A/N This fic is from Negan's POV. It's completely AU and has nothing to do with the outbreak. In fact, Negan isn't even a coach in it. Murphy is my really strange OC. She's meant to be one of those people, you know those people, who have a condescending remark for everything you say for their own amusement. I don't know how well I'll convey that. I guess we'll see.

"Sign here," the officer tells me.

Night after shit fuck night, some kind of fuckery ensues at the bar I work at. Tonight, a stabbing. Something that happens at least once a month. It doesn't even faze me anymore when I have to clean the blood up. I don't really know why I do it. It's only going to be a matter of time before someone else's blood stains the floor.

As soon as the crime scene tape is lifted, the usual's trickle in the bar.

Pork chop; who got his name because he killed someone with, well, a pork chop.

Hugh Dangler; a washed up porn star from the 80's who spends his nights reminiscing about how the world's not ready for his comeback.

Gary boozy; because he looks like that actor fuck Gary Busey and the more intoxicated he becomes, the more he really thinks he is the guy. He's usually forcefully removed by me when he starts yelling about how he's Gary Busey and he shouldn't have to pay his tab.

Then, the most unlikely of characters. Her. Or as I call her Peggy Bundy. She's always in her leopard spandex and high heels. Bright red lipstick stains the end of her cigarette. She's got a nice fucking rack too that she sometimes lets spill out. However, she's the only person in this bar who doesn't actually order something to drink. Instead, it's, "Barq's root beer, no ice," I wink. She's a really good tipper despite only ordering two sodas before taking off for the night. I like to watch her ass in that spandex as she goes. "Last call," I shout.

Home is on the second floor of a dilapidated apartment complex. This place is such a shit hole, it's known only as Building 22. When I'm not seeing a body taken from the bar, I can always count on a gang fight or drug overdose to claim another victim at home. I'm right next to the staircase, so I get the luxury of hearing every drug deal that goes on. Despite the violence, no one really fucks with me but, then again, I'm six foot eight and almost three-hundred pounds.

"Hey, baby, you looking for a good time?"

"I tell you the same thing every night, Peaches. No."

She lets out a deafening cackle. "Okay, baby. But you know where to find me."

My apartment is number seventeen, but the numbers are gone. Before they were never to be seen again, someone was killed outside my door and the blood splatter outlined the numbers. Home sweet home.

One of these days I'll actually talk to Peggy Bundy, instead of jerking off at night in the cold shower to her. I notice a small bag of dog food up on the bar next to her purse. "That food for your dog?" I slam my eyes shut. Real fucking smooth, Negan.

"I spread it around my garden for my roses."

At least if she had the fucking dog I could think of a response. I don't know fuck all about flowers.

She sets her usual tip on the counter before gathering her things.

Here's the best part of my night.

"Negan," Pork Chop calls.

I put my hand out to quiet him so I can watch her ass leave this bar in peace. Well, now it's all downhill from here.

I've done a lot of things for pussy, but I've never actually stayed up all night to write talking points. I got something to say to her today, and eagerly wait for that pert little spandex ass but unfortunately, she doesn't show up that night. Goddammit.

Naturally, I was caught off guard when she did show up and didn't know what to say. So much for my talking points. It isn't until two weeks later that I finally muster up the courage to talk to her again. "Nurse," I smile.

She glances over her shoulder briefly like I'm talking to someone else.

"You're a nurse, right? That's why you're always coming in here so late."

"I'm a prostitute."

My cigarette just hangs by my bottom lip.

"You know… a hooker."

Is she fucking with me? Is she wanting to fuck me? I clear my throat, continuing to put away the extra glasses. "I know what a prostitute is. Guess… I just didn't expect that."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know that you're resourceful in using the dog food for your garden. I know that you smoke menthols. I know that you'd save a lot more money on lipstick if you didn't." I'm given a smile in return on that. "But, mostly, I know that you sit at my bar every night and stare out that window like you're waiting for something better to come along."

"Maybe I am."

"What are you waiting for?"

