Cecelia came to, slowly, and then all at once. The first thing she was aware of was the unbearable pain. Every part of her was throbbing, pulsating in waves through her body. Some of the pain was dull, sore. Others were acute, like there was a knife being stabbed through her temples, her ribs. She tried to move, but it felt like she was sinking into the plush bed she was sat in, and it only made her hurt worse.

A panic gripped her around her throat, choking back her sporadic breathing, until she finally processed that she was no longer trapped in the dark utility closet.

Her surroundings looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn't remember exactly where she was. Her memory was faded as she tried to remember how she had gotten here, and everything seemed unclear.

She fidgeted again, stretching and flexing her ankles, realizing that something was tied around them. When she tried to bend her knee, it stopped. She'd been restrained. Panic set in as she desperately tried to free herself from the straps, but her left hand was strapped in as well, with an IV placed in her forearm. Her opposite hand was bent, wrapped in a sling around her shoulder, which indicated she must have injured her wrist. Though it hurt to move, she whimper as she tugged and squirmed, but she was locked in tight.

"Jesus Christ," she heard a familiar voice, and her eyes fought to adjust in the dim light. "Calm the fuck down, will you?"

The figure stepped into view, and she let out a sigh of relief when she saw him, surprinsingly so. Negan stood in front of her, clad in a dark flannel and loose fitting jeans that hung low on his hips. His hair was mussed up from it's usually slicked back 'do, it was clearly after dark so he was done working for the day. "Let me go," she said, her breathing erratic. "Please, let me go. I need- I need-," she grew winded then, pausing to catch her breath, the intake of air sending a firestorm through her chest, and he stepped forward towards her.

"Calm down, sweetheart," he said. "Don't hurt yourself." That tone was patronizing, which she expected, but she wasn't really interested in an argument. Her body felt like it was being ripped apart.

Cecelia unfortunately had no fight left over to argue with him. "Please," she begged. "Please let me go."

Her lack of snarky comeback seemed to upset Negan, he frowned at her before pulling back the covers and untying the straps that had held her ankles in place, including the one wrapped around her free wrist. Letting out a breath that she didn't realize she was holding she looked up at him. "What happened? How did I get here?"

"You don't remember?" he asked, sitting on the side of the bed. She was confused as to why he was being so tame towards her. With him here, she felt like she had to be on edge, when all she wanted to do was melt back into the bed she was in and writhe in pain.

Where was he? The thought echoed in her mind until she realized Negan was awaiting her answer.

"The closet," she said, wincing at the memory. "That's all."

He squinted at her, and in the dim light she could she how drained he looked, the wrinkles and fine lines on his face seeming suddenly deeper than before, dark circles under his eyes. "Are you okay?"

"Excuse me?" he asked, some bite to his tone.

"You look like shit," she said blankly, her lack of a filter proving time again that she really needed to learn to think before she spoke.

"That's so fucking kind of you to say," he began. "After I spent weeks trying to find you and save your ass."

Cecelia felt her stomach drop. "I didn't mean to offend. You look tired."

"You haven't been around the last few fucking weeks," he murmured. He flippantly stood from the bed, his back towards her. "I wouldn't expect you to fucking comprehend the shitstorm we've had to deal with."

Cecelia flinched, as she hadn't intended to make him upset. Turning to her, his expression softened slightly. The whole exchange rubbed her the wrong way. He didn't seem like his normal, violent self. Normally, had a way of letting you know that nothing you said or did to him would influence him at all, he never lost his composure. But this seemed to be more of a back-stage self she'd never witnessed; relaxed and calm...even slightly vulnerable. It was out of character, but it made Cecelia feel better, especially in her weakened state.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"You tell me," she said, taking in a deep breath, wincing at a sharp pain in her chest. "I don't feel great."

"I'm calling the doctor. Your pain medication must have worn off," he spoke. "You've got some cracked ribs, a sprained wrist. She can tell you more."

His explanation at least gave her an insight as to some of the pain she was in. "Why am I not in the infirmary?"

