Crighton Dallas Wilton's corpse is found on Sunday morning in John Eastman's home. He was stabbed more times than Rick can count, his throat slit in a garish, gaping wound so deep it nearly decapitated him. His shirt looks like someone dumped a bucket of syrup over it. Rick's stomach does backflips at the sight. Fresh blood fills the air with a smell like wet rust.
What's worse is seeing Shane lead Eastman out of the house with his hands cuffed in front of him. Eastman's eyes are even more downcast and dead inside than the last time Rick saw him, which is pretty fucking impressive considering the circumstances of their last encounter. The front of his shirt is covered in blood. Their eyes meet, and Rick thinks something profound is shared between them, though he doesn't know what.
Hershel's crouched over the corpse, making a small slit to get to the liver.
"Shane," Rick says.
"Yeah?"
"Let me take 'im."
Shane gives Rick a curious look, but he hands Eastman over to him without argument.
Rick takes Eastman to the police cruiser, loads him in the back. Eastman goes willingly, which is definitely not something Rick's used to.
"Tell me what happened," Rick says once Eastman's situated in the back seat of the cruiser.
Eastman's voice is barely a whisper. "I thought I explained on the phone." Ten minutes ago the department received a call from Eastman confessing to Wilton's murder and surrendering himself to police custody.
"You said you killed him. Didn't say much else."
Eastman stares straight ahead at nothing in particular. "I knew it was him. Nothing else made sense. After our interviews, I had a good idea of where to find him. It was dark, late. I waited until he left the bar. He was alone. I grabbed him, put a chloroform rag over his mouth. Tied him up and put him in the backseat. Drove him here, and..."
Christ, what a mess.
With a shaky hand, Rick reaches into his pocket and opens his wallet. He plucks out a business card and tucks it into the sticky breast pocket of Eastman's t-shirt. "Don't sign a confession without calling a lawyer. Her number's on the card. She'll get you a good deal."
Eastman turns his head to look at Rick. His brow is creased with pain. "Why?"
"'Cause it's her job."
"I mean why are you helping me?"
Rick rubs a hand over his mouth. "'Cause I would want someone to do the same for me." And he can't wrap his head around the idea that Eastman is a bad person, because Rick thinks they're not entirely dissimilar. What would Rick do if he came home to find Carl and Judith slaughtered? The result might be a lot like this. When your family is hurt or in danger, when you've got nothing to lose or live for... something snaps inside of you. And a small, silent part of Rick respects that savagery in defense of family.
Eastman nods in understanding, but the look in his eyes is so far away Rick wonders if he understands anything at all.
It doesn't take Eastman very long to lawyer up. Rick's finishing some paperwork when Michonne, Eastman's attorney, approaches the desk. "Thanks for the referral," she says. She's wearing a sinful red blouse and black trousers. Her long dreads are tied back into a loose ponytail.
"I thought you could use it."
"Business is booming," she says with a smile.
Lori met Michonne at a yoga class after Judith was born. The two women became fast friends, and occasionally Michonne and her husband Mike would come over to the Grimes' house for dinner. After Lori died, Michonne dropped by to check on Rick, giving him chiding looks and motivational speeches when she found him drunk in the middle of the day.
"Well, look at you," Michonne says when she gets closer. "You took off your ring?"
Rick looks at his hands. The band of silver once wrapped around his third finger is gone. He took it off last night after a long, hard look at himself and his feelings for Negan. Whatever these feelings might be, he thought it was inappropriate to have or pursue them with a ring on his finger. So he stored it safely in a small cigar box in his top drawer, adding his wedding band to the small collection of photos and trinkets too painful to display.
"It was probably time," Rick says, playing casual, like it's no big deal.
But Michonne has a nose like a bloodhound for lies and false bravado. She leans forward, her hands planted on the desk. Rick can smell her perfume, or maybe it's the detergent she uses. "You met somebody?"
Rick can't fight the way a smile worms its way onto his mouth. "Thinkin' about it."
"You bat those pretty blue eyes at a girl and you won't have to think for long."
Rick does exactly that, which makes her laugh. "How come we never hooked up?" It's a running joke between them, based on a comment Lori made about how well they get along.
"Because I'm married?"
"Nah, it was somethin' else."
Michonne laughs again, the sound soft and musical.
"How's Eastman?" Rick asks. "You think you can get him a good deal?"
"I can try. Maybe get him put in a psychiatric facility instead of prison."
"He'll be killed in prison. Surrounded by all those inmates he kept there." Rick shuts his eyes.
Michonne seems to understand why Rick's so shaken up by this. "I'd mention that to the judge. Get him moved somewhere safer. It won't be too hard to find a sympathetic jury."
"He was just a normal guy," Rick says, mostly to himself.
"Nobody's normal." Michonne shifts her body and places a hand on her hip. "You never know what kind of industrial-strength shit someone's keeping inside. Or hiding. The things you see on this job..." She shakes her head. "I don't know how you trust anyone."
