Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Shane liked order. Or at least, the appearance of it.

Polished badge. Clean shave. Partner who still called him “brother." Neighborhood that looked like a postcard—brick homes, trimmed hedges, kids biking past sprinklers. He liked the way people looked at him and saw someone dependable - a grounded and lawful hero.

But under it? It was always chaos.

Especially since Rick came back from his honeymoon with his new wife, a beauty named Michonne. Especially since he walked through the precinct like nothing had changed—like Lori hadn’t died, like Shane hadn’t once thought they were building something in college, only to lose Lori to the best friend who never even knew he was in a race. And now Rick had everything: a new pretty wife who smiled like the sun with her pearly whites and that smokin' hot body, a son with his crystal blue eyes, a daughter looking like some Disney princess and of course, a life stitched together from the very pieces Shane still dreamed about.

All Shane had was Negan - and that was by design.
Negan was everything Shane wasn’t allowed to be and Rick wouldn't allow himself to be. Loud, dirty, fucking dangerous but still attractive, despite being a few years older than the two officers.

He used to be a name whispered in backroom precinct chatter — a gym coach turned “enforcer,” supposedly had ties to gun trafficking, commanding men who made people "disappear" in the middle of the night. But nothing ever stuck - no charges, no real fingerprints.

Except on Rick.

Because back then — when Lori was still alive and Judith wasn’t even an ultrasound blip — Negan Smith flirted with Rick like it was his favorite job. Back in that gym, post-shift beers, working out in a sleeveless tee that stuck to his sweat-slicked chest, flashing that charming white grin that said he knew exactly the effect he had. He’d call Rick “Pretty Ricky,” slap him on the back, lean in too close when showing him “better grip on a baton.” And Rick — goddamn him — he smiled back. Shane saw it - the heat that Rick pretended wasn’t there. The red flush when Negan called him “tight-ass cop” and winked. The way Rick laughed too long at jokes that weren’t funny.

And it made Shane feel once again like the biggest loser in the world, always second place.

So when Negan was finally arrested after a botched sting — weapons, intimidation, obstruction, who the hell knew — Shane stepped in and spoke on his behalf. Made a golden deal. He didn’t have to but he wanted to. Because part of him wanted to own what Rick walked away from, wanted to be the man Rick never had the guts to be.

And Negan? Well, Negan was amused. “Shane Walsh,” he’d said, all teeth and bloodied lip, cuffed to the hospital gurney. “Didn’t know you had a crush on me, sugar.”

Shane didn’t answer, just smiled back in a grim way with eyes full of hidden emotions. And maybe that was the real deal, right there. No courtroom, no plea. Just… something dark and wordless passing between them. A new arrangement.

***

Now Negan was his husband. Public record but private war. They lived in the same quiet neighborhood as Rick. Different house but same world or maybe not quite likely.

Negan wore the ring, played his role. But every so often — in the middle of dinner, or mid-fuck with his teeth bared in mock obedience — he’d smirk that old sleazy smile and ask, “You ever think about how this could’ve been Rick? Does that make you hard or just bitter?”

And Shane…Shane would lose it, always. He would push the older man against walls, grab too hard, leave marks and bruises where he meant to leave reminders. But Negan never flinched, never screamed. In fact, he was proud - just smiled afterward like it was all still a game, sometimes even laughed loudly about it. Like he was letting Shane play husband only because it kept him entertained. That only made the younger officer even more possessive and unhinged, how could dare his husband provoke him with Rick just like that traitorous bitch Lori, just like everyone else falling for his blue-eyed "best friend".

Negan himself was built like sin. Still broad-shouldered, a bit taller than Shane, on the leaner side but muscle thick with age. Tattoos fading along his arms and chest, voice raspy and coarse, like every word was filtered through whiskey and sex, dark hair almost black - now greying around the edges, he wore it slicked back usually but sometimes in bed and home - free. Big expressive hazel-brown eyes, natural weathered tan. He was the kind of man people looked at and thought about in the dark, even if they never admitted it.

And Shane hated how badly he wanted him. He hated how Negan still flirted with Rick when they crossed paths — subtle things, lingering eye contact, a half-laugh that didn’t belong to Shane.

He hated knowing that Rick had the chance once and didn’t take it.

That morning, Shane woke up earlier and just watched his husband stretch in bed — naked, slow, unabashed as the sun lit his scars like silver. “You watching me again?” Negan drawled. Shane didn’t blink, dark brown eyes focused. “Just making sure what’s mine stays mine.” The other smirked, always full of his stupid comments. “I don’t remember signing up to be a house pet, but sure. Feed me and scratch behind my ears while you’re at it.”

Shane got up, walked to him and gripped his sharp jaw just a little too tight and kissed him like he wanted to hurt something. Negan kissed back in a rough mocking way. There was always a line between them — sexual, violent, blurred. And it always ended the same - Shane losing control of his mouth, body, mind like a bull seeing red...but the other letting him think he still had it to some extent. But sometimes — in the silence after — Shane wondered what it would’ve been like if Rick had said yes. If he had looked at Negan the way he looked at the other man now. And if Negan would’ve stayed, this alone drove him mad.

***

When they finally visited Rick and Michonne's home after they returned from their honeymoon to Hawaii, the candles flickered like stage lights, flicking off crystal and polished wood, catching the steam from casserole dishes and roasted chicken and fresh-baked bread. It was the kind of dinner that looked like it belonged in a family magazine - domestic, warm and safe.

And Negan sat at the head of it, mouth curled into a grin like he’d never kicked in a door in his life. Rick sat across from him, arms folded, a little smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His wife leaned into Rick’s shoulder, her laugh like honey. Judith was babbling something to now grown up teenage Carl with her mouth full. The whole damn house felt alive.

And Shane? Shane was rather silent - watching, observing and drinking.

Negan was leaning back in his chair, big hands lazily draped across the armrests, sleeves pushed up to show forearms tattooed and strong. His laugh boomed every few minutes—rich, rude, a little too loud.

He reached for the wine bottle with a wink at Michonne and poured more into Rick’s glass than his own. "You know," Negan said, gesturing toward Rick with a fork, "your boy here still makes the best goddamn mashed potatoes in Georgia. I ever tell you about that time we ended up at that FEMA shelter and he tried to barter canned peaches for garlic salt? Looked like a whole-ass domestic goddess." Rick rolled his eyes. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything, Sheriff,” Negan said, drawling it out. “Even back when you had that tight little buzz cut and used to squint at me like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to shoot me or blow me.” Everyone laughed. Well, except Shane. He just forced a chuckle that landed like broken glass on tile, a hand tightening around the wine glass, then loosening again.

Negan didn’t notice—or maybe he did but didn't care. He leaned closer across the table toward Rick, voice dropping just enough to toe that line. “You still squint like that sometimes, you know. Gotta say, I miss the uniform. Or maybe it’s just the way you used to walk in it—like you were carrying the weight of the whole goddamn world in your balls.” Rick shook his head, laughing, cheeks pink, Michonne just grinning. “Don’t encourage him.”

Judith giggled. “Uncle Negan said balls.”

“Negan,” Shane said, too sharp. Everyone paused. Shane was forced to smiled - wife and fake. “Kids at the table.” Negan gave him a long look. “Shit, right. Sorry, sugar.” He patted Judith’s head. “Uncle Negan’s mouth is full of garbage. Like always.”

But the damage was already in Shane’s eyes. And the bottle of whiskey he cracked open after dessert didn't help.

***

When they got back home, Negan was already halfway to the shower when drunk as hell Shane followed him — steps silent, deliberate. The bedroom still held the heat from their morning exchange, the faint smell of sweat, leather, sex, and their heavy colognes soaked into the headboard from nights like this before.

Steam curled from the bathroom, the glass was fogged. Negan didn’t turn when the younger man came up behind him, just stated, “If you’re about to get needy again, I already let you blow off steam, cowboy. Ain’t like I got a fuckin’ stamina meter that fills on command.” Shane didn’t answer, just stared - eyes filled with non-human lust and jealousy - at the broad lines of his husband’s back, water sluicing over the muscles like oil, the curve of his spine, the thick cut of his thighs. The way his cock hung heavy, unapologetic, even when soft. His body was a dirty damned battlefield - scarred, strong, marked mainly by him. And Shane fucking ached with it.

He stepped forward, gripping the other’s hip. “You think Rick would’ve touched you like this?” Shane asked, low in his throat. “You think he could’ve handled you?” Negan chuckled, head tilted under the spray. “Rick’s too pretty and fucking gentle. Would’ve whispered sweet nothings and came in his hand before I even bent over.” Shane growled — shoved him forward, one palm between his shoulders. Not hard enough to hurt, just to remind him who was here and what was real.“You want gentle?” Shane hissed, breath hot against Negan’s ear. “Go knock on Rick’s door. See if he even lets you in.”

Negan looked over his shoulder, half-lidded. “You jealous, baby?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But you are, huh?” Shane didn’t answer, just dropped to his knees behind him not waiting a second more. He grabbed the older man’s ass, spread him with his thumbs, and spat — loud and wet, the sound obscene against running water. He tongued between his cheeks, rough, hungry, not out of affection but crazy sense of ownership. Tongue fucking him until Negan grunted and braced both arms against the glass. “You feel that?” Shane murmured, licking deep, biting the curve of his flesh. “Rick wouldn’t do this. He’d be too scared to get his face dirty.”

Negan groaned, voice fraying. Shane continued by shoving two fingers in next, slick with spit, scissoring hard - watching him flinch, grunt and rock back with that lazy cocky smirk fading inch by inch. “You ever think about him when I’m inside you?” Shane asked, fingers working faster. “You ever wonder what it’d be like if he bent you over and said your name?” Negan laughed again — but it broke on a moan. “Shiiit. Now who's fantasizing, officer?” The younger one stood and kicked Negan’s legs farther apart with his knee not being able to contain himself anymore. Just pressed in, hard and fast — no warning, no words. One brutal thrust, and he was buried to the hilt, gripping Negan’s hips so tight he’d leave welts. The sound of skin against skin echoed under the shower — the rhythm punishing, desperate. Shane’s voice was low and cracked. “He wouldn’t fuck you like this. He wouldn’t even look at you twice.”

Negan groaned. “Fuck—You trying to prove somethin’, lover boy?” Shane fucked harder, jaw clenched, hands roaming to Negan’s chest, his throat, his sharp jaw — fingers sliding in his mouth just to feel him bite, gag, moan. “Say it,” Shane demanded. “Say I’m better.” Negan grinned around his fingers. “Try harder, sweetheart.”

And that was enough to push Shane over. He grabbed a fistful of Negan’s hair, as much as he could, yanked his head back, and came deep, choking on a growl — his whole body pressed tight to Negan’s back, panting, shaking. "You're mine, not Rick’s!" Even after, he didn’t pull out, just held there. Breathing against the man’s soaked skin possessively.

But all Negan did was laugh low, dirty and triumphantly. “You keep fuckin’ me like that, and I might start thinkin’ you’re the one chasing Rick’s ghost, not me.”

***

The next day, blinds were drawn crooked as morning light bled through the cracks like old scars. Negan sat shirtless at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, smoke curling from the cigarette pinched in his fingers. Shane came in from the hallway without a word, barefoot, shirt slung over his shoulder, dark eyes leering arrogantly. The bedroom door clicked shut behind him. "You know," Shane said, voice calm but off-kilter, “I could’ve married someone better.” Negan even didn’t look up. “You’re startin’ with this again?”

“Just talkin’.” Shane walked past the foot of the bed, slow and restless. “Back when there was still hot pizza around the corner. There was this Korean kid, Glenn — worked a joint by the highway. Dumb haircut, decent ass, always called you ‘sir’ even when you tipped like shit. Sweet as hell.” Negan didn’t rise to the bait, just listened. “Or Andrea,” Shane kept going, circling like a dog picking the right spot to bite. “Nice legs, blond bombshell type. Her sister Amy was softer though, church-face good girl. Either of ‘em would’ve dropped to their knees to play house with me.” The older man took a long drag. “So why the hell didn’t you?”

Shane stopped by the dresser to get his police uniform out, arms crossed. “Because I picked you.” That earned a glance, hazel gaze flicked up under the shadow of his brow. “I picked the bastard no one else wanted. The one your favorite Rick would've left to rot in a fuckin’ cell - you'd have died down there.”

"I'm so goddamn lucky then, how can I always forget Officer Walsh' fuckin' generosity!"

“I came,” Shane shot back. “You'd be pissin’ in a bucket and talkin’ to your dead wife ghost if it wasn't ME!”

A long beat followed. “You think Rick would’ve done that?” the younger man asked. “Saved your sorry ass?” Negan stood slowly, exhaled smoke out the corner of his mouth. “No. Rick would’ve walked past and locked the fuckin’ door behind me. You glad now?”

“Exactly.” Shane moved in closer. “Carl too. Kid thinks he loves you but still flinches when you around. Only I saw what you were, what you still are - and I still managed to save you, you know?" Negan flicked the cigarette into the tray on the windowsill. “You want thanks or a medal now?”

“I want you to remember,” Shane said. “You don’t get to walk away from me.” Negan raised an eyebrow in a mocking style. “That so?”

“You start gettin' soft,” Shane went on, stepping into his space now, chest to chest, “start thinkin’ about Rick again — who by the way has a new wifey now, a family..." Negan’s jaw clenched and hazel eyes just stared back, listening the other man as Shane leaned in, voice a low gravel. “You walk out that door, and I swear, I’ll find Rick. I’ll make him remember what he lost. Maybe I bend him over the desk at work, fuck the shame right into him. Maybe I go find Carl — he ain’t a little boy anymore. See how strong your pull on 'em really is.” Negan took him by surprise, grabbing him by the shirt and slammed him back into the dresser so hard it shook the frame. “Don’t you ever fucking mention Carl again like that or I... “That got your attention?” Negan’s gravelly voice dropped, deathly quiet. “You say Carl’s name like that again and I’ll cut out your tongue, I am a man of my word.” Shane smiled like the douchebag he was. "There it is. Knew you still cared about them."

They stayed there — inches apart, tension like a wire pulled taut between them. “I picked you,” Shane said again, quieter now but no less dangerous. “Not because you were safe. Not because you were pure. Because you’re the only bastard out here who’s maybe as fucked up as I am on the inside.” Negan stared into him. “Don’t mean you get to own me.” The police officer’s lip curled. “I already do, your bigger than life ego just don’t want to admit it.”

Negan let go this time slowly, stepping back, fists tight at his sides. Shane straightened his shirt. “You gonna leave one day?”

Negan didn’t answer, eyes burning with rage. Now he seriously knew something was very fucked up, just wrong with the other man. “Didn’t think so,” Shane said, and walked out getting his uniform and heading towards the hall. Behind him, the door stayed open — just wide enough for the light to bleed in, wide enough for the current tension to build up.

Chapter Text

Negan didn’t move for a long time after his confrontation with Shane, he just sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair. His knuckles still throbbed from where they’d slammed the wall earlier. Not from anger - from trying not to hit Shane, the gross threats towards Rick and Carl burning into his brain. "𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺?". 𝘎𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘮, the man thought. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺.

When finally deciding he needed a glass of early morning whiskey, he headed for the kitchen and while walking in hallway he stopped for a minute, looking at his own reflection. The face staring back had lines deeper than he remembered - the stubble shadowed scars. And in the deep hazel eyes, he saw that same flicker he used to catch in the men he beat down back in the day — the ones who couldn’t admit they were cornered.

He’d been a bad man, a real narcissistic asshole. Never denied it - not then, not now.

But somewhere between beating gangbangers to pulp and calling it justice, and almost getting locked away for what the state said was ‘too much force,’ he started thinking maybe he liked being the monster in the dark. He never killed a man who didn’t have it coming, he told himself. Still, he had made a hell lot of widows and orphans who cried for their daddies. Left blood stains on sidewalks and didn't lose sleep after, enjoying he was the thing most men feared.

Maybe now, this was the cost - a man like Shane. Someone just like himself.

That cop who should’ve been the poster boy for order and law — and who was just as fucked as the guys Negan used to beat with a baseball bat. Perhaps this was balance, his redemption or even the ending he truly deserved - ending with the same fucked up sicko he himself once was... maybe still was on the inside.

But Rick, the handsome crystal-eyed sheriff, was an angel... he had a family - sweet little Judith always seeing the good in people, so little yet so clever, Carl who was seventeen now, growing up in front of Negan’s eyes. Damn, the boy used to hate his guts so much when the older man was still his P.E. teacher at high-school, since Negan always joked about him looking a bit too much like "a future serial killer" with that blue stare. Humor aside, he loved the kid like his own. And only later he'd met Rick, who was "responsibility" personified. The man was an enigma, he had light around him and Negan didn’t belong there.

As much as he hated to admit it, Michonne was perfect and she was the right one for Rick. And somewhere in the fucked up part of Negan’s gut, he knew he was still protecting Rick by keeping Shane’s twisted attention focused on him. Men like him deserved crooked cops projecting their fantasies of righteousness like Shane, it's not like the choice was forced on him - just like the narcissistic self-serving prick he always was, he had chosen convenience and saving his own ass. Initiated the sex and flirted with the delusional younger man in the beginning, surprised but deeply pleased with their arrangement. Had fucked Shane too many times and enjoyed getting fucked himself by the aggressive younger man, provoking and teasing him for more.

But still there were lines he'd never let his officer "𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥" cross and those lines included Shane even subtly threatening the Grimes, especially those innocent children, but his former interest's safety and life, too.

He chuckled bitterly. “Congratulations, asshole,” he told himself at the mirror. “You’re finally the fuckin’ hero.”

***

Across the city, Shane stepped into the police station with his badge clipped to his belt and a paper coffee cup already half-empty in his hand. The morning buzz of officers starting their shift didn’t touch him. He greeted no one. Just walked like he owned the place, black patrol boots thudding, uniform stretched over broad shoulders. His buzzed hair glistened slightly from the shower, and his eyes— dark brown and sharp —scanned the squad room like a predator checking his territory.

Rick was already at his desk, his gorgeous attorney wife, dressed in a nice black office outfit with a knee-length tight skirt emphasizing on her perfect ass, perching casually beside him with a file open. They were laughing quietly about something, probably Judith’s most recent tantrum or Carl’s latest moody teen streak - pure domestic bliss. Shane felt it like a pinch behind the eyes.

"Mornin'," Rick said when Shane came close, voice low and easy. "Yeah," Shane replied, lips barely moving, eyes flicking to Michonne’s hand where it rested on Rick’s arm.

He dropped into his chair, it squeaked but he didn’t care. There was a case file waiting for them, something about a hit-and-run upstate. Shane pretended to read although his mind kept slipping.

Negan.

He hadn’t meant to lose his temper last night — or maybe he had. The older man was lucky enough Shane noticed him, saved him and he had to learn his place rather sooner than later, it was already a whole year of this. The things that came out of Negan’s mouth sometimes — Jesus. Always pushing, resisting, like a wild dog snapping even after you'd pulled it from the trap and that smug look Negan gave him when he stood his ground - always with the mouth on him. But then, that was the point. That was why he wanted the older man - why he kept him. Negan was a real dangerous one. Shane told himself that, again and again. He had been a main suspect for cases of assault, battery, suspected murder, weaponry deals and gang activities. Men like him didn’t belong in houses, they belonged in cages for life. And Shane? He was doing society a favor keeping him close. Containment through domination, that’s what it was. And yet Shane dreamed about his hands - those big fucking calloused hands, the strength in them, the weight. How they held on tight when Shane got too rough and Negan was still trying to remind him he wasn’t breakable. It infuriated him so much, it turned him on. Negan was a bad man, Shane knew that...But he also knew himself. He wasn’t some golden boy.

At least not anymore, not since Lori had dumped him twenty years ago - and only weeks later she'd been getting engaged to his best friend out of the blue, turns out while he had been falling in love for a first time in his life, the now late woman had been sleeping with both, Rick being oblivious to the truth. And maybe in fact he never was a good person, it was all in front of the society. He wanted power over people, always had, he would call it respect, leadership over situations and feelings.

It was why he kissed the blonde bitch Andrea that night at the bar behind Negan’s back even though she said she was engaged too now. It was why he watched the barely legal pizza boy Glenn like he was a meal even though the kid was clearly with the younger Dixon, a redneck friend of Rick’s from the suburbs.

And it was why he married a man like Negan. To finally show Rick he finished the race first and what he had tamed, since he couldn’t just take hostage his partner's whole picture perfect family and enjoy all of their hot bodies like in his wildest dreams - there were still some rules to follow, laws. He couldn’t just grab a cute probably-virgin blonde girl like Amy or Beth - or a tight body like the Glenn boy, drag them somewhere in the woods and have his way with them not thinking about any consequences while they cried and begged him to stop. It's not like those intrusive thoughts never crossed his mind but they were just...thoughts. In reality, he had morals to uphold.

But most of all, he hated being seen as afraid of anything, figuring fucking the devil was the best way to get the upper hand.

He sipped his coffee, smirking quietly. '𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘯,' Shane thought, imagining Negan's laugh curling around that phrase. '𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘮 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘹 𝘺𝘰𝘶.'

***

The controller hit the floor with a dull thud as Negan stretched out his legs, groaning. “Holy fuck, these kids are soft. One whiff of a headshot and they’re crying about ‘campers’ like it’s a goddamn war crime.” Shane stood at the edge of the living room, arms crossed, fresh from the shower, damp hair clinging to his temples. “You still playin’ with Carl’s crew?”

“Yeah, what of it?” Negan tossed his head back lazily. “Kid’s got shit aim but a solid spine. Better company than the boys in blue you drink with every Thursday.” Shane didn’t take the bait, not tonight. “We got a call today. Domestic one - woman tried to drown her toddler, she said the world was too ugly for her.” Negan snorted. “Crazy bitch - and yet we still hand out baby catalogs like candy. Darwin’s rolling in his grave.” There was a pause — something colder underneath the sarcasm. Shane watched him. “You ever think about it?” Negan blinked, feigning ignorance. “Drowning toddlers? Nah. That’s more your thing, Sergeant Buzzkill.”

“You know what I mean,” the younger man continued. “Kids. Family.” Negan shifted in his seat. “Thought we covered that chapter months ago - you said you didn’t want none. Would ‘ruin everything.’ Remember that speech?”

“I’m asking you,” Shane said, firmer now. The other was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “Fuck, I dunno. I used to. Thought maybe I’d make a better dad than mine. Low bar, I know. Wasn’t hard to outshine a guy who drank piss-warm beer and called me ‘accident’ instead of a name.” Shane sat down on the edge of the coffee table, facing him now. “But not anymore?” Negan laughed dryly. “Yeah, lemme just pop out a baby between rounds of Call of Duty and court-ordered therapy. Picture it now: Daddy Negan with a diaper bag and a ‘World’s Best Coach’ mug.”

“That some weird deflection,” Shane said, narrowing his eyes. “You want it. Not with me — but I can tell.”

Negan didn't answer, he was caught off-guard which happened really rarely. The officer leaned back, judgemental look in those dark eyes of his. “You think if you had some fresh start, some sweet little boy to tuck in at night, you’d stop being whatever this is?” Negan’s eyes hardened. “And what the fuck is this?”

“This,” Shane said low, “is a house built on nothing but impulse and sex and damage control. You want a baby to fix that?” The older man’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed even. “Better than pretending like we’re not already bleeding out.” Shane stood, pacing now, all sharp frustration. “You think that kid would be safe with us? With you? You scream when you lose at Xbox and curse in your sleep.”

“I wouldn’t scream at a kid,” Negan said quietly. “I wouldn’t fuck it up.”

“Oh, come on,” Shane growled. “You can’t even keep a goldfish alive. You feed those boys weed brownies and call it ‘mentorship.’ You think that’s parenting?” Negan stood now too, face inches from Shane’s. “Better that than coming home every night, pretending you don’t wish it was Lori at the goddamn door.” That hit deep and Shane’s eyes flared. “Don’t you dare.” Negan leaned in, raspy voice getting darker. “You act like kids would ruin our world, Shane. Truth is, we ain’t got a goddamn world to ruin.”

Shane’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “No, we got...something and it’s barely holding together. You bring a baby into this mess, and it falls apart just like you.” Negan gave a twisted grin. “Or maybe it gets better.”

“You’re not the guy to make things better,” Shane said, bitter. “You’re the monster that tears shit down.”

Negan looked at him for a long second then gave a quiet laugh. “Well pardon me, buddy, but here you are, soaked and stayin’.” Shane stepped closer, wrapping a rough hand around Negan’s nape. “You don’t need a kid,” he murmured. “You just need to shut the hell up and let me have you again, just this. That’s all we need." Negan didn’t resist the touch but he didn’t lean into it like usual.

Somewhere in his mind, he pictured a different house — somewhere quieter. Hell, maybe he'd be growing a garden. For a boy with unruly dark hair, strangely resembling Rick, having his and Carl’s eye color and Negan’s own laugh. Someone who hadn’t seen this version of him - who didn’t look at him like a threat or a monster under the bed. But that wasn’t his house, it wasn’t his life and for sure he didn’t deserve to corrupt more innocents. So he let Shane kiss him hard and hungry, the other man's hands roaming freely and squeezing at his sides.

But then, out of nowhere, the younger man asked, quietly while kissing his neck, “Would you’ve had kids with him? With Rick?” That caught Negan off-guard. He blinked, swallowed, then said, “Rick wouldn’t have wanted that - he wouldn’t have wanted me. You've said if yourself.”

“But if he did?” Negan didn’t answer right away, he just looked at Shane, and for once, there was no snark, no filter, just quiet. “…Maybe,” he said at last. “If the world were different. If I were. If he could’ve seen past what I was — yeah. Maybe.”

The younger man laughed — a bitter, ugly sound. “You’re still chasing his tail, that so?” Negan stepped back, this time unmistakable rage written on his face. “So what if I am? Not your goddamn business! You’re still trying to be him while fantasizing about him at the same time, jerking off to his pictures or whatever - this is crazy as shit. Pathetic", he snarled.

“Fuck you.”

“No,” Negan moved fast, grabbing his black leather jacket from the back of the couch. “Not tonight, dear husband. You are NOT.” He shoved past Shane and walked out the front door, leaving the other man standing alone in the suddenly too-quiet house.

***

The door had barely clicked behind Negan before Shane exploded. “Son of a bitch,” he snarled, pacing like a caged beast, fingers dragging through his forehead, down his face, fists clenching. “You fuckin’ serious right now?” He stopped in front of the wall where one of their last times had happened — bruises still fading on Negan’s collarbone, Shane’s belt still slung over the doorknob. “Turn me down?” he spat. “Now you say no? After all that head you gave me, now you ‘ain’t anybody’s bitch’? And all the moanin' under the shower?”

He laughed bitterly. “You’re gettin’ bold, huh. Think sayin’ no makes you the one makin' the rules again? Short-memory ungrateful trash!” Shane kicked the overturned beer bottle into the wall. Glass cracked. “You think ‘cause I let you breathe a little 'round Rick, you can run now?" His voice dropped, full of venom. “Gettin’ old, too. Don’t think I don’t see that gray creepin’ in. You ain’t got ten more years of fuckin’ me like you used to. You oughta be thankin’ me every time I still want you. Still look at you.” He was talking to no one now, circling the room like a storm. “You like takin’ it, you liked when I had my hand on your fuckin’ neck, whinin’ for more. And now you wanna play hard to get? You ain’t some fuckin’ teenager with options no more.”

Silence, his own breath roaring in his ears. And then, the decision came to his intoxicated mind. He grabbed his keys and stormed out the front door, muttering: “You wanna say no to me? Fine. I’ll find somebody who won’t.”

***

It was past midnight when Rick pulled away from Michonne’s lips. Her dark braids spilled over one shoulder, soft and warm against the sheets. She reached for him again, eyes shimmering with quiet trust and something tender that made his chest ache. But when his lips brushed against her collarbone, his hands faltered. Her fingers traced down his chest in slow circles, but the hesitation in his body was undeniable. “Rick, what’s wrong tonight?” she whispered, voice low and worried. He shook his head, burying his face in her shoulder. “It’s nothin'."

Because it was him—the ghost that wouldn’t leave. That damn smirk, the gravelly drawl, the way Negan used to lean casually against the railing outside the gym next to the police station, always throwing out those crude jabs about Rick’s jog shorts or how tight his cuffs looked. Negan had started out as Carl’s eighth-grade P.E. teacher, then gym coach after getting fired from the school after some bar fight and from the beginning, Rick had been wary. His boy had hated the man’s foul mouth and relentless teasing, but Rick had always thought it harmless banter—just a natural flirt with a sharp tongue. He’d never crossed that line, not really.

Rick was a single father then, and later a man who had to choose carefully: a partner who could be a parent to Carl and Judith, not just someone to pass the time with. Michonne had been all that and more— ethereally beautiful, intelligent, loyal, fierce, everything he’d ever wanted. But tonight, the past pressed down on him like a weight. And the truth that haunted him was this - Negan and Shane being married now. Not just screwing behind closed doors—they were husband and husband, paper and promise, sharing a house for over a year. Maybe longer than Rick and Michonne had been together before their wedding.

Michonne’s hand drifted through his curls, warm and grounding, but Rick flinched beneath her touch.“You’re somewhere else,” she said softly. “I know,” he admitted, eyes squeezed shut. She didn’t push, only kept stroking him, steady and patient. Rick wanted to say her name, wanted to lose himself in her, to drown out the restless ache. But he couldn’t. Instead, he rolled onto his side, silent, guilt gnawing at his insides.

Behind closed lids, Negan’s image flashed: sweat glistening on his forearms in a cut-off gym tee, that reckless grin, the way he’d winked at Rick like some private joke. Before the sudden, impossible marriage with Shane—the man Rick called a brother.

Before everything came crashing down.

***

Carl’s footsteps echoed softly on the cracked sidewalk as he made his way back from a late-night visit at his friend Ron's house. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting long shadows that stretched like dark fingers across the pavement. He wasn’t expecting to see anyone out this late on foot and alone, but there he was—Negan, leaning against the wrought-iron fence of the small park near his neighborhood, cigarette smoke curling lazily into the cool night air. “Negan?” Carl called out, hesitating. The older man straightened, flicking ash off the end of his smoke, that usual crooked grin slipping onto his face. “Well, well, if it ain’t Rick’s boy. No longer got a curfew or you sneaking out Daddy’s house to find victims, little night owl?”

Carl forced a small chuckle but noticed something off—Negan’s eyes were darker tonight, restless and tired. The usual swagger was tempered with a tightness around his jaw. “Everything okay?” Carl asked cautiously. The older one shrugged, taking a slow drag. “Depends on who’s askin’. You?”

The boy glanced around. “I’m fine. Just… figured you might not be, seeing you out here like this.” Negan laughed—short, rough, without much humor. “Life’s complicated, kid. You know that, right?”

The teen nodded, folding his arms. “Yeah. You and Shane… you guys alright?”

“Shane? Hah. That fucker’s a handful. More trouble than he’s worth sometimes.” Carl watched him carefully. “You don’t sound like you’re just joking this time.” The man’s grin faltered, replaced by a flicker of something raw—frustration, maybe even pain. “Let’s just say it ain’t all roses and rainbows under this roof. Marriage’s a goddamn battlefield sometimes.”

Carl swallowed, remembering how tense things had been lately at his household whenever Shane’s name came up - the way Shane had been acting distant, they had all noticed a major change in him—or worse, like he was hiding something.“Does it have anything to do with my Dad?” the boy blurted before he could stop himself. Negan’s eyes locked on Carl’s, hazel stare getting sharper than usual. “What the fuck's that supposed to mean, kid?”

Carl's heart was pounding faster, him getting nervous all of sudden. “Just… you know. Shane’s always seemed a bit too much invested in Dad’s life. In Mom's too when she was alive, even with me... "I swear if he ever tried to lay a finger on you- "No, Negan, it's not this. I just thought you two knowing Dad before each other...being close to him, both of you - that’s causing some friction, like jealousy issues for either of you.”

Negan’s smirk returned, darker this time. “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for. Shane’s got his demons, just like the rest of us. And yeah… sometimes that shit leaks into everything else.” They stood in silence for a moment, the city’s distant hum filling the space between them. “Just… be careful,” Carl finally said quietly. Negan gave him a crooked wink. “Always, baby boy. You worry too much, stop it.”

The long-haired boy then turned to head home, but before he got far, Negan called out, voice low and rough, “And hey—don’t let your old man know I’m out here like some goddamn creep. Wouldn’t want Rick thinking I’m stalking the streets.” Carl chuckled despite himself. “Got it.” As the teen disappeared into the night, Negan’s grin faded, replaced by a shadow of something heavier—guilt, regret, or maybe unspoken truth.

Chapter Text

The sidewalks in the old West End of Atlanta were uneven, Rick’s boots scuffing against gravel and the occasional busted beer or coke bottle as he walked, hands sunk in the pockets of his jacket, collar turned up against the sharp bite of morning air. It was too early for most people to be out—just after five a.m.—and the city still had that strange hush it only wore before sunrise, when everything was gray and soft, like the world was holding its breath.

He didn’t really know why he was walking. He told Michonne it was a jog, but he hadn't run, hadn’t even brought earbuds. Something had just pulled him out of the house—Carl’s voice echoing in his head all night, that one line sticking like a splinter. "𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘋𝘢𝘥. 𝘚𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘓𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥... 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵".

Carl had promised not to tell anyone - of course he had. Negan was good at that—making people feel like his secrets were sacred things. That kind of manipulation didn't always look ugly, sometimes it was just about trust.

Rick turned a corner near Cascade Avenue, not expecting to see anyone—certainly not HIM.

Negan stood across the street, leaning against a rusted chain-link fence outside an abandoned corner laundromat. One foot was propped behind him, ankle resting against the fence like he wasn’t even cold. A cigarette hung from his lips, ember pulsing as he took a long drag. He looked like something from another decade—leather jacket over a black hoodie, dark jeans clinging low on his hips. The sharp stubble along his jaw was new, but he still had that infuriating grin when he spotted Rick. “Well, fuck me sideways, if it ain’t Sheriff Rick, my favorite little prick.” Rick stopped mid-stride, blue eyes narrowing. “God, Negan, it's early in the morning - not the time for your jokes.”

The older man shrugged, exhaling smoke through his nose. “What, no badge now, off-work? No hat? Gotta say, your whole vibe is a little less tight-ass these days. Almost like... you finally pulled that goddamn stick outta your ass.”

Rick crossed the street, not paying attention to the other’s usual teasing remarks. His boots echoed off the concrete. “You out here a lot?” Negan gave a non-answer with a smirk. “City’s nice when it’s asleep. No screaming toddlers, no podcasts blaring, no neighbors talking about fucking fantasy football in their driveways. Just rats, strays, and the sweet smell of rot.” He offered the cigarette, and Rick waved it off. “I heard you were out last night too...same spot.” The taller man took another drag. “Gonna start tracking my movements now? That it? Christ, I knew you missed me, but I didn’t think it’d turn into surveillance kink.”

Rick didn’t smile. “Carl saw you.” That wiped the grin right off his face as he glanced away, jaw working. “Little shit promised he wouldn’t tell you.”

Rick crossed his arms. “You know Carl, he doesn’t lie to me.” Negan chuckled low in his throat. “No, he doesn’t. Smart kid, too fucking smart.”

A moment passed. Rick watched the wind shift smoke across Negan’s face. The smell was acrid, real, cutting through the earthy scent of wet asphalt and lingering pollen. “You okay?” Rick asked softly. Negan snorted. “Wow. Gonna hit me with that therapist tone now, too?”

“I mean it.”

Negan didn’t speak for a second. Then, finally, he dropped the cigarette to the curb and crushed it under his boot heel, like he was extinguishing the question with it. “Yeah, Rick. I’m fucking peachy. Got a husband who only touches me when he’s drunk, a half-job teaching at a community college where the kids think I’m some ‘cool older dude with trauma,’ and a shitbox house where the water pressure screams like a banshee every time I try to take a piss. Living the fucking dream.” Rick’s stomach twisted, but he kept his voice even. “You don’t have to live like this...if you need to share something with me, I could help, you know if there are problems between you and Shane.”

“Oh, what—you gonna rescue me now?” Negan tilted his head, mocking. “Gonna ride up in your sensible crossover and whisk me away to the suburbs?”

“I care about Shane.”

That landed like a slap - Negan blinked, eyelashes fluttering over dark hazel eyes. The curly-haired man kept going. “I care about you, too. That doesn’t cancel each other out.”

Negan laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Jesus. You know what your problem is, Grimes? You say shit like that like it means something. You say you care like it’s a solution - but you didn’t care enough when it counted, did you? You married pretty quickly... and let's fuckin' quit the games, go worry about your hot-ass little wife, not me.”

Rick didn’t look away, instead he went on, arguing a bit. “You and Shane—what you have—it wasn’t even happening then. You talk about me getting married fast when you two came out of nowhere. I am not judging or anything - but you started first.”

“Oh, it was always happening,” Negan said bitterly. “Just not out loud.”

Silence again, the city moving distantly with the first wave of traffic for the day. Somewhere, a streetcar buzzed on the rails. The morning felt like it was holding tension just under the skin.

Rick took a step closer, voice low.

“You two had a fight, right?”

Negan didn’t answer but Rick didn’t back down. “Carl also...saw bruises. Not bad but I know what I’m looking at. That wasn’t from walking into a door, you can't lie to a police officer's experience.”

Negan turned his face away. The side profile was all sharp lines and hollows, the neck of his hoodie hiding nothing. He looked older than he had six months ago. Not in the way people age—but in the way people burn out. Rick’s voice gentled. “You don’t have to explain it to me. Just... get out, if it's getting bad. If not for yourself, then before something worse happens - Michonne and I...we could see the tension between the two of you when all of us had dinner together, remember?” Negan gave a dry smile. “You don’t get it, do you? I ain’t afraid of Shane.”

Rick stared. “Then what's up?”

Negan glanced back, eyes suddenly glassy beneath the streetlight glow. “Look, me and Shane are both men playing "my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours". Some of us aren’t built for fucking white picket fences and Sunday brunches. And he didn’t hit me, we just had kinkier sex, Sheriff Vanilla, damn it!”

Rick’s breath caught - the rawness in Negan’s voice wasn’t like him. Negan didn’t get vulnerable. He deflected, joked, snarled. But now... “You remember that night in Athens?” the taller man said suddenly, quieter. Rick blinked. “What?”

“Two years ago, your goddamn birthday - September 14th. Shane passed out drunk on the goddamn pool table, everyone else cleared out - back then me and him weren't together, barely even talked. You and me sat on the floor and I made you drink that shit tequila. You kissed me...”

Rick went still, Negan’s mouth curved into something sad, almost mocking. “Oh you remember.”

“I was drunk,” the younger man whispered. “You were,” Negan agreed. “But you weren’t confused.”

Rick swallowed. “That night didn’t mean anything, I am a married man now and loyal - ”

Negan’s smile was all teeth now. “That’s the part you keep telling yourself. But I think about it - way damn more than I should.” Rick’s mouth opened—then closed like a fish out of water. Words got stuck somewhere in his chest, heavy and hot. “You’re not the only one who thinks about it,” he admitted, "but now I have Michonne and you are with Shane, who is one of my best friends."

Negan’s eyes flickered. For a moment, something like hope passed between them—naked, trembling, unspoken. Then the older man finally stepped back. “Well,” he drawled, voice raspier now, “this has been fun, Ricky. Emotional constipation and a walk down memory lane - real solid Tuesday morning.”

Rick suddenly reached out, not even hearing himself grabbing the other’s wrist. “Don’t go back to that house.” Negan didn’t move, didn’t pull away immediately. His pulse fluttered under Rick’s hand. “I’m not trying to save you,” Rick said. “I just don’t want to see you or Shane end up broken...talk to me if you got problems...please.”

Negan looked at him, really looked - hazel-brown meeting icy blue. And in that silence, something old stirred—something neither of them wanted to remember and it was there now. Then he pulled away, slow and gentle. “I’m already broken, Rick. I just know how to hide the pieces better than most. You know nothing about me and your partner's marriage, so now just head home, c'mon.”

He turned without another word, footsteps fading as he disappeared into the haze of morning. Rick stood there long after he was gone, throat tight, heart pounding, the scent of cigarette smoke still clinging to his own jacket.

***

Negan shut the front door behind him with a quiet click, the sound muffled by the thick weight of two days’ silence. The air inside the house was stale with leftover fast food grease, dog-eared resentment, and the faint chemical trace of cheap cologne. The lights were low. Everything felt flat like the damn house had been holding its breath for him. He didn’t call out, just dropped his keys on the entryway table, slung his leather jacket over the back of the couch, and ran a hand down his face, the stubble rasping against his palm. His boots thudded against the floorboards as he stepped into the kitchen—and stopped. Shane watched his husband walk past him—slow, measured, head held high like he still owned the goddamn room even after being gone for days. The same stride that had driven Shane crazy since day one. Loose hips, cocky shoulders, that sinuous, deliberate way he moved that wasn’t just swagger—it was provocation. It always had been - whether Negan knew it or not.

But now, looking at him, all Shane could feel was the sick ache curling low in his gut. The scent of another woman still clung to his clothes—Andrea’s floral perfume, the powderness of her lipstick, the way her laugh scraped inside his head like nails. And it hadn’t worked - not the kiss, not even her tits nor his dick shoved between her spread thighs, both cheating on their partners in the car that first night Negan walked out and didn't return for days. Not even all that drinking could make the younger man forget.

Because even in the middle of all that, he’d wanted his husband, the only thing Rick hadn't managed to steal from him. Always Negan.

Shane’s eyes swept over him again, soaking in every little detail like he was trying to memorize it—just in case Negan left and didn’t come back next time which of course the officer would never allow. The worn denim stretched across lean legs, the scruff on his jaw, that tired crease between his thick brows. Negan looked exhausted, older maybe—but still fucking handsome. And still not his completely...

He couldn’t take it and he moved before he could talk himself out of it—hands reaching out, one cupping the back of Negan’s neck like he belonged there. Skin hot, pulse thudding under his fingers. That damn scent of cigarettes and road dust clinging to Negan’s leather jacket. And beneath it, him - just him.

Their foreheads touched. The older man didn’t shove him off but didn’t pull him closer either and somehow that only made it worse. “I was worried sick, thought you might be dead, body somewhere in a ditch” Shane whispered, voice hoarse. “You mean more than you know.”

God, he wanted him. Not just want—need.

He could already see it in his mind. Negan shoved against the kitchen counter, Shane’s mouth on his neck, rough hands yanking at his belt. He’d press their bodies together hard enough to leave bruises, make his cocky husband forget whatever was pulling him away. Mark him, fill him, claim him. Just once again, fucking once again without that dead look in his eyes.

Shane’s hips shifted, barely restrained, and he groaned low in his throat. Just enough to feel Negan’s heat, the resistance of muscle under layers of denim. He wanted to unzip him - get on his knees. Take him rough and fast and bite into that smirk until it broke. Until Negan was panting, knees buckling, calling him by name—not Rick’s, not in some flashback or dream—but his.

But Negan wasn’t moving - not kissing back, not reacting at all except for the tight coil in his stubbled sharp jaw and that goddamn flicker of pity in his otherwise lively hazelnut-colored eyes.

And that’s what stopped him. That dead look - not hate nor fear. Pity. As if Negan already saw Shane as something too far gone to save - someone weak, a man still chasing something that didn’t want to be caught anymore.

“I ain’t in the mood,” Negan rasped. “And I sure as hell ain’t a fuckin’ Band-Aid.”

Shane stood displeased but not really surprised, breath trapped somewhere between his ribs. For a moment, rage flared hot behind his dark eyes—he could make Negan care, could force him to feel it, even if just for a second—but that edge, that madness, he pushed it down. Buried it under the hollow ache of something colder. If he pushed now—if he took what he wanted—Negan might fight him off, even kill him or worse - finally walk away and never come back. And Shane couldn’t lose that, not him too.

So he stepped back, hands trembling, eyes burning. “Let me tell you somethin', I’ll sleep on the couch tonight” he said, barely more than a whisper. “Just… don’t disappear on me like that again.”

Negan didn’t answer, didn’t promise. He just looked at the younger one for a beat longer—like maybe he saw all of it, the desperation, the sickness, the pieces falling apart—and with an exhausted nod, he turned toward the hallway without a word, so unusually for him.

The sound of his boots faded, then the soft click of the bedroom door. Shane stayed in the dark, standing still in the center of the room, heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to yell - to break something.

He wanted to go in there, drag Negan back out, and make him feel it. Feel him.

But instead, Shane sat down on the couch—Negan’s leather and musk scent still lingering on the throw blanket from nights ago—and stared at the dark screen of the TV, clenching his fists white-knuckled in his lap.
And for the first time in weeks, he felt losing control in his life once again, like this time it could be fatal.

***

𝗪𝗲𝗲𝗸𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝘁 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗚𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗛𝗼𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗱

The scent of maple syrup and grilled bacon clung to the air as the household bustled in its sleepy Sunday rhythm. Carl leaned against the counter, scrolling aimlessly on his phone while Michonne poured him orange juice, Rick stood by the stove flipping pancakes, and Daryl and Glenn argued over the last strip of bacon like it owed them both rent. “Seriously, Glenn, what kind of self-respecting pizza guy delivers to the Devil’s house?” Daryl said, snatching the crispy strip before Glenn could stab it with his fork. The Asian man rolled his eyes. “I don’t get to choose who orders, Daryl. The app just pings, and I go. If Negan wants extra anchovies and Shane wants to stare at me like I’m the damn crust, that’s not my problem.”

Carl made a face. “That’s disgusting.”

“Tell that to your godfather,” Glenn muttered, wiping syrup off his fingers. “Last time I dropped off at their place, Shane opened the door shirtless, and his husband was in the background playing video games with that ‘I will murder a man and make it brutal’ expression. I almost left the pizza on the goddamn step.”

Rick tensed while he listened, just a bit. Michonne noticed it. Daryl huffed. “Negan’s a psycho. Man once told Glenn he’d wrap a bat in barbed wire and break his knees ‘cause he talked to Shane too long at the fuckin' door.” Glenn laughed, raising a brow. “To be fair, it was a long talk - Shane said he wanted to tip me in person and then offered me a beer.”

“Oh hell no,” Daryl muttered, clearly pissed now. “You ain’t deliverin’ to that house again. I’ll call y'er manager myself.” The younger man leaned into the teasing, grinning. “Come on, Daryl. Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” Daryl’s voice dropped low. “I’m not jealous, I just don’t like your pretty face bein’ the battleground for two nutjobs in a pissing contest.”

Rick finally set the spatula down with a metallic clink. “Okay, that’s enough.” Everyone paused and Carl looked up. The sheriff ran a hand through his hair. “I get that Shane’s... intense. But you can’t act like Negan doesn’t push his buttons. I’ve seen them together—there’s blame on both sides.”

Michonne tilted her head. “You seen them together recently? After that dinner at our place?” Rick hesitated. “No. I mean… not like that. Just... around.”

Glenn and Daryl exchanged a glance, The Dixon grunting. “I’m tellin’ you, Negan started it. All that sarcastic mouth and cocky walk. He likes being the fire Shane can't put out. Thinks he’s clever.” Glenn shrugged. “Shane ain’t exactly a monk either. Dude checked me out like I was the lunch special.”

Carl frowned. “I thought they were married. Shouldn’t that mean... like, loyalty?” Rick let out a humorless breath, finally sitting down. “Not when it’s a marriage happenin' after a drunk one night-stand or something similar, as if they are not men in their thirties and forties...no responsibility at all.” Michonne’s hand touched his knee under the table. “You okay?” Her husband nodded. “Yeah, just tired.”

"But it’s only Sunday morning, dear..."

No, his mind wasn’t tired. It was wide awake, trailing backward through blurred memories of years ago, late nights, tequila, and lips brushing his. Negan’s voice echoing in his head like a whisper he couldn’t scrub out. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦...” He blinked.

Glenn tossed a grape at his boyfriend’s head, snapping the tension. “Maybe I’ll deliver to them again and bring pepper spray.” Daryl growled. “You do and I swear, I’ll chain your moped in my garage.” Carl grinned, finally breaking into laughter. “You guys are so weird.”

Michonne smiled too, but her eyes remained on her man. And Rick, he just stirred his coffee, watching the swirl like it could hide what was building beneath his ribs.

***

Negan wasn’t planning to walk this way, at least not on purpose, later that Sunday. He told himself that when he passed the corner store and kept going two blocks down, away from the shortest path home. When his boots slowed along the sidewalk of a quiet suburban street he knew too well. When he found himself across from the Grimes residence—again.

White porch light on, garage door open just a crack. Wind chimes soft above the steps.

Inside, golden light spilled across hardwood floors. Domestic, goddamn cozy. Picture perfect. Negan stood half-shadowed behind a utility pole, watching the windows with that flat expression he always wore when something hurt. Rick was there, back turned, pouring what looked like juice or maybe wine into a glass. Wearing a soft-looking T-shirt, curls messy from a long day. And Michonne—fuck, she looked hot, laughing as she walked barefoot across the room with Carl’s hoodie slung over one shoulder.

Negan’s throat worked. That should’ve been enough. A normal guy’d keep walking but he leaned on the pole, shifted his grip on the bag, and let the moment stretch.
Rick grinned at something—head tilted back a little. That same laugh Negan remembered. The one from that stupid tequila-soaked night, too close on the floor, firelight dancing off glass, Rick’s mouth wet and smirking before he kissed him like it meant something.

Negan blinked hard. That was two goddamn years ago. But sometimes he still felt it like it was happening now—like time had folded over, like memory played through his bloodstream. He thought of Rick's fingers curled in his shirt. The press of their mouths. How Rick had whispered his name...And now?

Now Rick lived in a house that smelled like lemon cleaner and dogwood candles. He belonged here, in this suburban Polaroid with the woman he loved and a family that smiled in every photo.

Negan shifted, thumb digging into his palm.

His phone was in his back pocket. He could send something - some little trigger, a reminder. Just enough to make Rick sweat at the collar. He didn’t, though.

Instead, he stood there like a bastard stalker, watching his interest pass by the window with a hand on Michonne’s waist. Negan let out a slow breath and muttered, “Damn, you look happy.”

The screen door creaked on the Grimes porch, and Negan flinched like he’d been caught. It was just Carl—heading out to grab something from the car, humming to himself, hood up, earbuds in.

Negan stepped back into shadow, he didn’t want to be seen like this, like a creepy-ass weirdo. He turned, boots scuffing pavement, and made his way back the long way to his own neighbor. Bag swinging by his side, night folding over his shoulders.

***

Shane's patrol car had peeled out half an hour ago—Sunday shift, like clockwork. Negan didn’t even bother turning on the lights. The bag of groceries he’d barely looked at was still on the counter. Instead, he sank into the beat-up armchair in the living room, phone in hand, still thinking of him. Rick fucking Grimes. That stupid flannel, the curled lip, his perky perfect ass and... those curls on the pretty head of his...those gorgeous baby blues.

Negan poured himself a glass of whiskey instead and took a deep sip. He should let it go, he really fucking should. But he couldn’t, not this time.

He opened his messages - no greeting, no further explanation.

> 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙤𝙙𝙖𝙮, 𝙍𝙞𝙘𝙠.

> 𝙄 𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙩, 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙖 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙩𝙚, 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚.

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> 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙞𝙨 𝙬𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙉𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣?

> 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣. 𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙎𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙨𝙖𝙠𝙚. 𝙃𝙚'𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙢𝙚.

Negan barked a dry laugh. There it was—the guilt, the confusion.

