Author's note: This one shot was swimming in my head for a while, mostly in fragments of dialogue, but it's been distracting me from working on Rebirth, so I figured I'd flesh it out. Honestly I hesitated even putting it up because it's kind of just torture porn. I've been struggling with the motivation to write lately, so even though I'm not terribly proud of this I'll put it up because it represents a little win for myself on two fronts. One I finally forced myself to write a couple thousand words, and two, it was a good outlet for self harm urges (two years clean, and what better way to stay that way than to torture a character). I hope you enjoy in spite of the conflicted feelings I have about it. Reviews are always a huge encouragement, please leave some comments if you have the time!
Sitting up against the wall of the Sanctuary, the heat radiating up from the concrete burns against your skin, but you're grateful they are even allowing you to wait outside to begin with. You can practically envision the crowd of rubber necks amassing in the building and you sure as hell don't need them breathing down yours, making each god forsaken second pass even slower.
Dwight's even been kind enough to loan his scrawny ass as a sunshade, you think as the man stands guard over you. It's not like he needs to, you aren't fucked in the head enough to even consider trying to make a run for it. But protocol is protocol, no one knows that better than you.
"You know the handcuff is overkill, right?" You tug on the metal secured around your left wrist, securing you to the adjacent chain link fence. Your voice is surprisingly steady considering the circumstances. Dwight looks down at you, eyebrow raised.
"I'm not risking my ass to keep your wrist cozy." He turns back out at the bland concrete yard again, too much of a pussy to even look you in the eyes. "If you'd stop tugging on it, it wouldn't hurt."
You still your futile efforts to find a comfortable way to rest with a hot metal vice biting into your skin. "If you'd get your nose out of Negan's sphincter for a second and take it off, it wouldn't either," you retort.
Dwight's jaw ticks momentarily. He looks back at you, eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't been a pussy about everything."
"Fuck you and the moral high horse you rode in on. I didn't have a fucking choice."
"I was there. He gave you a choice. It's no one's fault but yours you took the stupid ass one."
Staring up from the ground, Negan's looming presence is even more imposing than usual. There isn't the slightest hint of amusement in his voice when he speaks, "Kill him."
You wrap your fingers around Lucille, her barbs drawing blood as he hands his beloved to you.
"I made the only choice I fucking could," you mutter, drawing your knees up to your chest. No matter how bad this sucks, you knew you had made the right choice.
Dwight shrugs half-heartedly, reaching into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He lights it deftly, taking a long, slow, drag before letting out a sigh through a cloud of smoke.
"Can I bum one?" You ask. He glances back to you.
"You have a whole carton to yourself. I saw you grab it last week," he says, his voice thick with selfishness.
"Does it look like I have a pack on me? I'll owe you one." You sound pathetic, but you're desperate. Dwight purses his lips like he's considering it. "Come on, man. Think of it like my last meal."
He rolls his eyes, but reaches into his pocket. "He's not gonna kill you. You know that," he says as he lights the cig and hands it to you.
"Probably gonna wish he did," you grumble. Your throat burns as you let out a huge puff of smoke, but the poison working its magic, you feel better already, less on edge.
"Yeah. Probably." The hardass facade fades from Dwight's voice. He rubs his hand on the mangled flesh of his own, the entire left half of his face.
The kid looks terrified, staring up at you with watery brown eyes and crooked teeth clamped down on his bottom lip. The stolen loaf of bread, already fallen from his shaking hands, rests on the dirty ground next to the jug of stolen milk.
"What's it feel like?" You almost whisper.
"It feels like half your face is being melted by a fucking iron." The coldness seeps back into Dwight's words.
You weren't a savior yet when he got the iron. Just a spectator who didn't have to actively help with the process, but it was still a horrific sight to behold. It was a memory that had been seared in your mind the same way the iron had seared Dwight's face. Never once did you think you'd find yourself looking down the barrel of the same punishment.
"I made the right choice." Even with the calming ritual of a nice smoke, it's a fight to keep your voice steady this time.
"If you say so."
"Please sir, I didn't mean to steal. But my sister," he looks down at the pale sickly girl curled up half-aware on the thin blanket separating her frail body from the cold concrete, "she needs to eat. I didn't have the points."
Your heart shatters for both the children in front of you, the boy doesn't even look twelve, much less his younger sister, and the cruel world has rendered them orphaned and starving.
A crackling voice on Dwight's radio breaks the silence. "Everything's ready. Bring her in."
Somehow you feel like you should be more nervous about the horrors to come, but you accepted your fate from the moment you spoke up. Nothing is different from that moment then, except that now it's your time to pay the piper.
