The wedding is a small and understated union. Tara and Rosita are married by Father Gabriel at St. Sarah's Church. Lori's memorial service had been held in this church. Father Gabriel sat with Rick when it was over and rubbed his back like he was comforting a sobbing child.

Rick feels like there's something profound in marriage and death being commemorated under the same roof, but he can't imagine what it could be.

After the ceremony, the reception takes place at the town convention center, which hosts fewer conventions and more post-wedding and funeral services like this one. The interior is decorated with bright red papier-mâché roses, complementing the ones in Rosita's hair and dress, and Rick realizes Tara must have chosen the décor as a pun on Rosita's name.

On the left side of the room is the three-tiered wedding cake and the cocktail bar. The bar is tended by Sasha, who Rick recognizes from plenty of events like this. He also vaguely remembers calling an Uber for Shane once when they went drinking and seeing Sasha in the driver's seat. Her life is a confusing mystery.

Rick's about to head over there, but someone latches onto him in a tight hug. "You came!" Tara's voice squeals from behind him, and he turns in her arms to see her exuberant smile. "Thank you so much. I meant to thank you back at the church, but Rosita's family swarmed me almost immediately, so I couldn't. It was a nice swarm though."

"I wouldn't miss your big day," Rick says, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "You look beautiful."

"Oh, thanks." Tara blushes, looking down at her white gown with long lace sleeves. "Meghan picked it out." Meghan is Tara's seven-year-old niece, who is currently being corralled away from the wedding cake by her mother, Lilly. "She thought it made me look like a princess. But I kinda feel like a dork compared to Rosita."

"She still married you," Rick points out.

Tara smiles and glances away, embarrassed. "Yeah." The sparkle in her eyes says she's still amazed Rosita even likes her, and Rick is well acquainted with that kind of goofy inadequacy, of being with someone you're certain is totally out of your league. "I'm really glad you're here. Did you bring anyone?"

"Nah, today's you and Rosita's day. I'm not gonna step in on that."

"You met somebody? That's awesome! Anybody I know?"

"You two may have already met," Rick says with a knowing smile, holding up his hands to ward off any excited outbursts. "But today's not my day."

"You cannot leave me hanging like that! But I totally get it if you don't wanna talk about it. I'm really happy for you, though!"

Meghan's little voice carries through the room. "Tara, come here! I want cake!"

Tara peers behind Rick's shoulder at her niece. "Oh crap. If I don't see you again, thanks for coming!" She hurries off, and Rick smiles to himself.

At the bar, Rick orders a rum and Coke, and Sasha pours it for him with a friendly smile. "Hey, you," she says, sliding the drink over to him. "Finally comin' back to the land of the living?"

"Took me a while." Rick sips at his drink.

"At least you had the good sense to go stag. Beth Greene didn't get the memo."

"Beth? What about her?"

Sasha tips her chin toward the other side of the room. "Look at the greaseball she brought as her date."

At the buffet table, stacking his plate high with pizza slices is Daryl Dixon, the moonshiner himself. He's wearing a leather vest with a sleeveless shirt underneath, clearly misunderstanding the casual dress code. Beth is with him, wearing a sunflower yellow dress, her long blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail.

"Daryl?" Rick sputters, flabbergasted that Beth is interested in him, much less in bringing him out in public.

"You know him?"

"I collared his brother a while back. We've met."

Sasha shakes her head. "This town is a hot mess."

"You don't know the half of it," Rick chuckles.

"Hey, Rick. Think you could do me a favor?"

"Depends what it is."

"Nothing sketchy. Just get your red-headed friend to come over here."

Rick follows her line of sight and sees Abraham mingling with Rosita. He says something that makes her laugh. "You mean Abraham?"

"Yeah. He's cute. Is he single?"

Rick shrugs. "That'll be your icebreaker." He finishes the rest of his drink in a long swallow and sets the empty glass on the counter.

As Rick's making his way to Abraham, Beth catches him with a perky little, "Sheriff Grimes?" and he stops in his tracks.

"Beth, what're you doin' here?" Rick says, sounding surprised, because he's not sure how Tara or Rosita might know her.

Beth smiles. "Tara comes in almost every day for a caramel latte." Beth is a barista at the town coffee shop.

Daryl's licking pizza sauce off his fingers, his paper plate sagging with the weight of the slices. He sits in the nearest chair to enjoy his food, and Beth sits with him. Rick joins them at the small, circular plastic table. "It's good to see you here," Beth says to Rick, with a hint of the typical shyness and trepidation that comes with tiptoeing around his tragedy.

