A/N: Thanks for all the continued support. I hope this chapter was worth the wait.
Sorry, Not Sorry
"Ready for Round Three?"
Michonne can hear the smile in his voice, but she refuses to slow enough for him to catch up. Because that would mean having to look at him, engage in pointless conversation. Twice they've been swarmed by a herd, the third time seeing one, so yeah, it's nothing to be thrilled about. By some miracle, they haven't died.
Yet.
So she just says, "Shut up, Merle," and tries to focus on putting on foot in front of the other.
He chuckles softly behind her.
Dragging Merle back to the prison hadn't been her plan, but leaving him hadn't really been an option. Would she have been able to live with herself if she had, knowing he planned to go on a suicide mission to kill the Governor? Her jaw clenches without her permission. No. Merle might've stood a chance against the man who had further corrupted him, but she'd never asked him to, the group had never asked him to. Michonne tells herself she saved him because he would have saved her, that they need his skills to protect and keep the prison from the Governor's influence. She locks the gratitude and relief away so he won't see.
She hears him sigh, a little closer now. "Why'd you do it?"
Of course he wants to know, she thinks, hands curling into tight fists at her sides. Of course she can't—and won't—tell him. "I don't hear you bellyachin'," she points out, voice rigid, cold—a poor line of defense.
Michonne expects the hand that lands on her shoulder.
She spins, Katana free to decapitate him in a second, making it clear contact isn't welcome. "Whoa, whoa," Merle says, arms instantly above his head. Michonne watches him carefully lower the rifle to the ground, holding her own. "Let's just . . . take it easy for a minute, girl. Ain't nobody gotta get hurt." Her eyes find the blood-soaked cloth wrapped tightly around his hand, a warm pang of guilt assaulting the block of ice in her chest. The sword falls to hang loosely next to her leg. "You know, for being on the outside, you don't seem to have too many connections. You don't say much," Merle adds, attempting to rouse a reaction.
Michonne glares daggers at him. "Good thing, since I saved your sorry white ass."
Merle steps forward, invading her personal space, but she resists the urge to retreat. She hopes he won't make a habit of it. "I didn't—" he starts, falters. He looks away, gaze focusing on something in the distance, starts again. "I didn't have to let you go."
It's a whispered apology for being an ass, a compliment for doing not necessarily the right thing, but the hard thing, admiration for having the guts to stand up to him, a threat to keep her hostage. All wrapped into one. "I had no idea," Michonne replies, sarcasm heavily staining the words. She sheathes her Katana and turns her back on Merle Dixon.
He catches up, blocks her path with the outstretched rifle. "You never answered—"
"I know," she interrupts, cutting him off sharply. Michonne pushes past the weak barrier, home—or the closest thing she's ever had to one—in sight, a familiar crossbow-wielding shape rushing towards them from the prison gates. "I'll die first."