Rick wonders about that, feels something creep up his spine like a spider.
"I gotta go," Michonne says, placing a hand over Rick's. "Take care of yourself. And let me know how that date goes."
"What date?"
Michonne gives him a look like it's exhausting navigating the dense forest of his obtuseness. "Have a good one, Rick."
Rick watches her leave. Something Michonne said started up a scratching in the back of his brain that won't leave him alone.
I don't know how you trust anyone.
Does he? And most importantly, does he trust Negan? If Rick has been inflating this relationship in his head, shouldn't he do the most basic thing and run a background check on him before diving into anything serious? Rick supposes he hadn't breached that step for fear of admitting to himself that this, whatever it is, is real. But he's already taken off his wedding ring, so shit has gotten real enough.
Rick knows very little about Negan's past, or even how Lucille died. Could Negan have killed her and left town? It's a little far-fetched, but not impossible. However, his criminal record is probably clean enough considering he's employed by the school, but as part of the legal system Rick has access to things that wouldn't be on a criminal record.
Do the work. Do the research.
Find out.
Rick pulls up the records search on the nearby laptop. He types in Negan's name and says a silent prayer.
The search spits back two seemingly innocuous results. Apparently Negan has been brought in for police questioning twice within the last year and a half. The reasons, however, make Rick's mouth go dry.
Person of interest re: murder of Dwight Carr.
Person of interest re: death of Lucille Dwyer.
Rick sits back and takes a breath. Okay, let's look at this coldly. It's not like Negan was arrested or charged with anything. Just questioned. Lucille was Negan's wife, so it's obvious why he was questioned regarding her death. As for the murder...
Maybe it was one of Negan's friends or neighbors. No reason to suspect the worst.
Except... Negan didn't tell Rick about any of this. Could he have just assumed Rick already checked into him? Possibly. Could he be hiding something? Also possible.
Eastman's words echo in Rick's head: On the surface, he was charming. Too charming. Too likable. Said all the right things.
I knew what he was: a psychopath who knew how to play people.
Has Negan been playing Rick this whole time?
Not entirely. Rick saw the devastation on Negan's face when he talked about losing Lucille. That wasn't manufactured. That was real. Whether it was guilt over being culpable in her death, Rick doesn't know.
He should hear Negan's side of the story before jumping to alarmist conclusions. Honestly, he's a little surprised Negan doesn't have more on his rap sheet.
But it does make him wonder, a little voice of doubt and suspicion that won't go away.
After dinner that evening, Carl asks, "So, Dad, there's a party at Noah's tonight..." He's sitting on the living room floor, playing with Judith. He hides a ball of play-doh beneath one of three red plastic cups and jumbles them around for her to find.
"Noah?" Rick realizes he's completely out of the loop in regards to Carl's friends.
"He's a senior. He's on the Saviors. Third base."
"Oh." He remembers Noah now. A decent, polite kid. "How'd you get invited to an upperclassman party?"
Carl rolls his eyes. "We're teammates. We're cool."
"So I assume you wanna go to this party?" Rick's cleaning up the kitchen, stuffing empty soda cans and pizza boxes into the garbage.
"It'd be nice," Carl says. "You caught that guy, right? Who killed those people?"
"Doesn't mean it's safe."
Carl sighs. "Dad..."
What would Lori do, Rick wonders for the umpteenth time. She spoiled Carl a little, making Rick the bad guy by default most of the time. Would she let him go to the party or view it as a haven of teenage debauchery?
At some point Rick's gonna have to start trusting Carl. If he never lets Carl do things on his own, what does that say about Rick's faith in his own parenting?
"Where does Noah live?"
"A couple blocks away. Like, five minutes."
"Okay. Get in the car."
Carl makes an exasperated noise but cuts it off, like he knows too much protestation will change Rick's mind. He grabs Judith and heads for the garage.
Rick drives Carl past two streets and deposits him a few houses down from Noah's, as to not completely embarrass him. He can already hear the dull bass thump of dubstep leaking from the house. Three teenagers linger on the front porch, laughing over the music.
Rick would be a liar if he said he never went to parties just like this when he was Carl's age, except swap Skrillex for Prince. And looking back, they weren't so bad. Mostly just awkward adolescents looking to have fun and listen to loud music. You go to parties because you're afraid you'll miss something. But nothing ever happens.
"Call me or text me when you're ready to come home," Rick reminds him as Carl gets out of the passenger seat. "And I'll be here. But no later than midnight."
"Okay," Carl says like he's in a hurry. He shuts the door and jogs toward the party. Rick waits until Carl is safely inside the house before heading home.
Car rides, even short ones, make Judith sleepy, so when they make it home Rick gets her ready for bed. She's yawning as her head touches the pillow. "Story?" she says in a small, tired voice.
