Confidant

by a perfectly healthy clown

It's hard to stay away.

It didn't seem odd. Rick knew he shouldn't restrict Carl's out-of-school activities, so that's why he allowed his son a few hours a night every other night to hang with his friends. Carl never said what he was doing whenever he came home, and Rick never asked. Building trust, that sort of thing, Rick lost that skill after Lori died.

Still, it didn't stop Rick from wondering.

Carl doesn't say hi once he enters the house, just drops his backpack on the kitchen table, smashes a handful of potato chips in his mouth, and goes, "I'll be back later," before he leaves through the front door once again. Rick, always during this time, would be feeding Judith. They would each stare at Carl and find it hard to question his future whereabouts. Judith couldn't talk, and Rick didn't know how to ask, so the pair of them never bothers to open their mouths.

Eventually, though, Rick began to see the bruises.

It was near the end of the school year, May, and Carl wore long-sleeve shirts, even if the weather started to climb and tease the triple digits. Rick would consult the parenting websites online, and the women on the forums suggested he talk to his son and try to get him to open up. He might be cutting himself, someone wrote. He needs his father.

But when Rick entertained this possibility, Carl shrugged it away. "I'm fine, Dad."

"Carl, if you're hurting yourself, I need to—"

"I'm not, Dad. Jesus."

Carl stopped wearing long sleeves and instead let Rick see the bruises, small and of varying colors. Rick didn't know if he would have preferred seeing straight lines and white scars. At least then Rick would know where the injuries originated. This, though, Rick couldn't fathom how bruises such as this would have formed. As he lay awake one night, Judith drooling on his chest, Rick came to the startling realization the bruises reminded him of ping pong balls. This revelation only made him more confused and worried.

It didn't seem odd, to let Carl hang out with his friends. But it seemed odd now.

"Carl, wait," Rick says one night, baby spoon in hand, at Carl's retreating figure. "I need to talk to you."

He can hear the huff. Carl appears in the kitchen. "Yeah?"

"What do… you and your friends do?"

"Dad, stop worrying so much. I'm fine."

"Is it this Pookachu game?"

"What?" Carl shakes his head, frustrated. "Dad, no. Stop. I'm gonna be late."

"Late for what?"

Carl doesn't clarify. Judith claps her hands to the sound of her brother bounding through the front door.

Rick would like to stop worrying about this so much—he really would. He just can't, and Carl isn't making this any better.

This time, he comes home with a black eye.

"I'm fine," he tells Rick, and goes up the stairs and to bed. Rick frowns.

The next day, Carl stays home, in his room. Rick orders pizza in hopes of drawing him out.

With Judith beating two wooden blocks together in the background, Rick gives the delivery boy a generous tip. He comes around a lot, always happens to be the one to knock on Rick's door.

"Here," he says, "Glenn" on his nametag. "We ran out of pineapple."

"I didn't ask for pineapple."

"Oh. Good."

Glenn is young, and Rick thinks he might live on the same street as them, or his girlfriend does. Either way, Rick sees him outside a lot, fraternizing with the neighborhood.

"Hey," Rick says before Glenn could hop down the porch steps. "You seem to know… what's going on around here."

"Do I?" Glenn laughs, and it's nervous. He rubs the back of his neck. "I don't know what I'm doing most of the time."

"My son's going out with his friends most nights, and he's coming home with these strange bruises. Yesterday, he came home with a black eye."

Glenn tangles his fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. "Okay…"

"Do you know if—?"

"Wait." Glenn narrows his eyes. "How old's your son?"

"He's in high school."

Glenn narrows his eyes even more. "Are the bruises, like, ping-pong-ball shaped?" At Rick's silence, Glenn nods and drops his arms to his sides. "Yeah, he's, like… It's stupid."

"Is someone hurting my son?"

Glenn snorts. "Hardly. I wouldn't worry about it."

"But you do know why my son—"

"It's stupid high-school stuff. He's… Okay, I heard that a group of kids goes to this guy's house to play ping pong. That's it. It's nothing dangerous. Well, I mean, it can get pretty aggressive, but he's not in any real danger. Like I said, I wouldn't worry about it."

The smell of pizza does attract Carl downstairs. Rick considers this a good night.

And yet, for the umpteenth night in the row, with Judith drooling on his chest, Rick lies awake and ponders just what exactly Carl and his friends are doing. Was it something as simple as an extreme version of ping pong?

It couldn't be that simple. No, Rick decides, giving Judith a box of candy to shake as they wait in line at the grocery store, it wasn't that simple.

Two women are in front of him, chattering about their sons and their accomplishments. One says her kid is on his way to becoming a star football player, while the other is going to be top of his class.

Each woman, then, talks of the bruises on their sons' arms.