"Gimme a sec," you say before taking one final, satisfying drag on the cigarette, exhaling it smoothly. Before you cave to Dwight's impatience you grit your teeth and press the tiny smoldering ember to the inside of your left arm. You focus on the pain as you twist the cigarette out on your own flesh, hundreds of tiny nerve endings screaming in distress. With a quiet grunt you toss the butt to the ground beside you.
"Negan, please," you plead on their behalf. When the food had been discovered stolen, it was you whom the bad fortune of finding the culprit had fallen.
"Rules are rules, sweetcheeks." his voice lacks all sympathy for the children's plight as he turns to address the boy, "and why do the rules matter, kid?"
"The rules keep us alive." The boy's shoulders slump pitifully as he casts his eyes to the leader's boots, defeated.
"What the hell was that about? One burn not enough for you today?" Dwight asks as he uncuffs your hand from the fence. He helps you to your feet before turning you around and securing both your hands behind your back. The friction of your clothes against your freshly burned arm stings brutally.
"Endorphins," you reply.
"Endor-what?" He pushes you forward, holding on to your cuffed hands, ensuring you have no escape from your fate.
"Endorphins. The body's pain killer. In response to the little burn, my body will make endorphins to numb out the pain. I doubt it'll help much with the iron, but it's at least worth a shot." It feels borderline surreal to be giving a physiology lesson en route to what will likely be the most agonizing experience of your young life.
You can't help but wonder at what point it's going to become real, that the horrible reality will sink in. With any luck it'll be after the iron has disfigured you for life, no sense in prolonging the torture with anticipation. At least no matter what, you can cling to the surety that you made the right choice.
"Exactly fucking right." Negan's heavy dark gaze levels back with your own, refusing to grant the mercy your heart burns for. "Now Y/N, I believe I gave you an order."
Your stomach twists violently, threatening to spill the meager contents of your lunch. Palms sweating, heart thrashing in your chest, and against all better judgement you speak. "He's just a kid." Your voice breaks in spite of your best efforts to remain strong.
"You are one crazy bitch." You don't even have to see behind you to know the dismissing expression on his face. Screw him, he's been in your shoes before, if there was a chance something might have diminished his pain he would've been just as desperate to try it.
"Coming from the guy who lets his boss fuck his wife." You regret the words the moment they spill off your lips, even more so when Dwight wrenches your arms up behind you, painfully over-extending your shoulders. "Okay, okay. Too far. Line crossed. My apologies."
He lowers your arms back into a relatively comfortable position. "Just more endorphins for you." His tone mocks slightly, but it's just a joke.
When you round the corner in front of the entrance to the bottom floor of the main building, Dwight lets you stop to take a moment. You look around the dull grey of the Sanctuary, it's as unforgiving as the man who's about to take an iron to your face, but the next time you see it, it'll look the same and your appearance will be permanently marred. It's a strange, entirely uncomforting feeling.
Dwight places a hand on your shoulder, and you are surprisingly reassured by the gesture. His voice is gentle this time. "Just breathe, Y/N. Just breathe and it'll be over before you know it. The pain fades eventually."
"The scar doesn't." Your voice shakes slightly. You can hear the murmuring crowd gathered on the opposite side of the metal doors, the fluttering voices finally stirring up the sleeping bat colony of terror in your guts.
"A kid who knows the rules, and stole my shit anyway. You found him, and I'm ordering you to punish him."
"I can't," you whisper.
"You'll get used to it. Eventually."
"Are you used to it?" you ask.
"No." Dwight answers, his voice coated with a kind of dark honesty.
Negan's eyes flash violently at your words. "What was that, darlin'? Because if I'm not mistaken that sounded a whole lot fucking like you were disobeying my orders." His voice is brittle, icy, and utterly terrifying.
In spite of the fear frosting over your veins, you whisper again, "I can't."
"You ready?" He asks.
Whether you're ready or not, he doesn't give you the chance to answer. His hands move from the cuffs behind you, to grabbing your left arm. One hand on your shoulder, the other on your bicep, he roughly slides his hand over your fresh cigarette burn before planting it firmly in place.
With a quick pull, he opens the metal door, letting it swing back and hit the concrete behind it, sending a loud crash reverberating through the room, silencing the crowd inside. A hundred pairs of eyes, some fearful, some judgemental, pierce through your body.
Your jaw is jerked up viciously, Negan's fingers gripping your face so tightly you can practically feel the blood vessels popping. You open your eyes, not even realizing you had shut them, to see Negan's sculpted face only inches from yours, blackened eyes furious and jaw clenched beneath his salt and peppered beard.
Though your mind is swimming through a torrent of thoughts, you are grounded to reality by Dwight's tugging on your arm. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, matching the echo of your footsteps walking forward. In spite of the crushing weight of fear you hold your head high, refusing to show weakness in front of the crowd of people who both respect and fear your status as a Savior.
