SPOILERS FOR 3x15... in case you didn't know by now...
Sitting Ducks
Michonne wants to scoff and laugh and brush him off and pretend the last five minutes never happened. She wants to push him away and tell him to stay away. She wants to threaten him with her Katana, if only to make him think twice. She wants to tell him he's stupid for thinking she could actually enjoy his company. She wants to ask him to take down the Governor with her. She wants to keep him company because no one but Daryl would willingly. She wants to defend him, stand up for him. She wants to lean forward and hug the shit out of him.
But she doesn't.
Ducking under his bayonet arm turns out to be easier than she thought. Michonne does her best to offer him a genuine smile, but it's hard when he just stares at her as if she's the only one who can help him, as if he'll lose all the ground he's gained by coming back if she walks away now. "You're lucky they don't lock you up," she says, but her heart's not in it, and the words sound wrong, full of an emotion she refuses to identify.
Merle nods and looks down at his feet. "Suppose you're right," he agrees softly, leaning against the fence with his good arm. He waits until she meets his gaze again before adding, "You know he'll come for us first, right?"
"Yeah," Michonne replies after a minute. "Yeah, I know." A couple hours—maybe a day—is all they have left.
He shifts his weight back to his legs, arm falling to his side as he walks toward her, testing how close he can get with slow steps before she starts to back away. A hand flies to the hilt of her sword instinctively but can't seem to find the strength to unsheathe it. He gets close, but not too close. "We could end it, just you and me, before it even starts. Take him out. Save the group. Save the prison. Save the day."
She frowns. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"
The seriousness of her question doesn't throw him off guard like it should, his voice turning pointed, heated. "I'm trying to do what's best for my baby brother."
"Then don't go after him," Michonne counters. "Let him do all the work for us, let him waltz right in. We'll be ready when he does."
"We'll be sitting ducks."
She shrugs. "Better than being dead ducks."
In seconds, Merle breaks, a smile spreading across his face before he can stop it. And he laughs. Laughs so hard he nearly doubles over, but she'd be lying if she said she hated the sound. Michonne fights, but he's infected with laughter, and there's no taking back, no regrets. Not now, not anymore. Because she's run out of time to build more walls. Because their time is almost up. So she laughs at him, with him. Because she can. Until they can't—sides burning, eyes watering. He slings his left arm around her shoulders, and she lets him. Doesn't flinch or pull back or break his arm. Just walks the short distance to the prison door right beside him without a care in the world.
He chuckles, barely loud enough for her to hear. "I'm really gonna miss you, girl."