"I don't know if I should even do anything," one comments, sliding sunglasses onto her face. "It's almost summer. They're just having fun. I don't want to make a big fuss over nothing."

The other woman chomps on her gum. "It's that gym coach, isn't it? He's new?"

"Hardly." Sunglasses rolls her eyes. "He's got tenure. He just didn't start acting up until after he got it."

Gum rolls her eyes, too. "Typical." A lull in their conversation, and then she says, "He lives on that dead-end road, doesn't he?"

"Oh, yeah."

Judith shakes the box of Dots. Rick bops her nose.

It didn't seem odd, and it doesn't seem odd. Rick knew he shouldn't be infringing on his son's trust in this way, but as a former police officer, Rick can practically sniff out all the bad things that can come from this arrangement. Is Rick supposed to stand by and let some man—a teacher, no less—hang out with his students after school hours and not believe alcohol wasn't involved? Rick's okay with a little fun now and then, but he would prefer this to happen in college and not in the illusion of safety in a high school teacher's home. What if it wasn't just beer? What if it was drugs? Carl is young. Carl is impressionable. Carl is actively rebelling against his dad.

Naturally, of course, this is why Rick follows Carl one night. Carl tells him he and his friends are going to grab some food and head to the movies, which, after Rick sees them pull into the drive thru of McDonald's, seems to be the truth. Maybe Carl doesn't go to this guy's house as often as Rick thinks he does. Still, Judith in the back seat, Rick patrols the neighborhood and searches for the dead-end road the two women said the teacher lived, all the while wondering why Carl never felt the need to let Rick know about any and all his teachers in school. Rick used to be able to name each of Carl's teachers in elementary school. When he reached middle school, it got shaky, and Rick is in the dark when it comes to high school. Rick doesn't know if this means he's a bad parent, or if Carl's a bad kid by omission. Rick doesn't come up with an answer.

The sun low in the sky, Rick finds the house. It's an average enough place, cheesy lawn decorations in the flowerbed and two chairs on the porch. There's an attached garage with the door open to let in fresh air and let out the stale and the pungent. Rick sees the smoke, and though his heart does skip a beat, he knows it's only the exhale of a cigarette. Has Carl been smoking? On a closer inspection, Rick can tell the smoke seems to be coming from a lone cigarette, and from an older man, at that. Rick is allowed a brief moment of peace before the man turns on his heel to stare at Rick's car, to laugh at Rick's car, to point at Rick. "Well, would you look at that piece of shit?" he says, cigarette smoke shooting from his nostrils as if he were a dragon. He laughs again, and it's loud, it's booming, and accompanied by nothing else. There's a ping pong table set in the middle of the garage, right where a car should be set. A group of seven or so high school-age kids surround it, looking nervous and sketchy as hell. A boy with a bruised nose has hold of a paddle, as does the man currently walking towards Rick's car, that piece of shit.

"Hey," he says, paddle in one hand and cigarette in the other. "What are you—?"

But Rick does a quick U-turn and drives away. The man laughs again. Rick watches him in the rear-view mirror, head tilted back, hand on his stomach, as he laughs and laughs and laughs.

At home, Rick puts Judith down for the night and wills himself to think of something other than the man and his cigarette rings.

Carl comes home. There are no new bruises. He talks of the latest superhero blockbuster, and Rick has to pretend he's interested. It's hard.

It's hard to sleep.

It's hard to stay away.

This time, Rick leaves when Carl is locked in his room. It's dark out, and Rick expects there not to be a crowd in that garage, but there is. Of course there is.

"You're back!" the man says, puffing on a cigarette and twirling his ping pong paddle. "Oh, please don't drive off."

Rick doesn't. He does grip the steering wheel, his foot poised on the gas just in case the man tries to do anything funny. Rick doesn't know what the man would even do, considering a group of teenagers are sitting around in his garage. Witnesses.

The man moseys up to Rick's car, elbows resting on the rolled-down window of the passenger side. He doesn't try to hide that he is checking out the inside of Rick's car. "Yeah," he says, slowly nodding his head. "This is a piece of shit."

Even with the sun having set thirty minutes ago, the man is almost indecipherable by sight. Rick's headlights shine the road ahead. The faintest beams bounce back to illuminate the side of the man's face—the few stray white whiskers on his cheeks an eerie highlight as he smiles with bright teeth. He smells of nicotine and expensive cologne. "I'm Negan."

"Rick."

"So, tell me, Rick, why do you keep coming by my house? As you can most certainly see, I am busy."

Some of the teenagers are slinging on their backpacks and starting down the street. From here, they can tell who is talking to this man named Negan, and each of them knows who he used to be before his wife's passing.

"Busy doing what?" Rick tries to be confrontational, but there's something about the way Negan cocks his head and brings the cigarette to his mouth that makes Rick abandon any and all intelligent speech.

