"Well, hello there, kid."

It's been years, enough years to pretend like she'd forgotten about it. To push down the hurt and move forward. If she had to be honest, the world coming to an end might've been the best thing that had happened to her in a long while. Her dead mom, shitty dad, ungrateful brothers, and most of all the one and only man she'd fallen in love with didn't matter when the dead were everywhere. Most of the time, enough of the time to get by not quite happy but not unhappy about it. All that hinged on him never sauntering back into her life, she didn't have to look to know Negan is sauntering towards her right now. She could stand there, back turned, see how flirty he gets and then turn, but for that to work she'd have to be at least half as important to him as he was to her. And she didn't want to count on that. All there is to do is turn around.

"Aw fuck," she can't help the words, they just slip out when she finally sees him not ready for everything that came with it.

It's like seeing her for the first time all over again. His heart pounds, his jeans tighten, and that little voice in the back of his head tells him that he's in a fuck ton of trouble. Harley-Jane is chaos, pure unfettered chaos, the kind of woman that happens when the universe tries it's hardest to fuck a girl over and she just won't put up with it's shit. The end of the world didn't seem to change that. She's got that backpack slung on her shoulder, or what's left of it, and a little red wagon she's managed to extend the handle on covered with a big piece of canvas and wooden slats building the sides up higher. She's got a white knuckled grip on the handle.

"Well, hello there, stranger," grinning because he just can't help it, because it's absofuckinglutely perfect, isn't it?

Her eyes squeezed shut tightly and she shook her head, "Down we go," was the only thing she managed to get out before her body went down like a sack of potatoes

He barely managed to catch her, at least her head hadn't collided with the street, his arm around her waist, "Come get this shit," tossing Lucille on top of the cart, hoisting her over his shoulder, as Simon yanked off her backpack, "You get this done while I deal with the little missus."

He didn't wait, didn't need the questions, just moved fast towards the truck, setting her gently in the passengers seat and buckling her in, making sure to lock the seat belt. Just in case. He climbs into the drivers seat, getting it on after the second try and shifting into gear. They were on the road in no time. It felt familiar, like when they'd gone to the coast and she'd fallen asleep just like she seemed to be now. Except she wasn't asleep, she was unconscious, he'd knocked her out from yards away. He'd have to remember to gloat about it later, when she let him poke and prod at her like he used to.

If she let him poke and prod her like he used to.

It was just a bar, no where fancy, and that's exactly why his wife hated it. He went there when she was off at book club, girl's night, working late. In all honesty he was there most nights but not normally for long, just pregaming till he hits somewhere else for someone else. Don't shit where you eat was a good rule for many things but especially the act of infidelity. If only he had known how it would do absolutely nothing in the end, to be fair no one could have predicted exactly how it would all go down. All he knew when he walked in was that Larry, the newest in a series of bad bartenders, was gone replaced by none other than Harley-Jane, back from the big bad city.

And that's exactly what he said when she poured him a drink, everyone looked at him like he'd just kicked a puppy.

"What'd I say?" she just laughed and shook her head, "What?"

"You know that big accident. Happened out off the 20," he nodded, sipping his whiskey while she poured herself a shot, "Bunch a dumb drunk kids hit the car. Momma didn't make it," she threw it back, tossing the glass in the bin under the counter, "Daddy's not good, drinking himself stupid every night. Someone's gotta take care of the boys, right?"

He knows them both, Will better than Buck. He's 17 and runs track, he's really good. It's he started coaching him after all. He had never connected the two, Harley-Jane had never been one of the sports kids and he'd only know her passively from a few gym classes that she managed to attend. Buck is another story, he knows him mostly by rumour. He's 14, a freshman, and in more trouble than most seniors. A big angry kid with big angry problems.

"That's tough, kid."