Rick knows she means the Frozen storybook, which has been Judith's favorite for the last couple weeks. He starts to read it to her, but she's asleep before Anna even meets Hans. Judith lies there, her eyes closed as she drifts off to sleep. Rick stays there, watching his daughter's face, and he is suddenly overwhelmed by how much he loves her, by how terrified he is to lose her.
Judith will never remember her mother. She had been too young when Lori died, and while there might be some subconscious pang that something isn't right anymore, Judith won't feel Lori's absence the way Carl will. To Judith, Lori will be an abstract concept, a sad thing that happened to Dad and Carl.
When Judith's breathing is deep and even, Rick sees himself out and switches off the overhead light. The butterfly-shaped nightlight in the corner immediately flicks on, filling the room with a soft, calming glow. Rick leaves the door slightly ajar and heads downstairs. He turns his phone off vibrate, anticipating Carl's text or call. As he takes his phone out of his pocket, he sees a new text from Negan: what does the fuckin Picasso of loneliness have planned tonight?
This would be the perfect opportunity to talk to Negan about what Rick saw on the police record. So Rick texts back: why don't you come over.
Negan replies: hot diggety dog, you read my mind.
Rick's kind of exhausted from his nightmare of a day, so he nestles into the couch and doesn't plan on moving unless there's an emergency. His feet are propped up on the coffee table, his head tipped back as he closes his eyes.
A knock at the door jolts him awake just as he started to drift off. "It's open," Rick says, and Negan steps inside like he lives here. He's wearing his typical "uniform"—leather jacket, t-shirt, impossibly low-slung dark jeans, and a predatory smile. He takes a look at Rick's prostrate form and says, "Long day?"
"I don't even know where to start."
Negan drops besides him onto the couch, kicking his feet up as well. "Tell me the most fucked up part, then." He's got to know about the discovery of Crighton Dallas Wilton's body, so the fact that he's asking is oddly heartwarming, like he cares about Rick and wants to hear about his day.
Like they're a couple.
Rick exhales a long sigh. "You didn't hear about the murder?"
"Ain't that some shit?"
"That poor guy. The really fucked up part is I don't know if I can blame him."
"That's not fucked up."
Rick wonders why Negan has that opinion. Does he cherish family, or is he super-cool with murder?
"He was just a normal guy. Are we all capable of doing something like that?"
"Put this in perspective, Rick. Eastman killed the guy who murdered his wife and kids. I really fucking doubt anyone's scratching their heads wondering what made him do it."
Rick gives voice to one of the questions eating at his brain. "Would you?"
"I would sacrifice some scumbag's life for my family's in a heartbeat."
Rick wonders how to segue into his next set of questions. He doesn't want Negan to feel like he's being interrogated. But they've always had a casual kind of conversation, even when they talked about loss and grief. It might not be too hard to get him talking.
"Is that what happened to Lucille?" Rick asks, treading carefully. "Did someone..."
Negan shakes his head. "Cancer."
Rick can't imagine if that's better or worse than losing a loved one in the blink of an eye. Sure, you get time to accept the idea of losing them and have a chance to tell them everything you need to, but you also have to watch them wither away in agonizingly slow suffering.
"Did you move away 'cause of everything that reminded you of her?"
"I wanted to stay. But I was outvoted," Negan says snidely.
"Outvoted? They exiled you?" It sounds ridiculous, but, hey, a small town could probably do that.
"Informally."
Of course Negan would choose this moment to find a new appreciation for concise speech. Rick's gonna have to drag it out of him, then. "Meaning?"
"There's no point in stickin' around someplace where everyone thinks you killed your wife."
Whoa.
Rick just looks at him. "Why would they think that?"
"C'mon, Sheriff, use your pretty head. The spouse is always the first suspect."
"In an investigation. But if Lucille died of cancer, there wouldn't be any evidence of foul play. Why would your neighbors assume—"
"Why do you give a shit?" Negan cuts in, sounding a mix of furious and tired, like he's been holding on to this for ages.
"'Cause we're friends. And losin' your wife, then having everyone turn on you... Sounds like somethin' you might wanna talk about."
Negan is uncharacteristically silent, his brow furrowed in vexing thought.
Rick says, "If it makes you feel better, you can ask me somethin' afterward. Anything at all, and I'll answer."
Negan gives Rick a look he's never been on the receiving end of before. It's intense as all hell, like Negan's staring into his soul. Rick studies Negan's eyes, searching for signs of malice or evil.
"Alright, Rick, you've been a good boy," Negan says, still keeping his gaze on Rick. "You wanna know what happened? Now you will." He settles into the couch, leather creaking as he moves, and turns his focus forward. "After Lucille and I got married, she got a job at a tattoo parlor. She was an amazing artist with gentle hands. She did all my ink..." His smile twists Rick's heart. "Anyway, after a couple years the place started getting pretty popular—thanks to Lucille—so they added another chair, and the guy who worked it was Dwight Carr."
