AN: This story was requested on Tumblr by an anonymous reader. It struck an interest for me, and I'm going to work on it a little at a time. Right now I'm not fast with anything, but I'll add to it when I can.

I think they meant for it to be a one shot, but it's going to be more than that. It's an AU in that Andrea lives past when they find her in Woodbury. There are going to be familiar faces, maybe some new ones, and I'm going to take the story where I want it to go, so don't expect it to follow the show at all even if I may borrow bits and pieces here and there.

Michandrea is the main ship of this story, but Caryl is the secondary ship. There will be chapters where other characters feature and feature strongly. Many of my stories are somewhat "group" stories and this will be no different.

I'll put warnings for anything that I think might trigger anyone, but it's a Walking Dead story so you should expect the basics. I won't be giving warnings for those types of things—violence, gore, etc. Since it's a Michandrea pairing, you should also expect all things relating to a relationship between the two women.

If you choose to read, I hope you enjoy! Please let me know what you think!

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She wasn't dead. She was almost dead. She might have been dead if things had gone a little differently or if they'd been an hour later finding her, but she wasn't dead.

She was unconscious. She'd been crumpled on the ground in a pool of blood. Whether or not it was his or hers, honestly, was of little consequence. She was bleeding. His turned corpse was put down on the ground near her. He'd been bleeding too. There was no need in trying to sort out the blood that belonged to either of them as the rivers of it ran together on the floor.

She wasn't dead. That was the important thing.

She'd been conscious for barely a half a minute, barely long enough to look at them with almost empty eyes and breathe something out that no one understood—that no one could hear.

Michonne had heard it. She'd known what it was even without Andrea's voice being loud enough to carry. She could identify the sound because she'd heard it so many times before—in the night after nightmares, in the day when they wandered accidentally too far apart, when she'd been consumed by the fever that had almost taken her once before.

Mich.

It was all she said. Just the one word. The one little nickname that she'd given Michonne, a nickname that the woman wasn't even overly fond of but accepted because it was Andrea that called her that. As soon as the sound had left her lips, barely more than a puff of air, she'd given over to the exhaustion, the blood loss, the fear—whatever it was that had taken her out of herself for the time being. She'd given over to it and everyone else who had come into the room, quite unaware of the details of the time the two of them had spent together, declared that no one had understood what she said. They'd declared that it probably hadn't meant anything anyway.

Mich.

It had meant everything. Just that one syllable sound meant more to Michonne at the moment than she could explain.

It said, even without Andrea having to say it, that she was sorry—that she still cared where Michonne was. She'd always cared where she was. She'd always seemed to fear that Michonne would go, that she'd leave her when she needed her most. She'd leave when her guard was down.

That's probably why it hurt so much, and that's probably why Michonne simply couldn't understand why it was that Andrea had let her walk out of those gates. Why had she let her leave her behind when her subconscious mind always seemed to be so concerned with an unintended abandonment?

Michonne would ask her one day. One day she'd demand an answer. She didn't need drawn out apologies—they'd never done very much for anyone and in this world they really did even less—but she simply wanted to know why it was that Andrea had let her go. And one day? She'd demand to know.

But first she had to make sure she lived.

To help carry her out they'd made a gurney of sorts. They'd wrapped her in a tarp to make it easier to move her without risking the aggravation of any injury that they might be unaware of. They'd put her in the back of the truck.

Michonne had been afraid to hold her like she wanted to—to cradle her and try her best to let her know that she was there.

Just like all the times she'd let her know before that she was there.

She'd settled for sitting with her, in the back of the truck, counting in her mind every bump that they hit and every pothole that could've been avoided—that would have been avoided if the person in the back had mattered to Rick.

Michonne stroked her hair, stiff with the drying blood, and she held her hand. She didn't know if Andrea would know that she was there. She wasn't honestly sure if she was aware of her presence at all, but at least Michonne knew she was there.

Michonne knew she'd never really left her. She'd walked away, yes, but she'd never really left her. In the physical sense, perhaps, but never in the emotional sense.

When the prison appeared ahead of them and they hit the bumpy stretch that led up to the gates, Michonne held her breath as though keeping her lungs still might keep the bumping of the truck from being too much for her companion—her best friend—hers.

She heard the metal hiss of the gates as someone opened them and she heard the loud announcement that Daryl barked out that they were coming and that they needed Hershel.

And in just a few moments? Michonne would hand Andrea over to Hershel in the hope that a veterinarian could save her life.

She hadn't even willingly let them take her at Woodbury, and the woman there was a doctor—or at least she'd pretended to be one, not that anyone was going to let the bound and blindfolded Michonne do anything about it one way or another.

When the truck rolled to a stop, those they'd left behind came rushing up to it to find out what had happened. Had they been successful in killing the Governor? Had he killed anyone they knew? Why did they need Hershel?

The old man didn't hobble out to find out what had happened. Hopefully it was because Carl, having run ahead to give the news that they were coming, had told him to be prepared.

Everyone that spilled out of the vehicles caught those that they cared for especially in embraces. Everyone assured themselves that their loved ones were safe and uninjured.

Michonne tried to maintain the calmest disposition she could, letting herself out of the back of the truck by leaping over the side to speed the process and remind everyone that Andrea still needed their help, but inside she was screaming that they all needed to focus. There would be time for reunions for everyone when she was sure that a reunion of her own was coming.

Finally, though, she managed to get enough attention that Rick and Daryl opened the back of the truck and, as carefully as they could, caught Andrea up and rearranged the tarp to move her inside with as much care as possible.

