Mercy's Price

Part 1

Daryl leaned against the shower wall, listening to the water trickle down the drains. He stood under the water until the red faded to pink and then to clear. Now he knew he needed to get out of the stall and get dressed, but he could only lean on the wall and let the plink of water dripping from the shower head and his body soothe him into something resembling peace.

When the crowbar clattered to the ground, he'd stumbled back from the fence. The dense, choking scent of dead blood rose to enfold him and drag him under its weight.

"Daryl?" Carol's soft voice almost undid him. He'd backed up a few steps before turning away from the fence and making his way to the showers.

If he'd passed anyone on his way, Daryl didn't remember now. No one had come to interrupt him here, and so he'd stood and let the blood wash away. If he kept his eyes closed and listened to the dripping water long enough, maybe he could disappear.

With a jerk that torqued every muscle in his back, Daryl came away from the wall and made his way out of the stall.

"About time, Dixon. I thought you might have washed away down the drain."

Michonne held out a towel, smiling when Daryl snatched it from her and twisted it around his waist. "Don't worry. I'm not interested in scrawny white boys," she joked.

"I'm not in the mood to talk, Michonne," Daryl snarled, trying to push past her. He wanted nothing more than to get to Miranda's bunk and check out for a day or two.

"I know," Michonne said, her tone as gentle and soothing as someone trying to calm a wild animal. "But you should talk about what happened."

Daryl shook his head. "Why?" he turned to face Michonne. "What's the point? She's gone. It's done. Time to move on."

Michonne tried to put her hand on his shoulder, but Daryl stepped out of her reach. She sighed and held up her hands.

"I can see you're in pain, Daryl. I know what it's like to do what you've done. I don't know if I could do it again, but you've doneit twice now. Once for Merle and now for Mir..."

"Three times," Daryl said, cutting off the knife thrust of agony the sound of Miranda's name had sent into his chest. "She... this was the third time."

"Who?"

"My father. He was the first."

"I'm so sorry, Daryl," Michonne said. "I had no idea."

"I'm not much for sharing."

"You're going to want to share this. You'll need to talk about it."

Daryl shrugged. "Maybe. I promise you'll be first on my list if that day comes."

Daryl turned to leave, only to pause in the doorway as the pain rose out of his soul to answer Michonne's next words.

"Others will want to talk, too, Daryl. We all loved Miranda."

"The others will wait," he said. Daryl tightened the towel before heading to Miranda's cell.