He stuck around, he shouldn't have but at the time it seemed like the right thing to do. Every one seemed to treat her like glass, he didn't, and she liked that. She wanted that and it was enough to keep him around. At least for the night. Harley-Jane laughed at his jokes, not because she was supposed, but because she got them. And when the night ended and last call was over, she didn't sidle up to him with breath reeking of vodka and wanting to take him home. She wasn't that kinda gal, there was something to say about that, she didn't hang all over him, somehow getting off on the fact he was married. Girls like that had their moments, they really did. But nothing like this.

"At least let me walk you to your car," leaning next to the door as she locked up for the night.

She scoffed, fits on her hip, "Aren't you married?"

He shrugged, "So that means I can't walk you to your car?" he chuckled, "You certainly have a high opinion of yourself, baby," he doesn't catch the slip in time to stop and she's too clever not to hear it.

She arches her eye brows and rolls her eyes with something almost like a laugh, "Alright, before I change my mind though."

It's quiet, for the first time, in a long time he doesn't know what to say. Just listening to their feet on the concrete echoing at 3 am as they walked down the block and around the corner. She stops at an indigo Saturn, because of course she would have an indigo Saturn. For some reason it makes him laugh harder than it should and she responds like any normal person, with confusion.

"Nothing, nothing, just," he shook his head, "One of those unexplainable things."

She clicked her tongue, "Gotcha," shoving her hands in her jacket pockets, partially for her keys and partially for warmth, "You want a ride?" bouncing on one leg just slightly and awkwardly, "Not like- you've been drinking and-"

"Say no more."

She drives him home without direction, he should ask how she knows but small towns are easy to navigate. Only so many places to go. The lights are on and he wishes her a good night, letting her know he'd be happy to talk to Will if she needs. She seems genuine when she thanks him, shooting back a sweet dreams and driving off into the night.

"Was that little Harley-Jane?" she asked, seeming more concerned with looking out the window at the retreating car than her arriving husband, "That poor girl."

For some reason it annoys him, he grumbles he's tired and heads off to bed. She says something about working late. She always says something about working late. It doesn't matter, she'd pissed him off but why. That poor girl, because that would've pissed little miss Harley-Jean off.

She looks at him, eyes no longer wavering. Life hasn't been easy, not since it started, and if he had to guess it hadn't been much easier for her before. But she's too proud to speak first, choosing to lean forward and yank her backpack across the table. The rest of her haul hasn't been added to stock yet but most of it will make it there, they both know that. But he let's her keep the bag, if only because he recognizes it. It's tattered, patched up with all manner of pilfered fabric and isn't much of what it was before, nothing is anymore. He recognizes the shape and remembers the tough canvas thing it has once been. Back when it held school books and was decorated with pins. Now it stores papers that she doesn't completely pull from the bag, just enough to move around them. He's sure she's going for smokes, if anyone could be flush with them in this hellscape it would be Harley-Jane. She doesn't look at him, yanking matches from the back pocket and puffing on the strangely rolled thing like it there was no tomorrow. It is not a cigarette, it's much more fun than that. He leans against the counter, arms across his chest, staring her down.

It used to unnerve her, he could push her into talking first. Blurting out something she hadn't meant to say, at least not yet and with less poetry. 7 years mixed with an apocalypse changes people, he should've guessed that. It's been a long time since Negan had been able to dip his toe in that part of his past and now it was living, breathing, and had done a great imitation of wine by getting even better with age. She'd ditched the short hair for a longer more sophisticated look, she looked stronger, not skinny but lean with muscle. She could probably outrun him and all his men if she really wanted to, if she tried hard enough. And she just might if he played too rough, delicate situations called for a softness he wasn't quite sure he knew how to muster up enough to fool her, she wasn't a doe eyed groupie, wasn't a woman who just couldn't wait to be his wife. She knew him, and that was dangerous.

She looks at him, a faint smirk twitching the corner of her lips and a raised eyebrow, before taking a long inhale, holding, and exhaling slowly.

"Sure you wanna do that, kid?" it's all he can come up with, but it's enough to break the ice, "You look good."

She leans back in her chair, pointing at him, "Ruggedly handsome, as always," the lightest twitch of a wink, something left behind that she can't quite hide, "Looks like you're enjoying being King of the Castle."

