A/N Even though I follow the comics, I've changed a few issues around.

My air drums are phenomenal as a motherfucker these days. I tuck my tongue in the corner of my mouth as my arms flail outward because here comes my part.

Raging crowds. Burning cars. Bloodshed starts. Who'll be aliv—

I stare horrified at the tape player in the truck when it starts eating my tape. "Goddammit! That was my favorite fucking part," I hiss, ejecting the tape from the cassette player. Oh for fuck's sake. The black tape unwinds and tangles making a mess. I rip it from the tape player pissed, chucking it on the floorboard.

Connor thrusts himself back in his seat, folding his arms in a fit. "Fuck! Do you know how fucking hard it is to find Sepultura in tape form?"

"Please, tell me something I don't know," I bark back at him. And why there's not a CD player in this fucker is beyond me.

"How about some Christmas tunes," Dwight suggests.

Both Connor and I look at him like he's lost his mind. "No, just shut up!" I can't believe I'm this upset over a tape.

The only one of us that doesn't seem to care about the silence is Dwight. Though I think Connor has this fear of silence because he starts rambling on. "You boys think I gotta shot with that pair of tits in the supply room?"

My gloved right hand makes a fist at Connor's remark. She has a name, you fuckwit, and she ain't interested.

"Pogo?"

"Yeah," Connor snickers at Dwight. "I'd hold her by them pigtails and let her bounce on my coc—"

"How original," I snap. "Because I'm sure she's never heard that before." A line that actually got me a black eye when I first met Pogo. When he seems to lose interest in her, I settle my nerves. "Put on that Christmas fuckery." I must be desperate, but thankfully Sanctuary starts to become visible in the distance. That, and I don't want to throw my lieutenant through the front windshield if he keeps talking about Pogo like he is.

The truck comes to a stop as Dwight and Connor pile out Dwight's door. I dismiss them for food because I want a minute to myself. Once they're inside Sanctuary, I open the glove box and swipe the can of spray paint I keep in there.

The snow is starting to come down, so I want to hurry. I saw some new undead at our gates when we pulled in. "Hold still," I grunt, spraying a spot on the back of the undead's shirt. The can is tucked under my arm as I write the number 87 on top of the orange circle I've sprayed. "There. That ain't so fucking bad, huh?" I shove the meat puppet to the side with a laugh. Damn, sometimes it's hard to believe we're up to number 87.

It always takes me a good forty minutes before I can actually make it into the belly of Sanctuary. The constant bombardment of questions and issues are suffocating at times. And no one ever has a fucking solution, just bitching. Most days, I'll say I have to take a shit and the crowd usually thins.

Finally. The highlight of my fucking day, and it's not shitting, for the record.

"Hey, Boss," Pogo smiles, sliding from the oversized trunk in the supply room. She hands over her clipboard, but not without an obnoxious bow like I'm royalty.

"Cut it out," I laugh.

Can you get away? Y or N

I don't ever get more than a few seconds with Pogo before we're interrupted. I circle the small Y at the bottom of the paper and hand it back to her before I leave the supply room.

I'm trying to hide this goofy grin on my face, but I'm… well… happy. Until I open the double doors and see my wives fighting. Not even naked pillow fights or some shit. Just a bunch of bullshit shit.

"Negan, Amber said—"

"And I'm saying, shut the fuck up!" I pinch the bridge of my nose when one of them starts crying. "Al-fucking-right, start from the beginning. Slowly! And one at a time..."

My exhaustion is so great, I almost pass out in the middle of this war between who took the other girl's concealer or whatever that shit is that goes on or in the goddamn eye. I'm not even confident that's what's missing anymore. I just know tomorrow I get to wake up and start this shit again. "Enough! Bunch of ungrateful spoiled brats. I lost Davis today from a bullet meant for me! I've got enough on my mind! This is the last time something like this ever happens or you five are in for a rude as fuck awakening. Do you understand me?"

I'm given overzealous nods.

"Over fucking lipstick," I mumble as I walk towards the door.

"Mascara—"

"Whatever!" The door slams behind me. I mean, I get it. There's not a whole lot to do and it's five together in one room, all day, every day. I'm just grouchy because I told Pogo I'd get away and I'm two hours late. I hope the snow isn't too thick by now.