"Why don't you come on out of this piece of shit, and I'll show you?"

Rick shakes his head. He inches the car forward. Negan doesn't move. "I have a baby at home."

"I saw that little tyke back here yesterday." Negan smiles again. "What's their name?"

"Judith," Rick says, and doesn't know why. He gently presses down on the gas pedal, and Negan doesn't move from the car window.

"Bring her around tomorrow, when you… do your little drive by." Negan raises an eyebrow. "I would love to meet her."

Rick says, "Okay," and Negan takes a step backward. He's laughing and saying, "Can't wait to fucking meet her."

Earlier than yesterday, Rick shows up to the house at the dead-end street with Judith in the back. She's playing with a stuffed bunny the man from the trailer park by Rick's house found. He said he knew she would like it, while calling her "lil' ass kicker". Rick appreciated that.

The sun is out, but low in the sky. The kids in the garage are laughing, sharing jokes, and Negan is puffing out cigarette smoke and chuckling with them. Yet, he stops as soon as he hears Rick's piece of shit car stroll on by. It's as if Negan can tell by sound alone that Rick has arrived, and that Judith is in her car seat. He says, "Look who it is," in an announcer voice, like he's going to do a spin and present Rick to the crowd of teenagers as some kind of prize. Some of the kids turn their heads, but the majority of them are uninterested. Negan drops his paddle before walking over to Rick's car. They start their own game, Negan gone, Negan standing by Rick's car, leaning into Ricks's car like he did last night.

"You," Negan says, and points, "have a crush on me."

"You asked me to come back."

"Wrong. I assumed you'd be back, and told you to bring your hell raiser if you were to… visit again today." Negan smiles, and Rick hates it. "Roll down the window. I want to see her tiny face."

Despite Negan's threatening demeanor, Judith doesn't cry. If anything, she's delighted to see him. She smiles, kicks out her feet, and waves her bunny around by the ear. Negan has an arm propped on the window sill, his other arm carefully tucked behind his back to not expose Judith to the cigarette he never seems to put out. "Oh, look at you." Negan sighs. "Doesn't look a thing like you, Rick. I'd be busting some balls if I were you."

Rick taps on the window button, but Negan doesn't move. "Where's your other kid? He hasn't been around these past few days. Getting worried."

"So, you know Carl."

"Kid's got a big set of balls on him. Sure he's yours, too?"

Rick pushes on the button again, but Negan returns to the passenger side. Judith sticks her fingers in her mouth.

"Nah, that kid's yours. Stubborn, impulsive. He does this impression of you that just makes his friends laugh for hours." Negan's eyes are calculating, searching for a reaction. He smiles at Rick's grip on the steering wheel. "There's one thing a Goddamn impression can't capture."

"And what's that?"

"Just how hot his daddy is."

Rick does a U-turn, drives away, and wishes he would run over Negan's foot. He didn't, he doesn't, and Negan's laughter is almost mocking in nature.

At home, Carl is popping popcorn and asking Rick where he went. Rick says he took Judith to the park. Carl believes him.

It's even harder to sleep that night. Rick tosses and turns. Judith is restless.

Carl goes to school and spends time with his friends. He says they're going to hang out and play video games. Rick was never one to doubt his son before, so he has no reason to think Carl is going anywhere else. Before, Carl would chirp, "Be back later," and that's that.

It's Friday. It's late, and Carl hasn't made it home.

It's Friday. It's late, and Rick finds himself knocking on his neighbor's door. She opens it, brown hair cut short and a protruding stomach beneath her t-shirt-and-flannel combo. There's the smell of pizza coming over her shoulder. Rick sees Glenn there, still in his uniform, or about to go to work. It's Friday, and it's late.

"Short notice, I know," Rick says, but he passes over a sleepy Judith and her diaper bag regardless. "Something came up, and my son isn't home to watch her."

"That's fine." The girl smiles and bounces Judith. "It's good to have practice."

Rick thinks her name's Maggie. He nods at her. "Thank you again. I'll pay you—"

"No," she says, shaking her head. "It's good to have practice."

It's Friday. It's late, and Rick is climbing into his piece of shit car and driving right back to that house on the dead-end street.

Because it's Friday, it should be expected there would be more kids loitering around the garage, but Rick is surprised all the same. He's about to do another U-turn—his signature move at this point—but Negan sees, and Negan says, "Would you look at this shit?!"

To make everything worse, if things could get worse, Rick hears Carl's voice. "Dad? What are you doing here?"

"Fourth time this week!" Negan says, an announcer once more. He punctuates each word with a thrust of his hips. "I'm starting to think you belong with these high school fucks, Rick."

"Dad," Carl hisses, standing with a group of his friends, fresh bruises on their arms and sipping on cans of pop. "Dad, please, leave."

