A/N: I've had this story on my mind for a while. I'm incredibly happy I finally got the courage to explore it with the characters I love so much and share it with you guys at the same time. Without boring you guys further I'll just share that the title comes from the song Cherry Wine by Hozier. While the entire song doesn't necessarily fit the premise of the story, I felt that this line made for a fitting title.

I'm really looking forward to hearing what you guys think. Hope you enjoy!

One

For all intents and purposes, Madison, Georgia was a non-entity. Just about 15 miles outside of King County, Georgia and near the halfway point from the small town to Atlanta, it housed less than 5 thousand people altogether. And with no major attractions to speak of, its only real redeeming qualities were the lush, looming green trees and beautiful grandiose homes lining just about every major street. But even those were tainted by the darkness of their Antebellum history, making them difficult to truly admire. The one thing Madison did have though, was a church.

Just like the town it was located in, First Baptist Church of Madison was rather unassuming. One of four different churches in the town, it was a newer build, with a brick exterior, a grimy white roof, and a giant golden cross overlooking the building. It looked nothing like the mega church Michonne Clement attended with her family growing up in Atlanta. But in its unfamiliarity, it provided something she desperately needed. Twice weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings in a place where no one would recognize her.

The basement of First Baptist was only halfway finished. With its white painted concrete walls and carpeted floor, the groaning of the radiator could clearly be heard. But none of the twenty or so attendees sitting uncomfortably in vinyl padded folding chairs seemed to care. Michonne sat somewhere in the back, not far enough to look suspicious, but not close enough to draw attention. The only black woman in the room, she already stood out, but her perfectly done up face, flowing locs, pink and black striped blouse, and white pleated shorts made her feel like a spectacle. She'd made the drive to Madison straight from a work meeting with her nerves shot to hell. But the curious stares she recieved had her regretting not bringing a change of clothes in her car.

She took a peek at the white gold watch on her thin wrist, 6:50 p.m. Ten full minutes before the meeting was set to start. Her ankle shook as she tried to calm herself down. It wasn't her first AA meeting, not by a long shot. But no matter how many church basements she'd parked her ass in, no matter how many tearful testimonies she'd given and sat through, Michonne could never shake the bad feelings. The ones that felt like failure, and loneliness, and that dreadful, all consuming yearning that could only be sated by the sting of alcohol. Michonne swallowed harshly, her ankle twitching even faster. Her craving flooded through her, almost strong enough to make her eyes water. The shame followed just as fast, equal parts startling and grounding. As painful as it was, that shame reminded her of where she was - why she was.

A throat cleared at the front of the room, drawing her attention to the older white man who stood at the podium with a small, comforting smile on his face. "It's about that time," he said, shuffling some papers in his hands. "What do you guys say we get started?"

The group let out a few non-distinct murmurs of agreement. "Great, so, every week before we begin our meetings, I like to let any new members introduce themselves."

Michonne shifted in her seat and swallowed harshly. She wasn't sure how many other people in the room were newcomers at First Baptist like her, but no one spoke up. The man at the front let out a deep chuckle, his white mustache twitching as his blue eyes sparkled. "All right, I guess I'll start. My name is Hershel Greene and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Hershel," the group murmured out the standard greeting.

He continued. "I've been clean for ten years, been attending meetings just like this for even longer. In a past life, I was a veterinarian, now I work with First Baptist to help those dealing with substance abuse. I know that's one hell of a career change, but trust me, these meetings pale in comparison to stickin' your arm up a cow's ass."

Michonne couldn't help but laugh along with everyone else. Just like that, Hershel had succeeded in making the room less tense. "Now," he continued. "Can I get the hands of any first timers."

She rose her hand only slightly, the way you do when you're only volunteering for something to assuage yourself of the guilt of not wanting to. She kept her eyes forward, not daring to look anywhere but the podium at the front of the room next to where Hershel stood.

"Good, good," Hershel spoke. "Anyone want to stand up and speak? How about you?"

The room was quiet for a minute, no one said anything. Then, Michonne heard one of the folding chairs creak a bit and the soft rustling of clothes. "Yeah uh- I'm Rick and I'm an alcoholic."

His voice was thick and accented, like many others she'd heard in the room. His deep baritone was just as gruff as it was oddly captivating. So much so that her eyes couldn't help but follow the sound of it.

"Hi, Rick," she spoke with the rest of the group, that thickness in her throat back again. He was gorgeous, even just his profile. His defined jaw was covered in a salt and pepper stubble and even from across the room she could make out the uncomfortable clench of it. He wore a simple jeans and t-shirt, but they fit him perfectly, molding a bit to his thighs, chest, and shoulders. His head was a dark swath of curls, thick and silky on the top of his head. He was incredibly handsome, fine as hell really. Just the sight of him made her blood rush and her heart beat a little faster. Which was exactly why she had to look away. An Alcoholics Anonymous meeting was just about the last place on earth foster a healthy, budding attraction with someone. Alcoholics were notoriously difficult lovers. Her ex could attest to that first hand.

