Healing. It was a task that Michonne and Rick were perfecting. Life falling in love, it had crept up on them, slowly at first, then appearing all at once, as though it had been simply lying in wait the whole time. It began in the unlikeliest of places, when both of them were at the lowest of lows, staring at each other through a prison fence. They had carried their guilt like a yolk, each of them bearing the weight of what this world had become, what they had become to survive.
It began with the physical, a stitched bullet wound, cuts and bruises patched up until they faded into scars. He had saved her life and she returned the favor, limping away from the battlefield time and time again until she'd lost count of how many cycles they had been through. Fight. Win. Repeat. It became a fact of life, the price you paid for surviving at the end of the world.
The stakes were higher now. They weren't just fighting to live, but for a life, for a future for the children they raised together, for Glenn's unborn son or daughter. Losing was not an option; death was not an option. She wasn't leaving Rick alone in this world, no matter what enemy came knocking at their door. So, she fought tooth and nail, certain that Rick was doing the same. When she won, he found her, bleeding but breathing, their son by his side.
Now the healing began.
Michonne awoke to find Rick still beside her, clutching her hand as though it were a lifeline, his fingers slack within her own. The pleasure of a newly found mattress was diminished significantly without Rick's body pressed against hers. She wondered if they could manage it.
"Rick," it hurt to even speak, her face swollen to what she was sure were incredibly unflattering proportions.
He stirred immediately, his blue grey eyes almost glowing in the dark as they flickered open and immediately toward her.
"You ok, hun?" his voice was a raspy whisper, heavy with sleep and concern. She smiled, only managing to lift the corner of her lips.
"I'm ok," she assured him. He sat up, groping for a pitcher of water at his side. He enticed her to take a few swallows, the lukewarm water cooling her parched lips, before sipping some himself.
"What hurts?" he asked, seizing her hand again.
"Nothing," it was a bold-faced lie, but she had taken worse pain.
"You sure?" he wasn't fooled, leaning forward to inspect her in the low light. "Can I get you something?"
"Come here," she tugged gently at his arm, doing her best to scoot over in the narrow bed, making as much space as she could manage.
He followed her lead, trying not to wince at the wound on his waist that he was attempting to downplay. Michonne guided him beside her, arranging the blankets so that he could fit. It was warm in the room, the windows closed to the cool autumn breeze just outside, the temperature almost stifling to stave off the possibility of fever. Rosita lay indisposed just a few feet from the couple, Tara at her side. Rick settled quietly on the mattress beside his wife, his eyes flickering briefly at the two young women before moving back to Michonne's face.
"How's your hip?" she wished she had the wherewithal to lavish him with the attention he had given her the past few hours. She would not know the extent of the damage until she saw it with her own eyes.
"I'm fine," he insisted, smiling in the dark.
"It doesn't hurt?" she pressed, reaching for him.
"Nothing I can't handle," he brushed his lips against the back of her wrist.
"You should take some medicine," she suggested, glancing at the bedside table where the pain pills sat.
"So should you," he looked amused at her assertion. Michonne had to admit that he had a point. She did not like the way the medicine made her feel, as though she were filled with lead– not in pain, but unable to move. Numbness was a feeling she was well-acquainted with, and one that she was unwilling to revisit.
"Half," she compromised. Rick rolled over, securing the pill and the pitcher. He maneuvered them both up, breaking the chalky tablet apart between his thumb and forefinger. He coaxed one between her lips, then placed the other half in his own mouth, swallowing it dry. Michonne did not lay back down again until he'd taken a gulp of the water.
Within minutes, the pain began to dissipate, the heaviness washing over her like a wool blanket, pulling her to sleep. There wasn't much time to rest; the war had just begun. Still, she allowed herself the luxury of one night of vulnerability.
"Go to sleep," Rick's lips were at her ear, his voice authoritative, even as he lost the battle to his own exhaustion.
She fell asleep in his arms, feeling content despite the discomfort. Whatever this world was now, she still had Rick beside her.
They were going to win. It was only a matter of time.
