"I thought I was on house arrest," Carl says as Rick's driving him and Judith to the Rhees', because the kid hasn't met any luck he hasn't pushed just for the hell of it.

"You still are, but somethin' came up."

Carol turned out to be busy tonight (with Morgan, perhaps?), so Rick had to scramble to find a sitter. Glenn and Maggie were happy to take them in for the evening.

"What is it?"

"It's nothin'," Rick says, like it's a mantra by this point. "But I don't know how long I'll be gone."

Carl offers no further argument, which is fantastic, because Rick doesn't really have a solid alibi here. He sure as hell can't ask Shane to cover for him.

They pull up to Glenn and Maggie's modest two-story colonial. Maggie opens the front door and smiles widely at Judith, kneeling as far down for a hug as her pregnant belly will allow. "Hey girlfriend!"

"Maggie!" Judith chirps.

Maggie makes a surprised face. "You know my name?"

Judith giggles. "'Course I do, silly!"

Glenn appears behind Maggie and greets Carl with a wave. "There's pizza and Call of Duty," is all Glenn needs to say to get Carl moving. After Carl's inside, Glenn chuckles and looks at Rick. "Hey, Rick."

It's been a while since Rick has seen them. Maggie's hair has been cut short, and Glenn's has grown out. They look a little tired but mostly thrilled to be expecting a child. What a sweet couple of kids, Rick thinks, before realizing they're hardly kids anymore but college graduates starting their own family. Christ, he feels old.

"Sorry to ask you on such short notice," Rick apologizes.

"Don't worry about it," Maggie says, hoisting Judith into her arms. She doesn't look like she could comfortably handle the weight of a toddler, but Maggie is full of surprises. "It's no trouble at all. Plus, it's good practice." She eyes Rick curiously. "You got a date?"

Rick isn't wearing anything particularly special or fancy, but maybe Maggie senses something different about him in spirit. She's intuitive that way. "Uh, not really."

"Okay," Maggie says with a knowing smile, rolling her eyes a bit. "Have fun, Rick."

Negan has texted Rick his address, so Rick figures they're in for a casual night of Netflix and takeout.

Negan's apartment building is actually really nice-looking, which throws Rick right the hell off. He was expecting something run-down and terrifying, a place where you'd see at least five guys selling dope behind the dumpsters. But the building is a cream-colored three-story with decorative vinyl balcony fencing, surrounded by trees sporting warm-hued leaves. There's not an old lady on the porch sipping a mint julep in a rocking chair, but there ought to be.

Not at all where you'd expect the devil to live.

Rick finds Negan's apartment on the second floor and knocks. Then the door's swinging open, and Negan's standing there in his uniform of jeans and that leather jacket with a t-shirt underneath. He reminds Rick of a cartoon character, always wearing the same outfit.

"Hey."

"Hey." Rick's pretty quick with the smooth lines.

Negan steps out and shuts the door behind him, sticking his key into the lock.

"Wait, we're not going inside?"

"I'm many things, but a chef ain't one of 'em. We're goin' out," Negan says as he heads down the steps. "And we're takin' my car, because you haven't had the grand fucking pleasure of riding in her yet."

Her? Oh jeez.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere we can be invisible."

Rick finds it hard to imagine Negan blending in anywhere but a biker bar or a bondage fanatics convention. He really hopes they're not going to any of those locales tonight; he'd stick out like, well, a suburban dad at a biker bar. "You, invisible?"

Negan scratches his scruffy chin, thinking that one over. "Okay, you can be invisible."

Negan's Impala must be at least thirty years old, but the interior looks brand new, all shiny, well-oiled leather and vinyl. Rick's almost afraid to sit in it and tarnish the upholstery. The leather makes a creaking "grr" sound as he carefully lowers himself into the seat. The seats are lower to the ground than Rick's used to, making him feel like he's riding in a go-kart.

"Whadd'ya think?" Negan gloats. "Ain't she the most magnificent cocksucking thing you've ever seen?"

Rick lilts an eyebrow. "Oh, she can do all that? No wonder you don't date."

"Someone once tell you you were funny, Rick?" Negan sneers, though he looks like he's struggling not to laugh. He turns the ignition, and the engine rumbles like a purr in Rick's bones.

