And the Fever Set In

by a perfectly healthy clown

In which Carl gets bit and something isn't right.

The kiss of barbed wire against Rick's fingertips feels like home. It's a strange thought—he will admit this willingly—but the more he dwells on this realization, the more it excites him. Knees bent, he stands and snags his fingers on the barbed wire carefully curled around Lucille. He holds the baseball bat the wrong way, handle pointed toward Negan's rag-doll form spread along the hardwood flooring. Rick's back is sore, potential bruises and scrapes the exact size as the shelves Negan shoved him into moments prior. "When I am done with you," he said, starting toward Rick as Rick struggled to get up, up, up, "nobody will ever try what you did—"

Rick wasn't on this plane of reality, and Negan, at this present point in time, isn't either. Disorientated, Negan's head rolls on his shoulders. His feet twitch. His fingers try to grope for that familiar touch of barbed wire, but Rick finds it first, diving for Negan's girl. Negan makes a noise, tries to sit, and Rick smacks his hand into Negan's chest to keep him down, to use him as leverage as Rick pushes himself into standing again. He stands over Negan, a foot on each side of him, and Rick feels good.

And here's the barbed wire. Rick doesn't let up. He turns the handle to Negan and, with all his strength, sends the butt of the baseball bat into Negan's face. Aim off, Rick can't tell if he's hit Negan in his nose or his mouth, but it doesn't matter. He hits Negan, and he reels his arms back to deliver another blow when Negan regains the ability to talk. Negan never shuts the hell up. Negan hisses, "Don't you touch her!"

Rick can see Negan's leg raising before Negan decides to do it. Negan is slow. Maybe Rick's lucky. Maybe Rick's omnipotent. When Negan goes to send his foot between Rick's legs, Rick twirls that bat in his hands and swings the barrel into Negan's shin.

Negan loses his plan. He loses his strength. He goes, "Shit," and turns onto his side. "Shit, shit—you don't fucking get to—"

The nerve of the man, Rick shakes. He's shaking. He stands over Negan, Lucille in his hands, and brings her down onto Negan's leg again. At Negan's curse, Rick moves onto Negan's thigh, up to his hip, his chest, his arm—Rick can't stop even if he wanted to do that. He doesn't see himself stopping.

And Negan doesn't either.

"Drop her!" he's screaming. "Fucking—fuck, Rick, Rick, fucking drop her!"

Rick brings her down to Negan's left shoulder, watching Negan lurch suddenly to cradle his arm. Negan is a child crying for his mother. He's a baby. He's a fucking baby, tears and snot and blood in his teeth.

With another hit to Negan's shoulder, Rick drops to Negan's chest, a heavy weight, keeping Negan in place as he leans in to press his lips to Negan's ear. "Sucks, don't it?" he says, Negan shivering beneath him.

Negan twists, elbowing Rick in the arm. "Fucking hell, Rick—"

Rick grabs Negan's face, his palm hot, his palm smacking, and snakes his fingers into Negan's hair. "Shut—"

"You talk too much," Negan says, allowing Rick to lift his head and drive it into the floor. It hurts. Rick's ears ring for Negan.

"Shut up." Rick bumps the side of his foot into Negan's waist once, twice, and he says, "Shut up, shut up, shut up." He sends Lucille into Negan's arm, Negan's back—Negan's curling into himself, inching away from Rick like the pathetic worm he is. "No, nope—" Rick braces himself, ball bat above his head, and swings, hard, the bat cracking the floor right next to Negan's head.

It's deafening. Negan lets out a whimper, a cry, and he says, "Rick." It's just that, just Rick's name—-and it brings Rick into raising Lucille and knocking it into Negan's back. This will bruise. Rick wants it to bruise as deeply as the groan leaving Negan's bloody lips.

"Rick," Negan sighs, coughing afterward—coughing the blood from those lips of his to stain the hardwood. "Are you really going to kill me?" Negan tries to get on all fours, trembling, his limbs feeble and unable to support his weight. The pressure makes him tip forward, cheek to the floor, eyes flicking back to look over his shoulder. "You can't kill me, Rick. You might've once, when you were out in those woods, scavenging and scaring off strangers with that man-bush, but now?" Negan flips onto his back, a wince on his face, and says, confidently, "You can't fucking function in a world where we aren't blowing each other every hour of every God-fucking-damn day."

The smack to Negan's face is a gentle tap, but the way Negan reacts tells more about the emotional damage than the physical—even if the physical damage is staggering. A rash, three scratches from the careful drag of the barbed wire, Negan looks like he's dying, like he's already dead. He peers up at Rick, amazed and perturbed and bewildered all at once, and then he's smiling, whispering, "Rick," again.

Rick hates it. He bends down, elbows on his knees, Lucille's tip resting on Negan's sternum, and his fingers folded around the handle, as if nothing is amiss, as if he's playing a baseball game with his son. But Rick is so sore, and he's tired, and he digs the bat into Negan's sternum until Negan squirms and spits blood as he calls out, "Rick."

"I am going to kill you," Rick says, Negan quaking into silence. "I wasn't lyin' about that. I'm going to kill you, but first…" Rick lifts the bat briefly.

Negan closes his eyes.

"First," Rick says through his teeth, "Lucille here, she's gonna take your hands."

If Rick didn't know any better, he thinks Negan shits his pants. But this is Negan, the big bad wolf—"little pig, little pig, let—me—in"—and the big bad wolf, with all his great white teeth, doesn't get scared. He's supposed to scare, not be scared, and yet Negan's terrified. He looks up at Rick, lips parted, chin quivering, and he tries his damndest to push himself away from Rick. His knees are bent, and he shoves backward, sliding across the floor, but Rick grabs him, grabs that stupid leather jacket and drags him where he belongs—under Rick cowering.

The buckles on his jacket scrape against the floor. It's the furthest thing in Rick's mind. He doesn't even hear it, doesn't want to hear it. He listens to Negan pant, whine, wither. "Hey, Rick," he says, shaky at best, "m-maybe we can talk."

Rick's rough. He beats Negan's arm with Lucille, and Negan bends and rolls. He means to do this to protect himself. He's wrong, though, so wrong. He's aiding Rick, slowly shifting to his side, his back, and Rick's swinging him in that direction. One smack to the arm again, another bump to Negan's hip, a third knock to Negan's back, Rick has Negan on his stomach. Hands hidden beneath him, Negan attempts in army-crawling across the floor again, but Rick grabs him again, pulls him again, the buckles on his leather jacket scraping the floor again. "We're done talkin'. We've done enough talkin'. Show me your hands."

Negan is frozen.

"Show me," Rick hisses, "your hands," and slams Lucille on the floor next to Negan's head.

"Rick, R-rick, look—"

Rick raises Lucille, his form marvelous. Negan can see his shadow and throws his arms out in front of him, palms flat, legs kicking out in terror. "Rick," Negan pleads, and Rick kicks Negan on the side of his thigh. It's a warning. It's more of a warning. Negan has run out of warnings.

"Rick—"

"You a southpaw?" Rick asks.

"What?"

Whatever Rick says next doesn't matter. He's fuming, teeth clenched and ready to shatter if any more tension is added to them. His knuckles are white from how hard he grips Lucille, and he knows, knows, knows nothing will get him to drop her. He doesn't want to do that, not when he has Negan beneath him, in tears, begging for his life. Negan's mouth opens, he tosses a look over his shoulder, and Rick brings Lucille down on Negan's right hand.

Negan screams, Rick smiles, and Lucille slices through the leather of that lone glove.

"That's not my left hand!" Negan attempts to explain, eyes wide in pain, in disbelief. Rick watches him try to wiggle his fingers with that wince on his face.

"It isn't, is it? My bad." Rick slams Lucille right back on Negan's right hand, and then again, and then again. Bones might break, ligaments might tear, but Rick, in all his glory, doesn't fucking care.

This hurts, Rick knows this. He's been beat with this bat before, but the damage Rick's doing now is more than a few nicks and bruises. It's nothing like a skull cracking open and the contents spilling out for everybody to marvel; it's close. Negan shouts. Rick smells smoke and blood and piss, and he doesn't let up. He can't let up.

Lucille lands on that hand, and she lands higher, on Negan's forearm, Negan's elbow—Rick runs on adrenaline. He smells that, too, and it's a pheromone that can sustain him until the world ends again.

Swinging Lucille once more, this time to toss into his left hand and hide behind his back, Rick snakes his free fingers into Negan's hair. He yanks. Negan moans. He stares at Rick, his nose bleeding now—from what exactly, Rick can't be certain; whether it's due to the knock to his head or if the sudden stress exerted the blood from his nostrils, Negan's bleeding more onto the hardwood.

Rick says, "I'm going to kill you in front of everybody." He says, "A shot to the head is too humane for you. I think I'm going to have Lucille help me."

Negan closes his eyes.

Rick wants to laugh. His stomach hurts. "What? Finally learned to shut your mouth?"

Teeth gnashed together, grunting, Negan pulls his arms underneath him. Using his elbows to lift himself, Negan draws his legs into two parallel lines, and then sends one, his left one, into Rick's ankle. Unpredictable, Negan does this as he's snuffling up tears. The move is his desperate claw to regain a semblance of control, and Rick stumbles and falls, and Negan cries once more to find Rick landing on top of him.

Not wasting any time, Negan pulls his arm back and sends his fist into Rick's face. Done out of habit with his dominant hand, all Negan does is smear broken leather and blood onto Rick's cheek. "Fuck!" Negan yells, and repeats it louder, at the top of his lungs. "Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck, fuck!"

Left more in a state of suppressed laughter, Rick doesn't mind his joints are screaming along with Negan's voice. Piercing and able to draw walkers more readily than the fires erupting inside Alexandria, Negan doesn't shut up. He doesn't have the ability to shut up. He yells as he bumps their foreheads together, as he presses both of his hands to Rick's chest and shoves with all his might. "Fuck you, Rick," Negan says, Rick on his back, Rick standing up, Rick unarmed and allowing himself to become scared once more to see Negan with Lucille hanging loose in his left hand.

"I really thought we were gonna work something out here, Rick." Negan staggers toward Rick, one heavy boot after another. The confident posture is no more, not when Negan limps more than glides, hunches more than bops. "I was in such a mood to talk, and you use Lucille against her will. You think she wants to hurt me? You think she wants to kill me?"

Rick sees his gun under the table.

Negan raises Lucille to point at Rick. His arm is shaky. "You don't know a single Goddamn thing about anything, Rick. Lucille here, she knows I take good, sweet care of her. She knows who treats her like a lady. She absolutely cannot stand the thought of a man like you taking advantage—"

"You're delusional." Rick slides to the right, nonchalant, but not nonchalant enough. Negan turns his head, spots the gun, and Rick has the right amount of time to grab it, aim—and then promptly miss his shot. Negan charges at him, doing the impossible in his current physicality, and Rick feels his back hit the window. He hears it crack. He hears it shatter. He's flying. Rick's flying.

Inside the house, an arm wrapped around his stomach and using Lucille as a walking cane, Negan sighs. Distant, he says, "Shit."

Rick somersaults. Rick can't tell the sky from the ground.

Negan says, "Shit." He says, "Look, kid."

The feet Rick sees are not his own. Boots, dirty and scuffed, they shuffle across the grass. "Dad…?" they ask, and slide apart to accommodate a crouch. When Rick raises his head, he's able to differentiate between the sky and the ground, and he's able to focus on Carl. Everything's blurry, though, and reeks of smoke. Rick shakes his head, runs his fingers through his hair, and coughs. He tries to talk. He only coughs.

Hanging out the window, Negan raises Lucille and waves her around, pointing. "Your daddy and I… we were just talking. Things got outta hand—and don't think I don't remember what you fucking pulled. Embarrassed the hell out of me."

Carl ignores Negan. He hovers over Rick, his hands leaving the strap of the bag across his chest to touch Rick's shoulder. "Dad," he says, quiet, hushed, like he doesn't want Negan to overhear. "We need to get out of here. I… I know where we can go to get out of here."

Negan beats Lucille into the broken windowpane. "Hey, kid, you can disrespect your daddy all you want, but I would fucking appreciate it if you look at me when I fucking talk to you."

And Carl, he ignores Negan again. "Dad," he urges, whispering, pale against the smoke and stars.

"Carl," Rick says, rough voice, rough time raising onto all fours. "H-he told me you volunteered to die. Why would you… why do you want to die?"

There're tears in Carl's eye. Carl shuts that eye, lips parted, and mumbles, "Come on, we have to—"

"Why do you want to die?" Rick presses. "After all we accomplished here, after what we're going to accomplish when we get rid of him, you don't want to be here to witness that? I'm doing this for you, Carl. I want you and your sister to see the world I'm making for you guys."

Rick says, "Please."

He says, "Tell me."

Carl opens his mouth, and Negan's voice comes out. "It's gonna happen anyway," Negan says, standing behind Rick, leaning over him, and looking a little worse for wear. "He told me something like that. Can't quite recall. My head's been rattled. You think you got a reason why, Rick?" Negan kicks Rick, a slight bump to the thigh. "You fucking owe me a new glove."

"Whatever my dad did to you," Carl says, glancing up at Negan and grimacing, "you probably deserved it."

Negan presses his lips together and coos, eyes wide, brows raising. "Really, kid? And does your daddy deserve the shit I put him through? Does he deserve to be treated like a Goddamn king atop his Alexandrian throne? Riddle me that, Carl." Negan passes Lucille into his right hand, hoping to use his left to grab the back of Rick's shirt, but curling his fingers in order to maintain a secure grasp on Lucille is difficult to do with a hand gnarled and bleeding onto the grass.

Carl laughs. It sounds wrong, mechanical. "You're pathetic," he says, and Negan bares his teeth, and Rick lunges forward, feet on the ground, and helps Carl to his own. Carl's feet slide, as do Rick's, and they end up on the ground, Carl pushing Rick away to stand by himself, to help Rick up, to tell Rick, "Follow me, follow me—we can outrun him."

But Negan is pathetic, and before Rick's center of gravity returns, he pounces, and Rick is right back on the ground, face in the grass, Negan on top of him and sending his left fist into the side of Rick's head.

"Get off him!" Carl yells, and he runs at Negan, shouldering Negan. His feet slide more, and Negan stays firm on top of Rick. He uses both hands now and doesn't mind the pain. He smears blood on Rick's shirt, Rick's neck, Rick's face, and Carl screams and sticks his fingers into Negan's hair and pulls. "You lost. Get out of here, or I'll kill you myself."

Negan spins suddenly, propping his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers together. "Do it," Negan dares, bleeding from his nose and a busted lip. "I want you"—he points—"to kill me. I like you, Carl. Your daddy here? He's special, but he doesn't have the balls to kill me. If I'm to die, and I most certainly think I will not anytime soon, then if anybody's going to be the one to stick that last nail in my coffin, I want it to be you."

Carl is quick. "I'll do it, but I would rather watch you limp out of here by yourself because your men left you, you know. They all ran away when they could. You think you have any control of these people? They put up with you because you offered them a sanctuary, not because they like you."

Negan is as pale as Carl.

"Nobody likes you," Carl repeats, stubborn to the look of utter disgust on Negan's face. A frown, shaking, Negan narrows his eyes and watches Carl. He says not a word. Carl gets in his face. "Want me to say that again, so it can sink in?" Carl tilts his head. "Nobody likes you. You're a bully. You're mean. You're a sad man with nobody to call his friend or family or anybody who cares for him genuinely. You're nobody. Take away your bat, your jacket, and you're—"

"You're a skull-faced little fuck, you know that, right?" Negan grins.

Carl blinks.

Rick lifts himself with his elbows and knocks Negan back. Legs up, grunting, Negan does his own somersault.

Rick grabs Carl's hand. "Come on. Come on."

They run. They don't go far. Carl's grip is weak, and his fingers are cold. They slip between Rick's fingers, and Rick has to grope for Carl's wrist to keep in contact.

"Dad," Carl says, and eases to a walk. Rick walks, too, and he studies Carl, watching Carl drop his arms to hold his side. Wincing, Carl closes his eye and breathes. He takes in a slow breath.

