* It's been so long since I last updated due to a very hectic time, but I'm determined to continue thanks to all of your lovely, encouraging reviews. Thank you. This chapter picks up in Alexandria on that morning after their harrowing encounter with Negan in the woods. Thank you for reading!*

Rick tentatively turned the handle on the door to his bedroom, surprised by his shaking hand's ability to carry out the simple task. He scowled at it, reminded of the unthinkable deed it was almost forced to execute, and silently cursed its impotence in dealing with that sick, sadistic fuck.

As he ambled his way towards the bed, the sun's gleaming rays penetrated the thin fabric of the curtains but offered no warmth or comfort, opting instead to mock his pain with their ebullient disposition. Mere hours had passed since that confident, almost arrogant version of himself had last been here, foolishly claiming ownership of the world beyond. Were he able, he would reassemble the shattered pieces of what remained of that man and convince him of how utterly mistaken he had been.

Rick fell helplessly to his knees, eyes straining to focus through burgeoning tears that would not flow, ears tuning out the cacophony of muted sobs, moans and wails that would not vacate his skull. All he could fixate on was the sound of his own lungs, somehow still functioning; each strained breath a devastating reminder of those his friends would no longer take. I

After what felt like a lifetime, the air seemed to whisper his name, taunting him with the vague yet familiar uncertainty of his own sanity. He turned, struck by the silhouette of the woman he loved, relieved by the knowledge that her flesh and bones were tangible and not the delusions of a haunted mind. She approached and crouched down beside him, placing her hand on his shoulder delicately as if he were made of paper and the subtle disruption of air around him would blow his fractured soul away.

With his face still splattered with the viscera of his fallen brothers, his long-dried tears having forged a desolate path down his cheek, a shell-shocked Rick gently stroked one of Michonne's shorn locks, and begged, "Please tell me that motherfucker never touched you."

Michonne exhaled, swathing his wounded psyche with the heat of her solacing yet indignant breath. It felt like the first one she had taken since the bullet hole-riddled doors to the van had opened and she had witnessed her family, her loves, prostrate on their knees, abject, and terrorized by the unknown horror yet to come.

"He never touched me," she affirmed, providing the first trace of succor to the man with whom she had just weathered a descent into hell. "I never saw him until…"

Michonne's voice trailed off, incapacitated by the lump rising in her throat. She lifted her hand, overcome by her need for the salve of his skin against her fingertips, and cleared his sweat-soaked curls from his eyes,. She gazed into them, her desperation to recognize the man she loved rivaled only by her need to convey her unyielding fealty for him.

Rick, his capacity for obstinance obliterated by that harrowing trial in the woods, submitted to her silent plea for connection. He peered back, simultaneously comforted by the sight of her yet leveled by the crushing guilt of the relief that she and Carl had been spared the wrath of that vile bastard.

"I thought I'd lost you," he admitted, his voice barely penetrating the air. "I thought that was it."

Michonne closed her eyes, unwittingly replaying Negan's biblical display of dominance over Rick in her mind's eye.

"I know," she whispered, hardly able to form the words. "I did too. But I'm still here. We're still here."

"Not all of us," he lamented, his voice markedly hoarse.

Michonne stiffened, chilled by the cruel reality of his remark. Incapable of forming an adequate response, she closed her eyes and exhaled in an attempt to maintain her composure. Realizing the imminent futility of such a task, she stood up, defiant and determined to thwart Negan's objective. She would not allow herself the indignity of being broken by that bastard, even while the decimation of her love's heart threatened to shatter her own into oblivion.

Seconds later, she found herself at the window, her eyes blazing holes into the steel wall she once believed cocooned them all in relative safety. Because she knew Rick better than she'd ever known anyone, she sensed that he would forever bear the brunt of responsibility, but the truth was they had all allowed themselves the indulgence of complacency, and their friends had paid the ultimate price. The rage that had surfaced once more coursed through every neuron, innervating her flesh with the promise of retribution.

"I'm going to pick up Judith," she uttered, turning back toward Rick, whose physical proximity belied the fact that he was a million miles away. "She needs to be home."

He continued to stare at the wall, nodding ever-so-slightly in acknowledgment, unsure how he would ever face anyone, let alone his children, ever again. She hated seeing him like this, cursing Negan for torturing Rick's already wounded heart, but knew that if she stayed, her anger would only compound his guilt. She knelt back down beside him and lightly caressed his cheek as he lowered his gaze to the floor, fraught with worry that she would now see him with different eyes.

Michonne knew that his averted gaze was his defense against her possible rejection, but she would not grant him another second with that thought clouding his already cluttered mind. They were warriors; partners in this unyielding fight for survival. Because of that, she had seen the worst parts of him, yet somehow, through all the mistakes and misjudgments, she managed to see the good that he, himself, could not. She loved all those parts of him, especially those that he struggled so hard to hold onto.