But Rick stays in his car. Negan tosses the ping pong paddle over his shoulder and strolls on over, one step at a time. "You know what?" Negan whispers now, leaning forward and ducking his head into Rick's car. "I actually kinda like how insistent you are on seeing me."

For the first time in the past four days, Rick doesn't feel like driving away. He turns off the engine.

Negan pushes himself from the door, the cigarette between his lips as he faces the group of kids in his garage. "Me and Rick here have some business to do, so while we're getting down to that business, do not even fucking think about vandalizing my shit. I fucking trust you little shits. Don't ruin this for yourselves." Negan stares from one kid to the next, taking the cigarette in his fingers. Carl looks horrified. Negan grabs Rick's arm, then, and pulls him, drags him, and Rick begins to regret coming here so often. He doesn't know what Negan has up his sleeve. Rick doesn't know if he wants to know.

It's quiet inside the house. Outside, the kids start back up the ping pong game, their voices raising moments later. They aren't concerned, so Rick shouldn't be either. He swallows and takes this moment to get familiar with his surroundings, but honestly, there's nothing about Negan's house that is really remarkable or noteworthy. It's… average. Rick wanted more.

They entered the house through the door in the garage. It led them to the kitchen, where, even here, smells thickly of cigarette smoke. Negan is still smoking, finishing up the last of it and flicking the butt in the sink. "So," Negan says, like he's bored, "you want to suck my dick, don't ya?"

It's the elephant in the room. Rick looks at his feet. Negan sets his hands on the sink counter, head tilted to the side and eyes heavy-lidded. Tongue swiping over his lips, Negan laughs, short and sweet. "Oh, boy, do you want to suck my dick."

It's the elephant in the room. Negan's hard, one leg crossed over the other. Shoulders back, chin up, he doesn't have to try that much to make Rick weak in the knees; Rick's already dropping to his knees, touching Negan's thighs with warm palms. Negan is looking at Rick now, a smug look on his face. He's quiet. For once in his life, Negan doesn't say anything.

Rick undoes the button on Negan's jeans, the zipper following. The move is fluid, quick, and Negan's smug grin turns into a chuckle, which then evolves into a low sigh, a groan, and a "Holy hell, you are good at this."

As soon as possible, Rick takes Negan's cock down his throat, relaxing when he's able, and—

Negan's fingers curl around Rick's hair. "How the fuck are you so good at this?" He's talking again. He can't stop. Rick tries to tune him out, to focus on the task, literally, at hand, but Negan's voice is distracting. He's encouraging.

"Taking my dick like you were born to do it. Sliding it down your throat. Fucking swallowing it." Negan pulls Rick's hair. "Lemme see you."

Vulnerable, timid, Rick had never been shy to drop to his knees and open his mouth for any willing cock, especially when he was younger. After marrying Lori, Rick thought he would be okay with giving up this delicacy, but it's coming back to him—bruised knees, a sore jaw, wet eyes, and runny nose, Rick was a fool to think he could ever stop this. It's familiar, a little messy, and Negan stares at him and runs the pad of his thumb along Rick's bottom lip. Pink, swollen, Negan pets and pets.

"Such a dirty boy," he says, and grabs his cock by the base. "Keep your mouth open. Keep those pretty eyes open, too. Just for me." Negan slides his dick inside, and Rick does as he's told. Mouth open, eyes open, Rick sticks out his tongue, drools. He drools so much. Unlike Rick, Negan's eyes are shut, but like Rick, Negan's mouth never fully shuts. Mostly, he's babbling, and Rick listens. He has to listen. Deep voice, fingertips curled to scratch his scalp, Negan says, "Shit, I am gonna come all over your face if you keep letting me fuck your mouth like this."

If there's anything Rick can protest, it would be that. He touches Negan's hips, pushes himself off, and shakes his head. "Not my face," he says, hoarse and wrecked. He grabs Negan's cock and wraps his fist around the length, giving it a few absent strokes as he waits for a reaction from Negan.

Negan is placid. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Well, Rick, where do you want me to shoot my load?"

"Down my throat," Rick says, and Negan tangles his fingers in Rick's hair again. He brings Rick closer, shoving his cock past Rick's lips and toward the backs of Rick's molars.

"What a dirty fucking whore you are, Rick." Negan's grip tightens, holding Rick flesh against his groin at his climax. Hot, suffocating, Rick closes his eyes and lets out a gasp when Negan pulls him away. Rick's lips pop off, sick, wet, and he swallows. He swallows it all.

"Fuck," Negan says, and that's it.

Rick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He sniffs, clears his throat, and stands. Side to side, Rick wobbles. His balance is off. It'll take a minute for him to catch up.

The kids are still laughing.