"Well I don't know if you recall, but the last time you were here you didn't want to be in the fucking infirmary," Negan said sternly, but a smile played on the edges of his lips as he resumed his spot on the edge of the bed.

She looked at him a moment. "I never thought I'd say this, but it's fucking good to see you."

The smile broke fully across his face as he placed one hand next to the opposite side of her body, resting his weight on it. "I told you, I'm not so bad." He paused a moment, studying her face. "It's fucking good to see you, too."

Cecelia was overwhelmed by an uncontrollable urge to embrace him, surprised by his current nature, but mostly thankful. Maybe this urge became apparent to him, as he reached out, a thumb brushing over her cheek affectionately. She flinched, not because of him, but out of habit, and he frowned, pulling away.

Goddamn it, she thought. Where the hell was Louis? Was he alive, tormenting someone else? Had he been killed? She was hesitant to ask Negan.

"Sorry," she said, focusing on some point across the room from her. "Everything hurts. Any chance I could try some of the painkillers I've cooked for you? Or maybe something to eat"

"I'll call the doctor," Negan stood, and exited the room. She was left alone with her thoughts, finally able to take inventory of herself, wiggling her toes and legs and appendages. Most of the pain was in her core, her arms, neck and shoulders. A large blue shirt hung loosely off her body, with short athletic shorts that draped her emaciated form.

Carefully, she swung a leg off the side of the bed, then the other. Dangling above the floor, she knew the next part was going to be painful as she attempted to sit up straight. The discomfort hit her hard, like a wall that blocked her from any further movement, so she was left hanging off the side of the bed, hissing in pain, regretting this whole plan.

Negan entered the room, finding her in this compromised state. He set down the glass that he was holding with a sigh. "Jesus Christ. Are you already fucking trying to run off?"

"No," she said, her free hand gripping his shoulder after he crossed the room to lift her back into place. "I thought I could try to stand on my own."

"That's not going to happen for a while," he said stiffly, flipping the covers back up so they covered her legs. "You've got cracked ribs and I've never seen so many bruises and bumps on anything other than a corpse."

Furrowing her brow, she glared at him. "I hate this."

"I don't like it either, but you're my cook, I'm not letting you die on me."

Cecelia sighed, watching him retrieve the glass with a straw he'd sat down on the table near his bed. "Just admit you've gone to all this trouble because you like me, not just because I'm your cook."

Negan didn't respond, just regarded her with an unreadable expression before raising the glass to her lips. "Drink this."

Normally she'd argue, give him a hard time but she was hungry and thirsty and needed something. Whatever was in the glass was disguised to taste like juice with sickeningly sweet flavor, but she could taste the vitamins and nutrients. It reminded her of Pedialyte, the disgusting drink meant for children and toddlers she'd nurse all day after a night of heavy drinking. She sucked down about half the glass before finally taking a breather. "That's disgusting."

"Well, it's one step closer to solid fucking food."

Glancing down at the clothes she was wearing, she looked back up at him. "Whose clothes are these?"

"Doctor said you needed to wear something loose-fitting so she could treat you easily, and we didn't have any hospital gowns laying around."

"I'm surprised you didn't just leave me in this bed naked."

Negan leaned away from her, taken aback but smirking slightly. Goddamn, despite the fact that some stubble now covered his cheek, she could still see the dimples that appeared along with his wicked smile. Why did he have to look at her this way? "Wish I'd thought of that," he chuckled, then leaned in. "But if I'm going to see you naked, I'd rather it be because you wanted me too."

Cecelia groaned inwardly, but didn't give him the satisfaction that it annoyed him. "I thought we would have moved past this by now," she said flatly, ignoring the way her stomach twisted at his words.

Before he could respond, the same doctor from before, Elaine, entered the room. Their last encounter hadn't been exactly pleasant, leaving Cecelia a bit on edge currently. Negan stepped out of the room, leaving the two of them alone. Thankfully, she was spared the small talk as the doctor began explaining immediately what was going on.