They cruise through the streetlamp-lit night. Negan has an elbow hanging out the window while he drives. "You're a real son of a bitch, Grimes," he says, in apropos of nothing.

"Me?"

"I don't know how you did it, but you actually got me to feel bad about something. And I can be a real cold-hearted motherfucker when I want to be."

Rick has no idea how to respond to this.

"But that night in the jail, you told me your favorite memory about Lori and I didn't return the favor. Looking back, that was kind of a dick move."

Rick shrugs. He'd forgotten about it, really. Talking about Lori hurts, but not as much as it would have without psychiatric intervention. Rick's guessing Negan's idea of counseling is baby-talking to the bottle of Jack. "You weren't ready."

"So I'll tell you mine," Negan says. "We were lying on the bed, watching the rain. Lucille was reading me her long list of baby names, and I would veto the ones I didn't like, which was most of 'em, 'cause I'm an asshole. She was right next to me, and she smelled like clean cotton and this coconut lotion she used to use. And when she got to one name on the list she got all shy, and of course I had to know why. I said, 'Honey, there is no way in hell you're bringing another Negan into this world. I am the one and only.' And she laughed and said if we had a boy she wanted to name him Dean, because I reminded her of James Dean and 'he's gonna be just like his daddy when he grows up.'"

The sadness hits Rick right in the sternum, knocking the breath out of him. He tries to imagine his life if it had all been cut short before Carl was ever born. If he and Lori had made plans to start a family only to have it all stolen away. He thinks about Glen and Maggie and their unborn child and feels something squeeze his heart.

"I'm sorry," Rick says, because anything else would be patronizing and insufferable.

"Now don't you go feeling sorry for me. We're even."

"I'm not keepin' score."

Negan stares straight at the road ahead, his mouth screwed up like he's trying to figure out Rick's motives. They ride in silence for a moment or two until Negan can't stand it and switches on some music.

Rick's not surprised at all to hear AC/DC from the stereo, but it's not 'Highway to Hell,' which would've been a little too on the nose for his taste. "Of course," he mutters to himself with a chuckle.

"Lemme guess, you were expecting 'The Devil Went Down to Georgia'?"

Negan is really fucking corny now that Rick thinks about it, but he actually likes that about him. Negan knows his jokes and entire demeanor are cheesy, and he owns that shit. He revels in it. He thinks he's hilarious, and damned if you don't walk away thinking he is too.

They get onto the main road that will lead them into Atlanta. Rick watches the night, gazes at the starry lights and drifts. There's something inexplicably surreal about night driving, something that makes you feel like you're the last surviving person on earth, even if there are other cars on the road. A tangible weightlessness, as though anything done under the cover of darkness will result in no consequences. He can almost feel the electric pulse of the city beating in his veins.

"You gotta have some crazy cop stories, right?" Negan asks after a moment.

"Well, there was the drunk idiot baseball coach who threw up in a garbage can," Rick says with a pointed smirk.

"Hearsay," Negan growls. "You weren't even fucking there."

Rick chuckles and turns his gaze back to the window. "I brought in a meth dealer once. Merle Dixon. Currently in the state pen. He was dealing, using, probably manufacturing out of that run-down trailer. When me and Shane made the arrest we found huge bags of the purest crystal I'd ever seen. It was blue, like tinted glass. I know Merle wasn't smart enough to make that. Shane said he probably bought it from a cartel in the southwest."

"Not a lot to do in a town like this except make drugs."

"Or moonshine."

Negan laughs. "What?"

"Merle's brother, Daryl—I swear to God he's makin' moonshine out on some old, abandoned land west of town. "

"Jesus, that shit'll melt the shell off a snail. Does he know you can just buy alcohol?"

"If you want somethin' done right, do it yourself," Rick says with a shrug.

"Wrong. Incorrect. Masturbation and homemade alcohol are poor substitutes for the real thing."

"And you know this from experience?" Rick teases.

"Fuck you, Grimes," Negan says, but he's smiling.

Negan takes him to a trendy bar in the city filled with vintage arcade machines. He seems to be a regular here, because the huge guy behind the bar greets him with a half-smile and a head nod. "Negan, what's up?"