Rick's breath seizes in his lungs. Dread creeps over him as he realizes where this is going.
"Fucking Dwight," Negan says through his teeth. "Creepy little bastard. He had quite a crush on my Lucille. Hard not to. She was smokin' hot, and if she didn't think you were a total dipshit she'd actually talk to you. She didn't play hard to get: she was. But that didn't stop Dwight. It was harmless flirting until it wasn't. She put up with it a hell of a lot longer than I would've. But after a couple months she finally told her boss, and they fired him."
Negan glances at Rick. "Wanna take a stab at how this one ends?"
Rick finds his mouth has gone dry.
Negan lets loose a deep breath and starts in again. "Now that Dwight had revenge as a motive, he made Lucille's life hell. Stalking her. Lurking around her car when she left work. Finding her on her lunch breaks. Most of the time he didn't even say anything to her. Just wanted her to know he was there. Then one night he was hiding in our motherfucking backyard. I saw him, and we had a little chat. I grabbed him and told him very fucking politely if he ever so much as breathed the same goddamn air as Lucille again, I would turn his brains into fucking squirrel lunch." Negan looks at Rick again. "Dwight was not the sharpest knife in the drawer."
Rick stares back at Negan and waits.
"He didn't live nearby, so Lucille and I were pretty fuckin' curious how he was able to find her everywhere she went. Turns out the little shithead put a GPS tracker on her car. So we went to the police, but wouldn't you know it, they weren't able to link that device to him. So without any hard evidence Dwight was stalking her, all they could do was issue a restraining order. And I'm sure you're familiar with how well those work, aren't you, Rick?"
Rick manages to nod. He can see where this is going but can't stop it, like watching a car skid across ice and off a bridge.
"Of course that didn't keep Dwight away, but he didn't come to our house anymore. I guess he thought he was playing it safe that way. But you tell me, Rick, what was I supposed to do? Lucille had to make sure she wasn't working late at night. If I had to work late, she'd go to a Starbucks or somewhere public and wait for me 'cause she couldn't be at the house by herself. Any time she wanted to go out at night, I had to be with her. And what would happen after she got pregnant? Or after she had the baby? There was no goddamn way I could be there every single second to make sure that shitstain didn't hurt her. And the cops couldn't do anything without hard evidence, which they never got, because Dwight would disappear before the police ever arrived. They were chasing a ghost. The only way there would be any evidence is if he got to her. I could not let that shit stand."
Rick feels his heart sink into deep mud.
Negan goes on, scratching his chin. "So I tracked him down one night. I followed him while he stalked Lucille, then I followed him home. His house was a shitty dump in a shittier neighborhood. The thing should've been condemned, but the building inspector probably couldn't stop laughing long enough to write the summons. I waited until the lights went out, then I snuck in through the back."
"What did you do?" Rick asks, finally finding his voice.
"What the fuck do you think I did? I beat the holy fuckedy fuck out of him. Y'know, if you try hard and believe in yourself, a wooden baseball bat can crack a human skull like an egg." Negan huffs a laugh. "It was gross as shit."
Rick cannot comprehend why Negan's literally confessing to murder in front of the goddamn sheriff. First-fucking-degree murder, as Negan would poetically put it. Rick doesn't know for sure, but he's fairly certain murder confessions aren't typically part of the fuckbuddy experience.
Negan doesn't have that dead-inside, shattered look in his eyes, so he's probably not saying all this because he's got nothing left and wants Rick to lock him away. It's almost as if he...
Holy hell. Does Negan actually trust Rick?
"You see, Rick," Negan says, "whatever you do, no matter fucking what, you do not fuck with my family."
"You didn't get caught... How?" Rick wonders.
"I was careful. The neighborhood where Dwight lived was rife with drug deals gone bad and a whole bunch of other violent shit. I burned the bat in the fireplace when I got home. It was cold out, so no one would have thought twice about smoke coming from the chimney. And sure, the cops brought me in for questioning, but they couldn't prove I did it. Dwight never reported that I'd threatened him. How could he without admitting he'd been stalking my wife? And the only person who heard the threat was Lucille, and like hell she was gonna say a word. Without a murder weapon or any physical evidence tying me to the crime, they had to let me go."
Negan looks wistful now, like he's getting to the worst of it. "Everything went downhill after that. Lucille got sick, and we found out too little too fucking late. So I had to watch her die. But I think she started looking at me differently after Dwight. Like she couldn't handle what I did. I think about that a lot. Maybe her immune system was another victim of that horrible night. So after Lucille died, it didn't take a lot of convincing for the community to believe I had something to do with it."
That is not where Rick saw this going. At all.
"But she had cancer," Rick protests, trying to wrap his head around it.