Meanwhile the Grimes' house was warm, dinner was quiet. Michonne sat across from him, scrolling through her phone, hair up, glasses sliding down her nose. The clink of her fork against her plate was the only sound in the room. Rick had barely touched his food. The messages were still in his pocket, still burning. “You good?” the wife asked, not looking up her husband. Rick blinked, blue eyes unfocused, mind not there. “Yeah. Just… work.”

“You were off today.” He nodded stupidly like that meant something but she let it drop.

Carl had gone out earlier with Daryl and Glenn, Judith was already down for the night. And Rick— he had no damn excuse for how itchy his skin felt. He stood suddenly. “I’m gonna shower.” Michonne gave a soft “mm,” distracted but didn’t follow him for some action.

He padded down the hallway, bare feet soundless on the hardwood. Shut the bathroom door, locked it.

Turned the water on just enough to drown out the world.

Pulled out his phone. Still there. The words. The fucking words.

> 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙤𝙙𝙖𝙮, 𝙍𝙞𝙘𝙠.

> 𝙄 𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙖𝙩, 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙖 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙪𝙩𝙚, 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙙𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚

He should’ve blocked him. Should’ve deleted it. Should’ve told Michonne. But he didn’t, he typed angrily and quickly, hit send - then just read them again and then… his hand dropped lower, he hesitated but finally moved. Leaning against the cool tile wall, jaw tight, eyes closed.

He tried not to picture him, he really did. But the more he fought it, the faster the images bled through—Negan in that black jacket, that fucked-up smirk, the filth behind his words. Rick imagined that mouth on his skin, that voice growling against his neck. “Goddammit,” he whispered, breath shuddering.

He stroked himself faster, shame coiling tight in his gut. He imagined taking him—forcing the arrogant man down to his knees, showing him what he could do, how wrong it had been to ever touch Shane, to ever look at anyone else.

He imagined being taken, too. Bent over the kitchen counter while Michonne was out for groceries. Negan’s hand over his mouth, his name like venom—“Ricky, fuck, you taste better than I remembered— Rick came hard, gasping, eyes squeezed shut. He stayed that way—forehead against tile, heart pounding—while the water hissed behind him.

He hated himself but hated Negan more. Reluctantly, he cleaned up, flushed, and stared at himself in the mirror, he had to manage all of this and control himself, what was he doing.

***

Shane kicked the front door shut with his boot, uniform shirt half-unbuttoned, damp with sweat and the smell of stale coffee clinging to him after twelve hours in a cruiser and another two at the gym trying to bleed out the frustration. Didn’t work.

He dropped his belt by the coat rack, the cold clatter of the holstered sidearm echoing through the hallway. His body ached, but his brain? His brain was fucking wired. And his cock—his cock had been hard half the shift, thinking about what might be waiting in that damn bed.

Negan. That fuckin’ tease.

He padded down the hall, boots off, socks silent on the hardwood. Bedroom door was cracked open. A shaft of morning light cut across the bed, warm and gold. And there he was—Negan, sprawled on the left side like a fucking lion in silk. Black sheets low around his hips, shirtless, one leg bent just enough to bare a hint of ass. That fucking mouth slack, one hand resting over his stomach. Breathing slow - asleep but not peaceful.

No, his husband never slept soft. His face twitched, brows furrowing slightly. Lips curved, just a little. Dreaming, maybe. Of who, Shane didn’t know. But fuck if he didn’t want it to be him. He stepped closer, crouched at the side of the bed. Negan’s scent hit him first—cologne, faded, skin-warm; cigarettes and whiskey.

And he was hard already.

His eyes dropped lower. Negan was half hard himself under the sheets. No doubt about it. The younger man could see the bulge clearly, the way the thin silk clung to the shape of his big cock. Jesus.

Shane sat on the edge of the mattress, hand ghosting over Negan’s thigh just beneath the blanket. He wanted to push it down, wrap his fingers around that cock and finally get what’d been denied for more than a week now which was a lot - since he got married. It was a lot for both men with their usual over the top libido.

But since that Andrea shit he hadn’t touched Negan once - since the fight about future kids and of course... Rick. And yet here he was—the taller man, naked and gorgeous and half-erect and sleeping like he didn’t give a single fuck about his husband being gone all night. Shane leaned down, pressed his lips just under Negan’s ear. “Hey handsome,” he whispered, rough. “I’m home.”

Negan stirred, not opening his eyes, but his lips curled. “Mmm... you smell like gym locker room and bad decisions,” he murmured, voice all gravelly and hot, low and smug. Shane grinned despite himself. “Missed me then?”

“Missed my fuckin’ sleep,” Negan mumbled, turning onto his side, back now facing Shane.

That ass—Shane clenched his jaw. Perfect, bare. Pressed against him now as he crawled into bed, couldn’t help the way he molded up behind him. “Daamn, you always get this worked up after arresting methheads all night?” Negan teased, voice thick with sleep but unmistakably amused. Shane groaned into his shoulder. “You’re fuckin’ killing me right now, you know that?”

Negan didn’t answer - just wiggled slightly, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Shane hissed, grinding against him just once, quick, before pulling back and cursing himself. "Jesus, Negan—"

Negan chuckled darkly, but didn’t move. “I ain’t stoppin’ you, Officer Walsh.”

Shane froze. Fuck. His dick throbbed in his boxers, pressed against the crack of Negan’s ass. The older man wasn’t helping, shifting his hips subtly, slow little rocks like he didn’t even realize what he was doing.

But he knew. Oh, he fucking knew. “You punishing me?” Shane muttered, voice lower now, more cussing than tone. “Still pissed about Andrea? That it?”

Negan finally cracked an eye open, looking over his shoulder just a little. The gleam in his eye? Devilish. “I ain’t mad,” he said softly. “You just need to earn it.” Shane gritted his teeth. His hand slid under the sheet, across Negan’s abdomen, feeling the faint tremble of taut muscle, the trail of coarse hair leading down.

Negan didn’t stop him but didn’t encourage either. Shane’s fingers hovered over the waistband of Negan’s boxers—but didn’t go further, swallowing hard.
He could take it. He could pull them down and finally fuck his husband like he’d dreamed every last shift since they stopped touching. But...He didn’t.

Not after that little smile on Negan’s face. Shane curled around him, pulling the other tighter against his chest, cock rock-hard and pressed between them. It ached. Fuck, it hurt. But he held back. “You're mine, only mine” Shane whispered into the back of Negan’s neck. The man in front exhaled softly, closing his eyes again, face unreadable. “Yeah and you're mine too” he said. And he was smiling in his sleepiness.

Because what Shane didn’t know—what he couldn’t know—was that Negan had slept and woken up to the memory of Rick in his home, reading his dirty messages. Negan was hard for him this morning but thankfully, his husband didn't suspect anything yet.

Chapter Text

𝗙𝗲𝘄 𝗪𝗲𝗲𝗸𝘀 𝗟𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Shane slammed his locker shut with more force than necessary. His face was flushed, eyes bloodshot from too little sleep or too much tension. Rick was already inside, buttoning up his uniform, glancing sideways. “Rough night?” Shane just exhaled, dragging a hand through freshly shaved head. “Try rough three weeks, man... you don’t even know. I swear t'god, I'm gonna lose my fuckin' mind."

“Three weeks what?”

Shane lifted his dark brown eyes slowly. “Since I got laid.”

“Oh,” his friend didn't know what to say and just listened. “Yeah.” The dark-eyed one let out a bitter laugh. “Three weeks of sleeping next to that cruel son of a bitch and not getting a damn thing. He climbs into bed every night like it’s nothin’. Only in his black boxers...puts that musky cologne on. Leaves the sheets pushed down real low. Dick half-hard, ass on display, fuckin’ snorin’ like a grizzly bear.”

Rick shifted awkwardly and the other one noticed. “What? You uncomfortable?”

“Just… didn’t expect the visual.”

“Well tough shit, man, I didn’t expect celibacy when I married the nastiest mouth in the state of Virginia.”

Rick cleared his throat, but Shane kept going. “I mean, it ain’t just the sex. It’s how he does it. Like, he gets off on it. Lays there, back turned, hips just slightly angled, like he’s still asleep. Then fuckin’ grinds against me. And I’m lying there hard as fuck, tryin’ to be respectful, tryin’ not to just flip him over and—”

“Chill, Shane,” Rick cut in, voice sharp, cheeks tinged red. In return, his partner almost barked harshly. “Yeah, right? I’m the freak now. I mean, he lets me touch him. Sometimes. Lets me kiss his neck, wrap around him, give him head - in fact he expects it. But every time I get close? Those same fuckin’ lines 'be a good boy, Officer Walsh', 'not tonight', 'I want you to work for me, earn it' and such shit.

Rick said nothing, just listened a bit more curious despite not showing it. “I swear to God, Rick,” Shane muttered. “I got blue balls so bad I wake up angry. I'm about to start seein' spots.”

Then he suddenly stood, walked over, and leaned over his sheriff partner. There was tension in his shoulders, coiled and twitchy. “I need you to be real with me here. What would you do… if your wife, Michonne got you so worked up every damn night—grindin’ on you, makin’ your cock ache—and then just turns away and goes to sleep like it don’t mean nothin’?”

Rick blinked. “Shane—”

“No, I ain’t playin’.” the other one was flushed, voice low and heated. “I’m talkin’ weeks now. WEEKS. He ain’t let me near him since that fight we had—hell, since the fatherhood talk —and it’s like he’s punishin’ me, Rick. Like I’m a fuckin’ dog.”

Rick’s throat tightened. “That what he said?”

Shane scoffed. “He don’t gotta say shit. He just does it. Lays there with that perfect smug ass, rolls over all slow, presses right up against me and moans like he’s sleepin’... but he ain’t. And I’m fuckin’ hard - dyin' for...and I haven’t jerked off once since we got hitched and I swear to God, I think I’m gonna snap.”

Rick shifted uncomfortably. “You ever just talk to him about it like a normal person and not a hormonal teenager?”

“Talk?” Shane laughed bitterly. “Yeah, we talked. I told him I was sorry. Told him Andrea didn’t mean nothin’. Told him I wanted the whole damn future with him. And you know what he does? He gives me that smug bastard smile of his, grinds up against me, and says: ‘𝘌𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘪𝘵.’ "

Rick’s jaw flexed, remembering that smirk. Had seen it himself — more than enough. And with that, he also remembered the last messages he received from the older man - should've deleted them but still hadn't... also the way Negan had looked at him when Shane wasn’t around. He quickly tried to shove the memory down. Shane kept going, pacing now. “I’m tryin’ to be good, Rick. I married the guy. I put a fuckin’ ring on him. You think it’s easy holdin’ back when you’re in bed with someone like that every damn night? You think I don’t wanna just—just take what’s mine?”

Rick raised his head sharply. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m not talkin’ rape, he's strong as fuck and even if I'd wanted--” Shane snapped. “I’m sayin’ I wanna fuck my husband. Hard - like I used to. Like he wants me to. He ain’t cold, Rick. He’s baitin’ me, I know it.”

Rick swallowed. “You sure?” Shane gave him a long, loaded look. “You know him, he loves playin' games.” His voice dipped. “You ever wonder what it’d be like?”

Rick’s face went hard. “Shane.”

“Nah, forget it,” Shane muttered. “I’m just sayin’—I’m just pressed. I feel like I’m bein’ led on by my own husband. And I don’t know if I’m supposed to wait it out or… what.”

Rick didn’t respond.

Shane looked over at him. “So what would you do? If you were me. If it was you lyin’ next to 𝘏𝘐𝘔, cock hard, breathin’ him in, feelin’ him rock back against you and then pretend like it ain’t happenin’? What would you do, Rick?”

The blue-eyed man stared at the desk, heart thudding.

He remembered the messages and of course he had ghosted the other man since, not seeing him around lately.

...𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑔𝑜𝑑𝑑𝑎𝑚𝑛 𝑠𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑜𝑑𝑎𝑦, 𝑅𝑖𝑐𝑘...

No! Finally cleared his mind and remembered he was in front of his partner and friend who was still waiting for his answer. “I’d… leave the bed. Cool off, maybe sleep somewhere else.”

Shane frowned. “You serious?”

“Yeah,” Rick said tightly. “Because I know myself. And if I stayed? I might forget I love 𝘩𝘪𝘮...her, cause in my case, yeah Michonne.”

Shane was quiet for a long moment, then he nodded slowly. “You’re a better man than me, Grimes.”

Rick knew he shouldn't feel this way - not about Shane's husband. Not about Negan, Carl’s former teacher! Certainly not when Michonne’s at home, cookin’ dinner and kissin’ him like she didn’t suspect a thing.

But the idea of Negan turning Shane down? Denying him? Grinding against him, teasing him but refusing to give in?

That made him smile on the inside, something ugly and hot twisting in his gut. Because he wanted—God help him—he wanted Negan to keep sayin’ NO. To everyone else, maybe even to Shane. And why the fuck did that feel like relief?

***

Negan stood in front of the fogged-up bathroom mirror, towel slung low on his hips, skin damp and steaming. He wiped the glass with his palm, peering at himself. That smirk—that dangerous, knowing smirk—spread slowly across his face. The kind of grin that used to make grown men piss themselves and half the population of Virginia and Georgia both blush. “Would ya look at that,” he murmured, voice thick and low. “Still got it.” He tilted his head, hazel eyes narrowing, as he inspected the silver at his temples. “Shane thinks he’s got me cornered. Thinks Daddy’s gone soft. Ain’t that cute?” He chuckled to himself, slow and guttural, dragging a hand through his damp beard.

“No, sir. Daddy ain’t soft. Daddy’s just been lettin’ the leash out... lettin’ the boy wriggle a bit. But not anymore. Nah... Daddy’s home.” He leaned in close, whispering it at his reflection with a twitch of that feral grin. “Daddy’s fuckin’ home.” Negan dropped the towel, reached for the bottle of that signature leather and musk cologne, and slapped a heavy splash onto his neck. “He wants me beggin’? Nah, sweetheart—I don’t beg. I build tension. I make you ache for it.” He threw his arms wide in front of the mirror, voice rising in wicked glee. “Shane fuckin’ Walsh, lyin’ in my bed like a caged dog, ready to hump the fuckin’ drywall—and all cause I roll over and moan just right?” He laughed loud, sudden. “You poor, dumb motherfucker.”

He shook his head, stepping out into the bedroom now, still naked, eyes gleaming with that predatory spark. “But it ain’t just about Shane anymore, is it?”

Negan paused, his jaw twitching slightly. Then, he leaned back against the doorframe and stared across the room—toward nothing in particular. Just remembering.

"Rick fuckin’ Grimes." A low whistle escaped his lips. “That man still won’t look me in the eye since those messages.” He laughed under his breath. “Bet he reads them in the shower and he jerks it with that stoic little frown of his, trying to pretend it goddamn means nothing".

Negan crossed the room slowly, dripping a little onto the hardwood floor, grabbing a pair of silk black boxers from the edge of the bed. “You think I don’t know the game? I invented the goddamn game. Rick wants to play the good guy? Act like he’s too married, too noble, too morally superior?” He let a laugh out, pulling the boxers on slow, hips rolling just a little. “We’ll see how long that lasts when I got him alone... when I get close enough to smell that aftershave and whisper in his ear, ‘You ever wonder what it’d be like to fuck someone you shouldn't, Grimes?’ "

He turned, adjusting himself in his waistband, then stood tall again, hazel-brown eyes gleaming.“I ain’t just breakin’ Shane. I’m training him - he’s my good dog. And when I’m done?” He walked to the mirror again, pointing at his reflection with a wink.

“𝘈𝘪𝘯’𝘵 just gonna have one puppy... I’m 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰.”
Negan grinned wider, almost gleeful now. “And when Rick’s pantin’ like Shane? When he’s on his knees beggin’ me to finish what I started back in that message?” He leaned closer to the mirror, licking his lips with slow purpose. “I’ll 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ make them both sit pretty. My dirty boys. My good little dogs.”

A pause. Then, very softly “They gonna work for me…earn it.” He laughed loud—unrepentant, dangerous. His old self, fully back - no guilt this time...And Rick the little prick was the reason behind it.

***

Rick sat in the kitchen with a sweating glass of bourbon he hadn’t touched in ten minutes. The ice had mostly melted, watered down, like everything else in his life lately. It was nearing one-thirty. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about him. Not now. Not again. But knowing something and doing something had never been Rick’s strong suit when it came to Negan.

That bastard, with his sharp tongue and his dubious close to non-existent morals. Negan, with his arms around Shane, always too loud in public and too watchful in private. The man who moved into Rick’s neighborhood like a match dropped into dry grass.

They hadn’t spoken in weeks. It was worse than the flirting - this silence. The way his… damn absence rotted the cop from the inside. Rick took a drink, blinking hard while he hesitated, knee bouncing. He glanced sideways. Michonne was in their room sleeping alone. He should have felt guilty - should be kissing her forehead, sliding in next to her, loving her with the kind of ease she always gave him.

But instead he sat there like a dog in a hot car, heart racing, sweat starting to bead despite the air conditioning with a phone in the hand. His thumb hovered above the message box for a full minute before he typed...paused some and hit send.

> 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚, 𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙚?

Like he hadn’t already thought about pressing it every day for the last three weeks. 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘦? 𝘞𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺? 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺…?

He stood up abruptly, pacing from the kitchen to the hallway like a man with a gun in his belt and nowhere to point it. He scrubbed a hand through his dark curls, stared at the cracked tile in the bathroom for ten whole minutes like it had answers, then walked back into the kitchen and opened the fridge just for something cold on his face. Then the awaited notification came.

> 𝙒𝙖𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙙 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠, 𝙍𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙮. 𝙈𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝?

Rick didn’t reply but another message came in, slower.

> 𝙔𝙚𝙖𝙝. 𝙄’𝙢 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙. 𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙞𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛 𝙖 𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧.

Then a final one, seconds later, like a knife sliding in real quiet.

> 𝙃𝙤𝙬’𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙪𝙨? 𝙎𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙞𝙣’ 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙤𝙛𝙛, 𝙤𝙧 𝙣𝙖𝙝?

Rick stared with dry lips, licking them up involuntary, flexing his jaw. He turned his phone face-down on the kitchen table. Then he just sat there — trembling with something that felt like rage and shame and something else far worse.

Desire. And it had nothing to do with his wife...

***

The same night Rick lay in bed beside Michonne, the sheets tangled around them in the heat, and though the house was silent, Rick’s mind wouldn’t still.
His phone buzzed under the pillow. He slid it out, careful not to wake her.

> 𝙎𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙚’𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙛𝙩, 𝙖𝙞𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙙𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙣 𝙗𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜? 𝙄 𝙡𝙚𝙛𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙤𝙧 𝙤𝙥𝙚𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙮𝙤𝙪. 𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨, 𝙍𝙞𝙘𝙠. 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙣.

Rick stared at the glowing screen. A dull pulse started at the base of his skull, spreading like a migraine behind his eyes. He turned his phone over face-down, heart pounding. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. But he didn’t sleep, not even with Michonne soft against his side, warm, safe - his wife.

By 3:13 AM, Rick was in his car again, engine idling outside Negan’s place. He told himself this was to end it. To talk. To shut it all the fuck down.

His blue eyes shot razors, hands already curled into fists as he stepped into the living room as if he was walking into a crime scene.

Negan was standing barefoot on the hardwood floor, wearing a dark bathrobe cinched low on his hips. Bare chest, tattoos visible, stubble like he'd let the day rot under his skin. A glass of something half-drunk in his hand. The bastard was waiting with a slow grin already crawling across his face. “Well well well, Pretty Ricky” he almost growled, voice raspy and intoxicating. “You actually came. Couldn’t sleep either, right? Tell me, was it the ring or was it me you couldn’t get outta that fuzzy lil’ cop skull?”

Rick decided go keep quiet for now, just staring at the older one like he was trying to decide whether to punch or walk away.

Negan stepped forward, cocky, mouth wet with whiskey and filth. “Don’t fight it, Rick,” he whispered in such a dirty way, suddenly right behind him, his larger body pressing in close. “You want this. I can feel it.”

And he did feel it—Negan’s hard-on grinding slow, deliberate against the small of his back through the thin barrier of that goddamn robe. Rick tensed, every nerve in his spine screaming, but his feet didn’t move.

The taller one’s hand slid boldly down Rick’s side and grabbed a rough handful of his ass. The sheriff’s jaw flexed. “Don’t.” Negan tilted his head. “Don’t what? Don’t point out the obvious? Don’t say you’re hard under those fuckin’ jeans? Don’t tell you I can smell you wanting this?” He stepped forward—slow, deliberately. That robe barely covered anything. “I could take you right now, Rick...and you would enjoy it - you most certainly would. I’m bigger, I’m better—and I got a goddamn bat...down there.” He smirked, tilting his chin with a mock-serious shrug while basically breathing in the shorter man's neck. “You know exactly what the fuck I mean.”

Rick exhaled hard through his nose. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m honest,” Negan grunted in his ear in such a casual way. “Maybe you came here to hit me. Or maybe...” He stepped just a little too close, lustful hazel facing raging blue eyes with breath warm with whiskey and desire to possess. “You wanna cuff me. Punish me. For being a bad, bad husband. You came to make your best friend a cuckold. Ain’t that right, Deputy Dick?” He thrust his hips, slow and rough, rubbing his full erection up against Rick’s butt, making no effort to hide it. Rick staggered back—but Negan followed, grabbing him by the belt buckle and yanking him forward again. “You think about this in bed next to her?” Negan said darkly. “You imagine your cock down my throat while Michonne’s makin’ you breakfast? Because I do...damn I do picture sliding my dick down your throat and you thanking me for it. ”

Rick snapped, slamming the other man backward onto the couch so hard it rocked. The robe flew open, revealing everything—thighs, a heavy, hard cock already, a trail of hair up his gut.

“Damn it,” Negan panted, laughing. “That’s the cop I was waitin’ for.” Rick was already on top of him, one knee between Negan’s legs, hand at his throat, pinning him. “You want this? You want me to break your fuckin’ teeth?” The man down simply grinned seeming pleased by those reactions, lips split open, chest heaving. “I want you to grab me and take what you’re scared to ask for.”

Rick’s hand slid down instinctively—across Negan’s chest, rough hair under his palm, down his side—and grabbed him between the legs, tight and punishing. Negan groaned, head falling back. “You like that?” Rick spat. “You want me to fuckin’ ruin you?”

Negan arched up, their cocks grinding through layers of cotton and friction. “You’re halfway there, sheriff.”

Rick couldn’t take it anymore, he went hauling the crude man forward by the hair and kissed him. Hard. Their teeth clashed, spit smearing between them, both of them breathing like animals. Rick’s other hand tore the robe off Negan’s shoulder—half off now, one arm still caught in the sleeve, exposing all that skin, all that dangerous vulnerability that Negan wielded like a weapon.

The older man grabbed his belt, yanked at Rick’s waistband and pulled him in again, their cocks aligned, pressing and throbbing through clothes. “I knew it,” Negan growled against Rick’s mouth. “Knew you wanted to screw me. Take Shane’s husband. Make me yours.” Rick shoved him once again onto his back and spread legs, leaning over him, panting. “What the fuck is wrong with you out of sudden?” he demanded.

Negan just laughed again, wild and wicked. “Nothing you ain’t feeling too, baby.” The sheriff lost it a second time, grabbing the other’s face again, kissing him rough—bit his lip, hand still tight on Negan’s jaw.

Then suddenly—it was too much. Rick pulled back with shaking hands, his chest heaving. He stared down at Negan—bare, exposed, hard and smirking, lips swollen from kissing—and it hit him.

What he’d done.

Who he was married to. Who the other man was married to. They were both taken... they'd been only friends, though this would be a understatement at the present moment. Rick staggered off him like he’d just been shot, wiping his mouth, fingers trembling.

Negan leaned up on his elbows, watching him, still open and half-naked on the couch. “You gonna run home now? Tell her you were out fighting demons? Or tell her you wanted to fuck your best friend’s husband, the former gym teacher of your boy?”

Rick didn’t answer. He stormed out the door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the walls.

***

The morning after, Shane had a weird feeling about the smell of the air the second he stepped into his house.

It wasn’t smoke or sweat, not the usual after-hours funk or junk of their place. It was something else—faint, clean, professional...and somehow familiar. And worse than that, it felt wrong. The house felt lived in but not by him. His boots landed heavy against the floor as he moved through the front hallway, tossing his keys toward the tray with more force than necessary, hoping—maybe even needing—Negan to hear him.

No reply. Not a sound.

“Negan?” he called out, flatly, voice already loaded with the irritation that had built over the last several nights. The ones he spent out at work, busting his ass, while Negan went for a few hours at the local college - played teacher, stayed home gaming and did...whatever the hell he did.

Still no answer. His pulse quickened, suspicion rising fast, like it always did these days.

Then he heard it—humming. Low. Cocky. Familiar.

It led him straight into the kitchen.

And there he was—barefoot, standing by the sink in nothing but boxer briefs, his off black bathrobe and the usual smugness, pouring coffee with a slowness that made Shane want to knock the damn mug out of his hand. “Hey, sugar” the man said without looking up, his voice casual, like they were two newlyweds having a lazy Sunday. “Night shift treat you real sweet, or did it fuck you up like usual?”

Shane didn’t answer, instead had dark eyes locked on Negan—the way his damp hair clung to his neck like he’d just taken a shower. That wasn’t nothing. Negan didn’t shower that early unless he was out...or rinsing someone else off. And then there was this scent—subtle, but not his. Someone else’s cologne still clinging to his husband’s skin. Something fresher, cleaner. Not Shane’s conventional aftershave nor Negan’s expensive ultramasculine leather or musky colognes.

“Who was here?” The younger man asked, suddenly with a hint of anger.

Negan turned then, lazily, smile already curling at the corners of his mouth. “Aw, don’t be like that. You come home all grumpy, what happened to '𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰', ‘𝘐 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥,’ not the usual detective shit. What happened to romance, huh?”

“Don’t play with me, Negan,” Shane said, stepping in now, close enough to see the gleam of sweat still on Negan’s collarbone, to smell the lie under his skin. The older man smirked wider. “Wouldn’t dream of it. But if you’re already jealous this early in the morning, maybe that’s on you, not me.”

Shane grabbed him by the front of the robe still hanging from one shoulder, jerking him forward, chest to chest. “You been freezin’ me off for three damn weeks. You walk around this house half-naked, sleep naked, tease me, get me hard, then act like I’m some fuckin’ perv for wanting what’s mine.” Negan’s eyes gleamed. “You are a perv, baby. That’s what makes you fun.”

Shane shoved him back, hard enough that Negan hit the fridge with a soft grunt, the mug clattering into the sink. But Negan didn’t stop smiling. He tilted his head like he was watching a particularly amusing animal at the zoo. “Fuckin’ keep smiling,” Shane snapped. “See how long it lasts.”

“Yeah?” Negan murmured. “You gonna put me in my place, huh? Show me who's boss?” He shifted his hips forward slowly, deliberately, until his half-hard cock pressed flush against Shane’s thigh even through the clothes or lack of such on both men. “You know I like the power play.”

The younger man gritted his teeth. His hands were already on Negan’s hips, fingers digging into skin. “I swear to God,” he muttered, “I could fuck you right here and now and remind you exactly who the hell you belong to.”

Negan leaned in, close enough to brush his lips past Shane’s ear. “And I could take you right now myself” he whispered, voice gravelly and hungry, “and you’d enjoy it. You most certainly would. I’m bigger, I’m better, and I’ve got a fuckin’ bat between my legs that knows how to hurt real good.” Shane’s breath hitched, his grip tightening more.

But then Negan laughed softly, cruelly, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye, repeating what he'd remembered of the seductive monologue he used on Rick, just hours earlier. “Or maybe that’s not what you’re after today, officer. Maybe you wanna cuff me instead, huh? Toss me down and punish me for being such a bad, unfaithful husband. Teach me a lesson. Treat me like a fuckin’ suspect.”

That did it.

Shane growled and spun him around, pressing him hard into the counter, chest to back, grinding his pelvis into Negan’s ass as he wrapped a hand around his throat—not really painful but tight enough to hold him still. Negan let out a low, breathy sound, somewhere between a laugh and a moan. “You want that?” Shane hissed. “You want me to take what’s rightfully mine?”

Negan didn’t answer. Just pushed back into him slightly, deliberately. And Shane lost the thread, reaching down under the bathrobe and shoving his spouse’s thighs apart, grinding up against him, his hand moving to grab a fistful of ass, squeezing so hard it made the older man gasp.

Then—suddenly—Negan twisted, fluid and practiced, slipping out of Shane’s grasp and spinning away, robe falling half-open as he did. His body was flushed now, his cock stiff, but his eyes? Cold, amused, darkened. “I think,” Negan said, adjusting the robe like a stage actor closing a curtain, “you’re scared someone already did.”

Shane froze, the air between them thick, heavy. “What the fuck did you just say?” he said, voice dangerous.

Negan shrugged. “Ha, nothing. Just thinking out loud. Someone’s been eyeing me like I’m breakfast. Maybe they got a taste, who knows.”

Shane stared, now this fucking bathrobe had slipped down enough that he could see the faintest bruise on Negan’s neck. Just above the collarbone. He stepped forward again, this time slower. “Who the fuck was here, Negan?"

The older man just smiled, getting his tongue out mockingly as in pleasure while turning his back - and walked out of the kitchen like nothing happened.

Humming. Again.

And this time, Shane felt it deep in his gut—that coil of something darker. He’d been cheated on before by Lori with his friend, could even say by Rick himself...although they were never really together. He knew the signs of close ones entertaining someone else.

And if Negan was fucking around with someone?

It wasn’t some stranger... since he mentioned Rick, thinking about it for a moment...the scent was Rick’s, Shane could never mistake it, he was working with the man everyday. Now he only needed the evidence to know for real what was happening between his partner, colleague, the man he used to be obsessed with... and his fuckin' manipulative husband.

***

The click of the bathroom lock echoed in the quiet of the hallway. Rick leaned against the door, forehead pressed to the cool wood, chest heaving like he’d just run five miles. His hands trembled at his sides, still smelling faintly of laying next to Michonne’s —warm, grounding—but his body had betrayed him.

He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t even stay hard with her last night. Now he stood here, cock stiff and aching with frustration, heart pounding not for his wife but for the goddamn man he couldn’t shake.

Negan.

Rick squeezed his teeth, staring down at the angry swell between his thighs. He'd barely touched Michonne before his mind blurred—Negan’s voice, that smirk, the way he’d pressed in at his back like he owned him, that breath hot and hungry at his ear.

...𝘋𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘵, 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘐’𝘮 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳, 𝘐’𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐’𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦...

...𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬...𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘪𝘵...

His hand wrapped tight around himself before he could think twice. The shame lit up his spine even as his hips moved instinctively. He squeezed harder, jerking rough, punishing—like he could chase the memory out, exorcise it from his skin.

But it didn’t go. It grew.

That goddamn bathrobe. The heat of Negan’s mouth when they kissed—when Rick let him. When he wanted it.

He let out a guttural sound, biting the inside of his cheek, fucking his own fist to the rhythm burned into his body. The grind of Negan’s hips behind him. The grab—those fingers bruising his chest, his ass, his throat. The smugness of that bastard provoking, "...M𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘤𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘮𝘦. 𝘗𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥, 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘤𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘰𝘭𝘥..."

Rick groaned, louder now. He braced himself on the sink with his free hand, thrusting into his palm, faster, messier. His jaw clenched, face flushed, and still that image—Negan smirking with his mouth slick, robe slipping off one shoulder, revealing everything Rick told himself he didn’t want.

He saw himself shoving Negan again—onto that couch, tearing open that robe, grabbing his cock and taking what he shouldn’t want.

God, he wanted it.

The tension snapped as Rick came with a strangled growl, spilling over his fist, legs nearly buckling as he gripped the counter. His heart thundered. Breathing ragged. Shame curling around his ribs like barbed wire.

The bathroom spun a little. He blinked into the mirror - eyes bloodshot, skin flushed, hair wet, sweat going down his forehead. He looked like he’d been fucked.

And he couldn’t stop shaking.

He whispered, almost without breath."...You twisted piece of shit... what the hell got into your head... and why can’t I get you out of mine now?"

He splashed water on his face. Rubbed his hands clean. But it didn’t fix anything.

The mirror still reflected the same broken, betrayed man. Not by Michonne though and not even by Negan.

Only by himself.

***

Negan sat on the edge of their worn black leather couch, still the same dark bathrobe hanging loose, the weight of the day pressing on him like a goddamn anvil. Shane had stormed off earlier, pissed off, jealous, full of that toxic shit Negan knew how to twist like a damn toy. And Rick—Rick was a whole other headache, all stiff upper lip and frustration, pretending none of it mattered when he damn well knew it did. But Negan? He thrived in the chaos.

His hand drifted down, fingers finding that familiar big-dick bulge beneath the robe. He closed his eyes, memory sharp as a knife—the way Rick had thrown him back against the couch, the furious grind of hips, the tension electric in the air, that brief taste of power they’d snatched from each other.

"𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸..." he repeated in his mind and loud to himself, low and rough, "...𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘪𝘵, 𝘋𝘦𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘋𝘪𝘤𝘬... 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥..." The grin tugged at his lips, wicked and cruel as stroked slow at first, savoring the image of Rick—hard and furious, blue eyes wild, wrestling with that damn desire even as he tried to deny it.

“𝘖𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘤𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘮𝘦,” Negan taunted himself repeating the words he said to Rick the previous night, then later used on Shane, voice thick with amusement and brutality, “...𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥, 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥. 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯, 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘳... 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨...”

His breath hitched as his hand moved faster, slick with sweat, that electric ache building, fingers tightening. The memory of Rick’s hands, rough and desperate, the way he’d finally kissed him—soft and rough all at once—flamed through his veins.

Negan’s body tensed, gripping himself harder, hips rolling into the hand that teased and demanded. The frustration with Shane simmered beneath it all, a bitter fuel—the jealousy, the control, the fight over who really had power between the two.

"Fuck them both".

When he came, it was fierce, hot and bitter as his own anger and lust tangled into one.He slumped back, chest heaving, robe falling open wide. The room was quiet except for his ragged breaths and the faint drip of sweat.

Negan smirked to himself, bitter satisfaction curling at the edges.

"You think they can keep me away from you, Deputy" he whispered, "but I’m still here, Rick... still fucking here."

Chapter Text

It had been almost a month since Negan last let Shane inside him. A month of letting Shane get him off with his mouth, his hands, while Negan stayed in control—always the one giving the orders, always the one untouched.

And Shane? He’d obeyed. Waited. Seethed. Sucked cock on his knees like a damn addict begging for a hit.
Negan had teased him about it. Smirked, smug as sin. ”𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘢 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺. 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘫𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘴.”

But tonight, he changed the game since Rick still didn’t want to communicate. The older man had climbed into bed without a word, this time another blue bathrobe loose, one leg bent, the other stretched out. He laid on his side, back arched slightly—inviting, exposed. One hand pulling the robe back to bare his ass.

His husband had stopped in the doorway, blinking like he didn’t trust what he was seeing. Negan glanced over his shoulder, smirking dangerously. “Come on then. You waited long enough, you've been a really good boy. Thought I’d let you feel what you missed...”

Shane practically pounced.

Now, the younger man was pressed against him, panting, one hand tangled in Negan’s hair, the other wrapped tight around his hip as he fucked him from the side—slow and deep, like he was trying to memorize every second. Their bodies glistened with sweat in the low lamplight. Negan’s head was tilted back onto Shane’s shoulder, full lips parted, letting out breathy, deliberate moans that filled the room.

But behind the sounds, behind the arch of his back and the way his leg lifted just enough for Shane to sink deeper—Negan was thinking. Scheming.

His left hand clawed at the sheets. His right? Slipped beneath the pillow with the ease of habit. His fingers found the phone.
𝙎𝙬𝙞𝙥𝙚. 𝙏𝙖𝙥. 𝙍𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙.

The red light blinked alive. Shane didn’t notice. Too lost in it.

Negan’s lips curled. “Fffuck—he’s finally fuckin’ me, Rick…” He said it quiet. Raw. Just loud enough for the mic. Shane let out a grunt, not hearing the name. He was too busy kissing Negan’s neck, mumbling curses like “Jesus—fuck—so tight—Negan—Goddamn” into his skin.

Negan just bit his lower lip, not from pain—but from the thrill of it. “...been waitin’ for weeks... makin’ him beg...”
“Thought I’d let him think it was his win tonight…” He let out a timed moan as Shane thrust harder, grinding against his ass. The creak of the bed filled the gaps, skin slapping in rhythm. “But guess what, sheriff? Still thinkin’ of you.” He whispered it like a secret, his voice dragging each syllable out with poison-sweet malice.

The audio was everything - moans, panting, creaking, Shane muttering broken nothings—and Negan’s raspy voice sounding like sex itself. Then louder now, for the mic. “Goddamn it, officer—don’t stop—fuck me like you mean it—yeah—harder—just like that—”

Shane groaned in response, hand gripping tighter, mouth moving across Negan’s shoulder, driving in with rough, possessive thrusts.

The older man’s breath caught—not just from the physical, but from how perfect it all was. The angle. The words. The sound. The memory it would create in Rick’s head.

Just before he came, he leaned toward the hidden phone, voice a wrecked whisper...“Hope you’re listening real close, Rick.”

𝙎𝙩𝙤𝙥 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙎𝙚𝙣𝙙.

The phone disappeared beneath the bed. Negan gripped Shane’s thigh and let the pleasure take him, meeting each thrust with filthy, practiced rhythm until they both came hard—shuddering, breathless, clinging.

Shane collapsed against his back, panting like he’d run five miles. “Jesus,” he muttered. “I missed you.” Negan chuckled, lazy, voice sticky with sweat and satisfaction. “I know. You just had to earn it, to work for me.”

***

Meanwhile, Rick was sleeping, it was past two a.m. when his phone buzzed. Blue eyes opened instantly. Something wrong in the air. Beside him, Michonne lay still, curled on her side sleeping peacefully resembling an angel. Rick turned over, reached for the phone.

[1 Audio File - N.]

He didn’t need to guess. He already knew by now. He stood, crossing to the bathroom in silence, locking the door. His routine when that sneaky bastard was messaging him. Headphones in. 𝙋𝙡𝙖𝙮.

He barely got through the first two seconds.

> “𝘍𝘧𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬—𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘮𝘦, 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬…”

Rick froze right on spot, his hand clenching the counter. Blue eyes wide, locked on his own hollow reflection. He heard it all.The slow rhythm. The wet slap of skin. The low creak of a bedframe. Negan’s moans—deliberate, dirty. Shane’s grunts above him or behind him, clueless.

And then:

> “...𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯’ 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴... 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘨... 𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘐’𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵… 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵, 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘧? 𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶.”

Rick’s breath hitched. He imagined it instantly—Negan on his side, one leg lifted, face flushed, mouth open. That look in those dark hazel eyes. The way he’d once leaned into Rick, whispered filth in his ear. What happened in Shane and Negan’s living room a few days ago...His cock was hard—painfully hard. He hated it. Hated the power Negan had over him. And hated the sound of Shane fucking him. But worse than all of it—he hated the part of himself that wished it was him.

> ”𝘎𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘪𝘵, 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘳—𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱—𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘵—𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘩—𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳—𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵—”

Rick cursed under his breath. His hand slipped beneath his waistband, gripping himself hard. He stroked fast, furious, shame already burning hot beneath his skin.
He came violently, hand over his mouth to muffle the groan, biting his knuckles hard. Then he heard the final whisper...

> “𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦, 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬"

Rick just stood there silent again for a long time, chest heaving, staring at the mirror. He looked wrecked and deep on the inside this time he was angry...jealous.

The message still sat on his phone without getting deleted.

***

Rick sat on the bathroom floor. Back against the cold tub. One leg stretched, the other bent up. His palm still sticky from earlier, from the moment he’d come to Negan’s voice—not Michonne’s touch, not anything warm or familiar. Just that message. That gravelly voice.

> “𝘍𝘧𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬—𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘮𝘦, 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬…

He had played it again. And again.

Every time telling himself it would be the last. But the more he listened, the sicker he got. Not from the content—no. That was the part that made his body ache. It was what came after that made him want to punch a mirror. The silence. The shame. The way he had to crawl back into bed beside his own wife, still tasting sweat on his tongue, his heart beating like he’d committed a crime.

He’d stared at the ceiling all night. Tried to breathe through it, wanted to forget... but nothing helped.

The next morning, during his day off work, he drove for like an hour. Nowhere in particular. Just asphalt and white lines and windows down.

The audio played in his mind in perfect clarity, like it was his memory. Negan gasping. The slap of skin. The creak of a mattress.

And worse—the whisper: ”𝘏𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦, 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬."

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. Why now? Why this? Why did it feel like a knife being slowly twisted into the soft part of his ribs?

Because he knew the answer - he knew why Negan had recorded it.

Not for Shane.

For him...Because Negan wanted to be touched. And not just by anyone - by Rick.

The thought made Rick grip the wheel harder, until his knuckles went white. This wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about cheating. It was about the look Negan had given him everytime they were alone—like Rick already belonged to him but was just too much of a coward to admit it. Something inside him broke then. Quietly. Without fanfare.

And Rick took the next exit without thinking, he knew what to do.

***

His boots echoed down the hall—too loud, too fast.

He told himself this was about boundaries - about Carl and Judith, about keeping respectful relations between his family and their friends. He told himself this was righteous anger.

That he was here to draw a line - he was confronting a man who had crossed it, a family friend who was also a damn teacher.

But every step said otherwise.

Every echo sounded like Negan’s moan. That wet, obscene rhythm. That whisper in the dark. "𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘧…"

Rick’s hands clenched, he was no longer thinking, he was burning from the inside out. And when he hit that classroom door—

He didn’t knock, door slamming open like a gunshot.

Negan looked up slowly from behind his desk. Calm. Rolled sleeves. Aviators on the edge of the table. That same filthy grin that always said '𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶'.

“Sheriff,” he drawled. “You look like hell. Rough night?”

Rick didn’t slow instead crossing the room like a storm, slammed his hands down on the desk hard enough to shake it. “You’re a goddamn creep.”

Negan blinked once, surprised yet amused still. “Wow,” he said. “Starting off strong.”

“You’re almost fifty, teaching college kids and at the same time recording audio porn like a horny teenager.”
The older man tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “You jealous of the kids… or the porn?”

Rick jabbed a finger in his face. “Let me be clear enough, you don’t go near Carl. You don’t speak to Judith. You don’t fucking breathe near them again!"

"Damn it, what the fuck my private sexual life with my own husband has to do with you basically calling me a creep, a pedo... you know I love these kids! And it's not 'porn', it was an audio, little prick!" He raised his voice, now the other man's attacks making him feel insulted.

"It has a lot to do with you recording that 'private sexual life' and sending it to me, a married man!"

Negan sat back, silent for a moment, thinking. "So...you listened to the whole thing?” he asked, softer now. “Even the ending?” Rick’s pulse skipped. “Don’t you dare.” The shorter man’s fist curled tight as he remembered. “You’re fucking married.”

“So are you,” Negan shot back, voice flat. “Doesn’t seem to stop the things you feel.”

Rick’s hand shot forward, grabbing him by the shirt, slamming him against the wall hard. “You don’t know what I feel.”

“Oh, I do.”

Negan didn’t resist. Didn’t move. “I saw the way you looked at me. Years ago when we first met. Every time we got too close. Then the way your hands are shaking when Shane isn't looking. The way you watched me smoke like you wanted a taste of it.”

Rick’s voice cracked. “Shut up.”

Negan leaned forward, breath brushing Rick’s cheek. “And now you’re mad. Because I gave it to someone else...well that someone I am married to. Because I bent over for him and said your name, right?”

Rick shoved him again, teeth clenched.

“You think that was for love?” The older one hissed. “You think I let Shane fuck me because I missed him?”

His voice dropped lower. Broken. Brutal. “I did it to make you snap.”

Rick’s chest was heaving now. “You gave him what you never gave me and decided to mock me, tease me now!”

“You never asked.”

Rick’s hand fisted tighter in his shirt. “You think I didn’t want to?”

“I know you did,” Negan whispered.

Rick closed his eyes, just for a second. “But now I’m married.”

“So am I,” Negan whispered, “and I still wake up thinking about your fucking mouth.” The silence between them was thick, intimate. Heavy.

Rick backed off too fast - like he’d touched flame.

Negan leaned back against the desk, smug, lip curled. “You don’t get to act like the good guy now, Sheriff Grimes. Not after the way you fucked your hand to my voice.” Rick’s fists trembled. And still—he said nothing. Negan’s voice dipped one last time. “Still thinkin’ of me or NAH?”

The other man breathed hard, silently turning and left the classroom. But Negan already knew everything he needed.

***

The Grimes house was quiet, filtered sunlight casting warm stripes across the living room through half-closed blinds. The air held that in-between stillness—after school, before dinner, that lull when things settled just long enough to make you think everything was normal. Rick sat in the worn recliner by the window, boots off, one leg stretched, fingers absently rubbing at his temple. His eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular. Not the muted television flickering in the background, not the stack of reports he’d brought home, and certainly not the soft hum of the dishwasher Michonne had started an hour ago.

Across the room, Carl emerged from the hallway, his backpack slung lazily off one shoulder, hoodie bunched at the elbows. He moved with the kind of practiced ease that came from living in a home where silences stretched longer than words. But he noticed things. Rick knew he did.“Michonne said you didn’t sleep again,” Carl said as he dropped onto the couch.

His father gave a noncommittal grunt and Carl just looked at him a moment. “You okay? Did something happen, Dad?” Rick hesitated. The question sat heavier than it should’ve. He could lie. He should lie. But what came out was closer to the truth than he liked. “Just got things on my mind.”

His son nodded slowly. Then, after a moment of silence, he added, “Negan by the way's been off lately too. Seems kinda… I don’t know. Like he’s putting on a show.” Rick turned his head slightly. “What do you mean?” Carl shrugged. “Just… when Shane’s around, he acts all loud and cocky, but when he’s alone? He doesn’t smile the same. Like it’s fake.”

Rick’s chest tightened. “You think something’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he’s just tired. But… I don’t think he’s happy, Dad. If you are going through some stuff with Michonne...maybe you could try talking to him, you've been friends for a while and he'd understand. Don't know, I just feel like you could help him too with some advice.”

Rick sat up straighter, rubbing both hands over his face. His pulse was ticking again. He didn’t say anything, just stood and mumbled something about going for a drive. Carl didn’t press. He just nodded, but his eyes followed Rick all the way to the door.

***

The last time they’d seen each other, Rick had slammed him against a wall. The last thing Negan had said—𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘩? —was branded in his skull like a burn.

His thumb hovered over his cellphone. Then, finally, with a tight breath and jaw clenched, he texted the other man.

> 𝙒𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙠. 𝙎𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮.

The moment he hit send, he stood and started pacing. He wasn’t sure if he meant to yell at Negan again… or if he was asking for something else. Something worse.

It didn’t take long for the three dots to appear. He stared at them like they were a live wire.

> 𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙡, 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡. 𝙇𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙜𝙧𝙚𝙬 𝙖 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪’𝙫𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙎𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙛𝙛. 𝙄’𝙢 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙩𝙖 𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙣 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙛𝙚𝙬 𝙙𝙖𝙮𝙨. 𝘾𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙜𝙚 𝙖𝙙𝙢𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙈𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚. 𝙒𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙗𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙣 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙮, 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚.

Rick exhaled sharply through his nose, reading it twice.

> 𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜?

There was a pause. Longer this time. But the reply came.

> 𝙃𝙤𝙡𝙞𝙙𝙖𝙮 𝙄𝙣𝙣 𝙤𝙛𝙛 𝟒𝟒𝟏. 𝙍𝙤𝙤𝙢 𝟑𝟎𝟔. 𝙏𝙬𝙤 𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙚𝙣𝙨. 𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙢𝙮 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚. 𝙒𝙝𝙮? 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙣’ 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙬 𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙠?

Rick didn’t reply on this one, rather staring at the message. Then opened his contacts and maps. His breathing picked up before he even realized it.

Two hours. Two hours to Milledgeville.

He locked his phone and stood. Friday was too far away...this should be finally decided sooner.

***

The coffee pot bubbled in the quiet kitchen. Pale dawn filtered through the window, washing the counters in cold gray light. Michonne stood barefoot in a long tee, pouring coffee into two mugs, her hair tied up, eyes still soft with sleep.

Rick entered fully dressed, his button-down with a jacket and boots. Her brow furrowed instantly. “You heading to the station already?” Her husband paused. “Nah. Not today.”

She handed him a mug. Watched him closely. “Then why the uniform?” He took the mug but didn’t drink. “Just… got somewhere to be.”

Michonne tilted her head questioningly. “Where?” He avoided her eyes. “Outta town. Might be gone the day. Maybe overnight.” She just leaned against the counter, studying him like she was waiting for some form of a confession. “Did something happen at work?”

Rick shook his head. “No. It’s personal.” She sipped her coffee slowly, dark penetrative gaze not leaving him. “I’ve known you long enough to recognize when you’re lying,” she said gently. “You get quiet. Careful. Like now.”

Rick swallowed hard. “I ain’t lying.”

Her voice was low. Calm. But direct. “You seeing someone?”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“I’ve felt it, Rick. You’ve been distant for weeks. Months maybe. Not all the time—but enough. And when you are here, you’re not really here.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it?” Silence stretched as he couldn’t answer, at least not honestly.

Michonne’s expression didn’t shift—just tightened. “Do I know her?” He looked up sharply, blue eyes trembling, eyelashes feeling heavier. And the guilt was too loud in his silence.

Michonne set her mug down with care. “Who is it?”

Rick cleared his throat. “There’s no other woman.”

That part was true. But he couldn’t say the rest. Not Negan. Not a man. Not a family friend. Shane’s husband. The person he couldn’t stop hearing when he closed his eyes.

He looked down. “I just need space. Just today. Let me clear my head.” Michonne nodded slowly. Her voice broke a little. “Okay. But when you come back, you’re gonna tell me the truth.”

Rick hesitated a bit but the answer finally came. “Of course, I will.”

He kissed her temple gently but it still felt like betrayal.
Then he turned, and left the house—leaving Michonne staring into her untouched coffee, her chocolate brown eyes wet.

***

The sun was barely up, a hazy gold smeared across the sky as Rick pulled off the highway, gravel crunching beneath his tires. The gas station was quiet—just a few trucks, a soda machine humming outside, and the low hiss of a pump being replaced on its cradle. Rick stepped out, jacket unzipped, the weight in his chest growing with every mile south.

He wasn’t even sure why he stopped. Maybe to think what he was doing, to chill a little.

He had the nozzle in hand when a familiar voice called out behind him. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Rick turned, slow. And there he was.

Shane.

A little more stubble than usual. Sunglasses in one hand and a half-empty energy drink in the other. He leaned against his own cruiser, smirking like he always did when he caught his friend somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. “Funny runnin’ into you this far out. Didn’t think you were on shift today.”

Rick got a little bit anxious, trying to settle his heartbeat. “I’m not. Just driving.” His friend nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. Long way from home just to clear your head.”

There was tension already—coiled just under the surface. It was in the silence between them. In the way Shane’s dark eyes narrowed behind that easy grin. “You headed south?” he asked.

The sheriff gave a vague nod. “Got a friend down near Milledgeville.” This got Shane’s eyebrows ticking up. “Funny. Negan’s down there too.” Rick’s jaw twitched. “That so, really?”

“Yeah. Some college shit. Conference or workshop—whatever the hell they make him do to keep that fancy position.” Shane said, taking a long sip from his can, then kicked off the cruiser, walking a few steps closer. His tone stayed light, but there was something else underneath it now. “So tell me, Rick… You ever think Negan’s up to something?”

