They marry in September on Rick's birthday. The date is the only extravagance Negan takes for the occasion, which Rick appreciates. The whole affair is strikingly formal, a ritual of flipping papers and signing on lines pointed to by the notary, like they're taking out a loan or buying a house. Rick gives Negan a modest silver ring while they're parked in their driveway.
"It's only fair," Rick says, and Negan agrees.
He notices some etching on the band. Lifting the ring closer, he can read the inscription: non timebo mala.
"I will fear no evil," Rick translates, as though Negan doesn't know basic Latin from his time studying spells and ancient texts. It's also the inscription on the barrel of Rick's Colt Python.
Negan grins at him. "Now that just ain't fair, Rick, one-upping me like this. Lucky for you, I've got a present for ya."
That night, Negan presents Rick with the only thing he has to give: his music. He has put together a new song for this momentous occasion, and he's a little worried Rick might see this as a cheapskate rock star's way out of gift-giving. But Rick sits beside Negan on the bed and watches him with reverence, like he's something sacred. And maybe now, Negan can believe it.
I held on too tight,
I must've tried a million times,
To do it right, put on a show,
Now I'm letting go,
The real prize don't have a price,
But when they get it, they just forget it,
Silver and gold, the finer things won't fill up your soul,
Now I see that love's all we need,
The rest don't mean shit 'cause it won't make you stay,
Hold me and tell me you won't go away,
I need to feel it and know that it's real,
But every time I hesitate,
And I don't know which way to go,
That's when you say,
"Your love is enough,"
Because of you, I'm not alone,
I'm finally home,
I'll hold you close and I won't go away,
Cover the scars and the wounds that won't heal,
'Cause every time you hesitate,
And you don't know the way to go,
I will show you,
Your love is enough.
The following day, Negan can't resist his extravagant nature. He records a minute and a half of "Enough" in the basement studio and posts it to his Instagram. He does not mention marriage, but the ring finger of his hand working the fretboard is hard to miss; hardcore fans take notice, since he wasn't wearing a ring during the tour or in the photos he's posted since opening the account. Comments flood in, containing speculation and preemptive congratulations, but Negan pays them little mind. As he has written, Rick's love is enough. His happiness does not depend on the acceptance of strangers: just the few select people he cares about. This time around, he has chosen people who, like Lucille, willingly give back. On the good days—of which he has quite a few lately—Negan wants for nothing.
About a week later, Carl awakens in the middle of the night to an unusual sound: a deep rumble, as though a motorcycle or a vehicle with a loud engine has driven by. On occasions when Carl rides along with Negan and one of these noisy cars passes them, Negan will say something to the effect of, "sorry about your dick!" because he claims only men with micro-penises feel the need to soup up their engines like that. Once, when Carl replied with, "is that why you talk about yours all the time?" Negan laughed and said, "Why don't you ask your dad?"
Carl did not, in fact, ask his father anything regarding the size of Negan's cock. No thanks. He pretends his parents are asexual, though their bedroom lies on the other side of Carl's wall. He hears things, and it haunts him.
But according to the too-bright lock screen of his phone, it's three in the morning, and generally there are no obnoxiously loud vehicles on their street. So what the hell is one doing here at this hour?
The rumbling is a constant presence outside Carl's bedroom window. He sneaks out of bed and inches back the curtains with his finger. An offwhite SUV lingers in front of the Grimes' house. The windows are tinted dark enough that Carl can't see who's driving, but he doesn't recognize the car. He's lived on this street long enough to know his neighbors' cars. He checks the windshield for a driving service decal, which might explain why a strange car is idling outside of his house at 3 a.m. He doesn't see one.
Maybe it's a client looking for Rick and Negan. Two problems with that theory. One, if the case were a paranormal emergency, Rick and Negan wouldn't be asleep in the next room. They'd be out on the case right now. Two, how would the client have found Rick's home address? Carl supposes it's not impossible, but it does seem unlikely.
Carl peeks out again. The SUV is still there, like its driver is waiting for someone. Carl feels waves of malevolence coming from that car, or, more accurately, from the driver within. He leaves his bedroom and opens his parents' door, bracing himself for an unpleasant and possibly scarring sight.
Rick and Negan are asleep and clothed, at least from the waist up. They're snuggled against each other like kittens, which Carl might find cute if they weren't his parents.
"Dad," Carl whispers into the quiet. "There's someone outside."
Rick is the first to rise, popping up like bread out of a toaster. "What's goin' on?"
"Come look," Carl says, and he hears Rick murmur something to Negan as he leaves the room. "He's just parked out front." Carl leads Rick toward his bedroom window. As soon as Carl peels the curtain back, the offwhite SUV rolls away, as though the driver knows he's been caught. "Crap." Carl pushes aside the curtain and moves to give Rick a better view. "He must've seen us."
Rick makes a contemplative noise in his throat. "You see him again, you let me know."
"Yeah. Sorry I woke you up."
"Don't be. You're looking out for us."
A few days pass, and Judith comes down with the flu. Negan volunteered to help her recuperate, since Rick had done so the day before.
"I'll stay home with her," Negan said that morning, pressed against Rick's back while Rick brewed his morning coffee. "My immune system is rock solid." To emphasize the point, Negan rocked his hips forward, pressing his dick against Rick's ass.
Rick choked a noise of surprise.