When Rick spoke again, Michonne had to force herself not to turn her head and stare at him. "I've been sober for about six months," he said. "This definitely ain't my first time around, but I've been hopin' and prayin' that it'll be my last."

He kept it short and succinct before she heard his chair creak as he sat down again. She was a little disappointed that he didn't say anything else. The entire first half of the meeting continued similarly. With other members of the group standing and speaking. Some of them simply stated their names and the numbers on their sobriety coins. Others got a little more emotional, speaking on lost relationships and hopelessness. There were others, just a few, who were incredibly hopeful, though. Those shook Michonne the most. She could handle the sob stories, she'd been living in her own for years. The pain was almost comforting even. But the feeling of hope was so foreign she could hardly remember what the word meant.

During the last thirty minutes, Hershel made his way back to the podium and spoke at length about the first in the 12-step program. Admitting one's powerlessness over alcohol was something she'd already done. Hell, it was what had drawn her to attend her very first AA meeting nearly ten months ago. Still, that didn't make Hershel's words about how powerlessness often lead to great things any less poignant. By the end of the meeting, Michonne felt a little lighter. The weight on her chest wasn't gone completely, not even close. But she was in a good enough mood to stick around for the refreshments afterward instead of bolting to her car like she'd originally planned.

The makeshift craft table held a couple pots of lukewarm coffee, a pitcher of juice, and multiple rows of store bought hard cookies. Michonne stood quietly to the side of the table, nursing a couple Oreos and holding a drink as she observed the rest of the group chat amongst themselves. A feeling akin to jealousy bubbled up in her chest as she watched the easy camaraderie. She tried her hardest to push it down.

"Hey there."

Michonne briefly closed her eyes and cursed as she was approached by the handsome man from earlier in the meeting. Rick, she remembered.

"Hi," she said shortly, hoping her standoffish reply would get him to walk away.

"I just...uh...I saw you standin' over here by yourself and I figured I'd introduce myself," he continued. "I'm Rick Grimes."

She locked eyes with him, her breath catching at the severity of his intense gaze. Michonne felt like she had been laid bare, all of her worst secrets revealed to him in a matter of seconds. She wondered if he looked at everyone like that.

"Michonne Clement," she said, crossing her arms over her chest but refusing to look away from him.

"It's nice to meet you, Michonne." The way he said her name made her shiver involuntarily. His accent made the word come out slow and thoughtfully. It was almost unbearably sexy.

"You too, Rick," Michonne steeled herself to walk away, but he continued.

"So, you live around here?"

"No," she surprised herself by continuing with her answer. "I live in Atlanta actually. What about you?"

"Nah, I ain't from around here either. Close by though. You ever heard of King County?"

"Can't say I have. Why don't you attend meetings there?" Michonne wasn't surprised at her curiosity, but she was definitely shocked that she'd taken the initiative to actively continue conversing with Rick.

Those blue eyes narrowed just the tiniest bit and the polite smirk on his face deepened into something a little harder. "I could ask you the same thang."

Michonne forced out a chuckle. "I don't know about you, Rick Grimes, but I quite enjoy driving an hour out of my way twice a week just to avoid the possibility of being outed as an alcoholic by some petty socialite in the city."

"Yeah, I get it," Rick said, his smile widening. "Just like I prefer my AA meetings not to end in a sermon about sinners burnin' up in hellfire by some backwoods zealot preacher."

Rick and Michonne stared at each other in amusement before they both dissolved in a bout of quiet giggles. To normal people, the jokes were definitely a bit morbid, but they helped make the awkward position they were in a little bit lighter. They also succeeded in helping Michonne loosen up even more.

"It was brave of you, you know," she said uncrossing her arms. "To stand up during the meeting."

Rick looked pleased with her compliment. "You think so?"

She nodded. "I haven't quite gotten there yet."

"I think it takes a lot of bravery just to show up," he continued. "Just walkin' in them doors ain't easy."

Michonne's face heated up at his words. She hadn't known she'd been so hungry for the light validation he offered. It was just as sad as it was thrilling and she had no idea how to feel about it.

Rick seemed to sense that she didn't have a response to his comments. "So what do you do, Michonne?"

She started to answer but was cut off by him.

"Wait no, let me guess." Those beautiful eyes narrowed once again as he looked her up and down. As his gaze roamed up her bare legs, taking the time to rest on her slightly thickened thighs before it met her own again. On anyone else, Michonne may have found the attention annoying or offensive, but Rick only succeeded in turning her on.

"I'm lookin' at your fancy shoes and your nice clothes so I'm guessin' you're kind of a big deal."

Michonne just smirked.

"My first guess would be politician," Rick continued. "But for some reason, I can't picture you as someone who loves to hear herself talk."

He let out a low humming noise and tapped his long, thick index finger on his pink bottom lip playfully. "You a lawyer?"

She shook her head in the negative.