"You have three cracked ribs, which is where the majority of your pain will come from. For the next few days, it's best if you avoid as much movement as possible, but we'll want you to get moving regularly after that," she said, reading off a notepad. "You've got a few lacerations that required some stitches, but nothing too severe. I'll be changing the dressing on those tonight. And if you feel like you're developing a fever, let me know because it could be a sign of infection."

Cecelia nodded. "You've also got a sprained wrist, but that should heal in a week or so."

The doctor glanced down at her notes for reference. "The biggest problem I'm concerned about is your weight. You're severely dehydrated and malnourished. For the first few days, we're giving you limited amounts of water and juice, then we'll gradually work up into solid foods."

It all made sense, she supposed, but nothing sounded better right now than a slice of pizza. Even if she could eat something like that, it's not like pizza was easy to come by. Elaine helped her up to go to the bathroom, though it was incredibly tough to walk, and she had to take breaks and slump against a wall or the side of the bed before continuing on. She brushed her teeth and washed her face, feeling a bit more human.

She settled back into the bed and accepted two pills from the doctor for pain management, and she took them both immediately, desperate for some relief. Although, in the half hour or so she'd been conscious, it was becoming second-nature just to tolerate.

When Negan reentered the room after Elaine left, he regarded her with a nod. "Answer your questions?" he asked.

"Some, not all," she said. "I still have a lot." Like what the hell happened to everyone at the camp I was stuck in.

Negan didn't respond, crossing the room to a dresser he rummaged through, pulling out clothes. "What time is it?" she asked him, looking the opposite direction when he began to undress in front of her and change into the clothes.

"Time to sleep," Negan said. "I have meetings in the morning."

As if him mentioning sleep was a cue, she felt the effects of the pain medications hit her, her mind and body going numb and her eyelids feeling droopy. Turning her head, she spoke without thinking. "Are those pajamas?" she asked, feeling her mouth tug up into a smile.

Negan had changed into a white t-shirt and flannel pants, and she had to cover her mouth with her good hand to stifle a laugh. "What's the issue?" he asked, a twinge of annoyance in his tone.

"I guess I just thought that you'd sleep in your leather jacket and red scarf, that's all," she noted.

"I'm not a fuckin' robot," he said, dissapearing into the bathroom. The sound of him brushing his teeth stopped her from continuing on, until she came to a realization. He exited his bathroom, pulling back the covers to the opposite side of the bed. He was going to be sleeping with her. Of course, she thought, it was his room after all.

"Wait," she began, sitting up quickly, the pain tearing through her sides and core. An uninhibited squeal of discomfort passed her lips, and Negan reached out to her, surprised.

"What's wrong?" he said, unable to hide the genuine concern that had seeped into his voice.

"Nothing," she argued. "I just sat up too quickly."

"You're not supposed to fucking move around like that," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder, helping her ease back against the pillows.

"I can't sleep here," she said.

"Why not? You have before."

"Not with you."

Rolling his eyes, Negan shook his head. "Sweetheart, come on. Don't be ridiculous. I'm sleeping in my own fucking bed and I'm not letting you move anywhere else, you're weak enough as it is."

"I'm not weak," she argued, the pain medication now hitting her fully. "I just….it's wrong."

Sighing, he ran his hands through his greying hair. "When's the last time you slept in the same bed as another man?"

"When I was married," she was thankful the icy tone still manifested itself despite her growing incoherency. "I still am."

"Yeah," he said. "That's what I thought." At first, he sounded irritated, and Cecelia didn't think she had her wits about her enough to get in another argument with him. His tone softened. "Sweetheart, you already know how much I'd like to try something with you. But it'd be a dick move, and I'm not as much of a fucking asshole as you've made me out to be. That's all in your head."

Her eyes narrowed, meeting his own.

"And I can tell you're tired. You need to go the fuck to sleep."

"Is he dead?" she asked Negan finally, looking in his eyes, the question she'd been so terrified to ask all night suddenly bubbling past her lips before she could stop it.

"Who?" he asked, eyes furrowing.