"Tyreese! My man!" Negan slides onto a barstool with ease and jerks his thumb at Rick. "Show my buddy Rick here a good time."

"You got it." Tyreese is big and broad and could probably play linebacker for the Falcons. He looks at Rick. "What's your poison?"

"Oh, uh, just a beer. Coors Lite." Rick doesn't want to end up drunk and weepy tonight.

"For fuck's sake, light beer? Why don't you just order one of those fruity drinks with the little umbrella?" Negan shakes his head, exasperated.

Tyreese turns to Negan. "The usual?"

Rick pictures Negan's usual as a collection of shots served on one of those wheeled carts that hotels use to deliver room service.

"Not tonight," Negan says. "I didn't come here to drink. Just give me a scotch."

"You got it." Tyreese turns away to fetch their orders.

"If you didn't come here to drink, then what?"

"The food, and to make sure nobody fucked with my high score on Galaga."

Tyreese slides Rick a frosty, frothy glass of beer. "Oh, bad news chief," he says to Negan. "Somebody broke your record the other day."

"Motherfucker!" Negan sort of yells.

"Galaga?" Rick cocks an eyebrow. "I thought you were more of a ping pong guy."

"They don't have a table here. But I have one back at my place."

Rick ignores the sort-of invitation. "Who do you play with?"

Negan grins. "Myself." And, yep, he knows exactly how that sounds, and he is running with it.

Tyreese sets Negan's drink in front of him and says, "You nasty."

"Rick knows what he signed up for."

Rick actually does not. At all. Negan is the most ridiculous person he's ever met.

"What else can I get you?" Tyreese asks.

Rick glances up at the menu written on the chalkboard on the wall, but Negan's got this covered. "Rick's gonna have the smokehouse burger—"

"I am?"

"And I'll do the bourbon bacon. And, because I'm not a rabbit, no lettuce. I swear to God, if I find lettuce—"

"Have I ever done you wrong?" Tyreese says.

"No, my good man, you have not."

When Tyreese is gone, Negan downs his drink in one long swallow and stands up. "Time to reclaim my throne," he says, heading for the Galaga machine. "Watch and learn, Grimes." Rick follows him, because he's interested in seeing where this goes.

The bar has a decent crowd for a Wednesday night. A group of college-age guys are huddled around the Mortal Kombat II machine, whooping and hollering as one of their buddies plays. The older games are less popular, so Negan doesn't have to push anyone out of the way.

"Who the fuck is PJR?" Negan asks, pounding his fist on the machine as the high scores scroll by.

"You got beat by somebody named 'ass', too," Rick points out.

"'ASS' is me! I'm the ass!"

Rick bites the inside of his lip. "You said it, not me."

Negan grumbles and slams the start button like it's insulted his mother. Rick leans against the side of the machine and watches Negan attempt to reclaim his high score: 'attempt' because Negan's not doing so hot. Every time he dies he swears, and Rick's glad there's no kids allowed in here or else Negan would be on the receiving end of some stern complaints from parents. How does Negan keep his job with that foul mouth, Rick wonders. Then he wonders what else that mouth is capable of, and a shiver rolls up his spine and makes him twitch.

"God damn it!" Negan shouts after his third consecutive loss. His highest score was 8,125.

"I could try," Rick volunteers.

Negan makes a face like this is a horrible idea, then he smirks. "Alright, sure, I could use a laugh." He steps aside, and they switch positions. Rick gets the hang of the game pretty quickly, and soon he's racked up 2,500 points on his first life.

"You know you're s'posed to dodge the bullets, right?"

"Shut up," Negan grumbles.

Rick has a bit of practice from the occasions he's played video games with Carl—though Carl's games have way better graphics—but Negan has his ping pong obsession, so they're probably evenly matched in regards to eye-hand coordination. But Rick thinks he's doing okay, maybe better than okay if the growly noises Negan's making are any indication. He hasn't lost a ship yet, and he's almost got five-thousand points.

"What was your high score, Mr. Ass?" Rick teases.

"Twelve-thousand." Negan sounds nervous as Rick's score inches closer to his record. "Fucker beat me by a hair."