At the end of the last catwalk, there's a control closet around the corner. Inside, a floor panel that's slid back to expose a ladder that I take down to a cooling room. That room has a window that leads out onto a platform. One ladder up the side of Sanctuary and I'm finally on the roof. The ladder is only about fifteen steps that I pull up with me once I'm on the roof. This way, I know that we're not disturbed.

Pogo sits on the pallet couch I made for us, surrounded by clippings from old magazines. "Damn, Finnegan. I thought you were never going to make it!"

I roll my eyes at that fucking nickname she has for me. "I know," I frown. "Wife drama. Did you start without me?"

"Of course not."

I plop down and open my mouth as I close my eyes. Hmm. I chew a few times before turning my lip upward. "I can't," I gag. For months, we've been trying to disgust each other with non-perishable shit. If you can't swallow the food, you lose. I got her good a few weeks ago on Thanksgiving with canned whole chicken. It smelled like a fast food dumpster, too. I gag on the thought alone and lose. "Fuck!"

"It's only Christmas Fruitcake. Were you thinking about the canned chicken again?"

I nod and wipe my tongue with magazine scraps. "I got us another Flesh Finalist."

"Oh!" Pogo grabs her rifle and gets into place. She skims the undead on the fence using her scope. "Huh. We're on 87 already?"

"That's what I said."

The last year and a half, Pogo and I have been making this book we call 'Flesh Finalists'. Each one of the undead are numbered. The number corresponds to a page in the book. Then, we recreate the lives of the undead with magazine clippings. What they did. Likes. Wants. Desires.

"Hmm, bus driver?"

"No, that was 42." I kneel beside her and try to use the scope with her that ends with us laughing. I absolutely love to hear her laugh. "I think he was a gym coach. Unhappy with his marriage, but projected this illusion that he was. He slept around until that bit him in the ass because he realized how much she meant to him. Lost her early on, before all this. Can't shoot a gun. Desperate to call someone his own just to forget the pain." My eyes follow her back to the couch.

"I don't think we have the right magazines for all that." She gets another magazine and starts thumbing through it. "But I know there was like this unhappy couple in an erectile dysfunction advertisement."

"I didn't have erectile dysfunction!" Shit! I try and play it off. "Loves pumpkin pie, Sepultura, and motorcycles."

"Oh, yup. Got a pie clipping!" She hoists it up in victory.

That went over her head. Thank fuck.

I follow her back to the couch to help look for pictures. If I had to make a page for Pogo, there would be the movie 'There Will be Blood'. Which I don't even think has any blood in it if I recall. It's about some oil tycoon. A Donald Duck costume because she worked as one of those people who dress up and walk around at the theme park. And everything Christmas. Yeah, you know the people I'm talking about. Pine tree flavored latte enema. Putting antlers on their vehicle. Christmas lights up before Halloween and the ugly sweater to match them.

I, personally, loathe Christmas and everything about it. It just reminds me of spending it in the ER or a shelter, both being a long fucking story. That I don't really care to go into. Anyway, where the fuck was I? Right. "I got you something." I open up my jacket and fish out the packaged silver floss I found which wasn't easy. I mean, the world didn't exactly end during the holidays, so this shit came from someone's personal attic stash. My eyes slam shut when she starts to shrill, but they open surprised once her arms go around my neck. "Uh, Pogo, you're hugging me." About the only thing I hate more than Christmas is, well, touchy feely shit.

"Tinsel! I didn't even think this existed anymore. Thank you so much, Finnegan!"

"Yeah, still touching me, so..."

I think she only lets go so she can look at the package. "Do you want to decorate my tree with me?"

"Hell no I don't want to decorate some bullshit tree."

So here I am decorating this bullshit tree with Pogo and getting reprimanded because I keep shoving the floss into the tree rather than hanging it.

"One at a time. See? You drape it lightly over the branch like this."

Christ, this is so fucking stupid. I'd rather take a swift kick to the dick. "Can we go back on the roof and finish our Flesh Finalists," I whine.

"No!" She narrows her eyes as if she senses something is off. "What's wrong, Finnegan?"

"Nothing," I mumble, hanging more floss on the same branch, over and over. "Davis died today. And I did some other fucked up shit yesterday that I don't really care to talk about. I've got one of Rick's men in the basement. I'm forcing him to make ammunition for me." So much for I don't want to talk about it.