Rick turned his head, slow. “What...do you mean?”

“I mean…” his friend gestured vaguely with the drink. “Lately he’s been actin’ strange, already told you at the station. All smug and moody at the same time. We haven’t really been… y’know, until the other day…”

He tilted his head again. Rick stared, blue eyes trying not to show any emotion. “You having problems?”

Shane chuckled bitterly. “What couple doesn’t? But I’m sayin’… sex’s been off, told you. My man’s got a way of punishin’ people by keepin’ things from ‘em. Especially when he’s tryin’ to prove a point.”

Rick didn’t speak, hand tightening on the pump as Shane lowered his voice slightly. “He barely lets me inside of him, doesn't 'have the energy' to fuck me either. Wants only head...And now I know he’s outta town, all glammed up for some academic circle jerk…” He trailed off, then looked straight at Rick.“…and I’m startin’ to wonder if he’s fuckin’ someone else.”

The words

Rick’s stomach clenched, and he forced himself to keep a neutral face. “You think he’s cheatin’?”

Shane’s jaw flexed. “I didn’t. At first. Thought he was just playin’ his games. But now I ain’t so sure.”

He paused. Then stepped in closer, close enough Rick could smell his aftershave.

“You heard anything?”

Rick blinked. “What?”

Shane’s voice dropped. “Come on, man. I know how close you two used to be. You and him, always out back talkin’ after shifts, drinkin’ beers, smokin’… You see anything weird lately? Hear anything? Cause if I didn’t got patrol stacked till Friday—believe me—I’d be down there right now. Keepin’ eyes on him.”

Rick forced a tight breath. “What, you don’t trust him?”

His partner's brown eyes narrowed slightly. “I trust him like I trust a snake on morphine. You never know if it’s gonna bite or curl up and nap.”

“So you think he’s… what, cheating?”

Shane let out a slow whistle. “Wouldn’t surprise me. He’s been actin’ weird. Pissed and moody one minute, smug as fuck the next. Last few weeks he’s barely let me touch him, told you. Won’t let me in, doesn't even want to take me, barely even kissing me back when I try. Just teases me, the other day was an exception, finally..." He laughed darkly. “Like I ain’t earned it already. Like I haven’t put in work.”

Rick looked away, baby blues locked on the pump number climbing.

Shane stepped in closer. “You know how Negan gets when he’s tryin' to prove a point. He’ll keep the candy outta reach till you’re desperate enough to crawl.” Then his voice turned sharper, just a little. “But the other day, he was—different. Got all cleaned up. Ironed shirt. Cologne. Even put product in that goddamn beard. Had that look in his eye. Like he was seein’ someone.”

Rick swallowed thickly. “You think it’s someone at the college?”

“Maybe,” Shane said. “Maybe not. Could be some pretty-faced TA or a cocky undergrad. Could be someone closer. Someone he’s been thinkin’ about for a while.”

The curly haired man’s stomach twisted while Shane gave him a sidelong glance. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Rick exhaled slowly. “No. I wouldn’t, how would I? It's not like he’s gonna tell me.”

Shane watched him longer than was necessary, like he was waiting for something to show in Rick’s face. Then he leaned in a little more, lowering his voice with a smirk. “Well, whatever it is… if my husband is fuckin’ somebody behind my back, I hope they’re good. I hope they’re loud and dirty like him. I hope he’s lettin’ them split him open every damn night.”

Rick’s face tensed. “Shane , what the—”

“Because if I was there right now?” he continued, smiling wider. “I’d be pinning him down and screwin’ his brains out. Over the hotel sink. Over the desk. Against the fuckin’ mirror—hell, even in his goddamn suit. You know he likes that shit.”

The words hit the other one like a freight train and all he could hear was that voice again. “𝘍𝘧𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬—𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘮𝘦, 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬…” He jerked the pump out and clicked it back in place harder than necessary. His voice came low and tight. “Maybe you should talk to him when he gets back.” Shane raised his brows. “Oh, I will, trust me.” Then, with a slightly too-casual air and a wink. “And brother, say 'hey' to your friend for me. Hope it’s worth the drive.”

Rick gave a noncommittal nod and slid back into the car. His hands were trembling as he gripped the wheel. Shane stood outside a moment longer, just watching—watching like a man who suspected, but wasn’t ready to accuse.

Rick pulled away without another word, his pulse not settling, not even when he hit the highway again.

***

The lights were low.

Not dimmed in some carefully set mood, not romantic—but low in the way that made everything look a little too intimate. Yellow lampshade glow bleeding across the thin hotel sheets. The air conditioner kicked on with a soft hum, buzzing quietly behind Negan as he stood before the mirror, shirtless, jaw tight, eyes flicking up to his reflection like he didn’t recognize the man staring back.

He wasn’t sure what this was. Why it felt so loaded. Why every movement felt... deliberate.

His toothbrush clattered against the counter. A black silky button-down hung open across his broad chest, collar loose, sleeves rolled up neatly. His chest hair was still damp from the shower, mildly tanned skin warm and freshly scrubbed. Cologne dabbed behind the ears. His favorite silver chain rested against the hollow of his throat, peeking out just enough like a promise or a dare.

He hadn’t heard from Rick since that message: ”𝘞𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬. 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺.”

That was a few hours ago. And now, Negan was sitting in a hotel in Milledgeville, Georgia, with a reservation that suddenly felt like a setup for something he hadn’t admitted he was praying for. He moved to the bed slowly, sitting down hard, legs spread, elbows on his knees. He looked down at his hands. At the wedding ring still snug around his finger. That was still real. Still a fact. But the rest of him? He felt strung out. Like a nerve waiting to be touched.

He wanted Rick. He fucking wanted him so much.

Not just to fuck him, not just to own him the way he’d owned others. Not even the way he handled Shane—rough and performative, like acting for a role of trophy husband. No. What he felt for Rick went deeper than that. Darker, greedier and hungrier but also sincere...

Negan closed his eyes.

He imagined pushing Rick onto this very bed. The way his body would hit the mattress. The scowl on his face, already falling apart. That drawl tightening around a broken whisper of “Negan—don’t—” But he would climb on top anyway, take off his clothes and position himself between the other man's thighs. Press his palm flat over Rick’s chest, feel the thud of that righteous heart pounding beneath it.

He’d fuck him slow. Make Rick take it. Not rough, not violent—just full. Deep. The way Rick would never let anyone else in. That growl would turn into a groan. Those shaking hands would grip his arms. Their mouths would clash like heat lighting dry timber. “𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘚𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘧?” he’d whisper, lips dragging against the cop’s ear.

But then the fantasy would shift. Always did...Because sometimes—maybe most times—he thought about the reverse.

Thought about being on his stomach, legs spread, gasping into the sheets while Rick pressed down into him from behind. That voice gritting out filth like “𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶?” The sound of belt buckles. The ache. The sweat. That edge of humiliation that thrilled him even as it cracked something open inside.

Negan swallowed thickly, eyes still closed. The ache in his groin had been there since sundown. He hadn’t touched himself all day—on purpose. Waiting. Hoping. Like a sick kind of loyalty to a man who hadn’t even said he was coming.

He let his head fall back against the headboard.

His legs were spread wide, pants unzipped halfway, just enough pressure teasing. His hand moved down, not stroking yet, just palming himself through the fabric. Feeling the weight. The potential. “Come on, Rick,” he growled, low under his breath, hazel eyes fluttering shut again.

His mind painted it in cruel, delicious detail—Rick grabbing his jaw, shoving him against the wall, grinding into him until they both broke apart. Rick slamming him onto the mattress, sucking bruises into his neck, biting his shoulder. Or kissing him slow. Or crying while they moved together, filthy and raw, like they were trying to tear the past out of each other’s skin.

Negan didn’t care which way it went. Top or bottom, giver or taken. As long as it was Rick. As long as he finally had that fire burn through him with no one in the way. No lies. No wives... or jealous husbands. No fuckin’ rings.

Just Rick. On him. In him. Under him.

He rolled his hips once against his hand, sharp jaw clenching tight, breath catching.

Then the phone buzzed.

A single buzz.

His heart skipped—wild, foolish, childish hope sprinting into his throat. He reached for it, hands shaking now, thumb unlocking the screen in one motion.

No name yet. Just three gray dots.

Typing.

Typing.

Gone.

Back again.

Typing—

And then...

> 𝙄’𝙢 𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙨𝙞𝙙𝙚.

Negan just stared at it. Felt the blood rush everywhere at once—his stomach, his chest, his cock. His whole body flushed hot with the sudden, brutal realization that this was actually happening.

He stood. Slowly. Pulse hammering through his throat like a war drum. He pulled his shirt closed, fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons. Left the top two undone. Let the chain show. Smoothed back his damp hair once in the mirror. A final glance.

Then he crossed the room to the door, hand hovering on the knob. And just as he exhaled—

𝙆𝙉𝙊𝘾𝙆.

Once, then twice, firm knocks.

Negan’s eyes deep hazel shut, grinning to himself, slow and wolfish, licking his lower lip as he collected himself finally and went to open the goddamn door...

Chapter Text

The second the door opened and Rick stepped inside, Negan moved without hesitation. There was no warning, no greeting, no clever remark. Just heat and need, months of unsaid things coiled tight under the older man's skin until they snapped the second Rick was within reach.

He grabbed him by the denim jacket, pulled him in hard, and slammed the door behind them with a loud thud. His mouth crashed into Rick’s like it had been rehearsed in every lonely night, every ignored message, every angry dream. He pressed him back against the wall, one hand in Rick’s hair, the other gripping his hip, fingers digging in like ownership. His lips parted, tongue sliding forward, body moving like instinct—and Rick didn’t move, didn’t push but didn’t pull either, not kissing back at all... Negan felt it instantly - the difference, the cold stillness.

His body was still buzzing with heat - a visible hard-on, breath ragged, heart hammering in his ears, but Rick’s usually sensual full lips stayed still beneath his cool and quiet. A hand rose between them. Slow and firm, pressing flat against Negan’s chest, right over the chain still resting warm against his skin. Rick’s voice was low and serious, guilt-wrapped and carved from something heavier than hesitation. "Don’t do that," he said. "Not yet..."

The taller man stayed frozen for a second, lips inches away, breath catching against Rick’s cheek. The scent of him was familiar—that cologne which made Shane lose his mind of jealousy the other day, fresh and professional and road dust—and Negan had imagined it a hundred ways, a thousand times. Now it was here, real, and still somehow slipping through his fingers.
He stepped back slowly, dragging his hands off Rick’s jacket, like peeling away layers of a mistake. He turned, hand running through his dark hair, chest still heaving beneath the half-open shirt. "Damn it, you came all this way," he continued, pacing a step toward the window. "What the hell was I supposed to think?"

Rick didn’t answer right away, standing there, jacket still on, hands hanging at his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to clench them or raise them in surrender.
The silence stretched between them but the officer decided to speak. "I came because I couldn’t keep lying."

Negan’s laugh was bitter, broken around the edges. He turned back toward him, face unreadable. "To who? Me? Her? My goddamn husband? Or yourself?" Rick’s jaw flexed, shoulders tensing like they always did before he said something that would hurt. "To all of us," he said. "I couldn’t pretend anymore."

Negan stared at him. He looked the same, and somehow older. Still had that iron in his spine, that quiet burn in his voice—but there was weight now. Regret - a hesitation that felt worse than rejection.
Rick stepped forward, slow and cautious, like crossing a minefield. "I haven’t even touched you," he said, voice soft but firm. "But it doesn’t mean I wasn’t already somewhere I shouldn’t’ve been."

Negan didn’t look away. "You think I don’t know that?" Rick nodded once. "I...I know you do. That’s why I had to come - not to act on it. To say it."

"So say it," Negan snapped. "Say the goddamn thing."
Rick’s hands curled into fists. Then, slowly—he let them go. "I love Michonne." Negan’s mouth twisted, bitter and unsurprised. "Yeah," he said. "You were always the good one, the loyal husband, I guess."

Rick’s voice caught. "And I love you too." It hit like a gut punch. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, just final. The other one turned, walking a few steps away, trying to breathe, not answering. "You think that makes me a liar?" the blue-eyed man asked.

Negan didn’t turn around. "I think it makes you a coward." The silence that followed was a wound. "I didn’t come here to fuck," Rick said, voice low and unflinching. "I came because I wanted to say it...because you deserve the truth. And so does Michonne."

Negan turned back slowly, eyes looking darker now. Older but not angry—just tired. "You think I’ve been sitting here every night wondering if you’d come because I needed closure? I needed a clean fuckin’ break?" Rick stepped closer again, closing the space. "No. I think you’ve been waiting to know if it was real just as much as I have."

Negan stared at him questioningly. "And?" Rick simply nodded anxiously. "It was. It still is. But I’m not ready to destroy her to chase it." The taller man’s smile was hollow. "So I’m your what, Rick? Your dirty secret with a conscience?" Rick didn’t answer, continued standing like a wall and then the other one, out of any patience, walked to the door and opened it. "Go home."

Rick opened his mouth like he wanted to say more, something bitter caught behind his teeth. "Look, I saw Shane," he said finally. "At the gas station. He—he knows, Negan. He didn’t say it, not straight out, but the way he looked at me... the shit he said about you—"
"Do-oon't care," Negan cut in sharply. His voice was low, rough, final. "Let him burn with his motherfuckin' jealousy."

Blue eyes blinked fast but Negan didn’t elaborate any longer - didn’t even ask what Shane had said, just standing there like the words didn’t touch him. "...I’m not asking you to wait...Negan, just listen—"Holy shit, awesome, you know why—" the taller man said, keeping any emotion from showing on his sharp face. "Because I’m done waiting, Sheriff."

Rick finally decided to move past him slowly, but then stopped in the doorway, trying not to look back. Then—quietly, without ceremony—he turned just enough to lean in and press a kiss to Negan’s forehead. A brief, intimate thing. No heat, just the truth, more naked than any sex could be. Negan didn’t speak at all, standing still as stone as the other lingered one heartbeat longer. "I wish I’d met you first. Maybe things would be different..." Negan’s voice didn’t rise. "Yep, sure. And I wish you’d stayed away." And then he shut the door, soft, not dramatic and loud as it was expected of him.
He didn’t lock it but didn’t open it again, either.

***

Rick drove home in the kind of silence that soaked into the fabric of his clothes. The kind that stuck to your skin long after you thought you could peel it off. The road was empty, dark, and he didn’t even touch the radio. His headlights cut through the Georgia mist like judgment.

He wasn’t angry, not sad, nor nothing - he didn’t know what exactly he was feeling at the present moment. But his hands stayed white-knuckled on the wheel the entire time. And when he turned onto his own street, when the porch light came into view, it hit him all at once— The guilt. The shame. The deep, aching wrongness of having gone. Not just to Negan’s hotel door. But to almost stay.

He shut off the ignition, sat still for a moment in the dark cab, staring at the front window. Michonne had left the lamp on in the living room. Her shadow had moved past it once, maybe half an hour ago.
She’d waited up...Rick stepped out, boots quiet on the walkway. Every inch of him felt heavier than it had when he’d left. His mouth tasted like regret, chest heaving.

The door creaked softly when he pushed it open.
She was there, sitting on the couch in one of his old light blue flannel shirts, knees pulled up beneath her. No TV on. No book in hand. Just her eyes—dark, almost black, wide, deep, and already knowing.

Rick closed the door behind him gently as neither of them spoke right away. He moved to the edge of the room and leaned against the wall like a prisoner waiting for his sentencing. Michonne’s voice was calm when it came. “You didn’t stay overnight.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You went to someone, though, right?”

A pause. “Yeah,” he said. “I went.”

She nodded slowly, fingers twisting together in her lap. “And? Rick, you promised you'd talk to me about it when you get back...So I am here and waiting.”

Rick looked at the floor, then at her. “I didn’t sleep with anyone.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His throat tightened. “I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

He swallowed. “Because it wouldn’t have fixed it. Wouldn’t have made it right.” His wife looked at him a long moment—like she was studying a painting with a crack in it, trying to decide if it was still beautiful. “Rick,” she said, quietly. “Do you love them?”

He opened his mouth, closed it again for a second. Then finally—softly—“Yeah." Her chest rose and fell once, slow and even. She didn’t cry, nor rage or scream or something, simply nodded. “I thought so.” He moved closer, sitting down on the arm of the opposite chair, hands dangled between his knees. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” he said. “I do. I always will.”

“But?”

Rick’s voice barely held together. “But there’s someone else. He has been there for a long time.” She nodded again, this time with her jaw clenching slightly. “HE...You told me there wasn't another woman in the picture...So is it a man?”His blue eyes flicked up in surprise.

“I know you,” Michonne said. “Maybe better than you know yourself. You think I didn’t notice the way you’ve been moving around this house like a madman lately? Or the way your eyes don’t stay on me when we’re alone?” Rick covered his face with one hand. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t want it.”

“But it did happen.”

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick. Lived-in. Michonne stood then, crossing to the kitchen slowly, pouring herself a glass of water. She sipped it like someone grounding herself, finding her center again. When she came back, her voice was stronger. “Now I am the one who needs time, Rick.”

He stood, almost instinctively. “Michonne—”

“I’m not mad. I won't be leaving the kids, I’m not leaving this house, Judith needs me and I love both her and Carl so much. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t see what’s happening. And I sure as hell can’t keep climbing into bed beside someone whose heart is split in half. I believe we two need a break, we will continue being parents first, but when it comes to our relationship—."

Rick’s face cracked with something ugly and honest. “I’m so sorry.”

“I believe you,” she said. “But that doesn’t change anything - I still need time to figure what I want for myself.”

She walked past him—slow, steady steps—and paused at the hallway. “For Carl and Judith’s sake, I’ll stay here. I’ll still be their mother. You’ll still be their father. But you and me?” She looked over her shoulder. “We’re on pause now. Until I can figure out if there’s anything left to salvage.” Rick didn’t follow her to argue or explain more because he knew she was right.

When she disappeared into the hallway, her footsteps faded quietly, and he was left alone in the living room. The lamp buzzed faintly. The house creaked like it always did in the quiet hours. And the weight of everything he'd said—and hadn’t—settled on his shoulders like a damn boulder.

He didn’t sleep that night. He just sat in the chair. Staring at the empty space where his wife used to sit beside him. Where her warmth used to live and where his promises used to mean something...

***

Meanwhile, in Milledgeville, Negan brushed his teeth like a man trying to erase something. Spit. Rinse. Repeat. He scrubbed his face until his skin was raw, then stared at himself in the mirror like it might flinch first. His eyes were bloodshot.

Not from drinking or crying, he didn’t to the second thing often - simply from not blinking since he hadn’t slept since Rick left him in his hotel room like a puppy not needed anymore.

The conference had technically started already. Boring shit - academic panels, round tables about curriculum development, “𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘨𝘺”. He was scheduled for a 1pm panel called “𝘗𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘓𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘌𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴” He barked a joyless laugh when he saw the agenda.

𝙋𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙙𝙮𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙘𝙨.

Yeah, he had a few thoughts about that as he tied his tie half-assed, didn’t bother with the navy blue blazer, and walked into the conference center like a man on autopilot.

Smiling, shaking hands. He called some redhead female lecturer “darlin’ ” and got a blush. Gave a speech about classroom confidence like he hadn’t just spent the last 48 hours in emotional solitary confinement. Sat through a Q&A without once thinking about the topic.

All he saw was Rick’s face.

The way he stood in that doorway—frozen like a coward, lips twitching, wanting something he didn’t have the guts to take.

“𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘐’𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵.” Fuck that. Fuck that shit. What did that even mean? He had practically met him before Shane did and before Rick himself had met his wife. It didn’t make sense...if timing had been different, they would’ve been soulmates or what? Negan wasn’t some goddamn tragic second-place prize. He wasn’t a what-if. He was flesh and blood and sweat and teeth - and he was done being patient.

He went back to the hotel that night, tore his white shirt off before the door even closed, and threw his phone at the wall. It didn’t break, just cracking a little.

He stared at it for a long time, thinking about turning it back on. Thinking about calling Shane. Telling him to go to hell. Or telling him to come get him. Or just saying I’m sorry, even if he didn’t mean it.

But instead, he laid down on the far side of the bed.

Alone.

Woke up in the same position and didn’t eat breakfast the next day either.

***

The place wasn’t fancy—just brick walls, too many books, and the quiet kind of charm lawyers liked pretending they didn’t need. Michonne was early. Maggie walked in, fresh from class, light brown hair still windblown, smile tentative but real. “Thanks for meeting me,” she said, slipping into the seat across from her. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Michonne nodded, polite but tired. “I needed the break. Work’s been hell and… home’s not much better.”
Maggie tilted her head, concern sharp in her voice. “Things not good with Rick?” The braided woman let out a breath, fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “We’ve hit a wall. He says he still loves me...and I believe him. But there’s someone else—someone he can’t stop thinking about.”

Maggie’s brows pulled in. “That’s awful. I’m sorry, can I ask...do you know who the other person is?”

Michonne looked up, smile brittle. “I am not sure. It’s not the cheating, not even - he says it didn’t happen sexually, well I know for sure not since we got married. However, it’s the way he looks at me like I’m the lie. As if I’m the life he’s trying to hold onto with bleeding hands while chasing something else.”

There was a pause but then Maggie, quiet but firm, said, “What kind of person would choose anyone else over a beautiful woman like you?” The compliment hit harder than it should’ve. Michonne’s deep set of brown eyes softened, searching. The other one wasn't nervous at all, in fact she was smiling gently.

“Maybe someone who doesn’t know what he has,” she added, voice lower now. “Or someone who’s not strong enough to deserve it.”

Michonne held her gaze for a long moment - and for the first time in weeks, she smiled. Not out of habit—just a flicker of something warm, uncertain, and very much alive.

***

Getting back at home, Negan pushed the front door open, letting it creak on its hinges like it knew something was about to go wrong. He stepped in slow, dragging his suitcase behind him, coat thrown over one shoulder. He barely got two steps in before Shane’s voice slurred from the living room— “Had a good time?”

The older man froze mid-stride, throwing a look toward the couch. His husband was sitting in the dark, legs spread wide, a beer in one hand and a half-empty bottle of something stronger on the coffee table. His badge glinted from the side table, tossed like an afterthought. His dark eyes were glassy and locked on Negan with a grin that didn’t belong anywhere near a mouth. “What, no kiss hello?” Negan said, tone light, hazel eyes careful.

Shane laughed. “Don’t need one. I can smell the fuckin’ lie already.” Negan dropped his suitcase and duffel bag by the door with a hard thud, not bothering to take his coat off. “Was that supposed to mean something, or you just making conversation with your liquor now, little jealous freak?” Shane stood, a little too fast, swaying, caught himself on the armrest. Still holding the bottle.

“I saw him.”

Negan didn’t move. “At the gas station. Told me he was visiting a friend...guess where? Milledgeville. Looked real fuckin’ tense. Like maybe he was preparing his mouth for your dick but didn’t expect meetin' your husband on the way.”

The older man blinked, then scoffed.“Damn it Shane. That’s the best you got? I was gone three days for a work trip and you’re already playing fuckin’ Nancy Drew over a gas station sighting?”

Shane stepped forward, beer bottle clinked hard as he set it down. His breath reeked. “You think I don’t know you by now? You and your never-endin' shit games, you lie and manipulate all— ”If you knew me, you wouldn’t be asking stupid goddamn questions. I didn’t see Rick. I didn’t touch him. And if your insecure ass can’t handle me being outta the house for more than a weekend without spiraling, maybe we got bigger problems than your bruised cop ego!” Negan finally turned to face him full-on, voice sharp, baring his teeth.

Shane’s jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists. “You’re lyin’ again.”

“No, I’m not. But even if I was, I wouldn’t owe you shit.”

“You’re my husband.”

“Ain’t that the fuckin’ tragedy.” Shane stared, breathing hard. His chest rising and falling too fast, dark brown eyes flicking—searching, calculating. “You miss him?” he asked, voice lower. “You think about him when I’m inside you? You picture his hands, his mouth—his fuckin’ wedding ring? Maybe you think he will leave his pretty wife for your sorry ass...”

Negan stepped forward. Calm. Cold. Dangerous. “I picture peace. You ever let me have that for five goddamn minutes, Shane?”

The younger one just laughed again, but it broke halfway through. “You’re full of shit.”

“Yeah, let's say I am...” Negan stated. “At least I’m not full of bourbon and jealousy and backwoods daddy issues.”

Shane moved before thinking—grabbed his husband by the collar, slammed him back into the wall, one forearm against his chest. “Say it,” Shane growled. “Say you saw him, you fucked him!”

“THE FUCK I didn’t.”

“Tell me you called him.”

“No.”

“SAY HIS FUCKIN’ NAME!” Negan didn’t flinch, he leaned in instead —lips curled, voice slow and razor-raspy. “Why? You wanna get hard for him too?” Shane froze. “Listen to me good, you delusional idiot. I’m not fucking around with Rick. Never did. Never will. You’re the one making this shit real by losing your already gone mind over it. So if you won't let me breathe in peace and you are so tired of my goddamn bullshit, you can always leave. If you’re so fuckin’ sure I’m a cheater, then walk your ass out the door and go cry to someone who gives a shit.”

The cop's fists just clenched until his knuckles cracked and then a loud crash followed - he picked up the bottle and flung it at the door, missing his husband by inches. Glass shattered, spraying across the floor.

Negan didn’t give a damn, he’d already won the round. Enraged and drunk, Shane headed outside mad, busting the front door open and closing it with a loud smash.

***

With Shane out somewhere drunk, Negan had the house to himself.

The bottle had shattered against the wall like a damn firecracker, glass spraying across the wood floors, some of it skittering near his boots. Shane had stormed out, slamming the door so hard it rattled the frame.

Negan didn’t move at first. Just stood there with one hand on his hip, the other rubbing his jaw like he was massaging the fury back down into his chest. Then, finally. “Dramatic little fucking princess.”

He walked toward the mess barefoot, glass crunching under his heel, a piece biting into his arch. He hissed but didn’t stop. Just crouched low and started picking up the bigger chunks with his bare hands. “You throw a tantrum, break my goddamn favorite whiskey, and I’m the problem. Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

Blood welled at his thumb as a sharp edge sliced skin. He sucked the wound briefly, muttered something about needing duct tape, and tossed the glass into the trash one-handed.

Still in the dim kitchen, he poured what was left of another bottle into a glass, took a hard swallow, then leaned against the counter.

He glanced at his phone. Rick’s name blinked from a muted message thread, their last messages before he left him at the hotel hanging like a puppy. Nothing new.

Negan stared at it for a while. Then turned the phone face-down. He lit a cigarette even though Shane had bitched about the smell last week. Blew the smoke toward the ceiling. The silence in the house was thick, like everything was waiting to crack.

In the hallway, he passed the old wall mirror and caught his reflection. “Fuck you, Lucille,” he talked to himself, shaking his head. “You’d laugh your ass off if you saw me now. Married to a cop with anger issues and a goddamn detective complex. You were right. I ain’t shit.”

He didn’t bother showering. Just stripped down in the bedroom, dropping clothes wherever they landed, and flopped onto the bed with a grunt.

His shoulder still hurt from the fight earlier. His foot throbbed. His pride was bleeding worse.

Negan pulled the sheets over his bare hips, rolled to one side, and let the streetlight from outside pool over his back. His eyes shut.

He didn’t expect to sleep well. But he did, for a while.

Until—the door creaked open again.

He didn’t even look. “Took you long enough, you fuckin’ lunatic…” he growled, half-asleep.

But Shane didn’t say anything, standing in the doorway, eyes locked on the man in their bed. Negan’s back rose and fell in quiet rhythm, muscles relaxed, one knee bent under the sheets. The curve of his body in the pale light stirred something deep, territorial, bitter.

Shane shut the door quietly. Stepped closer.

He stripped down slowly, shirt hitting the floor, belt dragged loose with a metallic clink. He climbed onto the bed like a shadow, hovering behind Negan’s body. Negan stirred at the motion. “Jesus, Shane…” he growled. “Can’t you just let me fuckin’ sleep?”

“You always drive me crazy,” Shane whispered, voice hoarse, drunk and furious. “No more excuses. No more ‘I’m tired.’ If you got the energy to be Rick's side dude, you got the energy to take care of your own husband's needs.”

A rough hand pushed the sheet down, exposing Negan’s bare hips, the curve of his ass. Shane let his palm run over the scarred flesh, squeezing tightly, possessive. Negan twisted under the touch. “The fuck are you doing, asshole? I want to sleep!”

“What I’m owed,” Shane muttered. “You’re my goddamn husband. You think you get to say no?” Negan pushed back, but Shane tried to hold him, pressing his chest flush to the other's back. “Always runnin’ that mouth,” Shane hissed into his ear. “But this body don’t lie, does it? Already fuckin’ hard for me.”

Negan snarled. “Go fuck yourself.”

“I’d rather fuck you.”

His hand slid under the sheets, rough palm skimming over the older man’s stomach. “Told you,” Negan's voice sounded dangerous, “I ain’t in the goddamn mood. Try puttin' your dick in me tonight, and I’ll cut your balls off and shove them in your fucking mouth. Are you gonna listen to your Daddy, Officer?”

Shane snorted softly but didn’t push further. Instead, he just laid his hand on Negan’s hip, grinding against him with slow, dry friction, his cock hard against the back of Negan’s thigh.“This what you gave Rick?” he murmured bitterly. “This lazy, silent bullshit? You were real fast in that hotel, weren’t you? What kind of sex is this, can't even last around him? Or maybe he couldn’t with that dirty mouth of yours...”

Negan didn’t answer, just clenched his sharp jaw, breathing heavily, forcing himself not to react. Shane laughed under his breath. “Tracked his fuckin' car, you both keep forgettin' I am a cop, too. License plate. Thought I was crazy? Nah. Rick was there. I saw the look in his eyes when I brought up Milledgeville at the gas station.” His fingers drifted along Negan's inner thigh now, but they didn’t go lower. “You really believe he’s gonna leave that picture-perfect wife of his for a convict whore like you?” He hissed. “You think he’ll hold your hand in court or let you raise his kids...or visit you in prison if you snapped again?”

Negan stayed silent. Shane leaned closer, voice slurring now but still cruel. “I won’t let you go, Negan. EVER. You’re mine. You married me. And I’m not lettin' go.” He pressed one last slow grind into Negan’s ass, moaned faintly, then pulled back with a deep sigh.“Not tonight then,” he mumbled. “But you ain’t walkin' away either.” He rolled over and passed out almost instantly, reeking of sweat and booze.

Negan lay awake, angered and silent, deciding not to sleep in case his drunk husband came back with any crazy ideas. And he stayed wide awake until the sun came up.

***

On Sunday, the city felt softer after the storm. Atlanta’s skyline was hazy in the distance, trees dripping with the last of the rain. Lights strung between the branches glowed like fireflies strung in a line. The gravel paths shimmered underfoot, still damp.

Michonne walked beside Maggie through Botanical Garden with no rush, her brown coat open, sleeves pushed halfway up her arms. Her hands were tucked in her pockets, but her shoulders weren’t tense—not when she was around her longtime friend. “This place,” she said softly, “always smells like something new. Even if nothing’s changed.”

Maggie smiled. “Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to learn from it.” Michonne’s gaze followed the slow curve of the path. “Maybe.”

They passed the koi pond in silence. Water lapped softly against the edge. Then Michonne spoke again—quiet but clear. “It’s not another woman.”

Maggie turned slightly, green eyes opening wide. “What...Rick?” The other one nodded. “He told me... he has feelings. For someone else and not the kind that go away with time. It’s a man, a longtime...friend, I believe.” Her eyes were on the water now. “He said it never got physical. Not once. But I think he’s falling harder than ever now.”

Maggie didn’t interrupt, listening and waiting as Michonne continued. “He confessed because he couldn’t lie anymore. Not to me. Not to himself.”

A long pause passed between them. Then Maggie asked, gently, “Do you think it’s Shane? They work together and have been knowing each other since what... the police academy? High-school?”

Michonne hesitated. Her brows lifted slightly. “I’ve wondered,” she admitted. “It makes a weird kind of sense. The two of them have always been close in ways I don’t think they ever looked at too hard, Shane always seemed too invested in my hu— in Rick’s life.”

She paused again. “And it’s funny, isn’t it? How both Shane and his husband always seemed drawn to Rick, even before they got together. Shane had that loyalty-bordering-on-obsession thing. And Negan—hell, he used to watch Rick like he was a lit match in a field of dry grass. Always circling.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “You think they were competing?”

“I think they both wanted him at some point,” Michonne said. “Whether they ever admitted it or not. And now they’re married. Go figure.”

Maggie blinked. “Wait—Shane and Negan are married like officially?”

Michonne gave a dry little laugh. “Yeah. Legal and everything but I don’t know the details. All I know is... it’s real now. Public, sometimes looks toxic and loud but that's how they are.”

“Damn,” Maggie murmured. “That’s complicated, so messy. I can't see Rick being with either of them, maybe someone more reserved and mysterious?” They walked a few more steps beneath the hanging vines, the lamps casting long shadows. “And it’s not Daryl, for sure” Michonne added, more to herself than anything. “Rick’s like a brother to him. To both of them with Glenn.”

Maggie nodded, picking up the thread. “Glenn and Daryl are locked in. You can feel it when they’re together, that kind of connection you don't often see in life.”

“Yep and they’re engaged now.”

“I know,” Maggie said. “It was expected after all this time.”

Michonne exhaled slowly. “It’s strange, you know. I always thought Rick and I could survive anything. But it turns out love can split in quiet ways, too. Like water in the walls. You don’t see it ‘til the foundation starts to shift.”

They came to a stone bench tucked beneath an ivy arch. The air smelled of damp moss and nightflowers. Neither of them sat. They stood in the soft silence, surrounded by the hum of the garden’s quiet heart. “You ever think about what comes next?” Michonne asked.

“All the time,” Maggie replied.

“I’m still their mother. I’ll always be here for my sunshine Judith. For Carl. But Rick…” Her voice caught. “I think I’ve been trying to hold onto a shape that doesn’t fit anymore. I love him but in a different way or maybe I’m just confused, don't know to be honest.” Maggie’s voice dropped. “You don’t have to keep forcing it. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to want something else, even someone else.”

Michonne looked at her. “What if I don’t know what that looks like yet?”

Maggie smiled, gentle and sure. “Then let it take shape on its own. You don’t owe anyone a blueprint.”

The sound of wind in the trees picked up, swaying light between the branches. Maggie stepped just a little closer. Not pressing. Just near.“You know, I was reminded of something” she said quietly, “I used to think I had feelings for Glenn.”

Michonne’s brow lifted. “You really did?”

“Yeah. Back when we first got close. I thought maybe there was something there. He was so cute, soft thoughtful, always had that charming smile. He’d show up with pizza or bagels on my bad days and I thought he had a crush on me!” She smiled, a little bittersweet. “Then one night under the porch light, I leaned in thinking he might kiss me. And instead, he told me I’d be one of his best friends.”

Michonne exhaled, amused. “Ouch.”

“No,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “It was kind, sweet. Because a week later, I saw him holding Daryl’s hand and I got it. And I was glad I didn’t push. Because they were real...and I wanted to protect that more than I wanted to be chosen.”

Michonne’s gaze softened.“You don’t always get to be the person they love first,” Maggie continued. “But sometimes, you get to be the one who loves yourself enough to let go. To find your own path...your own person even, 'the one'.”

They stood a little longer, then Maggie reached out—fingers open, slow and sure. Michonne looked down at the hand. And without hesitation, she took it. Their fingers wove together naturally in such a sudden yet right way, relaxing and safe, honest.

Not a replacement.

But a beginning.

***

Monday morning came quiet, soft as a lie.

The front door clicked shut just before 7. Negan didn’t say goodbye—not that he needed to. Shane heard the noise - boots, keys. Heard the pause by the hall mirror, the sigh, the silence that followed. Then the engine turning over, pulling down the street toward college, toward... whatever the hell he did there all day.

Shane sat at the kitchen table with coffee he didn’t drink. It was his day off, finally. He stared out the window, jaw clenching. Thought about how Negan didn’t look back, how the bed was cold when he woke up, how that meant something.

Thought about Rick.

That pretty, clean-cut little savior. That voice, that walk. That calm in chaos—always looking like he was built for better things. Always catching Shane’s attention even when he didn’t want to look and obviously his husband’s too. Even now, married. Settled. Still trying to play perfect while dragging his guilt behind him like a leash.

Shane knew the way Rick had looked at Negan.

He saw it.

And more than that—he saw the way Negan had looked back. Like Shane wasn’t even in the room. Like Shane wasn’t the one who stayed, the one who cleaned up his blood, the one who buried the goddamn bat.

But now Rick was sniffing around again, crawling out from his quiet little domestic dream, showing up in hotel rooms and walking around with that dumb regret in his eyes. Like he was owed something. Like he had a right.

And Negan… Negan maybe hadn’t fucked him for real. YET. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t wanted to.

Didn’t mean Shane didn’t feel it, crawling under his skin like fire ants.

He took a slow breath, looking down at his hands. One of them was shaking. He balled it into a fist and rested it on the table.

The coffee cup rattled. Negan was at work now, Rick—Rick was God-knows-where. Probably still hiding behind that perfect little family of his, pretending like he wasn’t halfway to burning it all down.

And Shane himself had the time to think alone.

He had the silence.

To plan.

To decide.

Because one of them had to go.

That much was clear now, after they had started their secret meetings behind his back.

The husband who stopped giving it up but still had Shane wrapped around every fucked-up nerve ending?Or the golden boy he couldn’t stop thinking about—who didn’t even know how deep Shane’s obsession ran?

One would stay. One would leave.

And maybe neither would get to choose. Shane leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. His brown eyes were far away now, narrowed, glassy. Not tired, just still. And in that dead stillness, one last thought curled through his brain like smoke—

“Soon.”

Chapter Text

Rick had barely crossed the threshold before the air felt wrong. Shane’s invite came out of nowhere. He didn't want to go but not going would feed way more suspicions. He smelled something burning in the kitchen—Negan’s doing, no doubt—but it wasn’t the garlic bread or overdone steak that made his gut twist. It was Shane’s grin, wide and wolfish, as he stepped back to let Rick in. His breath already reeked of whiskey. His button-up was barely buttoned.

“Look what the fuckin’ cat dragged in,” Shane said, clapping Rick’s shoulder a little too hard. “Brother. Domestic. Married. Boring. You made it.”

Rick’s jaw tensed as he stepped into the house with a nod, his gaze briefly catching on Negan—lounging barefoot on the couch, a glass of red wine dangling from his fingers, hair wet, shirt clinging slightly to his chest like he’d just gotten out of the shower and hadn’t cared enough to finish getting dressed. “Hey, sheriff,” he drawled, not even glancing up. “Nice of you to crawl outta that pretty little marriage bed and grace us sinners with your presence.”

“Michonne’s with the kids,” Rick muttered, removing his jacket and slinging it over the back of a chair. “Said I should get out more.”

“Aw,” Negan said, voice syrupy, “bless her fuckin’ heart.”

Shane sauntered past, already grabbing another beer from the fridge. “You hungry or you already ate at home like the loyal bastard you are?”

Rick shook his head. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself,” Shane muttered, tossing him a bottle anyway. “Drink somethin’. Loosen up. It’s just us tonight. Boys only, no wives or kids allowed. Thought we could have a lil’ fun.”

Rick didn’t reply. The hardwood floor creaked as he made his way into the living room, sinking onto the edge of the couch like it might swallow him if he got too comfortable. Negan looked over at him now—really looked—hazel eyes glinting like he knew every secret Rick had tried to bury since the hotel room. He offered a lazy smile. “You look like you’re waitin’ on a fuckin’ ambush, not a hangout.” Rick shrugged. “Depends what you got planned.”

Shane laughed at that—loud, sharp, too loud. “Oh, it’s not an ambush,” he said. “It’s a fuckin’ interrogation.”
Rick stiffened. His working partner grinned wider. “Kidding,” he added, waving a dismissive hand, though his dark eyes didn’t match the tone. “But since we’re all here, figured we’d play somethin’.” Negan raised an eyebrow. “Damn it. What are we, sixteen?”

“C’mon,” Shane said. “You used to love this shit.”

“I used to love weed and monster trucks too. Don’t mean I wanna revisit all my poor decisions.”

“You sayin’ marrying me was a poor decision?” Shane smirked. Negan took a sip of wine, eyes flicking toward Rick. “I’d say it was one of mine.” The silence after that hung a little too long but then Rick cleared his throat. “What’re we playin’?”

Shane’s grin returned. “Let’s keep it simple. Never Have I Ever.”

Rick’s stomach sank. Negan exhaled like he was already regretting his life. “Christ almighty.”

“Every man’s got shit to confess,” Shane said, pulling out a half-empty bottle of tequila. “We’re grown. We drink when it hits.”

“I’m not fuckin’ twenty,” Negan complained with a growl, but he took the glass Shane shoved at him anyway. “Exactly. That’s why it’s funnier, we have real stuff.” They all sat. Three glasses. Three bottles. Three men with more buried between them than any game could fully unearth.

Shane kicked it off. “Never have I ever... fucked in a cop car.”

Rick drank and Shane smirked, drinking too. Negan scoffed. “Jesus, you two are so fuckin’ predictable.” Shane turned to Negan. “Never have I ever... punched a guy in the middle of sex.” His husband grinned. “What, you want me to drink or you want me to relive it?” Shane laughed. Rick just stared at his glass, already regretting everything. Negan raised his glass anyway and drank. “Guy had it comin’.”

Shane’s gaze shifted to Rick. “Your turn, man.” Rick hesitated. Then. “Never have I ever... lied to my spouse.” They all drank. Negan wiped his mouth, shaking his head. “Now that’s a fuckin’ downer.”

“Life’s a downer,” Rick said quietly.

Shane was a few drinks in by the time he started warming to the performance — leaning back with his boots crossed at the ankles like he owned the damn room, whiskey glass sloshing in one hand, tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek every time he lobbed one of those cross-examination specials toward either man like he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

Rick sat stiffly on the couch like it might collapse under him if he so much as shifted wrong. He could feel the heat from like fire crackling in the fireplace — could hear the glass sweat on the side table beside him, a fat droplet trailing down the neck of his half-finished beer bottle like a slow-moving tear. He hated this. He hated the stillness between words. The sound of the couch leather creaking under Negan’s restless leg. The smug glint in Shane’s eyes. The fact that Negan wouldn’t stop watching him.

And yet here he sat.

“Never have I ever...” his partner drawled, drawing it out like a bored detective flipping through the pages of a half-solved case, “thought about someone else while I was married.” The silence that followed landed with a dull thud — no gasp, no laughter. Just those fucking little everyday noises and Negan swirling his wine with one finger hooked lazy around the stem.

Rick looked down. At his own lap. At the floor. Anywhere but at them. Negan raised his glass slowly, cocked his head just a touch — and drank. Not a polite sip either — but a long, slow pull, like the wine was velvet sliding down his throat, like he wanted Shane to watch it go down.

The glass hit the table with a soft, intentional clink. “Goddamn right I have,” Negan said finally, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing a touch of wine-red across his thumb. “Ain’t like thoughts are illegal.” Shane’s jaw twitched. “You sure they ain’t?”

His husband looked amused. “Maybe in your house.”

Rick said nothing and didn’t drink. He didn’t speak. But his heartbeat had begun to rise, chest tightening with every beat like his ribs were pressing inward. The air in the room had shifted — gone hotter somehow, or maybe it was the sweat slowly prickling at the nape of his neck. “Alright,” Shane said, sitting forward. “Let’s take it up a notch then.”

Negan was already smirking, he could smell it coming. Could practically taste the bitterness rolling off his younger husband like steam off a poured-over sidewalk. “Never have I ever... cheated.” The words landed heavy. Unblinking. A challenge thrown down like a gauntlet.

Rick's throat went dry. Negan again didn’t flinch and didn’t even hesitate, picking up his glass again, and with the same graceful contempt, drank, swallowing.

Let the silence drag before answering. “Only on Lucille.” The name hung in the room like an aftertaste.
He set the glass down softer this time. Let his fingers rest on the rim like he might spin it. “I’m not proud of it,” he added, voice lower now, more intimate — like he wasn’t talking to Shane at all.

Then, without missing a beat, his gaze snapped sideways. Locked eyes with his husband. “Not on you, though. Little jealous prick.” Shane’s face didn’t change much — not at first. But his eyes darkened in that slow-burn way Rick had seen before — the way a storm builds behind heavy glass, clouds rolling in across a blue sky like they’d been there the whole time, just waiting as he also picked up his glass, he'd forgotten about the Andrea thing but yeah. He reached for the tequila. Poured another shot. The amber liquid trembled slightly in the glass as he handed it off to Negan without a word. Negan chuckled. “Cheers, baby.”

Rick didn’t move. His stomach twisted. He could feel the weight of it all pressing down — this history, these glances, the way every single question wasn’t a game but a goddamn landmine, and somehow they were all still pretending it was just fun between friends.

***

Rick stepped outside before he could talk himself out of it...The night air bit sharp, not cold but cooler than it’d been inside, and clearer — none of that smoke-and-booze haze clinging to the walls in there, none of the slow, syrupy suffocation of Negan’s cologne and Shane’s breath. Out here the dark was deep and wide, the kind of quiet you could get lost in if you let yourself, and for a second he thought maybe he’d just stay out here the rest of the night, let the game go on without him, let the whole damn evening burn out on its own.

The wood under his boots creaked as he stepped out onto the porch and leaned forward onto the railing, palms flat, fingers splayed. The beer bottle still hung from his left hand, half-warm, barely gripped. His spine hurt — not in any medical way, just from carrying too much. Too long.

Behind him, the door clicked shut again.

He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
Shane always moved the same way when he was drinking and pissed — a little slower, a little looser, like all the anger had to wind itself through his muscles before it reached his mouth.

Rick let him approach. Let him stop just behind his shoulder. Didn’t look over.

“You always run outta the room when it gets personal, or just when I start hittin’ nerves?” Shane asked, voice low and already too rough around the edges. His breath reeked of whiskey and something burnt — not from the kitchen, but from somewhere deeper. Rick exhaled through his nose. “I just came out to breathe.”

“Need to breathe after a little honesty? Christ, Grimes. Ain’t like I accused you of murder.” Rick turned his head, just enough to glance at him. “You think I don’t see what you’re doin’?”

“What I’m doin’?” Shane’s laugh was too loud for the night, bitter at the edges. “I invited you over for a drink, man. You’re the one actin’ like it’s a fuckin’ trial.”

Rick stepped back from the railing, half-turned now. “Back in the day...you and Lori… I get what happened.” That stopped Shane cold, just for a second - but it was enough. “When I figured it out,” Rick said slowly, shaking his head, “and I figured it out pretty quickly… I wanted to break your jaw. Let you choke on your teeth.”
The words were plain. Not angry, not yelled. Just laid out.

Shane blinked, once, brown eyes looking down at the ground suddenly. Rick’s voice didn’t change. “But I didn’t. That wasn’t weakness. That took everything.”
They stared at each other in the dark — two men with too many miles between them, and just enough road left to crash again. Rick looked away, jaw working. “But then she got pregnant. Carl happened, the best thing in my life, my son. She became my wife. And you... you were still my brother.”

A long beat passed. Then Shane tilted his head back slightly, tongue pressing into his cheek, teeth baring halfway into a grin that wasn’t a grin at all. “So what is this now?” Rick asked, not rising to the bait. “What the hell happened, man?” The other man let out a breath — long, slow, hot. “So that’s what this is.” Rick didn’t speak as Shane took a step closer. “You come back eighteen years later, start sniffin’ around my house, sittin’ on my fuckin’ couch, starin’ at my fuckin’ husband—”

“I’m not tryin’ to take anything from you,” Rick interrupted.

“Bullshit,” Shane snapped.

Rick’s eyes flashed. “I’m not.”

“You ain’t?” Shane said, voice rising. “Then what the hell do you call what’s been goin’ on? You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t feel it every time he looks at you like he’s starving, every time you look back like you’re fuckin’ drowning?”

Rick stayed silent and collected. Shane laughed. It was ugly. “Negan might be a son of a bitch, but he don’t lie with his eyes. And you? You’re tryin’ to sit there with your clean little conscience and pretend this ain’t about him.”

“It’s not.”

“Rick.”

Rick’s voice dropped. “It’s not about him. It’s about you.” That threw Shane off. Just for a second. He stepped forward now, facing him fully. “You’re the one who asked me what happened. So I’m askin’ you the same thing. You used to be my brother. My family. And then somewhere along the line you decided to become someone I don’t recognize anymore.”

Shane’s jaw flexed. “I never asked why you married him,” Rick said, quieter now. “I still won’t. That’s not my place.” The slightly younger one looked down. For a second, he almost looked... ashamed but it passed. “You ever think,” he muttered out of nowhere, “if we hadn’t met them, all of them... Lori, Negan, Michonne... if it was just you and me...” Rick paused. “Sometimes.”
Shane nodded, slow. “Could’ve been different.”

“Yeah,” Rick said, voice like gravel. “Could’ve.” There was something sick between them now — not hate, not quite lust, but something too heavy to be just regret. Something neither one of them would name out loud.
Shane reached up, fingers brushing the chain around his neck — the thin silver glint catching the porch light, the 𝟐𝟐 tag worn smooth from thumb rubs and sleepless nights. Not just a team number, not anymore. His friend glanced at it. “You still wear that.”

“Always,” Shane murmured.

“For the game?” Shane didn’t answer and Rick looked at him focused, deep. And the younger cop, drunk and tired and furious with himself, just whispered, “It’s his birthday.”

Rick froze. “April twenty-second,” he added, voice cracking just slightly. “The one date I never forget. Not even when he forgets everything else.”

The blue-eyed man didn’t know what to say to that. Maybe there wasn’t anything. Behind them, inside, something clinked — glass on wood, maybe. A shift on the couch. Or maybe just Negan moving. Restless. Watching them, listening, creeping.

Shane didn’t turn. He just said, softer now, “Too late for all of it, huh?” Rick nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “I think it is.”

And they stood there in the dark a little longer — not brothers, not enemies, not strangers — just two men too far gone to rewind, and not quite broken enough to stop trying.

***

The house was quiet again after Rick went home. Shane stood in the bathroom doorway, door half-closed, leaning his weight against the frame like gravity worked differently when you were this drunk. All the whiskey, the tequila shots too, everything he had had settled in his stomach like molten lead, hot and slow, twisting everything soft into something sour. His shirt was half unbuttoned, his jaw shadowed with the kind of stubble he didn’t care enough to shave, and that damn necklace hung heavy against his collarbone — 𝟐𝟐, dulled by sweat and time, glinting faintly in the mirror light.

He stared at it like it was a fucking curse.

Rick’s voice still rang in his ears — that gravel-dragged calm, that way he always said the most painful shit like it was nothing but truth carved into stone. “𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘫𝘢𝘸. 𝘓𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩..” Like he hadn’t already done it — not with fists, but with distance. With pity. With that goddamn look that said 'we used to be brothers'.

Shane closed his eyes.

And just like that, the fantasy started.

Soft at first.

He pictured Rick in his kitchen — not this kitchen, but some other one. Some imaginary house, sunlit and quiet, where Rick stood barefoot and half-awake, hair a mess, sweatpants hanging low, stirring coffee with one hand and scratching his stomach with the other. He wasn’t looking at Shane. Just standing there. Familiar. Real.