"Gettin' there." Rick lets a ship get captured so he can snag it back and shoot twice as many bullets. The points counter adds up at an astonishing rate.

7,000.

8,000.

At 10,750 points Rick loses a ship. "Damn." Two more left. He weaves through the spray of enemy fire (mostly by sheer luck) and sends out shots of his own. The score jumps up incrementally, and Negan watches with simmering curiosity.

Another of Rick's ships goes down around 11,000 points. He really, really wants to beat Negan's score just for bragging rights. But he's down to his final ship, and the bullets are coming faster and the screen's filling up with enemy aliens and his heart's pounding in his chest.

"No fucking way," Negan says in disbelief. "I swear to God..."

Almost there. Almost there. Keep going.

11,250.

11,500.

Rick dodges a cluster of bullets just in time.

11,750.

12,000.

"Well, I'll be goddamned!"

12,100.

12,250.

Rick's heart hammers against his ribs. Just a little more. The tendons in his wrist have started to cramp from jamming the fire button. But there are too many fast-moving enemies on screen, and Rick doesn't stand a chance. He dies unceremoniously after crashing into one of the flying enemy ships. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Wow."

"Fuckin' A."

Rick's score is actually higher than the current champion PJR by a measly 100 points.

Rick steps aside at the high score screen so Negan can claim his rightful place. "Go on, Mr. Ass."

Negan gives him a curious stare, like he doesn't understand why Rick would do this for him unless it's some sort of trap to make him look stupid. But he can't seem to resist the opportunity to take the top spot on the leaderboards, so he starts fiddling with the joystick to toggle the letters.

"Suck my dick, PJR. The king is back!"

JSS.

"Um... You spelled it wrong."

"Nope." Negan slaps the button and submits the score. "It was something you said to me in lock-up, remember?"

Rick barely remembers what he had for breakfast most days.

"I asked you how you made it this far, and you said 'you just survive somehow.'"

He's a study in surprises, this guy, and Rick feels himself smile.

They head back to the bar for their food. Negan orders a Coke, then, when Tyreese isn't looking, produces a small silver flask from his leather jacket and spikes the soda.

"Um..." Rick finds he's saying that a lot lately around Negan.

"Oh, don't be a little bitch," Negan says, pocketing the flask and swallowing a long gulp. "You're off-duty, right? We can get a little wild."

Rick chuckles, takes a bite of his smokehouse burger, and it's every bit as delicious as it sounds. "The wildest thing Lori ever did was have sex with the lights on."

"Good God, you're vanilla. What would you do without me adding some excitement to your boring life?"

He's right, of course. Rick's life after Lori had been a dreary cluster of grey, like someone turned the colors all the way down on a TV set. But then Negan happened, and suddenly there were colors again. Points of interest. Things to look forward to, even just something small like a text message. They're two of the saddest motherfuckers in the world, but Rick doesn't feel sad around Negan. He hopes that's mutual—if it isn't, why would Negan want to hang around him?

"If I'm so boring, how come you're always wantin' to go for drinks?" Rick says with a lilt of a smile.

"I didn't say you were boring. I said your life was boring."

Rick knows that's bullshit. He digs out his phone and scrolls through their texts until he finds the one he's looking for. He shows Negan the screen:

(Sunday 3:18 PM)

Goddamn you're boring

Negan makes a face like he's suddenly forgotten how to read. "I have no memory of this."

"Didn't think you would." Rick smirks and puts his phone away. He gets an almost erotic thrill out of catching people in a lie; it's one of the perks of being the sheriff.

Speaking of erotic thrills... Negan takes another drink, sucking and crunching one of the ice cubes in a way that Rick finds a little arousing. Okay, a lot.

They eat and drink and laugh, and people come and go, and somewhere behind them a group of guys rally around a Street Fighter machine and cheer on a friend, but the noise of the outside world seems to fade away until it's just Rick and Negan, and Rick can feel something electric happening between them as loosely spinning pieces of himself click back into place.

They leave the bar around eleven. Rick has no idea where the time went. He should probably get back to the Rhees' and pick up the kids at a decent hour, but he doesn't want to rush through the aftermath of this "date."