She draws her hand back from the tree. "Are you arrogant enough to think that one day it won't be you? Why do you have to fight with them? You don't need their supplies. We've always been fine on our own. Do you remember the days before Sanctuary? How hard it was just to find a spot to lay your head at night. At the rate you're going, what if this is our last Christmas together?"

"Let's hope." I'm smacked for that one. "Ow, goddammit!"

"Stop being a vagina, and stop hoarding their supplies. I mean it. I take inventory, so I'll know if you don't."

"I could always lie where we got the supplies."

"My tree needs a star. How about I shove it up yours and use you?"

I bellow out a laugh, noticing I can see my breath. "It's too cold in here, Pogs."

"It's always cold in here. Not all of us have their own personal fireplace."

"Bitch," I try to act offended. "Why don't you sleep with me tonight?"

"Can I bring my tree?"

"No fucking way."

"Watch the tinsel," she chides as I carry the tree up seven flights of steps. Luckily, all my wives are asleep so Pogo doesn't have to sneak around the side into my room like she always does. I get so tired of all the sneaking we have to do. "There," I huff, putting it next to the fireplace.

Pogo sets her hands on her hips proudly as she studies the tree. "This is real nice. Reminds me of a Christmas card."

I think it looks like a damn mess. Nothing on the tree makes any sense at all. This is actually really bothering me.

"Hmm, you've got that crazy look in your eye. Don't touch my tree. Let's go to bed."

"Yeah," I murmur. "I'll be right there…"

"Finnegan! What have you done?"

I poke my head around from the back of the tree. "Alright, but hear me out. Now there's symmetry and shit. And. Wait." I search for that damn cord to plug into my generator. "Ta da!"

She puts her hands out and squints her eyes. "You're blinding me!"

"Oh, heh. Sorry. Wrong one. Ok. There!"

Pogo studies the tree intensely before shrugging. "It's just so… plain."

"Plain? The fuck? It's organized." I take in the tree myself.

Pogo explains it's not about being organized, but I disagree. This is pleasing to the eye. Everything is consistent. "Were you up all night messing with this?"

"Yeah." Actually, I need to get to my meeting, and she needs to get to the supply room. "Do you want me to take your tree back to your room later?"

"Guess we should probably cool it for a while, huh?"

This is the part where shit always gets muddled because it eventually comes to me asking her to be a wife, and I don't mean it in the sexual sense. I just want to hang out with my friend without having to sneak around my wives and everyone else for that matter. I can't allow anyone to think that I've got something on the side with Pogo. People can't see us together outside of the supply room or it causes suspicion. "I hate this," I frown.

"You're not the one that has to use the rusted fire escape on a side of a building that was abandoned for failed safety regulations."

I know that was a joke, but it makes me feel even worse.

I'm on edge today because I walked up on two fucks talking about Pogo. It's not just me being territorial, I'm being protective. See, Pogo has made it very clear to me the numerous times I've hit on her where she stands on sex. It's almost cost us our friendship when I kept treating it as a joke, that if she were with someone like me, she'd like sex. Pogo doesn't want any part of that. In a way, I can sort of understand it because I don't like affection or touching of any kind. Hugs or a consoling touch on the shoulder, that shit just isn't comforting to me.

I feel like if Pogo were a wife, it'd be known she was untouchable and she wouldn't have to deal with men harassing her. I've tried to enforce rules in Sanctuary so that kind of shit doesn't happen, but I'm not blind to think it doesn't. Case and point? David.

I catch David trying to force himself on one of my female prisoners. It's like everything is working against me right now. David is one fuck I'll be putting on the fence who will not be a Flesh Finalist. Motherfucker.

I pass Pogo before dinner and slip her a note.

There was a big fuck up today. I don't want you alone tonight. Which means the fire escape again. Sorry, Pogs.

I need to have some of my men take a look at that thing. If anything happened to her, I'd never forgive myself. I'm also waiting for the days my wives realize that I'm actually talking to someone in my room instead of myself.

None of my wives liked to sleep with me anyway. Mostly because of my snoring. Pogo had her cassette player with headphones that she listened to like whale noises and shit to sleep to. Personally, I think it's a waste of batteries, but it's her points.

I stand in the doorway of my room confused before closing the door and locking it. "What are you doing, woman?"

