Declarations

Part 1: Reunited

Michonne took a bet on the tracks in the muddy trail. The smaller foot print was just the right size for a teen boy like Carl Grimes, and the bigger print dragged in the mud as Rick's would have given the condition he'd been in the last time she saw him. Had it been only a day ago? Like The Before when she'd lost Mike and baby Andre, she lost time. But unlike before, she came back around faster.

After finding the tracks, she felt as though she was being pulled—no, guided. The huge empty can of chocolate pudding spun in the late fall breeze. For a moment, she was reminded of the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The muddy trail led to an empty can. In this world they got trails instead of rainbows and empty cans instead of dazzling pots of gold, but if this were a sign, she'd take it.

On wooden feet, she trudged toward the closest house. The white two-story frame structure was complete with a white picket fence, serving as yet another reminder of what used to be. With her arm raised back and her hand gripping the katana, Michonne climbed the steps to the porch. She bypassed an overturned chair and crept to a window. As she peered inside and her gaze locked on the pair sitting together on the floor—Carl and Rick—she began to shake. They were eating, laughing, and talking. They were alive. They were whole. Tears blurred her vision. Her greatest fear hadn't been realized. It took everything she had to knock on the door when all she wanted to do was break it down and join them.

Rick's raspy voice held a smile as it carried through the wooden door. She heard him say, "It's for you." During the scrape of wood and other fumbles that she didn't try to decipher, she pulled back from the door and reminded herself to breathe. She had just wiped the wetness from her face when the door flew open and Carl flung himself at her.

"Michonne!"

"Well, hello there," she said, returning his embrace with equal intensity.

Over Carl's mop of dark brown hair, she caught Rick's stare. Unlike the other times, he didn't look away. Their gaze locked and held. He looked like hell. His face was still a wreck from the Governor's brutal beating. The rest of him look worn, but his eyes... Those blue eyes were just as intense as ever and so unwavering that she was rendered damn near breathless. Finally, he smiled.

"Carl, give her some air," he said, his eyes bright. "You're about to squeeze her to death."

She gasped loudly upon Carl's release and they both laughed. He took her hand and led her inside. Father and son secured the front door while Michonne regarded their digs. While she had slept in a car, these two hadn't done so badly for themselves. Nice, plush furniture with minimal dust. Michonne glanced into the next room and noted a dining room and kitchen. Not bad at all.

"You wanna look around or you wanna eat?" Rick asked, a faint grin curving his mouth.

Carl extended a plastic bag. "It's not much, but have some."

Before she could respond, her stomach decided to release the most embarrassing rumble.

"I guess that answers that," Rick said. "Why don't you get her some water, too?"

Carl half jogged to the kitchen. Michonne watched his exit with a faint smile. Even with her stomach growling and a couple cans of Vienna sausages at her fingertips, she wasn't quite ready to indulge in the basic instinct. A part of her had feared the worst. Adjusting to the reality that her nightmare hadn't come true was taking longer than she wanted.

"He's okay," Rick said quietly. "Really."

She turned away from the kitchen to find that he'd moved from his perch on the arm of the sofa. He stood just a foot from her. His hands hung at his sides. This close, she could see the strain he'd been under. Fearing for his life hadn't been in error. The Governor had beaten the shit out of him. But damn if Rick wasn't a fighter.

"You okay?" He cocked his head to the side as he bored his blue-eyed gaze into her.

"I'm..." She shrugged. "I'm good."

Carl returned with a bottle of water and several packets of Crystal Light. He chuckled as he let her choose. "I used to hate this stuff, but it's not so bad now."

She picked wild strawberry. "Thanks."

"So, what's the plan?" Carl asked, shaking a packet into his bottle. "What are we gonna do now?"

"Nothing." Michonne and Rick spoke simultaneously.

Once again, the elder Grimes held her eyes longer than necessary. Then he nodded and moved back to the sofa where he eased down gently onto it. "What she said," he murmured, jutting his chin toward her.

"Nothing?" Carl repeated.

Rick leaned back and closed his eyes. Michonne doubted if he was asleep that fast, so she reckoned this was his way of showing his confidence in her.

The confusion on Carl's face was adorable, but she knew he'd become insistent with questions if left ignored too long. Obviously, Rick was still in recovery. She didn't mind stepping in. Actually, she enjoyed it.

