By the time you and Negan had arrived at his doorstep, the juice of the squished tomato had already begun to dry, coating your hand in a now cracking orange-red film. You'd done your best on the walk to Negan's humble abode to wipe off the dried juices on your jeans, but to no avail. Not only were you convinced that you were about to get the Lucille treatment, but now you'd wind up dying with a literal mess on your hands. What a goddamn way to go. You watch silently as Negan's hand extends outward to twist the doorknob just before pushing open the door, the motion revealing the space that belonged only to him. Upon first glance, your initial impression is that it's much smaller than you'd ever anticipated. Granted, it's still larger than the room you occupied, but small none the less. You're not entirely sure what you expected, though. It's not like the Sanctuary had a lot of room to work with to begin with; an old school provided everyone with a space for sleeping (though most doubled up two or three to a room), and there was the cafeteria which fit perfectly into the scheme of the Sanctuary.
By the time you manage to pull yourself out of your thoughts, you find that Negan has already bypassed you in order to step into his room. The soft tap of metal and the thud of wood can be heard as he sets Lucille down, propping the bat against one of the two seats at the forefront of the room. It's now that you feel as if you can catch a fleeting moment of relief. Perhaps he hadn't intended to bash your brains in after all. Your gaze lifts to find Negan staring back at you, a single brow raised and a look of amusement etched onto his features. He shrugs and simultaneously extends both arms outward at his sides.
"Well what the fuck are you waiting for, a formal invitation?" He lowers his arms back down to his sides just before heavily dropping down into one of the seats. "Get the fuck in here and close the goddamn door."
You do as your told, and quickly. There's no point in pissing off an already irritated Negan. The soles of your boots create a dull thud as you move further into the room, stopping only when you're near the chairs. Your brows crease with the inner confusion that you currently find yourself struggling with. Do you take a seat? Do you stand? Do you follow normal protocol and kneel? Shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, you await further instruction from the man seated in front of you. And, as if on cue, laughter is emitted from deep within Negan's chest, the sound filling the small expanse.
"Jesus Christ," he murmurs, the exclamation barely above that of a whisper. "Sit the fuck down and stop being so fucking awkward. Shit."
Yet again, doing as you're told, you take a seat in the chair beside the one in which Negan occupies currently. His hands come together, fingers forming a steeple as he carefully places them just before his lips which are now pursed in thought, and you can't help but wonder just what exactly is going through his mind. "Is he stealing?" Finally, the silence is broken, and for a moment you find yourself taken aback by his question. Your mouth opens, and for a fleeting moment you don't understand he question. Is who stealing? "Dwight." Negan states matter-of-factly. His next words, however, are spoken slowly and enunciated clearly in a way that says you best not make him repeat himself a third time. "Is he stealing?"
Oh, shit. You'd never been much for confrontation prior to the apocalypse, and not much has changed since then. As much as Dwight irritated you and, more often than not, left you wishing he'd meet the business end of Lucille, the thought of it actually happening made you physically sick.
"Sweetheart, if I have to ask you again, you're not going to enjoy the way in which I ask."
Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You're in for it now. You are so dead.
"Yes." And with that answer, you swear that you can feel the color draining from your face. You may not wind up on Negan's nad side by answering and answering honestly, but you most certainly may be responsible for a man's impending death. Swallowing harshly, you will your racing heart to quiet itself before it all but leaps clear out of your chest, and you watch as Negan nods in that thoughtful way of his. A minute passes, maybe two, and soon he lowers both arms so they drape over the sides of his chair.
"How long?"
Now that you've been honest about Dwight's sneakiness, you could lie about the length of time. It may spare him the chopping block but it sure as hell would put you on it should Negan find out. "I don't know. I've only been doing this for.."
"A month. Yeah, I know." He's quick to finish your statement, but you notice now that his tone comes across as introspective.
"But," you continue for the sake of Negan's satisfaction, "it's been going on that long."
It's now that a new found sense of panic hits you as the realization that you could be in some serious shit for not reporting it. It had been going on this long, and though Dwight was in Negan's crosshairs, it could soon be you too if he sees you as an accessory to the crime. Your hands wring together in a nervous gesture, your palms now clammy; the moisture is enough to now help to rub off the dried tomato juices. In the process of your mind changes the course of your thoughts, you'd lost track of what exactly Negan was doing. Abruptly, a wall of crimson blocks the view of your hands, and when your eyes focus, you realize that Negan has offered you his bandana.
"Clean that shit up and then get back to work. You and I will meet later."
And as quickly as he'd come to retrieve you, Negan dismisses you without so much as a second thought. Gripping his bandana in between both of your hands, you rise from your spot in his chair and quietly excuse yourself from his room. Going back to work was the last thing you wanted to do after that intense experience, you'd much prefer hugging the porcelain throne at this point. But, tucking the now dirty bandana into the back pocket of your jeans, you do as you always do, and you listen to Negan.