"Doesn't mean I couldn't have helped her along," Negan says with disgust. "Poisoned her coffee a little bit each morning. Something like that. It was pretty much a consensus that I'd already killed one person, so their opinion of me wasn't very high. They all thought the cancer was somehow connected to what I did to Dwight. Lucille pushed away everyone who talked shit about me, so by the time she died they had no loyalties to her anymore."
Negan is quiet now, looking a little stunned, like he hadn't meant to blurt all of that out. Like he's just now realizing he confessed to murder in front of a sheriff. He glances down between them, and, oh, Rick sees the problem now. At some point in their conversation, Rick reached out and placed a hand over Negan's own. Their fingers are entwined in a way that's a little too intimate for what they are. Or maybe not. Maybe they've become something else now.
"Okay, your turn," Rick says, hoping to distract Negan from the possibly-inappropriate touching. "Ask me somethin'." He can't move his hand away, doesn't even want to try.
Negan just stares at him, that intense gaze that feels like Rick's being eye-fucked, and asks, "Are we still friends?"
Then they're staring at each other's mouths and thinking the same thoughts, and Negan is doing that thing where he licks his lips while looking at Rick like he wants to eat him (which Rick would be completely okay with, he thinks with a flush of heat), so Rick just goes for it, and Negan doesn't stop him, just crushes Rick closer and kisses him as though the last reserves of the world's air are in Rick's mouth.
Negan kisses like he fucks, which is to say Rick feels wide open and used and loving it. The sandpaper scrape of beard against his skin makes Rick shiver. He curls a hand around the collar of Negan's jacket and pulls him closer, until there's barely any space between them anymore, and Negan makes a noise into Rick's mouth, something low and rumbly that makes every part of Rick stir. Then Negan's hands are tight in Rick's hair as he nips at the corner of Rick's mouth and his lower lip.
Afterwards they're breathing hard and looking at each other, and Rick feels more shaken up now than he's ever felt even after they've fucked. Negan smirks, his lips flushed with arousal. "Well, well, well..."
"I'm done pretending I don't care about you," Rick says as he catches his breath. Negan went out on a limb today, so Rick thinks the least he can do is return the favor. "We're whatever you wanna be."
"You're a hell of a guy, Rick Grimes. But you're also a hell of a sap." Negan gazes at Rick with adoration and captures his mouth.
Rick can't remember the last time he had a hardcore makeout session, but here he is gasping around kisses and clutching at Negan's jacket and trying to climb through him. Negan gets him off the couch and guides him to the bedroom, shedding his leather jacket over the handrail as they fumble upstairs, unwilling to let their mouths be their own again. Negan's got his hand down the front of Rick's jeans by the time they reach the bedroom door, and Rick groans, desperate to be touched. He manages to shut the door behind them before Negan gets him on the bed.
Negan's mouth is ravenous, nipping and biting and oh fuck Rick's going to have hard-to-explain marks tomorrow, but right now he doesn't give a fraction of a shit, because Negan's licking the hollow of his throat and palming him through his boxers, and Rick feels glorious and alive. Negan unbuttons Rick's shirt—with one hand, dude's got skills—and drops kisses down his chest, giving his nipples teasing bites before following the line of Rick's body, his mouth moving down, down, down, tongue swirling around his navel, then there's cool air against Rick's thighs, and what the fuck, Rick thinks, which he might actually say out loud as Negan swallows him down.
Rick squirms under the slick heat of Negan's mouth, fingers tugging at his hair as he sucks and slurps. Negan's tongue plays with the vein on the underside of Rick's cock, and Rick can't help the way his hips lift and push. The scrape of his beard against Rick's thighs is fucking ridiculous, but Rick tries to stay very quiet, and he can feel Negan's sly grin around his dick, like the tiny whimpers squeaking out of Rick's throat turn him on.
Negan hums around him—fucking goddamn teasing asshole—and Rick's whole body resonates like a tuning fork, and he feels the pull low in his gut, getting tighter and tighter, and he gasps a warning that falls apart halfway out of his mouth as he comes in a long stretch of sensation. It's euphoric and exhausting and all-consuming, and Rick thinks if he could just live suspended in this moment for a while he might be able to get his shit together for once.
Rick's trembling when it's over, shaking like he's washed up on shore. Negan licks him clean before biting kisses into Rick's inner thighs. "You're pretty easy to satisfy, aren't you?" he gloats against Rick's quivering skin.
Rick just tries to catch his breath and says, "Oh my God..."
Negan huffs a snort of laughter. "Been a while?"
Rick thinks the answer to that one is pretty obvious. He tugs at Negan's hair, gently, trying to coax him up. "C'mere," Rick finally says, and Negan obeys, kissing his way up Rick's thigh, his hip bone, his stomach, his chest, before their mouths meet again. Rick grabs the hem of Negan's t-shirt, pulls it over his head, and in the brief moment they break apart, he drinks in the sight of Negan's tattoos and chest and shoulders, this glorious body he gets to touch and put his mouth on.