Shane walked up behind him — not with anger, not with all the sharp edges he usually carried, but with something else. Something gentler. Something almost shy.

He reached out and touched Rick’s hip. Just a graze. Rick glanced back and smiled — that crooked, half-laughing smirk he used to give in college, before the world got so damn heavy. He leaned back into Shane’s chest without a word.

And for a minute — a solid, golden minute — Shane let himself pretend that was their life.

No Negan. No Michonne. No Carl. Lori never happened. Just them.

Shane would cook eggs. Rick would yell at the dog. They’d fight over the thermostat and fuck on the stairs. They’d get too drunk on Sundays and fall asleep tangled on the couch, necks stiff and backs sore and not giving a single damn.

The image shifted.

He sees Rick first — always Rick, at the beginning.

Bare chest rising and falling in a lazy rhythm, sweat gleaming under the low amber glow of the bedside lamp. He’s not wearing much — just boxers, half-pushed down, thighs spread wide on dark sheets that cling to the sharp dip of his hips. His hair’s messy, like Shane had already had his hands in it. His lips are parted, just a little, and there’s that damn look in his eyes — not shame, not exactly — more like awe. Like he doesn’t recognize how good it feels.

In the dream, Rick doesn’t resist.

He leans into it, breath hitching when Shane climbs between his legs, heavy and slow, rough palms dragging down his sides, gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. Shane mouths at his throat — teeth, tongue, the edge of a bite — and Rick groans. Low. From his chest.

“Shane…” he says it rough, back arching as Shane rolls their bodies together.

“You want this?” Shane growls against his collarbone, one hand sliding down to grip Rick’s cock — already hard, twitching with every grind of Shane’s hips.

Rick nods, desperate. “Yeah. Fuck—Shane, yeah.”

It’s hot and clumsy at first. Kisses that don’t land clean, breath puffing too fast, hands fumbling under the covers — but then Shane flips him, slow but firm, presses Rick down into the mattress with one hand braced between his shoulder blades. Ruts against him until Rick’s gasping into the sheets, one arm bent above his head, fingers fisting the pillow like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

“You ever let her see you like this?” Shane rasps, grinding his cock between Rick’s cheeks, precome slicking the drag. “Bent over, beggin’?”

Rick shakes his head, face turned sideways. “No—only you.”

Shane growls and spits on his hand, strokes himself once, twice, then lines up — no condom, no prep, no hesitation — and pushes in slow, savoring the tight drag. Rick gasps, body tensing, but he doesn’t tell him to stop. Just breathes heavy, panting against the mattress.

“Goddamn,” Shane mutters as he bottoms out. “Tight fuckin’ hole… fuck, Rick.”

Rick trembles under him, nails scratching the sheets, voice wrecked. “Move, please—move—”

Shane starts to thrust. Deep. Deliberate. Each stroke harder than the last, until the rhythm takes hold — the slap of skin against skin, the wet choke of Rick’s moans muffled by the pillow. Shane grabs a fistful of Rick’s hair, pulls his head back. “You takin’ it good, huh?” he snarls. “Knew you would. Always knew you’d be fuckin’ perfect like this.”

Rick whimpers — desperate, fucked out, face flushed and baby blues glazed.“Mine,” Shane breathes. “Should’ve always been mine.”

Rick doesn’t answer, he just lets Shane fuck him harder, until the bed’s rattling against the wall, until Rick’s leaking all over the sheets, cock untouched, moaning his friend's name like a prayer that hurts to say.

But then — then the dream shifts.

It always shifts.

Rick’s breath changing, the weight under Shane changing. The body beneath him is still writhing — still hot, still slick, still tight — but the sound that leaves those lips is wrong.

Too deep. Too smug.

Shane slows, blinks — and it’s his husband under him now.

Grinning and sweating. Fucking back into him with all the same hunger but none of the vulnerability. “Fuck, baby,” dream-Negan huffs, mouth twisting into a cruel smirk, “you got a one-track mind. Can’t even pretend it isn't about me.” Shane stares down, frozen — still hard, still inside — but everything’s wrong now.

Negan arches under him, cock slapping against his own belly with every thrust. “That’s it. Ride it out. Pretend I’m him. Pretend I’m clean.” Shane’s hands shake. “No—no, this ain’t—” His husband laughs. “You fuckin’ wish. You want Rick? Right? You want his sad puppy eyes and good-boy guilt while he lets you ruin him?” He flips them suddenly — Shane blinking, disoriented, back slammed against the mattress.

Now Negan’s on top, sliding off his cock, pulling Shane’s legs over his shoulders up to his ears. Now his husband's fucking him.

Hard.

Fast.

Brutal.

Shane tries to fight — but his body’s betraying him, cock hard, breath catching, fingers clenching in the sheets like it means something. “You think he’d take it like I just did?” Negan pants, driving in deeper. “You think he’d let you hold him down and fuck him raw? Nah, baby. He’d cry. He’d break. But me? I’m already broke, just like you.”

Shane wakes up gasping.

Sweat-soaked.

Hard.

Breath ragged.

He’s sitting on the floor, shirt twisted around his shoulders, pants shoved down just far enough to make everything real and humiliating. His cock is still leaking, twitching, aching with the need to finish — but he doesn’t.

He can’t.

Not after that.

He stares down at himself. Fists clenched. Throat dry.

The fantasy had never gone that far before for years. It had always ended with Rick. But now Negan was in it — taking over. Infecting it. Warping it. And worse — worse than anything — his body didn’t care.

It still wanted. He looked at the mirror on the hallway wall. Couldn’t see his face in the dim light, but he didn’t need to. The necklace was still there, suddenly feeling heavy and too tight on his neck. He ripped it off and tossed it into the sink. It clanged like a curse.

But he didn’t walk away. He looked at his reflection again — hard this time. Like if he stared long enough he’d see something he could fix. “You stupid bastard,” he whispered, voice cracking. His breath fogged the mirror. And then — without warning — his hand shot out and smashed the glass. Just once. Not hard enough to make him bleed, just about enough to shatter.

Not the mirror.

Just his own reflection.

He stood there for a long minute, breathing shallow. Watching the spiderweb crack bloom across the surface, distorting his face.

He already knew what he looked like.

One of them really had to go, for real.

***

The next day at the station, Rick had just poured his second cup of bad coffee when the knock came — not the casual rap of a fellow officer, not the impatient tap of a deputy with a file, but a softer sound. Hesitant. Personal.

He looked up. Maggie.

She stood just inside the doorway of his office — light brown curls, now longer, falling down her shoulders, the front of her coat spotted with rain, cheeks flushed not from the weather but something else.

He straightened, a little caught off guard. “Maggie, what a surpise.”

“Hey,” she said gently. “You got a minute?”

He nodded, setting his coffee down, already feeling that low hum in his chest — the one that came when someone you loved walked in with a look like they’d rehearsed what they were about to say. “Close the door?” She did quietly. Then sat across from him, one leg crossed over the other, green eyes scanning the cluttered desk like she needed a second to center herself.

He beat her to the first words. “Everything okay with Hershel?” She looked up and smiled — warm, genuine. “Yeah. Dad's good. Beth, too. They’re, uh... they’ve been real happy lately. She started dating that Amy girl.”

Rick simply nodded with a soft smile. “I’m glad.” Then came the silence — the kind he had grown used to lately. The kind where people weren't sure whether to be honest or polite.

Maggie broke it. “I didn’t come to talk about Dad or his farm or Beth.”

Rick met her piercing green eyes, guarded but open. “I came to talk about you,” she said. “And Michonne.”

His jaw tensed as Maggie leaned forward, elbows on her knees now, voice lower. “I’m not here to judge. Or to get in your business. But you’ve been... distant, Rick. And I know Michonne. She can feel it too, she just knows.”

He looked down at his hands, jaw working now, but didn’t speak. “She’s still showing up for you,” the woman said gently. “Still getting Carl to school. Still leaving little notes in your lunch. Still asking me if you’re okay when she doesn’t know how to ask you herself.” That hit something. He inhaled slow, heavy. The blinds rattled slightly in the wind.

“You’re a good man,” Maggie continued. “You always have been. Loyal to a fault. That’s why this hurts you so much.”

He swallowed. “But Rick,” she added, her voice trembling just enough to make him look up again, “you don’t love her the way she loves you.”

Silence followed for a short time. “You’ve got feelings for someone else. Maybe you don’t want to admit it. Maybe you think it’ll pass. But I see it now, too. Every time we’re at dinner. Every time you walk into a room and your eyes go searching for someone before your wife.” Rick’s throat worked. “I never—“I know,” she interrupted gently. “You didn’t mean for it to happen. You never wanted to hurt her. Probably you knew the person even before her, I know you wouldn't cheat like...I know it is emotional.”

He nodded slowly, hands clasped tight. “I thought I could control it.”

Maggie let that sit but then decided to state her opinion. “You can’t keep punishing yourself for wanting something that doesn’t fit the picture you thought you had to paint.” He looked at her, brow drawn. “You ever feel that way? Like you made the right choice... but for the wrong life?”

Maggie smiled faintly. “Every damn day until a few weeks ago.”

That made him pause. She met his blue eyes, steady now. “I have feelings too. For someone I never expected. Someone who became close to me for the short time we've known each other and it just clicked right.”

Rick blinked. “Who?”

“Michonne.”

The word landed between them like a small explosion — not loud, but impossible to ignore. Rick’s eyes widened slightly, then softened. Maggie looked down, fingers curling around the edge of the chair. “She’s strong. Honest. Real. She's really attractive too and this doesn't help at all...and I wasn’t even into women that much. I tried to push it down. I didn’t want to cross any lines. Glenn’s with Daryl. That chapter’s closed, you knew about my crush on him. But I just... I can’t ignore it anymore, can't pretend to be just her friend.”

Rick sat back, staring at the floor, then at Maggie again — this woman who had been family to him longer than most blood. “You gonna tell her?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “I think she deserves to know. And I think... you both do. Whatever this is you’ve been hiding—” her voice gentled even more— “Rick, you don’t have to be ashamed of it. I understand... OK, I don't because I don't know a single person woman or man hotter, smarter...better than her...but I understand the feelings.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “It ain’t that simple.”

“No,” she agreed. “But it’s honest. And that’s more than most people ever get.”

They were quiet for a while after that. Then Rick stood. Walked around the desk. Sat on the edge of it beside her, staring at the rain sliding down the window. “I never meant for it to happen,” he said again.

“I know.”

“I still love Michonne. Just not the way she needs.”

“I know that too.” He looked at Maggie, really looked, and reached out — not to hold her hand, but to touch her shoulder gently. “Whatever happens, I’m glad you told me.”

She nodded. “And I hope she sees you.”

“I think she already does,” Maggie said softly. “I just need to be brave enough to meet her there. And you needed to know, I wasn’t going to snatch her behind your back. This is not the kind of person I am, Rick.”

They didn’t say goodbye. Just stood up, brushed off the moment, and stepped back into the hum of the office like the world was still turning — because it was.

But something had shifted for both of them.

Truth for truth. And now, neither of them was walking blind.

***

The precinct was quiet after Maggie left, evening came slow as Rick was sitting at his desk alone, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled, staring at the case file in front of him without reading a single word. Maggie’s visit had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. The way she looked at him. Like she saw through every wall he’d put up. “𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵...” Her words still hung in the air when the front door slammed open.

Heavy boots. A gust of night air. The unmistakable scent of heavy cologne, leather, and rage.

Rick didn’t even need to look up.

“Don’t. You shouldn't be here, Shane’s not working today. But you probably know.” Negan’s voice was sharp. Loud. Loud enough to echo off the tile. “Don’t what, Rick?” Rick looked up slowly. “Don’t bring this shit here.”

The older man stepped inside like he owned the building. Hair slicked back but no perfectly, wild at the edges, knuckles already flexing at his sides. His mouth was twisted into something between a sneer and a grin, hazel eyes bloodshot, jaw clenching tight.

Rick stood up as Negan’s voice dropped to a growl. “You’ve got a fucking nerve... walking into our house, sitting at our table, drinking with my husband, acting like you’re still his brother when you’re not. Not anymore.”

“I didn’t come there for you.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

Rick kept his voice steady. “You think this is all about you? The world doesn't revolve around you.”

“You sure? Cause it goddamn looks like yours does. I see the way you look at me, Rick. Like you want something. But you won’t say it. Coward.”

“Better a coward than a liar,” the sheriff snapped. “At least I’m not married to someone I use like a fucking smoke screen.”

And that did it. Negan crossed the room in three steps and swung, fist landing hard against Rick’s cheek with a sound like breaking ribs. The shorter man staggered, caught himself on the edge of the desk, blood already swelling at his lip. He didn’t swing back, though. “I don’t wanna fight you, go home to your husband.” Rick said, breathing hard, shaking out his jaw. Negan’s voice cracked. “Then why the fuck do you keep crawling into my life?!”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Rick hissed. “I didn’t ask to feel anything....you came—” Negan slammed into him again — this time shoving him back, grabbing Rick by the collar, dragging him across the desk, and throwing him onto the floor. Rick grunted, shoulder catching the edge of the chair, sending it skidding across the tile with a screech. He lay there for a beat — blinking up at the ceiling, chest heaving — before he rolled, spit blood, and surged up with a growl.

He tackled Negan, fists hitting ribs. Elbows. Forearms. Furniture cracked under the weight of two men who’d been holding it in too long. Rick wrestled him to the ground, fists gripping Negan’s shirt, his voice raw as he shouted. “You wanna talk about fighting for what you want? You married a man you don’t even love—”

“Don’t you ever tell me who I love!”

Negan flipped him over, landed a hit to Rick’s side, then another to his temple. Rick’s vision flickered — but his hand came up, caught the taller man's wrist mid-swing. He shoved it aside, twisted, then headbutted him hard enough to hear cartilage crack.

Negan stumbled back, blood running down from his nose. “Jesus Christ,” he spat, wiping his face, tasting it. “You really are Shane’s brother.”

“I’m not his brother,” Rick roared. “Not anymore. Because of you!”

They stood there — bleeding, panting, bruised — Rick’s shirt half ripped open, Negan’s chest rising and falling like a bull about to charge again.

Then Negan laughed but it was broken and bitter. “You don’t even know why I married him.”

“No,” Rick growled, “but he surely does. He isn't playing when it comes to you.”

That wiped the smirk off Negan’s face.

“You keep calling me a coward,” Rick said, chest heaving. “But I’m not the one who hides in someone else’s bed just to feel wanted. I didn’t sell my soul to stay safe.”

Negan’s lip curled. “You want the truth?” Rick stepped closer. “You’re scared. You’ve always been scared. Of being alone. Of being left. That’s why you married Shane. You can't be alone! That’s why you’re so fucking mad at me. Because I walked away when you never could.”

Negan’s eyes burned. “Say that again.” Rick stared back. “You’re scared.” He lunged again — but this time Rick caught him mid-step, shoved him hard into the filing cabinet with a metallic crash. The whole room shook. Rick stood over him — blood dripping from his split brow — his voice cold.

“I didn’t come into your house to take anything. And I won't. But you’ve already lost it. You constantly open your big mouth about my marriage but look at yours.”

Negan slumped against the metal drawers, breath shuddering.

Rick walked past him, grabbed his jacket, and opened the door. “Don’t follow me,” he said, voice flat. “Or next time, I don’t hold back. What I told you at the hotel was the truth and you wanna know something? I am gonna let Michonne be happy, let her go. But I am lettin' you go too. Go ahead, go screw Shane, send me another recording every time you don't get your way. But remember, he is not my brother now but I won't touch his husband. What you two do is none of my problem anymore.”

He stepped out into the night — leaving Negan in the wreckage of the truth.

***

Maggie had stood on the porch for ten minutes before she found the nerve to knock. Her palm was still damp against the wood when the door opened, light spilling across her face, and there was Michonne—barefoot, hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a soft gray tee and leggings. She looked like she’d just finished putting Judith to bed. Her eyes softened when they landed on Maggie, and something in the younger woman's chest cinched tight. “Maggie,” she said quietly, voice lower than usual, like she already knew. “Is everything alright?”

Maggie swallowed, rain still clinging to her lashes. “No,” she admitted. “I don’t think it is.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Michonne’s hand curled around the edge of the door, knuckles white. Maggie stared at that hand, at the curve of her wrist, at the faint little scar she’d gotten last month fixing the porch railing a bit after she had just moved to Atlanta. She’d always been drawn to her in these quiet ways—things she’d pretended were just admiration or respect, things she couldn’t name until now. It wasn’t a sisterhood feeling, it was more.

Michonne stepped back. “Come in.”

Maggie’s boots thumped against the floor as she stepped past her into the familiar kitchen. It smelled like chamomile tea and the faint sweetness of baby shampoo. She’d spent so many evenings here in the beginning when she had first met her—helping Michonne with dinner, watching Judith and Carl bicker over board games, drinking wine and telling each other the kind of truths you only told at midnight. But this was different. She could feel it in her skin.

Michonne closed the door softly. She didn’t come closer. Just leaned her hip against the table, arms folded. Waiting. Maggie set her purse down, trying to find her voice. “I know this is… I know it’s not the right time.”

Michonne tilted her head. “Maggie, go ahead.”

“I need to say this.” The green-eyed woman drew in a shaking breath. “Before I lose my nerve.” The rain kept tapping the glass, like it wanted to fill the silence for them and Michonne didn’t interrupt. “You’ve been there for me,” Maggie said, voice low. “Since the first week I came down here to live in Atlanta permanently. You helped in my Dad's farm, doing my chores for me when I couldn’t get out of bed. And you didn't even know me that well then. You sat on the bathroom floor with me when I thought everything was falling apart, I was lonely as hell. You didn’t have to. You always… you always just did.”

“I care about you,” Michonne said, simple as that.

“I know.” Maggie’s throat was tight. “But I need you to know that it… that it isn’t just gratitude.” The older woman’s eyes searched her face, something unspoken flickering behind them. “Maggie.”

“I’m not sure when it started.” Maggie’s voice was a rasp. “But I can’t pretend it’s not there anymore. I don't see you as a friend. I don't see you as a sister...”

Michonne stood straighter, worried at her friend's words for a second, full lips parting—but Maggie pressed on, because if she didn’t, she’d never get the words out. “I’m not saying you have to feel the same,” she said quickly, voice tumbling over itself. “But I—God, I—” She let out a frustrated little laugh and scrubbed a hand over her eyes. “I think about you all the time. Not just as my friend. Not just as Rick’s wife. As… as someone I—”

“Maggie,” Michonne said again, but softer now, almost tender.

“I feel something for you,” Maggie whispered. “And I can’t keep pretending I don’t. It eats me on the inside.”

It was out. Hanging between them. And for a moment, all she could hear was the rain.

Michonne didn’t answer right away. Just let the quiet expand around them. Then, finally, she took a slow step forward. And another. Until she was close enough Maggie could see the little flecks of gold in her dark eyes, the way her throat worked as she swallowed.
“Do you know how brave you are?” she almost whispered. Maggie shook her head, eyes hot. “No. I feel like a coward.”

“You’re not.” Michonne lifted a hand, hesitated—and then brushed her knuckles across Maggie’s cheek. “You’re the bravest person I know.” Maggie turned her face into that touch before she could stop herself, breath catching. “I don’t want to make your life more complicated right now.”

“It already is,” Michonne said, voice husky. “You didn’t do that. But you… you just told me the truth.”

“Yeah,” Maggie breathed. “I did.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Michonne leaned in. Not all the way. Just enough that Maggie could feel the warmth of her breath. “Tell me again,” Michonne whispered. “I feel something for you,” Maggie said, steadier now. “I want—” Her voice broke. “I want you. God, you're so beautiful.”

Michonne’s eyes fluttered shut like that was the only permission she needed. And then she kissed her.
It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t chaste. It was heat and softness all tangled together, Michonne’s hand cupping her jaw, Maggie’s fingers sliding into her hair without thought, like her body had known this was coming before her mind ever caught up. She tasted like mint and chamomile tea and something sweeter Maggie couldn’t name. Maggie made a soft, broken sound into her mouth and felt Michonne’s answering sigh—like relief, like surrender.

When they finally pulled back, their foreheads rested together, breaths uneven. Michonne’s thumb traced the curve of Maggie’s cheek. “I don’t know where this goes.”

“Me either,” Maggie whispered.

“But I don’t want to pretend either.”

Maggie’s eyes burned. “Then don’t.”

Michonne kissed her again, deeper this time—slow but hungry, her other hand curling around Maggie’s waist to pull her close. Maggie melted into it, her body lighting up in ways she hadn’t let herself feel in years as she let her hands touch and grope at the other woman's chest almost not being able to contain anymore. When Michonne finally pulled away, her lips were parted, breath ragged. “We should stop, I should talk with the kids... and Rick, you know.” she murmured, but she didn’t let go.

“I know,” Maggie said, not moving either. Neither of them did. "I told him, Chonne. Hope you’re not mad. I needed to. Today..."

***

The steering wheel was slick with sweat by the time Shane realized how long he’d been gripping it—white-knuckled, fingers locked so tight the tendons in his wrists throbbed. The clock on the dash blinked 12:42 AM. The radio had been on earlier—some old Stones track warbling through static—but he’d turned it off because it was too much noise. And still, the silence felt worse.

He sat in the dark of the empty lot behind the old strip mall, engine idling low, headlights turned off. Rain had come and gone, left everything wet and shining under the sodium lamps, slick patches of asphalt catching the orange glow like oil on water. Every so often, a car passed by on the highway, tires hissing in the puddles. But here, nobody looked twice at a black SUV parked alone.

Shane tipped the bottle of Wild Turkey to his lips and swallowed. The burn in his throat wasn’t half as sharp as the one in his chest. He set the bottle in the passenger seat next to the scuffed-up badge he hadn’t pinned on in two days. Didn’t deserve to wear it, maybe. Didn’t much care.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Laughed under his breath—ugly, humorless. “You’d love this, huh?” he muttered to no one, voice rough from drinking and something he couldn’t name. “Me out here... feelin’ sorry for myself like some fuckin’ teenager.”

He could picture them. Clear as if he’d just walked in on it. Rick’s hand on the back of Negan’s neck, pulling him in like he needed it to breathe. Negan pressing him into some motel bed, sweat shining on that cocky face. Rick’s wedding ring catching the lamplight. Negan’s mouth moving—saying something low, something Shane wouldn’t even want to hear.

“Fuck,” Shane rasped. He dug the heel of his hand into his eye socket, like he could scrub the image out. It only got sharper. Rick’s face—straining, lips parted. Negan’s voice. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘧? 𝘈𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘵.

He swallowed bile.

It was raining again—just a mist, drifting sideways across the windshield. He didn’t turn the wipers on. Just stared through the blur of it.

“You think I don’t see it?” he muttered, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, voice getting louder as the whiskey climbed higher in his veins. “You think I don’t fuckin’ know where you are? Where he is? That you ain’t together right this second?” His palm slammed down against the wheel, hard enough to make the horn let out a strangled bleat. “You think I’m fuckin’ stupid?”

He braced his forearm across the wheel and bowed his head over it, shoulders heaving. For a second—just a second—he felt something crack open inside. Something soft. A voice that sounded a lot like the kid he used to be, the one who never would’ve believed he’d end up here, drunk and alone, hating the only two people who ever made him feel like he mattered in different ways. “You think I don’t remember what it was like before all this?” he whispered to the empty car. “When it was just me an’ Rick? When it was simple?” His throat closed around the memory. “We could’ve—could’ve had any life we wanted. But no. You came along. You fucked it all, you ruined my fuckin' life!”

He lifted his head slowly. His reflection stared back at him in the rearview mirror—eyes bloodshot, jaw shadowed in stubble, that old scar at his temple bright under the glow of the dash lights. He looked like a man he didn’t recognize anymore. A man he hated.“Negan,” he spat. The name tasted worse than the liquor. “You think you’re the only one who knows how to take what you want? To play the game, cheat and manipulate all you want? Let me tell you something, if you think I’m just gonna sit here and let you pick him off like some fuckin’ vulture?” He pressed his knuckles to his forehead, pressing hard enough to feel the pulse hammering behind his eyes. “One of you’s gotta go,” he said, voice cracking, raw and ragged. “I don’t care which.”

His hand curled into a fist, and he punched the steering wheel once—twice—three times—until the plastic creaked under the force, until he felt the skin split across his knuckles. He sucked in a shaking breath, knuckles throbbing, blood already oozing down into his palm. He didn’t even flinch. “Gonna end this,” he muttered. “One way or another.”

His eyes lifted, staring through the rain-smeared windshield at nothing.

And he didn’t say who he meant.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Maggie hadn’t planned for tonight to end here. She hadn’t planned for anything past the moment she’d said, “I feel something for you.” But now Michonne stood in the doorway of her small bathroom—just watching her. Barefoot, rain-damp curls clinging to her cheeks, lips parted like she might say something that would end it before it began.

But she didn’t.

She stepped in close instead, palms skimming Maggie’s jaw. And when they kissed again, it was softer than on the porch—no rush this time, no adrenaline. Just two women letting something real happen at last. The younger woman breathed her in—floral bodywash, rain, and the faint salt of tears neither of them had shed yet. She kissed back with a hunger she’d been too ashamed to name, letting her hands slide over Michonne’s shoulders, down her strong arms, thumbs brushing the soft inside of her elbows.
“I can’t—” she started, her voice trembling as they pulled back just enough to breathe. “I can’t pretend tonight. I want you now...so much....”

“You don’t have to,” Michonne whispered, voice low and sure. Her thumb traced Maggie’s lower lip. “Let’s not.” The air between them crackled, thick with wanting. Maggie reached for the hem of the other woman’s now wet white T-shirt, tugging it slowly upward. Michonne raised her arms in silent agreement. The shirt peeled off, baring smooth, brown skin that gleamed in the warm lamplight like gold. The younger one let her hands follow—up over her ribs, over the elegant lines of her collarbones. She swallowed, heart tripping hard against her breastbone. “You’re so fuckin' beautiful,” she whispered. Michonne smiled—soft, private—and reached for the buttons of Maggie’s red blouse. That sexy red blouse...She undid them one by one, her fingertips grazing pale skin as she bared the freckled swell of Maggie’s breasts, the delicate line of her waist. Maggie shivered as cool air kissed her pale rosey skin, but Michonne’s palms came up to warm her, to cup her gently. “Let’s get in the shower, dear” Michonne said, voice gone husky.

Maggie nodded.

They didn’t rush. She turned the water on first—let it run hot, filling the little bathroom with rising steam. They undressed each other in the mist, unhurried, like they both needed to feel every inch of this surrender.

When Michonne slid Maggie’s jeans down her hips, she pressed a kiss just above her navel, then rested her cheek there for a moment—like she was listening to the green-eyed beauty's heartbeat. Maggie threaded her fingers into Michonne’s hair, closing her eyes.

God, this is real. When they stepped under the spray, the world shrank to the warmth of water and skin. Maggie gasped as heat soaked her hair, ran in rivulets down her spine. The older woman's hands came up to her ribs, coaxing her to turn. Their bodies pressed together—breasts soft against each other, thighs brushing..Maggie’s mouth found hers again—wet, open, hungry. Water splashed between their lips as they kissed, and Michonne’s tongue traced the seam of her mouth, coaxing her deeper. Maggie kissed back harder, moaning softly when the darker lady's hands slid lower, palms cupping her ass to pull her flush. “You feel so good,” Michonne whispered against her lips.

“So do you.”

The shower rained over their shoulders as Michonne kissed her way down Maggie’s throat—slow, savoring. Maggie tipped her head back, eyes fluttering shut when Michonne’s teeth grazed her collarbone. She gasped when warm hands cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples. The sensation was almost too much—heat and slickness and the thrum of her own pulse echoing between her legs. “Chonne,” she whispered, voice breaking.

“Shh.” Michonne lifted her gaze— seductive dark eyes heavy with want—and leaned in to kiss her again, slower this time. One hand slid down, skimming the soft curve of Maggie’s belly. Down further. When her fingers parted the younger woman's folds, Maggie’s knees nearly buckled. “You’re so wet, drippin for me, baby girl?” The former friend, now lover asked with a smirk. “It’s the water,” Maggie tried to joke, breathless.

Michonne smiled. “Liar.”

She kissed her again, swallowing Maggie’s soft cry as her fingers circled her clit. Maggie clutched her shoulders, helpless against the sudden rush of pleasure. Her hips rocked forward on instinct, seeking more. Michonne obliged—rubbing her in slow, patient circles until Maggie was shaking. “You can let go,” Michonne whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Maggie did.

She let her forehead fall to Michonne’s shoulder as the pleasure built—slow and sure, winding her tight. When Michonne slipped two fingers inside her, she moaned aloud, hips canting forward as the stretch made her thighs quiver. “That’s it,” Michonne coaxed. Her free hand smoothed Maggie’s wet hair back from her temple, thumb stroking her cheek. “You’re beautiful like this.”

Maggie felt tears prick her lashes—hot, unashamed. No one had ever touched her this way. No one had ever made her feel seen even in her most naked need.

“I’m gonna—”

“Let go.”

Maggie came with a soft, choked sob, hips rolling helplessly into Michonne’s palm. She shuddered through it, feeling herself clench around those steady fingers, the hot water washing everything clean even as her heart cracked open wider.

When she came down, Michonne kissed her hair. Kissed her cheek. Her lips. “Your turn, Miss Hotness ” Maggie whispered when she could breathe again.

She nudged Michonne back against the tile, water cascading over her chest, dark curls plastered to her shoulders. Maggie dropped to her knees on the slick porcelain floor without hesitating. She kissed the flat plane of Michonne’s stomach, tasting clean skin and steam. The shorter woman's breath caught when the other woman kissed lower—just above the neat line of dark hair at her center. Her hands came to Maggie’s shoulders, trembling. “Maggie…please”

“Let me.”

Maggie slid her hands up Michonne’s thighs, parting them gently. When she leaned in to taste her—hot, slick, utterly perfect—Michonne moaned so sweetly it made Maggie ache all over again. She licked slow at first, savoring the way Michonne’s thighs tensed under her palms, the way her fingers tangled in Maggie’s wet hair. “That’s—God—” Michonne’s head fell back against the tile. Maggie licked her again, circling her clit with the tip of her tongue, then closing her mouth over it and sucking softly. Michonne gasped—high, broken. Her hips rocked forward once, then again.

“You taste so good...better than any man. Than any other woman...” Maggie murmured.

Michonne didn’t answer—just let out a low, helpless moan when Maggie slipped two fingers inside her, matching the rhythm of her mouth. She worked her steadily, savoring every tremor, every soft cry, every way Michonne’s body told the truth she’d never dared say. When she came, she did it with her hand fisted in Maggie’s hair, her hips bucking forward, a hoarse cry echoing off the tile. The one between her legs kept going until her thighs were trembling, until she sagged back against the wall with her eyes fluttering shut.
Maggie stood then—unsteady—and Michonne pulled her in for a kiss that tasted of both of them. When they finally turned off the water, they dried each other in silence. Soft touches. Slow smiles.

Maggie’s heart was still racing as they crawled into bed—still bare, still damp, still unafraid. Michonne curled behind her, an arm snug around her waist, lips brushing her ear. “You okay?”

“Hell yeah.” Maggie swallowed. “I think I’m better than okay. I just hit the jackpot after all...”

***

The dark was thin before dawn when Shane finally stopped pretending he was asleep. His husband's slow breathing filled the bedroom, steady as rain on a tin roof, and for a second—just a second—Shane almost reached over to feel the weight of it against his palm.

He didn’t.

Instead, he stared at the ceiling and let the old memories crawl up his spine like they always did. The truth he never said out loud, not even to himself most days, was that before all this—before Negan, before the marriage, before the constant ugly jealousy—Rick Grimes was the only man he ever felt anything for.

And he’d never planned on it.

He remembered the first time he noticed—back when they were both young and stupid, hauling gear out of the squad car at some nothing traffic stop. Rick had given him that look—steady, clear-eyed, like he saw every decent part left in him. And maybe that was the problem. Shane had never planned to sleep with Rick. Never planned to want him that way. It was just something that was always there, humming under everything.

But Rick was always too good, too fucking straight-laced, too goddamn righteous to even see it. Or maybe he saw it and turned away on purpose. And Shane told himself he didn’t care. And went for the bitch Lori instead who broke something in him too and of course chose Rick for the long run.

And then Negan showed up.

Big mouth. Big swagger. Big everything.

And for all the shit people said about him, he never pretended he didn’t want things he wasn’t supposed to want. So when the whole mess went sideways—Negan’s trouble with the feds, the way Shane pulled strings to keep it quiet—it felt easy enough to make the deal. Convenient. Practical.

But that wasn’t the whole truth.

Some mean little part of Shane had wanted it for one reason: Because in a year or two—after Rick finally crawled back to Atlanta with that tired look in his blue eyes—Shane could hold up the ring like a middle finger to the face that haunted him every time he closed his eyes....

𝙊𝙣𝙚 𝙔𝙚𝙖𝙧 𝘼𝙜𝙤

Vegas was neon and stale smoke, a cheap motel that smelled like Lysol and wet carpet. Shane still had the dust of Georgia on his boots when they checked in.

Negan had grinned the whole goddamn drive up from the courthouse, drumming his fingers on the console, humming along to whatever bullshit was on the radio. Like this was just some big joke. They’d signed the papers that afternoon—fast, efficient, no witnesses except a bored clerk with pink hair. Shane had thought maybe he’d feel something. Guilt. Relief. Satisfaction.

Instead he just felt tired.

That first night, his husband cracked open a bottle of shitty bourbon and held it out. “To the happy couple,” he drawled, smirk in full effect. The cop took the glass without looking at him. “Don’t push it.”

Negan clinked his own glass against Shane’s anyway. “Aw, c’mon. You’re gonna act like this ain’t what you wanted?” Shane threw back the shot in one swallow. “What I wanted was to not be here.” Negan laughed, rough and mean. “Bullshit. You wanted this. Maybe not me, but the rest of it—the story, the fuckin’ legend of Shane Walsh.” He gestured wide, bourbon sloshing over his knuckles. “A big ‘fuck you’ to all the people who told you no. Rick included, right?”

Shane’s jaw twitched. “Don’t say his name.”

“Sure,” the older man said, that sly glint in his hazel eyes. “But we both know this is about him.”

“Go to hell, I am makin' you a favor, you're not my type...” Shane snapped. Negan just took another sip and leaned against the dresser, watching him with that infuriating calm. “You know what your problem is? You can’t let shit go. You think the world owes you some tidy ending. It doesn’t. It gives you whatever’s left when the decent folks are done pickin’ through the scraps.”

Shane glared. “What’s that even supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Negan said, voice softening in a way that made it worse, “you and me? We’re the same. We get what we can, when we can. And if that means the rest of the world calls it a fuckin’ mistake? Let ‘em.” He set his glass down and stepped in close. Close enough the younger man could smell the bourbon on his breath, feel the heat of him. Negan’s voice dropped to something that was almost gentle. “The past is done, cowboy. This—” he tapped Shane’s chest with two fingers, right over his badge tattoo “—this is how the world works now.”

Shane didn’t move. Didn’t look up. Negan’s mouth curved in a slow smile. “If you play your cards right, you might as well enjoy it, Officer Walsh.”

And just like that, the seed was planted. A thing that would grow into something they’d both come to regret—and neither of them would ever be man enough to stop.

It didn’t take a day before Negan started circling him.
It was little shit at first—the new husband taking up too much space in the motel room, walking around half-dressed, towels slung low on his hips, acting like they were on some honeymoon he’d actually signed up for.

Shane ignored it. Mostly.

That first morning, he was standing at the sink, brushing his teeth, when the older man stepped out of the shower with steam rolling off him and water tracking down the ink on his arms. He didn’t bother with a towel for his hair, just let it drip onto his shoulders.

He paused in the doorway, eyeing Shane in the mirror. “Goddamn,” Negan drawled, voice rough from sleep. “You look about as thrilled to be here as a man waitin’ on a prostate exam.”

Shane spat foam into the sink. “Yeah, well. This was your bright idea...Vegas.”

“Pretty sure you were the one who proposed,” Negan shot back, smirking.“Don’t mean I wanna hear you flappin’ your gums every morning,” Shane muttered. The taller man stepped in close behind him—just close enough their bare shoulders almost brushed. He met Shane’s eyes in the mirror, all heat and amusement. “C’mon. You don’t got to keep pretending you have never thought about it.”

“Thought about what exactly?" The other gritted. Negan tilted his head, a drop of water rolling slow down his neck. “About what happens when two bastards like us stop pretending this is just a business arrangement.” Shane turned, toothbrush still in hand, and looked him dead in the eye. “Let me tell you somethin'...you ain’t all that,”

Negan’s brows rose. “This ain’t some fantasy,” he went on, voice flat. “I didn’t sign up to screw convicts, I signed up to make sure you kept your ass outta prison. That’s it. You are Rick’s friend after all...You will pay in money later.” The older man’s smirk didn’t fade. If anything, it got sharper. “Sure,” he murmured, voice soft like a threat. “Whatever helps you sleep, Officer.” Shane pushed past him, grabbed a towel off the counter, and wiped his face. “Don’t flatter yourself. You think everybody wants you ‘cause you strut around waggin’ your dick in the air?”

Negan laughed, low and smug. “Pretty sure you’re the only one in this room tryin’ real hard not to look at it.” Shane threw the towel down. “Fuck off.”

They’d been in the Atlanta house less than a month. Still boxes by the front door, still that stale smell of new paint and resentment clinging to everything. Negan was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, beer bottle hooked in his fingers, watching Shane pace the floor like he was trying to wear a trench in it. “Look,” the older man said finally, voice gravelly and serious, “I’m just sayin’—if you’re not interested, if you’d rather keep pinin’ for your old buddy Grimes—“Don’t start with that bullshit.”

“—then I gotta find somebody else to scratch the itch. Because you sure as hell ain’t scratchin’ it.”

Shane stopped dead. Turned, slow. His face looked carved out of stone. “You what?” Negan lifted a brow. “You heard me.”

“You’re sittin’ here tellin’ me you wanna—what—open this shit up? Like we’re—like we’re a couple of teenagers screwin’ whoever we want?” Negan’s smile was a little too calm. “It’s not complicated, Walsh. If you don’t want me—and it sure fuckin’ seems like you don’t—I’m not gonna sit around jerkin’ off waitin’ for you to get over your moral crisis.” Shane’s hands curled into fists. “You are not gonna disrespect me like that.”
The older man tilted his head, amused. “Oh, so now suddenly you give a shit?”

“I always gave a shit.”

“Bullshit. You said you didn’t like me sooo...” Negan slid off the table, stepping closer. “Why do you care if I do what I want with somebody else?” The younger man's voice dropped, low and vibrating. “Because you married me.” Negan let out a humorless laugh. “Married you for convenience, darlin’. You knew the fuckin’ terms.”

“Yeah, and the terms didn’t include you whorin’ around to get your rocks off.”

“Jesus Christ.” Negan threw his arms wide. “Why the fuck do you even care if you don’t want me?” Shane’s jaw clenched. His voice came out strangled, all rage and something uglier he didn’t want to name. “Because I said so.”

Negan stared at him, eyebrows raised. “That’s it?” he drawled, voice gone soft and dangerous. “That’s all you got? Because you said so?” Shane’s breath was ragged. “You ain’t gonna do it.”

“Or what?”

Shane took a step closer—close enough Negan could see the pulse hammering in his throat. “Or I’ll make damn sure you can’t.” Negan looked at him for a long moment, eyes searching, something like realization flickering across his face—like he’d finally seen straight through all that cold detachment to what was really there.

He didn’t smile this time. Just stepped back and lifted his beer, voice low. “Whatever you say… husband.”

And for the first time, Shane didn’t have a comeback.
Just stood there, chest heaving, hating how much it felt like he’d already lost.

***

𝙉𝙊𝙒

Negan was standing at the sink, shirt half-unbuttoned, a bruise spreading slow along the side of his jaw. He’d been staring at nothing for a good ten minutes, one hand braced on the counter like it was the only thing holding him upright. Shane came in quiet, closing the door behind him with a soft click. For a minute, he just watched him—watched the slow rise and fall of his back, the way the tension bunched up in his shoulders like coiled wire.

Finally, Shane cleared his throat. “Rough night?” His husband sighed, voice flat. “Bar fight.” The younger man let out a low laugh, more exhale than humor. “Sure it was.” He moved to the counter, flipped the coffee pot on. The smell started to fill the kitchen—strong and bitter, the way Negan liked it. “You wanna cup?” Shane asked, casual as anything. The older man didn’t answer right away. Then, grudging...“Yeah.” The cop pulled down a mug, poured it full, and—without hesitation—slipped the little vial out of his pocket. Clear liquid, almost nothing to look at. One quick twist of the cap, one squeeze into the coffee. He stirred it once, slow.

Then set it in front of Negan. “Drink. Might help that douchebag attitude.” The older man glanced at him, eyes wary, but his pride wouldn’t let him refuse. He picked up the mug, took a swallow, hissed when it hit the split in his lip.

Shane leaned against the counter, arms folded. “You look like shit, midlife crisis isn't treatin' you well.”

“Say that again,” Negan growled, “see how fast I break your nose.” The younger man just grinned to himself while watching him drink. “Let me tell you somethin',” he said after a minute, voice going quieter, “I been thinkin’.” Negan let out a humorless snort. “Oh, fuck me. Here we go.”

“No,” Shane said evenly, “you already did that part. Didn’t exactly fix anything, did it?” Negan’s jaw flexed. “What do you want, Shane? Speak directly.”

“I want you to admit it,” he said, voice flat. “You don’t wanna be here. You were with Rick last night...” The older man looked down into his coffee. “You done feelin’ sorry for yourself? Are we having this conversation that early in the morning? REALLY?”

Shane’s mouth twisted. “Nah, man. Just gettin’ started.” He pushed off the counter, stepped closer, crowding his husband back a little. “Maybe you need to fuck off,” he said softly.

Negan blinked, then let out a low laugh that sounded more tired than amused. “Yeah? That what you want?”
The younger man shrugged one shoulder. “Ain’t about what I want. You been halfway out the door since the day he came back.” Negan’s mouth curved. “Well, can you blame me? You’re a mean drunk and a shittier husband.”

“Yeah and you are not the same two plus a cheatin' trash, c'mon?” His voice dropped, rough. “Maybe I’ll try my luck with Rick.” Negan’s smile faded. “The fuck did you just say?”

“You heard me,” the cop rasped. “I’m tired of watchin’ you crawl after him. Maybe I’ll go see if he wants a man who actually knows how to stay put.”

“You think Rick would touch you with a fuckin’ stick?”

Shane’s grin was slow, cruel. “You’d be surprised, I mean...better me than you. I don't have a fuckin' habit of cheating on my spouses with their best friends. He’s a sentimental fuck.” Negan swallowed, the coffee mug trembling just a little in his hand. “You’re so full of shit. YOU DAMN PIECE OF SHIT!”

“Am I?” Shane’s dark brown eyes narrowed. “Then why you lookin’ like I just kicked your dog?” Negan didn’t answer. “Go on,” Shane said, gesturing to the cup. “Drink up. It’ll help.”

“Here’s the deal,” he continued, voice calm as a quiet room before a brawl. “You wanna keep pretendin’ you ain’t halfway in love with Rick? Fine. But I ain’t playin’ the dumb husband anymore.”

“You never were,” Negan muttered. “That’s right,” Shane said. “I was the stupid one. Thought maybe—just maybe—you’d get over him.” The taller man’s eyelids fluttered a little bit. “You feelin’ that yet?” Shane asked softly. The older one frowned. “What?”

“The sleepiness.”

Negan opened his mouth to snap something back—but it didn’t come. He blinked, slow. His head felt…wrong. Heavy. “The fuck did you—”

Shane stepped forward and caught the mug before it hit the floor. “Easy,” he murmured, almost gentle. “Don’t fight it. You’ll make it worse.” His husband's hand scrabbled weakly at his chest. “You—motherfucker—”

“Yeah,” Shane whispered, brushing his knuckles along Negan’s bruised cheek. “I know.” The older man's knees buckled but Shane caught him, hauled him in close. He was way heavier than he looked. “You wanted me obsessed,” he said, voice soft against his ear. “So why the fuck you tryin’ to run now?” Negan’s eyes rolled back. “Go on,” Shane whispered. “Sleep. Shut up for a while.” And when Negan finally went limp, Shane held him a second longer, breathing in the leathery scent and that expensive cologne. Then he bent down, pressed a rough kiss to the corner of his slack mouth. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Shane murmured. “Not without me.”

𝙎𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙚’𝙨 𝙄𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙧 𝙋𝙊𝙑

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬? 𝘖𝘳 𝘓𝘰𝘳𝘪?

𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥? 𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘨, 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦, 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘪𝘧 𝘐’𝘥 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶—𝘪𝘧 𝘐’𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶—𝘪𝘧 𝘐’𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘯𝘦𝘸𝘴𝘧𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘩, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯’. 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥.

𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘢 𝘣𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘏𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩, 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯’ 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘎𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯’—𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯’ 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯’ 𝘧𝘰𝘳.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮—𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭. 𝘈𝘪𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩? 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘺 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦? 𝘐’𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘩. 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘰 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥...𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺. 𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘳𝘶𝘯. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴.

𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘋𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘺—𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘩, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵—𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.

𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘴, 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴’ 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴 ‘𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘸𝘭 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳.

𝘞𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯’, 𝘕𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯. 𝘉𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳....𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘢 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰. 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘱. 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘒𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦. 𝘒𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦...𝘐'𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥. 𝘐 𝘧𝘪𝘹𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘵—𝘐 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘋𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘓𝘦𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘐 𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘴.

𝘈𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘰…
…𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥?

***

The wipers dragged across the windshield in slow, squeaking arcs. Shane drove one-handed, knuckles white on the wheel. The interstate unspooled ahead of them—long gray miles rolling through the morning rain. He hadn’t stopped since sunrise. Wasn’t planning to.

In the passenger seat, Negan lay slumped against the door, the seatbelt cinched tight across his chest. His head lolled a little with every bump in the road. He looked half-dead, but Shane could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyelids when the sedative slipped for a second. Good. Let him wake up just enough to know he’d lost.

Shane reached into his jacket pocket and touched the old brass keys—warm and familiar. The keys to that cabin Negan used to brag about. Some half-rotted shack in Virginia he’d never thought he’d actually see.

Well.

They were gonna see it now.

He’d told himself it was about Rick.

About proving he could take back what Rick always threatened to steal. But the truth was simpler, and uglier, and so goddamn obvious it almost made him laugh. This wasn’t about Rick, not anymore.

It was about saving his marriage. About keeping what was his. About making sure Negan never forgot who the fuck he belonged to. He pressed his foot harder on the gas, felt the truck surge forward—past the last exit, past every chance he’d ever had to turn around. “You ain’t gonna walk away, traitor” he muttered, voice low, steady. “Not from me. Not after everything.”

The rain kept coming down in sheets, washing the road clean behind them.

And if Rick ever figured out where they’d gone…Well... It’d be too late.

***

Rick was elbow-deep in paperwork when the call came through dispatch—some bland voice confirming the last of Shane Walsh’s transfer papers had been processed. He almost didn’t catch the name. Wouldn’t have, except the dispatcher repeated it with that perfunctory tone of someone closing a file for good. “—and just confirming the departmental transfer for Officer Shane Walsh, effective date last Friday, destination Richmond, Virginia—”

Rick’s pen paused. The line of ink he’d been scrawling across the report bled into a small blot. “Sorry—what?” he asked, voice flat. “Detective Walsh. Transfer request you signed off on?”

“I didn’t sign this off.” There was a brief pause, the rustle of papers. “Says here it was approved by Chief Ford. Must’ve been expedited. He’s been off your roster for four days.” Four days.

Rick swallowed. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “He leave contact info?”

“Just the new department’s HR number,” the dispatcher said, distracted, already moving on. “Want me to patch you through?”

“No,” Rick said, too quickly. “That’s fine.”

He hung up before she could ask anything else. For a moment, he sat there, staring down at the old case folder in front of him. His blue eyes blurred. There was a coffee ring on the cover. Something stupidly ordinary.

Shane was gone.

Not just out of the precinct. Out of the state.

And Negan— Rick hadn’t seen him since the fight. No calls. No texts. Just silence.

He pushed back from the desk so abruptly his chair rolled into the filing cabinet behind him. He stood in the doorway of the office, breathing hard, like he’d been running.

Outside, rain swept across the parking lot in fast, slanting sheets. The world going about its business. No one caring that one more thing had been ripped away without warning.

A thought came, unbidden: They’re together.

It made too much sense—Shane leaving town without a word, Negan vanishing at the same time. All that rage and need and twisted devotion, folding back in on itself.

He imagined them screwing in some cheap motel on the highway out of Georgia. Maybe they deserved each other. Maybe they always had.

But that didn’t make the hollow in Rick’s chest any smaller. He turned back to his desk. There was nothing left to say. No one to call.

Just a signed transfer form and an empty locker—and the bitter, undeniable certainty that, for all the noise and fighting and confessions, the only person who’d meant any of it was him.

Chapter Text

Negan hit the floor like a fallen tree—just a big dead weight of muscle and bad choices, the side of his cheek smacking the tile with a dull thud. Shane stood over him a second, breathing hard. His hand was still on the empty vial.

He wasn’t sure how long he waited—counting the seconds, watching for a twitch. When none came, he crouched down and pressed two fingers to the bastard’s throat. Steady pulse. Good.

He let out a low, shaky breath he didn’t want to admit was relief. “Damn you, douchebag” he muttered, and pushed to his feet. It took longer than he wanted to wrestle him up. His husband was heavy and tall—more muscle than a man his age had any right to carry—and dead weight was the worst kind. Shane tried to shoulder him upright, but his knees buckled halfway to the door. “Jesus—fuckin’—Christ—” he panted, propping the unconscious man against the wall. He straightened up, chest heaving. Looked down at the bruised mouth he’d kissed an hour ago. “You deserve every bruise you get,” he hissed, voice low and ragged. “To be honest, you deserve way worse.” He caught Negan by the arm again, bent low, and dragged. The bastard’s boots caught on the threshold with a dull scrape, nearly tripping him. He didn’t stop. Just kicked the door wider and kept pulling. Negan’s head lolled against his shoulder, heavy as guilt.

The front steps were a fight. Shane half-carried, half-dropped him down each one, swearing under his breath every time Negan’s shoulder banged the wood. The rain was still coming down, cold and merciless. By the time he got to the car, they were both soaked.

He propped his husband against the passenger door and fished the keys out with trembling fingers. The older man slumped sideways, almost taking them both to the gravel. Shane snapped. “Stay the fuck still,” he spat, voice cracking. Like Negan could hear him. Like any of this was fair.

When he finally wrestled him into the seat—awkward and graceless—Negan’s head hit the dash with a hollow thunk. Shane didn’t bother apologizing. He leaned in close, one hand braced on the dash. “You wanna run? You wanna fuckin’ leave me?” he growled, voice low. “This is what you get. Do it now, why don't you?” He yanked the seatbelt across that broad chest, clipped it home. For a second, he just stared at him. Greying dark hair soaked, jaw bruised, lips parted on a ragged breath that smelled like his last coffee and bourbon. “You picked me,” the cop whispered. “Remember that. Never forget who started that shit...” He slammed the door.

The rain stopped by the time they crossed the state line, but the sky stayed low and gray, pressing down on the car like a curse. Negan stirred once—just enough to let out a hoarse sound in his throat. Shane reached over, curled his hand around the back of his neck, and squeezed until he went still again. “You ain’t wakin’ up now,” he muttered, voice flat. “Not till I’m ready.”