"You know me," setting Lucille down gently and leaning her back against the cupboard door beside his leg, "Looks like you've done pretty good yourself."

She shrugs, puffing out little o's of smoke, "I'm good at leaving, learned from the best after all," it's a cheap shot but he'll take it without a thought, he owes her a few and she seems to be wasting no time in cashing them in, "And leaving keeps you alive."

"Out there maybe," he exhales, rubbing the back of her neck, "You can stay here, long as you want, long as you need," his voice serious, pointed, this is the part of their lives that aren't a game anymore. Life and death wasn't an analogy anymore, "Frankie'll help you get some clothes, a room, place to get cleaned up."

"Frankie, huh?" clicking her tongue, "And she's wife number...?"

Fuck, a couple of hours, she'd been here five fucking hours, only two of them awake, before he'd gotten the chance to talk to her. And she'd been locked in a room till Dwight had brought her here. She didn't just hear that, someone told her. He narrowed his eyes at her, there was no way he was getting it out of her. At least not now.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he shot back, his face sliding so easily back to jovial, "Now, you gonna be a bitch about it or you gonna say thank you and take advantage of my kindness."

She rolled her eyes upward, mouthing to herself as if she were weighing the options before looking back at him, "I'm pretty sure I can do both," stubbing the joint out on the table and climbing to her feet, leaving nothing but scorch marks in her wake.

He didn't know why he hadn't trusted her. The cabin was literally in the middle of no where. 5 hours away, in the woods, there wasn't even a front desk. Just a code to get the key by the front door. She was careful in a way he had never thought to be before, though to be fair, before there weren't feelings. Just pussy. Negan didn't get much time to muse on the thought, the door opening to her smiling face, music in the background and a drink in her hand. It doesn't feel like they're doing something wrong, like they've picked this place because no one worth anything will see them, just a couple gone away for a weekend.

"You weren't kidding when you said you were setting up," hurrying in from the cold, dropping the bag on his floor and dumping his jacket, eager to take in the heat that had clearly been on for a while.

An old timey record player stood in the corner, it's Frank Sinatra. He should call her cheesy, poke fun at her. But she's swaying in nothing but a shirt of his she'd managed to squirrel away and some sock, he really doesn't want to waste time that way. He can make fun of her anytime, he can't feel like her partner and not something dirty any other time.

"You gonna ask me to dance or what?" she asked, setting her drink down on the mantle over a not too shabby fire.

"Oh I have to ask now?" raising his eyebrows and toeing off his shoes, "Oh mistress mine-"

"Oh gross, do not quote my theater performances," shaking her head as she scrunched her face up. He knows her well enough to know she's happy he remembers but she'll never say shit about it, "Fine. Negan," holding a dainty hand out to him palm up, "May I have this dance?"

He scoops her up, arms tight around her waist, swaying gently to the music. She's not great at, stepping on his feet more than a few times but she gets the hang of it pretty quickly. For hours, they sway back and forth, snow falling in droves outside as if it too was helping them escape the real world, back and forth in each others arms long after the record had stopped.

"I love you," he's surprised to hear his voice, he hadn't thought it, hadn't even considered it, but he wasn't sorry. He definitely didn't want to take it back.

She pulled back, as if she wanted to be anywhere else but in his arms, "Negan," but he wasn't letting go and she sighed, "I'm already yours," she looks angry, so angry. It would've been hot any other time, "Don't say it because-"

"I seem like the type of person to just tell you what you wanna hear, kid?" she knows he's serious, he only says kid when he's serious or he's trying to break the ice. It's one of the million things she just knows about him.

"I love you too," he can almost see the weight lifted off her shoulders, he'd never noticed it before and now he couldn't help but wonder how, "I don't know if that's good in our situation."

He pressed his forehead to hers, "Me neither," tightening his grip and feeling her arms slide around his neck once again, gripping tightly, "But not tonight, alright?"

She nodded, sniffling a bit, trying to hold everything back, "Make me a drink?"