"You make me feel dirty," Rick breathes out.
"Not the first time I've heard that," Negan says before claiming Rick's mouth again.
Rick's making a valiant effort to take off Negan's jeans, but he settles for just opening them up enough to get a hand around his cock. Negan hums into Rick's mouth and pushes into his touch. Rick has never done this before, at least not to another dude or from this angle, but he tries his best, gauging what Negan likes by the noises he makes and how insistently his hips twist and rock. He rubs his thumb over the slick head of Negan's cock, squeezes the shaft in his hand, and Negan purrs, "Fuck, you know what Daddy likes, cowboy," and Rick just stops. Immediately. He pulls his hand away like Negan's dick has turned into a poisonous cobra.
"We have, what, a ten-year age difference?" Rick says in disbelief. "Cut that shit out."
"Awful dangerous for you to be givin' me orders, Rick."
"Well..." Rick grabs him again, giving Negan a soft squeeze to let him know he means business. "I've got your cock in my hand, so I'm callin' the shots."
"Okay, I'm a little turned on right now," Negan says, almost begrudging.
"A little?" Rick grins, squeezing again, and Negan shudders, his mouth seeking Rick's own, and Rick lets him find it, loving the taste and texture of him. Rick works Negan in his hand, pumping and stroking and sliding, then Negan's biting Rick's lower lip as he comes over his stomach, and it's one of Rick's top five hottest things to ever happen to him. He watches, entranced, as Negan shakes and tenses through the aftershocks, watches his hips buck into Rick's fist.
Negan groans a throaty noise and settles—collapses, really—onto Rick, his beard scratching the top of Rick's shoulder. "If I knew tellin' you my sob story would get me laid, I would've told you sooner."
"You think this is pity?" Rick says, skimming a hand along the line of Negan's back.
"Whatever it is, you're damn good at it. Handjobs aren't usually my thing, but, Rick, you've got the Midas touch."
Rick tightens his fingers against Negan's spine, just a slight dig of nails. If Negan honestly thinks Rick kissed him out of pity, he's the stupidest person alive. "I don't go to bed with someone 'cause I feel sorry for them." Rick pushes at Negan's shoulders, forcing him to meet his eyes and see the unwavering truth there. "Is that why you did it? 'Cause if you did, you better tell me before—" He stops himself, but he's already said too much.
Negan is a shark smelling blood in the water, and he pounces on that slip of the tongue. "Before what, Rick? Before you fall in love with me? 'Cause I think maybe you already have." He grins like this is amusing, and Rick withers under his intense gaze, feeling small and stupid.
But Rick doesn't argue or protest or try to justify himself. He keeps eye contact with Negan, as though daring him to talk shit.
Negan chuckles and shakes his head. "It's on me. I'm just too goddamn charming for my own good." He lowers his mouth to Rick's own, and it's surprisingly tender, and Rick thinks this is as close as Negan's going to get to an admission of feelings. Fine. Rick will take it. It's a start.
Rick pushes his fingers into Negan's hair, clutching tightly as his heart pounds in his chest, and the possibilities play in his head like a movie montage. There's him and Negan on the couch, watching TV and drinking beers. There's Negan teaching Carl how to drive—in the Impala, no less. There's Rick cooking dinner and Negan standing by, critiquing his technique like a fouler-mouthed Gordon Ramsay. There's Negan reading to Judith, which she'd probably enjoy more than Rick's efforts, because Negan is theatrical and cartoonish enough already.
Jeez.
Rick knows he's embarrassingly Pollyanna. That was one of the things Lori loved about him, that he was eager to settle down and start a family while most men his age were more interested in playing the field. But Negan... Rick can't get a good read on what he's looking for in their arrangement. Is it still only about sex, or have they developed something greater?
Well, Negan's never kissed him before. Or sucked his cock. So there's that.
That's... different.
Once their mouths are red and raw and numb, Negan rolls off of Rick and onto the empty space beside him. "Whoo," Negan exhales. "You got anything to eat? I'm starving."
"Do you just come here for the free food?"
"Don't discount your phenomenal pillow-talk, Rick. And need I remind you you're a fantastic lay."
"I'm the whole package," Rick says with a sardonic smirk.
Negan opens his mouth, closes it. "Too easy," he says, grinning. He slides out of bed and pads across the room. Rick stares, his mouth going dry at the teasing lines of Negan's body disappearing into his jeans. There's a tattoo of a crown on his right shoulderblade that Rick wants to bite, but Negan disappears into the bathroom before Rick can give that too much thought.
Later, once they've freshened up and slipped back into their clothes, they go downstairs. Negan makes himself at home, raiding the fridge and pulling out the leftover pizza. He's still searching for something when Rick makes it into the kitchen. "Where the hell do you keep the booze?" Negan grumbles, pushing aside soda cans and jugs of orange juice.