"What did Negan mean?" asks Rick, once they reach the safety of a dogwood tree. Carl collapses into the trunk. A few leaves fall.

Carl won't look at Rick. He keeps his head down and toes at the roots poking from the soil like fingers. "What are you talking about?"

"Something about you dying, how it was going to happen anyway." Rick's hands rest on his hips. Under this tree, with Alexandria falling around them, Rick finds it easier to breathe, if only for a moment. They stand there, catching their breath, Rick a fool for not seeing the way Carl is acting until now. Exhaustion is obvious, and Rick would go as far as to assume the sweating and pale skin goes hand in hand with the exhaustion. While exhaustion might be obvious, the other obvious cause keeps to the back of Rick's head. He won't think it. He can't think it.

"It will happen," Carl says, and doesn't look at Rick. "You, Judith, me—we're all going to die one day."

"That's not what he made it out to be," Rick counters.

"Fuck him."

"Carl, watch your—"

"No, Dad, listen to me." Finally, Carl looks at Rick. He's crying, trying not to cry. Carl shakes his head, a tear rolling down his cheek, and says, "I'm tired, okay? I'm tired of fighting. I did what I could. I did what I thought was right, and it wasn't enough."

Pain is familiar to Rick now. All down his back, across his shoulders, Rick stands with his hands on his hips because the pain is almost bearable like this. It spreads like wings, like webs from a spider. It sinks inside him. It hurts. Rick swallows. This hurts, too. "What you did tonight, for Alexandria, for our home, you did good." Carl lowers his head. Rick places his hands on Carl's shoulders and coaxes him into raising his head again. "I mean it," he whispers. "Carl, I'm so proud of you. I wish I was here to see you. Next time, I'll be here. I won't leave you again."

Carl isn't looking at him. Carl's looking past him, somewhere between Rick and the air in front of him. More leaves from the tree roam like rain, and Carl's hand on his side drops with them, down to his waist, and absently curls under the hem of his shirt. Rick's own fingers curl, a tight grip on Carl's shoulders. He says, "When this is all over, we'll be a family again. Nobody, except Negan, has to die. You don't have to die. You don't have to become a martyr for this."

The fingers that dance along the hem of Carl's shirt aren't as absent anymore. Carl hangs his head, squeezing his eye shut. He doesn't look up when Rick begins to shake him. "Carl," he urges, wanting to say something else, but Carl says something now, a whisper, barely anything—"Dad."

Carl removes the bag from his shoulder, letting it drop to the grass, and lifts the edge of his shirt. Rick's eyes drag down, slowly widening at every inch Carl uncovers. In slow motion, Rick doesn't understand what he's looking at until Carl digs his nails under the bandage on his waist, on his right side, on his fucking blind spot, and reveals a bite mark. As clean as a bite mark can be, Carl shows it to Rick, and he doesn't cry. Rick cries. Carl sniffs. "I was helping the guy from the gas station. I know you told me not to do that, but I did. His name's Siddiq. I'm really sorry, Dad."

The urge to slap the bandage back on the wound overwhelms Rick. Out of sight, out of mind; everything will be okay. His hands tremble. He feels sick. "Don't be… you don't have to be sorry." Rick covers his face, his mouth. He can't stand upright. He crouches. He falls on his ass. "You don't have to apologize."

But Carl says it again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

This time, when Rick opens his mouth, another voice emerges. The voice is behind Rick. Paired with a slow dragging of feet, the voice belongs to Negan, who hasn't made his way through the Alexandria gates. Close and not close at all, Negan stands in that relaxed way of his and glances between Rick and Carl. "Hey," he says, a repeat of his first greeting. "Hey, hey, I—"

Carl hastily covers the bite and tugs his shirt back down. "I told you to leave."

Rick hides his face in his arms, his legs broken pedestals.

"Let me help you," Negan asserts, stomping the ground with Lucille, still repurposed as a walking cane. "We can fix this. We have a doctor at the Sanctuary. It won't, like… it won't stop the infection from spreading, but, hell, you don't have to be in any pain."

The blood on Negan's face is dry. Rick wants to open those cuts and watch the dams break. He stands with all the dignity he has left, meaning to provide a reply. Carl replies. He screams at Negan. "I told you to leave!"

"Carl, Goddamnit, I'm trying to help you!" Negan shouts back, his lip bleeding now, splitting on its own accord. "As fucked up as this is going to sound, I do actually give a shit about you, and you shouldn't be in any pain until… until… Just—fuck, please, let me do something."

"You can fuck off!"

Rick's intervention is a surprise. He rises silently, Carl speaking around him as if Rick is nothing more than a lean tree. When Rick speaks, Carl immediately furrows his brow, and then when Rick's words sink in, he grows furious. "Dad," he hisses, somehow able to portray pure anger after such sheer resignation.

The wave of Rick's hand makes Carl scoff again. Rick tries not to let that bother him. This is important. This is important.

"Would you really?" Rick asks. It's tough to swallow. "Would you really help us?"

Negan answers with no hesitation. "Yes," he says, and means it.

Rick believes him.

Carl lets a frustrated groan escape. He throws up his hands. "Dad, he will literally say anything right now. He's a liar."

"Ah, ah, ah." Negan wags a finger. Hip cocked, he thrusts that finger at Carl. "I am a number of things, but a liar I am not, and I am deeply offended you think that of me." He takes a step forward, and then another step. His feet drag. Shoulders low, a bend to his knees, Negan is not himself. But Negan is himself. He stares at Rick, not Carl, because Carl won't cooperate, Carl won't do anything—Rick is here, and Rick looks at Negan and sees genuine concern and the desire to do good. It's the tears in his eyes, leftover from the fight and growing anew. "I saw a truck. I can drive. Let me help," he says, and he says, "Please." Negan is himself, just with more blood and tears.

Rick nods. Words fail him.

Behind him, Carl begins to shake his head. He's silent, though, and he closes his eye and breathes. Breathing is all he can do. Rick wraps his arm around Carl's shoulders and nods again, a gesture for Negan. Negan takes it in stride. "Follow me."

The truck in question resides outside Alexandria's gates. It's dirty, beat up, and Negan swears it has sufficient gas. He's their limping guide, shuffling along the asphalt and past the burning houses. Crackling and spitting into the night sky, Rick's heart breaks to see his home fall. Around him, above him, soaking into his skin, Alexandria weeps for a savior in the form of one who doesn't come to terrorize it in dark leather.

With houses vacant and Carl leaning against Rick, the sudden surge of worry that cascades deep in Rick's gut forces more tears to run down his cheeks. He knows Carl did all he could. His brave son, Rick knows Carl made sure everybody was safe before he would ever consider himself safe. Rick need only duck their heads together and whisper, "Judith," for Carl to smile a small smile and go, "Michonne has her. It's going to be okay."

Perhaps due to the pain and blood still dripping from select areas, Negan often turns his head to look over his shoulder at them. Meant to be done nonchalantly, like Negan's merely checking out his surroundings, Rick also knows the truth of this. Negan is terrified. He had his own weapon used against him, one he cherished and withheld anybody from touching, holding, using—unless it were absolutely necessary. Rick felt the power of the weapon when Negan visited the first time, and there were many a time where Rick wanted to maintain a stronger grip and bash in the back of Negan's head when his back was turned. That would be effective, but it also would be cowardly. Negan swelled with confidence while he strutted down the roads and halls of the Alexandria territory. He didn't think Rick would have done anything to him as he carried around Lucille. To some degree, he trusted Rick not to do anything stupid.

And Negan is terrified. Even with Lucille kept close, Negan still manages to wrap his mind around the idea Rick has every opportunity to attack. Even as wounded as he is, and with Carl needing him as a support, Negan thinks Rick will kill him. After all, Rick promised him this, and Rick, like Negan, isn't a liar—but Rick wouldn't do it now, he couldn't, not when Negan swore he's able to help Carl. Deep down, Rick knows Carl won't survive long; the thought of him not being in any more pain, though, that's something to hold on to as tight as possible.

Rick doesn't say anything to calm Negan's nerves, allowing Negan to lead them to the truck in fear. Negan turns completely around and walks backwards to reach the driver's side. "Get in," he says, eyes on Rick. A shoulder shrug and a slight pick-up of Lucille, Negan scrambles to the driver's side. The door opens, shuts, and so does the passenger side. Carl climbs inside first, Rick following and keeping an eye on Negan. Lucille between his knees, fingers toying with the sun visor, Negan is uneasy. There's a tremble to his fingers, making it difficult to lift the keys from where they landed in his lap from the visor. Distracted, maybe, Negan doesn't look anywhere but ahead once he starts the car. "The seatbelts are shit," he says, as a form of apology, and quickly adds, "I'll drive real careful."

With Carl in the middle, the grimace on his face is more resembling of a child having to sit between their parents caught in an argument. A mediator of sorts, Carl's eyes are also focused on the road ahead, not turning his head one way or the other, and keeping the palm of his hand flat against his shirt, where the bite taints his system.

Rick trains his eyes on Carl and even flicks the occasional glance to Negan. Bouncing back and forth, Rick grunts, an acknowledgment of Negan's declaration of safety, and loops his arm around Carl's waist. All notions of embarrassment cast aside in response to literally dying, Carl slumps into Rick's side, placing Rick's sheriff hat on the dash and bowing his head, his cheek to Rick's shoulder. The pressure hurts. When Rick winces, Negan mirrors the wince, and then acts as if the contagion is anything but. "We, uh"—Negan scratches the back of his head—"really beat each other up, didn't we?"

"Just drive," Rick says, and rolls down the window.

For once in his life, Negan chews on his retort. He does as he's told, easing them from Alexandria and into the night. Smoke has no trouble leaving them once they push further and further from the place they tried desperately to make their home. Now the houses scream to be drenched, the people scream to be left alone, and Rick wants to scream about how life is so unfair.

Carl scoots closer to him, forcing more of a bridge from the Grimes family and Negan. Negan's attention is elsewhere. He has his right hand loosely wrapped around the steering wheel at twelve o'clock, his left fumbling for a packet of cigarettes in one of the many pockets of his leather jacket. The packet in question is crushed, sat on too many times and beat to hell with Lucille. It's filled, though, with enough cigarettes to satisfy the trip to the Sanctuary. He drives too fast, but the road is clear, and Rick is retired. Negan lights the cigarette, that wince on his face as he curls those busted fingers around the flame of his lighter. "Want one, kid?" he asks, dropping the lighter in a pocket and returning his hand to the wheel. "They're fucking great for the pain."

"Piss off," Carl grumbles.

Negan laughs. "Good answer. You raised him right, Rick."

"Don't talk about my parenting skills," Rick says, abrupt, too sharp. He presses his elbow on the car door, digging into the window, and says, "Is the Sanctuary safe?"

"Wouldn't be named that if it wasn't."

"Shut up."

Flicking ashes from the end of his cigarette, Negan punctuates the action with a "sorry" and his eyes reconnecting with the road. A headlight flickers. Rick closes his eyes and holds onto Carl just a little bit tighter. "Drive faster," he dares to say, and Negan, still flicking the filter of his cigarette with his thumb, just nods his head and presses down the gas pedal. Rick keeps his eyes shut and his arm around Carl. He's driven this fast before. The open roads of the post-apocalyptic world beckon for it. It's freeing, even after all these years of being a police officer and having to hide behind corners and in parking lots in order to scan for troublemakers going five over the limit. But even after all these years, Rick finds the speed and the air hitting his face a sometime terror, one that he ascribes to seeing what happened to the vehicle that ultimately led to his coma. The fear of hitting something in the road and turning over is a worry Rick does not want to have, especially now, especially with Carl as pale and shaking and feverish as he is now.

Negan said he would be careful. Rick trusts him. It's all he has.

It's dark.

Negan lets his cigarette burn out.

Broken windows, a destroyed gate, and crumbling walls, the Sanctuary doesn't live up to its name as it did days before. Weak and abandoned, the building calls for all to gawk at and laugh. Rick clutches Carl's shoulders as he straightens in his seat to peer out the front windshield. "Are you kidding me?" Carl asks, fighting Rick's futile attempt to shove him back down in a state of rest.

"Kid."

"I bet there's nobody in there. You drove us out here and—"

Without bothering to shut off the engine, Negan grabs Lucille and pushes the car door open. No words leave him. His eyes are narrowed, and his jaw is set, and if he had stayed any longer to hear the remainder of what Carl formulated on the way up here, Negan's voice would go raw from all that would be said. Instead, Negan steps from the vehicle, Lucille on his shoulder and not by his legs, and walks into the ruin of his home. He moves with a confidence that his people must see him in at all times. He cannot be weak. He cannot lose himself to any emotion other than pure rage and irritation. These are fear tactics. This is what makes Negan a good leader, in his eyes.

Carl sniffs. "Dad, even if there is a doctor here…" The end of the sentence falls flat, something that makes Rick both fill with relief and dread.

"You're going to be okay," Rick says, because the alternative, no matter expected, hurts too much to admit. Rick stares at Carl and the pink flush to his face and tries, tries, tries not to think about eating pancakes together all those years ago with Lori and the sun shining through the window and not a single thought about the dead rising in anybody's heads. He tries not to do this, and he does this anyway. "Carl," he whispers, a break in his voice. Carl shakes his head, closes his eye, and lets Rick hug him, rock him. Side to side, back and forth, a slow sway, sway, sway, Rick washes Carl's hair with the tears on his face and pays no mind to Negan climbing back into the truck. He rubs Carl's back, presses a kiss to the crown of Carl's head, and only then does he look to Negan to see the befuddled furrow of his brows and the tension in his jaw.

Calmly placing Lucille between his knees again, Negan takes the wheel at nine and three and says, "The doctor's gone." Before Rick or Carl can reply, he adds, "And so is that priest. They left. They weren't supposed to leave." The storm taking over, Negan pounds his palm against the wheel, right at twelve o'clock, and subsequently cries out in pain because it's his right hand. Because of the excessive abrasions on that hand, Rick doesn't think it likely Negan would forget so easily. The alternative this time, while concerning Negan—a man Rick could care less if he were to die on any other given day in the worst way possible, is tough to swallow.

"Hey," Rick says, Carl providing the hand-to-elbow contact he wanted to do.

Negan yanks the car into drive.

"Do you know where they would go?" asks Rick.

Negan's pinched nose and pursed lips are a sign of determination and possible violence. "I have a damn hunch Dr. Carson would go back to the Hilltop." Ignoring the glances Rick and Carl share, Negan stomps on the gas and reverts to the speed they were traveling at before. The trees are huge black masses, their limbs like arms trying to stop them. "So, Rick, what are the fucking chances the widow's gonna let me through those gates?"

Maggie would toss Negan on his ass and take his truck for herself. She would make him run before her men start shooting at his feet. She may even take him hostage, seeing this as a perfect opportunity to cease the war.

Maggie is smart.

Rick says, "She might let you in."

Negan's nod is slow. He runs his tongue over his lips, pulling the bottom one into his mouth to gnaw. "We'll be there soon. I… I'm really sorry…"

It takes Carl returning to the security of Rick's chest for Rick to stop himself from accepting Negan's apology. This moment was brief. Rick held eyes with Negan, Negan said, "I'm really sorry," and Rick opened his mouth to say something he would no doubt later regret. But Carl was here. He's here. Carl's still here, and Rick winds both arms around him and squeezes lightly, and then squeezes more tightly to quell the shiver of Carl's core.

"Just get some rest," Negan suggests, patting his chest and stomach for another cigarette. His search ends quickly. A flame emerges after several flicks. Rick doesn't want to find out what would happen if it lights up for the last time.

Rest is unfathomable. Closing his eyes is one thing. Allowing his body to relax completely as Negan barrels down the road is another. But with the headlight flickering again and Negan puffing on that cigarette, Rick's head hangs and his eyes shut. The ride is the furthest thing from peaceful, and yet the rough and tumble drive is more of a cradle for the inhabitants than a machine equipped to run over people who are not people anymore. Negan runs over a few of those. That's peaceful, if anything.

