Disclaimer: I don't own "The Walking Dead" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: I'm not sure why I decided this had to be written, but here we are. I thought it would be interesting to tackle the au idea of instead of Father Gabriel, it was Maggie who was left behind with Negan.

Warnings: soul-mates, soul bond, fated love, angst, drama, romance, unresolved sexual tension, sexual tension, post traumatic stress disorder, consent issues, dubious consent, trauma, loss, grief. Negan is not a good person and Maggie doesn't deserve this.

What doesn't kill me (makes me)

Chapter 12

There was a heady, cathedral on Sunday silence when she opened the door and stepped inside. She found him exactly where she knew he'd be, at a table in the center of the room. There was a selection of dishes steaming across a crisp, sage green tablecloth. Two comfortable chairs positioned across from one another. Two table settings. A lit candle surrounded by a fresh halo of cedar. Two wine glasses beside a bucket of ice, the neck of a bottle of sparkling juice barely visible above the melt.

It was every bit a 'date' as she'd feared. Just her and him for the first time since the Sanctuary and every inch of her was thriving. Feeling him like a forbidden balm, settling into every crack. Soaking into her in a way she knew she could never scrub clean as the whistle of the wind coming through the vents echoed loud in the absence of words.

She paused there, spine fitting into the grooves of the door. Letting herself feel every inch of discomfort. Desperate to center herself as she felt him stronger than ever. Like a second pulse. A second heartbeat. Feeling off-kilter and light-headed as he looked at her like he was feeling the same.

The moment dragged. And dragged. And dragged. And-

"Fashionably late it is," he offered, getting up from his seat and gesturing for her to sit. The mockery of a gentleman. But he didn't make a move to pull out her chair. He knew her better than that.

She hesitated for long moment before she shrugged out of her pack. Leaving her machete across from where he'd left his. Her other weapons, hidden weapons, stayed. If he knew about them, he didn't comment.

The chair creaked but held her weight when she settled across from him. Taking in the impressive spread. Aware on some level that most were her favorites. There were even peach glazed chicken wings. She loved peach-glazed anything. Always had. But she'd never mentioned it. He just knew.

"Dig in, hmm?"

This time she ate without reservation, knowing he wouldn't poison her. One of the benefits of being so close was she could tell that much for certain. Besides, there hadn't been chicken at Hilltop for months, and the baby deserved the variety. She might as well get what she could out of this, since she was here.

"I thought about waiting you out," he offered after a while. When it was just the low, ambient buzz of carbonation in her glass and the clink of knives and forks against plates. It wasn't an apology, but it wasn't a gloat either.

"You planned this," she pointed out, speaking for the first time. Leveling him with a look that gave him nothing. Knowing the bond was doing more than enough for her. "You can't lie to me."

Negan raised an eyebrow.

"Who said I was talking about my ultimatum? I gave you months, widow. Months. The bounty on your head and taking your people on a field trip was me losing patience. We could have solved this ages ago."

She set her knife and fork down loudly.

"There's no solving this," she hissed. Hating how she was being proven wrong in real time. Because his color had improved visibly since she'd stepped inside the restaurant. Because the baby was more active than it had been in days as it punched and kicked inside her belly. And she- well, she felt far less worn than she had that morning. She wasn't spread as thin anymore. The weight on her chest had even eased and-

"Look," Negan started, abandoning his fork to a napkin with a frustrated toss. "We're worse off apart. I know you can feel it. I can. I know you didn't choose this. Well, guess what? Neither did I, toots. I get it, I took something from you I wish I-"

The irony was, it was an accident.

The moment he stretched his legs under the table and brushed hers?

It was completely innocent.

The second his calf brushed her knee the world went soft. The feeling was so close to pleasure, to a release, she couldn't help the sigh that hazed out of her. Devastated by how good it felt just to touch him. Reeling back as her spine arced. Every part of her tingling and warm as the good feelings spread from where their legs were touching under the table.

Oh god.

No. No. No.

