside during our little family vacation.

“I know that Dad’s dad would genetically be my grandfather, Judith. I know how family works. It’s just… I only know about Mama’s dad. That grandfather and her family. I didn’t…know about Dad’s dad and brother and uncles…whatever.”

“It’s ok, Junior. Hard to think of some guy you never met or heard of as your grandfather. But, you look just like him. Same dark curls. Mole there on your face just like I do. Carl resembled him too, but probably ended up looking more like his mother. You though, I think you’re kinda stuck looking a lot like me.” 

“Me and you? And Carl? And your dad? You think I look like you, Dad?”

Grabbing the cooler and the last of our gear, I step off the boat, and hand him the fishing rods, frustrated that with one hand I can only carry so much. Recognizing the slight tilt of his hat, again balancing just off to the side, showcasing that it’s really meant for a head much bigger than his own, my heart swells with love. 

“I do. Me, and you. And your brother and your grandfather. And your Uncle Jeff. Your great-uncles. Grimes men. A lot alike but different still. And you can be like me, or not. You understand that?” Dropping the cooler, I place my right hand on his shoulder, and focus in on the openness of his small face, eyes dancing with questions. “You don’t have to be the Little Brave Man, Junior. You can be a zookeeper or a sheriff, or a lawyer. You just be Richard D. Grimes Jr. And that’s whoever you want that to be. Ok?”

Seemingly satisfied with my answer, RJ gifts me with a big proud grin, nods then turns to head up the path back towards the cabins. 

Judith and I follow closely behind him, her long hair whipping around her face as she looks up at me and whispers, “Mom used to tell him all the time he looked like you.” She nods thoughtfully, her gaze momentarily focused ahead as she watches her brother pull out a notebook I’ve seen him scribbling away in more than once. “She never let me forget you. Or let RJ not know you and Carl. Even Andre. You were all always with us in her stories and memories.” With her hand on my shoulder, Judith stops our slow approach and continues in her low voice, soft enough for Junior to still be unaware of our conversation, she recalls with a tiny grimace angling her features in a frown. “She used to speak to you and Carl when she thought we were asleep. Cry. A lot of crying before and after RJ was born. I was little, but I remember that. It scared me at first, because I don’t think I understood you weren’t coming home.” Choking up, Judith’s eyes become watery and glassy with unshed tears, becoming so full that they overflow in fat drops over the freckles across her cheeks. 

Frantically she tries to swipe them away, but I don’t let her self-soothe herself, even as panic settles in my chest at what she’s confessed and how the pain and confusion of it manifests in her tears. She doesn’t have to do that alone anymore. I’m her father, and as much as this stone of emotion is heavy on my chest, choking and stemming my tears, I can’t allow her to feel this moment alone. “It’s ok, Judes. I’m here. You can… you cry. It’s ok.”

“Judes. I remember you calling me Judes. Or Lil Bit. Kind of remember Carl doing it as well. Kind of.” Huffing out a long breath so full of emotion and sadness, my baby girl pushes her face into my chest and sobs. Strong, heavy gasps and jerks that wrack her small body in waves of hiccuping cries. With a watery and weak tone she offers finally, “I forgot his voice. And yours. When Mom would cry and speak to you both, I wanted to hear you too. But I couldn’t and it frightened me. I remember that. Cause…cause I couldn’t hear you and she could but you weren’t here. And Carl wasn’t here. That scared me. Then Mom…wasn’t here. Just me and RJ. That’s all I had.” Judith mutters. Those last few words woefully faint, as though all of the energy and steam that powered them, that my teenage daughter who I could only remember as a toddler had stored up to face each day, had finally run out.

Hugging her to me, her own grip around my waist tight and strong, I stroke Judith’s long brown hair and allow her and myself to simply feel this moment. The gravity of memories fading, of memories and hopes so strong they still stab and sting. I can’t fix it. We can’t go back. We can only live now, here in this moment. 

I’m still with you.

Catching Junior’s eyes over Judith’s head through the haze of my own tears, the distress on his round face is evident. I get the sense that he’s not used to seeing his sister this way and before I can tell him to wait and give her a second, he’s quickly in motion and approaching us. Rushing in a flurry of arms and long legs, his hat tossing about his head, he doesn’t stop until he’s at his sister’s side, hugging her, shushing her.

“It’s ok, Judith. You don’t have to cry anymore. Mama’s back. Dad’s…” He stops and glances up to face me quickly, hesitating a bit before he continues in his own shaky voice, “Here.”

My heart breaks. Dragging my son into our hug, I hold my babies tightly to me. Love and strengthening my hold on them. And resolve. A promise to never be apart from them and their mother again.

It’s quiet between the three of us for the remainder of the short walk from the pier up to the cabin where Michonne has been resting. The kids and I tried to entice her to join us for fishing this morning, but she begged off, complaining of some body aches and general tiredness. 

She’s here now, greeting us in a beam of light behind her, as though she rode down on heaven’s blessings herself. Standing on the pathway, her shawl cloaking her delicate brown shoulders, Michonne squints against the afternoon sun on her pretty face.