It was nearly dark when he turned off the blacktop onto the gravel track—barely even a road anymore. Weeds scraped the fenders, branches slapping the windshield.
The cabin looked smaller than Negan ever made it sound. A sagging porch, one window cracked, a rusted propane tank leaning against the side. It figured the bastard would romanticize a dump like this. He killed the engine and just sat for a second. Listened to the ticking of the cooling motor. To his husband’s slow breathing. Then he opened the door and climbed out. His boots sinking in mud. He rounded to the passenger side, braced himself, and hauled Negan out all over again.

The old man was starting to come around—his head lifting, mouth working like he had something to say. Shane didn’t let him find words. He threw Negan’s arm over his shoulders, hooked a hand under his ribs, and dragged him up the steps. Every slip on the wet boards was another reason to hate him.

Inside, it smelled like mold and old smoke. He kicked the door shut and half-dropped Negan on the sagging couch. The impact rattled the coffee table.

Negan groaned, slumping sideways, hair falling over his eyes.“You’re awake enough to listen?” Shane rasped. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the cuffs—plain steel, same ones he’d worn on duty a thousand times. The taller man’s hazel eyes cracked open, glassy and unfocused. “...Shane.”

“That’s right,” he said, voice gone quiet and mean. “Shane Walsh. The same son of a bitch who kept you out of prison. The same one who married your sorry ass.” Negan blinked, tried to lift his head. “...What the fuck...did you—“Shut up.” He caught Negan’s wrists in one strong hand, twisted them behind his back. The older man let out a raw noise—half-protest, half-pain—but Shane didn’t soften. He snapped the cuffs home, the click loud in the quiet room. “Consider this,” Shane panted, leaning close enough his breath stirred Negan’s wet hair, “the only goddamn reason you’re not in a ditch somewhere.”

He shoved him forward until Negan was slumped over his knees on the couch, wrists pinned tight behind his back. For a second—just one—he let his hand settle on the back of Negan’s neck. “Don’t fight me,” he whispered. “You got no idea how much worse I can make this. I'd fuck you up.”

Negan’s head lolled again. A wet, ragged breath shivered through him. “...Fuck you.”

Shane’s mouth twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “That’s the only thing you do right, sneaky son of a bitch.” He shoved himself upright, breathing hard.

***

He stood there with his hands braced on his thighs, breathing like he’d just run a goddamn marathon. His knuckles were still white where he’d gripped the cuffs.
And he couldn’t stop looking at Negan—slumped sideways, wrists pinned behind his back, mouth open just enough to show a glint of teeth.

He looked so fucking mortal like this. So easy to hurt. And God help him—he’d wanted to. The second he’d felt Negan start to go limp on that kitchen floor, the first thing in his head hadn’t been relief nor guilt.

It had been the mean, hot satisfaction of knowing he could do it. That he had the strength to put this cheating son of a bitch down if he wanted.

He could have beaten him bloody right there on the tile.
Could have put his boots to those ribs—could have split that smug mouth open until it was nothing but red and ruin.

And part of him… Part of him would have liked it.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and his now grown brown hair on the head, jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

He’d spent his whole life telling himself he wasn’t like his husband —wasn’t some violent criminal too mean to let go of a grudge. And then Negan had stood there in that kitchen, bruised and cussing and acting like Rick Grimes was still the only man who ever mattered, and Shane had felt it—that blind, red want to hurt him.

To show him who he belonged to. To prove he could never crawl back to Rick again, not alive, not even dead. 𝘑𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘴 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵, he thought, his throat tight. 𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘵.

Almost let the fuse burn all the way down. Almost turned this into a murder scene. Almost ended up with blood on his hands and a corpse in the living room—and no way back to the life he’d clawed out of the shit.
But his brown eyes flicked over the little table where he’d dropped the first vial.

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘎𝘰𝘥, he thought, swallowing hard. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘎𝘰𝘥 he’d stopped and he’d remembered the plan.
𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘱, he reminded himself. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥.

Anybody could fly off the handle—any half-drunk asshole in a bar fight. But this? This was controlled. It was a long-term solution.

He didn’t want a body to bury or to be standing over a grave with Rick staring down at him like he was the most pathetic, most insecure son of a bitch alive. Didn’t want to spend the rest of his life rotting behind bars because he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.

But mostly, he didn’t want to lose Negan. Not really. Not even when the bastard deserved it.

So yeah, maybe drugging him wasn’t noble. Maybe it was fucked up in ways he’d never be man enough to confess. But it was so much better than the alternative— waking up with his legal husband’s blood under his fingernails and a cold bed he’d never crawl into again.
𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺, he told himself, slow and deliberate, like saying it enough times would make it true. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩.

He looked down at Negan’s cuffed body one more time. The stupid, doomed part of him still hoping he’d open his eyes and say something worth hearing. Instead, all he got was a ragged breath and nothing else.

Shane let out a slow exhale as picked up the empty vial, set it in the kitchen sink. And he promised himself—promised—he wasn’t going to let the short fuse win again. No matter how bad he wanted to.

***

He’d thought everything would be harder and maybe somewhere along the line, some halfway decent person would ask why a police officer needed enough sedatives to drop a bull.

But he’d underestimated how willing most folks were to look the other way if you walked in wearing a badge.

All it took was a few calls. A couple bullshit stories about evidence transfer, about an “undercover op” he’d never write up.

One quick meet behind a shit-smelling dive bar in Mechanicsville— a dealer who was a scrawny little shit with rotten teeth.

He didn’t ask questions when Shane showed him the cash.

Didn’t even blink when the cop reeled off the list:

The good benzos. The stuff you could sprinkle in a drink and watch a man’s brain turn to paste.

Some old-stock barbiturates they didn’t prescribe anymore.

A little bottle of liquid G that would’ve got him fired—if anybody still gave a damn what he did.

He’d stood there under the buzzing security light, feeling the drizzle soak into the collar of his shirt, listening to the obvious meth addict talk fast. “This one—two drops. Any more, they won't be wakin’ up for a day, you get me?”

Shane nodded. “Any less, and they’ll still know their name. This one—” the junkie dealer held up a cloudy vial—“this one’s fun. You wanna make a man forget what year it is? You wanna make him forget who he’s fuckin’? This is your shit.”

“Bag it up."

***

When he came back to conscience, his mouth felt like a strip of old leather. Every muscle throbbed like he’d been run over by a truck. He shifted—just enough to feel the steel bite at his wrists.

Cuffed.

Of course.

He wet his cracked lips and turned his head toward Shane who was sitting in the armchair a few feet away, elbows on his knees, watching.

He looked like he hadn’t moved since the older man passed out. Negan huffed a laugh that tasted like stale bourbon and bile. “Jesus,” he rasped, voice shredded. “You gonna sit there guardin' me all fuckin’ week?”

“You awake enough to talk?”

Negan stretched his shoulders—testing the cuffs, feeling the dull pull in his ribs. “Awake enough to tell you you’re a chickenshit coward.”

“Oh and why’s that?”

Negan’s lip curled, one brow hitching up. “You wanna keep me here—like some goddamn dog —fine. But you don’t even got the balls to finish it like a man.” He shifted again, chains rattling against the couch frame. “Go on,” he muttered, voice low and dark. “Put me down. You got the gun. Do it.”

Shane’s dark eyes were flat as old glass. “I won't kill you.”

“No?” Negan snorted. “Then what’s this? Some pathetic cry for attention? ‘Ooooh, look at me, Rick, I’m babysittin’ your trash—’”

He didn’t see Shane move. One second, the bastard was sitting calm as a priest.
The next, he was leaning over, fist twisted in Negan’s collar, yanking him forward hard enough his cuffed wrists bit bone. “Shut your mouth about him or you wish me to beat you bloody instead.”

Negan’s grin was all teeth. “Truth hurts, right?”

Shane’s voice dropped to a raw whisper. “You say one more word about Rick Grimes, and I swear to God, I’ll make you wish I’d just shot you.” They stared at each other—breath coming ragged, close enough Negan could feel the heat off him.

Finally, Shane let go. He stepped back, chest heaving while Negan sagged against the cushions, every inch of him trembling.

He looked up slow, eyes black with contempt. “You can chain me up all you want,” he rasped, “but you and me both know that won't change a thing.”

For a second—just a second—he almost proved Negan wrong the ugly way. Almost let his hands settle on that throat, squeezing until the voice went quiet.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he drew a slow breath and stepped into the little kitchenette. He poured a glass of water—steady hands—and unscrewed the new vial. A measured dose. Not enough to knock him clean out. Just enough to make the edges soft.

He turned back and set the water on the coffee table.

Negan didn’t look at it. Didn’t look at him. Just stared at the floor, wrists flexing against the cuffs. “You thirsty?” Shane asked evenly.

Nothing.

He reached for the glass, holding it up. “You want a drink, you say 'please'.” Negan’s jaw flexed, a tic at the hinge. Then—so quiet Shane almost missed it— “...Fuck you.”

Shane tipped the rim to his own lips, sipped. “Suit yourself then.” He set it back down, turning to leave.
Made it two steps before Negan’s voice—rough and thin—followed him. “Wait.”

The younger man looked back.

“Please.”

Shane went and picked the glass up again, kneeling in front of him. “Good,” he said, voice calm. “Open your mouth.” Negan glared at him with that same seething defiance—then tilted his head back as his captor husband pressed the rim to his lips and watched him drink—swallow after swallow, Adam’s apple working.

***

When he woke again, the first thing he noticed was the ache in his wrists. He turned his head slow, blinking at the pale light leaking through the cracked window. The couch was different, not the leather one in Atlanta.

His tongue felt three sizes too big. For a minute, he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here.

Then it hit him—like a punch under the ribs.

Shane.

His chest tightened. He tried to sit up, but the cuffs yanked tight, clanking metal on wood. His pulse kicked up hard enough he felt it in his temples. “Shane,” he rasped, voice ragged. “You in here?” No answer. He slumped back against the cushion. Everything felt off—like a dream he couldn’t crawl out of. His mouth worked, trying to wet his lips. “Goddamn it—Shane.”

Nothing. He closed his eyes. Let out a slow, shuddering breath, forcing his mind to think—like running a hand over old scars. Last thing he remembered was—was that drink.

Before that—fuzzy.

Before that—Atlanta.

Before that—

The front door creaked, boots scuffing the warped boards and Shane was there, framed in the doorway, arms full of plastic grocery sacks.

Negan narrowed his eyes.“...Where the fuck you been?”

“Store.”

***

Negan’s jaw ticked. “How long?” Shane set the bags down on the rickety table, voice calm. “Couple hours.”

The older man swallowed, ache behind hazel eyes pulsing harder. “...Weren’t—” he paused, tongue thick, words coming slow. “Weren’t we about to—divorce?”

Shane turned, meeting his gaze level. “Why would you say that?”

Negan licked his lips. “Because you fuckin’ hate me,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Because—I had a place—I was gonna—”

He couldn’t remember where.

College. That was it. “I had classes,” he said, like it was the first true thing in the room. “Tomorrow. I teach there, remember? You dumb shit.” Shane stepped closer, his boots echoing on the planks. “You don’t have to worry about that now.”

Negan’s mouth twisted. “Like hell I don’t. You can’t just—just grab me up, chain me—”

“You were having a breakdown,” Shane interrupted, voice soft. “Burnt out. We both were.”

Negan blinked. “What?”

“We talked about it,” Shane went on, steady. “Decided to take a break earlier. Get some space from Atlanta. From all that bullshit.”

The older man shook his head, slow. “No—”

“Yeah,” Shane insisted, stepping closer. “You said you wanted to figure things out. Try again. Not just walk away.”

Negan stared at him. Some part of him knew it was a lie. But the rest—the tired, drugged part—wanted so damn bad to believe it. His shoulders sagged. “I—I got a job,” he mumbled. “People’ll notice.”

Shane crouched in front of him, eyes level. “I called in,” he lied. “Told ‘em you were sick. You got tenure, Negan. They ain’t gonna fire you.” Negan closed his eyes, breath hitching. “Daaamn,” he whispered.

The younger spouse rested a hand on his knee, warm and heavy. “You hungry?” Negan didn’t answer right away. When he opened his eyes again, they looked glassy. “...Little.” Shane nodded, like he’d expected that. “I’ll make you something.” He rose, crossing to the kitchen. Negan turned his head, staring at the window—like he could see a way out past the fog.“...What day is it?” he rasped.

Shane didn’t look up from unpacking. “Thursday. Why?”

“Feels like it’s been a week.” Shane smiled to himself—small, cold. “Just means you needed the rest.” He cracked an egg into a pan, listening to the sizzle drown out the silence.

***

He’d been here a week. Seven days in this goddamn cabin. Seven days watching the last real piece of Negan peel away like old paint.

And not once—not once—had they fucked.

That was the part that kept circling back in Shane’s head when he lay awake listening to the old pipes tick.

Not the part where he’d drugged him. Not the part where he’d lied about the job, about the divorce, about everything else. But the part where he’d kept his hands to himself. It would’ve been easy—so easy—to do it the first night, while his husband was too groggy to spit his curses. Hell, he’d wanted to.

The thought had been there in the back of his skull like an itch, to just get it over with. Prove he still could.

But he’d made himself wait and watch. And the strangest damn thing was… It had worked.

***

Negan didn’t ask about Rick anymore. Didn’t spit his name like it was something sour on his tongue. Didn’t growl about Lucille—like he had the first couple days, all glassy-eyed and frantic, calling for her in his sleep.

Now, when her name slipped out, he caught himself, frowning like he was trying to remember who the hell she was.

Like maybe she’d just been a woman he read about once, or a dream he’d had too many years ago.
And Shane— he’d never admit it out loud—never—but it felt like victory.

Every morning, he watched Negan pad out of the little bathroom, hair damp, that towel hanging low on his hips.

Every morning, he handed over the pill—sometimes crushed in coffee, sometimes dropped right on his tongue—and Negan swallowed it without a word.

Like it was just a vitamin.

Like this was normal.

He’d started uncuffing him of course, too. Not because he trusted him but because the drugs made it unnecessary.

Negan could stand up, sure and walk around, take a piss by himself, even rummage the cupboards if he wanted. But by the time he’d eaten what Shane brought him and drunk what Shane poured, the edge was gone from his voice.

The old iron in him blunted.
Shane told himself it was better this way. He wasn’t going to be some caretaker, chasing a grown man around with a leash. Wasn’t going to wipe his mouth and bathe him like he was disabled, he wasn’t.

No—Negan still had to get up and move on his own. Still had to look him in the eye. Still had to choose to take the next drink. Even if he didn’t understand why.

And soon—

Shane could feel it coming—

Soon, he was going to take what he’d been starving for.

He thought about it when he lay in bed, one arm flung over his eyes, listening to Negan shifting restlessly on the couch. Thought about how it would feel to press him down into the mattress, that big body going tense under his hands. Thought about unbuckling his own jeans, guiding himself in slow, watching that realization dawn behind Negan’s eyes.

That he still belonged here. That no matter how many people he’d fucked before—Shane was the last and the best. The only.

And God, when they started— he knew it wouldn’t be careful. It wouldn’t be sweet. He’d screw Negan the way he’d always done—hungry, possessive, that mean edge in his voice when he pressed deeper. And the older man would fight it, same as always—hands clawing at his shoulders, voice raw with curses—

But Shane also knew he’d take it. Just like before.

He could almost feel it already, Negan’s thighs bracing around his hips, sweat slicking up their chests, the deep, low groan he’d let out when Shane hit that spot that made him go loose.

And later—

When the drugs made him soft and pliant—

He’d let Shane climb into his lap and take him in, slow, just to prove that all that old swagger didn’t mean shit.
That even the great Negan was helpless here.

Shane’s hand tightened around the edge of the table until the wood creaked, swallowing, jaw working.

𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵, he thought, the word thick in his throat.

And for the first time in months, he didn’t feel like he was waiting for something to blow up.

He felt married.

In the ugliest, truest way.

***

Back in Atlanta, Rick sat behind his desk, arms folded tight over his chest. His eyes were red-rimmed, not from crying but from lack of sleep—and the fact that no matter how many reports he read, he couldn’t find anything that made sense.

Across from him, Daryl perched on the edge of a chair, picking at a tear in the knee of his jeans.

He looked up when Rick finally spoke, voice low and rough. “Whole damn time I knew ‘em—both of ‘em—I thought… hell, I don’t know. That no matter how fucked up they were, they wouldn’t just disappear. Not without a word.”

Daryl snorted under his breath. “Guess you were wrong.”

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Guess I was.” He stared past Daryl’s shoulder at the window. “You know what the worst part is?” he went on, voice quieter. “I ain’t even mad. I’m… I’m embarrassed. Like it’s some reflection on me. Like—what kinda man spends half his life thinkin’ he knows people, then wakes up one day to realize he didn’t know ‘em for shit?”

Daryl shifted, scratching at his stubble. “Maybe you did,” he said. “Maybe you knew ‘em better’n they knew their own selves.” Rick huffed a humorless laugh. “Yeah? You think so?”

“I do.” Rick shook his head, looking tired. “You remember when Shane first came back down here, after Lori… after everything? I told you—told everybody—he’d changed. That he’d grown up.”

Daryl gave him a look that was all eyebrows. “I remember you sayin’ that. I also remember tellin’ you he was the same son of a bitch he always was.”

Rick let out a long breath, rubbing his forehead. “Should’ve listened.”

They were quiet a moment. Then Rick glanced up, voice low. “You ever think… they’re still together?” Daryl’s lip curled in a sardonic half-smile. “Hell yeah. It was only a matter of time, the way they circled each other. Two psychopath assholes sniffin’ around the same fire. ‘Bout as predictable as anything I’ve ever seen.”

Rick swallowed. “Daryl—if they are… if they’re out there doin’ god knows what—”

“What?” Daryl cut in, voice blunt. “You gonna go save ‘em?” Rick didn’t answer. His best friend leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Man, I ain’t sayin’ this to hurt you. But you dodged a goddamn bullet.”

The cop looked up, blue eyes tired but steady. “You think that’s what this is? Me feelin’ sorry for myself?”

“I think,” Daryl said slowly, “you still wanna believe there’s somethin’ in ‘em worth savin’. That they’re just lost. But you know better. Hell, I know better.”

Rick didn’t say anything, so Daryl went on, voice flat..“What you expect from a guy who spent half of college crawlin’ into your girlfriend’s bed behind your back? Or the other one—screwin’ around while his wife was dyin’?”

Rick’s jaw clenched. “That’s low.”

“It’s the truth,” Daryl shot back. “You told me yourself—Negan was out chasin’ skirts when his first wife was in chemo. And Shane? Shane’d’a married Lori if you hadn’t come back to her and ruined his little fantasy.”

Rick’s throat worked. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “I know...sadly.”

“You did what you could for ‘em. Both of ‘em. But sometimes a man don’t wanna be fixed.”

Rick looked away, blinking fast. “Doesn’t mean you stop tryin’,” he muttered. “Sure it does,” Daryl said. “Eventually.”

The curly-haired one rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I just… I keep thinkin’ about Negan. The way he’d look at me—like he already knew I’d disappoint him. Like he expected it. And Shane—”

“Shane expected you to save him,” Daryl finished. “That ain’t your job.” Rick swallowed. “No,” he agreed, voice small. “It’s not.” For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Daryl finally stood, stretching his back. “You want my advice?” The other glanced up. “Quit lookin’ for ‘em. If they wanna be found, they’ll crawl out when they’re done screwin' and tearin’ each other apart.”

Rick looked down at the file on his desk—empty but for a single transfer form, Shane’s name typed neat across the top. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Maybe.” But in his chest, that old, sour ache never stopped.

Chapter Text

𝙑𝙞𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙖

It was already longer than a month in the cabin, when it finally happened. Shane didn’t mean to stay up watching his handsome husband again since the new station he worked in was a further drive away from the cabin than the precinct in Atlanta had been to their house there and he usually needed more sleep but it was his day off. Negan had dozed off after breakfast—head tilted against the couch arm, one hand resting palm-up on his thigh. He looked soft like that, younger, innocent and almost harmless.

Shane hated that it made something sweet coil low in his gut. Hated worse that he wanted to crawl over there and touch him until all that confusion was gone, hated how fast he was forgiving anything when it came to this man. But he didn’t move, he was just sitting there, breathing slow, reminding himself that he’d waited this long—he could wait longer.

Around midmorning, Negan stirred. He blinked groggy at the ceiling, then at Shane. His mouth curved in a slow, warm smile that didn’t belong to him.“Hey, baby.” Voice low, rough as gravel. “You…been sittin’ there all night?”

Shane swallowed, jaw tight. “Some of it.” Negan huffed a quiet laugh, shifted to sit up. “You watchin’ me sleep?” he asked, voice teasing, almost flirty. “Kinda fuckin’ creepy, am I really that hot?” The other's lips twitched as he nodded. “Someone had to...and who else other than your man.”

Negan stretched, rolling his broad shoulders and the blanket slipped down his bare chest, and he didn’t bother pulling it back up. “You know,” he went on, voice drifting soft, “I keep trying to remember the last time we had some proper freaky dicky shit, like, got off.” He rubbed at his forehead, slow and clumsy. “Feels like…like I've been waiting a year.” Shane rubbed a hand over his head, trying to think of something to say while biting his lower lip from the temptation, keeping his hands locked on the arms of the chair. “Yeah?”

Negan lifted his hazel eyes - they were glazed but warm. “Yeah, baby, I feel like screwing my husband tonight, mhm.”

A long moment of silence passed. Then he shifted, rising unsteady to his knees on the couch cushion, big body moving with lazy confidence. He braced one hand on Shane’s shoulder and leaned in, breath sweet with coffee and pills. The cop’s chest shuddered. “What’re you doin’?” His husband’s mouth brushed his ear, voice low and raw.“What the fuck does it look like?”

Shane swallowed, heart hammering. “Negan…”

“Don’t you wanna?” The older man nuzzled the side of his throat, warm lips dragging over his skin. “Feels like I been waitin’ forever.”

Shane’s hands came up slow, bracing on his husband’s ribs as he could feel the heat of him, the slow, steady breathing. The trust that wasn’t real. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’.” His voice came out hoarse. Negan pulled back just enough to look at him, pupils blown wide. “I know you’re my husband,” he murmured. “I know you look after me and you're badass and hot as fuck. That’s enough.” He leaned in and kissed him—deep, slow, tongue pushing past Shane’s lips like he’d done it a thousand times.

Shane groaned low, feeling something in his chest crack wide open. His hands slid down, finding the waistband of Negan’s sweatpants. The older man shifted forward, pressing their bodies close. He was half-hard already, big and heavy against Shane’s stomach. When the younger man cupped him, he made a low sound, hips rocking forward. “You sure?” Shane rasped against his mouth. Negan nodded, slow, that dazed smile still there. “Yeah…c’mon…need you to—fuck—need you.”

Shane let out a ragged breath. Some last scrap of conscience screamed at him to stop. To push him back. But when his husband kissed him first again—hungry and pliant—he couldn’t. He stood, pulling Negan up with him, and turned him slow, guiding him back to the couch. Negan went willingly, sinking down onto the cushions. He looked up with that lazy, drugged affection in the big almost puppy dark hazel eyes.

Shane sank to his knees between his thighs, palms braced on the broad chest. “Lift your hips,” he murmured. Negan did it, obedient as a dog. Shane hooked his thumbs in the waistband and pulled the sweats down over his hips, freeing him. His cock was flushed, already leaking.

He felt a sick lurch of triumph in his gut while his husband watched him, glassy-eyed. “You just gonna stare?” he rasped, voice cracking on the words. “Or you gonna suck like a good—”

Shane leaned forward and took him in his mouth and Negan’s head fell back, a hoarse moan ripping out of his throat. His calloused hands landed on Shane’s shoulders—no pressure, just resting there like he needed the contact. “God…Shane…” He sucked him slow, hollowing his cheeks, watching Negan’s face. The older man looked blissed out, mouth open, chest heaving.

When Shane pulled back, Negan whimpered—actually whimpered—and reached for him.“C’mere,” he slurred, tugging at Shane’s shirt. “Wanna feel you too…”

Shane swallowed hard and rose, shedding his clothes without ceremony. His hands shook as he unbuckled his belt. When he was bare, Negan’s gaze tracked down his fit athletic body—hot and possessive but still glazed with that drugged softness. “Fuck,” Negan murmured, voice low. “You look good..." Shane climbed onto the couch, straddling his lap. He could feel Negan’s cock, hard and slick between them. “You ready?” he whispered. The older one nodded. “Yeah…yeah…just—do it, don't care which one…”

Shane braced a hand behind him, guided himself down slow. Negan’s head fell forward, forehead resting on the younger man’s shoulder as he sank in.

They both groaned. Shane paused when he was fully seated, breathing ragged against Negan’s throat. He felt those long fingers slide up his back, petting over his shoulders, too gentle to be real. “Missed this, babe” he growled. “Holy fuckin' shit…feels amazing…”

Shane’s eyes squeezed shut. He started to move—slow at first, rolling his hips in a rhythm that made Negan shudder. “Shit, don’t stop, Shane,” Negan gasped, voice ragged. “Yeah…fuck—” The younger man set both hands on his shoulders, riding him harder. Every time he dropped down, he could feel Negan’s cock twitch against his belly. “Mine,” Shane rasped. “Say it.”

Negan lifted his head, dazed hazelnut eyes finding his darker ones. “Yours,” he breathed. “Always yours…and you're only mine too.”

Something broke loose in Shane’s chest. He bent forward and kissed him—messy, desperate—swallowing the low sounds Negan made.

It felt like victory. Like the final piece sliding into place.
Negan’s hands were trembling where they held his waist. When Shane reached between them and stroked him, his husband let out a broken moan. “Please…” he gasped, voice cracking. “Shit,” Negan gasped, voice ragged. “Yeah…fuck—”

Shane set both hands on his shoulders, riding him harder. Every time he dropped down, he could feel Negan’s cock twitch against his belly.

“Mine,” Shane rasped. “Say it.”

Negan lifted his head, dazed eyes finding his. “Yours,” he breathed. “Always yours…”

Something broke loose in Shane’s chest. He bent forward and kissed him—messy, desperate—swallowing the low sounds Negan made.

It felt like victory. Like the final piece sliding into place.

Negan’s hands were trembling where they held his waist. When Shane reached between them and stroked him, Negan let out a broken moan. “Please…” he gasped, voice cracking. “Don’t stop—right there, yeah…” And Shane didn’t. He fucked him harder, feeling the heat coil tight in his spine. Negan was so warm around him, so tight, so willing.

Too willing.

A part of him, maybe the police officer deep inside, knew it was wrong. Knew his husband’s mind was swimming in chemicals, that none of this was real and he could poison him, make the man malfunction for real and forever. But when Negan came with a shudder, gasping Shane’s name—when his own climax tore through him, white-hot—he let himself believe this was the right way, again.

This was love. This was what they both needed. It was his husband now, not Rick’s, not Lucille's or anyone else’s. Sex was the most normal thing between married guys and he had waited for this again, the sneaky sexy whore of his always withholding one way or another but not anymore.

He collapsed forward, panting, forehead pressed to Negan’s shoulder. For a moment, everything went quiet. The older man’s hand lifted, clumsy, and carded through Shane’s now a bit grown brown hair. “Love you,” he slurred.

The words hit Shane like a punch—low in his gut, hard enough to steal his breath. He bent over him, mouth dragging along Negan’s throat—tasting that sexy cologne and salt, the faint tang of the drugs still humming under his skin. When he spoke, his voice was low and thick with something he’d never have admitted back in Atlanta. “Yeah,” he rasped against the stubble on Negan’s jaw. “I love you too.” His lips trailed lower, pressing kisses to the hollow where Negan’s pulse hammered slow and sweet. “I’d kill for you,” he murmured, voice shaking. The taller man’s breath stuttered out—somewhere between a moan and a sob. “I’d die for you,” Shane went on, heat surging up his throat. “I’d do whatever it takes to keep you right here...safe.” His teeth scraped gently over his husband’s throat, and when he pulled back just enough to look in his round dark hazel eyes, he saw nothing but surrender.

Nothing but that shining, dazed trust. “Yours,” Negan whispered, chest heaving. “Mine,” Shane growled as he let himself believe it was true. That no past, no Rick, no world outside these walls could ever touch what was HIS.

***

By the time the second month passed, it stopped feeling like something he was forcing or manipulating.

He fucked his husband every single evening. Didn’t matter if he was tired, if the day had been long, if he’d spent the last twelve hours pretending to be some clean-cut cop with a badge he didn’t deserve.

By the time the car bounced up the rutted drive and the cabin came into view, all he could think about was his dreamy man.

Not Rick. Not Atlanta. Not Lori. Not any of that old shit that used to make him grind his teeth and lie awake wondering why he wasn’t enough. None of it mattered now.

Because now, there was no Rick. No competition, no drama.

Just him. And Negan—his perfect husband—who looked up every night when he walked in the door with that lazy, half-drugged grin, voice almost throaty. “‘Bout time you finally got home, Officer!” he’d rasp. “Was starting to think you ran off.”

And Shane would laugh low in his throat, set the groceries on the counter, and walk straight over to him.

Every night. Like it was their own fucked-up ritual. He’d haul Negan up by the back of his shirt—hands sliding down to grab his ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise—and kiss him until they were both panting.

Negan never hesitated, neither pushed him away. Hell—most nights he was already half-hard by the time Shane got his jeans open.

That was the thing that made something sweet and rotten bloom in Shane’s chest.

The way Negan wanted it, he didn’t use sex as a war tactic anymore. The way he looked when Shane pushed him to his knees on the old wood floor—voice low and smug even with his memory shot to shit. “You been thinking about me all day, right?” he’d growl, voice gone husky. “Can’t go one goddamn shift without wanting to stuff that big fucking dick down my throat?”
Shane would fist a hand in his now even more greying dark hair perhaps from the drugs, breath shaking. “Yeah,” he’d rasp. “Every second.”

“Good,” Negan would smirk, lips parting. “Then quit talkin’ and feed me, baby. Daddy's hungry this time!”

And Shane would. God help him, he’d grip the base and ease in slow—watching Negan’s mouth stretch wide, those dark hazel eyes rolling back like he was savoring it.

He’d groan around him, swallow deep, one hand sliding down to palm himself through his sweats. Sometimes Shane held still, just watching. Let the heat climb up his spine while Negan worked him with that filthy mouth—like it was the only thing he was made for.

Other times he’d rock his hips forward, fucking into the wet heat of it until his husband gagged and swore, voice hoarse. When he finally pulled out, Negan would be flushed, spit glistening on his chin, pupils blown wide.“C’mere,” he’d rasp, grabbing Shane by the waistband and hauling him down for a kiss—messy and tasting like salt and his own semen.

And every time, Shane thought—𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳.

𝘉𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘈𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢. 𝘉𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘴. 𝘕𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘦. 𝘕𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮

After, Negan would curl up in his arms, big body warm and heavy. He’d fall asleep fast, one hand fisted in Shane’s shirt like he needed the anchor.

And Shane would lay there, staring up at the cracked ceiling, feeling like maybe—finally—he’d done something right.

He’d spent too many years thinking he could prove something by staying in Atlanta—by playing house where Rick could see them.

By making sure everyone knew Negan had picked him.

It was stupid. He saw that now.

Rick didn’t matter. Never had, at least not in the way Negan did. What mattered was this. This quiet. This bed. This man. The one who looked at him like he was the center of the goddamn world.

And sure, he’d had to break him to get here. Had to scrub out all the memories that didn’t have Shane’s name on them. But now—now it was perfect.

He could come home, lock the door behind him, and know exactly what waited.

No more doubts. No more competition.

Just Negan—warm and needy and his.

Shane turned his head, studying the lines of that familiar face. When Negan shifted in his sleep, muttering his name, the cop felt something hot and sweet pool in his chest.

He reached out, brushing a thumb over the bruises he’d left on his husband’s whole hips.

𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦, he thought. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩. And when morning came, he knew he’d do it all over again.

No guilt. No shame.

Just love—ugly and true and his alone.

Virginia became a synonym for them. Not the state. Not some romantic bullshit idea of a “new start.”

Just the cabin, the old wood walls, the smell of sex and pills. Negan’s voice going rough and hungry in the dark.
His big hands clutching Shane’s hips like he never wanted to let go.

He liked to switch it up, of course. Before Negan, the only man he had ever been attracted to was Rick obviously and more than any woman, in fact, but he generally preferred chicks. Of course since he married that devil, honestly he didn’t want to stick his dick somewhere else. But earlier in Atlanta, he really wasn't a fan of bottoming. Of course he still did it, one couldn’t be with a man like Negan and expect only to rail him, he had basically told him he would get none if he only took and never gave. But honestly, everything with his husband felt right, dirty yet right. He had never had so much sex in his life than this year and something he had been married.

Some nights, he’d come through the door and Negan would already be waiting—shirtless, that cocky smirk tilting his mouth.“Been thinking about your hot ass all day,” he’d rasp, voice thick. “C’mere.”

Shane wouldn’t make him ask twice. He’d crowd in close, pinning Negan against the wall by the front door—hands sliding under his waistband to grab his ass.

Negan would grunt, hips rolling forward, cock hard against Shane’s thigh. “Fuck,” he’d growl, voice going breathless. “You gonna take me right here like a caveman? Like a goddamn animal?”

“Yeah,” Shane would pant, grinding up against him. “Gonna fuck you right against this wall.”

And he would. He’d drag Negan’s sweats down to mid-thigh, shove him back until his broad shoulders hit the old plaster.

Negan always spread his legs wide—like he’d been waiting for it.

When Shane pushed in—rough, one hand fisted in his hair—Negan would let out a deep groan, head knocking back against the wall. “Christ,” he’d gasp. “Harder—fuck—don’t hold back.”

Shane never did. He’d fuck him until the whole cabin creaked—Negan’s voice turning hoarse as he cursed and moaned. When they came, it was always messy, always loud—the older man’s big body shuddering as he spilled across his flat stomach.

Shane would stay pressed close, forehead braced on his man’s shoulder, breath coming ragged. “Mine,” he’d whisper. “Yours,” Negan would rasp back, no hesitation. And every time, Shane felt that old ache ease. Like maybe this was the only thing in the world that made sense.

And other nights, Negan liked to take control.

He’d push the younger man back onto the floor—rough hands dragging at his clothes, voice low and dark. “You think I forgot how to fuck you?” he’d sneer, pupils blown wide. “Ain’t happening, baby. You have to know your Daddy!”

Shane would swallow hard, heart hammering. Negan would spit in his palm, stroke himself slow—just to watch Shane’s dark brown eyes follow.

Then he’d crawl over him, spread his thighs, and line himself up. Shane always held his breath at the first stretch—God, he was still so big.

When Negan sank down, hissing through his teeth, Shane would clutch at his hips. “Jesus—” he’d groan. “Feel that?” His husband would growl, voice gravel. “Just like that, what a wild ride, baby!"

Shane believed him because the slightly taller man would rail him hard—one hand braced on his chest, the other fisting in his freshly grown brown hair. Every time Shane thought he’d lose it, Negan would slow—grinding down slow and deep, making him feel every inch. “Look at Daddy,” he’d order, voice rough. “Wanna see your fucking face when you come.” And when Shane finally spilled—shuddering under him—Negan would lean down, mouth hot against his throat. “Good boy,” he’d rasp.

It was fucked up. It was perfect.

Sometimes even, it was the simplest things that made him feel like he’d finally won. The way Negan would reach for him in his sleep. The way he never asked about the past. The way he looked when Shane kissed the hollow of his throat, sucking until bruises bloomed there. Marking him and reminding. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨.

***

One night when they’d just finished—sheets twisted under them, sweat cooling on their skin. Negan was sprawled on his back, broad chest rising and falling slow, mouth curved in a lazy grin. Shane lay half across him, one hand splayed over his heart.

Outside, the trees whispered in the dark.

Inside, everything felt quiet in a way that made Shane's mind wander. Negan let out a rough little chuckle. “Christ,” he rasped. “I don’t even remember the last time I got laid that good.”

Shane huffed a low laugh against his collarbone. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Negan said, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “You, uh…you always fuck me like that?”

“Pretty much.” Negan turned his head, squinting at him like he was trying to read something in his face. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

Negan licked his lips, voice going soft. “How the hell did I get so lucky?”

Shane blinked. His husband went on, slow. “I mean…look at me. I’m a mean old bastard half the time. You—you’re…” He trailed off, frowning faintly, like he’d lost the thread. Shane swallowed. “I’m what?”

Negan’s mouth curved again—softer this time. “You’re…you’re good,” he said finally. “Better than I ever deserved.”

Something twisted sharp behind Shane’s ribs. He forced a smile, lifting one hand to brush sweat-damp hair off Negan’s forehead. “Who says you don’t deserve it?”

Negan huffed, low. “Plenty of people, I bet.”

A beat of silence settled between them.

Then Negan’s brow furrowed, curiosity flickering through the haze in his eyes. “How did we meet, by the way?” he asked, voice rough. “I…I keep tryin' to remember, and it’s like…like there’s a damn hole where it’s supposed to be.”

Shane felt the lie form on his tongue before he even decided to speak it. He just let it come. “You were introduced to me,” he said, voice low, steady. “By a friend. Another cop.”

Negan’s mouth tugged in a half-smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Shane swallowed. “He…he thought we’d hit it off. But…he didn’t really get it.”

Negan blinked, head tipping slightly. “Didn’t get what?”

Shane’s chest went tight. “The way we…saw each other,” he murmured. “He never…he never understood.”
Negan’s eyes searched his face. “What—like he was jealous?” Shane huffed out a soft laugh. “I believe so.”

He let himself think of Rick—just for a second. That first time they’d seen Negan in that small gym close to the station, how Rick’s baby blues had followed him across the room. The way Negan had looked back, lazy and amused and already too fucking familiar.

Shane shut the thought down before it could hurt now. “He introduced us,” he said, voice low. “And after that…he kinda faded out.” The older man’s lips twitched and he grinned. “Weird as shit. He couldn’t stand to watch the fireworks, whoa!”

“Somethin’ like that.”

Negan reached up, thumb brushing Shane’s cheekbone. “You believe in love at first sight?” Shane swallowed, throat thick. “Yeah.” Negan studied him, slow. “That what it was for you?”

Shane didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he whispered. “First time I saw you.” Negan’s eyes softened. “Yeah,” he echoed. “Me too, I am goddamn sure about it.” He reached up, cupping Shane’s jaw in his big palm. “You…fuck, you know how much I love you?”

Shane’s chest clenched tight. “I know,” he rasped.

Negan pulled him down into a slow kiss—deep and warm, tasting of salt and something older. When they parted, the former teacher rested their foreheads together. “That other guy…he never got it,” he mumbled. “Never saw you the way I did.”

Shane’s mouth twisted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “No,” he said softly. “He didn’t. But he wasn’t the right man to also appreciate you, Negan and I fought for it.” Negan’s thumb stroked over his cheek again. “Then fuck this little fucker,” he muttered, voice going drowsy. “He doesn’t matter, or at least not anymore.”

Shane closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered. “He doesn’t.”

Outside, the wind rattled the shutters. But in here—in this bed, with Negan warm under his hands—nothing else existed. Nothing but this. Nothing but them.

And that was all Shane needed.

***

𝗚𝗲𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗶𝗮

Rick didn’t sleep much anymore. But when he did—God help him—the dreams were worse than the waking.

He never talked about them.

Didn’t tell Daryl. Didn’t tell Michonne.

Didn’t say a word about how some nights he jolted up in bed with his hands clenched so tight around the sheets his knuckles cracked.

Didn’t admit that in the quiet hours—when the house was still—he could almost hear their voices.

Negan’s low, rolling drawl.

Shane’s rough, too-familiar rasp.

Like they were right there in the dark with him. The worst dreams were always the same. He was back in that little house in Atlanta—Shane’s place. The floorboards creaked under his boots as he moved down the hallway, and the air smelled like sweat, like old bourbon and something sour.

He knew what he’d find before he opened the bedroom door.

But he couldn’t stop. He pushed it open, slow. And there they were—tangled up on the bed.

Negan sprawled on his back, shirt rucked up to his ribs, breath coming in ragged groans. Shane kneeling between his thighs, one big hand fisted in Negan’s hair, the other braced on the mattress as he thrust into him slow and deep.

Negan’s head tipped back—mouth open on a low, desperate sound. “Fuck—yeah,” he panted. “Just like that—God—”

Shane leaned down, kissing him—hard, filthy, like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Rick couldn’t move.

He couldn’t breathe, couldn't stop them. Of course the sex wasn't the worst, obviously they were a couple.

While he was standing there with his hand on the doorknob, watching while heat crawled up his throat like bile.

Then—without warning—Shane pulled back.

His hand went for the nightstand. When it came up, it was holding Rick’s badge, not his own. And before he could understand what that meant, his former partner's other hand was already on Negan’s throat.

Negan looked up, pupils blown wide—but not afraid.

Just…accepting. “Do it, see HE doesn't give a fuck what happens to me...he could've saved me but he didn’t” he rasped. Shane’s mouth curved in a slow, cold smile. “You always were too fuckin’ loud,” he muttered. And then he pressed the badge against Negan’s neck and drew it across, slow, like it was a blade. Blood poured out in a dark sheet, soaking the sheets, the mattress, Shane’s chest.

Negan’s eyes fluttered. His mouth moved—shaping a word Rick couldn’t hear. Then he was gone.

Rick woke with a shout, sweat cold on his skin. His heart was still hammering when he pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to breathe.

But the dream didn’t fade.

It never did. The next night was worse.

This time, it was Negan who did the killing. It started the same—him standing in the doorway, watching them fuck like animals. Shane straddled Negan’s hips, riding him rough, head tipped back on a ragged moan.

Negan’s big hands gripped Shane’s waist, guiding every thrust. “Yeah,” Negan growled. “Fuck yourself on it, baby—c’mon—let me see.”

Shane let out a broken laugh. “Christ—”

Negan’s hand slid up, curling around Shane’s throat. “My bad boy,” he said, voice low and thick.

Shane’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut. “Yours,” he choked. And Rick wanted to look away—wanted to shut the door, burn the whole memory out of his skull.

But he couldn’t. He never could.

Negan’s free hand reached past Shane to the nightstand.

He lifted a baseball bat, for some reason wrapped in barbed wire that glistened in the low lamplight.

Rick’s gut turned. Negan’s mouth curved in something too soft to be real. “You ready?” he murmured.

Shane shivered, eyes opening—bright and hungry. “Yeah.” Negan kissed him once—slow and lingering.

Then he swung the bat up in one smooth motion. Brought it down on Shane’s skull, blood spraying the wall, the sheets, Rick’s hands.

His former best friend and work partner crumpled forward, dead before he hit the mattress. Negan looked up at Rick, hazel eyes dark and steady. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want this, you could save US BOTH!” he said, voice low. Rick opened his mouth to answer—

And woke up gasping, hand clamped over his own throat like he could still feel Negan’s palm there.

The sun was coming up outside. The light felt like an accusation. Rick scrubbed both hands over his face, breath shuddering. He knew what the dreams meant, didn’t need some shrink to spell it out. They were in his head because they’d never left.

Because he’d spent too long trying to save them. Because some twisted part of him still couldn’t let go of either one, one like a brother, the other in a way one should never feel about a brother's husband.

He swallowed, eyes stinging. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘨𝘰, he told himself.

The phone sat on his kitchen table like a loaded gun.

Rick stared at it for a long time. He’d told himself a hundred times he wouldn’t do this. That he’d let it be. That they didn’t deserve one more second of his headspace. But it was past midnight, and he hadn’t slept, and the dreams were still thick in his skull.

So he picked it up.

Scrolled to Shane’s contact. Thumb hovering over the keyboard. It felt stupid. Weak. But he typed the message anyway.

> 𝙈𝙖𝙣, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚? 𝘽𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙉𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙣, 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙠𝙖𝙮

He hit send before he could second-guess it. The read receipt popped up fast. Three dots blinking in the corner of the screen. His heart kicked up. A minute later, the reply came in.

> 𝙒𝙚’𝙧𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙚. 𝙉𝙚𝙚𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝘼𝙩𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙖. 𝙂𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙖𝙜𝙚. 𝘽𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙖𝙛𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙙, 𝙨𝙤 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙞𝙣 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙬𝙞𝙛𝙚, 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧.

Rick’s throat went tight. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, reading it again.

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘨𝘦.

𝘉𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘥.

It sounded so casual. Like they’d just taken a weekend trip, not vanished off the goddamn map. He didn’t know if the hollow in his chest was relief or something worse. After a moment, he swallowed and typed again.

> 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙤𝙠𝙖𝙮? 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙬𝙤 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙪𝙥?

> 𝙔𝙚𝙖𝙝. 𝙄 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬. 𝙃𝙚’𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙚’𝙨 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙮𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙨. 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙝𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙞𝙙, 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙖 𝙖𝙥𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙞𝙯𝙚, 𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝘼𝙣𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙜𝙤𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙞𝙣 𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙢𝙖, 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙧𝙮, 𝙢𝙖𝙣.
𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙙𝙤𝙪𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙗𝙖𝙜 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙠𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙞𝙣' 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩'𝙨 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚, 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙤𝙩𝙩𝙖 𝙪𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙚, 𝙍𝙞𝙘𝙠. 𝘼𝙣𝙮𝙬𝙖𝙮, 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪, 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧.

Rick let out a slow breath.

It felt like a door shutting. He set the phone down, staring at the countertop. A minute passed. Two.

Then he picked it back up.Scrolled to Negan’s number. He hadn’t used it in months, not since those messages he received before the other man had decided to dissappear with his husband while feeding Rick lies.

Hadn’t even been sure it would still connect.

He started typing.

> 𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙮𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙠𝙖𝙮.

His thumb hovered, then he hit send.

No read receipt this time. No three dots. Nothing. He sat there a long time, watching the screen. Told himself that was the last message he’d ever send. That he could let it go now. But in the pit of his stomach, the doubt didn’t fade.

***

𝙑𝙞𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙖

It was almost two months in before Negan started asking real questions.

Shane had thought the drugs would be enough. And most days, they were.

Negan woke up soft and pliant, spent the afternoon drifting from the couch to the bed and back again, and waited every evening for Shane to come home and fuck him until neither of them could think. But sometimes—especially in the mornings—he’d look around the little cabin with a slow frown, like his brain was trying to stitch something together he didn’t know he’d lost.

That morning, he was sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but sweats, elbows braced on his knees.

When Shane came in with coffee, Negan didn’t look up.
Didn’t smile or make some filthy joke about the way the cop’s shirt clung to his chest.

Just said, quiet. “Don’t it ever bother you?” Shane paused, mug halfway extended. “What?”

“This,” Negan said, gesturing vaguely around the room. “Never going nowhere. Never seeing anyone. Just sitting here like a fuckin’ shut-in.” Shane’s pulse ticked up. “You know why we’re here,” he said, voice even. “You said you wanted to get away.”

Negan finally looked up, hazel eyes clearer than Shane liked.“Yeah, well…maybe I did. But I sure as shit didn’t mean forever.”

“You still not feelin’ right,” Shane said carefully, setting the coffee on the table. “Burnout, remember?” Negan rubbed a palm over his mouth, frowning deeper. “That shit what you call it?”

“That’s what you called it.”

“Bullshit,” Negan muttered. “I don’t remember saying that crap.”

“You don’t remember a lot of things.”

Negan went quiet. Shane watched the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his gaze drifted to the window. After a moment, Negan cleared his throat, voice low. “Why don’t I got my phone?”

Shane’s jaw flexed. “You said you didn’t want it,” he lied smoothly. “Said you were tired of people calling and didn't remember what to answer 'em. That you wanted a clean break.”

Negan looked over at him, searching his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, meeting his eyes steady. “You don’t remember?” Negan let out a rough breath, fingers drumming restless on his knee. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Maybe.”

Shane crossed the room, crouched in front of him.

He rested his hands on Negan’s thighs—feeling the heat of him through thin cotton. “You trust me?” he asked softly.

Negan looked down, jaw working. After a long pause, he nodded once. “Yeah,” he rasped. Shane’s chest eased. He slid one hand up, palm splaying flat over Negan’s heart. “Good,” he murmured. “Because this is what you needed.”

Negan huffed a quiet laugh, tired. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

“Me,” Shane said simply. “Just me.”

Negan’s mouth curved—wry but warmer now. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You always been this fuckin’ full of yourself?”

“Only where you’re concerned.”

Negan snorted, but didn’t pull away. When Shane leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to his mouth, he let him.
Let him push until he was laying back on the bed, breath starting to catch.

But even as Shane kissed down his throat—tasting salt and something older—he felt that little seed of unease settle in his gut. Because Negan might have lost his memories. But he hadn’t lost that part of himself that asked questions. The part that looked at Shane and wondered what he was hiding.

And Shane knew—sooner or later—he’d have to find a new way to make him forget. But for now, he focused on the heat of the husband’s body under his hands.
On the low sound Negan made when he palmed him through his sweats. On the way everything else—every doubt, every threat—faded to white noise.

Chapter Text

The fire was cracking soft in the stone hearth, its glow painting the wooden walls in ribbons of gold and shadow. Outside, the trees sighed in the wind, whispering through the pines like old ghosts. But inside—inside it was warm, heavy with sweat and the sticky, fading echoes of sex.

Negan was lying flat on his back across the old couch, shirt bunched up under his armpits, dark chest still heaving. His mouth was pink and swollen, salt 'n' pepper beard damp with spit and Shane’s come, and his eyes—half-lidded, dazed—looked up at his husband like he hadn’t seen the sun in days.

Shane straddled him lazily, still half-hard, the slow drag of his fingertips trailing sweat down the older man’s ribs. His voice was low, almost hoarse with contentment. “Hell, sugar,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of Negan’s mouth. “You were starvin’, huh?” Negan just chuckled rough, hands sliding up Shane’s bare thighs. “Not my fault you walk in here lookin’ like a fuckin’ centerfold for tight jeans and daddy issues, Officer Bad Boy.” The younger man laughed too, nose brushing against his husband’s cheek, but before he could say something snide back, Negan’s tone shifted—barely. “You ever think about kids?”

𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘨𝘰 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯...

Shane blinked, pulling back just slightly. “…What?” Negan’s brow creased faintly as his fingers idly traced the deep groove of his man’s hip. “You know. Kids, children...cute little fuckers. Having them. Adopting, maybe. You ever thought about it?”

A pause. Then Shane let out a breath—slow and practiced. “Where’s that comin’ from, sweetheart?”

Negan shrugged under him, expression honest, almost boyish. “Dunno, it just hit me. I mean—you’re a cop, right? Civil service, protect and serve, all that shiny badge shit. And I was… what, a teacher? A professor?” His voice slowed a bit on the word. “Guess I always thought people like us—we’d have a fuckin’ future. Something that doesn’t just end with us.”

Shane’s throat tightened. “Negan—”

“Shit,” the taller man muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “Maybe I’m crazy. Just feels weird, I guess. Feels like we’re sittin’ in this little box where time doesn’t move and nobody ages and nothing matters. Soon I'll be fifty and no legacy...” His eyes lifted, murky and hazel in the firelight. “So why don’t we got kids yet?”

Shane swallowed hard, then leaned down, kissing Negan’s sternum, trying to buy a few seconds. “You don’t remember,” he said softly. “But we talked about it. A lot, in fact. You were the one that said we weren’t ready.”