The lull of the engine is a song to aid sleep. When it vanishes, the only natural response is to awaken, and awaken Rick does. Carl still stuck to him like a glue made from sweat and sickness, Rick's neck aches. His own hand covered with a sheen of sweat, Rick rubs his fingers into the side of his neck. Small, delicate circles do nothing. Rick presses on.

Dark all around them, the road ahead empty, trees waving, and no traces of cigarette smoke, their truck isn't moving; the engine isn't running. The man Rick trusted to get his son help in a timely manner is currently having a rest of his own.

Forehead pressed to twelve o'clock and hands gripping nine and three, Negan's eyes are open as he stares at nothing. He shakes a little, that much Rick can see from two seats over. Rick thinks Negan might be mumbling, too, but it's low, spoken like a secret, and Negan stops immediately once he hears Rick clearing his throat.

"What?" Negan deadpans, reluctantly raising his head from the steering wheel. Robotic in movement, Negan turns to look at Rick. Rick sees tears in his eyes. He doesn't say anything about that.

He says, "Did we run outta gas?"

Negan says, "No."

Rick says, "Experiencing car trouble?"

Negan says, "No."

Rick says, "Then why the hell have we stopped?"

Slightly clenching his jaw, a move that occurs in under a minute, Negan accompanies this with a head tilt and a narrow of his eyes. Rick imagines he's about to flash those teeth of his, wiggle those eyebrows, and make a comment with lewd implications. Negan doesn't. No, not at all like Rick's assumptions, Negan's chin quivers, and he whispers, "I needed a moment to think."

"Think?" Rick asks, like it's preposterous for Negan to do such a thing.

"Yes, think—y'know, the only totally acceptable time to talk to yourself—"

"I know what it means." Rick scowls at Negan's grin. There's that grin. Rick's stomach grows hot. "Just… I, I meant to say… What were you thinking about that made you pull over?"

Negan turns the key in the ignition, the engine purring immediately. A blessing in disguise, Negan uses this brief moment to establish a firmer grip on the steering wheel. His hand, however gnarled the leather may be, holds on tight. "Why hasn't he fucking turned yet?" he asks, then, casting a glance in Carl's direction, the teen still occupying Rick's lap as if he were a small child again. Complete with Rick's hand brushing his hair from his face, Carl finally sleeps peacefully—a feat Rick is thankful for and also terrified.

"I've seen men twice his size go out like that," Negan says, not even attempting to snap with beaten fingers. "I've seen women and children hang on. That bite of his looks bad, Rick; it's gotta be at least—what—a day? Or about? He's fucking worn out. He's—"

"What's your point, Negan?"

Shrinking in his jacket, Negan says, "I don't know. What if he's immune?"

The silence is staggering.

Negan shakes his head. "Sorry. I'm… Rick, I—"

"Negan—"

"It's overwhelming—"

"—just drive."

"Are we close?" Negan inches back onto the road, looking both ways and continuing to do his best to drive as carefully as possible.

Rick's confusion is expected, but it passes. He sets his hand on Carl's shoulder and copies Negan—looking both ways, and then doing it again. "Yeah, we're close."

"How close are we, Rick?" Negan asks, a hint of that smile on his face, deepening at Rick's rolling eyes and pointed stare out the window with his fist to his mouth. "I'm trying to lighten the mood here!" Negan says, shrugging, shaking his head again. "Sometimes it's… hell, Rick, if you want to sulk over there instead of crack a few jokes—"

"Fuck off."

Negan pats his pockets for a cigarette. He doesn't reply, doesn't look at Rick. The skin on his face is pale—a little worrying, but Rick's concern flips to Carl beginning to stir. Fingers into fists, Carl rubs the sleep from his eye with a groan and a grunt. "I bet Maggie will be surprised to see us," he says, not attempting to avoid Negan's leg when stretching his own.

A glance over, Negan lights up a cigarette.

Carl wrinkles his nose. "She'd be even more surprised to see you."

Dropping his lighter into his pocket, Negan allows a slow stream of smoke to pillow his lap. He can't even smile, can't crack a joke. He drives, and Carl leans against Rick, and Rick, with his hand still to his mouth, watches the trees outside dissipate into surroundings familiar. Welcoming to a degree, Rick's heart races at the sight of those gates, two bodies guarding with guns raised and pointed at their approaching vehicle. It chills Rick, makes his aching bones ache tenfold.

"For the sake of everybody's safety," he says, Negan shutting off the ignition, "Carl and I will go first. We'll ask for Maggie. You can… you can…"

"I'll stay here." Negan's hand finds Lucille. He holds her around the handle, fingers scraping against the barbed wire. "I'll stay here," he repeats, and aims his cigarette smoke exhale into his lap again. He switches off the headlights. "Go."

Time ticks by quickly. Rick shoves the passenger-side door open, hopping out and turning on his heel. Carl gets down more slowly, but he's open, vulnerable, and he lets Rick take him by the waist to lift him from the truck and set him on the ground. His legs wobble. He loses his balance. Rick throws his arm around Carl's torso, mindful of the bite, and Carl, grimacing, says, "I'm okay. Let's go."

It doesn't dawn on either Rick or Carl about the possibility of Negan leaving. In possession of a vehicle and all intentions to escape with his life, Negan could very well start the ignition and disappear never to be found until the next wave in their makeshift war. And yet, Negan stays, watchful, and he swipes his tongue over his lips and takes another drag from his cigarette.

The guards keep their guns aimed at Rick and Carl, no nonsense and protective. "Who are you?" one asks, and the other says, "State your business."

"Rick Grimes," Rick says, the guards already gesturing for the gates to open, "and I need to see Maggie."

Despite it being the dead of night, Rick would be surprised if Maggie would need to be roused awake. As they stand in the entranceway, Rick can tell from the residents roaming that something has happened. There's fright and a little apprehensive on the faces of the Saviors Maggie keeps hostage once they realize who entered the Hilltop. Some stand defiant. Some return to sleeping. And Gregory, he sits there on the ground like the broken prick he is. He doesn't even bother to get on his two feet and plead with Rick. Maybe he's gotten to his senses.

Maybe it's just Maggie.

She's running toward Rick and Carl now, still dressed in street clothes and trying to determine the trouble from scanning their own clothing. "Rick," she says, "what's wrong? Did somethin' happen?" She fears the worst, and rightfully so. She's encountered her own trouble. Trouble can be contagious. "Is it Negan? Did he—?"

"It's Carl," Rick says, rushed, finding it hard to breathe. "Carl, he"—Carl's staring at him, he's staring at Rick, and it's hard to talk—"Did Dr. Carson happen to come by? With Gabriel, too?" Rick doesn't think they'll need the priest, but just in case—just in case.

"He came back just an hour or so ago. Said Eugene helped them get out." Maggie looks to Carl. "Are you hurt badly?" She examines him by sight alone, hoping to see a twisted ankle, a broken arm, but aside from the clear signs of fatigue and fever, she can't make heads nor tails of what could possibly be wrong with Carl. She isn't thinking of the obvious. The obvious isn't obvious. It shouldn't be—not anymore.

Carl's breath comes in rattles. It's hard for him, too. "I got bit. On my side. It's… I…" Drifting off, he shuts his eye.

He doesn't offer any more proof. He doesn't show off the bite. He tells Maggie, and he leans against Rick, and he welcomes Maggie's hug when she launches herself at him. Shaking, stifling back her own tears, she snakes an arm around Rick's neck and pulls him close. Heads pressed together, with Carl at her shoulder, Maggie whispers into Rick's ear, "Oh, my God, Rick, I am so sorry."

Rick has no words.

"I don't know if Dr. Carson can do anythin' to stop the…" She pauses, wiping her face. "We're going to do our best to make sure you aren't in any pain."

She can't say it. Rick can't either.

Carl says, "Okay."

A guard screams, "Stop walking! Drop your weapons! Hands up!"

Maggie's the first to confront the intruder. The gate's still open, the newcomer standing merely feet from them. Standing with both arms raised weakly by their sides, fingers awkwardly curled, the pose reeks of low self-confidence, and when the guards turn flashlights onto them, their arms coming up to shield their eyes seems more cowardly than trying not to go blind. It's because of the blood on their hands, on their nose, on their shirtfront. It's because of the baseball bat on the ground, a sheriff's hat next to it.

It's because this is Negan.

Maggie is in front of him in seconds, pouncing like a lioness, and she stands there with wide eyes and teeth bared. "What do you think you're doing here?"

"Kid forgot his hat."

"No," Maggie says, firm, standing with a straight spine and her hands out in front of her. "I'm not in the mood to deal with you or your antics. Now, I'm going to give you a choice because we're dealing with a situation at the moment. You can leave now, and I won't ask my guards to shoot you. But if you stay here, I'm gonna throw you in that pen with the rest of your men, and—just a hunch—but I don't think they'll be happy to see you."

Negan's eyes dare to flick over her shoulder, and Maggie grabs one of his arms, still feebly raised in a mock form of protection. "Don't look at him," she hisses, and pulls Negan in close to get them on the same level. "You don't get to look at him."

Acting as if she's his mom grabbing him by the ear, Negan twists around to try to free his arm. "Uh, I—Maggie, right? Your name's Maggie?"

No answer.

Negan shrinks and stops squirming. "Maggie, I, uh, I drove them here. I wanted to help them. No father should—no parent should have to see their kid in pain." He's desperate. "You're… you're pregnant, yeah? How would you feel if that was your kid, all grown up and about to bite the fucking dust? Wouldn't you be a little kinder to the guy who helped him to safety?"

Maggie doesn't skip a beat. "Maybe if the guy who helped him to safety didn't bludgeon my husband to death."

And Negan doesn't skip a beat either. His response is no more verbal than it is physical. With those flashlights shining down on them like spotlights, the shine in Negan's eyes is undeniably pathetic. Whether it's intentional or not, Rick can't be for certain. He sees Negan's chin quivering in a harsh attempt at trying to control what comes from his mouth for the first time in his life.

Negan says, "You have no idea how much I regret that. That didn't need to happen."

Cold, Maggie reminds him, "Well, it did." Sliding a foot back, she pivots her body to keep Negan in her peripheral version as she reverts her attention to Rick. Arms over her chest and soft eyes, she asks him, "What he's saying, is it true?"

Rick doesn't provide a response right away, and Carl has to tilt his head down to his chest to make sure Negan can't see the way he's trying to hold in laughter. Carl knows Negan deserves to sweat a little, and Rick is all for making him stand there and anxiously shift his weight from foot to foot.

In her own way, Maggie also knows what Rick's doing. She sucks the inside of her cheek into her mouth, chewing on a giggle. "Do you vouch for this man?" she says, once her voice won't betray her inner workings.

Negan's knees look as if they might buckle at any moment. A drop of blood falls from his knuckles when he curls his fingers into fists. It isn't done out of anger. Negan's scared. He's in pain and no doubt worried over not being able to mooch off Dr. Carson's expertise when Carl's condition is more or less stable. Rick can't really blame him. He's aching and throbbing, too, and in need of a bed. But he's also not complaining and not looking out for himself. He has his mind set to Carl and only Carl. He needs taken care of first, and only then will Rick begin to consider his own well-being. Negan can wait to do the same, and judging by the way he's still looking at Rick and Carl, with those dark eyes of his, Rick thinks, for the first time in his life, they might be on the same page.

"I vouch for him," Rick says.

Negan's smile splits his face in two. "For forever and always, Rick?"

Rick frowns. "Don't push it."

Rolling her eyes to accompany Rick's reaction, Maggie says, "Follow me. Dr. Carson's in here. He's tendin' to Gabriel right now, but he'll make time for Carl."

"What's wrong with Gabriel?"

"I dunno. He's sick. Won't say anything else."

Carl's grasp for independence extends here, as Rick expects it. Feet dragging along the grass, arm not so casually strung along Rick's shoulders, each step away from their truck and toward Dr. Carson's trailer is a task meant to be done on better days. Carl winces often. Rick wants to pull him in closer, maybe even lift him from the ground entirely, but Rick knows neither of them would be able to handle that. The last time Rick picked Carl up, Carl was unconscious and bleeding from a gunshot to the face. Rick was running on adrenaline. Rick is tired now. His body screams for him to sit down, to close his eyes, to prop his legs up. He wants to sleep. He can't sleep, not now, not until Carl is safe.

Maggie enters the trailer first, holding the door open for them. She watches, bottom lip in between her teeth. They take it a step at a time. Carl winces more. Rick tells him, "It's okay. We're almost there."

Three steps to go, Carl missteps, and Rick's arm tightens out of instinct. If Carl goes down, he's prepared to go down with him. It isn't needed. Carl doesn't fall.

"No depth perception," Negan mumbles, his hand on Carl's elbow. Having followed them with little sound, the sight of him surprises Rick if only for a second. He turns his head to stare at Negan, on a single stair behind them, Lucille rolling down the stairs and his hat kept under Negan's arm. "Watch it, kid," Negan advises, and repeats Rick's sentiment. "You're almost there."

Another surprise, Carl gives Negan a nod and says, "Thanks," with no malice whatsoever.

Negan doesn't take Carl's manners for granted. He also doesn't push it. Nothing else said, Negan removes his hand from Carl's vicinity and instead fetches Lucille. Maggie's eyes never stray from him, and rightfully so. If she weren't wary about the Savior's presence, she'd be a fool. Rick's suspicion dilutes. He's tired. Negan's tired. Nothing more than passive-aggressive glares will happen tonight.

And even that, Rick can't be positive it'll take place. Once Rick and Carl step into the trailer, Maggie waits before Negan nudges his way in until she ducks inside and shuts the door behind them. She's keeping watch of him, Rick knows, and so does Negan. Her allowing Negan here, though, despite circumstance and history, is respectable. Negan won't take this for granted either. He'll learn to shift the weight of his persona to the bottoms of his worn-in boots instead of finding it in the arch of his spine and the raising of his eyebrows.

A deaf man would be able to hear the sound of four people shaking the interior of the trailer with their feet. Demanding and a little scary, Rick's the main perpetrator of the sudden rampage. Carl bends in half, forehead to his knees, and groans. With that haunting sound echoing in Rick's ears, his feet shuffling, and his arms coming around to finally give in and lift Carl from the floor, Rick turns the first corner he sees and nearly plows down Dr. Carson.

Dr. Carson is disturbed to see them, and even more so to see Negan among them. But Negan stays behind, letting Maggie step in front of him in their makeshift line. Rick leads with Carl in toll, pumped with adrenaline and ready to race cross country if needed to save his son. Carl weakly whimpers, chin quivering, his hand white-knuckled as he clutches his side. "Please," Rick says, before Dr. Carson can make any assumptions. His assumptions would be wrong, as Maggie's were wrong. Nobody would have been able to guess this. Nobody would be able to fathom Carl being bit.

"Please," Rick repeats, soft and ragged and not bothering to stop himself from crying in front of the doctor. "He's been bit. I know you can't stop the infection, but please… please do something about the pain."

The solution to the pain is as obvious as anything in this damned world, but this is something Rick can't stand. His hands shake at the thought of that. He pleads with Dr. Carson. Stumbling over his words and beginning to shake even more, Rick isn't much to assert his authority here. The doctor stares at him dubiously, hands stiff at his waist. He knows the solution is obvious, and has administered it himself before, as they all have done before. Yet, he nods. Yet, he says, "I have a free bed. I'll see what I can do."

Maggie takes over. She helps Rick with Carl, a hand on Carl's back once they enter the vacant room. The bed is stripped bare—no blankets, no ornaments. Rick doesn't want to lay Carl on that surface. He deserves better, but they're forced to make do.

Maggie's ready to take half of Carl's weight for herself. Rick says, "You don't have to do that," at the same moment Maggie tells him, "Be quiet."

From the doorway, scared to walk further into the trailer than allowed, Negan pipes up, "Want some help with him?" Timid and paired with Negan dropping Lucille to the floor and tossing Rick's hat onto a nearby chair, the offer is one Rick should be able to outright decline. Rick discovers this is difficult to do. Maggie, on the other hand, doesn't find this hard to do at all.

"We're good," she says, not as harsh as she would like to be.

Negan holds up his hands.