Carl's choking was less surprise and more in the area of disgust. He was sitting at the dining table, seated as far away from his sister as possible to lessen the chance of catching her germs. Judith groggily spooned Lucky Charms into her mouth. "Can you not?" Carl said, grimacing at his parents' display of affection. "Some of us are trying to eat."
"Well, some of us are tryin' to score with your dad," Negan said, earning a horrified "ugh!" sound from Carl.
Rick turned to face Negan, his eyes bright and his smile spreading. "Alright, Mr. Rock Solid"—he gave Negan's denim-clad crotch a playful pat—"the job's yours."
"Careful, Rick," Negan said, his gaze darting to where Rick's hand had been moments ago. "You get that thing talking, and it won't shut up."
"Wouldn't want that," Rick teased as he turned back to the coffee maker.
From the table, Carl moaned, "Oh my God, you guys are so embarrassing," into his hands.
Rick took his mug and stirred in some milk. "I guess that means you're off the hook for the follow-up on the Ford case."
Thank fuck, Negan thought, because standard P.I. work is boring as shit.
Which is why Negan spends the afternoon catering to Judith's beck and call when she's not asleep from the medicine. Around mid-afternoon Judith calls for him, her tiny voice carrying through the house, and Negan jogs up the stairs, appearing in her bedroom doorway like a faithful butler.
"You rang, darlin'?" Negan says.
"I need more tissues." Judith waves a hand at him, which is currently stuck inside an empty Kleenex box—the same box that had been unopened this morning. The lower half of her bed and the floor are littered with discarded white puffs of tissue, her plastic pink garbage bin overflowing with them. She could easily have gone down the hall to the bathroom, raided the cabinets under the sink for extra rolls of toilet paper, but Negan told her to stay in bed while she's sick.
"You sure do," Negan says. "You are Queen of Snot Mountain."
Judith pouts, her lower lip sticking out. "I don't wanna be."
"It's not every day you get to be royalty," Negan says. He kneels down at her bedside to gather up the tissue debris, stuffing handfuls into the small trash bin. "When you're queen, you get your own butler." Yes, he's a regular Mr. Belvedere, and Negan is over the moon to bring this kid extra tissues or a hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. He never knew how much he wanted to be a dad until he lost Emily, and that desire fermented and hardened in his chest, a tight ball of unfulfillment that dissolved like an antacid when Rick invited him in to the family.
Judith drops the empty tissue box into the trash. Her tiny nose is a chapped shade of red, exhaustion plain on her face. "How long 'til I get better?"
Judith has only been sick for two days, but that must seem like a lifetime to her. Bed rest is blasphemy to a six-year-old.
"Give it a couple days, kiddo. The medicine takes a while to work. But if I were you, I'd be real happy I didn't have to go to school."
"But I like school," Judith protests.
Negan makes a face. "You are such a nerd."
"So? Iron Man is a nerd. And so is Bruce Banner before he turns into the Hulk."
"They sure are. Brainy kids like you are gonna grow up to rule the world. Or create the next Facebook. Same difference." Negan grabs the trash bin, now neatly stuffed with debris. "I'll be back with more tissues. And I think it's about time for your next dose of medicine."
Judith frowns in disgust. "It's gross."
"Tell me about it. You'd think somebody would've figured out how to make it taste good." Negan shakes his head, as though this is some great disappointment. "I'd love to be a pal and do NyQuil shots with you, but I gotta take care of things around here."
"Okay," Judith groans.
Negan takes Judith's trash bin downstairs and dumps its contents into the main garbage in the kitchen. He checks the clock on the microwave. Almost 2 p.m. He gave Judith her last dose of medicine around eight, just after breakfast. Almost six hours. He ought to give her an afternoon snack to make the syrup go down easier.
As Negan rummages through the cabinets, searching for the cup of microwaveable mac and cheese he swears he saw in here this morning, a knock sounds on the front door.
"It's open, Maggie," Negan calls, figuring it's her. She has made a habit of dropping in to borrow packages of baby wipes; Rick's sometimes irrational Costco purchases have left them with a surplus of random household items stored in the hall closet.
The front door opens and shuts. Negan's still digging through the cabinet, pushing aside boxes of minute rice and Kraft dinners, soup and bean cans, Carl's Pop-Tarts, Judith's cheese crackers. Negan's pantry was never so goddamn full before he moved in with Rick. "Just take the whole damn pallet," he says. "Not that I don't enjoy the pleasure of your company, but until your boy learns basic table manners, you're gonna go through those things like crazy."
Maggie doesn't answer, which strikes Negan as odd. Maybe she's in a sour mood.
"Cat got your tongue?" Negan says, turning around to look at her.
It's not Maggie standing in the kitchen, but a stranger. A man. He's about Negan's height, his hair a muddy brown beginning to gray at the temples. His face is unusual, with a roundness commonly seen in infants, though crow's feet and the creases around his mouth imply his age. His eyes seem to be perpetually squinting, as though staring into the sun or channeling a killer Clint Eastwood impersonation. He's wearing a dark blue shirt and black jeans, almost like something Rick would wear.
But most of all, the tiny smile on the man's equally tiny mouth fills Negan with a disturbing sense of dread.
"Well, aren't you freaky as shit, sneaking up on me like that!" Negan says. "Who the fuck are you?"
"My name is Philip Blake. I'm your biggest fan." The man reaches into the waistband of his jeans, his hand disappearing behind him, and—in a move Negan has seen Rick perform dozens of times—pulls out a pistol.