"You should get cleaned up," she whispered tenderly, momentarily stifling her fury. "I'll be back soon."

Rick nodded, blurring the line between blood and sweat with one swipe of his sleeve. He knew she was right, as she often was, and that his little girl would probably be frightened of him in this state, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he deserved this: that the sanguineous pattern on his face was his scarlet letter, a gruesome reminder of the ramifications of arrogance and pride.

"Carl," he rasped as Michonne reached the door. She paused, drew a deep breath, and turned, struck by his eyes as they bored through her, beseeching her for approval and forgiveness.

"I know," she replied, acutely aware of how tortuous Negan's twisted game had been for Rick and his son. "I'll check on him."

Rick swallowed then shook his head, glaring once more at his hands. Hands that had killed countless deserving men. Hands that had tenderly held his children and expressed adoration, sorrow, comfort, need. Hands that could no longer keep everything together; that failed his son, his love, his family.

Vexed by how quickly everything had slipped through his fingers, he ran them through his hair, rested his elbows on his knees, and lowered his head towards his chest.

"He'll be ok, Rick," she added, shaking from a combination of furor and apprehension.

"I don't know that," he admitted, just loudly enough for Michonne to hear.

"He will be," she avered, summoning up the last remnants of strength to prevent herself from collapsing under the weight of their shared pain. "He is his father's son; so much stronger than he knows."

As Michonne stepped into the hall bathroom to splash some water on her face, her eyes locked with those of her reflection. She immediately recognized the glare of that enraged, solitary woman she had been before Rick Grimes and his extended family entered her life, or what had been her own version of a walking death. She now fully understood what had gone through Rick's mind when he butchered his son's would-be rapist because that same bloodlust now coursed through her veins.

Negan deserved nothing short of an agonizingly slow, tortuous death; a fact surely known to all that had been out there in the woods. Getting through these next few hours, let alone days and weeks, would be unbearable, but she knew she had to be strong for her family and that neither Rick nor Carl were in a position to handle anything right now. She had to hold it together, but the sight of her own eyes proved too much to reign in. Bloodshot and exhausted, they released a torrent, unremittingly flooding her skin with their bitter, almost stinging release.

Not wanting her family to see her like this, Michonne allowed herself a few minutes to continue to purge what she could of the incalculable grief bubbling within before they'd see her again. Once she regained a semblance of her composure, she started to head downstairs but turned when she heard faint chatter coming from Judith's room. She peered in just in time to see Carl, with his sister upon his knee, pointing to the illustrations of one of her favorite books and begin to read:

Frog and Toad were reading a book together.

"The people in this book are brave," said Toad.

"They fight dragons and giants, and they are never afraid."

"I wonder if we are brave," said Frog.

Frog and Toad looked into a mirror.

"We look brave," said Frog.

"Yes, but are we?" asked Toad.

Frog and Toad went -

Carl stopped abruptly, having heard a faint creak of the floorboards outside the room. As Judith started to protest, Michonne, realizing she had been caught eavesdropping, took a tentative step inside. She gestured for him to continue, but as neither child seemed interested in continuing with the story, she tilted her head to the side apologetically and approached them.

"I was just about to get you," Michonne said, as she crouched down to kiss Judith's forehead. "But I see your brother beat me to it."

"I just want her here with us," Carl stated aggressively, his eyes clouded by a mixture of agitation, exhaustion, and despair as he peered up at Michonne.

"I know," she countered, trying to stifle her own consternation for their sake. "I do, too."

"Everyone's wondering what happened and Dad isn't saying anything," he muttered, more as a statement of fact than an accusation.

"Aaron said he would handle it. I think it's best that they hear from him right now," she offered, swallowing what little saliva remained in her parched mouth. Attempting to gauge Carl's state of mind, she added, "Your Dad is worried about you. We both are."

"Me?" he asked incredulously, shifting Judith to his other leg to mask the tear that had emerged from his eye. As the toddler squirmed from her new uncomfortable position, she reached out for Michonne, who immediately obliged by scooping her up in a firm embrace. Shaking his head, Carl stood and repeated the question, this time with anger.

"He's worried about me? I didn't get my brains bashed in. I didn't get taken by that fucker!"

Startled but understanding of his outburst, she inhaled calmly and deliberately before reaching out to touch his shoulder. He refused to look up at her, opting instead to scrutinize the patterns of the area rug beneath his feet.

"No, you didn't. You're still here, thank god. But - "

"Thank god? Really?"

"Carl, you know what I meant. It's just that-"

"Don't. There isn't anything you can say to make it better."

"I know."

"Then just go," he pleaded, pulling in his little sister from Michonne's grasp, firmly, but lovingly holding her close to his chest."I want to be alone with Judes."

Michonne, nodding in complete understanding, leaned in to plant a kiss on the top of Carl's head.

"I get it."