Rick stares at Negan's hands. He looks away and eases Carl onto the bed with Maggie as an aide.

Carl wastes little time in stretching out his legs and trying on the bed for size. Regret is plain on his face. He curls into himself again, arms tight around his stomach, eye squeezed shut, and groaning that terrible groan again. "Dad," he utters, trying to look at Rick without the assistance of a pillow.

"I need to take a look at the bite," Dr. Carson says, apologetic look to his face. Moving Carl with no pain seems unlikely at this point, but Maggie is gentle. When she grabs the hem of Carl's shirt to begin the unveiling, she takes this an inch at a time. Rick places his hand on Carl's shoulder, a reassuring touch. Negan still has his own hands up in front of him. His eyes haven't left Carl.

Dr. Carson slowly peels the bandaging from the bite. Somehow, he doesn't allow his face to betray the way the wound has started to smell. Chewing on the inside of his cheek and scanning the area with quick back-and-forth glances, Dr. Carson says, "I'm going to need to clean it to better see the damage."

"Dad," Carl tries again, albeit stronger this time.

Rick runs his hand up to Carl's head and pushes Carl's hair from his face, thumb stroking the thick gauze wrapped around his skull.

Carl refuses to submit to the soothing gesture. He says, "You need to go back to Alexandria—"

"I can't do that," Rick whispers.

"Dad, you have to—"

"No."

Carl rolls his eye, turning it from Rick to watch Dr. Carson fill a plastic pink tub with water. Rick is unsuccessful in not thinking of Carl as anything more than a child.

"Okay," Rick says, low, "I, I, I go back to Alexandria, and I do what? Make sure everybody's safe?"

"No, I already did that." Carl parts his lips. He doesn't look at Rick. "I need you to bring Michonne here."

Rick furrows his brow. "Michonne?"

Carl blinks. He blinks again. Dr. Carson sets the tub of water on the nightstand. Carl curls his fingers against the loose material of his shirt, holding it out of the way. "Michonne and I agreed that… that… if something happened to one of us—"

It doesn't take long before Rick's furiously shaking his head and finding it hard to see from how thick the tears build along his eyes. "No, Carl. You're not—you're not thinkin'. Nothing's going to happen to you. Michonne doesn't need to—"

"I know you won't be able to—"

"Carl, you—"

"Dad, please—"

The hand that leaves Carl's hair flies into Rick's own. Bloody knuckles and stiff joints, Rick's fingers tug at the roots of his hair and refuse to let up. Carl is speaking to him, and so is Maggie. Dr. Carson says something, too. He seems expectant. Rick looks at each of them, and he even dares to look at Negan. Negan's much closer to them than when Rick last saw him. He came closer once Rick began to sob, and he has a hand outstretched toward Rick. Rick debates on taking that hand. He doesn't know what he'd do with it, or what Negan's planning either. Rick sees flames before him. He knows it isn't Negan's fault, but Rick wants to make Negan's nose bleed again.

And then, Negan touches his shoulder and shoves him down, down, down and into a chair.

The flames extinguish.

Rick stares at Negan.

Negan says nothing.

His sheriff hat digging into his side, Rick lowers his head into his hands, elbows on his knees, and breathes. In, out… in, out… Negan returns his hand to Rick's shoulder, curving along to Rick's shoulder blade, and rubs. The motion isn't gentle by any means. In some small fashion, it's comforting.

Rick breathes. Negan rubs.

Maggie studies them both and says to Carl, "We'll make sure your final wishes are carried out, when the time comes."

Carl's "thank you" comes out strained from the agonizing pressure of Dr. Carson wiping a damp washcloth along the bite. Dr. Carson quickly mutters an apology and adds, "It's going to hurt more."

Carl nods, understands.

Maggie weakly smiles. She first saw Carl in a state of similar despair. A boy, amazed by a deer, with bullets in his chest, Maggie watched her father perform miracles on him. She watched Rick give blood every chance he had.

She watches Rick now. "Rick, can I speak with you for a moment?"

Negan's hand drops from Rick's shoulder. Rick would be lying if he said he didn't miss it.

Upon standing, Negan claims the chair as his own, sinking into the cushion and crossing one leg over the other. He sets Rick's hat on his lap. His eyes don't leave Carl and Dr. Carson. And he continues to be quiet.

Down the hallway and into the common area of the trailer, Maggie and Rick stand a foot apart from each other. Maggie's arms are over her chest. Rick forgets how to breathe without his chest hurting.

"I don't know how I feel about him being here," Maggie says, the topic of conversation one not needing to be named. "He showed up to Alexandria, didn't he?"

Rick nods. He says, "I came too late. Carl had… Carl talked to him. His men set Alexandria on fire."

Maggie bows her head.

"But they left him behind."

Maggie frowns. "What?"

"They set fire to the houses," Rick says, "and then when things got bad, they left him, like they always do. He… He stayed behind and found us. He saw Carl's bite and said he'd take us to a doctor. Dr. Carson wasn't at the Sanctuary. So, he drove us here." Rick knows he might be rambling. He doesn't have a course of action. He can't see into the future. He can't even see what's going to happen in the next hour.

Heavy boots make their way through the trailer. The footsteps, while attempting to be light, alert Rick to the worst possible route. He breaks free of Maggie's conversation to spin around on the balls of his feet. He means to meet those boots halfway. However, the sight of Negan standing without Lucille anywhere near him, and as broken as he is, sends Rick into a frozen silence. He stops moving, stops thinking—just stands there and stares at Negan as Negan stands there and stares at him.

"Dr. Carson wanted to talk to you." Negan tosses up his arm and jams his thumb in the direction of Carl's room.

Rick moves without a sound. Maggie follows. Negan is the rear.

Carl is in the same position as Rick left him—curled up on his side, his arm clinging to his shirt, and the bite exposed to let the world know Rick failed as a father. Cleaned as well as a bite can be cleaned and red around the edges of each individual tooth marking, Rick knows the thing is infected, and he knows it isn't going to take that much longer until Carl becomes someone Rick never wanted to see him become in this lifetime or the next.

Dr. Carson is by the bed, wringing the dried blood from the washcloth. When Rick enters the room and takes a seat in the chair again, he begins talking. "It's infected, obviously. I cleaned it. Disinfected… what I could. It might not work. I'd say we give it a few days, and then we'll… assess the situation from there." He sounds doubtful from all ends.

Rick takes Carl's hand. Carl is pale. Carl is cold and shivering.

"What can I do?" Rick asks.

The dreaded "there's nothing you can do" lies on the tip of Dr. Carson's tongue. Looking at Rick the way he does, it's even there in the way he blinks and looks away to focus his hands and mind on continuing to wring out an already wrung out washcloth. He says, "You can be there for him." This causes Rick to squeeze Carl's hand tighter. Carl's attempt at returning the gesture is less than hopeful.

"I'm going to bandage up the bite and give him some antibiotics and pain medication," Dr. Carson continues. "He's exhausted. This will help him sleep."

"Thank you," Rick says. His dirty thumb against Carl's knuckles should be enough of an indicator for Rick to pull away and ask to dip his hands in that pink tub of water—and it isn't at the same time. He continues to rub Carl's knuckles and tries to smile a smile that doesn't betray the way his stomach twists and twists and twists.

Carl says, "Dad, can you help me with—?" The rest of the request finishes with Carl shrugging upward to his head, his ear. He points to the gauze around his skull. He doesn't sleep with it. Carl wants to sleep.

Rick gets up from the chair and leans over the bed. Carl lifts his head the best he can, no doubt sore, and Rick unravels the bandaging the best he can, sore to hell and back along with Carl—all for all the wrong reasons.

The gauze sticks to Rick's fingers. Flicking proves futile, as they attach to another finger once their original owner casts them away. It doesn't matter right now, not exactly. Carl will use new gauze in the morning, when he wakes. Rick will help him with that, too. He'll be here. He won't leave Carl until he's well again.

Carl's eye is a sight that continues to disturb anybody who sees it. Time heals all wounds, and time is not kind. If Carl allows his hair to hang in his face, he wouldn't need the thick gauze to hide the hole in his head. Rick considers this unfamiliar, even after how long it's been since the bullet struck his face. Carl wears the bandage as a form of protection for everyone, including himself. The skin around the hole is as pink as the bite on Carl's side, but not due to an infection. Scar tissue refusing to heal in a proper manner, Rick touches the skin with the pad of his thumb. Cradling Carl's face with the hand not currently entwined with the gauze, Rick smiles, and Carl smiles with him.

The hole in Carl's head is deep and black, a void waiting for the reintroduction of an eyeball. Maybe if they weren't stuck in this world of pain and loss, maybe if they found an ophthalmologist, maybe if things didn't turn out like they did, then maybe Rick could just be saying good night to Carl as if this were any other night. He kisses the top of Carl's head, lingering, because he's allowed to do this.

This isn't goodbye.

Rick takes a step back from the bed to allow Dr. Carson to slip forward, fresh bandages in toll. To Rick's right, Maggie takes the gauze from Rick's fingers. She does this with ease. "We don't have any spare trailers at the moment," she says. "There's room in the house, though, and hot water. You can stay there, if you want. I'll understand if you choose not to do that." Collecting the wrappings in her fists, she allows them to tumble into the trash bin on the opposite side of the nightstand before prying open a cabinet next to the sink. Two blankets and a pillow in a light-blue case, Maggie holds them against her stomach as she waits for Dr. Carson to finish. She frowns. She closes her eyes. "And… Negan…"

Leaning on the wall by the door, silent, inconspicuous—and suspiciously so—Negan raises his head to look at Maggie. His eye contact is enough acknowledgment for Maggie to go on.

She says, "I trust Rick's judgment more than anything in the world. I trust him to make sure you don't cause any trouble here. I don't want to put up with any of your bullshit. You hear me?"

"Am I your prisoner?" asks Negan.

"You will be," she tells him, "if you cause any trouble."

Negan lowers his gaze to his boots.

Once Dr. Carson moves out of the way, Carl uses this time to rise onto his elbow and remove his shoes. Rick takes them, gingerly setting them on the floor under the bed. Dr. Carson returns to the bedside to pass Carl a glass of water and a few pills. Rick wonders briefly if they're real medication, or just placebos. A rational part of him knows the supplies they're using on Carl would be better used elsewhere. It wouldn't be farfetched if Dr. Carson decided to feed Carl pills that only worked if believed in hard enough.

Rick smiles at Carl again. As he's handing the glass back to Dr. Carson, Carl smiles, too.

Maggie provides Carl with the pillow and unfolds the blanket for him, draping the second blanket at the foot of the bed in case Carl needs it when no one else is around. Hopeful herself, she says, "Maybe in the morning, you'll feel up to taking a shower. That'll do wonders to make you feel better." She throws a cheeky look at Rick, which Rick returns in jest.

His previous smile never dissipating, Carl's smile extends and becomes as hopeful as Maggie. "Oh, yeah."

"Try to get some rest, okay?" Maggie pulls the blanket up to Carl's chin. Eyes catching on Rick, she repeats this sentiment to him while he sits back down in the chair. "You, too," she says. "You need to sleep, too."

Rick nods, smiles again, and knows Maggie can see right through him. She doesn't chew him out. She doesn't draw attention to this. She asks, "Is there anything else we can do for you before we go to bed ourselves?"

"Thank you," Rick says, and adds, "Could you bring an extra chair in here for my friend, so I can keep an eye on him?"

Dr. Carson handles this, allowing Maggie to stand at the foot of Carl's bed and between Rick and Negan. She stares at Rick, stays silent. Negan's doing absolutely nothing to stop the grin that fans across his face.

The chair Dr. Carson brings in is identical to Rick's chair, pulled from another patient's room to lay stake by the doorway. Negan's about to plant himself in it, but Rick says, "No. Next to me." He even points. Negan shoves his tongue into his cheek and bats Dr. Carson's hand from the chair. He bends low, grabs Lucille, and moves the chair himself. He moves it obnoxiously and loudly, not picking it from the floor, just sending the toes of his boots into the legs until it settles next to Rick, at a diagonal. And then, Negan plants himself. He slumps, head tilted back to stare at Rick, and spreads his legs, stretching one out while the other stays firm as a balance for Lucille's barrel. He doesn't mind the barbed wire against his thigh, but then again, Rick can guess Negan's thigh isn't the only place he's allowed the barbed wire to lay without thought nor judgment.

"Thank you," Rick says again, eyes on Negan.

Negan is smug.

After sharing their own worrisome glances, Maggie and Dr. Carson leave the room. Maggie shutting the door succeeds after her giving a reluctant look to Carl on the bed, but she shuts the door, and Rick and Negan don't break eye contact.

Carl tugs the blanket to his nose. "Don't try to kill each other when I'm asleep. I won't be able to cheer you on."

"I won't kill your daddy, kid." Negan's smile can be seen in the dark. Rick is thankful for the lamp by the nightstand. "I can't say the same for him, though. How about it, Rick? Are you going to kill your friend while your son sleeps?"

Rick narrows his eyes.

Negan smiles more. He straightens up, gesturing to Rick's hat pushed off to the space between Rick's side and the arm of the chair with two fingers. "So, uh, did you used to wear that yourself, or was that something the kid found?"

Negan's sudden curiosity catches Rick off guard. The question is innocent enough, and Negan's expression is scarce of mocking or the future intent to mock. His fingers are still turned to the hat. He stares at Rick, growing less and less open with each passing second of Rick not answering him. The narrowed gaze continuing to inhabit his face, Rick carefully says, "It's my hat. I was a sheriff."

"Oh." Negan presses his lips together to lengthen the word, almost like a whistle. "So, what, just passed it onto the kid when he got older?"

"He got shot."

"I don't follow."

"People who get shot wear the hat," Rick says, tilting his head onto the back of the chair and dropping the hat onto his face as a finalizing position. Light cancels out. Rick listens to Negan laugh. It's airy, full of disbelief.

"You're special, Rick," Negan mumbles.

Rick doesn't reply.

From the bed, Carl says, "Please go to sleep."

Rick says, "I will," and closes his eyes. Carl knows Rick isn't going to get any sleep tonight, no matter how hard Rick tries. As many unrealistic things inhabit this world, Rick being able to sleep is the most unrealistic. He sits there, though. He does. He sits here and tries to sleep. Hat over his face and as comfortable as someone can be in a waiting-room chair, Rick realizes he's not the only one struggling to maintain a sense of relaxation.

A curse, a sigh, and a scuffle of feet, Negan places Lucille across Rick's thighs and stands from his chair. Still blind and a little confused, Rick grabs the bat by its barrel, the barbed wire digging into his fingers. It doesn't bother him—he realizes this, too. Rick tips the hat from his face, holds Lucille that much tighter, and turns his head to see Negan standing over the sink counter on the far end of the room.

Rick doesn't know how much time has passed. Carl is asleep, out like a light, and well enough to lie on his back and not curled into himself. That's reassuring.

There's no burn in Rick's eyes whenever he closes them, but when he stands, his whole body screams. He's slept some, lain dormant, and he regrets it.

Negan looks over his shoulder. "Hey. Come over here and check out this shit."

His tone is nonchalant, but Rick knows Negan is anything but. Rick places the hat on the seat cushion and balances Lucille across the armrests. The barbed wire serves as kick stops.

"What is it?"

On Negan's right, Rick watches Negan curl and uncurl the fingers on the hand Rick pummeled. Leather glove gone and cast aside in a trash bin, Negan does this motion now as a mobility test. Because he winces every time he does this, guilt begins to line the inside of Rick's organs, most notably his stomach. It could also be his heart. Rick feels that drop to his stomach when he hears Negan gasping and fresh blood erupting from faintly healed scabs.

Rick sends his fist into Negan's arm. "Stop doing that. Stand there. Don't move." Trying to be quiet, Rick walks over to the bed and lifts the pink tub from the nightstand. The water inside is room temperature, maybe cooler than that, and the washcloth rests sodden at the bottom. Rick pitches the cloth in the trash as a precautionary measure before standing next to Negan's side again. "Follow me," he says, and starts out of the room.

Negan says, "Oh, I can move now?" He waits no longer than a pause, most likely to glance at Carl. Rick wants him to sleep. Negan wants Rick happy.