Negan tucks his dick into his jeans. He has that smug look on his face again. "Yep." He licks the front of his teeth. "I sure do think you got a big fucking crush on me, Rick." A glance down Rick's front, and the corner of Negan's lips quirk. "Oh, you better get rid of that. Can't go in a room full of teenagers with a pitched tent."

Rick looks at the door.

Negan tuts. He winds a few locks of Rick's hair around his fingers while his other hand slips down Rick's jeans. Either Negan is incredibly sufficient or Rick is just that close—Rick is coming in his pants within minutes, knees knocking and lips pressing together to keep from making any kind of noise. Negan laughs. He shakes his head. "Such a dirty boy," he whispers, hand leaving Rick's jeans to run under the running water from the faucet. "Lucky for you, I like 'em a little dirty."

"I," Rick says, and Negan nods and says, "You."

"I should go," Rick tries again, and Negan pouts.

"Like I give a shit. You'll come back, and I don't blame you. Have you seen me? I just had you begging to swallow my semen." Negan smiles, and strangely, Rick does, too. "Tomorrow," Negan says, flinging water droplets from his fingers. "Can your throat handle my dick two days in a row?"

Rick says, "Yes." He chews on the inside of his cheek. "But… my son—"

"Tell the kid you've got a hot date."

Rick supposes he wouldn't be lying if he were to tell Carl that.

"C'mon." Negan takes Rick by the arm again, and for a brief moment, Rick thinks Negan might kiss him, but that's ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous. Negan is stepping outside, into the warm late-spring air, and declaring that he's ready to beat some kids' asses to the ground, that Rick, here, is awful at the clarinet despite learning it at school. "But don't worry," Negan whispers, real soft and with an arched eyebrow, "I'm gonna show him some pointers."

Carl won't look at Rick.

Rick gets in his car and drives.

He has laughing playing over and over in his head, like a haunting memory, and Rick wonders if the kids could tell what had transpired in Negan's house. Negan was composed, but Rick was patched together with red, red lips and sore hair follicles.

Glenn knows. He answers the door, baseball cap on his head and Judith on his hip. "Hey," he says, and then quieter, "Hey, man…"

"Hello."

Rick gets the diaper bag first, and then Judith. She's wide awake and sucking on her thumb. "Was she too much trouble?"

"No." Glenn bites his lip. "So… pretty short notice, huh?"

Rick frowns.

Glenn shows his hands. "I'm not judging you, man."

If anyone were to judge Rick, it would be Carl.

When Carl comes home, he doesn't look at Rick, and that's okay, because Rick is busy cleaning the living room, putting away toys, folding blankets. Judith is in her room, and Carl goes to his room.

And that's okay, too, because tomorrow is Saturday, and Rick, when asked, tells Carl he's "got a hot date", and then immediately regrets saying it.

"Dad, I didn't need to know that."

"I'm sorry."

"Is it with Michonne?"

"No, she's, uh, she's still on that cruise."

"Oh." Carl still won't look at Rick in the face. There are two new bruises on his forearm. "I'll watch Judith."

"I appreciate that."

"No problem."

Rick drives his piece of shit car to Negan's house. More kids loiter. Negan is smoking and laughing, and he's wearing a cut-off shirt and sunglasses, even though it's dark. At Rick's arrival, he tosses his ping pong paddle over his shoulder and grabs Rick's arm, pulls him inside, and Rick's knees are becoming fast friends with the tile in Negan's kitchen.

Tonight, the next night, for the next few nights, for the next few weeks, Rick relearns how to breathe through his nose, to relax his throat, to hum and swallow and kiss and suckle. And Negan guides him through it all, lips open to groan and curse and whisper—"Oh, just like that," when Rick spits on his palm; "Fuck, you're taking it like a champ" when Rick gags around Negan's cock; "Doing so well for me, baby," when Rick whimpers with three of Negan's fingers inside him.

Negan can't honestly believe people think he's serious when he tells them he's teaching Rick the clarinet. It's a joke, a sick joke, and Negan laughs. There hasn't been a moment Rick and Negan shared where it hasn't been joined with that deep rumble of laughter.

Always in the kitchen, always smelling of smoke and expensive cologne, Negan holds Rick to his chest, a hand on the back of his neck, and works his fingers inside Rick, not even giving him time to adjust. Rick doesn't want to get used to this feeling. Two fingers, curling, uncurling, Negan keeps that hand on the back of Rick's neck and says, "Keep your eyes on Daddy. Be good. Be a good boy."

At the end of the school year, Rick assumed Carl wouldn't be leaving the house all the time, but his visits extend into the summer. Rick doesn't mind that. His time with Negan happens late at night, while everybody is asleep, where only Negan can see the blush on his cheeks as he sinks to his knees. More times than he would care to admit, Rick catches himself wanting Negan in different places, in different scenarios. They never occupied a bed together, and yet, Rick finds himself yearning for a glimpse of Negan wrapped in blankets, stretched out on the sheets, back arching and lips so pink and bitten.