Michonne followed her inside, not caring at the moment if she appeared to be as anxious as she was, and took her place beside Hershel in space that he'd set up for any examination that might need to take place of anyone there.

She was still unconscious. Michonne watched as he began, once Daryl and Rick had left the space, the preliminary examination of Andrea.

"Do you know what happened?" Hershel asked. "Anything that might help me know where to start? How long has she been unconscious?"

Michonne sighed.

"She's been in and out since we found her," Michonne said. "I don't know—if it's been full consciousness or not, but she's moved a little. I think she keeps coming back."

She stepped out of his way, watching from something of a distance as he checked vitals and did other things that Michonne suspected were simply standard.

"She's lost a lot of blood," Hershel said. "Get Beth? Carol? Let them know I'm going to need some help?"

Michonne nodded at him and immediately started for the exit from the small space.

"Do you know anything else that happened?" Hershel asked. "Anything else that—I can go on?"

Michonne stopped and looked back. She shook her head at him.

"It was a torture chamber," she said blankly. "I guess that's a good place to start."

Something flashed across Hershel's face for the moment, but the old man nodded his head. He hummed to himself and Michonne waited for a moment to see if she was being dismissed. When he didn't speak again, she assumed it was safe for her to go and do what he asked.

"Michonne," he called, catching her attention. She stopped and put her hand on the doorway nearest her, looking back over her shoulder. "I can tell it's important to you," he said. "It's important to all of us. I'll do what I can."

Michonne didn't speak. She simply nodded her head slightly, hoped that he knew it meant some form of "thanks" from her, and then she stepped out.

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"She's going to be fine, you know?" Carol asked.

Her entrance into the cell startled Michonne to the point that she almost laughably jumped in her chair. She'd expected to be alone for at least a little while. Or, maybe, she'd expected Beth to come in with her over-bubbly enthusiasm to spit all over her.

Carol's words were optimistic, but her tone was a little more down to Earth than the one that Beth usually employed.

Michonne snatched her hand away from where she'd been sitting, thinking she was alone, holding Andrea's hand while the woman slept—this time under the influence of whatever drugs Hershel had given her. Or, at least that's what Michonne was choosing to believe, if it wasn't true.

"Easy to say that," Michonne said.

"It is," Carol said. "It's always easier to say things than it is to believe them. Especially…"

She let her voice trail off.

"Especially?" Michonne asked, prompting her to continue.

"You two had a fight," Carol said. "You—weren't very nice to her when she came to try to work things out. You'll have a lot to work out together."

"It doesn't matter," Michonne said. "What happened? Not anymore."

Carol stepped around her, checking vitals in much the same way that Hershel or Beth did when they came in—something easy that he could train them all to do if he needed to.

"Funny how that happens, isn't it?" Carol asked. She didn't wait for Michonne to ask her what she was talking about. "We think little things matter. But then? Something happens that makes us realize they really don't—maybe they never did."

Michonne hummed, barely registering that she'd heard the comment the woman made.

Carol backed away.

"She's stable," Carol said. "Just going to take some time to heal. And then? It's probably going to take some time to heal. Different kinds of injuries take their own time."

"Some never do heal," Michonne said blankly.

Carol hummed at her, an almost flippant agreement.

"I know that—you and I don't know each other too well," Carol said. "But Andrea was my friend. She—uh—she saved my life at the farm. I actually thought she died, that night, saving my life. I owe her a lot. And I care for her a lot. So—if you need anything, or she needs anything, you'll let me know?"

Michonne swallowed. The offer felt sincere. In the short amount of time that she'd known Carol, she'd felt like the woman was probably quite sincere. She seemed, too, quite kind. It just so happened that, really, Michonne hadn't had much time to get to know everyone—or to really feel like too many of them had much of an interest in getting to know her.

For that reason, it being the first sign that anyone might be really interested in her for more than what she might have to offer them, Carol's offer tugged at something inside Michonne.

"Thank you," Michonne said, as sincerely as she could. "Really."

Carol nodded at her, offered her a quick smile, and nodded again.

"I know you—saw Daryl and me," Carol said.

Michonne raised her eyebros at her. She'd seen the two of them, just outside the guard tower, share a quick kiss. They'd looked around, both of them, so uncomfortably afterward—checking in every direction to see if they'd been caught like teenagers doing something forbidden—that Michonne had simply ducked back into the shadows and waited until they left to finish the walk she was taking. She hadn't wanted to make them uncomfortable. She hadn't wanted, either, to interrupt anything that really wasn't any of her business.

She didn't realize they'd known she was there.

Carol shook her head slightly, and then she spoke almost as if she had the ability to read Michonne's thoughts.

"Daryl didn't see you," Carol said. "And—I appreciate you not saying anything. He's—we're a little new at this. And—we're just…we just…"

"You don't owe me an explanation," Michonne said quickly.

Carol smiled again, the same soft smile as before, and nodded.

"I guess I was just trying to say the same thing," Carol said. "And—I'm not going to say anything…if you want to hold her hand? Or…I offered to take over coming to check on her. So Beth wouldn't be bothering you. I just—wanted to say that…you know…you don't owe me an explanation."

Michonne swallowed and nodded at Carol, not bothering to say the thanks she was thinking at the moment.

But, as a show of her thanks and of whatever kind of bond that was doing its best to form there for the moment, she reached and caught Andrea's hand again, rubbing her thumb over the top of her knuckles the same way she'd been doing when Carol had come into the cell.

"Let me know if you need something," Carol said softly, just before she slipped out of the cell. "She's going to be fine."

"She has to be," Michonne said quietly, to nobody but herself and the woman who probably couldn't hear her. Not yet at least.