“Bullshit,” Negan said flatly, voice rougher now. “I know me. I’d want them, fuckin' love them. You saying I changed?” Shane let out a low breath through his nose, resting his weight across Negan’s chest. “You said you didn’t wanna bring a kid into a world this ugly, not until things were calmer. Safer. We had fights over it.”

Negan looked doubtful. “This doesn’t sound like me...still feels off. Feels like something’s missing, buddy.” Shane looked down at him for a long moment. Then he reached up, ran a hand through Negan’s greying dark hair, slow and gentle. “If it means that much to you, we’ll talk to somebody. Hell, we’ll go through the whole damn adoption process once you’re back on your feet.” Negan blinked. “What do you mean, back on my feet?”

“I mean once you’re feelin’ better. Once your memory ain’t so foggy.”

“I ain’t sick, Shane,” Negan said slowly, like he was testing the words. “I'm not having cancer or the fuckin’ plague.” The other man kissed the line of his jaw. “No, I never said this...but you been through a lot. Mental health’s still health, baby.”

“I am NOT crazy,” Negan said, more defensively now.

“I never said you were,” Shane soothed, voice warm but laced with pressure, just enough. “But you’re not all the way back either. You know that.” Silence stretched as Negan’s hand dropped to his side, fingers twitching lightly on the couch cushion. “Feels like there’s goddamn holes in my brain,” he muttered. “Like there’s shit I should know. Faces I oughta see when I close my eyes—but it’s all dark. Like a damn movie reel that skips.”

Shane pressed his forehead to Negan’s. “That’s why we’re here. To get away from all that. To heal.”

“I just—” Negan swallowed. “I feel like… like I forgot who I was. And you keep saying I wanted this, but—what if I didn’t?”

Shane’s lips found his again—slow, sure, grounding. “You did,” he whispered. “You chose this. You chose me.” Negan blinked hard, like trying to will away the doubt. “I meant the break, the cabin and all of this... I obviously know I fucking chose you, I love you, fucker," he echoed, softly. Shane smiled, cupping his cheek. “I love you too, I know, I know you do.”

He suddenly reached down, gripping Negan’s wrists once again, and pinned them above his head against the worn leather of the couch. His breath was still coming low, his cock still half-hard getting inside that stretched, slick heat—but now something darker curled in his gut. Because that question—that innocent little thought about adoption—had ruined the mood for maybe half a second. And that was enough to piss him off. Enough to make him need to remind this hypnotic bastard who the fuck he belonged to.

He rocked his hips once—slow and deliberate—and felt Negan suck in a breath under him, his lashes fluttering like a tease. “You think about kids, huh?” Shane muttered, voice low and dangerous. “Think about little fuckin’ feet runnin’ around here while I’m tryin’ to fuck my husband stupid?”

Negan let out a short, breathy sound—half moan, half question—but Shane didn’t wait for a reply. He pulled back and slammed back in, hips snapping forward with bruising force. The couch groaned, old wood frame creaking under the weight of it, and Negan cried out, body arching up as Shane drove into him again, and again, and again. “Fuckin’ mine,” Shane hissed, panting now, sweat starting to drip off his hairline. “You hear me, baby? Don’t give a shit what dreams are floatin’ around in that foggy head of yours. You’re mine. You don’t need nothin’ else.”

Negan moaned again, louder this time, eyes rolling back when Shane twisted his hips just right. “Shit—Shane—you really wanna do it again, ahhh...”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Shane growled, pulling out just long enough to slam back in to the hilt, grinding hard. “Say my fuckin’ name. Say it like you know who owns this ass.”

“Shane,” Negan gasped, fingers twitching where they were pinned. “Fuck—Shane—yes—don’t stop”

“That’s my good boy or should I say Daddy,” Shane rasped, voice thick now, unhinged and mean with affection. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am, how fuckin’ full you are? This cock ain’t sharin’ shit. Not with no fuckin’ daycare, not with no fantasy life we ain’t ever gonna live.” He let go of Negan’s wrists just long enough to flip him, pushing his face down into the cushions, gripping his hips tight. Negan groaned, back arching as Shane lined up again and buried himself to the root, balls slapping against him on impact. “You want a family?” The younger man snarled, voice hoarse. “This is your fuckin’ family. My dick in you every night till you’re too sore to walk. My name in your fuckin’ mouth while you’re gaggin’ on it. My come inside you till you’re leakin' all over this damn couch.”

The other whimpered, twisting under him—but not to get away. No, he was grinding back now, pushing into every thrust, muttering Shane’s name like a prayer that tasted like sin.

Shane reached around, grabbing Negan’s hard cock, and started stroking him rough, matching the rhythm of his hips. “That’s it,” he breathed, “C’mon, baby, DADDY, don't give a fuck—show me who owns you. Show me who fuckin’ keeps you.” The older man just cried out—loud and filthy—as he came, body jerking in Shane’s arms, his seed spilling over Shane’s fist in hot, messy spurts. He kept shaking, kept moaning, and the younger one didn’t stop.

Not till he was buried deep one more time, thrusting hard through the aftershocks, groaning loud as he spilled inside his husband with a violent shudder. “Fuck—Negan—mine, all fuckin’ mine—”

They collapsed there together—sweaty, used, bodies tangled on the couch like two men who’d never heard of boundaries or self-control. Shane kissed the back of his neck once, slow and lingering, before whispering into the sweat-damp skin. “You ain’t havin’ no kid,” he murmured. “You are the goddamn kid. My spoiled, needy little thing. Despite being older and a bit bigger than me both, mhm.” Negan let out a soft laugh—fucked out and dazed—but didn’t answer.

The room eventually went quiet except for the fire and the sound of their breath slowly evening out. The sweat on their skin was cooling, clinging in damp patches where their bodies touched—Shane still half-sprawled over Negan’s back, his hand resting lazily on that broad hip he'd just bruised. The older man was quiet, eyes half-closed, that stupid fucked-out smile still tugging at his mouth like he hadn’t even registered the filth Shane had just poured into him.

Shane’s pulse was finally slowing. The burn behind his ribs had faded. And now—now came the part he always handled with care. He shifted a little, nudging Negan to the side, and curled up next to him on the couch, chest to chest, fingers brushing through damp black hair gone slightly gray at the roots.

Then—softly, like something shameful—he kissed his husband’s temple.

Negan’s long lashes fluttered, and he let out a little hum of pleasure, shifting closer. Shane cleared his throat. “Hey,” he muttered, voice a low rasp. “About earlier…” Negan blinked, brow faintly furrowing as his husband gave a small, innocent smile. “I wasn’t mad,” he lied. “Just got a little worked up, that’s all.”

Negan looked at him, searching but Shane leaned in again, kissed the same spot—just a little firmer this time. “You mentionin’ kids… it just caught me off guard. We been in our own little bubble out here, and it felt like… I can't explain, like you were reachin’ for somethin’ outside of us.”

“I wasn’t,” Negan said, voice rough, hazel eyes soft. “It was just a thought.”

“I know,” Shane murmured. “And it’s not a bad one, either.” He paused—just long enough to sell it—then added, slow, “If you’re serious about it… I’ll look into it. Into adoption, or whatever’s out there for two broke-down old assholes like us.”

Negan gave a soft laugh, shaky. “You mean it?” Shane nodded, brushing his knuckles over the side of his husband’s jaw. “Of course ,” he said. “I mean it.”

It was so easy, the way he said it. Like he’d already been considering it. Like there was nothing cold behind the smile. Negan didn’t say anything—just leaned into the touch, resting his head against Shane’s chest, arms slowly winding around his waist.

And Shane stared up at the ceiling, blank-eyed, knowing damn well there wasn’t a chance in hell he was letting anyone new into this house. Not a child. Not a friend. Not a social worker sniffing around with clipboards and fucking questions.

No, this life worked because it was just the two of them. Because Negan believed everything Shane said.

And so long as that didn’t change, nothing else had to.
This was how it was supposed to be. This was what Shane had earned—fought for, broken the world to keep. A home. A husband. A life where the man who used to look at Rick like he was the second coming now only had eyes for him.

And Jesus, he was happy. Or whatever passed for happy in a world like this. Negan hadn’t picked a fight in weeks, months even. Hadn’t snapped back or turned cold like he used to when he wanted to prove some kind of point. He just smiled now—sometimes foggy, sometimes slow—but always real enough to keep Shane from cracking. He let the cop touch him whenever he wanted. Let him take whatever he needed. Let him own it—every inch, every fucking sound, every drop of sweat that pooled between his collarbones. It was better than Atlanta. Better than the former never ending arguments, fights that often turned physical and toxicity. Better than losing.

But then—outta nowhere—he went and asked about kids. Just like that. Like it was something casual. Like it wouldn’t split this whole thing open.

Shane didn’t move at first. Just blinked, slow, like maybe he’d misheard it. But the second Negan’s voice said “adopt”, something cold slid down his spine. Like water hitting hot iron. Because even in this fog—this little cocoon he’d wrapped them in—Negan still had the nerve to dream. Still had that itch, that thing that made him think there was more out there than this. That maybe some dumbass idea like a family would fix whatever hole was still chewing at the corners of his memory. Like a baby would make him whole again. Like a goddamn crib in the corner would mean something.

And maybe it would, maybe it would make him whole.

But not in the way Shane needed.

Because truth was, a kid would ruin everything. Would make it difficult. Make it legal and clean and soft and watched. You couldn’t drug a man who had to go to parent-teacher conferences. Couldn’t disappear from the map with a baby monitor in the room. Couldn’t keep your husband floating two inches off the ground with half a pharmacy in his orange juice if you were changing diapers and attending family check-ins. You couldn’t keep him yours—not the way he was now. Not like this.

No—Negan was perfect like this.

Warm and pliant. Sharp enough to laugh at jokes but dull enough not to notice the holes in his story. Obedient in bed. Hungry every night. Always looking at Shane like he was the fucking answer to a question he couldn’t remember asking.

And Shane loved it. Loved it way more than he’d ever admit to himself.

So when the older man asked about kids, all soft and sincere, like he really believed they were the kind of men who could raise someone else’s life, Shane just felt that little flicker of ice behind his ribs—and pushed it down. Smiled, like it didn’t mean a thing. Reached for him, like he always did.

Because love didn’t have to be honest.

Not when you’d already decided it was permanent. Not when you’d already made him forget.

***

A few days passed.

Negan shifted restlessly on the bed, bare feet pressing into the worn wooden floor, eyes flicking toward the window like it’d been calling to him for hours. The fire had burned low, and the place smelled like sex, pine sap, and coffee. Not exactly a prison cell—but lately it was startin’ to feel close. He wasn't crazy but if he stayed some more without moving, he would definitely become.

He exhaled slow, running a hand down his face, trying to push through that fog that still clung to the edges of his memory like wet cotton. Most days he didn’t notice it much—not with Shane coming home like clockwork, not with the way his body always ached in that good, used-up way that made thinking feel optional. But today…

Today it was eating at him.

The cabin was just too quiet. No music, yep a TV but it got boring watching the same action and demon hunting and apocalypse series everyday, no real company. Just the goddamn clock ticking like it was laughing at him and the same .

And Shane—well, Shane had said he’d be “at work,” like always. Whatever the hell that meant out here in the middle of goddamn nowhere. Cop things, he’d said. Paperwork, some bullshit about town inspections. Negan hadn’t pressed—hell, half the time he didn’t care.

But today? He cared.

His knee bounced. His fingers twitched. And his lungs felt like they needed something more than this recycled cabin air.

Something like outside.

He stood up, stretching with a quiet groan, muscles still sore in that good post-fuck way. Still, a little light-headed, and maybe his balance was off—but that was fine. He wasn’t fragile. Wasn’t sick. He didn’t know why the hell Shane kept acting like he was one bad breath away from collapsing. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, wandering barefoot to the front door. He reached for the knob. Turned it.

Locked. He tried the deadbolt. Still locked. Tried again, even jiggled it a little. Nothing. “Fuck it…” Negan muttered, brow furrowing.

No keys in sight. He checked the back door. Same deal. Deadbolted tight, like Shane had left the house expecting company. And not the kind you welcomed in. Negan’s lips curled in a frown. “What the hell, babe,” he mumbled, not even realizing he’d said it out loud. “You tryin’ to keep me on a fuckin’ leash like a dog?”

A weird little pulse of unease thumped in his chest. Because he wasn’t a goddamn housepet. He didn’t need to be locked in. He wasn’t gonna run off like some scared mutt the second he saw trees.

He just wanted air. And Shane—Shane loved him, sure. He kissed his mouth and fucked him stupid and called him baby or Daddy like it meant everything. But the whole protective thing was starting to feel more like a padded wall than a warm embrace. He was six foot one or two tall and was about to turn forty-eight next April, he wasn't a Mary Sue little bitch who needed safety. “Burnout, my ass,” he muttered, moving toward the window. It was half-cracked—barely, just enough to let the breeze in. Maybe Shane hadn’t noticed or maybe he’d figured Negan wouldn’t try anything.

Well. He figured wrong.

Negan dragged a chair over, climbed up barefoot, and popped the window higher. Cool air rushed in, and for a second, it felt like breathing for the first time in weeks. He stuck his head out, squinting against the sunlight, heart hammering a little harder than he liked to admit. The yard stretched out in every direction, ringed by thick trees, overgrown brush, and the sound of birds. Quiet, really quiet.

No neighbors. No road. No fence. No goddamn civilization.

He bit his lip, rolled his shoulders, and started climbing.

It wasn’t graceful. His ass got stuck halfway through the frame, and one knee smacked hard on the sill, making him curse, “Goddamn son of a bitchin’—fuck!” under his breath. The chair slipped under him, and for a half-second, he thought he was gonna fall face-first into the dirt and break his goddamn neck.

But he caught himself—barely.

Hit the ground with a grunt, palms stinging, knees scraped, but upright. “Shit,” he muttered, brushing dust off his sweats. “That’s gonna bruise.”

Still. He was out.

The breeze hit his face, and for the first time in days—weeks?—he felt like he could think. Really think.

Not just about the sex. Not just about the couch, the bed and the fire and Shane’s hand fisting in his hair. But about everything else.

Why did the doors stay locked when Shane was gone? Why hadn’t he been into town in… hell, he couldn’t remember.

Why didn’t he have a phone? Why didn’t he ask more often? His feet started moving—gravel crunching under the pads of his toes as he made his way down the long, rutted driveway, deeper into the trees. He didn’t know where the hell he was going. But he knew one thing:

He couldn’t stay in that cabin all day, every day, forever.

No matter how sweet and protective his hot-ass husband was. No matter how good it felt when they were tangled up in each other, all sweat and breath and desperate whispers.

He needed air. He needed to know he still had legs. That he could still move. And most of all, he needed to prove—to himself, not to Shane—that he wasn’t just some man-shaped ornament in a locked box someone kept on the shelf for when they were horny or lonely.

He walked faster, heart pounding as something in him had started waking up. Negan didn’t have a plan.

Didn’t have a fucking phone. Didn’t have shoes. Didn’t have a wallet, keys, or even the name of the road he was walking down—but what he did have was two long legs, an empty ache where a memory should’ve been, and the kind of slow, bone-deep boredom that made a man want to chew off his own fingers just to feel something that wasn’t sex or silence or the scrape of cabin wood against his back while his husband whispered shit like you’re mine, you’re safe, you chose this.

He didn’t want to escape, not really—not in the dramatic sense. He wasn’t running from Shane, hell he loved the man. Wasn’t storming off in some Lifetime-movie huff, leaving a note on the counter and slamming the screen door like a housewife who just realized the dick wasn’t worth the damage. No, it wasn’t that.

It was simpler. He just… wanted to hear another voice.

Any voice. Didn’t have to be warm or welcoming. Could be some asshole mechanic with a dip-stained beard telling him to get the fuck off his lot, or some gas station cashier asking if he wanted a bag for the cheap beer he was gonna pretend to buy without a dollar to his name. Hell, it could be a stranger’s dog barking at him through a picket fence and he’d probably thank it for the conversation.

Because the cabin? It was getting too quiet. And when it wasn’t quiet, it was his husband. Always Shane—gruff, warm, doting, watchful in a way that made Negan’s spine itch. Every kiss tasted like comfort, and every comfort came with a leash he couldn’t see but damn well felt every time he shifted too far toward the edge of the bed.

So yeah, he needed to walk.

Just walk—until the trees broke, until the woods gave way to asphalt and power lines and a bar, or a store, or some fucked-up little mom-and-pop café with Formica tables and burnt coffee. He didn’t care. He just needed to know the world still spun outside Shane’s idea of paradise. The gravel bit into his bare feet, but he didn’t slow down. Wind tugged at his sweatpants. The sun was high and mean, and the woods smelled like wet bark and something sweetly rotting.

He didn’t know how long the walk would be.

Didn’t know how far they were from town because—now that he thought about it—Shane had never really said. Just vague answers, easy smiles, a hand on his thigh, lips brushing his ear with “You don’t gotta worry about all that now, baby.”

Well. Maybe he didn’t—but something in his chest sure as fuck did.

He kept walking. One foot in front of the other. Mind circling like a dog at a closed door.

What if there was no town? What if he kept walking and all he found were more trees, more dirt, more silence? What if he passed out on the side of the road from exhaustion or dehydration, and Shane found him hours later with that soft, disappointed look—the one that said you know better, sweetheart, while he carried him back like some feral animal that had slipped its collar?

Negan shook his head. “Shut up,” he muttered to himself, dragging a hand through his hair. “Don’t go makin’ it dramatic.”

This wasn’t a rebellion. He just needed something real. Needed a pair of eyes that didn’t look at him like a man recovering from a fucking stroke. Needed to hear a radio. Feel the buzz of a streetlight. Smell hot dogs rolling stale on a gas station rack.

He needed to remember he was a person—not a pet. Not a kept man. And if the world out here still had a goddamn pulse, he was gonna find it. Even if it meant limping the whole goddamn way.

***

The bell above the door gave a little jingle when he pushed it open, and Negan flinched at the sound like it was louder than it should’ve been.

The place was dim, narrow, lined with vinyl booths and cracked tile. A row of ceiling fans spun slow overhead, humming like they had a grudge, and something greasy and overcooked lingered in the air—burnt onions, bacon gone cold, black coffee that’d been sitting on the warmer since dawn. It smelled like America, in the worst possible way.

Which, weirdly, felt like a goddamn relief.

The woman behind the counter didn’t look up when he walked in. Neither did the old man slouched in the corner booth over his second slice of pie and fourth refill. Just another stranger. Just a big man in sweatpants with tired eyes and a face somebody might’ve called handsome once—before it got too sharp, too lean around the edges.

Negan slid into a booth near the window, tucked in the shadows. He was already sweating from the walk, barefoot and windblown, and trying not to wince every time the cracked vinyl bit into the back of his legs. He rubbed at the inside of his knee, checking the scrape from the window jump. Still sore.

He needed a drink. Hell, he needed to sit and breathe and pretend—for just a second—that he hadn’t climbed out of a locked cabin like some confused fucking raccoon with a domestic husband and no idea who the hell he used to be.

The hot blonde waitress brought him a water without asking. He grunted his thanks and sipped it slow, staring out the dusty window at the road he’d wandered from, wondering how far he’d actually come.

He didn’t hear her approach until she spoke. “So,” the voice said, flat and somehow familiar. “You two just decided to disappear, really?” Negan blinked, looking up.

A woman stood at the edge of his booth—shoulder-length light brown hair, arms crossed, striking green eyes. She was younger than him, maybe even younger than Shane. Really pretty in a natural way that didn’t try, and didn’t smile either. He stared at her, trying to place her face, nothing clicked yet he still somehow knew her from somewhere. “I’m sorry, sweetheart” he said after a beat, voice rough.“Have we met? Don’t tell me we hooked up some long time ago and I didn't call after?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You serious?” He blinked again, slower this time. “I… yeah. I think I am.” A long pause passed. The woman studied him closer now—green eyes narrowing, mouth twitching like she was holding something in. “Negan,” she said flatly. “Ringin’ a bell at all?”

“Yeah,” he answered. “That’s me. I got that part.”

Her lips pressed thin. “And Maggie, Maggie Greene?” she offered. “You don’t remember me, really?” He shook his head, the admission strange on his tongue. “No. I—I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t remember Atlanta?” she pressed, voice softer now, but not kinder. “The school? Rick and Michonne?”

He blinked again, the names hitting him like feathers—empty and light, brushing against the inside of his skull without sticking. “No,” he said slowly. “No, I don’t think so. So don't tell me there's a Negan hate club of hotties I screwed before marrying and ghosted afterwards, DAMN!”

Maggie didn’t answer right away, she pulled out the seat across from him and sat down without asking, arms still folded, legs crossed under the table. He couldn’t tell if she was concerned, suspicious, or just tired.“Thought you were kidding, for real,” she said finally, voice lower. “But you really don’t know who I am. Are you high, Negan at that big age of yours?”

“I’d say I’m flattered,” he muttered, “but I’m guessing you don't look like one of my fans, dear.” Her mouth twitched, almost a smirk—but not quite. “Well, not exactly.”

“Figures.”

“So where should I even start...you can’t blame me after you and your husband were harassing the shit of my boy best friend who's a literal angel. Glenn and Daryl have PTSD from you two." She just shook her head, remembering both with a small laugh but also annoyance. Glenn was innocent and minding his business but everytime he delivered pizza to the Walsh-Smith couple, he was left creeped out. Negan literally had threatened to break his kneecaps once, then had slapped his ass and told him to 'fuck off'. His innuendos towards her or Michonne while also never stopping chasing Rick and looking at him like her friend was his breakfast. And Shane, when he was undressing her little sister or her now girlfriend with his eyes, she wanted to slap the shit out of him. However, everything was rather funny now, Negan was sure a douchebag but a magnetic one, he wasn't really an evil person. It's just both the toxic men's relationship pulling everyone in the drama which made her angry back then.

"So yes, I knew you and Shane back in Atlanta,” she said, tone even. “Back when you were with the college. He was an officer, is he still? We all ran in the same circles. Michonne’s my best friend...now things are a bit different.”

All those names again. “I… I’m sorry,” he said again, both eyebrows raised. “I don’t remember a lot of things lately. It’s—Shane says it’s burnout. Doctor agreed. I guess.” Maggie didn’t respond to that. Her gaze dropped to the table, then to his hands. His clothes...he didn’t have shoes. Why would he walk around with no shoes, this was the sassy leather fucker with expensive cologne and the golden Rolex President he always used to flash, well whenever he wasn’t talking about his big size and other sleazy childish crap...

She said nothing about them shoes but he could see something shift behind her focused green eyes. “You and your husband just disappeared,” she said after a long silence. “No calls, no notes. Rick thought you’d moved, he was deadly worried. Others figured you split town on purpose.”

“Maybe we did,” Negan stated. “Maybe we needed to.”

“Did you? After becoming a successful college professor, coming from former gym teacher....well sounds like you but still weird.” She asked, too casually. He nodded once. “Yeah. I think so. It’s been quiet. Good, mostly, everyone needs some goddamn peace in their life sooner or later, right?”

She tilted her head. “And you just walked here?” she asked. He nodded again. “From up the hill. We have cabin in the woods. We’re out that way. I just needed… some space.”

Maggie didn’t say what she was thinking. Didn’t ask why he had no phone or shoes. Why his eyes were glassy in the daylight. Why a man who used to light up every room he walked into now looked like he’d been dimmed. Instead, she glanced at the old clock above the kitchen pass. “It’s just past two,” she said. “Good, I need to be home by six, you know,” he nodded. “The hot stuff gets home then and I said I’d be back, otherwise he worries.”

“I’m sure he does,” she said, too calm. “Well—just in case…” She pulled a napkin from the metal dispenser and borrowed the waitress’s pen. Scribbled fast, her handwriting looping neatly across the paper. “My number,” she said, sliding it across the table. “If you ever need anything. Even just a ride, I didn’t see your truck or your Harley...doesn’t have to mean anything. Just… keep it.”

Negan looked down at the napkin. Something tight pulled in his chest. He looked up again. “Thank you,” he said, voice lower now. “I appreciate it.”

Maggie stood, slow. “I’m headed back to Atlanta,” she said, grabbing her jacket. “Stopped here on my way back from Richmond. My sister lives out there now. Beth, you adore her by the way. She’s dating Andrea's sister, Amy. You’d like her too, very sweet girl but don't you ever think about hitting on her. Both you and Shane, just NO. She's not like Andrea...”

He didn’t answer because he didn’t know who the fuck any of those people were. And somehow, that hurt more than it should’ve. “Be safe, Negan...Rick cares about you. Michonne too and even I do. I'm not a fan but yes, I care.” She said at last, touching his hand barely. Then she turned and walked out the door with a confused look trying to appear controlled.

Negan folded the napkin once, tucked it into the waistband of his sweats, and stared down into his empty glass.

***

The sun was sinking lower, its heat still clinging stubborn as sweat to the back of his neck. The walk back felt longer. Harder. Like every step dragged against something invisible—fatigue maybe, or just the weight of that napkin the beautiful mysterious woman gave him, folded twice and stuffed into the waistband of his sweats, damp now from his skin.

He kept touching it. Not reading it again. Not unfolding it. Just… feeling it. Like a lifeline. Like a secret.

The woods around the cabin were still and gold. Shadows stretched long between the trees, and the bugs had started singing—the kind of sound you only notice when you’ve been too alone for too long.

The cabin looked the same as when he left it—quiet, neat, a little too still. Like a photograph instead of a home. For a second, Negan just stood there on the gravel drive, barefoot and aching, staring at the place like he didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

And then he moved, circling to the side window—same one he’d slipped out of earlier, still cracked just enough—and hauled the chair back underneath it. His knees screamed, and his shoulder throbbed where he’d hit the sill on the way out, but he didn’t have time to waste. He checked his watch—not his, really, just a cheap digital thing Shane had given him with a smirk and a “don’t forget dinner time, baby.”

5:17 PM.

Plenty of time.

He hoisted himself up, grunting under his breath, and cursed when the chair wobbled again. “Motherfuckin' shit,” he muttered, hands gripping the window frame, dragging himself up like a man breaking into his own life. “Coulda at least left me a goddamn ladder, babe.”

The window screeched slightly as he wedged his body through. One leg hooked over the sill. His back scraped against the frame, his foot caught on the inside curtain, and he landed hard on the floor with a muttered “fuck me,” palms slapping the wood just as his backside hit the floor.

But he was in.

Back inside. Back in the box.

He laid there for a second, staring at the ceiling. It felt different. Not bad, not exactly—but not like home either which was ironic since the place was his own old property. The air was thicker. The silence was louder. And the old wood beams above him felt like they were pressing down, watching.

He sat up slowly, rubbing the spot on his hip where he’d landed. His limbs ached, and the sweat cooling on his back made him shiver. He tugged the waistband of his sweats down just enough to make sure the napkin was still there.

It was. He didn’t move to hide it yet. Not until he showered.

Not until he could breathe again. He stood up, stretched slowly, and limped toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

Shane would be home soon...

Chapter Text

𝙂𝙚𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙖

The room was dim, lit only by the small lamp on the bedside table and the flicker of city lights bleeding through the blinds. The burgundy satin sheets were already half-tangled around their legs, the wine glasses still on the dresser, untouched since before the conversation shifted.

Michonne was warm against her—bare ebony skin pressed to bare milky skin, lips brushing the curve of Maggie’s shoulder, fingers trailing a line down her hip in slow, thoughtful strokes. She hadn’t said anything in a minute or two, just kissed her softly and waited for her girlfriend’s head to leave wherever it had wandered off to. But it hadn’t, Maggie’s beautiful green eyes were still fixed on the ceiling, unblinking. “Wanna talk about it?” Michonne asked gently, voice low and rasped from the glass of red she’d barely touched. Maggie blinked, slow. “I just… can’t stop thinkin’ about what I saw.”

Michonne pulled back a little to look at her, brushing hair from her face. “You mean Negan?” Her now partner nodded, staring straight up, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

“You didn’t even like him, Mags.”

“I didn’t,” Maggie admitted. “Still not exactly "IN LOVE" with the jerk. Not in the way you mean. I didn’t hate him, not exactly—he just… rubbed me the wrong way. Always so loud, always tryin’ too hard to get under people’s skin. Couldn’t go five minutes without makin’ something about sex or power or… himself.”

Michonne smiled faintly. “Sounds like someone else we know.” Maggie scoffed. “Yeah. Shane. Wonder twins in toxic form...soulmates or whatever the word for this is.” She paused. “Still. I can’t stop thinkin’ about how he looked.” The slightly older woman tucked a strand of hair behind the other’s ear. “What’d he say to you?”

“That he didn’t remember me, can you believe that?” Maggie frowned, voice tightening. “Didn’t remember Rick. Or YOU. Or even his life in Atlanta.” Michonne’s brows furrowed. “You think he’s lying for some reason?” Maggie shook her head. “No. That’s the thing. I’d know if he was. He looked… confused, not like joking around this time... Someone whose brain just skipped a few years.” They fell silent for a moment.

“Did you ask about Shane? Did you see him around too?” Michonne finally asked.

“I did and no, Shane wasn’t there. He just said they were livin’ out in the woods. That his husband was at work. But, ‘Chonne—he was barefoot.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” Maggie turned her head, green eyes narrowing. “He walked at least a mile or two from wherever they’re stayin’. Barefoot. Cuts on his feet, blisters. Scratches up his ankles. Looking like he climbed out of a fuckin’ ditch.”

“That’s not right,” Michonne said quietly, sitting up against the headboard. “No. It’s not. And he was wearing sweatpants. You know how that man used to dress. You ever see Negan without a belt or leather? Let alone without goddamn shoes?” Michonne rubbed at her jaw, the corner of her mouth twitching with thought. “You think… you think he’s using? Pills...or weed? Something stronger?”

“I thought about that actually,” she continued. “But it doesn’t feel like that. He wasn’t high, slow and lost, yeah. And not in the I’m-too-stoned-to-function way. More like—like someone who doesn’t know what day it is. Or where the hell he belongs.”

They were quiet again. Maggie sat up now, arms wrapping around her knees and voice coming softer this time. “I know I gave him hell back in the day. But seein’ him like that… it didn’t feel good. It felt sad.” Michonne looked over, studying her girlfriend’s profile in the low light. “You’re worried about him.”

“I am,” Maggie admitted. “And I don’t know why that bothers me so much.” The braided woman touched her arm. “Because you’re not heartless. Because you’ve seen enough bad endings to know when something’s headed that way...remember Beth's depression...your own? Seeing him lost reminded you of yourself.”

She turned to look at her. “You think Rick’ll do something if I tell him?” Michonne hesitated. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On which man Rick really loved more...”

The silence turned heavy. Maggie lowered her eyes. “You still think it was Negan? I don’t mean in the brother way, obviously...sorry for reminding you but... the mystery man which came between the two of you? I was betting on Shane.”

“I think,” Michonne said carefully, “he wanted it to be Shane. That it would’ve made more sense if it was. Same job, familiar. But Negan…” She exhaled slow. “He looked at Rick like he was a challenge and a cure all at once. And Rick—he was always worse when Negan wasn’t around. The timeline kinda fits, too.”

Maggie swallowed. “You’re okay talking about this?” Her girlfriend smiled a little. “We’re not kids. I married him, I made Carl’s school lunches, I tucked Judith into bed. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t see what was happening. You can love someone and still know they’re breaking apart inside. I loved him at some point and I still do, just not in the same way. I love YOU. You know which way... just like he is drawn to—” Maggie leaned over, resting her forehead against Michonne’s shoulder. “I gave him my number. Negan.”

Michonne raised an eyebrow. “You think he’ll call?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie whispered. “But I hope to God he does if things got bad for real.” They sat like that for a long time—legs tangled under the covers, bare skin pressed together, but the moment had passed.

***

𝙑𝙞𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙖

The bed creaked soft under their weight, pine frame groaning with the rhythm of Shane’s hips. The windows were cracked just barely, letting in the humid night air and the sounds of frogs from the brush below. The upcoming summer heat was now clinging to their skin in a film of sweat—necks slick, backs damp, thighs pressed together with no room for secrets.

Negan was on his back, legs spread wide, one hand gripping the headboard, the other lost somewhere in the tangled mess of the by now grown Shane’s chocolate hair. His hazel eyes were glassy, lips parted around soft, breathy curses, chest rising and falling with every slow, deliberate thrust. He looked so good like this—flushed and pliant, body wrecked and blooming under the weight of his husband’s touch. He always did.

But tonight… something was off.

Shane’s eyes trailed down the length of him—shoulders, ribs, the tattooed dip of his stomach slick with sweat. Everything he knew like scripture. But then his gaze snagged lower—along the curve of the older man’s thighs, down to the stretch of one pale calf—and stopped. There. Just above the ankle. A thin, red scratch. Faint, but fresh. Not from him. Not from the usual rough tumble of teeth or nails or the accidental graze of furniture. This was something else.

Shane’s rhythm slowed barely noticeably as he shifted his weight on purpose, tilting Negan’s leg higher, as if for a deeper angle—but really just to look closer.
Another scratch. This one trailing behind the heel. Dirty. A little swollen. “Mm,” Shane murmured, almost to himself, fingers skimming down to grip Negan’s thigh. “You been rollin’ around in the damn woods, baby?” he muttered against his throat, voice low and teasing but laced with a thread of something colder.

Negan blinked down at him, sweat dripping from the tips of his greying almost black hair, breath catching. “Huh? What the damn fuck?”

“Your feet.” The younger man kissed along his collarbone, slow, then pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eye. “You forget to wear slippers or somethin’? Got blisters, scratches, lookin' like you took a fuckin’ hike.”

There was a beat. Barely two seconds. But Negan’s brain spun fast. Too fast. “Yep, I walked barefoot,” he said finally, shrugging it off with a half-laugh. “Around here. Forgot the damn slippers again. You know how I get after a nap...thought I’d air out the rug-burns you gave me, Officer.”

Shane smiled—but it really was a fake one, his eyes looked off. “Yeah?” he said softly, reaching between them again. He pushed in deeper with a slow grind that made his husband’s mouth drop open in a low moan. “Well, you’re gonna have more rug burns if you keep talkin’ sweet like that.” But his dark gaze still lingered—one hand brushing casually down Negan’s leg, slow, fingers ghosting the line of that scratch, skin flinching beneath him. It wasn’t deep, but it was too clean, too narrow. Like a branch or a thorn. Not something you'd get from a wooden floor.

Shane filed it away. Didn't speak it aloud yet. Instead, he let his body do the talking—let the rhythm pick back up, hips moving faster now, harder, angled just right to make Negan gasp and writhe beneath him. “Just… be more careful,” he panted low, kissing his temple, lips pressed tight. “Don’t want you hurtin’ yourself ‘cause you forgot your fuckin’ slippers again, yeah?”

Negan nodded quick, distracted by the pleasure, his nails scraping weakly down Shane’s back. “Y-yeah, yeah, promise…” But Shane’s mind was miles away now—racing through every detail like a crime scene. Something had changed. Something small. But real.

And Negan was lying.

But Shane didn’t stop. He didn’t confront. Not yet. No—he buried himself deeper instead, made his husband cry out and beg and sweat and tremble. He whispered things that would make anyone else flinch. Praised him like a preacher with a loaded gun.

Because that’s how you break a lie open now, in their Virginia life. Not with anger anymore but with love so deep it drowns the truth. And when it was done—when Negan lay panting beneath him, boneless and dazed, the fire crackling low in the hearth—Shane just rolled onto his side, pulled the other man close, and whispered against his damp shoulder. “You’re mine, man...My man, just mine. Always.”

But inside, something had clicked. He would be more suspicious and careful from now on.

***

𝙂𝙚𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙖

Maggie, windblown and road-dusty from the drive, her leather jacket slung over one arm, green eyes sharp as a blade. The leather jacket reminded him of that someone again... so she rang the doorbell and Rick opened. “You got a minute?” she asked, no preamble.

He nodded once and stepped aside. “Yeah. Come in.”
She moved past him like she belonged there—like it wasn’t strange anymore for Michonne’s girlfriend to walk into his house unannounced. In a way, it wasn’t. The three of them had adjusted, in a quietly tragic sort of way, to the new geography of their lives plus Maggie was in a way like a little sister to him, he had known her for years by now.

He closed the door behind her and took a sip of beer, watching as she tossed her jacket on the couch and turned to face him. “I saw him,” she said, and just like that, his whole chest tightened.

“…WHO?” His voice came low, cautious, like if he said the name too loud it might summon something they couldn’t put back in the bottle.

Maggie nodded, eyes narrowing. “NEGAN. He looked like shit, sorry. No shoes. Sweatpants when not in the gym or park. Scrapes on his hands. Like he climbed out a goddamn basement window.” Rick blinked, processing. “Where? He is here?”

“Off 33, halfway between Richmond and nowhere. Little diner on the edge of town. I stopped for coffee after my visit to Beth and Amy. He was sitting in a booth like he didn’t know what year it was.” She paused, folding her arms across her chest. “Said he didn’t remember me. Not my name. Not even yours... Not Michonne’s. Nothing.” Rick’s mouth parted, but no words came out right away. He set the bottle down on the counter. “You sure it was him?”

“Come on, Rick,” she snapped, but not unkindly. “I’m not an idiot. I knew him the moment I saw that goddamn smirk—what was left of it, anyway. He still talks the same. Still thinks he’s funny but the lights aren’t on upstairs, not all the way, if you get what I mean.” He leaned back against the kitchen island, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Shane said they just needed time,” he said slowly. “Things got rough and they wanted to reset, going off the grid for a while. Reconnecting in Virginia.”

“Shane say where they went?”

“No.” Rick’s brow furrowed. “Said he’d reach out when they were ready.”

“Well,” Maggie said, stepping closer, “either your 'best friend' lied, or something went seriously wrong out there. Negan’s not right, Rick. I’m telling you—he was fogged over, like somebody yanked out half his wiring. Didn’t even blink when I said Atlanta. Asked if we’d hooked up once and he forgot to call. And NO, he wasn’t joking, I made sure...”

Rick’s chest burned—some weird hybrid of guilt and dread stirring under his ribs. “He forgets shit sometimes,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “He always said he wasn’t proud of his past. Maybe he’s just—”

“No, Rick,” she cut in, voice sharper now. “This wasn’t ‘forgetting a birthday’ or ‘too much whiskey one night.’ This was blank. Gone. I sat across from a man who didn’t know who I was. A man who used to strut into community meetings late just to see how many people would stare.” She paused, tilting her head, studying Rick. “You still care about him?”

Rick didn’t answer but her gaze softened. “Look—I’m not here to drag up your shit. You’ve got enough on your plate. But whatever’s happening with Shane and Negan? It ain’t a romantic sabbatical. It’s something darker. He didn’t even have a phone, Rick. No ID. Just some ratty wristwatch and a napkin I gave him with my number on it.”

Rick’s hand twitched. “You really think Shane did something? He’s not a bad—“I think,” his female friend cut him carefully, “that your former bestie is the only one with a key to wherever they are. And I think Negan’s either being lied to… or drugged.”

Rick’s face didn’t change, but his blue eyes went dark—haunted, looking past her, into the middle distance like maybe he was seeing something he’d tried not to think about for months.“I saw the way he looked at you,” Maggie said softly. “Back then. In every room, no matter who else was in it. You think a man like that just disappears without calling? Without at least giving you the middle finger first? I mean at last, but yep."

He swallowed hard, and for a moment, the room felt heavier.“I should’ve gone after them, after...him,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Maybe it’s not too late,” Maggie replied, softer now. “But you better move fast. Whatever Shane’s doing… he’s been doing it for a while.” A long silence passed. Rick finally looked up, eyes cold and sharp again. “Send me the address. That diner. I’ll check it if everything's good.” Maggie gave a curt nod, already pulling out her phone.

And in a comparatively close state, in a quiet bedroom lit by a single bulb and the scent of pine, a man with fading bruises on his hips and a napkin folded deep in the drawer beside his bed stirred in his sleep—while the lock on the cabin door clicked quietly into place.

***

The same evening after Maggie’s visit, Rick was standing barefoot in the kitchen, unable to sleep, with a mug of coffee going cold in his hands even though it was almost ten at night. He hadn’t turned on any lights except the one over the stove, and it cast the room in that soft yellow haze that always made the edges feel a little blurry, like a dream he hadn’t woken from yet. The city hummed faintly beyond the windows—cars, cicadas, the occasional shout echoing through the alleys near the station—but none of it reached him. Not really. He just stood there, back against the counter, staring into nothing.

Negan.

The name still felt strange in his mouth. Too sharp, too full of baggage. Like trying to swallow gravel.

Maggie’s words were still sitting heavy on his shoulders, heavier than anything she’d said in a long time. She’d always had a sharp tongue, especially for men like Negan, and hell, Rick couldn’t blame her. The man had been a walking middle finger for most of his adult life—snide, self-obsessed, inappropriate to the point of performance art, the kind of asshole who'd flirt with your girlfriend and your father in the same breath just to see which one would punch him first.

Maggie had never liked him. Neither had Daryl, not really. And Rick had… well. He hadn’t known what to feel, exactly. Sometimes he got fed up with the guy. Other times he’d watched him like a storm in a bottle—drawn in even while he knew damn well he should run. He considered him a friend once but could never consider him a brother... and why was that? He loved him, for sure and he was attracted, too yet he didn’t like all the drama the older man once brought with him. When the two...the three of them were still considered "friends".

And even Maggie was worried about him now...that’s what wouldn’t leave him alone as he took a sip of the bitter, lukewarm coffee, blue eyes narrowing as he leaned heavier into the counter. The way she’d described Negan at that diner—sweatpants, barefoot, bruised, dazed—it didn’t track. Not for the man he remembered. Not for the bastard with the heavy expensive cologne and leather jacket who at some point had flirted with all the women in Rick’s life and all the men too, including the ones who weren't fond of him. That Negan was made of ego and cologne and too much noise. That Negan didn’t forget people, didn’t disappear without a final word, married or not.

And yeah, sure—Negan had demons, Rick knew that. Everyone did. The man had talked a big game about bouncing back from his wife’s death, from the mess of his past, from whatever he'd left behind when he reinvented himself in Atlanta—but Rick could always see the cracks underneath. In the way he drank too much at parties. In the way he looked at him when Shane wasn’t watching. In the way his jokes sometimes sounded more like pleas for someone to punch him in the face so he’d feel something.

But a drug addict? No.

Rick shook his head slowly. He could picture Merle, Daryl’s brother, strung out in some gas station bathroom, no problem. Could imagine Merle with a needle, Merle twitching, Merle pawning his boots for another fix. The older Dixon by the way liked the former gym teacher and they often together laughed at offensive to everyone else jokes. But Negan?

He had too much pride. He’d die before he let anyone see him weak like that and made fun of it. Still… Maggie said he didn’t recognize her. Didn’t remember Atlanta. Didn’t remember HIM after everything.

Rick’s jaw tightened and he took another drink. That kind of memory loss didn’t come from burnout, it wasn’t just stress or midlife crisis or cabin fever. Something was wrong with him.

But then… the rest of it. The cabin. The vanishing. The fact that Shane was the one who took him off the grid.

Shane.

Rick closed his eyes for a moment, the name making something shift in his chest. He didn’t want to think it. Didn’t even want the thought in his house. The other police officer was his brother, or the closest thing he’d ever had to one before Daryl. They’d gone through hell together. He knew him or at least thought he did. But the man had a temper, sure. He could be reckless. Jealous. Possessive to a fault. But hurting someone he loved? Drugging them? Keeping them locked up? That felt impossible. It had to be, he was a cop for damn sake!

And yet—Maggie’s face had been dead serious. She’d seen something.

Rick ran a hand down his face, exhaling slow. The worst part wasn’t what he didn’t know. It was what he did. He’d known for a long time that whatever Shane and Negan had, it was toxic. Fire meets fire. Two men who didn’t believe in compromise, fighting like dogs one minute and not keeping their hands off each other the next. Rick had seen the bruises, once, the cuts. The drunken arguments. The silent treatments that lasted weeks. Hell, there was a time when Rick thought maybe it was best they did go off the grid. Let the dust settle. Give themselves a chance to cool off. Especially when they pulled him in... he remembered that last night with drinking and "Truth or Dare" or something...Shane wasn’t playing about his husband.

And maybe they hadn’t cooled off. Maybe they’d just gone cold.

He stared into the sink. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Call Shane and ask him straight out? And say what, exactly? 𝘏𝘦𝘺, 𝘮𝘢𝘯, 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥’𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥—𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴? No. Shane would lie. Or worse—he’d turn it around. Make it about Rick, about old wounds, old resentments, the things they never said out loud back when Lori was alive, back when Negan used to smile at Rick like he was the last goddamn thing on Earth that made sense and him and Shane weren't even gym buddies, let alone a married couple with jealousy issues.

His grip tightened around the mug. Maybe that’s why it hurt so much. Because Negan had looked at him like that. Once. For a moment. And Rick had done nothing. Had married Michonne, moved on, let the chaos of Shane and Negan burn itself to ash while he watched from a safe distance, arms crossed. And when the older man again reached out for him, Rick didn’t reject him straight away, sure, Negan pushed the exact right or wrong buttons, but Rick gave him hopes and told him he was letting him go. He gave him false hopes, no matter what kind of man the teacher was, Rick was no better, at least not when it came to relationships. He literally forced Negan to choose Shane again, disrespecting his feelings maybe when the man reached out to him, in his own fucked up way.

Now Negan was a ghost.

And Shane was the only one who’d seen the body.

He set the mug down carefully, walking to the living room, and sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees. He ran his hand over the back of his neck, staring at the scuffed floorboards like maybe the answers were hiding between the cracks. If this was some downward spiral, maybe it wasn’t just Negan’s fault.

He had let it happen. Maybe by walking away—by not calling in time, by not checking earlier, by pretending the silence didn’t sound like a warning—he’d helped bury a man alive. He pulled his phone from his pocket. Opened it. Thumb hovered over Shane’s name.

He didn’t press it.

Instead, he tapped Negan’s number. His thumb lingered. Still no call, no message back... Just silence. Just guilt. Just the sound of the clock ticking louder than it should in a room too dark to hide in.

***

𝙑𝙞𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙖

The fire had burned low again, ash curling soft in the hearth, flickering orange-red in the cracks like dying embers in a war that had already been won. The room was warm. Too warm, maybe. But Negan liked it hot like himself. Or at least, that’s what he used to say back in Atlanta—before everything had to be argued, before everything needed to be a goddamn fight. The thermostat. The groceries. Who flirted harder. Who left their towel on the floor. Who walked out the door last time and slammed it like the walls weren’t made of memory. RICK.

But there weren’t fights anymore. Not here. Not in the cabin.

Shane was sitting in the armchair across the room, a beer sweating in his hand, the other draped loosely over the armrest. He was still shirtless—sweat drying over his stomach from the slow, brutal fuck he’d given his husband an hour ago—but the air felt colder now. Or maybe that was just in his head.

Negan was asleep on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, mouth slack, the silver streaks of his almost black hair curling damp against his forehead. He looked so peaceful like that. Softer and cuter like a teddy bear. Like the man he had once followed into hell with a badge on his hip and a shotgun slung over his back.

But tonight… tonight Shane had seen something he didn’t like. Those scratches. The dirt under the nails. The faint flush of skin where sweat met the sting of a fresh blister.

Negan lied to him. AGAIN. Not just some harmless little fib. Not a sweet babble like “I missed you” when he hadn’t. Not some bratty push-pull game they used to play, trying to rile each other up in front of Rick or Michonne or whoever else had the bad luck to be in the room.

This was a real lie. A coward’s lie.

A runaway’s lie.

Shane exhaled slow through his nose, burning brown eyes fixed on the man’s sleeping body. He hadn’t pushed him. Hadn’t shouted. Hadn’t even asked twice.

Because he already knew.

He knew Negan had gone out. Knew he’d slipped through the window, taken that crooked old chair and climbed out like some goddamn teenager sneaking off to hook up. He knew the signs. The sweat in his hair, not from the shower. The ache in his thighs that didn’t come from Shane’s hips. The way he curled his toes under himself like his soles still stung from the road.

What Shane didn’t know—what kept his fingers tightening slowly around the neck of the beer bottle—was why.

Why leave?

Why wander?

Why risk all of this when it was perfect?

No yelling. No pressure. No more Rick-fueled glances across dinner tables or those long silences that used to hang between them like a blade.

Shane had fixed it. He’d fixed it all.

And all it took was the right blend of chemistry. A little Liquid G to start. So he had started small. Slipped it into a protein shake, into a whiskey sour, into the orange juice Negan liked in the mornings when his head was foggy. And it worked. Like a charm. Made him calmer. Slower. Took the edge off. Smoothed the noise in his voice and softened the flash in those hazel eyes. And best of all—no more arguments. By now, they lived in their amazing sex, perfect chemistry but also peaceful family life heaven. The older man stopped asking questions. Stopped checking his phone. Stopped talking about Atlanta or Rick or the fucking college. He just curled up next to Shane at night, sweaty and flushed and grateful to be touched. Like nothing else mattered.

So why go?

Why now?

Shane stared at the man sleeping on the couch—the man who used to scare people just by walking into a room, and now couldn't remember his favorite cop's name. Because Shane made sure of it.

He finished the beer in one long pull, then set the bottle down quiet, rising from the chair. His steps were silent as he crossed the cabin, bare feet ghosting over the creaky wood floor. He passed the sleeping form on the couch—paused just long enough to reach out, brushing his knuckles gently down the curve of Negan’s jaw, soft as anything.“Don’t you worry, baby...Daddy,” he whispered, voice low, full of something that almost sounded like love. “You don’t gotta lie. I know it’s hard sometimes. I know the world’s noisy.”

He leaned down, kissed his temple. “I’ll make it safe again.”

He moved to the kitchen. Opened the cabinet over the sink. Behind the peanut butter, behind the vitamins—was the stash. Amber glass dropper bottles, labeled in his own chicken-scratch. Ratios. Half-lives. Notes from a hundred nights of trial and error, doses timed with rising moons and empty stomachs. He pulled one down, held it to the light.

The last dose had been diluted. This one wouldn’t be.
“Just enough to keep you soft,” he murmured, unscrewing the cap. “Just enough to keep you still.”
He poured the drops into the cranberry juice he’d already set out. Stirred it once, then twice.

𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘴.

𝘕𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘎𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐’𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥.

He put the bottle back. Carried the glass to the fridge, setting it inside, front and center. It’d be there waiting in the morning. And when Negan drank it—when he smiled, dazed and perfect, and said 'thanks, babe' like nothing ever happened—Shane would take him back to bed, fuck him slow, and tell him he was the only thing that ever made sense.

Because he was. And now, more than ever— Shane intended to keep it that way.

***

The morning light slanted through the cabin windows like knives through gauze. Thin, hazy, too bright for how heavy Negan’s body felt beneath it. He was still on the couch—shirtless, sweat-damp again, skin clinging to the leather in tacky patches. His head throbbed slow and mean, like it was stuffed with cotton and hot tar, and when he opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a groan.

Shane’s voice floated in from the kitchen, casual, chipper even. “Mornin’, handsome old man. You look like I dragged you backwards through hell.”

Negan blinked against the light, that dirty mouth feeling way too dry. “…’m tired,” he muttered. His tongue was thick, lips cracked. “Didn’t fucking sleep good.”

“You slept like a fuckin’ rock,” Shane called back, laughing under his breath. “I was up for an hour, watchin’ you twitch through a dream or two. Thought you were gonna start snorin’ like the goddamn bear you are again.” Negan blinked again, disoriented. Time didn’t feel real. It was like waking up underwater—too slow, too soft, like gravity hadn’t caught up yet.