"Please," he rasped, all gritted teeth and sloe-eyes. So gone he almost looked drunk. "Oh hell… Stay. Please- just stay like that... for a little while...like that. Yes. Just- fuck."

And for some reason, she did. Sucking in big, shuddering breaths. Chest so light she could feel the stress she'd been carrying filter out of her like water through a sieve. Too caught up in the feeling to remember why she couldn't. Why she had to be stronger than this. Why this wasn't her. Wasn't them. Why this wasn't what she wanted. Ever.

She didn't know how long it took to come down from the high.

Seconds. Minutes. An hour.

Time didn't have the same meaning anymore.

It took time, but slowly their legs pulled back. Giving them the ability to clear their throats and look away. Neither of them said anything when Negan refilled her glass. Or when she helped herself to another serving of mashed potatoes and greens. For such a monumental thing, there wasn't much to say.

It wasn't until Negan coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, that the silence broke.

"You asked me a question before. Back at the Sanctuary. Would I stop for you?" Negan asked. Staring at her from across the table in that way he had. Head cocked, but somehow serious. Sincere. "Would it make a difference?"

It wouldn't.

"It would be a start," she lied.

For anyone else, in any other circumstance, it might have been enough.

But her soulmate had beat her husband to death and made her watch.

There was no coming back from that.

"What would that even look like?" he insisted, tossing his napkin to the side. Making the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

"What do you mean?" she returned, making a concerted effort to keep eating. Carefully slicing her chicken breast into manageable pieces and chewing. Trying not to react as the baby kicked.

Negan snorted. But this time there was a defeatism she wasn't used to.

"I'm not stupid. I know how you feel about me. It seeps through this thing we have every second of every day. I don't have any allusions or assumptions you haven't blown out the water on day fucking one. And I get all that. The thing is...I don't know what to do about it," Negan continued. Chair creaking as he leaned back, hand raking through his hair. Unsettled. Unhappy.

There was no mask anymore. Just him.

"I can't off myself. As much as you'd probably like that. It doesn't work like that. And you can't swallow a bullet neither. So, where does that leave us? What do I do? What do you want? Whatever it is, you can have it. Just tell me what it is. Otherwise, I can't see a way out of this."

She didn't know what to say, honestly.

Maybe she hadn't expected this kind of introspection.

Or that he'd be the one to force the conversation.

Up until now he'd let actions speak for him.

Now he was trying to find her with words.

And she hated it.

She hated him for trying.

It reminded her of the columns in those teen magazines Beth used to leave all over the house. Articles on how the sexes handled relationship problems. Because of course Negan would be a walking generalization. He was focused on fixing the problem. Like men often were. And she was lost in the minutia. The details.

He still thought there was a way to solve all this. When in reality, there was nothing she wanted from him. There was nothing he could do to make this better. Nothing left standing to fix. He'd killed any chance they had long before they'd found out what they were to each other.

He was right about one thing, however.

This was an impossible situation.

She wasn't blind to it. She knew the only real solution was for her to bend. To give in. There was no other choice. No middle ground. Not for them. And it made her wonder, if everything was fated when it came to soulmates, did that mean this part had been inevitable too?

Hadn't she gone through enough?

She drained her glass. Letting the last of the carbonation dance across her tongue as Glenn's ghost appeared over Negan's shoulder. This time she let herself look. For once seeing him as he'd been. Before Lucille. Before Negan. Before the blood and the fear. He wasn't smiling, but he was whole. Only she didn't get to enjoy it. Because he was looking at her with conflicted eyes. The kind of eyes that told her that as fucked up as all this was, he would have understood. Eventually.

The line of her mouth twitched grimly.

Too bad forgiveness started from within.

Either way, she didn't expect to get there.

"There isn't anything," she finally replied, voice so low he had to lean forward to hear. Expression guarded. Like every word had the power to disembowel or worse. "You have nothing I want."

There was power in her truth.

But it didn't mean anything.

Not really.

But for once, he didn't call her on it.

His eyes did it for him.

A/N: Thank you for reading. – There will be more to come.