Beth was probably at college when Lori died, so Maggie must have filled her in on Rick's 'condition.'

"So you're the guy who arrested my brother," Daryl says, sort of scowling at Rick through a mouthful of pizza.

"That was actually my deputy Shane."

"You were there."

Beth places a hand on Daryl's arm. "Be kind," she says in a near whisper.

Daryl tosses the hair out of his eyes and takes another bite.

"Daryl, I didn't see you at the wedding," Rick says.

"'Cause I wasn't."

"It took a lot of convincing to get him to come here," Beth explains.

"Free food and an open bar," Daryl says mid-chew. He wipes his greasy hands on his pants and stands up. "I'mma get a drink."

Beth watches him go for a moment until Rick's voice brings her focus back. "Him? Really?"

Beth smiles and shakes her head like she's heard it all before. This cannot be her first time being questioned about this, because Daryl is maybe forty years old and doesn't look like he bathes a lot.

"Sure, he's a little rough around the edges, but he's sweet," Beth says. "He's kind, even after the world's chewed him up and spit him out."

That totally doesn't sound like anyone Rick knows. Nope. Not at all.

"If you could choose who you fell for, life would be a lot less interesting."

"How'd you meet?" Rick asks.

"Coffee," Beth says, like it's obvious. Rick can't imagine Daryl in a coffee shop; the image just won't hold. "He'd come in a lot and seem like he wanted to talk to me, so I talked first. He's shy."

Rick glances at Daryl, who's ordering a drink from Sasha. "He's shy?"

Another knowing smile from Beth. "Do you always judge people by how they look?"

Rick definitely judged Negan on first glance, and wouldn't that have been the mistake of the fucking century if he hadn't bothered to look deeper. Maybe there's a similar dynamic going on here with Beth and Daryl: the goody-two-shoes meets the devilish rogue.

"What does your dad think?" Rick wonders.

"I haven't really told him yet. It doesn't seem like the right time. But it will be. And Daddy won't like him at first, of course, but he'll warm up to him. He didn't think Glenn was good enough for Maggie at first either. "

Rick thinks about that, but his thoughts are interrupted by Daryl sitting at the table with a newly-poured glass of whiskey. Rick feels compelled to say something now that he's learned a little bit more about him. "Sorry about your brother."

Daryl shakes his head. "He was a prick."

That's a total one-eighty from the way Daryl had screamed at Rick and Shane not to arrest Merle and thrown a couple punches before Abraham got him on the ground.

Rick smirks, wonders if Negan would have enjoyed himself here. He probably would've drank too much and gotten too handsy with Rick in public, so, yes, absolutely.

A little while later the cake is cut, and Rick finally gets to talk to Rosita, who greets him with a one-armed hug, the other holding a generous slice of white wedding cake. "Rick, thank you so much for coming. It really means a lot to Tara that you're here. And to me, of course, but Tara raves about you. If I didn't know better I'd be jealous." Rosita edges off a piece of cake and takes a dainty bite.

Rick has no idea how to feel about that. Why would Tara admire him? "Me, really?" Abraham is her partner; she spends way more time with him than Rick.

"She envies your strength."

Rick's about to say Abraham could probably lift a car with his bare hands before realizing what she means. Oh. "Well, she's only really seen the highlights, but thank you. Anything fun planned for the honeymoon?"

"Tara's never been to Disney World, so that's where we're going." Rosita grins. "It's a surprise."

Rick's a little in love with their love, remembering how he'd been with Lori during the first few years of their marriage, how things currently are with Negan.

"You two deserve each other," Rick says, making her smile like, well, a bride on her wedding day.

Eventually Rick makes his way to Abraham, whose huge form looks hilarious holding a piece of frilly cake. "That girl tending bar has eyes on you," Rick tells him quietly, as though sharing a secret.

Abraham chuckles and glances surreptitiously at Sasha. "Oh yeah? You dickin' around with me, Grimes?"

"I'm not that cold-hearted."

Abraham steals another glance at her. "You think I got a chance?"

"Odds are pretty good."

He deliberates this for a moment, then: "What the hell, I could use a drink."

Sasha flashes Rick a short smile as Abraham approaches her. Rick smiles back, warmed.

"Why don't you pick lunch today?" Rick offers on Monday afternoon, clapping Shane on the back and dropping a handful of takeout menus on his desk.

Abraham looks up from his phone. "You're lifting the lifetime ban?"