Rick suggests it once after Negan pulls his cock from Rick's mouth and returns it to his jeans. He doesn't bother with zipping, with buttoning. He just leans against the sink counter and tilts his head to the side and says, "What the fuck did you just say?"

His stare is meant to be threatening. Rick swallows. It hurts. "I want you to fuck me."

Negan's head doesn't move. He doesn't blink. "Is what I give you not enough?"

"No. It's just… I want more."

Negan rubs his chin, scratches the whiskers on his cheeks. "So, lemme get this as straight as I possibly can when it comes to two guys fucking around: You want me to slide my dick up your ass and give it to you so fucking hard because apparently me sliding my dick down your throat isn't doing it for you anymore?"

"I never said—"

"You know what, Rick? I feel like you're being a little ungrateful right now."

"No, Negan, I'm just sayin'—"

"What are you sayin', Rick?" Negan's voice raises, almost a shout. "You know you can just tell me the truth."

Rick narrows his eyes. "And that is?"

"That you're a little whore." Negan is back to smiling. "That you want me to bend you over. That you want to fucking clench around my thick cock while you pray for forgiveness."

Narrowed eyes, set jaw, Rick says, "I want that."

"What was that?" Negan cups the shell of his ear with his palm. "I didn't quite hear that."

Rick is defiant. He shakes his head.

Negan laughs. "That's what I thought." He smacks the back of Rick's thigh and shoves him forward, to the garage door. "Have patience, baby. Gonna have you begging for my fucking dick in time."

"In time" doesn't mean soon. It doesn't mean the following day or the next week or anytime soon. It means… it means…

It means Rick finding out from those two very same women in the grocery store checkout line that Negan's wife just fucking died.

He's listening to Judith shake another box of candy. All very déjà vu, Rick thinks he somehow transported to another plane of reality.

"Yeah," one of them says, dropping a tray of vegetables onto the conveyor belt. "I heard she had cancer. Poor thing."

"Chemo's hell," the other says.

Judith rattles and rattles the box. She's smiling, tiny teeth.

Rick tries to get information from Carl, but it seems Carl was in the dark as much as Rick.

"He never talked about her in class," Carl says, grabbing cash and heading toward the front door. "He didn't wear a ring. Couldn't blame us for not knowing." Carl frowns. "Why do you care?"

"I don't," Rick says, but he's already texting Glenn and Maggie to see if they could watch Judith for the night.

"Good luck," Glenn says, and Rick tells him, "Thanks."

Negan's house at the dead-end street is empty. The garage door is shut. The porch lights are off. Nobody is home. Rick knocks on the front door. It feels strange to do so. He's only been let in through the door in the garage. At any rate, Rick second guesses himself. He's about to get back into his car, drive away, forget he ever did this. His stomach churns, and he wishes desperately to get some sense. He's about to leave. He's about to get some of that sense when the door opens, when Negan appears, looking like shit—actual shit, not like the disheveled, carefree shit he likes giving off. No, Negan's been through the mill, and Rick fucking hates that it makes his chest ache.

"Hey." Rick doesn't know what to say, what to do. He's out of place. Negan throws him off. "You doing okay?"

"Does it look like I'm doing okay?"

Trick question. Rick avoids it. "Listen, I lost my wife, too. I know what you're going through."

Negan lowers his head.

Rick chances it. "Can I come in?"

Negan lets him.

Like the kitchen, the house is average, unimportant. Rick can imagine the rest of the homes on the street look exactly like this one, albeit decorated a tad differently. It smells stale, old, inhabitable. No upkeep, Rick doesn't blame him.

"Did you think you can fucking drive that piece of shit down here and act like you fucking care about what's going on? I know why you're here, Rick, and frankly, I'm a little disappointed. I thought you would have more empathy in that heart of yours to let a grieving man wallow in his depression."

Rick turns and shoves, forceful, two hands to Negan's chest. A recliner is behind him. Rick would have busted a lung laughing if he tumbled to the floor. Still, Negan's fall in the chair is less than graceful. Rick snickers. "Shut up," he says. "I don't want you to fuck me."

"What happened, Rick?" Negan looks defeated in the chair, arms hanging from the sides with his legs spread. "Don't you want me?"

"Shut up," Rick repeats. "I'm here to—"

Negan rolls his eyes. "I don't want to hear your voice."

So, Rick keeps his mouth closed.

Negan talks. "Come to bed with me," he says, "and don't fucking talk."

Rick doesn't, not even when Negan takes the seat next to Rick on the bed, on Negan's marital bed, and kisses him softly on the lips, cheeks wet, hands shaking. Rick is quiet. Negan drops his head in Rick's lap. Negan cries. Rick is quiet. Rick is quiet.