His body didn’t ache the way it usually did after sex. It just felt… heavy. Like someone had stitched weights into his bones. His fingers twitched when he tried to sit up. He made it halfway before collapsing back with a grunt.

His husband was there in an instant. "Hey—whoa, slow down." A hand on his chest. Firm, grounding. Warm. “You good?” Negan winced. “Feel weird. Head’s… fucking pounding.”

“You’re probably just dehydrated.” Shane’s voice was soothing, easy. “You sweated like a sinner last night. Gotta replace all that fluid, babe.”

He pressed a cold glass into the older man’s hand. Cranberry juice. And his thirsty husband drank without thinking...it was tart and sweet and hit the back of his throat hard, the first few gulps burning like life. He drank more.“Good,” Shane murmured, brushing sweat-damp curls from Negan’s brow. “My perfect Daddy.”

Negan made a sound— a sigh, breath heavy. “Don’t think I can stand up yet.”

“You don’t need to.” Shane pressed a kiss to his temple, knelt beside him like some devoted knight. “I got you.”
He reached into the drawer behind him and produced a small pill, placed it in the older man’s palm. “Here,” he said. “For the headache.”

Negan stared at it. “Is this…”

“Just Tylenol,” the younger man said, smiling easy. “You trust me, don’t you?” Negan hesitated, eyes flicking from the pill to his husband’s face.

Of course he did.

He swallowed it with the rest of the juice. Shane took the glass back, pleased.

But already… something wasn’t right. Negan blinked again. Hard. The room seemed to tilt—just slightly—like the floor shifted under his spine. His ears buzzed faintly. His stomach curled with a slow churn. “Shane…”

“What, love?”

“…’s gettin’ worse.”

“The hell is it?”

“Everything. My—” His voice cracked, sucking in a breath. “My chest feels… weird.” Shane frowned, but not alarmed. Not yet. “You’re probably just crashin’. Body gets scrambled when it’s low on sugar.” But Negan’s hand twitched. His eyes looked wrong. Unfocused now. Glazed, not in the usual dreamy way, but off. Like he was blinking slower than he meant to.
“I—I feel… I feel like I’m gonna—”

His body jolted once—like a lightbulb flickering in a socket.

Then he went still.

Shane was beside him in a second. “Negan?” No answer. “Hey—Negan. C’mon now, this ain’t funny.” His voice rose slightly, but still tried to stay calm.

He shook him once.

Nothing.

His husband’s mouth had fallen slightly open. Breathing was shallow. Pulse fluttering at the neck like something too fast.

Shane’s throat went dry. This wasn’t like before. “Hey—hey, baby.” His voice cracked now. “Open your eyes. I said open—fuck—” Negan’s skin had gone pale. Not just pale—ashen. Lips starting to grey. His hands were limp. “No,” the cop whispered. “No, no—come on, my love—” He slapped his cheek lightly. “Wake up.”

Still nothing.

Shane pressed his ear to his chest. The heartbeat was there, but light. Faint. Like a drum under ten feet of dirt.

His own heart slammed harder, louder, heavier than anything he’d felt since Rick kicked down a door and screamed his name in another lifetime. “No. No. It’s just a reaction. It’s just a fuckin’ crash. He’s had this before. He’ll wake up. He always wakes up.”
But as he backed away, hands trembling, staring down at the body that wouldn’t move…

Chapter Text

𝙑𝙞𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙖

The night bled around the headlights, pine trees blurring into streaks of black and deeper black as the cruiser cut through the rural road like a blade. Shane’s knuckles were white around the wheel, trembling. His breath came sharp, shallow, too fast for someone who usually prided himself on control. His badge was still clipped to his belt, his sidearm pressing into his hip, but none of it made him feel like a man anymore.

Not with his husband barely breathing in the passenger seat, slumped against the window like a giant-sized discarded doll. The older man’s head lolled with every turn, lips parted, jaw slack. His chest rose, barely. Just enough to keep Shane driving, faster than he should be, tires squealing through every curve.

The man he’d loved, who used to curse like a poet and fuck like a starved animal, now looked like he was halfway to the morgue—and it was all Shane’s doing.“Fuck, baby, no—no no no,” Shane muttered, wet now dark eyes darting to the passenger seat again. “C’mon, Negan, you can’t do this. Not now. Not to me. Not after all this shit. You’re stronger than this.”

His voice cracked on the last word. “You can’t die on me, my love. Not after everythin'. Not after I fixed us. You hear me?” Negan didn’t move. “You said—” Shane’s jaw twitched, grinding teeth. “You said you hated all the drama. That you just wanted peace. I gave you peace. I took the fuckin’ world away and gave you myself. Just me. Ain’t that what you wanted?” His throat clenched as he swerved around a deer carcass, the reek of blood and rubber hitting like a slap. “Fuck—Negan—” he slapped the steering wheel, once, hard. “You don’t get to leave me like this. Not looking like that. Not while I’m the one drivin’!”

The road kept rolling out in front of him, empty, endless. And his head was a tornado of too many things...Negan’s lips slack, the grey creeping into his skin. The bottle with the wrong dose. The fucking wrong dose. The way his husband twitched and went still like a goddamn glitch in the system.

The exact thing the older man had once told him he feared most other than being locked in jail—waking up in a hospital room, drooling on himself, some doctor mumbling words like “neurological trauma” or “permanent state.” Shane remembered how he'd laughed it off, teased him for being dramatic. "Ain’t nobody gonna throw you in a cell, Daddy. That’s my job." And now? That might be exactly what he’d done.“I never meant to kill you,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I was just… I was just tryin’ to keep you safe. From Rick. From yourself. From whatever the fuck it was that kept makin’ you wanna leave.” His voice broke again. “You were supposed to be mine, man. Mine. All I wanted was for you to stay.” A tear hit his cheek, then another. He didn’t wipe them.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. Not like this. Not the kind that choked him up from the inside and made his jaw lock, made his chest ache worse than getting gut-punched. He was supposed to be the strong one. The one who didn’t break. Not the cop who poisoned his own husband and had to speed him to the hospital like a goddamn criminal in a uniform.
“Jesus Christ…” he murmured, pulling into the emergency entrance, brakes screeching.

The ER lot was dimly lit, mostly empty except for a flickering streetlamp and a nurse having a smoke on the curb. He leapt out, yanking open the passenger door, and caught Negan before his head could hit the pavement. His body was limp. Still warm, but limp like a fucking scarecrow stuffed with sorrow.

“Help!” Shane’s voice cracked the air. “Hey! I need fuckin’ help out here!”

The nurse stubbed her cigarette and ran over, yelling something over her shoulder. Two more attendants appeared, rolling a gurney. Shane was on his knees by then, cradling his husband in his arms like he weighed nothing. “He collapsed. He—he’s breathing but barely. I don’t know what the hell happened.”

They tried to take him, but he held on one second too long—one second too possessive, too guilty. “Sir—sir, we’ve got him,” one of the medics said gently. “Let go.”
He finally released, stumbling back, breathing hard like he’d just fought a war and lost it anyway. He watched as they wheeled Negan through the sliding doors, the gurney squeaking, machines already attached. They vanished behind frosted glass.

He stood there for a long time, not moving, just breathing.

Then he stepped inside. The nurse at the desk asked for a name and contact info. Shane straightened his shoulders, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and cleared his throat. “My name’s Shane Walsh,” he said, voice raw. “I’m a police officer at Richmond Department. He’s my husband.” Pause. “Name’s Negan Smith. But I… I caught him tryin’ to shoot up again.”

The woman blinked. “He’s a user?” He nodded. “Relapsed a few months ago. I thought—I thought he was getting better, but tonight... I found him like that. In our cabin home. Barefoot. Rambling. He’s a sweet guy, just... lost. Maybe always was.” His voice cracked perfectly. He’d done this before. Lied for his husband's past. Lied for his badge. This lie felt worse than all of it.“I gotta go,” he said suddenly. “I’m on call tonight. I need to let family know. Maybe our friend Rick, too. But I need to drive.”

The nurse hesitated. “You don’t want to wait for the doctor?”

“I’ll be back,” Shane said softly. “I just… can’t lose my job too, ma’am. He wouldn’t want that.”

He didn’t leave his number.

Didn’t sign a contact sheet.

He turned and walked out, straight into the night, breathing like a man who was about to be sick.

***

The cruiser was cold now. Air conditioning he hadn’t meant to turn on, blowing too hard against skin still clammy with fear. He sat behind the wheel, staring through the windshield at nothing. The keys were in the ignition, engine running. But he didn’t move.

Not for ten minutes. Not until the grief came back harder and sharper as Shane bowed his head to the wheel and sobbed—quiet, broken gasps he buried in the leather. He shook all over. His shoulders heaved. He bit down on the side of his hand to muffle the sound. “Goddamnit…” he whispered, voice barely there. “You weren’t supposed to die. You weren’t supposed to fuckin’ leave.” He stayed there, shaking. Crying. Thinking about all the things he’d done to stop the man he loved from leaving—and how none of it had been love at all.

Because love doesn’t look like fear in a bottle.

Doesn’t sound like lies at an ER desk.

Doesn’t end with a man limp in your arms while you beg God not to take the only thing you ever really wanted. “Don’t die on me,” Shane whispered one last time. “Don’t let me be the cop who drugged his own goddamn husband.”

It was done. He’d left him. Left Negan there in the ER, told them he was a junkie, whispered that he had a family, a sister, a friend, someone else who’d come handle it—who’d love him through whatever happened next.

But Shane knew no one was coming. No one even knew they were here. And Rick didn’t know a goddamn thing. He pressed his forehead to the steering wheel again, closing his eyes. Tried not to picture Negan’s face. Slack. Pale. Not breathing right.

Tried harder not to hear the soft thump of his heart slowing beneath his palm.

He had never meant to hurt him. Not really. Not in that final way. Shane had drugged him to keep him safe. To stop the obsession, the restlessness. To make him still. To love him better.

To own him without breaking him.

But maybe he had broken him after all. “Shit…” Shane breathed, voice cracked and ruined. “What the fuck did I do…”

He finally stopped crying after a while. There were no tears left. Just the burn in his throat and the weight in his chest, heavier than his vest ever felt on patrol. He rubbed his hands over his face, then stared at them—those same hands that once cuffed junkies, held guns, buried fingers in Negan’s hips as he kissed him into silence.

Now they looked like a stranger’s.

A killer’s, maybe.

He sat back hard and looked at the ceiling of the car, lips pulling tight, tongue pressed against his teeth like he might bite through the guilt if he just clenched hard enough. His eyes stung. Not from crying—just from the shame now. The real kind.

Because the second he walked out of that hospital, it hit him.

He was the criminal.

He was the one who drugged his own husband, locked him in a cabin, erased his memories, and called it love. The fucking badge on his hip wouldn’t save him from that truth. Not if someone found out. Not if someone came. Not if Negan woke up and remembered one day.

He’d go to jail. Prison. A cell.

The thought made his heart punch his ribs so hard he gasped. Because now—now he understood. All those nights Negan told him that was his worst fear. Not violent death. Not heartbreak. Not even losing Rick, though that cut deep too. No—Negan’s fear was being caged. Stuck in a room whether jail or hospital. Hands shaking. Strapped to a bed with wires on his skull and some stranger holding a clipboard saying, "Tell me what year it is, Mr. Smith." Shane had mocked him once. Joked it off. “You ain’t gonna end up in no fuckin’ psych ward, babe. You got me.”

And now he’d made it happen.

He gripped the wheel tighter, breath coming fast, vision swimming again as the panic began to spiral. He would not survive prison. He knew that. The shame of it. The silence. The loss of control. He was a cop. That made him a target. Every inmate would smell it on him—every asshole he ever booked would line up to take their piece. But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

The worst would be knowing what he did. That he’d taken the only man who ever made him feel truly wanted, and turned him into a secret. A ghost. A fucking victim. “You weren’t supposed to go,” he whispered, to the passenger seat that still held the heat of Negan’s body. “I was gonna fix it all. I was gonna—fuck, I was gonna get it right.”

His fingers trembled on the wheel. He couldn’t drive. Not yet.

He saw the lights of the hospital in the rearview mirror, still glowing behind him.

He didn’t turn back. Because what would he say?

That he loved him so much it made him dangerous?

That he only lied because he was afraid Negan would run again?

That he gave too much of the drug this time because he was jealous of a man who hadn’t even kissed Negan in years?

Rick fucking Grimes.

The name made his jaw ache again. He’d always been in the background. Always. That quiet threat in the corner of Negan’s eye. A memory with hands.

At least Rick would come. He always did.

Shane swallowed hard, heart thudding like a metronome speeding up.“I’m not gonna be the cop who killed his husband,” he whispered. “Not for them. Not for the world to know. Not for headlines. He’s gonna wake up. He has to. He has to.”

Because if Negan died? There was no story that could cover that up. Not a single lie that could fix it.
Just one name, one uniform, and a long list of things they’d dig up from the wreckage—mystery bruises, the withdrawal symptoms, the empty bottles with custom labels and dropper caps. There’d be evidence. He wasn’t careful enough. He got lazy. He got comfortable. And now it might cost him everything.

He took a long breath in, counted to four, let it out through clenched teeth. Shifted the car into gear.
He had to go. Had to get back to the cabin. Get rid of anything that could be traced. Clean out the drawers. Destroy the bottles. Maybe torch the logs if it came to that.

No one could ever know.

And Negan? He would survive.

He had to. He always did. He was strong like that. Tougher than Shane. Funnier. Smarter, even when he played the clown. He could beat this. He could forget the cabin, forget the poison, forget the hands that held him too tight and whispered I love you like it was a binding contract.

He could forget Shane.

Maybe that was the only kindness left to give him.
“Live,” the cop whispered, voice raw and thin. “Please, Daddy. Just fucking live.”

He hit the gas, trees swallowing the car again as the road stretched ahead like a punishment.

Behind him, Negan lay still in a white hospital bed, pulse faint under a tangle of wires. Machines blinked and beeped. Nurses spoke softly. Doctors took notes. None of them knew who he really was. None of them had a number to call.

And in Georgia, Rick Grimes still hadn’t gotten in the car. But the silence on his phone was growing louder by the hour.

***

𝙂𝙚𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙖

The phone rang just after midnight.

Rick was still awake. Still barefoot in the dark kitchen, lukewarm coffee gone cold in his hands, staring into nothing like it might blink first. The city had quieted some since a few nights ago when Maggie left—just the usual hiss of faraway cars, a siren somewhere distant, the occasional dog barking like it knew something the humans didn’t.

He hadn’t turned off the stove light. He hadn’t moved in almost an hour. He didn’t expect the call.

Especially not from that number.

Rick’s hand froze mid-sip, the screen glowing like a phantom in the gloom.

SHANE

He stared at it a second longer than he should have. It was instinct to answer. That old loyalty like muscle memory. Despite everything—despite time and distance and the slow-burn suspicion building like pressure behind his ribs—Rick still picked up on the third ring. “…Shane?”

There was a silence on the other end. Then the voice. Low. Hoarse. Unfamiliar somehow in its exhaustion. “…He overdosed.” Rick blinked, confused. “What? Who?”

“I found him like that. On the floor.” Shane’s words were flat, like they’d already been said in his head a hundred times. “Don’t know how long he was down. Maybe hours.” Rick’s grip tightened around the mug. “WHO?”
Another silence. Then, quietly, almost like it hurt to say it. “…Negan.”

The name hit like a slap. Rick set the cup down so hard it cracked against the counter. “Where?”

“I took him to Mary Washington Hospital. In Fredericksburg.” Shane’s voice wavered, just a little. “They got him now. I don’t know if he’s—he wasn’t lookin’ good, Rick.”

“Jesus Christ.” Rick was already moving. Crossing the room. Grabbing his keys off the hook by the door. “What the hell happened?” But Shane didn’t answer. Didn’t give a story. Didn’t say anything more than the barest fact. “I can’t stay right now.”

“What? Shane, what are you talking about—”

“I just thought…” His voice cracked, the old gravel almost gone. “You’d want to know.” And then the line went dead. Rick stared at the screen. No follow-up, no message. Nothing.

Mary Washington Hospital. Fredericksburg, Virginia.

His heart pounded in his chest like a war drum. Every part of him that had gone still these past few months suddenly came roaring back to life.

Negan.
Overdosed.

He didn’t even stop to change. Just shoved his feet into boots, grabbed a jacket, and made it to the car in less than three minutes. He texted Michonne—just one line. > 𝘏𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘔𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘴.

The road was already calling. The name Negan still echoed in his ears like it had been branded there. And Shane? He hadn’t said a goddamn thing.

But something was wrong, Rick didn’t know what yet but he was about to find out.

***

𝙑𝙞𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙞𝙖

The fluorescent lights made everything look wrong—too bright, too clean, too quiet for what he felt in his chest.

Rick pushed through the ER doors just after 5:00 a.m., boots tracking in dirt from the road, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat that hadn’t dried since the state line. The drive from Atlanta had been brutal. No sleep. One gas station coffee. Hands clenched on the wheel the whole damn way. His right knee ached from being locked the entire time—foot pressing down hard like speed could stop the worst from happening if he just pushed fast enough.

The triage desk came into view, staffed by a woman in navy scrubs, dark circles under her eyes and a clipboard in hand. She glanced up when he approached, offering a tired smile, polite but distant. Routine.

Rick wasn’t routine. “I’m looking for someone,” he said, his voice coming out rougher than he expected. Too fast, too dry. The woman straightened a little, cautious now. “Are you a patient?”

“No. Someone was brought in tonight last night. Drug overdose, I think. Name’s—” his throat clenched around the name, heavier than he thought it’d be. “Negan Smith.” She blinked, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “And you’re…?”

“His friend,” Rick said quickly. Then paused. “Close friend.” Her eyes flicked up, neutral again. “We can’t release medical information unless—“I know,” he cut in. “But… the man who brought him in told me. Called me. Said he might be dying. I just—” he stopped, forcing breath into his lungs. “Please. I’m not asking for records, I’m not press. Just tell me if he’s alive. Tell me if I’m too fuckin’ late.” That finally got her to move, her fingers tapping out the name, brows furrowing slightly. “Negan… Smith… yes. He was brought in around 12:20. No ID. Someone dropped him off and left.” Rick’s heart dropped. “That was Shane. His husband. I—he called me, said he couldn’t stay. That he had to go back to work. But I don’t think that’s true. I don’t think any of this is.”

The nurse hesitated. “Are you family?”

He shook his head. “No. But I need to be here.”

She studied him a moment longer, then nodded faintly, lowering her voice. “He’s stable, but sedated. Still in emergency. They’re working on him. Breathing on his own, but his levels were all over the place. Pulse irregular. Blood pressure bottomed out during intake. Narcan helped, but…” Rick’s mouth went dry. “But?”

“They’re not sure what exactly was in his system. Could’ve been a mix. There’s… some things they’re running tox screens for now. He was in bad shape when he came in. Non-responsive. Disoriented. Cuts on his feet. Contusions. The admitting nurse said he looked like he’d been outside—like, really outside. For hours.” Rick’s face hardened. “What room is he in?”

“They’re still keeping him in trauma for observation. Once he’s stabilized long enough, they’ll move him upstairs. There’s a waiting room down that hall, past the vending machines. Someone will update you when they can.” He nodded, dazed. “Thanks.”

But he didn’t sit down. Not yet.

Instead, he leaned against the cool, pale green wall just outside trauma intake, fingers digging into his belt like he could hold himself together with sheer pressure. The hallway was quiet except for distant beeping, the occasional buzz of intercoms. Everything smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee.

Negan.

Here. Alive. But barely.

Rick stared down at the floor, willing himself not to pace. There were too many questions. Too many cracks in Shane’s story.

He had overdosed?

How? When? Negan wasn’t a user. He had vices, sure—alcohol, sex, arrogance—but he wasn’t a junkie. Never had been. Not in any of the years Rick knew him. Not even in his worst grief. He hated being out of control. Hated weakness. Hated anything that made him look less than sharp.

And now he was found barefoot, bruised, drugged, and alone?

Rick pressed a fist to his mouth, dragging it down slow.

The last time he’d seen Negan... hell, he didn’t even remember exactly when...maybe it was the police station fight. They hadn’t spoken face to face since before Shane dragged him off to some dream house in Virginia, talking about “peace” and “a break from the city.” Rick hadn’t protested at the time. He had work and kids to look after. Carl. Judith. Even Michonne who was now with Maggie but was basically the mother figure of his kids. Things to protect.

But now? Now he was thinking about all the times Negan reached out and Rick hadn’t answered fast enough. The texts. The weird, late-night voicemails. The joking invitations that always had a sad note buried somewhere beneath the cocky purr.

𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯’ 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘉𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩.

Rick closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “You better not fucking die,” he muttered under his breath, low enough that no one heard. “You dramatic son of a bitch, you better stay in that bed until I can look you in the eyes.”

A nurse passed him, giving him a small, cautious smile. Rick nodded once but didn’t speak.

He hadn’t seen the man in months.

And now Negan was behind that wall. And Shane had vanished.

The waiting room light buzzed overhead. He didn’t sit.

He waited.

***

Shane didn’t go back to the hospital. Not after he made the call...

Not after he sat in the cruiser for twenty full minutes, engine still running, parked just far enough from the ER that he could see the ambulance bay in his rearview mirror but not close enough for anyone to recognize his face if they came looking.

He thought maybe he’d wait. Maybe just to know. Maybe to see someone—Rick, maybe—storm through those glass doors like a fury in boots and denim and fury. Maybe to see a light in Negan’s room go out or blink back on. Something.

But no one came. And the lights didn’t blink.

So Shane drove. Not home, not Atlanta. Not back to the cabin either. He drove to Richmond. Parked near the rear of his department. Took the back stairwell to avoid the night shift desk. Didn’t talk to anyone except the janitor, who nodded and muttered, “Long night, Sergeant?” and Shane said, “You have no goddamn idea,” without slowing his pace.

His desk was still cluttered—photos pinned to the corkboard, some files open, coffee ring staining a report he never signed. The chair creaked when he sat. Familiar. Too familiar.

This had been his kingdom once a few months ago.

Now it just looked like a tomb.

He pulled open the drawer, taking out what he came for. The old photo of him and Negan from the cookout three summers ago—Negan holding a beer in one hand and flipping the bird with the other, Shane grinning like an idiot, arm around his shoulders. Rick had taken the picture. They hadn’t known back then how fucked up it would all become. Or maybe they had. Maybe it was in their blood from the start. It was before the marriage, before the games, when they still weren't even friends but rather mutual friends of Rick.

He tucked the photo into the breast pocket of his jacket, then he opened the locker. Stripped the badge from his belt. Folded his jacket. Set both inside. Quiet. No ceremony. Just… over.

He didn’t leave a note, just shut the locker door, turned the lock, and walked out.

No one stopped him.

Not even God.

It wasn’t a cop bar, that’s why he picked it.

Somewhere near the city outskirts, dimly lit, a jukebox playing low Johnny Cash, neon beer signs flickering like tired angels over an empty pool table. The bartender didn’t ask questions. Just raised an eyebrow when Shane ordered whiskey, neat, and left the bottle.

He sat alone. Didn’t touch his phone. Didn’t turn on the news. Just stared into the bottom of the glass like the truth might be in there if he squinted hard enough.

And finally—after the second or third pour—he whispered it out loud. “I didn’t want to kill you.”

His voice cracked. “I swear to fuck, I didn’t mean to go that far. Just wanted you to stay. Just wanted you to stop runnin’. Stop thinkin’ about him. Stop dreamin’ about people who didn’t love you right.”

He took another sip. “You were mine. You chose me. You married me...and I was yours.” The words came slower now. Softer. As if saying them too loud would erase whatever scraps of truth still clung to the edge of his voice. “And maybe I ruined that.”

Maybe?

He’d drugged him.

Kept him locked in the woods.

Watched him twitch in his sleep and still didn’t stop fucking him everyday with no guilt.

He set the glass down hard, jaw tight.

What kind of man does that?

He thought again of prison. Of orange jumpsuits. Of lawyers saying “intent doesn’t matter.” Of news headlines that started with 'Decorated Police Sergeant Accused'…

He could almost hear the cuffs.

Negan, broken on a stretcher.

Rick, storming into the hospital, eyes full of fury.

He’d called him because there was no one else left. Because he had to do something right, even if it was at the last second. “He always wanted you,” Shane muttered to the empty bar. “Fine. Let him have you. If you wake up, you’re his fucking problem now.”

He reached for the bottle again with shaking hands. “If you wake up…” That was the part that gutted him.

Because maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe this whole quiet, broken world would keep going without Negan’s voice, his chaos, his endless fucking opinions about everything from baseball to bourbon to what kind of body wash a real man should use. Maybe all that would just be gone.

Gone because Shane couldn’t stand the thought of being left. He rubbed his face hard, knuckles pressing into his eyes. Not crying. Not like earlier. Just… worn out. All the way through.

He finished the drink, staring at the photo again. “You always said you’d die in a blaze of glory,” he muttered. “Never figured it’d be on my fuckin’ watch.”

The bartender asked if he wanted anything else. He shook his head. Tossed cash on the bar. Walked out into the street.

Didn’t say where he was going.

Didn’t look back.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘝𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘢...

The sky was just starting to bruise at the edge—deep indigo cut with silver. Early morning light with nowhere to go. Shane stood off a back road, headlights off, trees thick all around him.

He opened the trunk. Pulled out the last bottles. The labels he made by hand. The notes. The logbooks. Droppers. Pills. Everything.

He lit a match, dropping it in as he watched the fire take hold. It smelled like chemicals and cheap regret.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just stood there, letting the heat kiss his face while the evidence turned to ash.
When it was done, he got back in the car. Started driving not caring WHERE.

Because if Negan died… none of it mattered. And if he lived? He’d never want to see Shane again.

***

Room 408 smelled like alcohol wipes and plastic tubing and that fake lemony hospital soap that never quite masked the way death sometimes lingered too long in the walls.

But he was alive. Negan was still breathing.

Rick had counted each night. Seven now. Seven long goddamn nights, each one starting with the nurse giving him that same look at the front desk—half pity, half exhausted understanding—and ending in this same chair, knees stiff, spine sore, right hand curled around the warm, callused weight of Negan’s.

The grip was always loose. No squeeze back. No flick of the fingers. Just slack warmth. But it was warm, at least. And Rick held onto that like it was scripture.

Tonight was no different.

The lamp in the corner buzzed faintly. Shadows moved slow along the floor from the drip pole and the half-closed blinds. The only sound was the hiss-click of the oxygen and the heart monitor’s slow, stubborn rhythm, like a clock ticking too slow.

Rick leaned in again. Like he had the night before. Like he would again tomorrow. His thumb brushed the inside of the unconscious man’s wrist, right where the pulse trembled beneath the skin like a secret. “C’mon,” he muttered. “Say somethin’. Tell me I look like shit. Tell me the coffee in this place tastes like your ass after leg day. Say anything.” No response, only the faint rise and fall of Negan’s chest.

Rick sat back in the hard hospital chair, one foot up on the edge of the frame. His free hand dragged down his jaw, the beard thicker than usual now, untouched since the drive from Georgia. He hadn’t gone home. Hadn’t even left town. He showered at a motel. Shaved once, maybe. Ate out of vending machines and cheap diners. He kept the receipts in his coat pocket. For no reason. Just to prove time was still passing. “You remember Milledgeville?” he asked quietly, not sure why he was starting there tonight. Still no movement.

Rick’s gaze dropped, staring at the bedsheets tucked around Negan’s legs, the bandages around his wrists where IVs had gone in and out too many times. He looked thin, paler than the tan skin Rick remembered. Lips cracked. Longer grayish beard but coming in patchy. The kind of exhausted that didn’t come from sleep deprivation—but from being buried inside your own body.“I told you I loved you,” Rick said after a moment. The words were flat but not hollow. Heavy, like he’d been holding them for years and forgot how to throw them properly. “That night. I didn’t say it like a goddamn poem. You know me. You know I couldn’t.”

His hand tightened slightly on Negan’s. “But I meant it. And I still do.” He leaned forward, elbows braced on the edge of the bed, staring at the man who’d once been too loud for rooms this quiet. Negan always filled a space—voice, ego, heat. Now he was silent. Reduced to machines and the bruises they left behind.

“I don’t give a shit if you hate me when you wake up. Or if you pretend you don’t remember me again.” His voice shook but he kept going. “I just want you to wake up. Joke again. Tell me I’m a cockless coward. Call me a little prick like you used to. Tell me I talk too much with my hands and not enough with my goddamn spine.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You once said once I was like a brick wall with a badge. That I didn’t know how to feel anything that wasn’t duty or guilt. Maybe you were right. I don’t know. But you—” He looked at him harder now. “You made me feel like shit sometimes. And I still loved you.” His fingers moved to Negan’s temple, brushing back now salt 'n' pepper strands of hair. The older man didn’t stir. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t breathe differently. But the cop kissed his forehead anyway, soft and deliberate, lips pressed there like a promise he should’ve made a long time ago.“I’m not leaving,” he whispered, breath warm against Negan’s skin. “Even if you never come back right. Even if you don’t want me when you do.”

He pulled back, looked at the man again. “I stayed,” he said simply. “And I’m still here.”

And every night—before the nurses kicked him out, before he staggered back to the motel and stared at a TV he never turned on—he kissed Negan’s forehead just like that.

Soft and honest.

But scared.

Because love didn’t fix what had been done but it was the only thing he had left to give.

***

It was sometime past three in the morning when it happened.

Rick had nearly dozed off in the chair again—his arm still curled around Negan’s forearm, fingers resting gently on his wrist the way they always did now. The beeping of the machines was steady. Unchanged. Familiar in that way nightmares become familiar when you live inside them long enough.

He'd stopped expecting anything. Stopped thinking tonight would be different.

He'd just been whispering again—half-asleep murmurs.
“C’mon… just open your mouth and say I’m a dumbass. Say you miss steak. Say anything, man.”

And then— Negan's fingers twitched. Just barely.

Rick sat bolt upright, breath caught. His eyes flicked down. Waited.

Nothing.

He stared, barely blinking. Another twitch. The fingers of Negan’s left hand curled slightly, as if testing something, then relaxing again. Rick leaned forward so fast he nearly knocked the IV line. “Hey—hey, come on, love, do that again.” He pressed his palm more firmly around the sleeping man’s hand, still careful, still gentle. His other hand cupped the side of Negan’s face, thumb brushing the curve of his bearded jaw.

And then—the lids moved. Just a flicker. A tremble.

But it was real.

Negan’s long eyelashes fluttered like moth wings against skin that had been too still for too many days. His brow furrowed faintly. Lips parted, no sound. No words.

But he was trying. “Jesus Christ,” Rick breathed, voice cracking in his throat. “You’re—Negan, you’re still here.”
A noise escaped him then—both a laugh and a sob.

Because it was like someone cracked open a window in his chest after a week of being buried alive. Negan’s chest rose unevenly. His mouth moved again, faint and sluggish, like speech was still an impossible puzzle he couldn’t solve.

Rick was already on his knees beside the bed, forehead pressed lightly to the man’s temple, hand still cupped around his jaw. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m not lettin' you go. I’m here.”

And then he broke.

Tears hit the side of Negan’s face before he could stop them—hot and soundless and shaking him straight through. His shoulders curled in. He pulled the man close as gently as he could, burying his face in Negan’s neck. “You scared the hell outta me,” he whispered, voice thick. “You stupid, stubborn asshole. You scared the hell outta me.”

Negan stirred faintly again—just a slow, soft inhale and the twitch of an eyelid, but it was enough.

Rick kissed his forehead like he had every night during this heartbreaking week.

Only this time—Negan was warm and twitching and not gone. And Rick Grimes—hard-nosed, locked-down Rick—cried like a man who still couldn’t believe the war was over.

Chapter Text

The sunlight was thin, almost colorless, the way it got in the early mornings when the world outside still felt half-asleep. Rick was slouched in the chair, head tilted forward, neck aching from too many nights in the same position.

A sound—low, rough, and distinctly alive—snapped him upright. Negan’s head had turned slightly on the pillow, glassy hazel-brown eyes cracked open just enough to catch the light. His voice came out like gravel dragged over cement. “Am I… fucking dead?” His gaze swept Rick up and down, unfocused but assessing. “Holy shit. You Jesus or some other angelic dude?”

Rick laughed, but a part of him almost cried. “No. Not dead.” Negan’s mouth twitched in something that wanted to be a grin but didn’t quite make it. “Figures. Not enough winged harps for me in the afterlife.” Then his eyes sharpened just a touch, darting around the sterile room before finding Rick again. “Where’s Shane?”

Rick’s jaw tightened. “He’s not here.” The older man blinked slowly. “What happened?”

“You collapsed,” the other man continued, keeping his voice steady. “He is the one who called me.” Negan seemed to mull that over, then frowned deeper. His eyes narrowed, and the words came haltingly but with sudden edge. “Who the fuck are you? Why did he call you?” Rick froze for a beat, remembering what Maggie told him, all the drama before the two married men went to Virginia and his own lack of knowledge of the past few months and what had happened in the Walsh-Smith new household. There were a dozen ways he could answer, but none of them felt safe—not with Negan looking at him like he was a stranger who’d just stepped out of the wrong doorway. Finally, he said quietly, “A friend. Of you… and Shane. Name's Rick Grimes.”

Negan studied him, the confusion in his face layered with something Rick couldn’t name. “Don’t remember you and believe me, I remember the pretty ones. Damn it, I mean you look good, RICK but I still don't fucking know who are you!”

“That’s okay,” the police officer said, and he meant it to sound reassuring, not like the knife it felt in his chest. “You’ve been through a lot.” Negan let out a breath and sank back into the pillow, eyes closing again. “Still feels like the damn room’s moving.”

“Then don’t try to move,” Rick murmured, his hand brushing over Negan’s wrist to still its faint trembling. “Rest.” The older man gave his first ghost of his old smirk. “Bossy.” The man next to the hospital bed almost smiled, but the weight in his chest stayed. “Always was but not more than you.” Negan’s breathing slowed, but before sleep fully took him, his fingers shifted weakly, brushing Rick’s in a loose, instinctive touch—one that told Rick the man he remembered was still somewhere in there, even if he didn’t know it yet.

Later the same night, the sound of the heart monitor was steady, almost hypnotic, and Rick had been counting the intervals without meaning to. He was standing now, not sitting — stretching his back, pouring the last of the now gone colder coffee from a cardboard cup into his mouth when he caught the shift in the bed out of the corner of his eye.

Negan’s head was turned toward him this time, warm hazel eyes open more fully, watching him in a way that said he’d been awake for at least a minute. Rick set the cup down and stepped closer. “Hey again.”

The older man’s voice was still rough, but there was more weight to it now. “Why’s Shane gone?”Rick stopped mid-step. “What?”

“I asked,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly, “why the hell isn’t my husband sittin’ in that chair instead of you, FRIEND? He drop me off like a stray dog and skip town?” Rick felt his pulse knock once, hard, against his throat. He opened his mouth, shut it again. “He—” He shifted his weight, choosing each word like it might blow up in his face. “He brought you here.”

“That is NOT what I fucking asked,” Negan cut in, his tone more bite than strength. “I asked if he’s been here. Came back. Said anything...?” Rick’s fingers flexed against his thigh. “No.” Negan then let out a low, humorless chuckle, though it broke halfway with something that might’ve been pain. “Woo-hoo! Guess I’m not worth the parking fee.” He turned his gaze toward the ceiling, jaw tightening, and when he spoke again, the humor was gone. “What happened to me?”

Rick stepped up beside the bed, close enough to see the faint tremor still running through Negan’s hand where it lay on the blanket. “I told you — you collapsed. He called me. That’s all I know since I came from Atlanta.”

“That’s all you know....so a friend from Atlanta, that's where I lived and worked before...” Negan repeated slowly, eyes sliding back to him. “That’s it? No doctor runnin’ his mouth? No fuckin’ explanation for why I feel like I got drop-kicked down a flight of stairs?” Rick swallowed, leaning his knuckles on the bed rail, voice low. “I’d tell you if I knew. You’ve been out for a week. Barely moved. I’ve been here every damn day hopin’ you’d open your eyes.”

The older man studied him for a long moment, something unreadable shifting behind the haze in his eyes. Then he gave a faint shake of his head, a slow, pained smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “You got a funny definition of ‘𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥,’ pretty boy. Friends don’t sit bedside like they’re waiting for the will to be read.”

Rick didn’t rise to it, he just stayed there, steady, because whatever Shane had told him during the cabin days was still running the show in the other man’s head, and if he pushed too hard now, he’d lose what little trust was left.

***

The potatoes on his tray were going cold, untouched except for the little fork tracks he’d dragged through them while thinking. Rick was sitting forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, watching him work at the food without actually eating. Negan finally dropped the fork, leaning back against the pillows, and let out a slow, rough chuckle. “You ever think maybe karma’s just sittin’ up there waiting for you to bend over?”

Rick tilted his head. “What?”

Negan’s smirk curved lazily, the kind he wore when he was lining up the punchline before the setup was even over. “I mean… I don’t remember much before that cabin. But hell, I’m willin’ to bet good money I’ve been a fuckin’ bastard more than a few times. Screwed over a boyfriend, a girlfriend, somebody who thought I was in it for the long haul… and then one day, BOOM. Karma says, ‘Hey, fucker, remember all those dirty exits? All the times you left somebody hangin’? Well, strap in, ‘cause now you’re the one in the hospital bed, and your so-called ride-or-die’s skippin’ town like you got the plague.’”

Rick didn’t answer right away. His chest tightened because he knew the history Negan couldn’t remember — the past with Lucille, the toxic shit before the cabin, the way he could cut people to pieces with his loud mouth and still make them laugh about it. The older man saw the look and grinned wider. “What? You think I’m wrong? You think maybe I was a fuckin’ saint before all this?” He gave a short, rasping laugh. “C’mon, man, look at me. Even with a blank slate I can tell I’ve pissed off enough people to fill a goddamn stadium. So maybe this is the universe bending me over the counter and givin’ me my due.”

“You don’t know the whole story,” Rick said finally.

Negan shrugged, slow and careless, but there was a flicker in his eyes that didn’t match the ease in his voice. “Don’t need the whole story. Just know I woke up, you’re here, and he’s not. That’s enough math even I can do.” Rick stayed quiet, but he didn’t look away. Negan’s grin faded into something smaller, almost thoughtful, before he shifted back against the pillows, closing his eyes like the conversation had run its course.

***

It was the third day since Negan had been awake more than a few minutes at a time, and with the color creeping back into his face came the attitude. He was half-sitting up, one hand gripping the raised bed rail like he might vault over it just to prove he could. “Give me your phone,” he said, palm out like it was a demand, not a request.

Rick, sitting with his arms crossed, didn’t even blink. “No.” Negan’s eyebrows went up. “The fuck you mean, no? I’m not asking for a kidney, prick, I’m asking for a goddamn phone.”

“I heard you.”

Negan’s jaw set. “I’m gonna call my goddamn husband and tell him exactly what I think of his disappearing act. Gonna let him know how much I appreciate him dropping me off like a bag of trash at the curb.”

“You’re not up to that.”

“The hell I’m not,” he snapped. “I got more than enough air in my lungs to tell that son of a bitch where to stick it, maybe even get in a few creative fuck-yous for old times’ sake. So hand it over.” Rick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, meeting his glare head-on. “Shane’s gone.” The older man’s nostrils flared. “Yeah, I noticed. That’s the whole fuckin’ point of this phone call.”

“I mean gone,” Rick said, slower now, softer even. “He’s not here, and you’re not gonna chase him down from a hospital bed. I’m here because I care, Negan. You might not remember now but we've known each other for years. I know it’s hard, but later we’ll talk. Now you recover first.” The older man barked out another humorless laugh. “Care? That what this is? You sittin’ there like my parole officer, tellin’ me what I can and can’t do?”

Rick didn’t flinch. “If that’s what it takes, yeah.” For a second they just stared at each other — Negan’s grip tightening on the bed rail, Rick looking back controlled — until the older man finally let out a long breath through his nose, muttering something obscene under it. “Fine,” he said, flopping back against the pillows. “But when I’m on my feet again, Rick? You better believe I’m makin’ that call, and I’m gonna make it loud enough you can hear every single syllable from wherever the hell you’re hidin’.”

Rick allowed himself the smallest smirk, feeling the real Negan coming back after whatever had happened and for a first time, he was so grateful. “We’ll see.” The other man grinned, but there was no warmth in it. “Oh, you’ll fuckin’ see.”

***

It was late enough that the hall outside was quiet, the nurses talking low at their station, the kind of quiet where even the beeps from the monitors seemed softer. Rick had the chair pulled close to the bed again, boots planted, elbows on his knee. Negan had been staring at the window for a long time, eyes glassy but not quite tired, his hands resting loose on the blanket like he’d run out of ways to fidget.

When he spoke, it was quiet, almost flat. “Guess he didn’t love me.” Rick’s head came up. “What?”

Negan didn’t look at him, still watching whatever was beyond the glass. “Husband. Apparently not the knight-in-shinin’-goddamn-armor I thought. You don’t dump somebody in a hospital and ghost ‘em if you love ‘em. Not unless you’re tryin’ to get rid of someone, and… hell, I don’t even know what point that would be.” His mouth pulled into something that wanted to be a smirk but didn’t make it all the way. “Kinda funny, huh? Big, loud son of a bitch like me, and I still didn’t see it comin’.”

Rick leaned back slightly, his voice low. “If you ask me… he loved you too much. Just… in the wrong way.” That made Negan finally turn his head, brow furrowing. “The hell does that mean?”

The other man just shook his head, looking down at his hands. “Doesn’t matter now.” Negan stared at him for a beat longer, like he was deciding whether to push, then let it go with a small snort. “Fine. Change the subject before I start cryin’ like some sad country song.”

Rick glanced back up. “You know I’m a cop, right?”

Negan let out a short laugh. “Yeah, connected the dots. Shane told me. Said one of his colleagues in Atlanta—guess that was you—introduced us. Then for whatever reason the man, aka YOU became jealous or envious or whatever and stopped fucking contacting both of us. Now I don't trust a thing from that fucker, my husband’s mouth, so...that's what I know about you, Rick."

The other man kept his expression neutral but immediately caught the lies Shane had been feeding Negan, getting more confused but not surpised anymore. “Somethin’ like that. Except the second part since I never quit contact, I was your friend until you moved to Virginia.” Negan narrowed his eyes, like he caught something in the tone, but didn’t push. “So, what’s Atlanta like these days? Haven’t exactly been gettin’ out much.”

Rick eased back in his chair, the faintest hint of a smile crossing his face. “College you were teachin’ at’s missin’ you. Kids been askin’ when you’re comin’ back. My boy Carl and my little girl Judith, they love you. You used to be Carl’s P.E. teacher before you moved up in your career. Always said you were loud and a douchey pain in the ass—but the good kind. Amazing with kids.” Negan grinned at that, just enough to cut through the heaviness in the room. “Loud and douchey, huh? Guess I’ll take that over ‘boring as shit.’ ”

Rick’s smile faded just a touch when the other men asked, “So, kids. Fucking love them! You also got a wife...or husband, don't know?”

“Not anymore,” he said after a pause. “It’s… complicated.” Negan nodded slowly, gaze drifting back toward the window. “You should be with your kids, your family. Not sittin’ here with me in the middle of the night like some kinda sad puppy.” Rick shook his head. “I’m right where I need to be.” For the first time, Negan’s voice lost the edge of mockery. “Well… for what it’s worth, I’ll never forget that you were here. That you stayed. I know I've been an asshole, well who wouldn't be in my place right now....but thank you, Rick.”

The other man didn’t answer right away, just leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, the weight of it sitting heavy between them. Negan looked back at him, that half-smile softer now, and for once, no punchline followed.

"I understand. Don't worry now, rest."

***

The room was dim except for the weak yellow glow from the corner lamp, the kind of light that made shadows collect in the folds of the blanket and under Negan’s jaw, turning the hollows of his face into something sharper, leaner. Rick sat in the chair again, leaning forward, hands clasped loose, blue eyes fixed on the slow, steady rise and fall of the other man’s chest under the thin hospital sheet.

He should’ve felt some kind of relief, he guessed — Shane was gone, not just out of the room but out of the picture, at least for now, and Negan was alive when a week ago he’d looked like he might not be — but there was something under it, sour and heavy, because the more he turned it over in his head the less any of it made sense. Negan wasn’t an addict, Rick knew that. He’d known the man long enough, seen him in enough situations where pills or powders or bottles were passed around, to know he wasn’t the type to lose himself in that, not unless someone put him there. And now, with the memory gap, with whole people and pieces of his life missing, he couldn’t stop seeing it for what it probably was — months of being drugged slow, systematically, just enough to keep him pliable, just enough to keep the reality around him shaped into whatever picture Shane wanted him to see.

And that… Jesus, that thought sat like lead in Rick’s gut, because Negan wasn’t somebody you could just gaslight when he was sober — he was too sharp, too mouthy, too good at cutting straight through bullshit — so the only way Shane could’ve done it was to keep him in that fog day after day, bending the truth around him like wire until he didn’t know which way was up, and doing it all while calling himself a husband.

Rick’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping once before he forced himself to ease it. It was one thing to have a marriage go bad, to fight and walk away and let it rot in the rearview — it was another thing entirely to keep a man under your roof, in your bed, while you pumped him full of whatever would make him quiet and compliant, and to do it for months, maybe longer, with a smile and a hand on the back of his neck. And if Rick let himself think too hard about what else his former best friend might have done in that time, what lines he might have crossed, he could feel that familiar heat creeping up his spine, the one that made his fingers itch for his gun.

He looked at Negan again, watching him shift in his sleep, the small crease forming between his thick brows even now, like he was still fighting something behind his eyelids. It hurt in a way Rick didn’t completely understand, seeing him like this — stripped down, struggling, not the loud, fast-talking son of a bitch who’d made half of Atlanta either laugh or curse under their breath, but someone trying to pull himself back from a place he never should’ve been in the first place.

And yet… there was a strange, quiet certainty in Rick’s chest too, because Shane was gone, and that meant there was room for something else, maybe something better. Maybe this was a new beginning, one where Shane’s voice and his hand and his goddamn shadow weren’t hanging over every word, every look. Rick didn’t know if he’d ever tell Negan the whole truth — maybe he wouldn’t, maybe it’d be better to leave him with good memories, with the people who cared for him painted in the best light Rick could manage. No matter what kind of man Negan had been before, no matter the wrong turns and the messes he’d made, Rick couldn’t think of anyone who deserved what Shane had done — a cop husband drugging you, probably risking your life just to keep you trapped in some twisted fantasy, wasn’t something you wished on your worst enemy.

And Shane… Rick had to swallow down the thought — the other officer had been his best friend most of his life, the one person he thought he could trust without question, and now he had to look at the truth that maybe Shane wasn’t that man anymore, maybe hadn’t been for a long time, maybe had cracks running through him so deep they couldn’t be fixed. And if that was the case, then he wasn’t Rick’s problem now.

Negan was.

His recovering was the priority, and Rick would sit in this chair as long as it took, because right now, here in this dim, quiet room, he knew that was the only thing that mattered.

Chapter Text

The hospital room didn’t look any different than it had the day he woke up, but something about the light made it worse, he was getting bored and irritated but at least soon he'll be home...wherever that was now. He was sitting at the edge of the rather uncomfortable hospital bed, bent forward, elbows on his thighs, tugging the laces of a pair of stiff black boots the nurse had pulled from a donation closet. They weren’t his size, not really, but they were close enough. His own shoes were gone — like a lot of things. Like time and memories. Like Shane.

The band around his wrist had already been snipped. His discharge paperwork was folded on the tray table. Rick was standing near the window, arms crossed, watching in silence as the older man adjusted the hem of his jeans and muttered something low under his breath. “I swear to God, if these boots give me blisters, I’m suing the entire state of Virginia.”

Rick didn’t answer, he just smiled while handing Negan a travel mug of gas station coffee and made sure the nurse didn’t try to push another set of post-op instructions on a man who’d already made it clear he wasn’t interested in pamphlets or follow-up calls.
Negan tugged his flannel over a plain black T-shirt — both of them soft and worn in, likely Rick’s — and stood slowly, testing the way his knees held. Not great, but good enough, mind still a bit dizzy.

He walked to the mirror by the bathroom door and stared for a second. The man who looked back at him was thinner than he remembered, hollower in the cheeks, beard overgrown, hair a little too grey and not that dark as before. His eyes seemed darker too, that spark of lighter hazel gone for now. “So that’s what I look like after gettin’ married to a fuckin' cop, going off-grid, and gettin’ abandoned like a box of wet porn.” He smirked faintly, then shook his head. “Jesus, definitely not gettin' married again anytime soon...”

Behind him, Rick stepped forward, grabbing the small duffel they'd put together — nothing much inside. Just what he’d had when he was found, plus a few things Rick had brought in from Atlanta — underwear, clothes, a leather wallet with no cards in it. Negan turned away from the mirror and ran a hand down his face. He was sober, clear-headed. But there was a kind of weight in his chest he couldn’t name — a pressure that hadn’t eased since he opened his eyes a week ago and realized the bed beside him was empty, cold, and no one had come looking. No one except Rick who never left his side. “Nurse says I’m good to go. BP’s stable, vitals are strong, no sign of internal damage.” He snorted. “Except the mental kind. But I guess that shit don’t show up on charts.” The other man handed him the bag. “You ready?”

Negan didn’t answer right away, giving a look around the room one last time. The chair Rick had slept in for nights straight. The smell of bleach and takeout. The disposable cups stacked by the sink. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Wouldn’t stay a whole ass day more even if they'd tied me up.”

They made it to the hospital exit without much fuss. A nurse at the front desk gave the cop a nod — she knew him by now, by name and badge — and the older man barely acknowledged her, moving like he was trying to avoid being remembered. The automatic doors opened on a dull gray morning. The rain had stopped, but everything was wet — pavement, air, even the sky itself. Rick’s car waited at the curb, black SUV, clean but lived-in. Negan didn’t say anything when he got in. Just pulled the seatbelt across his chest, slowly, and stared ahead like he was bracing for impact.

They drove a while in silence.

The highway unspooled beneath them like a thread neither man wanted to pull too tight. Trees turned to strip malls, which gave way to quiet fields and sleepy residential roads, the sky hanging low and heavy above it all like a story waiting to end.

Negan stared out the window, fingers drumming faintly on his knee. Eventually, he spoke. “So Atlanta...?” Rick nodded, blue eyes steady on the road. “Yeah.” The older man glanced at him. “You sure I still got a house there? He didn’t sell it out from under me while I was out of my fuckin’ mind?”

“Still yours. I checked. Both of your names on it but I don't think he'll show up.”

The older man huffed through his nose. “Oh, damn he won't. The fucker will regret crossing me if he ever tries after that cowardly cockless stunt of his. So what, no squatters? No crime scene tape? You expectin’ me to believe it’s just sittin’ there waitin’ with open arms and a warm fuckin’ blanket?”

Rick’s mouth twitched — not a smile, exactly. “No squatters. Place has been quiet, I kept an eye on it.” Negan looked at him, one brow lifted. “You been inside?”

“No. Wasn’t my place.” The older man stared for a long beat, processing that. “So you just… what? Drove by?”

“Actually yes, more than once,” the cop said simply. “Didn’t cross the line, though. Just watched over it, I’m still a cop, it's still my jurisdiction. Figured if you came back, you’d want it untouched.” Negan gave a short, bitter laugh. “You always this protective of abandoned property?”