Despite Negan's thundering footsteps, Rick considers their move into an unoccupied room a success. Negan closes the door behind them as Rick goes over to the sink. He dumps what water is left in the tub and begins filling it. Negan says, "He took the chair from this room."

"Come here," Rick says, glancing over his shoulder to see Negan surveying the bed. No blankets, no pillows, just a white sheet stretched across the mattress, the bed itself is more gurney than actual bed in terms of comfort. Nobody wants to stay here for long. Nobody wants to get sick in the apocalypse. Carl will be out of here soon—in what way, Rick refuses to think of it. He keeps himself busy. He can do that.

Negan says, "I'm here."

Shutting off the faucet, Rick places the tub on the sink counter. Three-quarters of the way full, the water is as hot as Rick could get it. A nod toward it, Rick tells Negan, "Soak your hand in there." Rick opens a cabinet next, peering inside while Negan peels off his leather jacket and tosses it behind him, on the bed. Rick can't look at Negan, can't look at the bruises and scrapes all the way up his arms. Rick knows he doesn't look much better, beneath his clothes. Negan looks too thin without his jacket. He's not intimidating. He's not scary. Negan is a man trying to make it day by day like Rick.

Negan is gasping again.

"Fuck," he hisses, shaking his injured hand and blinking too much. "That's fucking hot. You trying to boil me alive, Rick?"

"Stop whining." Rick yanks a washcloth and hand towel from a shelf and sets them on the opposite side of the sink. He drops the cloth in the water and pivots, his hip against the counter, his body turned toward Negan, mimicking Negan's posture. The tips of Rick's fingers skim across the surface of the water. He grits his teeth as he dips his hand into the hot mess to grab the washcloth. As soon as he emerges, he wants to be back in the water. From the corner of his eye, Rick sees Negan sinking his fingers up to the first knuckle into the water again.

The water's turning a pink color. Rick wrings out the washcloth and shuffles closer to Negan. No words exchanged, Negan raises his hand, and Rick takes it. Wet skin on wet skin, Rick flicks his eyes up to Negan's face to gauge his reaction to the washcloth peppering his fingers. Rick tries to be delicate. Each dab is gingerly applied. Negan parts his lips, brow furrowing. Rick eases the pressure. Feather light now, Negan's face melts into something softer. It doesn't hurt. Rick bows his head.

Once all the blood is washed away, Rick worries about the Hilltop's bandage supply. Negan's fingers are littered with small cuts that could go without, but then there are larger abrasions that need to be covered with medicine in order to heal properly. Rick drops the washcloth in the water and uses both hands to hold Negan's right hand. Using his thumbs, Rick feels along each finger. He cleans himself by this process, as well as check for any breaks. Whenever Negan shifts his weight, Rick makes note of it. By the end of the inspection, Rick has lost count of how many times Negan expressed his discomfort.

"I think they might be sprained."

"No breaks?" Negan wiggles his fingers in Rick's grasp.

Rick squeezes them in the least malicious way he knows how. "None that I can find. I'm not a doctor."

"You're a sheriff."

Rick lets go of Negan's hand. Negan doesn't stop it from dropping into the water. The water temperature seems okay for him now. He places his left hand in the tub, too, mindful of the wrap around his left wrist. Rick rummages in the cabinet for a first-aid kit.

"Lemme doctor you," Negan says, raising his hands from the tub, the water inside more of a faint brown than pink. He holds up his arms in a typical don't-touch-me-I'm-sterile fashion.

"Don't need to be doctored." Rick places the first-aid kit in front of the hand towel and undoes the clasps.

"Yeah, you do. Look at me."

Rick taps his thumb along the plastic brim of the case.

"Rick," Negan says, not playful, not sing-song. Negan says, "Rick," and Rick turns his head to look at Negan. He's already taking the washcloth from the bottom of the tub and twisting out the excess water. It does no good. It drips. Negan isn't strong enough for that, but Rick's discouraging remarks aren't present. There's silence, white noise. He stares at Negan, and Negan stares at him. "Sorry about the… blood," Negan says, running the washcloth over Rick's cheek. Rick remembers Negan trying to punch him. Rick remembers Negan smearing blood all over him. Negan removes it all, and then some. Rick knows Negan's apology is genuine.

Passing the washcloth to Rick, Negan stands there and allows Rick to give the same treatment to his face. He winces from the attention to his nose, causing Rick to laugh regardless of Rick's better judgment. "That's broken," Rick decides, taking Negan's head between his hands and pressing the pads of his thumbs into the bridge of Negan's nose. Rick laughs more, Negan staring daggers into his forehead. "Definitely broken."

"Stop touching it."

"Why? Does it hurt?"

"Of course it hurts, you sorry shit."

Rick smiles. This feels easy to do. "When did I say I was sorry?"

Hand lowering briefly in the water, Negan scoops some of it into the palm of his hand and lets it drop into the tub again. "Are you ever sorry?" Negan asks, genuine, and raises his hand from the water to touch Rick's face. He runs his fingers through Rick's hair, wetting the curls. The gesture is absent and not absent at all.

"Kinda feel bad for breaking your nose."

"It's not the first time it's been broken." Negan's hands grip the edge of the tub. He stares at the water, and he stares at Rick. "Look, Rick… I know it may not mean much coming from a guy like me, but if I was able to have kids of my own, I'd want them to turn out like your kid."

Rick grabs the tub and pours the water down the sink, the washcloth tumbling out to land in the drain. He throws the hand towel at Negan. He says, "I'm only going to put bandages on the really bad ones."

"Rick—"

But Rick shakes his head and takes out the tube of Neosporin. He unscrews the lid. He shakes his head again.

Negan doesn't try to make things better, if that's even a possible feat in a situation like this. Quietly, careful eyes on Rick, Negan presents his hand to Rick once it's dry and winces only twice at the application of the bandages. Curse words etch their way into the lines of his face. Rick finds them spreading onto his own face, dragging down the corners of his mouth to imitate Negan's expression. They don't talk. They look at each other, both scowling, both… both smiling. Rick smiles first, an involuntary action, and small. Negan's smile is more open, his teeth making an expected appearance.

And still, they don't talk. Negan curls his fingers to test the durability of the bandages as Rick slides the first-aid kit into the cabinet.

After a calculated pause, Negan utters, "I mean it, you know—what I said about your son."

Rick says, "I appreciate it."

"Before, too—when I said how he could be immune. I don't want to get your hopes up—"

"Then shut your mouth."

Negan doesn't. "Rick," he continues, "I will give you my word right here, right now: If your son survives this, I will put aside our differences and do whatever it fucking takes to find a person qualified enough to check what the fuck is in him to make him not turn." Negan steps closer to Rick, injured hand hovering above Rick's elbow, like Negan wants to touch him, to establish a sort of trust through this touch. But he doesn't lay down his hand, and Rick doesn't initiate.

"I mean this," Negan says, and bumps the curve of his arch into Rick's heel. He nods, tilts his head. "If your kid survives this, do you know what this could fucking do to the world? Do you know what could fucking happen?"

"Sounds like you're getting your hopes up," Rick comments.

Negan smiles that infamous smile. "I'm an optimist." He raises his hand and shows it to Rick again, this time not for Rick to see his bandages. It's for Rick to shake his hand. Negan curls his fingers, in anticipation, and winces once. He hides it well.

Rick's hand slips easily into Negan's.

They share another smile, hands still clenched together.

"We need to head back," says Rick, and Negan agrees with no hesitation. Negan grabs his leather jacket from the bed, slinging it over his shoulder. "Maybe when Dr. Carson comes around in the morning, you can ask for an ice pack for your nose," Rick suggests. He folds the hand towel and leaves it on the counter while the washcloth, stained no longer after a gentle wash, remains on the sink. Rick folds that, as well.

"My nose is fucking fine. It's stopped bleeding. Does it look any different?"

Rick can't tell if the bruising beneath Negan's eyes is from the broken nose or exhaustion. "Why don't you stay in here for tonight? There's a bed. You can—"

"No," Negan interrupts, stern and shaking his head. "I'm fucking fine." A sign of aggression, vulgarity from Negan's mouth is often anything but. It's a state of normalcy. If Negan were angry, he wouldn't be walking toward Rick and placing his hand on Rick's back. He wouldn't be pushing Rick to move ahead of him so he can lay both hands on each of Rick's shoulders. He wouldn't be pressing his thumbs into the nape of Rick's neck while whispering, "We'll all be fucking fine."

Lying without pain on his stomach, Carl snores. The peaceful noise burrowing deep into Rick's ears, he wipes his eyes and sinks into his chair. Past Rick, Negan takes a step further to lean into Carl. Rick can't tell what Negan's doing. He preoccupies himself with keeping Lucille upright after transferring her into Negan's chair. Difficult to make her balanced again, Rick gives up as soon as Negan shifts his weight to the heels of his feet and walks backwards until he, too, sinks into his chair.

"His eye," Negan says, pointing, "is fucking badass."

Rick felt as if his stamina would never deplete when he carried Carl across Alexandria, blood running down Carl's face like tears. Rick felt as if he were the Virgin and Carl her child—Pietà reborn.

Negan stretches out his legs, Lucille leaning against his right thigh by her handle. "I told him that, when he stowed away in one of my trucks. I told him to keep that shit uncovered. It'll make people think he was cool and not someone to fuck with." Negan frowns, then, and tilts his chin into his chest. "I even asked if I could touch it. I wish I didn't ask to do that."

Rick studies Carl. Carl's fingers twitch, and drool crawls from the corner of his mouth.

"I wish I didn't make him sing a song for Lucille either. That fucking scared the hell outta him."

"What song?"

"I wish I didn't do a lot of things," Negan admits.

Rick repeats himself. "What song did he sing for you?"

Negan drapes his arm along the armrest, palm up, fingers loose and probably throbbing. His head leans back, lips pursing together to let out a raspberry in thought. "Some, like… Hell, Rick, it was 'You Are My Sunshine'."

Carl's snoring fades.

"You know how it goes, Rick?" Uninjured hand in the air, Negan waves his hand as a baton, as if he can see music notes dancing along a staff when he closes his eyes. "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…" Negan sings, a tune in his voice Rick should have known he'd have. "You make me happy… when skies are gray." Opening his eyes, Negan looks at Rick, his raised hand paused, his injured hand curling its fingers. He looks at Rick, and Rick looks at him.

"You'll never know, dear," Rick succumbs, Negan's eyes closing and his smile as bright as the moon leaking onto their laps, "how much I love you."

"Please don't take my sunshine away," they finish together.

Smile gone, Negan drops his conductor hand and asks, "You like Johnny Cash, Rick?

"I'm from Kentucky," Rick says.

Negan snorts as laughter and immediately regrets it. Both hands to his nose to alleviate some of the pressure with his fingertips, Negan scoots back in his seat to become eye-level with, if not taller than, Rick. Lucille tips forward. The bed braces her fall. Negan is too close to Carl. He's too close to Rick. "Should've known you were a Kentucky boy." Negan pulls his hands from his nose, checks for blood. He sniffs and repeats the process.

Rick watches. "He's all right."

"I like that song about the Ohio River," Negan says. "What was that one called again…?"

"'Banks of the Ohio'," Rick answers, and adds, "I like that one, too."

Negan returns to slouching, returns to showing the ceiling of this room his palm and twitching fingers. "'Oh, sweet Willy… don't murder me. I'm not prepared… for eternity.'"

Rick stretches across the small gap between their chairs and wraps his fingers around Negan's fingers. They're warm in Rick's grasp. He squeezes, rubs, and Negan doesn't wince at all.

"Close your eyes, Rick." Negan's voice is a lullaby. He closes his eyes, and Rick's own drops in a placebo fashion. "Close those baby-blue eyes of yours and dream up a world where we only have to worry about… snagging splinters and what to fix to eat when we wake in the morning."

"Pancakes."

Each of their eyes open and connect if by magnets. Equal height, Rick and Negan nod their heads as a unit. "Pancakes," Negan says, and wiggles his fingers in Rick's hand. At Rick's loosening grip, Negan curls his fingers again—this time to lace between Rick's, this time to re-establish and strengthen. "Close your eyes." Negan whispers this now. "Close your eyes and dream about those pancakes, Rick Grimes."

Rick gnaws on the inside of his cheek. "I was supposed to protect him."

"You've done well, Rick. You've done all you could do. You're a good father."

Negan's words echo in Rick's ears, drumming and drumming until the drumming becomes muted to make room for Carl's snoring again. He stirs in bed, rolling onto his back, and his snoring grows louder, healthier, in a way, and Rick listens to it. He listens in his dreams. In his dreams, he sits by Carl's bed with his hands to his mouth and Negan by his side. Negan speaks to him. No words hit Rick's ears, but Negan's lips move and Negan's hand squeezes Rick's knee. The touch is a burn.

Carl is alive in Rick's dreams.

When Rick opens his eyes, it's to Negan pulling his hand from Rick's, it's to Negan patting his pockets, it's to Negan quietly going, "Hey. Follow me and check this shit out."

Rubbing what sleep he managed to get from his face, Rick acts on automatic. It's dark outside, but the moon is hiding in plain sight. "Are you okay?" Rick asks, an attempt at whispering that ends in Negan pressing his finger to his lips and shushing. Rick asks again, though, and Negan answers with a, "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

When it comes to where Negan has in mind, Rick doesn't know the destination. Running on fumes without stopping or thought, Rick's feet fall in line after Negan. Left foot, right foot, left foot—Rick raises his head to the nip of the early morning chill. He busies himself with rolling the sleeves of his shirt down his arms. It's cold outside, but tolerable, and Negan tugs up the zipper of his leather jacket.

They don't go far. As soon as Rick shuts the trailer door behind him, Negan drops to sit on the first step, and Rick, again, falls in line. Almost as if they never left Carl's bedside, with the same amount of space between them, Rick and Negan sit with their elbows on their thighs, their hands clasped together, and their eyes settled on dead blades of grass that form the path up the stairs.

Negan feels along his jacket pockets, the search never-ending, until his hand finds his cigarettes and lighter. He asks Rick, "Do you want one?"

Rick says, "We can share one."

Eyebrows quirking only a little, Negan drags out a single cigarette and rests it on his bottom lip. Rick knows there's a comment on Negan's tongue about this, about how Rick must be a bad role model for children after all, but Negan passes him the cigarette without inhaling the first hit, and says, "You need it more than me."

No argument available and not seeing the point in fabricating one, Rick takes the cigarette. He'll admit it's been far too long since he's held one. Marijuana, that's something he's recently been around, and it shows in the way his fingertips balance along the sides of the cigarette and guide it to his mouth. Negan doesn't make fun. He doesn't say anything. He patiently waits for Rick to finish before stretching out his hand, taking and holding the cigarette the appropriate way, and inhaling as deep as he can.

"Thanks," Rick mumbles. He sees Negan give a shrug of his shoulder. "I know the people here don't trust you," Rick says, Negan smiling, "but I think they would allow you to sit out here by yourself and smoke a cigarette. You didn't need me out here with you."

Smiling more, Negan dares to stare at Rick as he says, "Do you trust me out here by myself?"

"I trust you enough."

"Want another?"

Rick shakes his head. Negan shrugs his shoulder again.

"Just wanted to smoke?" Rick glances at the cigarette, the filter, Negan's mouth.

"Needed to get you out of there. You didn't look comfortable in that chair. Kept groaning a little, too." Negan digs his elbows into his thighs, cigarette burning between his fingers, and lowers his head to his chest. Negan has more than a little five o'clock shadow. It's gray, wiry. Rick cranes his own neck, his hands cushioning his face. "I wasn't sleeping well either. If I'm being honest, Rick," Negan says, quiet, "I haven't slept well in a while."

"What's keeping you up?"

Negan knocks ashes from his cigarette. Rick turns his head to watch. "Everything fucking does. It's like… sleep paralysis. It gets so hard to go to bed sometimes."

Rick's head remains standing with no support, hands coming to lay on his thighs. "I know what you mean."