"Damn," Rick cursed. "What about some sort of college professor?"

Michonne chuckled, "You're way, way off, Grimes."

He snapped his fingers and waited for her to continue. When she didn't, the playful smile on his face grew. "Don't leave me hangin', Sugar."

Michonne's heart beat faster, so much so that she had to delicately press a hand to her chest in an attempt to calm it. "I'm a pastry chef," she said somewhat shakily. "I actually own a bakery."

Rick's eyebrows rose. "No shit?"

"No shit."

"Well damn, you're right. I never would have guessed that."

"Why not?" Michonne surprised herself by asking the question. "I don't seem sweet enough?"

"Nah, it ain't that. You seem plenty sweet. I just got the image of you in one of them sexy pants suits in my head and couldn't let it go."

The tension between them turned thicker in an instant. Much thicker than Michonne intended it to be. She'd moved from wanting to avoid the man altogether to a little harmless flirting to something a lot more suggestive in a matter of minutes. As much as his words made her soak her panties and lick her lips, she had no intention of seeing the conversation down that road. No matter how much she wanted to drag him back to her car and fuck him in the backseat.

Rick seemed a little taken aback when she refused to acknowledge his flirting. "And what about you, Rick? What do you do?"

He looked down at his feet briefly, a wry grin on his face. "You don't have any theories?"

"I'm not really good at guessing games."

"I'm a business owner too," Rick cleared his throat. "I run a distillery actually."

Michonne looked at him, a blank look on her beautiful face.

"A distillery?"

"Yep."

"You're an alcoholic who owns a distillery?"

He laughed outright this time. His head bent over from the force of the sounds leaving his lips. Michonne couldn't do anything but stare. "The irony ain't lost, trust me."

"How the hell do you do it?" She asked, unable to hold back her curiosity. She made a point to mostly eliminate the presence of any alcohol in her life. Going so far as to skip out on dinners with friends and avoiding the liquor aisle in the supermarket like it was the plague. Even still she had to use all of her strength to stay on the wagon. And Rick just casually worked around alcohol every damn day and still managed to stay sober? She didn't know whether to be appalled or impressed.

"It hasn't gone very well for me in the past," Rick admitted. "Which is why I've taken a bit of a sabbatical. I'm stuck doing administrative work in my dining room instead of getting my hands dirty."

She didn't know why, but knowing that he wasn't testing himself so much every day made her sigh in relief. "That...makes sense, I guess."

"Yeah," was all he said, making the air between them thick for another reason entirely.

Michonne looked down at her watch, balking a bit at the time. "Well, it was nice speaking with you, Rick but I really need to get going if I'm going to make it back at a reasonable hour."

The man in front of her nodded. "Right, sure. Me too."

"I guess I'll see you next time then."

She dropped her empty cup in the small trash can next to them and exchanged a small parting smile with Rick. She only made it a step before his big, warm land came to rest on her upper arm to stop her. Even through her thin blouse, the feeling caused gooseflesh to rise up on her skin.

She looked at him questioningly.

"What's the name of your bakery?" He asked. "Just in case I feel like stoppin' by sometime."

Michonne paused, unsure of whether or not to give it out. It seemed like a stupid decision to allow some man from an AA meeting into even a fraction of her real life, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

"Clementine Cake Shop," she said quietly before walking away.

Her ride back home seemed to go by at a grueling pace. The longer the highway between Madison and Atlanta stretched, the harder it got for Michonne to keep her mind off of Rick Grimes. It had been months since she'd had a conversation as compelling as the one they had in the church basement over half stale Oreos and too sweet juice. He was funny, and smart, and way too compelling for his own good. She was undeniably drawn to him, but the last thing she needed was to be drawn to was a man. She was in the midst of a great change. The lifestyle she'd known for years had only come crumbling down months ago. And with it, came a swath of traumas and emotions that she'd been blissfully numbing and avoiding. Between the AA meetings, therapy sessions, and throwing herself into her work full-force, she didn't have the time to entertain schoolgirl crushes on men.

Michonne had no room in her life for Rick Grimes with his stupidly charming smile, his thick Georgia accent, and his twinkling eyes. She had no interest in letting him into any part of her life - in allowing the possibility of hurting or being hurt by him. She was a grown ass woman - 35-years-old for God's sake - she'd had years of experience in forgetting about men. Rick Grimes wouldn't be any different.

Steeling her resolve and gritting her teeth in an action of pure stubbornness, Michonne parked her car in the driveway of her townhouse and made her way inside. Just like every other time she made her way through the door, she was hit with a wave of pure loneliness almost instantly. The weight of it was almost unbearable. She navigated through the dark home on muscle memory, making her way upstairs and shedding her clothes on the floor. She picked up the lone framed photo of Andre - her baby boy - from her bedside table and kissed it once, then again, and one last time before sitting it down again. Blinds drawn, covers tucked, and bed cold, Michonne fell into a fitful sleep. Just the same as every other night.