It's a slow day at the sheriff's station, which Rick is thankful for, because it means a) King County is keeping its proverbial shit together, and b) he doesn't have to move much, because he's sore as hell from last night's sex carnival with Negan.

Shane gives Rick a curious look, shifts his glance to Abraham. "I can only think of one reason why Rick would be so nice. He got laid." He reaches across the desk and gives Rick a playful punch to the shoulder. "Nice goin', tiger. You gotta introduce me to this chick."

"No," Rick says, his nose scrunching in disgust.

"I thought it wasn't serious with you two. You know I don't mind sloppy seconds. Or thirds."

Why does Shane's vulgarity make Rick want to punch him, but Negan's dirty mouth turns Rick on? It's probably the beard. Oh, the things that beard has witnessed. Partaken in, even.

"At least tell me she's got big tits," Shane says.

"There certainly is a broad... chestal... area," Rick fumbles. He might actually involve some awkward hand gestures, and, yeah, even he's not sure what he's supposed to be indicating there.

"What is wrong with your mouth?" Abraham wonders, sounding befuddled.

"Hey, we found the title of Rick's sex tape!"

Rick shakes his head, letting the teasing roll off his back, because Negan certainly never complains about Rick's mouth or his usage thereof.

Rick's phone rings from inside his pocket. His heart races, defying all logic, since if it were a real emergency he would have gotten a call on the station's phone and not his cell. But there's no reason for someone to be calling him in the middle of the day unless—

It's Negan.

Is he drunk and bored at work? That man really needs a hobby aside from sticking his cock into Rick.

"Hello?"

Negan's laughing already, which really bodes well for this conversation. "We need to have a talk about the steel-plated, man-sized balls your son has."

Rick groans. Oh Jesus. "What did he do?"

"He punched the ever-loving shit out of Ron Anderson is what he did. And it. Was. Awesome. Kid's face looks like he spent his free period chasing parked cars," Negan says with a bit too much glee. Rick has a feeling Negan might have let Carl get in a couple good licks before breaking up the fight.

Rick exhales a long sigh, scrubs his free hand through his hair. "Do you know why?"

"Seems like Ron knows our little secret."

God damn it. It's not like Rick seriously expected their relationship to stay hidden forever, especially with the way it's been gaining steam lately, but he wishes they could've stayed in the bubble a little while longer.

"Shit," Rick says through his teeth.

"Wow, Killjoy McBuzzfuck, take it down a notch. It's not the end of the world. You really think anybody's gonna screw with your kid now that he's turned Ron's face into hamburger?"

Rick winces at the mental image. "Is it really that bad?"

"Well, his super-hot mom isn't pressing charges, so I guess that's the 'your kid punched my kid' equivalent of not being mad."

"Did you call me just to gloat?"

"Just a bit. But also to let you know he's been suspended for three days, and I can't take him home."

"I'll be there in five minutes," Rick sighs.

Carl's right eye is black and prune-colored, and he's holding a plastic bag of ice to his battered face when Rick comes to pick him up. He's sitting one of the benches lining the halls of the school foyer. Ron's sitting across from him, icing a particularly gruesome-looking face. Jessie's waiting for Rick, her arms folded over her chest, but she doesn't look angry, just kind of disappointed.

"Rick," she says, shaking her head.

Rick almost recoils when he moves closer and gets a better look at Ron's bruises. His bottom lip is busted, his left eye bruised to all hell, and a penumbra of colorful swelling spreads from the corner of his black eye down his cheekbone. Carl, as Negan would put it, went fucking ape-shit.

"I'm really sorry this happened," Rick says to her. "I don't know what got into him."

"Ron's not talking either."

Rick's guessing that's because this whole ordeal is Ron's fault. Carl, for all his talk, is too kind-hearted to attack someone unprovoked.

"Negan says you're not pressing charges."

Jessie's expression shifts slightly at the mention of Negan. It's almost imperceptible, but Rick's trained to notice that kind of thing. "There's really no point. Both of them are dealing with losing a parent. It's hard. Sometimes they lash out."

Rick's never really thought about how Ron's handling his dad being in prison, probably because Pete Anderson was a violent dickhead, but that doesn't make Ron's grief and anger any less real.

"Thank you for your understanding," Rick says, feeling like he's the one in trouble now. "I'm sure Carl appreciates it too."