The walk seemed to simultaneously last both a lifetime and barely a fraction of a second before you are forced down into a chair at the front of the crowd. You look up to the catwalk above you to see Negan's heavy gaze staring back at you. You could handle both his smug attitude and his anger with ease, but this look of burning disappointment, stings painfully.
You had always been one of the most trusted Saviors. Never once had you questioned Negan's orders, never once had you backed down from fulfilling a command no matter what it was, until the day you were ordered to end the life behind those watery brown eyes. The same ones boring into you from above, standing right next to the leader of the Saviors. Witnessing my agony, my penance, was to be his punishment it seemed.
If it means he lives I can do this, you think. Your resolve strengthened, you sit up in the chair, ready to face the music, ignoring the numerous pairs of eyes glued to your back and murmurs wearing your name.
Lucille slams against the metal guardrail of the catwalk, silencing the whispers, and drawing every set of eyes up to the fearless leader.
"Good fucking afternoon, everyone," Negan kicks off the show with a smile on his face. "I'm sure by now, you all know why we're here, so I'll try to make this quick. I wouldn't want to waste your valuable time, time you could be spending working for me!"
He slides his hand along the railing, moving his eyes from the crowd to address you directly, the hint of disappointment still lingering in his deep brown eyes.
"One of my Saviors, one of the people I trust to follow in my leadership, one of the people who keeps you people safe at night, defied me and refused to follow a simple command. She broke the rules. And why are the rules important?" He looks up to the crowd for their answer.
A mindless chorus behind you responds, "the rules keep us alive."
"That is fucking right! And when you break the rules, in my Sanctuary, you will be punished."
The little boy follows Negan as he makes his way down the stairs. Their steps, ringing out, echoing off the walls settle in your ears like a funeral dirge. Your mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, and your forehead joins your palms in sweating profusely though you're not quite certain if it's from the nerves or the oppressive heat radiating out from the furnace.
"What's about to happen," Negan continues addressing the crowd from their level on the ground floor, "Is not going to be pleasant for anyone here, least of all Y/N."
Negan stands so close you can smell the scent of leather and masculinity emanating from his body as he looks down at you with that same heartbreaking look.
"I don't want to do this to you, Y/N," he says quietly. "You gave me no choice."
"I made the right choice." Your voice is soft but powerful. Negan's eyes flicker with almost a hint of pride. There's no way to know for sure, but somehow you feel like if Negan had been in your shoes, he too would have made the choice to spare the boy. Or at least that he might respect you for making the tough choice that you had.
Negan looks away from you, up to Dwight currently standing in front of the large, ominous furnace.
"D, the iron."
His voice is barely audible gravel, "I'm gonna give you one last motherfucking chance, Y/N. Kill. Him."
"I can't."
A sudden calm crashes over you, as you accept the probable fate of death. You stare stoically into the black voids of your leader's eyes, as they blink in the momentary disbelief of your defiance. His crushing hand is removed from your jaw with a second jerk, casting you off. He rises to his full looming stature, eyes unwavering from yours.
The anger is gone from his posture and his voice is calm, "Then it is the iron for you."
You feel like you have to force yourself to follow Dwight's advice and breathe, raggedly dragging air into your chest, and even still it feels like you're suffocating on fear.
Negan slips on the large flame retardant glove before grabbing the red hot iron off the end of the pole Dwight had used to pull it out of the furnace. He doesn't say a word as he slowly brings the torture device closer and closer to your waiting flesh.
You don't struggle, don't pointlessly attempt to move away. You hold your head high and stare into the watery brown eyes that had gotten you into this mess in the first place.
The boy flinches and it takes a split second for you to realize that the sound drowning out your blaring heartbeat is your own violent screams. Each nerve ending screams desperately as the flesh around it melts, bubbling and bursting around the metal iron.
You are spared no mercy, no dulling of the senses. Your skin charring and liquifying simultaneously, with vicious tongues of burning pain, broiling within your flesh. Your eardrums languish on the threshold of bursting amidst the shrieking screams ripping your vocal chords ragged and the cries of the people watching. Your nose burns as well with the noxious sickly scent of roasting skin. You can even taste it, your dry mouth overcome by the sweet poison of the smoldering fumes.
The greatest agony of course saved for last, Negan rips the searing metal from your face, bits and pieces of melted flesh cling to the iron as they are torn from your body.
At this moment, you couldn't care less about the moral correctness of your decision, all that mattered was the excruciating pain that defined your existence. Every fucking person you've ever seen endure this torture had had the blessed gift of unconsciousness to retreat into; why, no matter how badly you wish for it, can't you?
No dark edge flitters around the edges of your tear drenched vision. No fuzziness or dimness threatens to take you under into the sweet, blissful, nothingness. Nothing but suffering and anguish defines the consciousness you are trapped in.