Negan seems to be in possession of his faculties, so Rick lets him drive, though he doesn't think Negan would be stupid enough to get shitfaced when he's got someone else—the sheriff, nonetheless—in the car. The night rolls by outside the windows, and Rick watches.

After a moment, Negan says, "What kind of fucked up shit do you think about when you get all quiet like that?"

"Lori. Carl. Judith," Rick says with a shrug.

"That sounds disappointingly normal."

"You want fucked up? After Lori died, I kept hearing her voice. Seein' her. So I started... talking to her."

"That's not so bad. I named the car Lucille. She's sleek, sexy, and looks good in black."

Rick's mouth twitches into a tiny smile. "I didn't name anything after Lori. Some days I wish I had."

"And others?"

"Others I don't even wanna go there."

"Well, the good news is you're not fucked up. Bad news? You're still a little fucked up."

"Maybe you are too."

"Oh, I'm the fuckin' big man of fucked up, Rick. You don't even know," Negan says with a devilish grin.

There are only a few dim lights on when they arrive at Negan's apartment building. Negan parks in the lot, and they idle for a minute in comfortable silence. Rick discovers he doesn't want to leave.

Negan, as though reading Rick's mind, shifts to face him. His jacket creaks against the leather of the seat as he moves. "Rick, when was the last time you got laid?"

Rick hears himself gasp, and, holy hell, could he be more pathetic if he tried?

"Aw, Jesus, don't tell me... You've got a goddamn superpower, my man, and you haven't even used it?"

"What are you talking about?"

Negan leans in as though about to reveal an earth-shattering secret. He smells like leather and motor oil and cologne. Dear God, he put on cologne for this. "It sounds pretty sick, but let me tell you: the widower situation gets the ladies' panties extremely wet. We're talking Niagara Falls here. Sploosh."

Rick frowns at the imagery and whatever gesture Negan makes with his hand. He's trying very hard not to picture that, because it'll make him blush and squirm against a growing erection and he does not need that right now.

Negan's eyebrows jump up. "Oh-ho, I get it." A grin spreads across his face. "You're playin' for a whole 'nother team, aren't you?"

Rick rolls his eyes, but a sick, morbid part of his brain wants to know where this goes.

"So you're telling me you haven't stuck your dick into anything but your own fist for the last two years?" Negan says in utter disbelief. "Y'know, you're not s'posed to do it that much or you'll go blind." He sticks up three fingers in front of Rick's face. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Rick bats his hand away with an irritated noise. "Why do you care so much about my sex life?"

"Because I think we could help each other out."

"Doesn't sound like you need much help."

Negan laughs. "Well, thank you, Rick, that's very flattering, but I'm more interested in you than some corn-fed blonde with daddy issues."

"Why me?"

"I love a man in uniform." Negan does a filthy thing with his tongue that ties Rick up in knots and sends a confusing shiver of arousal up his spine like an electric pulse.

Dumbly, Rick glances down at his own clothes. No uniform.

Negan reaches out and hooks a finger in the front of Rick's shirt, at the joint of the second button. His knuckle brushes over Rick's chest in the faintest touch, and Rick feels a curl of need in his gut. "Wha'ddya say, Rick?" His name is a crackle in Negan's mouth. "Wanna get your man-cherry popped?"

Rick finds that he really, really does. But he doesn't want Negan to think he's easy. Negan watches him, almost appraising. Rick struggles to keep his face neutral, but Negan's open inspection makes him nervous.

"What's your angle?" Rick wonders. He fights the urge to glance down at Negan's finger still caught in the front of his shirt. "What do you want?"

Negan huffs a laugh, drawing back a bit. "I'm sorry, I thought I was being pretty fuckin' straightforward here, but maybe you're not gettin' it." He speaks slower now, focusing on each word. "I want to have sex with you."

Rick feels just a bit condescended to. And he still can't fucking believe this is happening to him. "I... get that. But what do you want out of it? A relationship? 'Cause I don't think I'm ready—"

"Hold the goddamn cocksucking phone! Who said anything about a relationship? I don't wanna be your boyfriend or hold your hand at the drive-in or share a malt at the soda shop"—what decade does Negan think it is?—"I just want a little fun. Or a lot, depending on what you're packin' down there."