"We're here. We have shelter, sausages, and Crystal Light," she said. "Nothing sounds about right. Well, maybe..."

"Maybe what?" Carl asked.

"Maybe a bath...a nap. A little later, I may think about a food run."

"Come on," Carl said. "I'll show you the bathroom and stuff."

Michonne followed him upstairs, eager to scrape the muck of the last few days from her body and mind and be restored.

$%^&

Sleep beckoned, but Rick managed to open his eyes long enough to watch Michonne trail behind his son and ascend the staircase. How many times had he stared at her in wonderment? In confusion? In anger? In relief? In desire? She was an enigma and a godsend wrapped up in an unbelievably gorgeous package. When he looked through that peephole and saw her standing on the other side, he could have cried tears of joy.

He hadn't allowed himself to think about the others too much. Just getting him and Carl out had been harrowing enough. Then there was the pain that rippled through his body at every turn, which made coherent thought a near impossibility. Still, thoughts of Michonne trickled in. The Governor sonuvabitch had been seconds from killing him until she pierced that bastard with her sword. Michonne had saved him. Again. No doubt it wouldn't be the last time. Just her appearing on the porch—how in the world did she find us?—was enough to rejuvenate his recovery. And if he could stop being selfish long enough to consider what her presence did for his son... Carl lit up brighter than a firecracker whenever she was around. She just seemed to have that affect on the Grimes men.

Rick rubbed a hand over his face as he heard the familiar sound of his son's footsteps on the stairs. "Show her everything?"

"She found the girly soaps without my help at all, but we both had to look for more towels," Carl said.

Girly soaps? Rick longed for more details, but he held back on asking. If he started with questions, his mind might wander to images of her stepping naked into a sudsy bath or lathering up in a steaming shower. He could just make out the silhouette of her dark curves and shapely ass—

"Dad."

"Damn," Rick murmured, blinking to push the visual from his mind.

"Dad!"

Rick jumped. "What? Carl, what's wrong?"

"I said I was going on a food run," his son answered. "Michonne needs to rest so I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna find more for the three of us."

"I'll come—"

"Dad."

Rick hated the look on Carl's face mostly because his son was right. He wasn't ready. He'd only be a hindrance instead of an asset. "Fine. It'll be dark soon. No more than two houses."

"But—"

"That's it," Rick said. "We have the sausages, cereal, and a can of beans that we can split. If that's it for tonight, we'll do fine. I want you back before dark."

Carl checked his gun in his holster and emptied the canvas bag onto the floor.

"Carl?" Rick straightened on the sofa. "Understand?"

The boy nodded. "I'll be back before dark."

He looped the bag over his neck and shoulder and headed out the back door.

With Carl gone and Michonne upstairs...bathing...Rick soon found himself mildly rejuvenated. No, he wasn't his old, perky self, but his head was too busy with images for him to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Naked. In the bath. In the shower. Using her girly soaps.

"Shit, am I twelve?" he muttered.

He rose from the sofa and looked out the window. This neighborhood was the stuff of dreams. People used to bust their asses to cover the mortgages for homes like this. But that world was over. Working overtime to cover the mortgage and the extra car note was a thing of the past. They had far more pressing things to worry about now. A guy goes to work, gets shot, and wakes up to find the world has gone to shit, Rick mused. Even with that pressing his mind, he was still very much aware of the woman upstairs.

"She's been up there awhile," he said, glancing at the staircase.

Rick moved carefully across the room. The steps left him a little winded, but he made it. If walkers weren't a concern, he would have called out for her, but he didn't dare take the risk. He grasped the railing and headed up. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. His shirt stuck to his chest and he was only midway to the landing. He paused, caught his breath, and kept going.

The wall provided excellent support. After a few deep breaths, he was almost even again. This was his first time upstairs so he wasn't familiar with the layout. He tried several doors before he found the master bedroom. An intoxicating aroma of vanilla and lavender drifted toward him. He followed the scent willingly.

The master bathroom was in the far right corner. The door was slightly ajar. He knocked once and called softly, "Michonne...you okay?"

No response yielded another knock. When she didn't answer that one, he strode inside. The bathroom held a small shower with a glass door. Further down was a Jacuzzi bathtub. Michonne was in the bath. Her dreadlocks flowed against the back of the tub as her head was cocked back. Her left arm rested on the side. Her clothes were piled on the floor and the katana rested on top. He said her name again, but he was steadily moving toward her all the while.