"You're a good guy, Rick. I know you didn't raise Carl to be a brute." Something in her tone sounds pointed, but Rick can't figure out what or how. Jessie grabs her purse off the bench and corrals her son. She flashes Rick a short, forced smile and escorts Ron out the door.

Rick heads over to Carl, who's staring glumly at the floor.

"So how much trouble am I in?"

"Well, you've already earned yourself a three-day suspension," Rick says.

"I mean from you."

"You wanna tell me what happened?"

"It was just a dumb fight. Ron's an asshole."

"Is this about Enid?" Rick wonders. It's the first thing that comes to mind, that all of this fighting is over a girl. "Maybe he asked her out or said something to her—"

Carl shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. "No, Dad... And you're the one who said 'if bullies give you any shit, you give it right back.'"

Rick knew that would come back to bite him in the ass. "I said it was okay to defend yourself."

"I was defending myself from Ron's stupid mouth."

Every kid is a frustrated lawyer, finding loopholes, attacking even the most minute of minutia.

But Rick picks up on the hint there. "So he said something to you."

Carl's expression tightens, like he realizes he's said too much.

"You can tell me." Rick sits next to him on the bench. "I know you think you're alone out there in the world, but you're not. I'm still here. And I'll go to bat for you."

After a moment of consideration, Carl says, "I don't wanna talk about it here."

Fair enough.

Rick drives him home, and they pick up Judith from Carol's house. While Rick's preparing Judith's afternoon snack—apple juice and a small box of animal crackers—Carl opens up. "I punched Ron 'cause he was making fun of you."

"Of me?" Rick can't imagine why, but he knows, deep down he knows, but he doesn't understand how Ron knows. If Jessie saw Rick and Negan comfortable with each other at the previous game, that coupled with his earlier comment that he's seeing someone might have sparked a faint connection in her head. She could have asked Ron if Carl was getting any special treatment at practice, and Ron might have pieced it together.

Carl moves around the dining room, expelling nervous energy while he talks. "He knows you're dating a guy. I don't think he knows it's Negan. Or maybe he does and he's too scared to talk shit about Negan at practice."

"Language."

Carl sighs. "How come it's okay when Negan says it?"

"'Cause Negan's not my son." Rick knows he's being kind of a tightass, focusing on the trees instead of the forest.

"Whatever. Do you wanna know what happened or not?"

"I'm sorry. Go on."

"Anyway, Ron was being a douche, all like 'ha ha, your dad's gay, guess you are too.' 'Cause that's how that works. He said you must've gone crazy after Mom died, so I hit him."

"You hit him a lot."

"He said a lot!" Carl protests.

Rick sets Judith's snack in front of her, and she gleefully stuffs a cracker into her mouth. "You say mean things about me and Negan all the time," he points out.

"Well, yeah, but no one else is allowed to. You're my dad. And I make fun of you for dating Negan, not 'cause he's a guy."

"You defended my honor."

"Shut up, don't say it like that. That makes it sound lame," Carl sighs, probably regretting sticking up for Rick if he's just going to get good-natured teasing in return.

Rick can't be too upset with Carl. He's oddly touched that Carl would do something like this for him, but it probably didn't take much convincing for Carl to punch Ron. Still, it's sweet, in a weird sort of way.

"I know you had good intentions, but you're still not allowed to hit people for saying things you don't like," Rick says.

"That's bullshit," Carl says around an angry exhale.

Rick lets that one go. "It seems like it, but when someone says things to hurt you, they're looking for a response. Ron is angry and bitter about what happened to his dad, and from what I've heard about Pete he was an angry, bitter person too."

"Like father, like son."

Rick nods. "It's not easy to keep calm when someone's calling you names or harrassing you. They're not good people, and seeing someone who is good makes them feel bad about themselves, so they try to get under your skin and drag you down to their level."

"But you said—"

"I gave you permission to defend yourself. Against a physical attack, not words. I know you know the difference."

Carl looks scolded and shamed with just a hint of adolescent petulance. "Are you mad?"

"I'm not thrilled, but I wouldn't say I'm mad."

"Negan seemed pretty thrilled."

"Oh?"

"I mean, Ron and I were at practice. Negan was right there, and he didn't stop us 'til after Ron got his stupid elbow in my face."

Rick wonders if that was intentional on Negan's part, breaking up the fight only after his sort-of step-son got hit.

"Do you think Negan heard what Ron was saying?" If he had, it'd make a lot of sense why Negan would let Carl wail on Ron for a bit before stepping in.

"Probably. But Negan didn't say anything to him. Usually he says something smartass if he hears one of us being jerks to each other."