Pogo is laying on the bed with one foot in the air and the other squirming around as she tries to touch her forearm with it. "Ok, so, hear me out. I was listening to my movie on tape and the girl said that your foot is as big as from your elbow to your wrist." She ends up falling off the bed.

"The snow is coming down pretty hard, so I figured we could work on our book inside-"

"It is as big! Look!"

"I know it's big," I snicker. Huh. I'll be damned. Her foot is the length of her forearm. I'm oddly turned on right now by this, but I got a thing for feet so it doesn't surprise me.

"Oh! Speaking of the leg, I found 'A Christmas Story' on tape! Do you want to listen to it while we lay down?"

I don't really know what the two have in common, but, then again, I've never seen the shit. "Yeah, that sounds like I'd rather take your tree up the ass instead."

She snaps me a glare. "One of these days, I'm going to convert you, Finnegan." She starts moving her fingers out at me and chanting. "Christmas. Christmas. Christmas!"

"You know what they say, you can shit in one hand." I plop down on the bed. Thank Christ we only gotta few days more until Christmas, then all this shit goes away and we can, thankfully, get back to the way things were before Santa and the fuck along gang ruined it. "Stop," I snap disgusted when she tries to fit one of those headphone things into my ear.

"Well, how else are you going to listen to it?"

"Because I don't want to fucking listen to it!"

She seems a little taken back by my tone. "Why do you hate Christmas so much?"

I don't mean to snap at her again, but I do. "You really want to know? Fine, I'll tell you. We didn't celebrate Christmas, or any holiday, growing up. I was just trying to fucking survive. Trying to find food that didn't consist of stealing it, or hoping the burger place didn't call the cops when I was dumpster diving for leftovers. Trying to decide if it was better to burn my blanket to stay warm and have fire, or have no fucking fire at all and just use my blanket. For the record, it's better to keep the goddamn blanket. My best memories of Christmas are the days after, when people put their trees outside by their trash cans and I knew it was free firewood for the taking." When her eyes well up, I feel like an asshole. "Look, this is why I didn't want to say anything. I try to be supportive of you because I know it's something from the way things used to be that you love and I don't want to shit all over it. But if you're looking to get me into Christmas, it just ain't gonna happen. I'm sorry, Pogo."

The look of remorse on her face right now... "No, I'm so sorry, Negan."

It's strange to hear her call me by my real name. I actually don't really like it. I sigh when her tears start to hit the bedspread. "If I give you a fucking hug, will you stop crying?"

"No! Because now I'm thinking of what other horrible thing happened that made you so opposed to intimacy."

"For fuck's sake. We'll listen to the damn leg movie."

"Can I give you a hug?"

"I don't need a hug because I don't need to be comforted," I laugh. "At least that's not how I like to be comforted." I wiggle my eyebrows. "Look, I'm just busting your balls, Pogo."

"So all that bad stuff didn't really happen to you?"

"Oh, it happened. Stop crying, ok? If living with five women taught me anything it's that makeup shit ain't easy to come by."

"I'm not wearing makeup. This is from three days ago."

"Damn, girl. Wash your face." I set our Flesh Finalist book in her lap. "Do you ever think this is kinda morbid?"

Pogo points over to Lucille.

"Fuck you, good point."

"Finnegan... are you 87?"

Damn, I always hoped that went over her head. You'd actually have to be pretty dense though, I mean, I blurted it out on the roof it was me. Still, I find myself stalling to answer her question. "...yeah."

"Is that why you have wives? So you don't get close to anyone again?"

"I'm close to you, and for the fucking life of me I can't figure out why you won't be my wife." I'm sure that goes over her head because I didn't ask her to be one of my wives. I said wife. Singular. It's probably best anyhow we're not actually together. Whatever it is that we have, I'm happy. I get all the benefits of a wife with Pogo anyway. Well, except for the whole… you get the idea. "Look, I'll make you a deal. We can listen to the leg story, or we can, uh." I rub the back of my neck. "You can get close to me and shit."

Pogo lays her head on my chest without a moment's thought.

It kind of makes me feel good. To know she'd give up her precious Christmas on tape to be close to me.

"What else would go in your page?"

I trace the freckles on her arm, trying to connect each one. "I love playing pool. I would do anything filthy fucking thing to be able to fuck Susan Sarandon. And I was drafted by the Chicago Cubs."