In the morning, Rick wakes to Negan asking if he wants pancakes or waffles for breakfast. Rick says, "Pancakes," but he wants to say, "Come back to bed."

Negan brings it to Rick in bed, so it all works out in the end.

"Can you be here tomorrow?" Negan says, at the front door, Rick on the porch. "Or… tonight…?"

Rick means to be smart, means to be rude, but Negan leans his head on the doorjamb, and he looks so tired. Rick says, "I'll try to come over tonight. If not, then…"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

Negan nods. Rick does, too.

Before Rick climbs into his car, Negan kisses him. It's rougher than last night, his tongue as thick as syrup. He's laughing again. Everything is normal. "Try your best to be here tonight, Rick." And Negan winks, and Rick knows what that insinuates.

At home, time passes slowly. It isn't fair.

Carl can tell he's distracted, but Carl can't bring himself to say anything. "Want me to watch Judith tonight?" he asks, and Rick says, "I would appreciate it."

He's with Negan again, and it's like they're both aware of how little time they have in a night. Negan laughs throughout, often at random intervals—once while Rick is pulling his shirt over his head, and once more when he has three fingers inside Rick.

"Is there something I should know about?" Rick grabs at a pillow and holds it to his chest.

Negan shakes his head, whistling. "Oh, no, not at all, man. Just thinking about how we're fucking old."

Rick thinks he's supposed to laugh, so he does—for Negan's sake. Negan is delighted.

"C'mere, baby." Negan hooks his arms under Rick's knees, pulling him, sliding him across the bed sheets. "Gonna come inside you tonight. Do you want that?"

"Maybe if you fuck me good enough," Rick retorts, and Negan is laughing harder, clutching his side to catch his breath.

"Rick," Negan sighs, and stops. He doesn't go on. He's nudging his cock between Rick's legs, slick with lubricant, and thrusts forward, all in one move, and Rick arches his back from the bed, his feet from the bed. He groans. It's a stretch. It's a good stretch. Negan mouths at Rick's neck and stays silent during this, the occasional grunt and "fuck" leaving his lips.

It's heated. It's rough. Rick's fingers are curled around Negan's bicep, his forehead to Negan's collarbone, allowing himself to whimper, to gasp, to cling to Negan until his hips are twitching, his shoulders are shaking. Negan has a hand on Rick's cock, matching his strokes with his thrusts, and Rick spills over Negan's fist as Negan spills inside Rick.

They stay like that, suspended in the after-sex glow, panting, eyes shut. Rick pets the back of Negan's head, the tips of his fingers scratching Negan's scalp.

Negan pulls out. "You're a good guy, Rick," he says, before flopping onto his side.

Nobody cleans up. They wake in a mess and shower together. Negan doesn't laugh. Negan doesn't smile.

At the front door, though, Negan kisses Rick, gives him a one-arm hug.

"I'm okay," Negan says.

"Her name was Lucille," Negan says.

The next time Rick drives past Negan's house, a woman is on the front porch, setting an owl statue on the railing.

"I'm sorry," she says, hand over her eyes to block the sun. "Do I know you?"

"Is, uh, is there a man named Negan here?" Rick feels foolish to ask. He grips the steering wheel.

"He moved out ages ago," the woman says, brushing a strand of blonde behind her ear. "I'm sorry." She's sincere this time.

Rick waves her away. "It's not your fault."

It's Rick fault. He knows it is.

"What did I do wrong?" Rick says aloud, Judith on his knee. "Did I do something wrong?"

From the kitchen, Carl says, "Dad, shut up."

Rick does shut up, but his musings are non-verbal, and they wreck his mind, cause him to lie awake at night with Judith on his chest, drooling, always drooling. Rick is back to square one. He's started worrying about Carl's well-being in full-force now, but Carl doesn't have any new bruises. If anything, Carl doesn't seem to be participating in activities such as that anymore. Rick thinks it's because it's summer, and maybe things will change when school starts back up.

But school starts, and Carl wears short sleeves, and there are no bruises.

Rick swallows his pride. "Hey, Carl… About, um… about Negan…"

By now, Carl must have suspected. He must have ignored it, repressed it. Carl is putting together a puzzle with Judith on the living room floor. "What about him?"

"Is he…?"

Carl shrugs his shoulders. "He still teaches, I guess. I don't have to take gym classes this year." He hands Judith a piece, and she smashes it in the rightful place. "Oh, the check-engine light popped up on your car today. It's been like that for a few days…"

"I noticed."

"Then, get it checked out?" Carl gives Judith another piece. She chews on this one. "Or get a new car."

"Come with me," Rick says, and Carl deems that acceptable. He'll be the one driving it, too.

They decide on going after school on a Friday. Rick doesn't know why he thinks it's a good time. It seemed right.