"Louis," she answered. "The man who was keeping me there."

Negan shook his head. "We've got him here. He's not dead but….he's not fucking going anywhere. Most of his men were killed when we raided the compound, there were a few that surrendered."

Cecelia froze, felt the chill pass through her body, shaking her head.

"He'll pay for what he's done," Negan said plainly, and she didn't have to worry about him not keeping that promise. She'd seen it done before.

Her fists were clenched so hard her knuckles turned white, the rage now boiling inside her with the revelation that Louis was still alive. He'd ruined her whole life, now more than just once.

"I want to watch him die," She didn't recognize her own voice, a low growl that startled even Negan.

After a long pause, he responded. "You can, but you need to rest now."

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, they could have been from her outburst - or they could have been from the fact that this man had terrorized her, and she was scared. It wasn't until Negan's hand cupped her jaw that she saw anything other than red.

"I won't let that piece of shit anywhere fucking near you, you hear me?"

Nodding, she narrowed her eyes to catch any tears that threatened to fall. She wasn't going to cry in front of Negan, though he seemed to bring out a vulnerability she'd revealed to next to no one most of her life. It was frustrating, and almost a little liberating.

"Shit, sweetheart," he murmured. "I think I underestimated you."

"Most people do," she answered absentmindedly, her mind drifting to other things. There were a lot of questions that needed to be answered, but she knew now wasn't the time. Truthfully, she was exhausted, the bed was cushy and warm, and the weight of someone next to her - regardless of who it was - was comforting.

"Can I ask you something?" Negan asked. During their conversation, he'd moved close to her, lying on his side with his elbow propping himself up, hovering over her. He smelled of shaving soap and toothpaste. Cecelia gave a curt nod. "Back at Alexandria, why'd you try to lie to me about the fucking bullet?"

Shrugging, Cecelia avoided his eyes. "I thought you'd believe me. And I wasn't interested in watching Rosita get murdered."

"You thought I was going to kill you?"

Cecelia shook her head. "I don't know, maybe. Francis likes Rosita, I don't know if he'd make it if something had happened to her. I've lost everyone who meant anything to me. I don't need to be here."

"Jesus fuck, I didn't expect you to go all suicide note on me," Negan said, and she glanced over at him. Despite the ill-timed joke, her words had clearly upset him.

"It's just the truth," she said flatly. "But I didn't know anything about the bullet, didn't even know Rosita was trying to kill you. I don't think anyone did."

Negan didn't respond immediately, and she realized somewhere during their conversation he'd snuck his free arm across her body, his large hand settling in the curve of her waist. It was tender and reassuring, two words she never thought she'd associate with him.

"Anyways, I'm glad I you saved me," Cecelia responded. "That wasn't exactly the way I wanted to go out."

"Yeah, wouldn't be the best way to go," he was staring at her intently, like his mind wasn't actively process anything he was saying to her.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Don't snarl at me," he snapped back, but his expression softened quickly. "Sometimes you just remind me of someone."

"Jesus," Cecelia shriveled away from him. "Don't get all sappy on me, now."

"Well, you're not so bad when your not a pain in my ass," Negan smirked.

"You think I'm a pain in your ass? Cecelia asked. "Then you haven't spent enough time with yourself."

Negan chuckled. "It's nice to have some kind of understanding. It's like talking to a friend."

"Friend is quite a big word to be throwing around so carelessly," Cecelia raised an eyebrow, her free hand toying with the edge of the sheet that surrounded her middle. "I think you're a little tired."

He seemed to get the hint, and she was anxious now to be left alone, already feeling the guilt rise up in her stomach for letting him touch her as he had. Her lack of self-control annoyed her, and while she tried to tell herself she was just starved of affection, it didn't change the fact that she was allowing herself to act on impulse.

He moved away from her without argument, giving her some much-needed space, and she finally let herself settle down against the pillows and get the rest she so desperately required.

Back with an update two months later to remind you I HAVEN'T given up on this story. We're still going, please let me know what ya think!