"Maybe he wanted to see how you'd handle it," Rick says.

"Yeah..." After a moment, Carl says, "I still don't like him."

Rick figured as much.

Rick doesn't think Carl spending eight hours a day without parental supervision is the best idea, so he takes the next three days off work to keep an eye on him. Instead of letting Carl lounge around all day, Rick has them spend those three days completing projects around the house: repairing things, cleaning out drawers and closets, fixing the wobbly step on the front porch. Carl has dish and kitchen duty after meals, and is required to spend at least thirty minutes at the table with Rick and Negan.

Sometimes Negan stays the night, sometimes he doesn't. Rick tries not to read too much into the nights when he doesn't.

Friday afternoon, Rick's patrolling the outskirts of town with Shane while Shane pesters him about the mystery "woman" in his life.

"At least tell me what she looks like," Shane begs.

"So you can imagine her? That's pretty sick."

"You won't even show me a picture, so I gotta improvise."

Rick shakes his head.

"Redhead?" Shane guesses.

Rick just keeps driving.

"Blonde? … Brunette?"

"Black hair," Rick finally says, throwing Shane something to gnaw on for a bit. "And tattoos."

Shane lets out a low whistle. "Damn. I didn't know you went for the bad girls, Rick."

Rick doesn't. He prefers bad boys, apparently.

His heart flutters when he thinks about Negan. Tonight is another baseball game—Carl should be a reliever—and hopefully Negan will come over and warm Rick's bed. As domestic and goofy as it sounds, Rick likes when Negan stays the night. It feels normal waking up next to someone and sharing space with another warm body in the kitchen while making the morning coffee. It's been years since Rick has had that—likewise, he thinks, for Negan too.

Ahead of them, a beat-up white sedan speeds down the road in the opposite lane. It's going at least fifteen miles over the speed limit, and Rick thinks the driver might be fleeing something (or someone), considering the car's coming from the highway leading into Atlanta.

"Look at that asshole," Shane says. "Shut him down."

Rick does, performing a possibly-illegal U-turn and getting behind the speeding car. Shane flashes the lights, gives the siren a few whoops—his favorite part, he's told Rick before—and the car rolls to a stop in the shoulder of the lane. Rick stops a few yards behind him and gets out of the car. Shane stays to run the plates.

The driver of the car is an average-looking guy in his mid-forties with greying brown hair. He flashes Rick a winning smile as he rolls down the window. "Howdy, Sheriff."

Rick's hand hovers near his side-arm. Just in case. "Any idea how fast you were going?"

"Not really."

"License and registration, please." Rick takes a glance into the backseat. There's a small dark blue luggage bag lying across the seat. Maybe more in the trunk, but Rick doesn't have probable cause to search there. And nothing in sight strikes him as suspicious. But he can't shake the feeling that something is amiss.

The man hands Rick his license before rummaging through the glove compartment.

According to his license, the man's name is Philip Blake, and he hails from the rural town of Woodbury.

"Woodbury, huh? Nice place?"

"Small town. Just like yours, I'm guessing," Blake says. He locates his registration and hands it over.

Rick scans the folded paper to ensure the names match, and holds the registration and license out for Shane to run through the computer. He doesn't want to turn away and risk this guy trying something. Shane takes the documents and heads back to the car.

"We do alright. What brings you here? Just passin' through?" Rick says.

Blake nods. "I'm goin' on a little trip."

"Where to?"

"Montgomery. Family emergency. I guess that's why I was goin' a little fast."

"Sorry to hear that." Rick kind of feels like a douche now. You could meet someone on the worst day of their life and never know it. Blake certainly looks shaken up, as though he's been delivered earth-shattering news.

Maybe he should just let the guy off with a warning. The last thing Blake needs right now is a hefty speeding fine. How would Rick have felt if he'd been driving away from the scene of Lori's wreck and some asshole cop gave him a ticket?

Rick doesn't have to decide, because Philip Blake produces a gun and shoots him point-blank in the chest.

The sound is deafening, the muzzle flash like a magnesium flare, but Rick draws his side-arm and fires off a shot that skews as the pain of the bullet tearing through his flesh hits him, and Rick's bullet whistles through Blake's right eye, the side of his face exploding like a Gallagher prop, and Shane is screaming, "What the fuck?" and Blake is shouting obscenities and pouring blood down the front of his shirt, but there's no sound anymore, then Blake is aiming his gun at Rick again—a Beretta 92—but Shane fires two shots that stop Blake cold, and Rick feels the wet-hot spread of blood across his chest before the floor falls out from underneath him.