Finishing the last of his cigarette, Negan grinds the butt under the heel of his boot. In doing so, his weight shifts. Whether intentionally or not, Negan shoots closer to Rick. Their thighs touch now, their upper arms. Rick expects Negan to smell like an ashtray. Rick can't tell what Negan smells like exactly.

"There's something else." Quieter, above a whisper, Negan stares at his hand and curls his bandaged fingers. No wincing, Negan fans out his fingers. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath.

"Yeah?" Rick holds Negan's hand.

Negan's shoulders stop rising and falling.

"What was that something else?" asks Rick.

Negan's smile is just a smirk. "Would you believe me if I said I wanted to watch the sunrise with you?"

Rick says, "Yes," and Negan's smile is full-fledged and complete with rosy cheeks.

They sit there, listening to the sleepy silence of the Hilltop, and join that silence in order to gaze at the sun slowly inching above the horizon line. The sky's a dull pink color, not appealing in the slightest, but Rick almost cries. Negan squeezes Rick's hand in an attempt at comfort in spite of his hand's current condition. The pressure isn't remarkable, though it catches Rick's attention. Rick stares at Negan and notices the unshed tears in his eyes, too. Rick wonders how much pain Negan is in. Rick's back is killing him. The bruises will be purple, maybe yellow.

Negan leans in, pupils indecipherable from the irises of his eyes. Playful and a little somber, he says, "Guess what, Rick."

Negan's shoulders are rising and falling like normal, and his breath is on Rick's face. "It's a brand-new day."

And Negan kisses Rick's cheek.

Rick nearly misses it.

Squeezing Negan's fingers, Rick leans into the space Negan withdrew from and notes the fright in Negan's eyes. Rick can't feel Negan's breath on his face anymore. Negan closes his eyes, hides the fear.

And Rick kisses Negan's mouth.

Rick expects Negan to taste like an ashtray. Rick can't tell what Negan tastes like exactly. It's over in a flash, just a small press of lips to another pair of lips. Negan retreats in terror for a second time, pulling his hand from Rick's and shoving it into the pocket of his jacket. Hunched over himself, impossibly small, Negan fixates on the blades of dead grass again. He sucks his bottom lip in his mouth and chews. Rick wants to crawl inside his ears.

Rick slides over to Negan, no space available any longer, and Negan raises his head. He's shivering in his jacket, scanning Rick's face as Rick leans in. He does this carefully, his hand joining the equation to touch Negan's thigh, Negan's chest, Negan's neck. His thumb to Negan's jaw, Rick settles on the side of Negan's neck. Negan stares at him. Negan says, "What?"

"Can I kiss you again?"

"Yes."

This time, the kiss is longer. It stretches to parted lips and Negan gathering the courage to wrap his arms around Rick's waist. His arms encompass Rick, pull him in close, and Rick welcomes it. Rick uses both of his hands to guide Negan's head to the side. Heads tilted, noses pressing together, and Negan not expressing any pain from it at all, Rick kisses Negan, and Negan smiles as he kisses Rick back.

"We should get inside," Rick says, feeling a line of spit in the form of a red thread of fate from each of their bottom lips, down to their chins. Rick goes to wipe it away, but Negan stops him. Negan lunges forward, not in attack; Negan's arms tighten around Rick's waist and his face burrows in Rick's neck in a hug.

Stunned, Rick hesitates when it comes to reciprocating the embrace. Negan's forearms press up against the discoloration of Rick's back. With even pressure, nothing hurts. Rick closes his eyes. He bumps his nose into Negan's ear.

"Okay," Negan says, scratchy cheeks, more pink than red cheeks. "Whatever you say, Rick."

Reluctancy is the scissors that cut the tendons from their bones. The sun spreads to all corners of the Hilltop, soft and non-threatening, and Negan holds up his hand to spread his fingers in front of Rick's face. Rick gives a kiss to each break in Negan's life line.

"Rick," Negan whispers.

They stand, dusting themselves, clasp hands, and head inside. Negan stops them in the hallway, Carl's room in view. He pulls on Rick, whispers his name again, adding, "C'mere."

Negan's kiss is brief. Rick is better off with it than without.

Rick enters Carl's room first. Negan makes sure the door is shut tight.

Carl doesn't stir. He's back to snoring.

Rick sits, hat on his lap; and Negan sits, Lucille between his legs. It's as if they never left.

Carl doesn't move. He doesn't wake.

Negan pulls his hand from his pocket and stretches it out on the arm of his chair. Palm up, fingers curling slightly, Negan looks to Rick. Rick takes Negan's hand.

Matching smiles, they close their eyes.

Carl is still alive in Rick's dreams.

He has both of his eyes, too, and missing his two front teeth. There's a crayon in his hand and a drawing of himself, Lori, and Rick in the other. Carl stands on tiptoe to show the picture to Rick, and Rick ruffles Carl's hair and hangs the family portrait on the fridge. The magnet is of a bee. Bought at the dollar store, Carl grabbed it when no one was looking. He snuck it onto the counter, hiding it among the jugs of detergent, fabric softener, and bleach. The cashier rang it up. Lori nor Rick saw the purchase until they were at home. They weren't upset. Rick stuck it on the fridge, eye level with Carl. Carl laughed.

Carl balls his hands into fists.

Dreary, aching muscles can never react quickly enough. At the slight creak of Carl's door opening, Carl awakens, but he's no more exhausted than Rick and Negan, who struggle to appear presentable. Negan less so than Rick, he's slow when it comes to this. Wincing all the while, a hand to his head, Negan says, "Hey, doc, after you're done checking up on the kid, I'm gonna need your assistance."

Because it's Dr. Carson who walked into the room, who unveiled the room like a shrine for all to see, Rick's gut tells him not to worry—but Maggie makes herself known, slipping into the room behind Dr. Carson, and she's looking at Rick with unreadable eyes. There's no scorn there. Rick takes that.

"I can help. What's wrong?" Maggie asks, more relief soothing Rick's stomach. Approaching them and getting a better look at Negan, a frown falls on her face. "You don't look so good."

Going by the sunlight in the room, Rick guesses it's been two, maybe three, hours since the sun rose. He knows tragedy can happen at any given time, but Negan's appearance changing from rundown and tired to ghastly and worrying strikes as impossible to Rick. Bruising beneath his eyes that dot along his cheekbones and deepen along the bridge of his nose, Negan stares at Maggie and doesn't try to be cheeky. He doesn't smile. He doesn't crack a joke. He says, "I think I need an ice pack…?"

She glances at Rick, lips in her mouth to prevent her from laughing in approval, and tells Negan, "You need more than just an ice pack."

"You're probably right."

"Follow me," she says, and helps Negan into standing. Negan passes Lucille to Rick. Rick places her in the same fashion as Negan had her, her handle against his thigh. Negan flashes Rick a thumbs up before allowing Maggie to lead him from the room. She speaks of elevating the head and pain medication when they leave the room.

Dr. Carson speaks of nothing else he can do.

That pulls Rick from watching the doorway and to Carl, the relief he experienced gone instantly. He expects Carl to look the same as Negan, if not worse, but Carl is… Carl looks fine—a little oily, but rested. His hair pushed off his face, Carl smiles at his stomach. Shirt hem bunched in his fingers, bandage off the bite, Dr. Carson elated at his side, Carl says, "Are you serious?"

"I don't know what else to do," Dr. Carson admits, "other than keep changing the bandages when they need changed and keep you on the antibiotics."

Rick rises from his chair. Lucille and his hat go onto it. Lucille doesn't roll.

Carl looks up at Dr. Carson, still smiling, and says, "I feel better, like, it's… it's not like how it was."

Inflamed no long, the two rows of teeth look exactly like that: two rows of teeth. Carl just got in a fight with someone who had an inclination to bite. This isn't anything worse. This can't be anything worse, not when Carl smiles so brightly and shows no pain when Dr. Carson applies a cream to the wound. It's just that. It's just a wound.

Rick sets his hand on Carl's shoulder. "Do you think we're in the clear?" he directs to Dr. Carson. It's a silly question, he knows this with his whole heart, and yet, he has to ask it. He has to hear the words fall from a doctor's mouth.

Unrolling gauze, Dr. Carson says, "I wouldn't start celebrating. It doesn't look infected anymore, but he still needs to stay on the antibiotics." He pauses, briefly closing his eyes. "I don't understand this. I've never been able to stop someone succumbing to the infection. You don't even have a fever." He places his hand to Carl's forehead for reaffirmation. "You don't have a fever," he whispers.

Carl asks, "Have you tried stopping the infection before with antibiotics? Or do you just consider us a lost cause?"

Dr. Carson opens his mouth.

Carl shakes his head. "It's okay. I would have considered myself a lost cause, too."

Rick squeezes Carl's shoulder in silent protest. Carl tilts his head and leans against Rick's forearm.

"I'll put something over the bandage so you can shower," Dr. Carson says. "Do you want me to leave out the gauze for your eye?"

His head leaving Rick's arm for a moment, looking at the box of gauze tucked neatly away in Dr. Carson's first-aid kit, Carl declines the offer to Rick's confusion. The shock runs thin shortly after. Carl would go straight to bed once he's clean. Wrapping his head would be counterproductive.

Bandage safely sealed, Dr. Carson says he'll be back with a clean set of clothes for Carl. Silence doesn't loiter once Dr. Carson leaves the room. Rick lowers himself to sit on the edge of Carl's bed and says, "Are you really feeling better, or were you just saying that?" Rick needs to ask this, too, needs to know the truth—even though he thinks he already knows the truth. He smiles when Carl rolls his eye.

"I wasn't lying, Dad. Maybe it was the sleep I got. I dunno. I feel better." Carl smiles again, and Rick can't help but to smile with him.

"Don't get your hopes up yet," Rick tells Carl and himself. "We'll stay another day here, and then… and then we'll go home."

"Dad," Carl says, hushed voice, that bright look on his face returning, "what if I'm immune?"

Rick tries to keep the smile on his face. He needs to be happy right now, if only for a moment. "Well, if you're immune, I'm immune, since it's probably my blood in there making you superhuman." Rick pokes Carl in the chest six times, one for each bullet fragment that needed removal.

Carl laughs at each prod and lightly shoves Rick's hand out of the way. "As if."

"You know," Rick says, "Negan thinks you might be immune."

At Negan's name, Carl's eye drifts to the matching chairs at the side of his bed. He stares at Lucille, barbed wire red and shreds of leather caught within it. Carl says, "You really beat the shit out of him, didn't you?"

"I saw my chance and took it."

"But you didn't kill him."

Rick purses his lips. "Yeah… I didn't kill him."

"Maybe people like him deserve to live with their horrible choices, all their regrets and demons."

Negan has a lot of those. Rick says, "Do you mean that?"

Dr. Carson has a change of clothes in his arms. He waits by the doorway and pretends he isn't listening.

Carl shrugs. "Just… maybe we don't have to turn into the bad guys to prove he was one."

Unmoving from the bed, Rick watches Carl leave the room, no trouble at all, and follow Dr. Carson. Rick sits there, pulling up a leg to rest his foot on the metal bed frame, and hangs his head. Lucille lies there in his chair, dried blood, cut leather, bullet wound, and the sheriff hat beside her. Sticking his fingers in his hair, Rick pulls and thinks of nothing.

He's unsuccessful.

He blames Negan.

Sitting next to Rick, hair washed, clean clothes, and desperately failing at keeping his facial expression neutral, Carl taps Rick in the side with his elbow and goes, "You guys… are not good at whispering."

Carl sits on Rick's right side, his good eye turned to Rick. Carl sits there, criss-cross applesauce, and he adds, "It didn't keep me up, though. You guys were… just… not quiet."

Rick fiddles with his shirt sleeves. He works them up his forearms. "What'd you hear?"

"Enough to know Negan sings better than me."

They laugh, smile at each other.

"I also really want pancakes now," Carl says.

Another laugh, another smile, Rick stands from the bed. "I can see if Maggie can find someone to—"

"That's okay." Carl crawls across the bed, sitting at the head, tugging on the blankets. "I want to sleep more than eat."

"You need food."

"It's okay." Carl looks at his hands. "Plus, like, I was thinking it'd be really funny when we make it back to Alexandria—what's left of it, anyway—if we made Negan cook for us. I mean, we have him right under our noses, and we shouldn't take that for granted. We can't just let him leave—and I know you never had his spaghetti, but it was actually pretty good—"

"So, a hostage situation. Torture by cooking us pancakes." Rick nods. "I like it."

Carl shakes his head. "I know it sounds stupid. It probably is. But we have him, Dad. He's here with us, and…" Cautiously, Carl stares at Rick, looking up at him while still preoccupied with picking at his nails. "I hate to say it, but we need to keep him happy, you know? If he's happy, he'll probably stick around and not hurt anybody."

Rick's hands go on his hips by default. His weight shifts to a leg. His head bows. "Carl—"

"You were holding hands."

"I was just… just relieving some of the pressure on his… fingers, Carl, because they were hurting."

Carl stares at Rick.

Rick scratches his nose. "Okay, maybe we were holding hands."

Carl blinks. "And…?"

"There's no 'and', no 'but'. You saw what you saw, and… and that's exactly what it was."

"We need to keep him happy," Carl repeats, "but we need to keep you happy, too."

Eyes on Carl, eyes on the blanket across Carl's lap, Rick feels his throat tighten. He doesn't want it to do that. He doesn't want his body to react the way it reacted these past few hours. Overall, Rick has been suspended in disbelief, being swung back and forth, back and forth. It's slow—the swinging. Rick breathes, and he is calm.

Rick says, "You don't need to worry about me. I'm as happy as I can be right now."

"Given the situation."

Touching Carl's shoulder again, Rick leans in to press a kiss to the top of Carl's head. "Go to sleep." He pushes Carl's hair from his face, the dark strands damp, the scarring along his missing eye and cheekbone no longer something jarring for Rick.

"You go to sleep," Carl counters, lying down.

Rick takes the blanket and pulls it over Carl's head. He begins tucking in the sides, cocooning Carl. Carl squirms, laughs. Rick makes it tighter.

"Okay, okay," Carl acquiesces, popping his head from the blanket. Only his eye shows. "I'll go to sleep."

"You do that." Rick covers Carl's face.

Carl emerges again, eye narrowed. It softens. "I love you, Dad."

Rick rubs Carl's arm, wherever it is under the blanket. He rubs and squeezes. "I love you, too, Carl."

More sleep never hurts. No matter how much sleep Carl has tucked under his wing, as soon as he closes his eye, he's out. Rick can tell from how his breathing changes, and then when Carl starts to lightly grind his teeth. There's nothing they can do about that, not now. All Rick can do is tuck Carl into bed, give Carl's forehead another kiss. All he can do is hope no more harm comes to Carl.

One more kiss and one more arm squeeze, Rick picks up Lucille from the chair. Leaving his sheriff hat behind, Rick grabs barbed wire at first, the points daring to bring blood if he were to wrap his fingers any tighter around the barrel. He doesn't. Rick moves his hand down the barrel until his fingers settle just under the barbed wire. He squeezes then, and thinks of knocking the handle into Negan's face again.

Rick smiles. He leaves Carl's room and, after meeting and nodding at Dr. Carson in the hallway, the trailer.

Negan's cigarette butt on the trailer stairs is the dividing line between Rick and Maggie. Smiling, squinting her eyes from the sun, she holds a first-aid kit to her chest. "Hey there," she says. "I was just about to get you."

"I was going to say the same."

"Is Carl doing okay?" Maggie asks, and immediately smiles at Rick's smile. She keeps her worries to herself, instead giving a little shake of the kit in her hands. "Need anything out of this before I put it up?"

"No, I'm good. Thank you, though, for everything—letting us stay, letting Negan stay." Rick goes down a step. He furrows his brow. "Where is Negan?"

"In the house," Maggie says, and looks behind her to direct Rick's gaze. "I gave him some medicine, told him to take it easy. His nose is broken. The break isn't terrible, but because he didn't treat it right away…" Maggie shrugs. "His hand—"

"I know," Rick says, sheepish.