Through the screaming, torturous sobs that wrack your body as you thrash against your bonds in the chair, not caring as the flesh on your wrists is ripped apart by the handcuffs, you don't even comprehend Negan's closing remarks.
It's not until the Saviors manage to load you onto the stretcher to be taken to the infirmary that your mind allows you to succumb to the comforting abyss.
One year later
From the bench you're able to watch the newest batch of Savior trainees sweating under the gruelling paces Simon is putting them through. It makes you laugh, remembering how badly those days had sucked, fighting walkers, 48 hour shifts on guard duty, being forced to work every shit job in the Sanctuary just to know how each position should be done. It seemed pointless and miserable at the time, but it had been worth it once you were able to call yourself a Savior.
You take a long drag from your cigarette, savoring the sweet taste of the tobacco. How they had managed to scavenge Natural Sherman's in a world gone to shit like this, you would never know. But you were sure as hell grateful for the break from cowboy killers and grandma menthols.
You jump back startled, as a voice breaks through your thoughts.
"Those things'll kill you," Negan says with a small smile on his face at the way he'd scared you. He walks around to sit next to you on the bench.
"What won't these days? Pretty sure that's a shorter list." You take another drag, savoring the slight burn in the back of my throat.
"Well aren't you fucking rude. You're not gonna offer me one?" He leans back on the bench, tossing his arms over the back of the seat. His fingers dance on the skin poking out beneath your short sleeved t-shirt.
"You know they kill you, right?" You smirk back at him, enjoying the glimmer of mischief in your boss's eyes. Though it makes absolutely no sense, you had grown to become what some might define as friends in the past year, and you were definitely the only one of his Saviors who could get away with giving Negan back some of the shit he dishes out.
Instead of taking the time to dignify your retort with a response, he snakes his arm down your side, trailing the curves of your waist until he reaches your pocket. With the skill of a pick-pocket, the pack is in his hands and a cigarette between his lips in seconds. You save him the trouble of grabbing the lighter from the breast pocket of your t-shirt and hand it over.
You both sit back, leaning comfortably as you watch the training session continue outside the fence.
"He's doing pretty fucking well." Negan says pointing at the smallest of the future saviors, struggling, but still succeeding in putting a new walker on the fence. "He's got hustle."
"Guess it's a good thing I didn't kill him." Your voice is dry, though a hint of humor shines through. You don't look to the side though you feel Negan's gaze on you, your good side that is.
"Maybe motherfucking so. He's pretty damn tough for being so fucking scrawny."
"Having to put down your mom, dad, and sister, not to mention watching a chick get her face melted off for you tends to have that effect."
"Let's just hope he's not a giant pussy who can't follow fucking orders." He finally get's you with that one. You turn to look at him, eyes narrowed with distinct unamusement. The smug smile on his face pisses you off even more. It's one thing when he gets to you, another thing entirely when he knows he got to you.
"You know," He says, bringing a hand up to sweep back the hair you always wear down, covering the left side of your face, "It doesn't look all that bad. Kinda badass actually."
You flinch away from his touch. You have barely been able to force yourself to look in the mirror the past year, you don't need to be lied to. "Fuck off, man." You turn away again, running your fingers through your hair to cover the scars as best you can.
"Hey now. I'm being fucking serious! Even with the scars you're still like a solid 7."
You scowl at his words. "You sure know how to make a gal feel special. No wonder you're such a ladies man."
"My six fucking wives don't seem to be complaining!" He tosses his head back with a laugh and the sound is grating. He could write the how to manual on how to piss someone off in thirty seconds or less.
You feel his hand on your chin, turning your head to look back at Negan. "I am serious though. It doesn't look that bad. I mean, I'd still fuck you."
"Really?" You ask, eyebrow raised questioningly.
"I'd have to put a fucking bag over your face first, but"-
You cut him off by slugging him as hard as you can in the shoulder. "Fuck you."
"Isn't that what we were discussing?" The obnoxious smirk ever immovable from Negan's face remains. The only thing that gives you a slight sense of accomplishment is the way he rubs his shoulder gingerly where you hit him.
"You're a fucking asshole."
"And you're an ugly bitch."
With that eloquent exchange, you feel like the time has come to make your way back to the trainees before one of them ends up on the wrong side of a walker's jaws.
You toss your cigarette to the ground, smashing it out under your boot with a gentle twist. Collecting your pack of smokes and your lighter you rise. "Back to work, Boss man." You reply in answer to the question he didn't ask.
"Where your ass should've been all along. You've only got one good side left, don't want to risk it being lazy," he says with a wink. You turn around still walking, only backwards, and throw up a quick middle finger salute to your douchebag of a leader.
His voice calls from over your shoulder as you turn back around. "Tell me when and where, I'll bring the bag!"