"Whatever you want," pressing a quick kiss to her lips and then each eyelid, before releasing her.

She's not sly, wiping her eyes as she moves back towards the record player. She can't help thinking about it right now, he would have to do something about that. Depeche Mode, quite a genre shift. He's never had any particular feeling on their music one way or the other. But it was important to her.

Whatever you want, he was going to regret those words one day, he knew, he just couldn't bring himself to worry about it.

None of them were her, it's exactly what he thought would happen, and he's pissed beyond imagining. It's not that he can't perform, that would never be an issue he struggled with, but he just didn't care enough. He didn't want to try, didn't want to look at any of them, it just wasn't the same. It wasn't what he wanted. He did his husbandly duty, he didn't need rumor getting around about him but it was just motions. And Harley-Jane knew, she fucking knew. There was no reason for that shit eating smirk with both her brows raised as she leaned back against the wall, puffing far too casually on a joint, other hand in her back pocket. She never stuck around, not long enough for him to get too while everyone suddenly seemed to need his attention. By the time he made it across whatever way he was trying to get through she'd be gone. It was all on purpose, he knew it, fucking punishment. And he couldn't say he didn't deserve it. He'd just missed her so fucking bad and he hadn't realized it till he was staring her in the face. Lucille might've been his dirty, thirsty girl that's how she had played him there at the end after all. But Harley-Jane was a ghost, following him around, always just out of sight and flying into view every time it was just so inconvenient. At least there was something he could do about it now.

And he intended too. It was early evening, no reason she shouldn't be in her room and he was not disappointed when she opened the door after his heavy knock. She rolled her eyes and let out a sigh but still stepped back, opening the door wide with an outstretched arm. She'd covered the hardwood with assorted carpeting and fabric she'd managed to scavenge together and it took all the menace out of wearing asskicking boots.

"Haven't gotten to talk to ya since our first little chat," he finally said when he heard the thunk of the door sliding into it's frame behind him.

He heard her scoff and he couldn't help but turn, she's got that look on her face, the one that says she knows what he's saying is bullshit, "So, just checking up on me?" hands on her hips, eye brow arched. She's calling his bluff and he wasn't in the mood to gamble.

"What do I gotta do, baby?" he can't keep the bite out of his voice or wipe the smile off his face, the closest to begging she's going to get from him.

She thinks otherwise, "For fucks sake," rolling her eyes and stepping around him towards the kitchen, fishing a bottled water out of a cooler tucked in the corner, "I didn't want to share with one wife, what makes you think I'm gonna fight for scraps," she sounded truly offended.

"You," he pointed at her, laughing just a bit, "You know that's not what I meant," the audacity!

"Oh, I know what you meant," twisting the cap off and taking a long chug, before slamming it on the table, "Just because it's the end of the world doesn't mean I don't have options," she was ready to fight now.

That jealousy flared in his stomach, he knows it well. It's that same hurt when he saw her pressed up against the alley wall behind Buddy's with some young, dumb fuckboy. But this isn't then, this is now. And now he can fucking do something about it.

"You better not have options," finally offered the chance at an intimidating thud by setting Lucille on the counter, he didn't miss the flinch, "Honey can tell you what happens when there's options."

There's that scoff, just a little exhale of air that never failed to piss him off, "I'm not your wife, sweetheart. And as long as that word is a plural noun, we aren't shit," she's squared up, gaze pointed, muscles tense, she really thinks she means it.

His grin widens, biting his lower lip, yanking the glove of his hand slowly, "We aren't shit, huh?" he steps towards her, she takes a deep breath, puffing herself up. Prey making itself bigger so whatever was trying to eat them scampered off. Negan wasn't the kind of man who scampered, "Way I remember it-"

"Don't," it was her turn to point at him, "Don't you dare," the next step pressed the tip of her finger into the center of his chest.

"Then fucking what?" he shouldn't put the onus on her, this had been his idea to come here, to offer some olive branch and maybe get a little something-something.