"I've been tryin' to cut back," Rick says. "Carl noticed how much I drank."
Negan makes a scoffing sound and settles on a Coke. "So you're just gonna soldier through those nightmares, huh?" He moves for the staircase, rifles through the pockets of his leather jacket for his flask.
Rick nods. "It happened, I have to deal with it. I can't get lost in a bottle. I have kids."
Negan heads back to the kitchen, snaps open the soda can. He takes a long drink before spiking the rest with the alcohol in the flask.
"And I don't get the nightmares as much now," Rick confesses. He thinks that might be tied to Negan's presence in his life. Since he has something new and invigorating to dwell on, he's not often falling into the depressive spiral of reliving trauma over and over.
"Don't let me stop you on your road to recovery." Negan takes another drink and carries his hoard of delicious food to the couch. He opens the plastic container holding the pizza. "I admire your attempt at getting your shit together." Then, because Negan can't say anything real without couching it between sarcasm or banalities: "Holy shit, banana peppers! Which one of you is the real goddamn MVP of pizza toppings?"
Rick laughs to himself. "That would be me," he says, joining Negan on the couch. It's almost a perfect recreation of how they'd been thirty minutes ago, but with food and a lot less pent-up emotions. Everything's flowing freely now, like they're allowed to be what they are with no pretensions.
"A man after my own heart," Negan says with his mouth full.
Rick feels something tighten in his stomach. He glances at the reflection of them in the dark TV screen. "You wanna watch a movie?"
"Slow your fuckin' roll, Rick. I see your kid's got an Xbox." Negan picks up one of the controllers and switches on the console.
In an effort to prevent Carl from staying up all night playing video games, Lori insisted he could only have an Xbox if it was kept downstairs. Then Carl got a laptop one Christmas, and any hopes of him not staring at a screen all night were dashed. None of them have moved the console into Carl's room, as though doing so would eradicate another shred of Lori from the house.
"Let's see if he's got good taste." Negan scrolls through Carl's game library: Assassin's Creed, Call of Duty: Black Ops, Grand Theft Auto V, Halo 3, The Evil Within, Resident Evil 4. "Damn, you got a future serial killer on your hands!" Negan laughs, to Rick's dismay. He gets a look at Rick's expression and laughs harder. "Aw, lighten up, Rick. That was a joke. They're just games." He finally finds one that piques his interest: Left 4 Dead 2. "Here we go! Somethin' we can both enjoy. Grab a controller and back me up."
Rick just sort of gapes at him.
"I'm not asking," Negan says with a sly smirk.
So Rick obeys.
It turns out Negan's way better than Rick at games made after the Reagan administration, which Negan tactfully points out. "Jesus, how are you this terrible at shooting? It's part of your job!"
Rick frowns as Negan's avatar—of course he would pick the female character—heals him. "Real guns don't require two joysticks to aim."
"Yeah, go ahead and blame the controller, shitlord." Negan effortlessly mows down a line of zombies and picks up some items. Meanwhile, Rick's still figuring out which button switches weapons.
"You should've known I wouldn't be any good," Rick protests, and he's about to say more when Negan cuts him off.
"I beg to fucking differ. You beat my Galaga score. And you've got a teenager. I assumed at some point you might have played a video game in your life."
Rick, in a wild spray of bullets, manages to score some kills, though not without shooting two of the computer-controlled teammates, whose avatars reprimand him for the friendly fire. "Well, y'know what they say about people who assume."
"You are so fuckin' clever, Rick," Negan says in a voice that conveys he is anything but. "God, I love your sparkling repartee." He takes a moment to heal, steals another bite of pizza in the short seconds of downtime.
"Yeah, that's why you stick around. You raid my fridge and make yourself at home 'cause you can't get enough of me," Rick teases.
"If you're trying to get me to say I like you, don't hold your breath."
But Rick thinks Negan has already said it, unspoken but loud and clear through their tender moments upstairs, this evening's makeout session and admissions of guilt, the way Negan has, from the start, treated Rick like more than just a masturbatory tissue to be discarded once he's had his fun.
They play through three more campaigns, all while Negan complains about Rick's poor aim and tendency to fumble his way into surprise attacks by special infected. Negan eats most of the pizza, and Rick pops in on Judith twice throughout the evening to make sure she's okay. Each time he creeps back down the stairs, he checks his phone for a text from Carl. Nothing yet. He thinks about sending something like 'you okay?' but if Carl's still at the party, odds are he's probably not thinking about his phone. And if something horrible has happened, well, a text wouldn't do much good in that case either.
It's only ten thirty. Rick gave Carl a curfew of midnight, so there's still time left before Rick can rightfully jump into panic mode.
Which is why Rick's completely horrified when someone's unlocking the door around ten forty-five. Instinctively, he reaches for his sidearm, which of course he doesn't fucking have now.
