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For as long as Michonne could remember, she’d loved summer days. Loved soaking up the sun on the beach while she got lost in whatever book she was reading. Loved wearing long, colorful, flowy, skirts that swished and flitted against her legs with each step. Ice cream sundaes on the hood of her date's car with old ratty blankets to cushion them at the drive-in movies. She even loved the custom bronzed glow that only came from spending far too much time outside with not nearly enough sunscreen.
Summer days were the best.
But, summer nights?
She hated them.
Before the turn, she’d tolerated the warm sticky air and all its discomfort with the help of technology, and all its heat-thwarting advancements. In her parents’ home, she had a ceiling fan that stayed on around the clock. Her mother often complained about her running up the electricity bill by running the fan even when she wasn’t occupying the room. It was her father who came to her rescue, as he did with most things, claiming that their bill always fluctuated in the summer. Then in college, she had a rickety old box fan —left behind by the previous resident— that stayed spinning for as long as she was in the dorm. After college, she ensured all her apartments had windows that offered plenty of natural sunlight, and most importantly they had updated central air conditioning.
The first summer after the turn, she was miserable.
For months they fooled themselves into believing they’d grown immune to the smell. They didn’t know just how delusional they’d been until a gust of that hot, damp, sticky, and putrid July air had hit them. It was baffling.
And yet, that wasn’t even the worst of it for Michonne. For her, the worst of all was having to sleep —the rare times she had the chance— fully clothed and bathed in those mephitic fumes.
But, with all things, she adapted and came to terms with her new reality. Inhaling those fetid odors day in and day out meant she was alive. That she was winning the battle that started each day she opened her eyes. It meant she had yet another chance to be the one who lives. And that's what she reminded herself each night, when the humidity was in its heaviest suffocating state, and sleep felt like an unattainable feat.
Then, when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, Rick —deep in his slumber— would roll over and pull her to him. The feel of his tacky skin against hers was comparable to death.
This was living, this is what they were fighting for; she’d tell herself as she carefully eased out of bed so as not to disturb his rest. God knows he needed it.
Many nights she’d lie awake, listening to the quiet sounds of the house settling around them and the light whistle of Rick's breathing, while lying completely still. The ceiling fan spun on its lowest setting, doing nothing but moving thick air from one side of the room to the other. Metal pull chains clinked around under the oscillating panels, as sweat beaded at her hairline and rolled in whatever direction gravity willed it. Then, when she was teetering on the edge of delirium: sleep or exhaustion, would finally take mercy on her soul and drag her consciousness into its dark depths.
Since those first arduous years, they’d come across many different discoveries that made summer more tolerable. Relearned the importance of blackout curtains and staying hydrated. She’d grown in her new elements and adapted to them plenty. But, there were still some nights she couldn’t help the irritation that stemmed from discomfort.
And now, Rick was going on about something RJ had done earlier in the day, when it was just the two of them doing who-knows-what. Something that wasn’t necessarily a big deal for Michonne, but to Rick, it meant the world.
Her back was towards him, so she couldn’t see the smile she knew was there. She could hear it. A goofy lopsided grin that turned his eyes into happy crescents, and melted her heart like butter on a hot knife. It was usually reserved for her, but ever since they’d been back home, the kids had been pulling it out of him more times than she could count.
Seeing him smile made her smile… usually.
She tried to listen to him. Also tried to carefully extricate herself from his hold without disrupting his reveries, and came up short each time. Her skin was getting clammy and he insisted on rubbing his thumb back and forth in the same area. Any other night she loved it, anticipated it. Found herself craving his touch, at times. But now, it was driving her insane. Amid her thoughts exploding and her mild irritation evolving into agitation, Rick had stopped talking. The —what he thought to be soothing— rubbing persisted, although slowed.
She could feel his eyes on her, but she kept her eyes shut and tried to calm herself before she lashed out at the man.
Thisislivingthisiswhatwefoughtfo—
For a quick second, Michonne thought he’d read her mind. The rubbing stopped, his arm lifted from her waist, and he rolled over onto his back. She kicked the covers off her and sighed contentedly in her newfound freedom. She hadn’t meant for her relief to come out audibly, but she didn’t have it in her to care.
Rick knew she ran hot.
He moved again, back onto his side. Probably annoyed by her extended silence more than how happy she was to be free of his hold. Usually, when he was in a talkative state, she’d give him a few short responses so he’d know she was listening. So she waited.
“Chonne?” He asked, almost tentatively. As if he’d rolled around all his actions for the past twenty-four hours and couldn’t come up with a single thing he’d done to irritate her.
She hummed her response. Still unsure if her tone might’ve held a bite too strong for her unsuspecting husband.
“Y’okay? Been kinda quiet. Like yer’ thinkin real hard about somethan.”
She waited for a beat. Then came a simple: “I’m alright. Just tired.” It was true enough.
Rick wasn’t satisfied with that, though. He watched her for a bit, and then he reached up into her locs and twirled one over his index finger, then under his middle finger. He kept at it until she turned her head just enough for him to see her eyes and quirked eyebrows. It seemed they both were content with playing the waiting game.
He broke first.
“Can I ask you somethan’?”
She exhaled with a bit more force than she intended, but she recovered with a soft: “Sure, Grimes.”
“Have y’ever had those little braids? The long ones?”
She heard him, but it took a minute to process the question. She had an idea of what he meant, but was stumped on where he might’ve learned about braids. Specifically the little long ones. They’d never talked about her hair before, outside of him offering to help with a retwist once. She kindly declined his offer, and that was that.
With a raised brow she asked: “What are you talking about?” She hadn’t meant to smile but there was a stupid look on his face that amused her. Like he was baffled by her confusion.
Michonne watched the cogs turn in his head and felt his energy drop in a way she hadn’t expected.
“When I was there… ‘member I told you about my dreams? And how you and Carl kept me goin’?” Her loc was now looped around his middle finger while his thumb swiped back and forth against the cowrie shell that hung there.
At that, she quickly nodded her yes, and turned on her side to face him. The longer they were home, the less he talked about his time away. At the beginning, she’d ask him questions, here and there. Nothing too serious, just little things to help her better understand him. He’d answer, but it always soured his mood. After a while, and a little pushback, she stopped. They’d agreed that he would share whatever he needed to when he was ready.
“In my dreams, you were always in these nice clothes… in those high heels with your leather bags and everything. Y’looked real expensive. Real beautiful.” He paused just to look at her, the corners of his lips curling upwards in a small grin. “And in some of 'em, yer hair was in a buncha little braids. They were real long and you’d have a couple of em hangin’ down in the front with the rest pushed back in a little ball.”
Then it was Michonne who couldn’t fight her grin. He sounded like a boy talking about his crush. She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek, rubbing her thumb across the stubble there.
“I used to get them all the time when I was in high school. Then in my freshman year of college, I started my locs.”
“Hm.”
“What?”
“Nothin,”
“Grimes,”
“… I dreamt about you and those braids a whole lot. One time you had em all pulled up in a ponytail and you had on these little glasses like you were a professor-“
Laughter bubbled up in her chest and came out as a scandalized gasp as she swatted his chest. “Oh, so you really liked those braids??”
“I mean… yeah. But I like these too. Love em.” He canted his chin towards her hair.
“Mhmm.”
“Would y’ever cut em?”
“Maybe.”
“Hm.” He closed his eyes.
“You’re picturing it?”
“Tryn’ to.”
“What do you see?” She closed her eyes too.