"Rick!" Shane bellows, catching him before he hits the ground. He lays him down and presses a hand against the entry wound, his other hand scrambling for his radio. He shouts for an ambulance, but the world's getting faint and hazy, and Rick can't focus on anything, like he's being held under murky water. He feels strangely, comfortably numb, but blood's pooling too fast under Shane's sticky hands, and it's at this moment Rick realizes he's going to die. He's going to die and leave his children orphans. He's going to die and leave Negan alone.

"Rick, c'mon, you're gonna be okay," Shane's saying, begging, his sweat-and-tear-soaked face hovering above Rick's own, and Rick wants to believe him, but he can feel consciousness draining out of him, and he fights to keep his eyes open, terrified that if he closes them that's it, that's the end of him and this beautiful, fragile thing he started with Negan and Carl and Judith, and please no, that's not how this is supposed to end, please don't let this be the end, but he's fading fast, and the last thing Rick hears is the wailing ambulance sirens and Shane's angry, desperate pleading before he disappears.

Negan checks his phone for the umpteenth time, pacing around the dugout five minutes before tonight's game is scheduled to start. Where the fuck is Carl? And why hasn't he heard from Rick? He glances into the stands to see if Rick has arrived yet. Nope.

What the fuck is this?

Maybe they're running late. It's probably difficult being on time with a three-year-old on your hands. But Negan feels like Rick would have texted him if that were the case. It's not like Rick to leave Negan hanging like this.

Could Carl have skipped tonight's game in protest of... what, exactly? Of Negan's place in his family? Well, he didn't do that when he found out about Rick and Negan's relationship, so why would he do it now? Maybe it's about being forced to play on the same team as Ron, the same kid who shit-talked his dad and punched him in the eye.

Negan really wishes he had more than 'I don't think Carl would do that' to justify himself, but that's all he's got right now.

Negan fires off a text to Rick: hurry the fuck up.

"Where the fuck is Grimes?" Negan finally asks his team.

"He left around fourth period," Noah says. "His dad got shot."

Fear pierces Negan's chest like a dart. "Don't bullshit me, kid. If he's skipping, just fucking say so."

Noah looks confused, like he can't understand why Negan would think this is a joke. But Noah isn't a troublemaker, so it's unlikely he'd tell a bold-faced lie to his coach, but it has to be a lie, because nothing else makes sense.

"You didn't hear about the shooting?" Ron asks with a snide edge, like he knows exactly what Rick is to Negan.

"If you little bastards are fucking with me..." Negan looks at the stands again, searching for Carol. Carol's always here to support Carl, but she is suspiciously missing, and Negan feels something tugging at his throat, making it hard to breathe.

His phone buzzes in his hand, and hope springs in Negan's chest, hope that this text will be from Rick rearranging this huge mess into something benign.

It's from Rick, but it's not benign: Get to harrison memorial asshole!

That's not Rick, Negan knows immediately before his brain really processes it. That's Carl texting on Rick's phone.

There's only one reason why Carl would have Rick's phone.

Because Rick doesn't have it.

Because Rick is in the goddamn hospital and these little brats actually aren't screwing with Negan.

"Coach?" Noah says in a timid voice, but Negan doesn't hear him, just sees the word in his mouth, because everything's gone silent and ringing in his ears like a scene out of a war movie where a grenade explodes and the soldiers stagger around half-deaf.

Fuck.

He briefly considers the possibility that it's not serious, that Rick was just grazed by a bullet and needed a couple stitches and some painkillers. But Carl wouldn't be telling Negan to come to the hospital if that were the case. It's got to be serious if Carl, president of the Negan Sucks club, is demanding Negan's presence.

What the fuck is he supposed to do?

Panic and fear swirl into a horrible cocktail in Negan's veins. He looks at Noah. "How old are you?"

Noah gives him a wide-eyed, confused look. "Uh... eighteen."

"Great. You're assistant coach."

"What?"

"Mikey'll cover third." Negan slaps Noah on the shoulder. "C'mon, kid, you'll do fine. Make me proud."

As Negan moves to leave, Ron says, "You're seriously skipping out to go check on your boyfriend?" Negan loathes the snarky emphasis Ron puts on the word, like there's something wrong with it.

But Ron's face still bears some nasty colors from Carl's hilarious and absolutely warranted assault, so Negan just flips him off with both middle fingers as he exits the dugout.