Negan catches a glimpse Rick's fearful expression. "Calm your tits, cowboy. Burglars don't tend to use keys," he says like Rick is the biggest idiot in the world.
So who has a key? Rick runs through the possibilities in his mind: Carol, Michonne, Carl, himself, Lori...
The door opens, and Carl's standing there looking shell-shocked at the sight of his dad and his baseball coach sitting on the couch together playing his Xbox like this is something they do every night.
"What the hell?" Carl says, his voice halfway between demanding and terrified of what the answer to this situation might be.
"Hey, kid," Negan greets him, pausing the game and turning to face Carl. "Your dad sucks at co-op. Haven't you taught him anything?"
Carl's still frozen in the doorway with his mouth hanging open.
"Close the door. That's how we get ants."
Carl manages to shut the door behind him, though he's looking around like he might have entered an alternate dimension where this is totally normal. "Dad? Why is Negan here?" Carl approaches the couch with caution.
Rick's scrambling for an answer that isn't 'I've been secretly dating your coach for the last couple weeks.' He is trying, and he is failing.
"What are you doing in our house?" Carl asks Negan, since Rick is no longer capable of making words.
Negan laughs. "Who the fuck raised you? You're so rude." He turns his head to Rick, who's staring at Carl like he's an oncoming train and Rick is a deer and they're headed for a bloody collison. "You let him talk like that to your guests?"
"Carl..." Rick manages to say. "You were supposed to call me." A horrifying realization rises up in Rick's mind: either Carl walked home at night, or he hitched a ride with someone of potentially questionable repute.
"I knew you'd be—" Carl stops, overtaken by another train of thought that knocks him askew. "Oh my God, tell me it's not Negan! The person you've been texting? Who you've been sneaking out at night to see?"
Carl's horrified eyes grow even wider, like there's a giant spider crawling on Rick's face that he's oblivious to. "What are those?" Carl whimpers, pointing at him, and it takes Rick a second to realize what Carl is seeing, and he remembers the sinful scrape and burn of Negan's beard against his throat, the biting kisses at his neck, and there's no backpedaling out of this one.
Rick is fucked.
Negan gives Rick a look that says, 'he's your kid, this one's all yours.'
Rick swallows. His mouth is drier than the Sahara.
Carl throws his hands over his face in despair. "This is some kind of trick, isn't it? You guys came up with some weird, twisted joke to screw with me so I wouldn't break the rules, right?"
"Rules are important," Negan chimes in.
"Please don't help me," Rick mutters.
"You guys can't really be together," Carl protests. "Just tell me it's a joke and get to my punishment."
Negan throws an arm over the back of the couch, draping it over Rick's tense shoulders. "Kid, I think this is your punishment."
Carl looks like he wants to die and vomit, possibly at the same time.
"But this would've been a damn fine teaching tool," Negan says. "If you had texted your daddy to come get you, he would'a sent me home, and you would'a been none the fuckin' wiser. Ignorance is bliss."
Negan really needs to stop saying the word 'daddy' to human beings over the age of eight years old.
Rick sighs. "This isn't how I wanted you to find out."
"Oh God..."
Rick wants to stop there, because that implies more than enough, but he's going to get through this awkward shit-blizzard of a conversation. He will, goddamn it. "But Negan and I are... seeing each other. In a romantic sort of way."
"That involves kissing," Negan adds.
"Not helping!"
"On each other's mouths."
"Will you stop?"
"And doin' it!" Negan says with a little fist-pump and totally unnecessary hip thrust.
Rick gives up on the concept of Negan not being a complete embarrassment.
Carl throws his hands into the air. "Well, thank you both for ruining my life!" he says, storming up to his room. He has enough sense, however, not to slam his bedroom door. Still looking out for Judith.
Rick sighs, dropping his head back against the couch. That could have gone better.
"Great parenting, Rick," Negan elbows him in the ribs. "Do you always let him walk all over you like that?"
"It's a lot for him to get used to." It's complicated doesn't begin to cover it.
"Should I skedaddle?" Negan says.
Rick tries not to laugh. "What did I say about talkin' like you're from the South?" Negan's only been here about a year; it's unlikely this slang has seamlessly integrated into his vocabulary.
"Maybe I just wanna speak your language." Negan lifts his eyebrows with a lazy grin, his head tilted towards Rick, and Rick can't stop himself from stealing a kiss, because that's something they can do now and he's going to take full advantage of it.
Negan's still smirking when they separate, but it's softer this time.
"I don't want you to go," Rick says, "but I do."
"I get it." Negan slides a hand over Rick's thigh as he gets up from the couch. He grabs his jacket and heads for the door. "Not gonna walk me out?"
Rick shrugs. "You already act like you live here. Why should this be any different?"
Negan huffs a laugh. "Good night, Rick." He shuts the door behind him as he leaves, and Rick sits there wondering how he's going to untangle his way out of this one.