Carl looked up at her this time, the creases on his brow apology enough for his outburst. She wiped away another rogue tear as her lips quivered erratically under the strain of her forced composure.

"Come get me if you need me, ok?"

Carl nodded in response before picking up the book again to continue where he left off. Michonne noticed his voice crack as she turned to go, and her heart shattered all over again at the sight and sound of her boys breaking. She empathized with Carl's struggle to maintain the pretense of normalcy for his sister's sake when she knew how precarious his facade was.

"Michonne?"

She turned without hesitation, willing to do or say whatever Carl needed her to in that moment.

"Yeah?"

He paused, swiping away the tears that had reemerged from his eye. "Is he ok?"

"He will be." She murmured, but this time the conviction in her voice was noticeably absent. "Not now, but he will be."

When Michonne entered their bedroom, she was concerned but not surprised to find Rick in the exact position he was in when she had left. He didn't sense her presence this time, or feel the slight draft of breeze that subtly hushed across his shoulder as she approached him. His eyes, those dust-covered windows to his lost soul, were once again fixed on his hands.

She was losing him, she feared, but didn't know how she could possibly bring him back from this. Glenn and Abe had been their family and she knew their tragic loss would forever haunt him; them. Daryl's unknown future was also certainly weighing heavily on his mind, for he was the closest thing they both had to a brother. But she had never seen Rick as terrified or helpless as that moment when he was made to carry out Carl's potential death sentence. She, more than anyone, understood the consuming, relentless feelings of guilt from the failure to protect one's own child.

Michonne, determined to quell the paralysis that threatened to overtake them, slipped into the bathroom, returned to kneel down beside Rick, and proceeded to gently wipe his face with a damp washcloth. He closed his eyes and yielded, too tired and battered to object. When she held his chin to steady him against the force of her strokes, he flinched, suddenly thrust back to that moment when Negan had grasped his face and demanded his complete obedience.

Michonne paused, unsure how to proceed in consoling him. Like an abused animal, Rick now seemed resistant to her aid, shifting his torso away from her even though every previous expression or slight movement of his indicated that he needed her touch.

"Rick," she pleaded, trying to lure him back from the abyss he seemed to be hovering over.

He didn't answer, but responded by increasing the distance between them, this time turning his face away from her increasingly worried gaze.

With the knowledge that any imploring on her part would only push him farther away, she reached for his hand, bringing it to rest on her thigh as she enveloped it with her own. They both remained still, silently taking solace in their physical proximity while spiraling miles away from each other through the tempest that was their new reality.

When he sensed her hand beginning to slip off of his, Rick tensed, reflexively clasping hers to prevent her from going. He turned back toward her, still reluctant to look at her, but knew he wouldn't be able to bear it if she left him again.

Michonne leaned her forehead against his and whispered his name again, praying that the warmth of her breath would wash away the anguish that his tears could not. Rick trembled.

"He was right," he choked, his words sounding raspy and dusty.

Michonne's muscles immediately tensed with anger, but she hesitated before asking, "Negan?"

"I thought I knew everything. I thought I had it all figured out," he admitted, his voice thick with regret.

"We all did. It wasn't just you."

"That's not how this works," he avered, finally finding the courage to gaze into her eyes. "I led you all there. I'm responsible."

"HE did this," she seethed, almost angry with Rick for shifting the blame off of that vile monster. "Not you."

"I shouldn't have let Carl go," he whimpered. "I shouldn't have let any of you go."

"We were all out there because we were looking out for each other. That's what we do."

Rick nodded, but Michonne couldn't tell if he was agreeing with her or dismissing her.

"That's what we've always done, and that's what we'll always do," she vowed, bringing her forehead back to his.

"I was too cocky. Too content."

Michonne bit down on her lower lip in an attempt to stop it from quivering and soothingly ran her fingers through Rick's damp hair.

Rick," she breathed, her voice barely audible. "We earned the right to be happy."

"So did Abe," he lamented, pausing to take a deep breath before his eyes released the torrent of tears he knew would come. "So did Glenn."

His voice, usually so sure and steady, wavered, and the last threshold that kept him from completely falling apart, collapsed under the weight of his brothers' names upon his tongue. Broken and inconsolable, he melted into Michonne's embrace, surrendering to the solace of her touch. She wondered if he knew just how desperately she, in turn, needed the comfort of his skin.

They remained entwined, a singular unit of limbs and flesh, until Michonne could feel his weight against her increase as the tension in his muscles waned. As Rick succumbed to the sleep his body markedly needed and the temporary reprieve it afforded, Michonne positioned herself to maximize their comfort.

She pleaded with a god she no longer was sure she believed in for Rick to be alright, and hoped that this tragedy would somehow bring them even closer together. As she absentmindedly stroked his hair, something that never failed to comfort her, she silently vowed to stay like this with him for as long as she could, sensing that both time and circumstance would prove her wrong.