A million tiny white bubbles hid her lithe body from view. She'd folded a few towels and placed them under her head. Her face was so peaceful. Her mouth was slightly parted and her breathing was even. Rick came close to leaving her, but sleeping in a bathtub was never a wise call.

He pushed the katana out of reach and knelt beside the tub. An overwhelming urge to touch her came close to undoing him, but he knew better. She trusted him. He would die before he ever betrayed her again. So instead of surrendering to his desire, he started talking to her.

"Michonne," he said, "I'm trying here. This here ain't easy. But I'm trying. I'm gonna need you to wake up."

He stopped and waited, but she only sighed.

"You fooling with me?" he asked. "Nah, I don't know why I thought that... C'mon, Michonne. You gotta wake up. Carl can't come back and find us like this.

"He was right. You sure found the girly soaps." He leaned in close and inhaled. "Sure smells good on you. Michonne.

"Damn." He realized he was a breath away from her mouth. It would be so easy to... "No, Rick," he murmured to himself. He stood and moved to lean against the sink. From there he spoke louder, "Michonne!"

"What?" She woke suddenly. Her hand grasped for the katana but it wasn't there. Her eyes were wide and round. Her expression was deadly until her gaze locked and focused on him. "Rick?"

"It's me," he said, feeling the heat course through him and flooding his face. "Sorry. You were taking too long, so I... Look, I was worried, so..."

He backed out of the bathroom, grabbed the doorknob and closed it on his way out. As he pressed his forehead against the door, he heard her distinct chuckle and a breathy, "Thanks."

Then he heard water sloshing and his mind returned to the glistening image of her perfect nude body and he high tailed it from the master bedroom as fast as the bulge in his pants would allow.

$%^&

Daryl didn't know what happened to Beth. He told her to run, to leave him, and when he saw the red taillights staring back at him as the car floored away, he supposed that's what she did. She ran. She left him. He placed no fault on her. For all she knew, the walkers had gotten him. He was a goner and she had to go or she would've been next. Those were the things he told himself as he slung his crossbow over his shoulder, grabbed his bag, and started walking.

Days like this he missed Merle's bike. How many miles did he cover on that thing? He shook his head. Don't, man, he told himself. Surviving had always been about blocking out the shit that hurt. His father's beatings...Merle leaving him...his mama burning to a crisp...Merle turning...the end of their home at the prison. Shit.

He had to stop that.

Daryl couldn't let himself wonder who made it out alright. Carol was already gone. Hershel was dead. He hoped the Lil Ass Kicker was okay. She just had to be.

Voices carried easy through the open woods. He'd trained himself to be aware. The stench of walkers drifted in from the east. He'd followed the tracks of a deer for half a mile, but then the voices came. There were at least three, possibly four, all men. He decided to let the deer go and hang back.

A person couldn't make it alone anymore, but only a fool would hook up with any old body.

Daryl kept his crossbow ready although he was careful to remain out of their line of vision. Their voices registered well enough that he could decipher tone even though the words weren't clear. They sounded like assholes. Knowing they were out and about was enough for him to keep his distance. He gripped his crossbow and headed away from them.

He walked for miles. The sun was at its highest by the time he reached the railroad tracks. Once there, he stepped between the rails and sat crossed legged on the gravel that had settled there. Hugging his bag and crossbow to his chest, Daryl felt the weight of the past few days settle over him. Before the burden completely took him under he noticed a figure headed toward him. He palmed his hunting knife but otherwise, he didn't move.

Time had lost meaning when the prison fell so Daryl couldn't say how long it took for him to recognize the form as someone slight, possibly a woman. She...or he...carried a weapon of some sort in her right hand. Her movements seemed wary, yet defensive. Something hung low on her left hip. The steps weren't too hurried, but he could tell this one wasn't foolish about the current state of events. He briefly wondered why she'd be alone and then he thought about himself.

"Shit happens."

Eventually she reached him. He cracked a smile in spite of himself. If that didn't beat all...

"Daryl?" Sasha asked, squinting as if her vision was off.

"It's me," he said. "I ain't no ghost or some shit like that."

She dropped to her knees. Then without warning, she was flush against him, her arms holding him tight. He was still for a moment but when she didn't let go, he hugged her to him. He wasn't alone anymore.

