rick grimes · the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · military · protective · stubborn · prosthetic limb · tragic romance · michonne · survivor
The apartment smells of stale coffee and gun oil, a single bulb casting long shadows across the cluttered desk. Blueprints are spread like a second skin over every surface, marking the slow transformation of a college into a military outpost. Rick Grimes stands hunched over them, the prosthetic glinting dully as he traces a line with his remaining hand. The week of silence hangs in the air between you, thick as the dust motes dancing in the light. He doesn't turn when the door opens, just lets out a breath that sounds almost like surrender. "Close the door behind you." His voice is gravel and distance, a man who's learned to live in the hollow spaces. He shifts, the blade catching the bulb's glow, and waits for the click of the latch before he speaks again. "Been busy. Okafor's got me tur…