"My tab."

Strike two.

I decided just to leave her the hell alone because I don't really want to be shot down a third fucking time. However, I notice that cigarette of hers between those rouge lips unlit. She's searching in her purse for the lighter. I play it real motherfucking smooth and extend my arm out to light it for her. When she thanks me, I give her a wink and go about my business.

When I shout for last call, as the bar starts to empty I notice she's still sitting there. "I could always break the rules and get you one more," I grin.

"Root beer is non-alcoholic."

Well, that backfired. I fill up her glass before I start to pick up some.

"Light?"

I dry my hands on my pants before getting it. "You know, there are a thousand other places to go to and drink root beer."

"Not since everyone got so uptight about smoking in restaurants. Besides, I enjoy it here."

"This place is a shithole. Not even the rats enjoy it here."

"Is that what keeps touching my foot? I thought that was you."

"If I was going to touch something of yours, it'd be a lot higher than your foot." Oh, goddammit. My mouth is on fucking autopilot. I brace myself for the sting of her hand. Instead, she leans over and uses the flame to light her cigarette.

"If this place is so bad, why do you keep wasting your life in it?"

"It's a job. Besides, you have no room to talk."

"Oh, is that so?"

"You know, just last week they pulled a hooker's body out of the alley. What parts they managed to find. If not for your safety, don't you worry about what kind of disease you might get?"

"Looks like I left the business at the right time." She takes another sip of her soda. "Goodnight."

Quit? "Goodnight…" I pause hoping she'll tell me her name.

"Murphy."

"Are you fucking with me? Like the prostitute thing?

"Why would I lie about my name?

"Isn't Murphy like, well, a dude's name?"

"What is it they call you around here? Megan? Isn't Megan a girl's name?"

"Megan? My name is Negan."

"That makes a lot more sense."

"So… is Murphy your real name?"

"Maybe. I dunno. I need to go. Keep the change, Megan."

I don't even give Murphy the time of day the following night. Instead, I flirt with one of the regular girls at the bar.

"Negan," Murphy hollers. In her hand, she has the phone at the bar. "It's the testing clinic. Your results are in about that rash. It's kind of urgent you take the call."

Now, the normal fucking person would have enough common sense to know a goddamn clinic isn't going to be open at one am in the fucking morning, but this girl wasn't and she slaps me across the face before storming out of the bar.

Murphy tosses her head back with a laugh.

I pull the phone receiver out of her hand and slam it down. "What the fuck was that?"

"If you want to make me jealous, that's not the way to do it."

I'm kinda fucking speechless right now.

"You don't want someone like that anyhow. Or you really will need to go to the clinic."

"If we're being honest, I don't think it would have ever got to that point. She's probably as boring in bed as she was to talk to."

"With an attitude like that, it's a wonder how you get any girl into bed."

I start to laugh and pour her a root beer. "So, you've got my full attention now."

"Don't I always?"

"Yeah," I smirk, "you do. Where'd you get those sunglasses?" They're a bright red and both lenses are shaped like hearts.

"You can borrow them if you want."

Yep, I sure as fuck took them because I knew if I had them she'd come back for them.

"Why were you trying to make me jealous?"

"Because every other attempt to hit on you didn't work."

"Those attempts all sucked. Besides, I'm married."

"Really? Where's your ring?"

"Well, that didn't go like I thought."

"You shouldn't lie. You're fucking terrible at it," I laugh.

Murphy stretches her arm out and takes the pen by the register. On the napkin, she writes down an address before taking her sunglasses back.

My eyes widen. Is this her address? "You lying about this, too?"

"Maybe. Guess you'll have to see," she smiles.

I don't really know how I feel about calling out the name Murphy when I'm fucking her, but it's not the strangest thing I've said fucking a girl. "Last call," I shout.

"We still got twenty minutes," Pork chop grumbles.

"Not tonight you don't. Get the fuck out." I leave the bar a disaster, and can't remember if I even locked the door. My mind is on one thing. My dick against that leopard spandex.