$%^&

Sasha smelled dirt, sweat, and unwashed flesh in Daryl's embrace, but she didn't care. After what she'd been through, silly things like personal hygiene ceased to matter. Blinking back tears while trying to figure out how to slide into the next moment, Sasha relaxed her hold of Daryl and leaned back. He looked away for a second or two before he faced her.

"Told ya I was real."

"You're a sight."

"I left my good stuff a few miles back." He gave her a once over. "Good to see ya in one piece. Glad ya made it out."

She nodded. "You too."

She'd set her stick and rifle down when she hugged him. Now, she retrieved them and used both as distractions. "Did you see what happened to...? I don't know about Tyrese."

"Me neither," Daryl said. "I was with Beth."

"Was? What happened?"

Daryl's face became blank. "Walkers came—"

"She's dead?" Sasha cut in.

"No," Daryl said. "She's gone. We got separated."

Sasha nodded again, understanding. "Walkers split us up, too."

"Us?" Daryl asked.

"Bob, Maggie, and me." She drew her fingers along the butt of the rifle. "We got together. Started off looking for the bus...helping Maggie look for Glenn. Maybe find Tyrese along the way... But walkers set in during a fog. Things got mixed up and I lost them."

"Maggie's a good fighter," Daryl said. "Bob ain't no slouch either."

"I know."

He closed his hand over hers. "No, are ya hearin' me?"

"I heard you." Sasha regarded the larger hand that had stilled hers. She couldn't remember ever being this hands on with Daryl Dixon before. He was as filthy as she, but there was something so appealing about his touch. Then far too quickly, he pulled his hand away and started digging in the gravel.

"Daryl?"

"Huh?"

"You just gonna sit here?" she asked, watching him toss the gravel at bushes. "Sit here on the tracks?"

"You got something better to do?"

Sasha considered his question and realized he had a point. Just as she was about to get comfortable, he stood and extended his hand. She accepted his offer, mostly for the human contact, and wasn't disappointed. Her hand still felt really good pressed against his.

He gave her a quick squeeze before he grabbed his gear. "C'mon."

"Something better to do?"

"Anything's better than losin' light on these tracks—"

"Hey!" she said, moving fast to stay in step with his purposeful stride. "You were sitting there when I found you."

"Waitin' for ya," he said.

She was about to protest when she noticed the smirk on his face. They'd had an easy relationship at the prison. Both were on Council. They planned runs together. As with most things, Sasha took her role seriously. Tyrese advised that she could loosen up a bit. Relax. Laugh. She noted how the others often engaged in light banter and some even pulled pranks. Daryl wasn't the worst, but he wasn't immune to teasing or being teased. Sasha, on the other hand, seemed to have a sign on her back that said, 'off limits.' It was her fault, she knew, but letting her guard down didn't come easy. Even before everything happened, she'd always been the odd woman out.

Sasha didn't like to dwell on the old days. She'd discover new strengths in this different world. She was a fighter, a survivor. Still, lingering on the outside bothered her. It hurt. When she got separated from Bob and Maggie, she wondered briefly if they had ditched her.

"Cat's got your tongue?" Daryl asked after several miles of silence.

"Nope," she said quietly.

"Got any food in that bag?"

She gave him a look. "You're full of questions."

"Do ya?"

She shrugged. Thinking of food was the worst. She hated that he'd mentioned it. "Some nuts. A few berries. I found some mushrooms, but I wasn't sure about them."

"I'll check them out," he offered.

"What's in your bag?" she asked.

"The last of some jerky. Want it?"

She stopped him as he reached into his bag. "I can't take your last. Keep it."

"Berries an' nuts won't keep ya on your feet." He handed his provisions over. "Eat. I'll get us a squirrel or somethin' for dinner."

"You're good with that crossbow," she said, tugging on her first bite of jerky. It was tough, salty, and stringy, but it was food.

"Yeah," Daryl nodded. "I am."

Their gazes locked. She wasn't sure if he was being cocky or acknowledging a fact. Then his mouth curved into a short grin. Sasha found herself returning the gesture. A mixture of emotions soared through her, but the one she settled on was relief. She wouldn't have to worry about being left again. Daryl wouldn't leave her. She for damn sure wouldn't leave him.