Maggie keeps the kit to her chest, fingernails catching on the clasp. She flicks it once, twice. "I'm not sayin' what you did was good, but I'm not sayin' it was bad either. He won't be able to swing that bat of his for a while." She spots the bat in Rick's fist and raises her eyebrow. "You carrying that for him now?"

"I figured I could get in a few more hits when he's not looking."

Maggie considers the possibility as she climbs the rest of the stairs up the trailer. "Well, last I left him, he was holding an ice pack to his nose, so you could definitely get in a smack or two." At the door, she adds, "He's in the room upstairs on the left," and, "I'll keep an eye on Carl."

"Thank you," Rick says.

She smiles again and watches Rick travel down the steps. She says nothing else, just goes inside and quietly shuts the door.

The walk to the mansion is as peaceful as a walk in the morning should be. Warm sun and no one around to pry, Rick wishes the walk were longer in order to bask in the solitude, if only for a minute. He takes a small step in the house, shuffling almost. Due to the assumed change of ownership, the mansion evokes a more welcoming aura. Rick moves down the halls with ease. He doesn't feel like a stranger here, doesn't feel like he's intruding.

When it comes to facing the first room on the left after climbing the stairs, Rick, even now, doesn't feel like an intruder. He gently raps his knuckles against the door. He's about to knock again, louder this time, but Negan produces an affirmative noise. It sounds groggy. Negan's voice sounds the very same.

"Oh, it's you," he says. "Hi."

"Hi."

In the dark with the curtains drawn, Negan's on the bed, lying with his head elevated by two pillows. Hair drying from a shower, dressed in just a white t-shirt and dark pants, blankets thrown down to coddle his legs, Negan holds an ice pack wrapped in a towel to his nose. Hardly any swelling left, Negan doesn't look to be in any pain. His fingers are bandaged up again, much better than what Rick had done for them. Gauze and careful placement of ointment and metal fasteners, Negan is part mummy. He stares at Rick. He smiles at Rick. "I look great, I know. Did you just come here to drop off Lucille?" Expectation, anticipation—Negan's voice trembles lightly with it. He grows shy, smile faltering at his question. His brow furrows, too, but it isn't meant to be cute or taken in such a way. Negan's scared.

"That's part of it." Rick props Lucille by the nightstand. A digital clock sets by a lamp, the red lights vanished.

"There's hot water. I think she left clothes in the bathroom for you." Negan pulls the ice pack from his nose. "Maggie, right?"

"Yes."

"Maggie," Negan whispers, rewrapping the towel, tighter, and touches it to his nose. "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie." Negan closes his eyes. "I told her I was sorry."

Rick goes into the en-suite bathroom.

He wastes no time in chucking off his shirt and switching on the water to the highest temperature it can go. There's no way Rick will be able to stand under the spray for more than a handful of seconds, but it onsets steam immediately, and it's as cozy as Rick can be.

Slowly, the door pushes its way open. Not creaking, it simply inches open. Negan's there—of course he is—and he stands in the doorway with both arms hanging by his sides, the towel with the ice pack contained in both hands. He stares at Rick, and Rick tries not to stare at him. Rick goes over to the shower, sticking his hand under the water, and twists until the temperature is a barely hotter version of bearable.

"Did I do that to you?" Negan asks, and then sighs at himself. "That… was rhetorical."

Negan's talking about Rick's back. Rick can't see it exactly, only what he's able to make out from the medicine cabinet mirror above the sink. And from what he's able to make out by looking in there, it doesn't look pretty.

"You could make this thing a map for your own fantasy world," Negan remarks, inviting himself more into the bathroom and standing behind Rick. Rick can't see his reflection anymore. He drops his head and shuts his eyes to Negan tracing the tips of his bandaged fingers along outlines of bruises and the odd abrasion.

"The darkest places can be oceans," Negan whispers.

"What do you want, Negan?" Rick wants to turn his head, wants to look, but Negan… he takes a step closer and presses his forehead to the nape of Rick's neck. He loops his arm around Rick's torso, the injured hand with the ice pack dangling loose at Rick's hip. Rick reaches out, behind him, and bunches Negan's t-shirt in his fist, fingers against the matching bruised skin on Negan's waist.

Negan is quiet. He stays there, breathing down Rick's spine in the most comforting way someone breathing down a spine can. To the left and to the right, Negan rolls his head along the length of Rick's neck. A slow pitter-patter, if Rick closes his eyes and thinks really hard, he'd be able to imagine this is a massage. Rick does close his eyes, but that isn't his initial thought. He finds himself standing taller, tilting his head back. He stops only when he feels the top of Negan's head, and he stays there. He breathes.

Cautiously, Negan wraps his other arm around Rick's waist. He squeezes, then, confident, and pulls Rick in close. Laughing now, more of a giggle, Negan burrows his face into the side of Rick's neck. At Negan's teeth skimming across his skin, Rick's heart races.

He feels foolish.

It isn't malicious. It isn't predatory. It isn't even alluring. Negan says, "My head hurts so damn bad, Rick."

"Go back in the bedroom," Rick tells him. "It's dark in there. You'll feel better."

"But you aren't in there."

Rick touches Negan's hands on his stomach. "I will be."

Negan's arms slip, one dropping to his side, and the other placing the ice to his nose. He turns around, allowing Rick his privacy in undressing. Still with his back to Rick, Negan asks, "Is it okay if I stay in here with you?"

"And what would you do?" Rick tugs the shower curtain closed.

"I dunno," Negan says. "I can sit here." Rick hears Negan sit on the toilet, fabric sliding along porcelain to give Rick the visual of Negan sitting like a child. Elbows on his knees, ice pack to his nose, and an eager edge to his voice, Negan remarks, "I could talk. I like talking. You don't have to reply. I'll keep on talking."

"You're good at that."

Negan doesn't listen. For some reason, he's talking about dodgeball. Context is void. Negan jumps in as if Rick understands, as if Rick knows where he's coming from and where he's going.

Rick lathers shampoo into his hair.

"I would talk to the kids, you know? I got to know them. They would come to me with their problems, and I'll let them cope in whatever way they wanted—as long as it was healthy. We played dodgeball a lot, especially when it was a test day. They sweat off the stress; everything's peachy. It was usually the bigger kids who beat up on each other, and that was fine. That was fine. I let the others walk around the track we had on the landing. They'd end up watching the game, cheering on their classmates, making them feel good. It made me feel good, too.

"I like helping people, Rick. You know that. You know that much. These kids? I helped them the best I could. Sometimes it wasn't enough. Sometimes… sometimes I'd go to work and find out from the other kids about what had happened to their friend. Sometimes… I'd wake up in the morning to an email. I couldn't get out of bed on those days. So, I… I really didn't want to get up, but Lucille… Lucille made me. She pushed me. She was… She could conquer the Goddamn world if she set her mind to it. She was such a strong-ass woman… until she wasn't."

There's a pause. It extends for a moment longer, and then a moment longer still.

Rick watches the water at the bottom of the tub finally run clear.

"Tell me about her," Rick says.

Rick hears the faintest of sniffs, smothered by an ice pack.

"I met her in college. I… I studied abroad one summer—went to France. Literally knocked me on my ass with her bike when I first saw her. She just… rang that little bell, flipped me the bird, and rode along. God, Rick, I was fucking mesmerized by her. We kept running into each other at random, you know, like a real fucking rom-com, and she'd always stick her tongue out at me, show me her middle finger, and she… she would scrunch up her nose and hiss, 'Bisou, bisou,' at me as she did this. I didn't know what it meant. I hated her and loved her at the same time."

"Love at first sight, then?" Rick turns off the water.

Negan roars with laughter. "Oh, this wasn't love. This was fucking pure, unadulterated lust, and I wasn't ashamed to admit this to her."

A towel pops through the gap between shower curtain and wall. Negan's head is turned from Rick, polite, and Rick takes the towel. He begins drying his hair.

Negan continues, "I caught up with her when we ran into each other again at the grocery store. I called to her, and she turned her head, nose scrunching and her finger already stretched out, and I asked her. I went and asked her, 'Hey, wanna take a walk together sometime?' It was stupid. I said, 'We always run into each other and go our separate ways, but what if we didn't? What if we took a walk together?'"

Rick snorts.

Negan pokes at the shower curtain, the plastic sticking to Rick's shoulder. "I didn't have a solid plan, okay?"

"What did she say?" Before Rick pulls back the curtain, he checks to see Negan's location. Negan's sat on the toilet again, sitting like a child and looking down at his lap. The change of clothes is on the sink counter. Negan keeps his head down when Rick walks over and begins dressing.

"She laughed at me," Negan says, switching the hand that holds the ice to his face. "She always laughed at me. I laughed with her and said, 'Okay, well, how about I take you to a park and fuck you on a picnic table where some kid had their birthday party last week?'"

Rick folds the towel after dressing. Negan raises his head, safe now. "What did she say to that?" Rick raises his eyebrow.

Negan smiles. "She laughed again, and she said, 'Silly American boy,' and she showed me her finger and said that fucking 'bisou, bisou' shit and actually skipped away with her groceries on her arm."

"And that was it?"

"Yep. The semester ended, and I went back to America, and I didn't see her again."

Walking backwards, each step somehow brings Negan a step closer. He's on his feet as soon as Rick begins to move, following, eyes connecting. Rick says, "And then what?"

Negan turns off the lights. "What makes you think something else happened?"

Rick points at Negan's arm, fingertip dragging through the air to mimic the cursive font on Negan's right forearm. "I know anybody can get a tattoo, but I don't believe you're the kind of guy to get 'bisou' tattooed unless it meant something more."

"It was our word," Negan says, and drops his arms. They stand by the bed, too dark to distinguish expressions. Rick doesn't switch on a lamp. Negan's head hurts.

Negan sniffs. "It means 'kiss'. I fucking went to France for a summer and didn't even bother learning the language. If I had, maybe I'd known she was interested in me, but was just playing hard to get." He looks at Rick. "I found her in a grocery store down the street from my apartment two years later. I was student teaching at the time. She was visiting family. When I saw her, she flipped me the bird, and then flicked me in the eye. She called me 'silly American boy'. She said, 'Silly American boy, take me to the nearest park and fuck me on a picnic table.' So, I did. She stayed around, moved in with me. I met her family. She met mine. We got married the next year."

Rick takes the incentive. The bed dips from his weight, and dips more at Negan's addition. Rick lets Negan get comfortable first, retaining the position he adopted before Rick saw him. He stretches out his legs, holds the ice pack to his nose, and closes his eyes. Rick rubs his thumb into Negan's ankle bone. "The world turned to shit. Is that what happened next?"

"She was fucking perfect, and I… I can't even begin to justify why I cheated on her. I was a piece of shit. I'm still the same piece of shit. I cheated on her, she got cancer, she died—and then, the world turned to shit."

Rick places a kiss to Negan's foot before he crawls up the bed. The bed frame groans. Rick ignores it. Negan does, too. His eyes are open, and they watch Rick lower onto his stomach, beneath the covers, and reach out. Rick touches Negan's cheek, tapping his fingers up to Negan's forehead. Easing himself in, palm flat against Negan's hairline, Rick kisses Negan's eyebrow.

What can only be described as a whine leaves Negan's mouth.

"What did she look like?" Rick whispers, kissing Negan's temple now.

"Dark skin, big black eyes… fucking curls everywhere. She broke her nose once, made it have a permanent bump in the bridge." Negan should be smiling, but he isn't smiling. "When she laughed, she lit up the whole room and the one next door."

Rick picks up his hand and places it on Negan's chest.

Negan grabs it. "Tell me about your wife."

Rick shakes his head.

A soft shush trembles from Negan's lips. He rotates, Rick and himself turning onto their sides. Rick stares, and Negan stares. His eyes are half-lidded, closing now, and he presses a kiss to Rick's chin. He kisses Rick's bottom lip. "Tell me something, Rick," he mumbles.

"I like it when you kiss me."

He kisses Rick's top lip.

Falling onto his back, Rick opens his arms for Negan to slide in. He expects Negan to remain eye-level to keep his head elevated, and in a way, he does; but instead of a pillow, he chooses to lay his head on Rick's chest, the ice pack on Rick's sternum. It's cold. Rick doesn't mind.

Negan hums. Soon, Negan sleeps. He snores.

Rick holds on tight.

In his dreams, Carl is alive. And Negan, he's there, too, laughing at something Carl said and offering some insight that causes Carl to laugh. They're sitting at the kitchen table, in their Alexandrian home, just talking… laughing. Carl has one eye. It isn't wrapped up. Negan's pointing at it, wagging his finger, and Carl doesn't shrink. He doesn't hide in himself. He's proud.

The scene grows cold when flames soak through the walls. Negan and Carl, oblivious to the destruction, continue to laugh.

It's when three loud pops bust their eardrums they finally turn their heads. Blood seeping down their necks and dripping onto their shoulders like rain, they look ahead, right at Rick. Their skin melts from their muscles, peeling away and revealing dead men walking. Rick screams.

Three knocks on the bedroom door wakes him. It aches. Rick's whole body aches.

Cuddled up close, burrowing deeper into Rick's armpit, Negan whispers something incoherent. Rick looks at the door.

"Dad?" the door says, and sends another knock into the wood. "Please tell me you're decent."

Negan is awake enough to hear that. He erupts into laughter, Rick having to smash a pillow over his head to quell the noise for Carl to hear Rick's invitation inside. Before the door knob turns, Rick leans over Negan, Negan's bicep as leverage, and turns on the lamp. Negan grumbles. He flexes under Rick's hand.

"Oh, my God," Rick growls, and sticks his fingers into Negan's sides. "You did not just do that."

Carl walks in to see Rick holding the pillow down over Negan's face. Negan's laughing, squirming a little. Carl looks mildly impressed. "That's one way to end this."

Sitting upright, like a vampire rising from its coffin, Negan flings the pillow across the room and goes, "Kid, I already told your daddy I was ready to end this if you survived and—lookie here! You're up and walking around, so looks like no one has to die today."

"Maybe not today," Carl quips.

If Rick were not aware of the situation and someone had told him Carl had been bitten days prior, Rick would call every last one of them liars. The boy standing in front of their bed, he's healthy, strong—aside from the obvious facial defects. Carl doesn't wear gauze now, his missing eye open for all. Rick's hat perches on his head. He's happy.

"Would your men agree to stand down?" Carl asks. "They seemed pretty hell-bent on being asses."

Negan smiles. He finds the ice pack, now melted, hidden under the blankets, and weakly moves it from one hand to the other. "They'll listen to me. I'm their Goddamn savior, and I'm about to serve their new messiah."

"Don't call me that," Carl says.

Negan stares.

Carl stares.

Negan says, "Do you know something I don't, young man?"

"Your men hate you," Carl answers. "They abandoned you before, and they'll do it again. That's why you haven't tried to sneak back out there yet. You finally realized they'd sooner follow some other guy than you."

"How long have you been thinking on this?" Negan swings his legs over the edge of the bed, toes curling into the carpet. Everything radiating from him is positive and downright playful. It would be unbelievable and callous if Rick didn't know him.

Carl shrugs. "Just this morning."

"Well, you're right. I'll probably kill Simon next time I see him." Negan tosses the ice pack at Carl, a makeshift baseball. Carl catches it with two hands. He's still shaky when it comes to this. Negan makes note of this with a nod. "Depth perception," he says, and holds out his hands. Wary, Carl tosses the bag of water. Identical to Carl, Negan uses both of his hands to become the bearer of the pack.

Rick finds the towel once carefully kept around it hidden among the pillows. He absently wraps it around his wrists. "What did Simon do?" he asks, the bed groaning at the loss of a body.

"What didn't he do is a better question." Negan passes the ice pack to Carl.

Carl catches it with one hand. When he smiles, Negan smiles.

"Okay," Rick says, "what didn't Simon do?"

"Listen to me." Standing abruptly, Negan walks to Carl and takes the ice pack when Carl passes it to him. Turning to Rick, Negan takes the towel from him when requested by a quirk of his eyebrow. "I can look over a lot of things, Rick," Negan says, sticking the ice pack in the towel again. "Cowards, assholes, unpleasant people in general—if they follow the rules, they're just fine in my eyes… because if we can't follow the rules, then how will we ever survive?" Negan gestures vaguely with the ice pack. "Simon? I know he's been rallying my men behind my back, conducting his own plans on how to run the Sanctuary, how to win this war. I do not appreciate that."