The lot is small and only specializes in used vehicles, which is fine. Rick doesn't need anything flashy, and Carl knows better than to suggest otherwise. Judith is with them, and she's picking out a car as much as them, pointing and smiling and shaking her head. She doesn't care for trucks or vans. She's indifferent towards jeeps.

Carl is asking Rick about an old Sedan with cigarette burns in the seats when a salesperson approaches them. "Well, lookie here," the person says, deep voice, a hint of a laugh on his breath. "Finally getting rid of that piece of shit car?"

It's Negan. Of course it's Negan. He's strolling over to them, crisp white shirt, a polka-dot tie, award-winning smile. Carl stares at Rick, and Rick stares at his feet. Judith isn't afraid to look at Negan. She claps, fingers curling and uncurling. "Aw, does the little slugger want me to hold her?"

And Carl just gives her to him. Rick's eyes widen. Carl doesn't care. Carl is smiling now, and Judith is laughing as Negan bounces her on his hip. "So," he says, "we doing business or what?"

"Yes," Carl answers, and Negan gives him a look, brow furrowed and lips pursed as he says, "I think this is your daddy's decision, kid."

"Yeah, we're thinking about this one." Rick doesn't raise his head.

Negan snorts. "Obviously," he says. Rick hates him.

Judith wants back with Carl, and after getting his sister in his arms, Carl takes this as his cue to leave, to walk away, to do everything within his power to not eavesdrop.

"So," Negan repeats, so casual. He leans against the car. "This is definitely an upgrade."

"Where did you go?" Rick raises his head, but doesn't look. He can't—not yet.

"What are you talking about?"

"You moved away. You… just disappeared."

"Shit happens."

"Did you not even care about—?"

"About you?" Negan laughs. "Shit, Rick, what the fuck are you trying to say?"

It's useless. "Nothing."

Quiet. A couple across the lot experimentally honks a horn.

Negan crosses his arms over his chest. "It sounds like to me you wanted to talk about our feelings, and I don't know if I'm cut out for that shit."

"Oh, I forgot." Rick rolls his eyes. "You can cry in front of me, but you can't fucking talk."

Negan narrows his eyes.

Rick narrows his eyes in return.

Negan licks his lips. "I'll allow that."

"Good. I want to get this car."

"I'll allow that, too."

It's okay.

Rick has a new car. And when they leave the car lot, Negan gives him a lingering look, and that must mean something. He looks… soft, thoughtful. His face isn't lined, and despite missing a spot when he was shaving, Rick thinks Negan looks well. It's good.

It's okay. It's okay.

The sun goes missing out the sky at the knock on the front door. Judith is in bed. Carl's door is shut. Rick goes through the house on tiptoes, bated breath, preparing himself for what might be on the other side of the door. And it's Negan. It's Negan, and it's okay.

"I didn't follow you home," Negan says in explanation. "I looked up your address on the paperwork and… shit, Rick, don't make me say it."

Negan ditched the tie somewhere along the way. His shirt's sleeves are rolled up, a few buttons at the top undone. Rick slowly blinks. "No. I want you to say it."

Almost as if he's in physical pain, Negan pouts, arms going to hang by his sides. "Prick."

Rick grins.

"I like you. You make me feel like some sort of god. There."

"Is that as good as it's gonna get?"

"Yes."

Rick is the one to grab Negan by the arm and yank him inside.

They try to be quiet. Negan can't keep his hands from Rick's sides, his face, his hips, kissing everything his lips can reach. "Right there," he whispers, bright teeth and smiling eyes, "fuck, fucking yourself so good on my dick right now. Milking it. Yeah, yeah, you want my come all for yourself, don't ya? Such a good boy. So good for Daddy."

So, yeah, they try to be quiet, but Carl is in the kitchen with Rick in the morning, asking what he was up to last night.

Rick's lame excuse is "sleepover". Carl looks at him funny, but doesn't question it.

They're trying to be quiet. Key word: try.

Negan is here the next night, too, on his hands and knees, biting Rick's pillow and telling Rick, "Give it to me harder. Daddy wants it harder."

The smoke from Negan's cigarette flows out the window from where Negan hangs from it. It's getting colder outside. Rick loses count of all the gray in Negan's stubble.

"It was cancer," Negan says, voice strong, but not at all strong. He holds out the cigarette, placing it gently between Rick's lips. "I loved her so damn much." Negan's eyes are wet. "She's fucking dead."

Rick blows his exhale in Negan's face. "Come back to bed."

This time, Carl meets Negan in the kitchen. Negan neglected to pull on a shirt before he ventured out, Judith in his arms, feeding her. Rick can hear them from the bedroom.

"Hey, kid, my new place has this big-ass backyard. We should all get together and fucking play a game of baseball."