RJ takes off, his long legs carrying him quickly into his mother’s arms. Eyes closed he burrows against her side as she leans over and kisses his cheeks, reddened from the morning sun and probably a few tears. 

“Oh boy do you smell like outside, RJ. Like fishing.” Michonne sniffs and scrunches her face, wriggling and rubbing at her nose. Reaching out towards Judith and I as we amble up to greet her as well, she nuzzles a kiss to the top of Judith’s head, and quickly pops a short kiss to my lips. “Oooh, all of the Grimes smell like outside.”

“Mama, you're Grimes too!” RJ rebuts before he’s wiggling out of her hug. 

With a somewhat dour mumble she utters, “Yeah, well…” 

My eyebrows instantly meet in a frown at the odd way she responds. Her mood is much different than it was last night, or when I left her in bed this morning. But even noticing that, I can't stop myself from admiring the way she’s pulled her locs on top of her head, and how the tiniest bit of sweat dances along the glowing skin of her exposed collarbone in her burnt orange dress. And right along the tops of her breasts in her cleavage. I drag my bottom lip between my teeth recalling the taste of her sweaty skin on my lips and tongue as she rode me this morning. My face buried in her neck. Her bosom. Damn she’s so pretty. That thought and my recall of our early morning together steals my words, and my concern at her tone. I want to tease her about being a Grimes too, but I can’t stop looking at her long enough to gather and gift her with the words. Instead, I simply hand the cooler off to Judith and direct her and her brother back to the cabin, as I suck in a long breath before I’m moving into my wife’s space.  

Michonne takes one step back, but I capture her before she can move too far away from me. With my left arm around her shoulders, I pull her close, easing her soft breasts to cushion up against my chest. Right arm around her waist, hand resting on her round ass, I can’t help but press my body tighter into hers, our hips kissing. My face is angled down in front of hers. Close. So close I can study every inch of her beautiful face and the flirty way her coffee eyes are narrowed to focus on my own with each dramatic sweep of her eyelashes. Trapping me in her spell. I can smell the heat of the sun warm on her skin, mixing with the sweetness of Michonne’s natural scent. Accompanied by the spearmint of her toothpaste on her soft, easy breaths, lingering lightly on her full lips which I simply have to kiss.

With a series of pecks to her lips, the last one followed by a little lick and a teeth grazing bite to the fullness of her bottom lip, my words finally find themselves. Passion and maybe a little agitation at her pulling away from me, at the way she answered RJ’s question, makes my words sound grizzled, harsher than I intend, “What do you mean, yeah well?” I bite her lip again, just a tad harder this time. 

Her eyes widen at the apparent sting. “Ow!” Michonne pouts against my lips, then pulls her head back. “Rick, you bit me?”

“You love me?”

“Of course I do.” She confirms, though she’s shaking her head a bit when she says it, as though the question is absurd. “We’re together.”

“Don’t say ‘We’re together’. I don’t like when you say that. I’m your husband. You’re my wife.” Her eyes get wide again, dancing over my face, possibly reacting to the sharpness she hears in my tone. I know she’s not used to me asking for her words this way. Normally I don’t push. I didn’t before. Michonne loves with action. I know that. She came and found me hundreds of miles from our home, a presumed dead man. Literally a needle in a haystack. But for some reason today, something about my conversation this morning with the kids makes me need her reassurance. I need to hear the words. Softening my tone, I rub my face against hers, kiss her cheek and ask again for the words, “Say you love me, Michonne.”

“I love you, Rick.” Michonne promises, inching both of her hands up my stomach, landing on my chest and kissing me first on my chin, then whispery light on my lips. “You know I love you.”

Circling the wrist of her left hand with the fingers of my right, I hold her close. “You wearing my ring?”

“Right here.” She answers, lifting her left hand closer to my face, her ring shiny and thick around her delicate finger.

Holding her hand to my lips, I kiss her ring finger. “Why did you say ‘Yeah well’ to Junior just now about you being a Grimes, too? You’re a Grimes.”

Rolling her eyes, Michonne lightly smacks her lips and tries to pull away from me, again. I don’t let her. Instead I hold her as close as possible with my left arm, and press her hand to my heart. Cataloging the way her gaze skips around instead of making eye contact with me, I’m panicking a little, her words don’t give me enough strength and I’m scrambling, trying to understand the look on her face. Her reaction to being called a Grimes.

“It’s nothing, Rick. Just… a call came for you over the main radio here while you and the kids were out. We should talk.” 

XXXX

“This place is a lot like Philadelphia. Like the Civic Republic.”

“It is. Hopefully not too much like it though,” Michonne agrees as we exit the helicopter, standing closely to my left, as Junior holds tightly to my right hand. Judith shadows her mother’s right side, her familiarity with the place seemingly making her eager to lead the way. Junior also seems ready to bolt, but he’s more reserved, glancing between his mama’s face and mine as though he’s looking for permission to move head back into a world that is completely normal to him, but foreign to us. 