Rick sees the retort on Carl's face before Carl forms it into words. He tries to redirect Carl, tries to get him to be quiet by shaking his head when Negan goes to place the ice pack on the nightstand. Carl says it, though. Prideful, he opens his mouth. "Aren't you fraternizing with the enemy?"

Rick closes his eyes.

Familiar, Negan bends at his knees and pivots on the balls of his feet. Staring again, his eyes narrowed and his lips curving into a smile, Negan points at Carl, that smile of his showing off his teeth. Rick's ready for a prepared speech. Frankly, Carl is, too. He's crossing his arms over his chest, and Rick grows more rigid. Negan is relaxed. Negan… shrugs. He shrugs. He says, "Probably."

All the oxygen leaves Rick's body.

"Probably," Negan repeats. "Maybe." He scratches the back of his head. "So, uh, where do we go from here?"

Carl draws attention to his bookbag. "Maggie's letting us borrow a car. She's taking the truck. Sorry." He shoots this at Negan. Negan waves his hand. "Full tank of gas. Dr. Carson gave me the antibiotics and made me a first-aid kit. Some of the stuff is for you, he said."

"Did you see that preacher any?"

Swinging his bag around to rest on his hip, Carl plunges his hand inside and fishes out two pairs of clean socks. "Gabriel? Yeah, he thought he was hallucinating when he saw me." Carl gives a pair to Rick and throws the other at Negan's head. He ignores Negan's frown. In quiet amusement, Rick ducks into the bathroom to retrieve his boots.

"Is he doing okay?"

"Still sweaty and feverish."

Rick emerges from the bathroom. He meets eyes with Negan, boots on his feet, jacket on his back, Lucille on his shoulder. Completely at ease with himself and in his natural element, Negan doesn't notice Rick's staring. All his attention is on Carl. "Say anything?"

Carl shakes his head. "Nothing really. Just said a prayer."

"I hope he gets better," Negan says, and sounds genuine. "I don't know what made him go down like that. One minute, we're smearing guts all over us, and the next… he's all shaky and weak." Shrugging, he stares at Rick, then, and grazes his tongue across his teeth as he watches Rick adjust his gun holster.

Ignoring Negan is futile, despite Rick's attempts to not make it so. Carl ignores him just fine, not even seeming to notice Negan's eyes dragging down Rick's body. Rick tells himself the action is absent because movement attracts the eye. Negan is nothing if not fluid.

Giving Negan a final side-eye, Rick asks Carl, "Are you okay to travel? How are you feeling?"

There needs to be something else going on. Carl can't be okay. Rick saw those bite marks, saw those teeth and the fever setting it; it doesn't make sense for Carl to be walking around like he is right now, but he is. Carl looks okay. Rick even presses his hand to Carl's cheek and checks for an alarming temperature that isn't there. Carl looks at Rick and says, "I'm good, Dad. Are you okay to travel?"

"Nothing happened," Rick whispers, Negan beginning to twirl Lucille. The danger is nonexistent when done with his left hand. Negan isn't clumsy, and he isn't as naïve as some of his lieutenants make him out to be. His ears are sharp, and his tongue sharper. He holds it. He swings Lucille and smiles.

"Where we going?" Negan stops twirling to point the barrel's top at Rick. A sick invitation to come forward, Negan swoops the bat up in the air until it rests against his shoulder.

"Home," Carl deadpans.

Negan smiles. "Cool! Want me to drive?"

"So, you are coming with us?" asks Carl, urging for clarification. "You weren't just… talking just to hear your own voice?"

Bewildered and looking to Rick as if Rick personally betrayed him, Negan actually looks as if he's choosing his next words with great care. "You have my word, Carl. I will do everything I possibly can to help you two and anybody else who wants to join this fucked-up party. Something's happening here. It could and abso-fucking-lutely will change this Goddamn world."

Carl slowly nods. "Right."

Negan tilts his head toward Rick. "Your daddy's already heard me talk about this extensively. Ask him."

"No thanks"—Carl rummages inside his backpack again and tosses black leather gloves at Negan's face—"and here you go. You needed a new pair, yeah?"

A kid on Christmas, Negan juggles Lucille and pulls on the gloves. As he's struggling to get it to fit comfortably on his bandaged fingers, Carl passes a set of car keys to Rick. "You can drive."

Rick gives them right back. "You can."

Carl smiles.

They pile out of the house, Carl the leader, and Rick and Negan the chicks following their mother. Content and now humming the same song he hummed as he fell asleep on Rick's chest, Negan has his new gloves on his hands and Lucille on his shoulder. Rick hates the way Negan's song is contagious. If not in verbal response, Rick does slowly smile along with Negan. He makes sure Negan sees this, and Negan's smile grows and laughter builds.

Maggie is by the gates at their arrival. Her hug is warm, vibrant, and nurturing. Rick feels safe.

"Be careful," she says. She rubs Rick's shoulder blade, pats it. "I'll visit tomorrow."

"You don't have to do that."

Taking a step away, boots sliding along grass, Maggie squeezes Rick's hands. "No, I do." She pulls Carl into a hug next, whispering something into his ear. Carl's response is stunted—a nod, sniffing a little. Maggie bumps the side of her index finger into the bottom of Carl's chin. She says, "You're strong. Just remember that. You've made it this far."

Quietly sniffing some more, Carl offers Maggie a smile before returning his gaze to his feet. He goes toward their borrowed car.

"I'm proud of him," Maggie says, "I told him that. I'm proud of you, too. Here on out, you're both going to be okay."

Rick has no words. He's like Carl, only being able to smile, to nod. Even Negan, standing a ways back to allow Rick some sort of privacy, has still been listening and is responding in the same fashion. A careful glance to the left, Maggie looks at him. Posture confident, she speaks with authority. "Thank you for taking them here. Thank you for sticking around to make sure they're okay."

No smug compliment and not even an attempt at appearing self-aware of his own decisions, Negan chances it by coming closer. Stopping right beside Rick, Negan's usual aura of confidence vanishes. "You're welcome," he says. That's it. He doesn't drag it out. He doesn't feel the need to drag it out.

Maggie waves. She says, "I'll be in touch."

Carl honks the car's horn. They go their separate ways.

Expected, Rick falls into the passenger seat, and Negan the back. He sits behind Rick, his forehead immediately meeting the headrest and his hand coming through the crack between the seat and the car door. Negan touches Rick's side. He curls his fingers. Rick isn't scared. He covers Negan's hand with his own, feeling nothing but bandages, and says to Carl, "Put on your seatbelt."

"You put on your seatbelt."

Three seatbelts click.

Negan returns to holding Rick's hip, Lucille against his thigh as an afterthought.

Rick returns to covering Negan's hand.

Carl drives.

Slow-going, Rick remains attentive to Carl's actions, no matter Negan's thumb stroking along the skin of his waist and the material of his belt. Other than Carl's hands being closer to nine and three than ten and two, Rick sees nothing wrong with how Carl handles driving. He's traveling at a reasonable speed—uncharacteristic for the times. Open roads and able to see an obstacle from miles away, it's not a secret people skip out on maintaining the speed limit. But Carl, he doesn't go too fast. He knows what could happen.

Negan says, "Shit, I just realized how many blind spots you have."

Carl says, "I saw you holding hands with my dad."

The springs in the seat cushions wheeze at Negan leaning to the left. He stares at the back of Carl's head. His hand never leaves Rick's body.

"Oh, yeah?" The corners of Negan's mouth twitch.

"Yeah."

Negan smiles. Faint at first, it turns into a wide grin that only dissipates when Negan presses his forehead into the car seat in front of him.

Rick looks at Carl.

Carl's smiling, too.

Negan leans back over, head poking in the middle of the driver and passenger seats. Eyes flicking from Rick to Carl and back again, Negan purses his lips. He says, "Uh," and shakes his head. "So, shot in the motherfucking dark here, but do you happen to remember where you got bit? I kinda wanna fucking see if this dead prick's still there."

"Negan's right," Rick states, Negan gently squeezing his hip. "We need to start somewhere. That's a good start."

"I remember," Carl says.

"Badass!" Negan scoots across the cushions, his head now leaning against the window. He detaches himself from Rick to roll down the pane of glass, but reconnects immediately afterward. It smells like rain. Clouds obscure the sun.

Close to their Alexandrian home, Carl parks the car on the side of the road. The trees are still, a mere whisper from a breeze nonexistent. It's a stage. Curtain branches and spotlight leaves await their unveiling.

"They weren't even bothering us," Carl says, hands on the wheel and eye looking past the windshield and the trunks of the trees. "Siddiq wanted to set their souls free. I helped him do that, and then I got bit."

Rick grabs Carl's arm. "You did what you thought was right."

Carl doesn't turn his head, doesn't shake off Rick's hand; he just stares. "You didn't want me to help him. If I had listened to you—"

From the backseat, Negan speaks up. "Why are you dwelling on this? Bad shit happened, yeah, and you almost died, yeah, but you didn't, so don't think about what could have been, all right, kid?" Letting go of Rick's hip, Negan wraps his fingers around Lucille's handle and twists her into the floor of the car. "You'll only end up hurting yourself far more than any fucking bite could do to you. With a bite, you can… you can fucking die, and you won't have to worry anymore. But this? What you're doing—you don't need to do that." He punctuates his sentence with bringing Lucille down into the rough, worn-out carpet. "You're breathing. You fucking survived a damn bite you shouldn't have survived. I wouldn't be condemning myself and my past decisions just yet."

Carl finally turns. He turns to look at Negan. "When would you, then?"

"When it gets too much," Negan says, and pulls on his glove again.

Ever the defiant teenager, Carl rolls his eye. "Okay." After sticking the keys in the sun visor overhead, Carl shoves open the car door and calls over his shoulder, "Follow me, I guess."

Negan is reluctant to leave the car. Before getting out himself, Rick makes it a point to capture Negan's attention. A hand to the headrest, Rick nods at Negan, even mumbles a quiet, "Ya okay?

Bruising along his nose and a healthy amount remaining under his eyes, if this were the first time Rick saw Negan following a period of recuperation from their latest battle in their war, Rick's hopes would be high. He would feel like a winner as he gazed on Negan's drooping shoulders.

There's loss in Negan's eyes. Whether it's due to the dark circles and wounded coloration, Rick can't be sure. Despite it all, Rick can be certain of how much it pains him to see Negan's broken nose and spirits sitting in the backseat of a car that's almost too small for him.

"How's your head?" Rick asks, leaning back more to brush his fingers along Negan's forehead. He catches a few strands in his fingertips and rubs them.

"Could be better," Negan grumbles in reply, picking at a spot on his chin.

"Better than yesterday?"

"Loads."

"I'll give you an ice pack when we get home."

"Home," Negan muses.

Sitting there for a moment longer, Negan pushes himself to the edge of the seat and into Rick's personal space. Rick meets him halfway, his hand already poised to cup the side of Negan's face as their lips meet.

Dry, closed lips against dry, closed lips, Negan goes in for another press when Rick pulls away. Succumbing far too easily to Negan's whim, Rick plants a kiss on Negan's bottom lip, and then his chin to placate him. Rick tastes blood on his tongue. Negan licks it away with a parting French kiss.

"Bisou," Negan murmurs.

Forehead to forehead, Rick taps Negan's earlobe. He holds it between his index finger and thumb, applying pressure when Carl shouts for them. The tone isn't alarming. Nothing dangerous approaches, but Rick gets out all the same. He's quick, and Negan is just as fast.

By himself, finding security in the shade of a tree, there lies the faintest impression of a smile. Carl crosses his arms over his chest, eyeing Rick and Negan as they close the distance from the car and the tree he stands under. Negan says nothing. Rick says, "Lead the way," and Carl is brave when he smiles now and says, "Got it."

Their journey isn't long. Carl's memory is photographic. Hopping over fallen tree trunks and crossing flat planes of too-green grass, neither Rick nor Negan acquire the desire to ask Carl if he truly knows where he's going. Maybe it's different. Maybe the situation calls for Carl to remember this second by second. Maybe Carl spent his time in bed thinking of this. Maybe this haunted his dreams. The way Carl looks around this new clearing, Rick knows he's experiencing this with an omnipotent lens. Of course, Carl knows this area like it's the back of his hand. Of course he does.

"Here," Carl says, voice somehow steady as he points at a clearing, at a rotting log. The slow waves of a river nearby coaxes their eardrums to peace.

Hands on their weapons, they stalk to the pile of walkers. A corpse here and a corpse there, the dead form a path to the one who bit Carl. It's deflated, face down in the dirt and hands bent awkwardly beneath its chest. Carl stands next to it, glaring, and Rick carefully taps the thigh with the toe of his boot.

Meanwhile Negan, no fear in his system, he steps over the dead and crouches next to the monster. "Let's see this fucker's teeth." Lucille across his lap, Negan winds his fingers around the thinning hair at the top of the walker's head and yanks.

There's little resistance from the body in terms of weight, but Negan's grip is forceful. As he pulls the hair, the roots disconnect from the scalp—and the scalp comes with it. Only staying upright for a moment, the walker's face smashes into the dirt and leaves Negan clutching a fistful of hair and skin.

Negan blinks.

Rick crouches with Negan, Carl doing the same. "There's a knife," Rick points out, and takes it. His inspection comes up short when he discovers no traces of blood or even usage.

"Why wouldn't someone take it?" Negan wonders, studying the contents of his leather-clad palm. A shiver passing through his body, Negan discards the waste. He reaches out again, his fingers finding more hair and another scalp. Nobody questions this. Nobody thinks to question this.

Negan realizes what he has done a moment later, as he's staring at the skin on the walker's forehead slowly begin to peel down, down, down, until the skin piles around the tip of its nose. Negan looks ready to throw up. "What in the ever-living fuck am I looking at?"

Carl and Rick shift until they're next to Negan, until they see exactly what he's seeing. Carl closes his eye. Rick covers his mouth.

Holding his breath, Negan fiercely gives a violent shake of his arm. They watch what happens, and they watch the walker skin peel more and reveal not quite a dead man walking, but something capable of sustaining life if it were not currently harboring a carefully placed gunshot to the head.

"What am I looking at?" Negan asks, his voice growing higher. "What is this? What is—?" He doesn't finish. He tosses the body aside, the torso flipping and letting the creature lie on its back. Arms outstretched in mock dissection, that's exactly what Negan intends to do. He jumps on top of the body, Lucille in his hand. A death grip, Rick knows the wounds kept under those bandages are bursting.

"No—don't—" Carl places his hand on Negan's elbow at the same time as Rick places his on Negan's shoulder. Carl continues, "We need to look it over, remember? We can't butcher the things we don't understand."

Negan doesn't move. Rick doesn't blame him. He takes over now, lowering to his knees and bending over to pluck at the skin across its bones. This skin is cold, dead, and the skin that peeled away, that's colder and textured. It's both human. Rick pulls at the peeled-away skin. The skin comes undone more, ripping where the back of the head remains on the ground. Slowly, Rick directs the skin apart from the skin under it. He stops at the neck. The skin continues further. The skin is everywhere.

"Is this a fucking suit? A skin suit?" Negan returns Lucille to his lap and places his elbows on his knees, trapping the bat for when he leans forward. He sticks his fingers in its mouth. He pulls the lips away from the gums and shows to Rick and Carl the teeth of a human that's in dire need of a dental appointment.

Negan looks at Carl. "You weren't bitten by a dead fucker."

Carl gets closer. He's as pale as Negan.

"What the fuck is going on?" Negan removes his hands from the not-walker's mouth. He wants to run his fingers through his hair, wants to scream, wants to cry. "Rick?" he whispers.

Rick is as sick as them to think an isolated father's delusions have come true. "People wearing dead people's faces," he says.

Carl hides his face in his arms.

Negan parrots, "What the fuck—what the fuck does that fucking mean, Rick?"

Rick is thankful he doesn't see red. This needs to be clear. "I don't know, Negan."