#609: Aftermath

To anyone else, Carl could've been asleep—with his eyes closed, breathing deep and rhythmic.

But to Michonne, who knew his face, Carl looked dead. His expression was slack—like an embalmed corpse or a wax figure. Just skin lying over paralyzed muscle.

Michonne's gaze swept to the surgical tray filled with grey fragments of bullet sitting in tiny puddles of blood. Cloyd had hovered for hours over the spot where Carl's right eye had been, squinting in the dim light, plucking those pieces out.

Now, all they had left was waiting.

Rick sat next to Michonne, bouncing his knee, twirling his wedding band between his hands. Michonne didn't know when he had taken it off. Maybe after he'd heard Cloyd's grave news—"Your son's in a coma"—maybe it'd just been a second ago. Either way, something that should've seemed monumental was just a footnote now. His wedding ring a toy for idle hands.

"She wasn't real," he said. His voice was only a faint whisper, but it rang loud after hours of silence.

Michonne didn't speak, not wanting to distract Rick. For a while, she could sense he wanted to get something off his chest, and now that he was finally scratching that itch, she wasn't about to interrupt.

"I tried to put it back together," Rick continued, his voice cracking. "I knew she wasn't… her. But I thought..." He sighed. "I don't know what I thought."

Michonne didn't know exactly who Rick was talking about, but could only assume he meant Jessie.

Jessie. All she was now was a memory. The friendly blonde neighbor. Liked owls. Wore plaid. Died.

Michonne had picked up there was something going on between Jessie and Rick, some kind of weird vibe she'd thought long died with timid teenagers skirting around their parents, but given she'd never so much as saw them have a conversation, it was hard to pinpoint the nature of their relationship.

"Ron tried to kill me. For what I did." Rick blinked back tears. "I deserved it."

Michonne sighed. This was dangerous. He couldn't go down this path. "Rick—"

"I'm his father," Rick said through his teeth. "I'm the one who's supposed to protect him." He scoffed with disgust. "Not that I am doing the best job. I couldn't keep Lori safe. Couldn't save Jessie. Couldn't save her kids. And now Carl is—" His mirthless laugh chilled Michonne to the core.

"He's strong," Michonne said with force, trying to get through to Rick. She could see the mania building in his eyes. It was the kind of madness that could take over, settle deep and never come out. "He'll make it."

"Yeah, well, maybe it would just be better if didn't."

Michonne sat back in her chair; Rick's words were worse than a physical blow. "Better if he didn't?" she said. Her pulse began to thunder in her ears.

"It would be better, wouldn't it?" Rick's face had never looked more deserving of a punch. "This life — it's not life. It's just waiting to die."

"That's what living is to you? That's what you think when you look at your son?" Michonne pointed at Carl's face—even as lifeless as it was. "He's alive, Rick. He may not look like it, but he is."

"But for how long?" Rick said with a flippant shrug. "Another hour? Maybe a couple weeks? Maybe he'll get all the way to his twenties. And then what?"

"It doesn't matter. He's here. Now." Michonne said, voice growing louder. "I would give anything to have my son again for even a second."

Michonne took in a shuddering breath; the words were out there now, unable to be taken back.

Rick's face lost all its temper; his eyes grew wide. "What?"

Michonne didn't say anything. She replayed saying those words again in her head, nails biting into her palms.

"Y-you had a son?" Rick said, anguish in his face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I never had to tell you," Michonne said, almost snapping that it wasn't any of his business.

"Had to tell me? How could you not tell me?" Rick said. Michonne could slap him for the self-important way he said it—like she somehow owed her life story to him. Like he had some working catalogue of everyone's trauma. Everyone had to spill their deepest secrets, inner thoughts, except him.

"Because talking about him doesn't bring him back," Michonne said. "I should've fought for him, I should've held onto him. I didn't."

A properly chastised look came over Rick's face. "Michonne, I'm—"

She wouldn't take his apology.

Michonne jabbed a finger into his chest, hard enough he winced, "Carl is here, breathing, fighting for life, and you think he shouldn't? Because living is, what? A chore to you?"

"Michonne—"

She refused to let him interrupt. The ire had been building somewhere deep inside, and now that she had the chance, she wouldn't let it go. "We've finally made it somewhere safe. A place where Carl and Judith finally live. The walls fell, but this place? It didn't. Deanna made this place strong. You saw what these people can do. They saved you. They saved us. If it wasn't for this community, we all would've died."

As her words sunk in, Rick bowed his head; his pitiful countenance sapped all the fire out of Michonne's veins. She took a deep breath, submitting to silence so Rick could speak.

"I'm sorry," he forced out with a swallow. He looked back up at her. "I—I just… you say we're not dead, but there's nothing left in me anymore. I died a long time ago."

"You died a long time ago?" Michonne said, a faint laugh on her breath. "Funny. You don't look like a walker to me."

Rick didn't reward her weak attempt at humor with even a smile. He sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I'm numb, Michonne. I'm… I don't think I feel anything anymore."

A silence descended between them as Michonne leveled a gaze at Rick, mulling over his admission.

She recognized his pain. Not too long ago, she had gotten so close to becoming something worse than dead. She'd kept company with the reanimated corpses of her boyfriend. She'd torn off their jaws and arms, drug them around as a form of sick penance. Revenge. Driven by the desire to burn and destroy. Time became just the march of shadows as the sun glided overhead. Eating became an instinct driven by gnawing pain. Sleep was a gamble between blissful oblivion and vivid nightmares.

"You tried to keep Jessie and her kids alive," Michonne finally said.

Rick stopped twisting his wedding ring in his hands. Michonne wasn't there to divine motives for why Rick behaved the way he did around Jessie, she could see the loss of his wife didn't glue him to the wall. He tried to rectify what had happened. He tried to keep a woman who reminded him of Lori alive.

"You saved Spencer, even though you thought he was good as dead."

On that porch, Rick had told Morgan the citizens of Alexandria were doomed to die, but then he'd made the effort to shelter them from the herd. He yanked Spencer to safety when he failed his high-wire act.

"Your son? He's still here," Michonne said, her voice breaking.

Rick had gone to great lengths to defend Carl. She'd seen Rick's face covered in Joe's blood. She'd heard the crunch of a hatchet through bone as Rick severed Jessie's arm to free Carl. Those weren't daydreams. Those weren't the wishful fever dreams Michonne had suffered during her loneliness—of what Mike should've done.

Mike had never opened himself enough to get hurt. He'd cocooned himself from the horrors of the world with whatever drugs he could find. He'd sat idle in a haze while Andre was torn apart. His pain had never manifested into anything productive.

"And that's all the proof you need that you're not as dead as you think you are."

Before Rick could say anything, Michonne stood up. "I'm going to check on Judith." She walked out of the clinic, just as the sun broke over the horizon.