Rick hopes he's not as red as he feels. He's pretty sure his face is burning, and the next overt sexual advance will melt his skin off like that scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

"You don't need to be in love to get laid," Negan says with sarcastic flourish. "Sex is just a physical act. Like shaking hands."

Rick huffs a tiny laugh. "When you put it like that, I have to wonder about your prowess."

There's this thing Negan does when Rick says something sassy, a tilt of his head and a wry smirk at the corner of his open mouth, like he's stunned and amused that Rick went there. "I will rock your fucking world, Rick. All you have to do is say the word."

Rick thinks about the dream, remembers how rock-solid his dick had been and how good it felt to just give himself over like that. He wants to feel good again, and if he can get that without committing to something he isn't ready for, why not go for it? He's always been a little more traditional than most, tangling sex and love into a weird, salt-encrusted sailor's knot, but here's a chance for him to try something new and exciting.

Negan has been pushing at the walls of Rick's restraint for too long, and Rick's ready to let him in.

"Alright," Rick says, and he's moving closer and pushing his hand up the warm line of Negan's denim-clad thigh, and his brain is screaming oh my God you're crazy what's wrong with you, but he's not listening, then Negan makes a deep noise in his chest, and he's got Rick pinned across the front seat, leather creaking as their weight shifts. Rick is sort of jammed up against the passenger door, and Negan has a knee between Rick's legs, and Rick shoves into Negan's thigh before he can talk himself out of it.

Negan's already working on Rick's belt, tugging his jeans down his legs with a practiced sort of finesse, and Rick really shouldn't be turned on by that, but there it is, and Negan notices the swell of arousal inside Rick's shorts and gives him a little squeeze. Rick hears himself make a noise, his hips rocking wildly into Negan's hand before it's gone and he's humping at the air. Negan pops open the glove compartment and pulls out a small bottle, like he's done this before, or even planned for this all along, so, okay, this is going to be a pretty quick, utilitarian orgasm then, which Rick is absolutely fine with, because after two years of going solo his cock's like an exposed nerve ending.

Rick is desperate now, so when Negan's slippery, thick fingers press against his hole there's no resistance. Rick makes a loud, ragged groan he should be embarrassed about, but he barely hears himself through the rush of blood in his ears. He wriggles closer, knees up along Negan's sides, his hips pushing forward in a struggle for more. Negan's warmth and weight trap Rick down, his fingers stroking and sliding and opening him up.

"Shit, you're wide open for me," Negan huffs, and, great, he's a talker. "Been a while?" Rick whines, needy and raspy. He's getting closer, forgetting how to breathe as the tension builds and twists him up tight. "No one's ever touched you like this, huh?" Negan says, sounding smug and pleased with himself.

Rick's shaking, hands scrabbling for Negan's hair, his jacket, something to hold on to. He lifts his hips off the leather seat, reaches down to give himself the one or two strokes he'll need to blow his load, but Negan stops him with an iron hand, the other still working him down below.

Negan leans in, his mouth at Rick's ear. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." His voice rumbles through Rick like a passing Harley. Negan hooks his fingers inside of him, and everything is tight and hot, and fuckfuckohfuck, then Rick is seeing stars, the universe bursting apart in a hot, wet gush. Rick loses himself, suspended in that blissful moment of weightlessness, like he's being sucked underwater, and when he pieces himself back together he feels the void where Negan's fingers had been. He's sticky with sweat and jizz and lube, and, goddamn, he likes it.

Rick's still trying to catch his breath when Negan says, "Hot damn! That was a wild ride! My dick's so hard right now it could crack steel."

Rick imagines that, thinks about Negan inside of him, and his loins tighten and strain like he'll come all over again. He can see the bulge in Negan's jeans. It takes a strange amount of self-control for Rick to keep his hands to himself. "Do you want..." He manages to croak out, his throat wrecked.

"Nah, Rick, I think I'll give you this one for free."

Rick lets out a long, shaky sigh, finds he's both relieved and disappointed that he isn't being asked to reciprocate.

"So how was it?"

All Rick can say is, "Sploosh."