She dropped her hand, using the other to push her hair back over the crown of her head, "I don't have anymore answers than you. I don't know how we do this," she's working hard to keep her breathing even.

He grabs her around the waist, yanking her close, it's instinct to comfort her and he's already done it before he realizes what's going on, "Don't think so much," echoing her own words from the past.

"I wish I could," she wants to touch him, she can't bring herself to, "You can't do this to me, Negan, not again."

Not yet, "You want it. You want it. Just-"

"Goddammit," she pushes on his chest, he holds her tighter, "I'm not fucking do this, I'm not young, dumb, and full of cum anymore, alright?" when she pushes again, he stumbles back, "You really thought someone wouldn't tell me? Shooting your tongue off at Buddy's and you thought no one would tell me?" she picks Lucille up, holding it out to him, "Choose Lucille like always and leave me the fuck alone, alright?"

They'd fought for hours, he remembered every second just as vividly as he remembered everything that happened with Lucille after he'd put an end to it. That was why they had been fighting after all, he had to end it. Now. Not in a week or two, or sometime in the future. If he didn't do it right then it was never going to happen. She'd break him down and he'd never do it, if he was going to live with himself he had to do it. By the end there wasn't any fight left in her anymore. She just laid on the bed, broken, empty, and as much as he never wanted her to feel that way, no matter how hard he wanted to fix it, he couldn't. Negan had to walk away.

She took a long deep breath, he expects her to yell but she doesn't, "It doesn't matter," lolling her head to look at him, "Nothing really matters," there's nothing in her eyes, just a shell, he leans forward. Not to touch her but hoping it might offer some comfort, that he wanted to help, "You should go," snapping her gaze back to the ceiling, he opened his mouth, "Goodbye," it's through gritted teeth, he won't get another warning.

That was how they had left it. Not with a roar but with a whisper.

He'd gone driving around, trying to get her voice out of his head and build up the courage to go home and tell Lucille he'd ended it without his voice shaking and sounding like a complete bullshitter. He swore to himself he'd only have one drink, but one turned into two, then four, and then everything had gone a bit fuzzy. Greg and Don had showed up at some point, asking how he was with wink-winks and nudge-nudges and he told them over a shot and a beer that he'd ended it.

"You don't leave your wife for a girl like that," he'd never forget saying it, he still didn't know why he had, but he had, "You know, young, dumb and full of cum."

He should've known, those guys couldn't keep their mouths shut if you stapled their lips together, one conversation and he'd fucked his life more than he could have imagined. He should've just gone home. No, he should've turned around, apologized and spent the whole night making it up to her. Instead he'd spent the night drinking, insulting her, and sleeping in his car till he drug his ass home at the crack of dawn reeking of whiskey and sweat, but not her. He's sure it's the only reason his wife had believed him when he swore up and down he broke it off. That it was him and her, he'd do anything to make it up to her. He'd meant it, he really had, but if he'd known then what he knew now, maybe he wouldn't have.

Lucille never let it go, especially at the end. He could've left, he should've left, but he wasn't the guy he was now, not yet. Just a sprout of what he'd eventually become, he did have her to thank for that. Harley-Jane was probably dead, she was dead, there wasn't anything else worth caring or worrying about than staying alive. Than building Sanctuary. Wasn't nothing more important than the little world he'd created for himself in the shit and the muck.

He could go find one of his wives, she'd sent him away with an emotional donkey punch to the nuts she shouldn't expect any less. He knows it. It was one of the benefits to be reaped for all his work. He doesn't, carrying a wooden chair from one of the empty rooms down the hall and setting it across the hall from her door. Negan didn't know what he could do, but he'd sit here till he figured it out or she went completely postal on him. Whichever came first. He'd lost her to many times already and he wasn't gonna let it happen again. Not if he had any say in it and he had the only say. She was in his world, she'd always been in it but now, it was different. But she isn't that girl anymore, she isn't like his wives, she isn't like Regina, Arat, or Laura. She's something else, some before, a bit now, and a little bit after, wen their paper empires fell, Harley-Jane would just keep trucking on.