Descending the walkway leading away from the helicopter, we are met with a familiar face.

“Michonne! Rick!” Ezekiel calls out. Apparent joy, maybe even shock to actually see me alive, reddens his face some as his gaze skips from my face to the faces of my family then back to mine, but finally resting with soft eyes on Michonne. “Judith! And my guy, RJ! It’s wonderful to see all of you again. I wasn’t sure I ever would.” He exclaims in a voice less formal than I remembered, but definitely full of true happiness to see us. 

“Glad to be here.” I answer, not exactly sure how to respond, while internally realizing my answer was probably not sufficient to cover the gratefulness of a full on return from the dead.

Ezekiel’s relaxed and jovial with my family. A tight, welcoming hug for each of my family, is followed by a grin for Judith with an update on some friends of hers. Some teasing and questions for RJ about any new discoveries he’s made since he saw him last. And a few whispered words for Michonne, delivered in hushed tones into her ear. I follow his movements and wonder at the oddly familiar approach he has with her, and the casual way she easily laughs at whatever he said. Ezekiel reaches me last and travels his eyes over me again before moving in to hug me as well, though he seems to think better of it at the last minute and just claps me across the shoulder, “It is a miraculous thing to rise from the dead, Rick. Wondrous.” 

Though I’m still curious about whatever was secretly communicated between him and my wife, his words humble me, add to my discomfort. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“I’m sure you don’t know this, but I myself beat back death’s grip not so long ago. Thyroid cancer nearly took me, but the Commonwealth has healthcare services better than anything I have seen since the turn. It wasn’t always available to everyone here, but since I became governor, if you are a citizen of the Commonwealth, you contribute, then you receive care. It’s simple, and so far it works.”

Reaching out to him, Michonne gently smooths her fingers over his forearm. “I’m sorry to hear that happened to you, but I’m glad you survived.”

“Me too, Michonne. Me too.” Again a secretive shared smile is there, hanging between them, and it introduces that same unnamed heaviness in my chest I've gotten before when it comes to Ezekiel and his closeness to my family.

“Where’s Carol? Does she know about your cancer?” I ask, reminding him of his own wife.

“Rick I don’t know if-”

Ezekiel waves Michonne off, “No it’s ok, Michonne. Carol and I are no longer together. She’s not even here. She left some time ago. But, yes she knew.”

“Where is she? Have you heard from Daryl?” I question, noticing that most of the familiar faces I expected have been missing from our stroll through the Commonwealth.

Clearing his throat, Ezekiel sniffs, “Gone. Daryl left some time ago as well, left the children with me as you know. Carol followed shortly after.”

“I heard about Rosita and Sadiq from Gabriel while we were at Alexandria.”

“Yes, unfortunately we have lost many friends over the time you have been gone, Rick. But we have made many new ones. Life goes on.”

“How about for you then, Ezekiel? Life go on for you, too?” I wonder aloud, maybe wondering if it will help settle the heaviness in my chest every time I notice him staring at my wife.

“Not exactly.” Answering in a somewhat nervous and wobbly tone, skirting the question, and stopping in front of a high rise type of building, Ezekiel gestures to a set of glass doors. “Here we are, friends. We have one or our nicest apartments setup for you. I stay in this building myself, as have been the delegates from the Civic Republic I mentioned in my radio call. We can leave your things there now, then maybe the kids can catch up with their friends. Jerry’s kids are eager to see Judith and RJ. I can show you both around since this is your first time here. And I would like to discuss this Civic Republic issue with you as well, but we can get to that last. I’m sure you are tired from your travels. Though I hear that you are quite the helicopter pilot now, Rick. Did you fly yourself?”

“No. Not this time. You said the Civ-”

“But he’s very familiar with them. I’ve seen it myself.” Michonne interjects, a small smile graces her lips and I’m certain she’s thinking of one of our last times in a helicopter when she threw us both out of one. Her abrupt answer throws me off my question to Ezekiel, and I decide to let it go for now, not entirely eager to get into anything Civic Republic related just yet anyway.

“I have no doubt that the great Rick Grimes is also good with helicopters. And what about you, Michonne? Are you well?” He asks, his eyes again growing warm and soft as he looks at her. “I worried that you would not return as each day went by. Time stretching on.”

Reaching out to him, Michonne grazes his arm lightly with her fingers. “No worry. I’m well, Ezekiel. I returned, and I found my partner in crime. Brought him back to our kids.”

“Her husband. She found her husband.”

Skipping her eyes over to me, a tense smile graces her lips but Michonne takes my lead and uses my words, “Of course. My husband.” 

“And I’m sure the kids are joyous because of it.”

“We’re all happy to be together, Ezekiel. For me to be back with my family. My wife and kids.” I squint and nod, hoping that he understands the subtext in my words. “Matter of fact, you mentioned a hospital. Doctors. I’d like to get a checkup for the kids, and for Michonne.” Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I pull my wife closer and kiss her temple. “She’s expecting.”