"Probably could have had Susan Sarandon if you played for the Cubs."

"I stayed behind for Lucille," I admit.

"Do you think maybe part of you resented her for it and that's why you were unhappy?"

"I suppose I never thought of it like that. It wasn't like she asked me to stay, it was more of that passive aggressiveness towards me for uprooting the life we had just started. Look, get some sleep. We have the rest of this miserable apocalypse to talk about my fuck ups."

She doesn't move off me and I don't ask her to. Even when she's softly snoring, I don't move her.

"Goodnight, Pogs." I'm not sure where Pogo and I ever stand, but whatever we have, I'm grateful.

I'm pretty fucking excited because I found the book the movie 'There Will Be Blood' was based off. I wrap it up in some newspaper and place it under her tree. I can't wait to see her face.

Except, it's just my shit fuck luck that things don't work out that way and my world changes indefinitely.

No more air drums.

No more Flesh Finalists.

No more Saviors.

No more Pogo.

Just complete darkness and isolation in a one person cell. Nothing but time to relive every egregious thing I've done, which is plentiful. At times, it's suffocating where I have to actively tell myself to fucking breathe or I'll choke.

Sometimes I can hear voices outside the small window above my cell. I strain for any kind of information of a life outside this dank confinement.

For the first few months, I kept a count on the days. Then I just let the days muddle together. I'm never getting out. I'll rot in here as I reflect on a life that means nothing.

I should have listened to Pogo. Ended this fucking war and gone back to the way things were before I became greedy with all the other communities. I hang my head and sigh heavily. "I'm so fucking sorry, Pogs." And it's not just her I've let down throughout my life. My men. My students. My Lucille. Most of all Lucille.

Today is quite the treat. And, no, Rick isn't dead. Yet.

It seems I'm getting a bath and a haircut. What I'm even more excited is to get rid of this fucking beard on my face because it itches constantly. The girl cutting my hair might as well just rip my hair from my scalp instead. At least that's what it feels like she's doing. "Christ, watch it!" As I watch the hair collect on the floor, I can't help but wonder how long I've been down here but this woman is no fucking help, and back in my cell I'm corralled. My feet still leaving wet footprints behind me. I wonder if I can choke myself with this towel?

"Towel," the woman demands, sticking her hand out.

Well, fuck. There goes my get out of jail free card.

I'm actually pretty fucking cold today, so I hope I'm not getting sick.

As the days started to become shorter, my depression starts to worsen. Fuck, am I really going to die in this place? I have no concept of time any longer, to the point when I wake up at all times of the day and night.

I know I've lost it when I open my eyes to a picture frame. Not just any frame. This is one of me and Lucille from our prom night. You know the ones with the shitty backdrops and some white pillar off to the side? I sit up from my broken cot and do a double take over the frame before taking the framed picture in my hand. My thumb runs over Lucille's face.

"I never got a chance to give you your Christmas present."

My eyes shoot up to Pogo. "I thought I'd… never see you again, Pogs."

"I kept telling you to stop taking from them."

"I know," I frown, dropping my head. This moment is so fucking bittersweet because I get to see her, but for how long?

"I opened the book on tape you got me from my favorite movie. I listen to it every night and think about you. Us. What we had, or didn't. I guess our relationship was always a little weird."

"How's Sanctuary?" I can't focus the attention on us right now, or this small shred of masculinity I'm so desperately trying to hold onto will crumble.

"I don't know, I left over a year ago. I've been living here, trying to worm my way to being the one who gets to check on you and makes sure you're fed. I'm not bathing you though. Gross."

My brow furrows as I pick my head back up. "What are you saying?"

"That we get to have Christmas together again!"

I sigh when I see that dumb floss in her hand. "No."

"Yes. We just need a tree. Can I decorate you?"

"No, you can't decorate me!" I hold my arms out with a sigh.

She reaches through the bars and gives me a hug instead. "I know, you hate this."

What I've always been so opposed to, what I hate more than anything, I've never been more thankful for and hug her back. It makes me regret so fucking much all the times I didn't do this with her when there weren't cold metal bars between us. But I have her, and from the sound of it, I'll get to see her every day.

"Oh, I think someone is starting to come around!"

I roll my eyes with a grunt. "Hardly." Maybe. Or maybe I just missed the best wife I never had.

Happy Holidays, all! -217