Rick looked at him then, just a flick of the eyes. “You weren’t abandoned.” Negan scoffed, but it was quieter this time. “Sure as hell felt like it." Then, under his breath, almost like it escaped him. “Still fuckin’ does.”

The other man didn’t argue, deciding to let Negan let his feelings out naturally, even if it meant frustration.
The tires hummed over the asphalt like a metronome ticking down the miles between who they were and what they might be now.

A few more exits passed in silence. Finally, Negan asked in a low voice. “You really think this is gonna work?”

“I think it’s better than leaving you out here to figure it out alone, it's the least I can do...now. Atlanta's your home, where you have a job, friends, a name.” Negan exhaled and turned his face back to the window, watching the city rise in the distance — not fast, not towering, but steady.

His breath fogged a faint oval on the glass. “I'm not askin’ you to save me, Rick, it's not your fuckin' responsibility.”

“I know.”

“You ain’t gonna get sainthood for this, you also know that, right?”

“I’m not tryin’. Maybe I'm doing it 'cause I want to?”

That made Negan pause. He turned, really looked at Rick for the first time since the car started moving — hazel eyes searching, not suspicious, just... unsure.
“But why?” Rick’s voice, when it came, was soft but sure. “Because you’re not done. And whether you remember why or not… I think part of you still knows it.” Negan didn’t respond. He sat back in the seat slowly, head tilting toward the window again, and let his eyes fall shut. "Pardon me, Rick, need a little bit more sleep."

The skyline broke the horizon just after noon, sharp against a pale gray sky that hadn’t decided if it wanted to rain again or not. The highway curved inward, lanes widening, buildings growing taller, the sprawl of Atlanta slowly replacing the long nothing of rural Virginia. Even through the closed windows, the city smelled different — not clean exactly, but alive. Pavement and pollen, exhaust and steam. Home.

Negan shifted in the passenger seat. He hadn’t spoken in over an hour. The hum of the tires on asphalt had done most of the talking — that, and the occasional low voice on the radio, giving traffic updates neither of them really listened to. But now, as the familiar shapes of the outer neighborhoods came into view, something shifted in his face.

He sat up straighter. Eyes narrowing as if he was trying to read a word that hadn’t made sense until just now. “That’s Midtown.” The other man glanced over, nodding.“Yeah. Negan stared out the window longer. His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing his beard, not in vanity but in thought. “That exit… that’s the one for the college, right?” His voice was quiet. Not unsure — just not fully confident yet.

Rick smiled faintly while nodding. “Atlanta Tech’s down that way. You used to teach classes there just as I told you.”

“Fuck, I almost forgot about that.” He exhaled hard, like the memory had hit his ribs from the inside. Not painful, but solid. “That place had the worst coffee and the best vending machine burritos on the east coast. I’d bitch about it to the department head every week like I had better options.”

Rick let him talk. “And that garage on Fifth? They scratched my damn RV and tried to say it was ‘pre-existing damage.’ ” A pause followed but then a faint chuckle. “Shit. That RV. Haven’t thought about that thing in a while.”

They merged into heavier traffic, and the buzz of the city wrapped around them — crosswalk lights blinking, people crossing streets, horns honking two blocks away. The noise didn’t rattle Negan. If anything, it seemed to settle something in him. “This city,” he muttered. “It’s in my bones.”

The other one stayed in the right lane, quiet and trying not to be too much distracted, the way he always drove when someone else was thinking too loud beside him.Negan kept talking, he wasn’t sure if he was narrating or remembering anymore.“I used to stop at that red food truck on Tuesdays. Parked by the old church. Fried catfish tacos. Always had hot sauce on my tie.”

Another block passed, then another as Rick took a right and the older man sat up straighter again. “This neighborhood.” He blinked slowly, mouth parting like a breath had caught behind it. “This is where…” He didn’t finish. Just looked out the window, wide hazel eyes tracking each house, each tree, like they were old friends with new faces. Rick turned onto the street — narrow, tree-lined, brick houses nestled behind hedges, garden flags half-faded in the late summer sun.

And there it was. The house. Red brick, two stories, black shutters. Porch swing still intact. The stained-glass window above the door caught the light just enough to glow.

Negan didn’t move for a moment, he just stared while Rick put the car in park but didn’t shut it off, the engine idling beneath them.

***

The special police key stuck in the lock as Rick jiggled it, frowned, then forced it with a grunt until the door gave way. The hinges groaned, dry and protesting, and the smell hit them first — not rot, not mildew — just air that hadn’t moved in months. Dust, wood, paper, and time. The kind of scent that whispered no one’s been home in a while.

Negan was standing still just inside the threshold and Rick didn’t push past him. Just stood behind, silent, letting him take it in. The light filtering through the stained-glass above the door was dulled by layers of grime. Inside, the hallway stretched forward, the hardwood floors scuffed with dried footprints and fine gray dust, like the house had exhaled and no one had breathed back. “So much for the maid service, shit's gross as hell,” Negan muttered.

“Didn’t have a key, so sorry.” Negan glanced over his shoulder. “You should have just fuckin' broke in like a badass cop from some action movie.”

“At some point time I thought about it but figured you two just left town and it was yours to come back to if you wanted.”

Negan didn’t say anything for a long second.

Then he stepped inside. His boots echoed in the hallway, each step stirring up just enough dust to catch the light. The house felt frozen, even dead, like it had been paused mid-thought. The owner moved through it like a ghost retracing his own steps — first the living room, where the faint outline of a glass once sitting on a coaster near the leather couch; then the kitchen, where a calendar still hung on the fridge, turned to March.

Rick stayed behind. Let him walk it alone. When Negan reached the bedroom, he hesitated. The door creaked when he pushed it open, revealing stale air and a bed that looked slept in and abandoned at the same time. A pillow was still dented in the shape of someone’s head. “Holy shit,” he stated surprised. “We left this place like we were comin’ back.”

Rick stood in the doorway now, arms crossed. He didn’t say anything while Negan moved to the closet, pulling the sliding door open.The dust was thicker in here, the shirts on hangers sagging from gravity and neglect. A shelf near the top had a few scattered toiletries. An old Iphone charger. A scuffed shoebox. And behind a stack of folded shirts, half-obscured by a stray flannel sleeve, was the bottle.

Negan paused, reaching for it. The cologne was black, squared off, with that familiar scratched cap. The label half-worn. He turned it slowly in his hand, thumb tracing the edge like a ritual. “I used to wear this every goddamn day,” he said. “Even when I didn’t have anywhere to go.” He uncapped it, unforgettable scent hitting instantly — leather, musk, tobacco, something warm and sharp beneath it all, like bourbon over ice or the heat off a black leather seat in summer.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t bring up the cabin or the hospital. Or Shane.

It brought up Negan. The version of himself that walked into lecture halls with his sleeves rolled up and his chin high. The version that made students laugh and his dirty jokes and turned heads in a room just by entering it. The man who picked this scent like a weapon and wore it like a shield. He pressed the bottle to his wrist, dabbed, inhaling it and closing his eyes in a pleased expression. “Goddamn. That’s me. Daddy's home!”

Rick just watched him. Negan finally lowered the bottle, looking around the room. His eyes moved to the coatrack by the far wall. “My jacket’s not here.” He said it plainly, then gave a bitter huff. “Left it in the fuckin’ cabin probably.” His favorite jacket, that he loved so much for some reason, making him stand out and different from the rest. The other one took a step in. “You sure?” The older man's mouth twisted. “Yeah. I remember wearing it there, so I guess it stayed in my motherfuckin' home fuckin' Virginia in that shitty cabin. It gave that fucker a hard-on.” His voice dropped to a low, dangerous register. “If I walked in there right now and found him wearin’ it — wearin’ me like a fuckin’ costume while he is probably screwin' some hot bitch or twink…” He shook his head slowly. “I’d gut the bastard and feed him his own fuckin’ balls, Rick. No hesitation.”

"Negan..."

“But I’m not goin’ back,” the taller man added. “Not because I’m scared for whatever reason, his sorry ass should be scared of crossing me after dumping me when I needed him in a hospital like a goddamn cockless cowardly little bitch. Just ‘cause I’m done. I'm filling for a fuckin' divorce.”

Rick’s voice was quiet, coming out of nowhere. “I’ll get you a new one.” Negan turned, half-smiling. “What, so I match your deputy dress code?” The officer gave a dry look. “You always said it wasn’t the jacket that made the man, it was the man that made the jacket.” Negan grinned, tapping the bottle lightly on the dresser. “Yeah, but it sure as hell helped.”

Rick stepped closer, hand brushing a layer of dust from the nightstand. “You can throw out whatever you want. Paint the walls. Start over. But it’s still your house.” Negan nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think Daddy's ready to live in it again.”

The cologne was left to sit on the dresser like it had never left. Negan had moved to sit on the edge of the bed in the bedroom — not out of fatigue, exactly, but because the room spun a little when he stood too long. Two weeks or something close in a hospital had made his body slower, stiffer. His arms felt like rebar wrapped in skin. His lower back pulsed when he breathed too deep. He was healing, sure, but it was the kind of healing that didn’t happen all at once. It happened sideways — one breath at a time, then one day when it didn’t hurt to sit up.

He didn’t ask for help because Rick had already moved to the hallway closet without a word. Came back with a yellow-handled broom and a small bucket full of mismatched supplies. An old rag over one shoulder. The way the man moved was quiet and practical, like he’d done this before — maybe not here, but somewhere like it. Negan watched him from the bed, one elbow resting on his knee, long fingers rubbing idly against his temple. The sunlight from the window cast long shadows across the floorboards, making the dust swirl when the other man swept. Each push of the broom stirred old smells — cedar, lint, stale baseboards.

Rick didn’t talk, he didn’t even look at the older man unless he needed to move past him, and then it was just a nod, a flick of his gaze, focused on the tasks. He cleaned with the kind of steadiness that made the air settle differently. In the kitchen, he wiped down the counters. Opened the windows. The fridge moaned when he tested the inside — stale air puffed out, and he grimaced. Closed it again without a word. Took out the trash bag from under the sink and tied it like he’d done it a hundred times.

Negan followed him, watching it all, unmoving. Something about it — him — made the silence inside Negan shift. It wasn’t that Rick was doing it out of pity. He wasn’t hovering, wasn’t nursing some guilt complex. He wasn’t mothering or managing or trying to fix anything.

He was just... helping. Just there. Solid. Real. Hands in the dirt. Hands in Negan’s house. Hands making sense of the things the older man hadn’t touched in months. And Negan felt it — not in his gut, not in his heart — but somewhere older. Somewhere in his bones. He leaned back against the headboard, the pillow stiff and slightly musty behind his shoulders, and let his gaze follow Rick’s movements. The man rolled his sleeves up past his elbows. His forearms were tan from the sun, scarred in places. His wedding ring caught the light when he rinsed out a rag in the sink.

Negan’s eyes dropped there, stayed there.

𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, he thought. He wondered if it was for the wife he didn’t personally remember right now or know at all or for himself. After all, Rick had said it was complicated. He wondered what that kind of loyalty felt like — the kind that didn’t shatter just because everything else did.

The cop came back down the hall carrying a full trash bag, nodding once when he passed by. Negan caught a whiff of sweat and pine-scented cleaner as he moved. Familiar, not unpleasant.

He swallowed. It was a strange thing — watching a man clean your house. Most people would’ve found it uncomfortable, undignified. Maybe even insulting, humiliating for the other person.

Negan didn’t. He didn’t feel bigger nor disabled.

He just felt... seen and helped but not as if he was helpless. Not by words. Not by memories he couldn’t quite hold onto. But by the rhythm of footsteps across old floors, the scrape of dried rings off a counter, the sound of water running through old pipes.

When Rick finally sat down across from him — on the old armchair by the window — neither of them said anything for a long while. The house was quieter now. Still dusty, still a little stale. But there was life in it again.

Negan looked at him — the cop had sweat along his hairline, dust on his knees. His collar was open one button lower than usual, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled to the elbow. He sat like someone who had been still too long, whose body always ached somewhere — knees, back, something.

Negan remembered something else then — something soft and stupid. How Rick, the same man, friend, he couldn’t fully remember, used to lean on things like the world was too heavy sometimes. How he'd pause, rub the back of his neck, and crack his knuckles when he thought too long. How he always looked tired, even when he wasn’t.

But this — this wasn’t tired.

This was a man who still chose to be here.

The older man felt his throat tighten, just slightly. He cleared it with a rough sound. “You don’t have to do all this. I'll finish it another day.”

“I know.” Then he nodded towards the cologne bottle on the nightstand. “That what brought you back...somehow?” Negan gave a small smile. “Let's say to some little but awesome extent. Smells like leather and musk long enough, and your ego remembers who the fuck you used to be.”

Rick smiled too. Tired, quiet, real. “It suits you.”

The sun had dipped low behind the hedges, casting long shadows across the porch and painting the hardwood floors gold. The house was clean enough to feel livable again, though dust still clung to the corners and the air was too quiet in that way that reminded Negan of a life paused mid-sentence.

Rick had found two takeout containers in the back of his truck — leftover barbecue from a diner somewhere off I-75 — and they’d eaten without talking much, seated across from each other at the kitchen island like two men sharing an airport layover instead of the first real night in a home one of them barely remembered.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, it was just full. Now Rick stood by the door, brown jacket slung over one shoulder, boots laced. The taller man, leaning against the doorway to the hall, one hip cocked, arms crossed, watched him without speaking. Not pressuring. Just… watching as Rick pulled his keys from the hook and checked the time on his phone like it mattered. “My... ex-wife and her girlfriend are staying at the house with the kids,” he said finally, voice low but warm. “They brought Judith’s telescope down from the attic. Apparently the moon’s doing something special tonight.” Negan raised a brow. “The moon,” he echoed, dry. Rick half-smiled. “Carl’s pretending he doesn’t care, but I know he’s out there narrating the craters like some kinda space cowboy.”

Negan chuckled. “Kid’s got taste.” The cop nodded once, like he agreed but couldn’t quite explain why.

Then he reached for the knob. “Anyway. I should—”

“You could stay.” Rick stopped, his fingers didn’t tighten on the knob. He didn’t turn. Just… paused. Negan’s voice hadn’t been seductive. It hadn’t been sly. It had just been open.

Like an offer made without pretense.

Rick looked over his shoulder, blue eyes surprised. “You sure?” Negan nodded once. “Yeah. House feels less like a goddamn motherfuckin' tomb when you’re in it.” The other man didn't know what to answer, just lowered his hand from the knob and turned back towards him with no argument.

***

Later, the moonlight cut across the floor of the master bedroom where Negan was sitting propped against the headboard, legs stretched out, a glass of water resting on the nightstand. He still felt the hospital in his joints — still moving like his body was two seconds behind his thoughts — but some part of him had started to click back into place. The scent of his cologne still lingered faintly on his wrist and he had reapplied more behind his ears, on his neck.

Rick had taken the guest room without argument. Just saying, “I’ll be down the hall if you need anything,” and disappeared with a pillow under one arm.

Negan lay there awhile, staring at the ceiling, letting the quiet fill him.

And then he stood. He didn’t know what made him walk down the hall. Maybe it was the sound of Rick’s boots by the door earlier. Maybe it was the way he hadn’t said goodnight. Maybe it was the way Rick had mopped his floor and never asked for thanks.

The guest room door was cracked open. Rick lay on top of the blanket, one arm slung over his stomach, boots off, flannel unbuttoned at the throat. He didn’t look asleep. Just still.

Negan knocked once, soft.

Rick turned his head. Said nothing.

Negan stepped in.

He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t lean in the doorway or smirk. Just walked in, slow and calm, and stood by the bed.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” he said plainly. The cop suddenly sat up, legs swinging to the floor. He looked at him — really looked — and something flickered in his baby blues but he didn’t reach for him.
Negan meanwhile stepped closer, bare feet quiet on the old wood floor. He didn’t touch him, rather kept standing between Rick’s knees and looked down.

“I'm really not askin’ for sex since I don't even fuckin' know if all those shitty pills and all the medical crap won't embarrass me right now,” he said, voice rough, honest. “But I’m askin’ for you.”

Rick reached up slowly, putting one hand on Negan’s hip, gently. “You're still healing.”

“So what? I can try to give you a proper thank you and trust me I haven't forgotten — ” Rick’s hand tightened just a little, not possessive or warning like Shane’s touches had been. “So I need to know this isn’t a reaction to bein’ left behind. I’m not Shane and you're a handsome man with a lot of options so I need you to know it first.

“I know.”

“I’m not askin’ you to fix me.” The older man tried to argue. “I know that too.” Negan leaned forward still, just enough that their faces were close. His hands came to rest lightly on Rick’s shoulders, fingers curling against cotton and warmth. “I wanna feel alive again.”

Rick tilted his head up and for a moment, it looked like he might lean into it — might take what was being offered. But instead, he lifted one hand and touched his fingers gently to the edge of Negan’s jaw.

Then leaned up…

…and kissed his forehead.

A long, slow press. Not patronizing. Not hesitant. Just real.

The older one froze, the touch burning him hotter than anything else would’ve, because it meant more. Rick pulled back. His blue eyes stayed on Negan’s hazel ones.“I’ll kiss you like that ‘til the day you ask me not to.”

“Jesus. Am I really still worth all that? Look at me — I’m graying, I move like an old man, and I think half my fuckin’ spine's still in that hospital bed.” Then, dry as ever. “You sure you ain’t into fixer-uppers, buddy?” Rick smiled — not the smirk he gave the world, but the one reserved for things that mattered. “Trust me, you’re more beautiful now than you’ve ever been.”

Negan blinked once, and for the first time, didn’t try to laugh it off.

Rick reached for his hand. “But I’m not gonna be someone you choose while you’re still hurting.”He paused, voice quieter now. “If I’m what you want when you’re whole… that’s a different story. Take your rest, explore for yourself and we...” Negan swallowed, for once, didn’t have a comeback. Didn’t joke or flirt more, just stood there, quiet, head bowed slightly. And nodded. “Okay.”

Chapter Text

The days went like this, their relationship wasn't changing as they were getting to reconnecting, Rick visited often, helping Negan about daily stuff and returning to his old new life. The older man was often joking but didn’t press about intimacy lately.

One morning he was pacing the kitchen like a caged animal, the papers spread across the counter as if sheer presence could make them move faster through the system. “Fuck! They won’t process it.” His voice was sharp, ragged from too many cigarettes smoked on too little sleep as he slapped the papers flat with the heel of his palm. “I filed, I signed, I fucking did my part but apparently, apparently, the state of Georgia doesn’t give a shit unless that useless cockless son of a bitch signs his half. And guess what? He’s vanished, not answering phones, not anywhere.” Negan’s laugh was short and violent, nothing like humor. “The bastard leaves me to rot like a dog to be put down in a hospital bed and still won’t give me the courtesy of signing his name on a goddamn line. What the fuck does he want now?” Rick leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, patiently letting the storm run. “He can’t hide forever, you know it.”

Negan spun, hazel eyes bright with fury. “The hell he can’t! That motherfucker could hide in his own goddamn backyard if it meant dodging responsibility. And what, I’m supposed to sit here like a good little boy and wait for him to come crawling out from whatever whiskey-soaked hole he’s in and hand me my life back?” He shook his head, pacing again, every line of his body wired tight. “Fuck that. Fuck him. If he walked through that door right now, I’d—” He cut himself off, pressing both palms to the counter, shoulders heaving. Rick stepped closer, careful like he was approaching a spooked horse. “Listen to me. The court’s got procedures, sure he can disappear all he wants, but the law doesn’t stop just because he won’t sign. You give it time, they’ll grant it anyway. Automatic after a year, sometimes less so you’ll get your freedom whether he shows his face or not.” The older man looked up, now salt and pepper colored hair falling wild across his forehead, lips in a position like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the strength. “A year is way longer than I’m fucking comfortable with.” The word hit like a stone in his throat. “So I get to be tied to Casper the ghost cop for twelve more months? Every time I see the word ‘spouse’ on a form, it’s his goddamn name next to mine. Every time I roll over at night, I’m reminded I got dumped like trash by a piece of shit too much of a coward to even end it clean.” His voice broke, not soft but jagged. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” Rick’s blue eyes held his — kind but unflinching, “You live,” he said simply. “You drink your coffee, you teach your classes, you wear your damn cologne like a king, you keep living. Paper won’t change the fact that he left and it won’t change the fact that you’re here now.” Negan’s chest rose and fell, harsh and uneven. His fists uncurled slowly on the countertop and he let out a laugh then — bitter, tired, a ghost of the man he used to be but still there. “Christ. You talk like a man who’s been left before.”

Rick didn’t flinch. He just said, quiet, “Because I am speaking from personal experience...” The silence stretched between them — heavy, raw, but not unbearable. Negan finally leaned back against the counter, scrubbing both hands over his face. “Still standing,” he stated, voice muffled. Then he lowered his hands and looked at Rick, eyes darker than before but sharper too. “Well, I’m not about to let Shane Walsh be the reason I fucking beg, not even for a damn divorce. He can shove his goddamn inferiority complex and daddy issues up his ass!” Rick gave one short nod. “That’s more like it.”

Negan exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching up just slightly. “Guess Daddy’s got some remodeling to do.” The other man simply smiled at that. “One room at a time". Negan just reached for the bottle of cologne left on the counter, uncapped it, and pressed it to his wrist like a ritual. The scent hit sharp and warm, familiar and grounding. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice low, almost to himself. “One room at a time.”

***

The house went quiet again, too quiet, and Negan had never been a man who did well with silence. It made his head itch, made the walls press in, made him feel like if he didn’t open his mouth, he’d disappear into the dust right alongside the furniture he hadn’t touched in months. So he sat on the edge of the bed with his new phone balanced in his palm, thumb hovering over the contact he swore he’d manage to copy from Rick’s phone. The name was sitting there, plain as day — Shane Walsh — and the little gray letters underneath, voicemail only.

He pressed it anyway.

The beep came quick, and so did his voice. “You motherfucker.” The words hissed out of him sharp as broken glass. “You sorry, cockless piece of shit. You leave me in a hospital bed, barely breathing, and you can’t even sign a goddamn line to let me crawl out from under your name? You know what that makes you? That makes you less than a man. It makes you a goddamn coward, you little weasel and I hope every bottle you’re humping in whatever hole you’ve sneaked into tastes like my piss.” He ended the call with a violent jab of his thumb. Stared at the phone a second, then dialed again. The second message came out harsher, his voice rising until it rattled against the drywall.“You ever show your face in Atlanta again, Walsh, you better pray to whatever limp-dick god you believe in that I don’t see it first. ‘Cause I will break you in half. I’ll feed you your fuckin’ teeth and wear your badge like a belt buckle. Right? I ain’t your goddamn property, and I sure as shit ain’t your charity case. You lost me the second you ran, and there ain’t no hole deep enough to bury you from what’s coming if you try to come back.”

Another end-call. Another beat of silence. Another start. This time, his voice was lower. Not softer — Negan didn’t do soft — but tired in a way that leaked through the cracks. “…You could’ve just said it.” His breath hitched once, audible through the speaker. “You could’ve stood there like a man and told me you didn’t want me anymore. You could’ve stayed ‘til I woke up and looked me in the fuckin’ eyes and told me it was over, face to face. Fucker, pig, goddamn rat!”

He sat there for a long time after that, phone still warm in his hand, listening to the silence of the house. The voicemail clicked off on its own. He tossed the phone on the nightstand like it burned.

***

Rick had planned a surprise for the weekend for both of them to chill. On the road, Negan tossed his duffel bag into the back of the SUV with a grunt, muttering curses under his breath about how “grown-ass men don’t pack like teenagers going to fuckin’ band camp.” His scowl was sharp enough to scratch glass, though it had less to do with the weight of the bag than with the news Rick had dropped over coffee that morning. “So let me get this straight,” the older man said, voice rising as they pulled onto the highway. “You and your ex Michonne file papers and two goddamn seconds later she’s shacked up with her girl? Engaged? Already? Jesus Christ, Rick, you ever stop and think maybe you’re living in some soap opera?” Rick kept his baby blues on the road, knuckles easy on the wheel, voice almost amused. “It wasn’t working, we both knew it. And Michonne… she deserves to be happy.”

The other man scoffed, throwing himself back into the passenger seat, boots braced on the floor mat. “Happy? She barely had time to blink before she’s pickin’ out rings with one of your best friends. Meanwhile, yours truly can’t even get his limp-dick husband to scrawl his signature on a divorce line. One man’s moving on, the other’s stuck shoutin’ into voicemail like a lunatic.” Rick let him go, the hum of the tires filling the pause. “Maybe it’s for the better,” he said after a beat.

Negan shot him a look sharp enough to cut. “Better? Again this shitty line? What’s better about bein’ chained to Shane Walsh’s sorry ass in the eyes of the motherfuckin' law while you’re sittin’ here Mr. Enlightened Monk, wishing your ex and my babysitter’s club all the goddamn happiness in the world?” His voice dropped, gravel rough. “Don’t you fuckin’ tell me it’s better.” The cop just let the older man's anger burn itself out, eyes fixed on the stretch of highway that unfurled like a ribbon ahead of them. After a while, Negan huffed, leaned his head back against the seat, and muttered, “Whole world’s movin’ on without me. Just great!” The road wound south, fields turning to low hills, then to the neat signage of resort territory. Rick finally broke the silence. “We’re here by the way.”

The hotel was all glass and stone, built against the slope of a hill with pools and outside hot tubs that steamed even in the late afternoon light. Inside, the air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and clean towels. Negan sniffed once, made a face, and muttered, “Smells like a goddamn yoga studio in here.” Rick only checked them in, calm as ever. Two keys slid across the counter, and Negan snatched one, turning it over in his palm like it might bite him.

Their room was simple but wide — two queen beds, balcony doors that opened onto the glitter of a heated pool below, a faint hiss of water fountains drifting up through the air. Negan dropped his duffel onto the nearest mattress, sat heavily on the edge, and let out a sigh that sounded halfway between exhaustion and disbelief.“So this is your idea of a vacation,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Place where they charge twenty bucks for bottled water and play whale songs in the goddamn lobby.”

Rick set his bag down quieter, pulled his jacket off the chair, and glanced at him with the faintest smile. “Better than a cabin.” Negan barked out a laugh — bitter, but real. “Ohhh don't go fucking with me, I don't wanna see a damn cabin ever again! Not gonna lie, this place is magnificent but...” They changed, not into anything fancy, just into swim trunks and loose shirts. Negan made a whole show of complaining about the sandals the hotel had provided — “cheap-ass plastic crap, I’ll get blisters in ten minutes” — but followed the other man out anyway.

The spa pool was nearly empty, steam rising off the water in soft waves. Negan stood at the edge, hands on his hips, staring like it had personally offended him. “So what, we sit in hot water and pretend we’re not two miserable bastards who are totally NOT into each other?” Rick just stepped down into the water, the steam curling around his shoulders, his sigh slipping out like he’d been holding it all day. “Never said that...” Negan shook his head, muttered, “Fuck me,” and stepped in after him. The water lapped at his skin, heat sinking into his joints, loosening muscles he hadn’t realized were locked. He leaned back against the edge, hazel eyes half-lidded, groaning low in his throat. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Okay. I’ll admit. This doesn’t suck.”

“Didn’t think it would.” For a while they just sat there, the water humming around them, the silence not empty but thick with something unspoken. Negan’s eyes kept flicking sideways, catching the line of Rick’s jaw, the way steam softened his perfect curly hair, the ring still on his finger though the marriage it marked was gone. The grumpiness didn’t leave him — not entirely. He still muttered curses about “spa food” and “wellness packages” and “rich assholes who think cucumber water cures depression.” But beneath it, something else stirred — heat, not from the pool, but from the way Rick sat right beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed when the water shifted. Negan leaned his head back against the stone edge, eyes half-closed, voice rough. “Guess this is one way to start livin’ again.” Rick looked at him, quiet, blue eyes catching in the steam. “Yeah,” he said simply. “It is.”

The spa pool left both men loose in the bones but tight in the chest. By the time they returned upstairs, towels slung over shoulders and skin warm from the steam, the room smelled faintly of chlorine and eucalyptus clinging to their hair. The air conditioner hummed low, too cold against their damp skin, and Negan muttered curses about hotels that “blast Arctic wind like it’s supposed to be relaxing.” He prowled the room restless, barefoot on the carpet, then stopped between the two neatly made queen beds. He stared at them for a long beat, jaw working. “What the fuck is this, Rick? We ain’t a couple on a double date with the PTA.” He hooked his fingers under the bed frame, grunted, and with a scrape of metal on carpet shoved one mattress toward the other. The frames screeched, legs bumping, but he didn’t stop until the two queens kissed awkwardly together. He threw himself back upright, breathing hard, sweat standing at his temples. “There. One king-sized bastard matches two kings better. Least I don’t gotta wake up starin’ across the room like some bad roommate arrangement.” Rick, standing by the dresser with his shirt half-unbuttoned, watched in silence. His arms crossed, his face unreadable in the dim lamplight.

Negan turned to him, hazel eyes bright, finally getting back to his restless but warm gaze. “So. You want me or not?” The words landed like a fist between them — blunt, heavy, sharp with impatience. His voice dropped, gravel deep. “I ain’t playin’ the guessing game anymore, Rick. You’ve been hangin’ around, watching me breathe, driving me home and work, sittin’ in my goddamn house like a saint who doesn’t need thanks. But then you kiss me on the fuckin’ forehead like I’m some broken toy you’re scared might crack if you breathe too hard.” He stepped closer, bare chest rising and falling, the scent of chlorine and faint musk rolling off him. “Time’s passed, Shane’s gone. Michonne’s moved on too. And me? I’m standin’ here not askin’ for sex, not askin’ for pity, but goddamn askin’ for clarity. Closure. You want me, or you don’t?”

Rick’s throat worked as he swallowed, his blue eyes steady but softer now. His voice came quiet, the drawl low. “I told you before, I’ll be patient. You’re still healin’. You don’t need me pushin’ you somewhere you’re not ready to go.” Negan’s laugh cracked out, bitter and loud, but it broke at the edges. He shook his head hard. “Jesus Christ, you don’t get it, do you? This ain’t about whether I can get it up. This ain’t about sex.” His hands cut the air sharp, then dropped, fingers curling against his thighs. “It’s about something else. Something I never felt with Shane, for sure never with any other man or lady. Hell, probably not even with the hottest piece of ass I ever had in my life. And that’s saying somethin’, ‘cause Daddy’s had more than a few.”

He stepped closer again until he was in Rick’s space, until the air between them buzzed with heat. His voice dropped to a growl, rough but steady. “You think I’m fighting for clarity ‘cause I’m horny? No. I’m fightin’ ‘cause I’ve been halfway dead, and the only thing that felt alive in me was the second I opened my eyes and saw you sittin’ there, some handsome stranger like a little angel prick never leaving my side.”

The room pulsed quiet. The air-con hummed. The lamps buzzed faintly against the beige walls. Rick didn’t move, didn’t step back, didn’t raise his hands. He just held that hazel stare, his chest tight, his jaw set. “Negan,” he said finally, voice rough as gravel dragged on pavement, “you’re askin’ for some truth when you know I ain’t been lyin’.” The other man’s eyes narrowed, searching, his breath rough in and out. For a long moment, neither spoke. The two beds pressed crooked together loomed like some improvised altar behind them. Negan’s voice broke it, low, almost pleading beneath the bite. “Then say it, Rick, out loud. ‘Cause I can’t keep living off half-smiles and forehead kisses like a fuckin’ consolation prize.”

Rick’s lips parted, but no sound came at first. His hand flexed once at his side, as if fighting the urge to reach and then he finally breathed it, steady and real. “I don’t just want you, I love you.”

“Then stop makin’ me guess.” The other man simply scoffed with his eyes literally shined when he heard the words and a smile, real smile, not a grin, appeared on his face. He stood there staring at Rick like a man waiting for the last card to fall, chest rising sharp, eyes burning. Rick didn’t move, didn’t look away — just stood ready in the half-light like he was done running.

Negan was the one who closed the space. His hand came up, rough palm cupping Rick’s jaw, thumb scraping across the stubble at his cheek. “Been waitin’ on this, can't fuckin' lie,” he muttered, low, before he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the other man’s pretty full lips. It wasn’t gentle but it wasn’t rough or quick either. It was hot, hard, alive — lips clashing, teeth grazing, a growl vibrating low in Negan’s throat when Rick kissed back like he’d been holding his breath for months. The shorter man’s hands grabbed fistfuls of of Negan’s shoulders, yanking him closer, letting the weight press them chest to chest.

The older man broke the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth along Rick’s jaw, biting lightly at the edge of his beard, sucking at the skin just under his ear. “Christ, you taste better than my favorite dessert,” he rasped, voice roughened with heat. Rick’s breath hitched, his head tipping back, a soft sound escaping him he hadn’t meant to let out. They stumbled toward the beds, Negan steering, Rick following, lips locked again as they fell onto the mattress, the two beds squeaking a bit against each other. The older man braced himself above, hair falling wild around his face, eyes dark and hungry. He bent down, kissing Rick again, slower this time, tongue sliding against his, savoring it like he’d been starved. Rick moaned into his mouth, hands gripping his back, dragging nails down until Negan groaned and bit his lip in retaliation.

Negan’s kisses trailed lower — throat, collarbone, chest — light bites marking a path down while the cop arched, hands clutching sheets, breath coming ragged. “Negan…” he ground out, voice raw, “I need—” Negan came back up, lips slick, beard rough against Rick’s cheek. “What do you need, baby blue? You better fuckin’ say it.” His voice was hoarse, demanding, but his hand was soft, brushing across Rick’s ribs, holding him steady. Rick’s eyes met his, blue burning with something fierce and vulnerable at once. “Take me,” he said, low, desperate. “Please. I want you.” Negan froze just long enough to let the words sink deep. His grin was slow, sharp, but there was something almost reverent in it. “About fuckin’ finally.”

He kissed him again, hard, wet, tongue sweeping his mouth while his hands pushed down, pulling pants open, dragging them off. Rick kicked free, body bared, chest heaving. Negan stripped his own down fast, the heat of him radiating as he pressed their bodies flush. Their cocks brushed, slicking with precome, both of them groaning into each other’s mouths at the friction. Negan reached for the lube they’d tossed out of the overnight bag earlier, flipping the cap open one-handed. He slicked his fingers, kissed Rick deep to swallow the sound when he slid the first inside. Rick tensed, then shuddered, moaning as Negan worked him open slow, deliberate, whispering between kisses. “Daddy always comes prepared so that’s it… relax for me, Rick… you’re gonna take me so good, you don’t even know.”

Two fingers, then three, scissoring, stretching, while Rick clutched at him, panting into his mouth. “Negan—goddamn, Daddy—” When he pulled his fingers free, slick and shining, Rick was trembling but ready, eyes glassy with want. Negan lined himself up, pressing the head in slow, face to face, watching every flicker of Rick’s expression as the other gasped, biting his lip, then grabbing Negan’s shoulders hard. “Don’t stop, please.”

The older man groaned deep, pushing forward inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt, chest pressed to Rick’s, breath hot between them. “Jesus Christ, Rick… you feel amazing and trust me, I am far from stopping what I've just started, baby.” They stayed like that for a moment, forehead to forehead, breathing each other in. Then Negan started to move — slow thrusts, deep, rolling, his mouth never far from Rick’s. He kissed him between every groan, bit his lip, licked down his throat, murmured filth and praise against his skin.

Rick met every thrust, legs wrapping around Negan’s waist, pulling him closer, deeper. He gasped against his mouth, whispered broken words. “Negan… god, I— I wanted this…” The other man bit his shoulder lightly, with the desire to mark him while growling into his ear. “You got it now, you got all of me.”The rhythm built — faster, harder, but never losing the heat of the kisses, the press of mouths, the scrape of teeth. Rick clung to him, chest slick with sweat against his, head thrown back in moans that turned rougher with every thrust. Negan held his face in one hand, kissed him through it, groaning when Rick clenched tight around him.

It didn’t take long. Rick came first, gasping Negan’s name into his mouth, shuddering apart between their bodies. Negan followed, embarrassingly quickly with a growling curse, burying himself deep, forehead pressed to Rick’s, kissing him like he’d never stop.

When it was over, they stayed tangled together, breathing hard, lips brushing soft against sweat-slicked skin. Negan laughed low, breathless, kissed Rick’s jaw. “Well, fuck me, took us long enough, huh?” Rick just pulled him closer, voice ragged but sure. “Worth it.”

***

When the next morning came, for a first time in months Negan woke first, full of energy and not the dizziness he had all the time in that Virginia cabin. And this time, when his eyes cracked open, he didn’t find an empty bed. Rick was still there, sprawled beside him, hair mussed, beard shadow thick, breathing slow. One arm slung across Negan’s stomach like he’d fallen asleep mid-claim.

Negan admired him for a second, simply enjoying the view, letting the weight of that arm sink in. Then he grinned slow, leaned down, and pressed his mouth against Rick’s hair. “Well, shit,” he murmured, voice gravel-thick from sleep. “Didn’t dream that.” Rick stirred, eyelids flicking open, blue eyes fogged but warm. “Mornin’,” he rasped.

“It's an awesome mornin’, sunshine,” Negan said, kissing him full on the mouth before he could even sit up. It was messy, teeth clashing, tongues slow and lazy. Rick groaned low into it, hand sliding up to cup the man’s bearded jaw, thumb dragging across the coarsed hair. By the time they pulled apart, Negan was already hard again, pressing against Rick’s thigh. He smirked. “Guess somebody didn’t get the memo we already broke the fuckin’ seal last night.” Rick chuckled, voice still sleep-rough. “You’re insatiable.”

“Damn straight. Or not straight at all, considerin’ where my dick spent last night.” Negan rolled them until he was over him, kissing him deep again, grinding down slow. Rick arched into it, groaning. “Christ, Negan—”

“Yeah, say it again but change it with Daddy, loved how you were moaning it last night,” Negan teased, nipping his bottom lip, then sliding down the bed. He kissed across Rick’s chest, bit his hip lightly, then took him into his mouth slow, sucking deep until the cop’s fingers curled tight in his hair. Rick gasped, hips jerking, voice rough. “Daddy—fuck—” Negan worked him with obscene relish, groaning around him, pulling back with a slick grin. “Goddamn, you really taste better than any fuckin’ breakfast they serve downstairs.”

Rick laughed breathlessly, dragging him back up into a kiss, tasting himself on Negan’s tongue. His hand slid between them, wrapping that big hard cock, stroking slow, thumb circling the head until Negan moaned into his mouth.

They went down on each other in turns — messy, hungry, sometimes laughing into each other’s skin, sometimes groaning like they couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t just sex. It was rediscovery, a rhythm building out of two bodies that finally stopped denying what they wanted. When Rick finally begged, Negan pushed into him again — slower this time, less frantic, face to face, kissing through every thrust. Rick’s moans broke into whispers, his forehead pressed to Negan’s, his hands clutched around his back like he was holding on for dear life. They came tangled together, sweaty and gasping, kissing until their mouths literally started to hurt.

Later after falling in sweet post-sex nap, Rick woke again to the smell of coffee. He blinked, finding Negan standing by the bed with a tray balanced precariously — scrambled eggs, toast, a carafe of hotel coffee, two cups. He was wearing nothing but a towel slung low, hair still damp from the shower, grinning like a devil.“Well, look at you,” Rick muttered, voice still sleepy, pushing up on one elbow. “Daddy delivers,” Negan said, setting the tray on the nightstand. He leaned down, kissed him quick. “Can't let my angel starve in bed right and it's better than room service, ‘cause I don’t expect a goddamn tip.”

Rick chuckled, sitting up against the headboard, taking the mug Negan offered. Their fingers brushed — lingering, warm as Negan settled beside him, tearing off a piece of toast, and shoved it in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and smirked. “You know, I could fuck you every day for the rest of my life. Hell, twice a day. Three if you feed me right.”

Rick gave him a look over the rim of his coffee mug. “That so? You forget I'm not in my twenties anymore.”

“Damn right. And don’t you worry about your age or my age or whatever limp-dick horror stories you cooked up in that head of yours. I got no goddamn dysfunction here. You heal me just fine.” Negan winked, biting into another piece of toast.

Rick laughed, shaking his head, though his smile faded into something heavier. “You remember much about… back then?” Negan’s smirk faltered. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling a moment. “Blurry as shit, the goddamn cabin mostly. Him wantin’ it every goddamn day like clockwork. I let it happen half the time, don't know why. It wasn’t this, not what we’re doin’ here.” His voice dropped, serious, eyes back on Rick. “Don’t confuse this with that. I ain’t Shane and I sure as hell ain’t doin’ this to fill some hole he left.”

Rick looked down at his coffee, guilt flashing in his eyes. He set the cup aside and shifted closer, pressing his forehead against Negan’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, just let himself lean, let Negan’s heat hold him steady while the other man wrapped an arm around him, kissing the top of his head. “Don’t feel guilty, baby blue. Guilt’s for when you did somethin’ wrong. As long as I remember this here is about us.”

Rick let out a shaky breath, nuzzled closer. “…Us.”

“Yeah.” Negan kissed him again, softer this time. Then he chuckled, voice lightening. “And before you go thinkin’ I’m stuck one way — we can switch. Don’t get me wrong, the fucker used to love poundin’ my ass like it was his part-time job, but I never gave it up without takin’ my turn even when high. And I wanna tell you, this ass? Fuckin’ awesome, a national treasure. Shoulda been on a postage stamp but always second best you know silver medal after yours, Pretty Ricky.” He grinned, crude but softened by the warmth in his eyes. “Never shoulda let him be the only one nailin’ it but I guess that’s on me.” Rick shook his head, smiling despite himself, fingers tightening against Negan’s side. “Whatever you prefer,” he said quietly. “We got all the time in the world.”

Negan looked at him long, searching, then leaned in for another kiss — slow, tender, sealing it. “Damn right we do.” The tray of breakfast sat cooling beside them, untouched, as they slid down into the sheets again, mouths finding each other’s, bodies tangling like they couldn’t imagine letting go.

Chapter Text

Negan really never used to give a damn about birthdays except the presents. Not his, not anybody’s. Especially since the blurred days of his own last birthdays or Shane’s... consisted of just sex as much as he remembered and nothing more, sweet words yet not going out.

So when September rolled around, and Carl offhandedly mentioned — like he thought his past teacher might already know — that it was Rick’s birthday, Negan had no clue what to do. What he did know was that he wasn’t about to let Pretty Ricky spend the day with nothing but paperwork, stale coffee, and his cranky ass for company.

He also knew one other thing. He wanted to propose. Not today, not yet — hell, not until the state of Georgia pulled its head out of its ass and stamped the goddamn divorce papers. But he wanted to start planning. He wanted Rick to know, in his bones, that what they had wasn’t just some rebound, wasn’t just comfort sex after too much loss. It was real. Worth claiming.

Carl was the obvious ally. The kid already looked at him like he’d been waiting for him to step into Daddy’s life all along. He never said much, not directly, but Negan caught the way he smiled when he saw them together, the ease that had returned to his father’s shoulders. So one afternoon, he cornered Carl at the house. Rick was out running errands. He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, looking like trouble incarnate. “Alright, Sheriff Junior,” he drawled, “I hear we got ourselves a birthday boy coming up, and I ain’t about to half-ass it. Your old man’s been through enough shit to earn at least one good day this year. You in?”Carl grinned, adjusting his hat. “What do you have in mind?” Negan smirked. “Cake. But not just any cake. I’m talking big-ass, frosting-dripping, candles blazing — the kind of thing that says, 𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘴.” Carl chuckled. “Dad’s not really a cake person.”

“Kid, everyone’s a cake person when it’s done right. And if he doesn’t eat it, I sure as hell will. How about his shirtless photo on top... damn...So, you gonna help me or not?” The boy nodded, eyes lighting up. “No, keep this stuff away, your private life. Otherwise yeah, he’ll totally like it. He deserves it.” For a moment, Negan’s grin softened into something else. “Yeah, kid. He does.”

***

On the morning of September 14th, Negan played it cool. He didn’t say a word when Rick woke to coffee already brewed, bacon frying in the pan, his partner swearing under his breath as he burned the first batch.“Morning,” Rick muttered, voice rough with sleep as he padded into the kitchen. “Morning, sunshine,” Negan shot back, flipping eggs like he’d been doing it all his life. “Sit your birthday ass down before I make you do dishes.” Rick blinked. “You remembered.”

“Course I remembered. What kinda boyfriend would I be if I didn’t? Now shut up and eat before I lose my rhythm.”

Rick sat, watching him with that quiet little smile that always made Negan’s chest ache. They ate together, easy, like they’d been doing it for months now.

But the real surprise came later when Carl showed up in the afternoon, hat tipped low, carrying a box. Rick raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Negan and the kid exchanged conspiratorial glances. “Alright, old man,” Negan announced, dragging the box onto the counter. “Don’t say I never gave you nothin’.” Carl lifted the lid, revealing a cake — chocolate, thick with frosting, white letters scrawled across in messy but heartfelt writing: 𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 𝗯𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗵𝗱𝗮𝘆, 𝗗𝗮𝗱! 𝗪𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂. 𝙁𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙢𝙚 & 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙙𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙝.

Rick’s lips parted. He stared at it for a long beat, then at them — first his son, then Negan. His throat worked as he swallowed. “You two…” His voice broke off, soft. “You didn’t have to.”

“Bullshit,” Negan said, loud enough to cover the crack in his own throat. “We did have to. You keep this whole damn world turning, baby blue, least we can do is give you some sugar.” Carl grinned. “Make a wish, Dad.” Rick looked at them both, blue eyes glassy, then leaned forward, blowing out the candles. He didn’t say what he wished, but Negan had a good guess.

Later that night, after Carl left and the dishes were done, Rick and Negan sat on the porch with two beers between them. The air was warm, the crickets loud.

Rick leaned back in his chair, looking at him. “You went through a lot of trouble.” Negan shrugged, staring out at the dark yard. “Trouble’s worth it for you.” The younger man reached across the armrest, covering his now boyfriend’s hand with his own. Their fingers tangled, simple, sure. “You know,” Rick said quietly, “I never thought I’d see a day like this again.”

“Yeah? What kind of day?”

“Peaceful. With family... with one who I thought 'got away'.” Negan turned to him, hazel eyes lively yet soft.“Get used to it, Pretty Ricky. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Rick smiled, small but real. “Not exactly complainin'.”

Negan wanted to say it then — the proposal, the promise — but he bit it back. Not yet. Not until Shane’s ghost was burned out of the paperwork, not until Rick could wear a new ring without looking over his shoulder. But he carried it in his chest, warm and certain: the vow he’d make when the time was right. For now, he just clinked his beer bottle against Rick’s, raised it with a grin. “To another year of you, pretty little prick.” Rick’s smile widened, eyes gleaming in the porch light. “To us.”

***

The house went quiet again that night after Carl and Judith had gone to bed hours earlier, the kitchen still smelling faintly of frosting and smoke from the blown-out candles. Rick thought the evening was over — thought Negan’s surprises had ended with the cake and the porch beers. But around eleven, the older man leaned back against the doorframe, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Get your pretty ass up, birthday boy,” he drawled. Rick, half-dozing on the couch, blinked. “It’s late.”

“Yeah, well, late’s when the real presents happen. Come on.” Rick pushed up, suspicious but amused, grabbing his jacket. “Where we goin’?” Negan’s eyes glinted in the dim light. “Don’t you worry your pretty head. Just know your son’s got my back — the kid helped me set this up, though if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny it till hell freezes.”

And just minutes later, they were driving out of Atlanta, the city lights shrinking in the rearview mirror. Rick kept glancing sideways, but Negan refused to give him answers, only blasting old rock from the speakers and drumming his fingers on the wheel.“Negan,” Rick finally said, low, “you gonna tell me what the hell this is?” The older man grinned, eyes on the road. “It’s your birthday, Pretty Ricky. You don’t ask, you just fucking receive.”

Rick shook his head, a soft smile appearing on his face. He felt peaceful, he felt fulfilled...and truly in love.

***

They finally pulled into a clearing just past the tree line, where Negan had clearly been busy earlier in the day. At the center stood a black iron bedframe, stark against the pale grass, draped with deep sheets. Red candles circled it, flames flickering low, casting the whole thing in hellfire light.

Rick stopped in his tracks. “…The hell is this?” Negan spread his arms wide, grin wicked. “Cheesiest shit you’ve ever seen, right? Looks like the devil’s boudoir. But here’s the thing — I don’t do Hallmark. I don’t do flowers or picnics. I do big, I do loud, I do unforgettable. And you, sheriff, you deserve unforgettable.” Rick stood there, shaking his head, but the heat in his chest said something different. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” Negan said, stepping closer, voice dropping gravel low. “Insane for you.” He pressed their foreheads together, breathing Rick in. “You know how long I been waiting for this?” His voice was rough, low, more honest than he’d ever sound in the daylight. Rick swallowed, heart pounding. “You sure, Negan?”

Negan’s laugh was a hot rush in the dark. “Are you really gonna ask, baby blue? I've been having wet dreams about it. And tonight, you take me. I want you to ruin me, no holding back.” He didn’t wait for another word—just caught Rick’s pouty lips, tongue hot and slick, licking into him like he was starved. The cop tasted frosting, bourbon, the warmth of Negan’s own need. When their mouths finally parted, Negan dropped to his knees in the grass. He worked Rick’s belt open, fingers quick, glancing up with that wicked smile. “Birthday boys first. Gotta get you good and ready.”

Rick’s breath stuttered as the older man freed his cock, stroking him slow, thumb pressing under the head, twisting just enough to draw a gasp. “You like that?” Negan murmured, voice half-mocking, half-reverent. “You always make these noises, or is it just for me? You have one nice dick, baby, gotta admit again all the jokes about anything "little" have nothing to do with reality. You’re hung like a Southern stallion!”

After a loud laugh and Rick not being able to help himself but laugh back, Negan leaned in, licking a stripe from root to tip, circling the head before taking him deep. Rick’s hands found the salt and pepper hair, fisting tight. Negan’s lips stretched, beard rough against Rick’s thighs as he took him further, sucking slow, wet, letting spit pool around the base. He pulled off with a gasp, stroking Rick’s cock over his face, smearing himself with precome. “Messy as hell, but that's how Daddy likes it,” he whispered, licking his lips, then swallowed him again, hollowing his cheeks.

Rick groaned, hips twitching. Negan moaned around him, letting him fuck into his mouth, bobbing his head, tongue working with every thrust. “Jesus, Negan—” Rick gasped, but Negan just hummed, sending shudders up the cop’s spine. The older man pulled back at last, breathing heavy, spit and precome slicking his mouth and beard. He looked up, pupils blown wide. “Don’t come yet,” he growled. “You’re gonna need it.” He shoved to his feet, yanking his own shirt, satin black for the special day over his head, baring broad, scarred shoulders. His jeans dropped next, boxers following. He sprawled back on the black sheets, cock hard and leaking against his stomach, chest rising and falling like he’d run a mile. He reached for Rick, pulling him down, kissing him deep, letting the younger man taste himself on his tongue. “Get over here, sheriff. Fucking own me.” Rick as if hypnotized by the view, slid between Negan’s long legs, bodies burning as the older man reached for the lube, hands trembling but sure, pressing it into Rick’s palm. “I know how you want it. Slow. Careful. But don’t stop till I beg, that's how Daddy wants it...”

The birthday man squeezed the slick into his hand, fingers moving to Negan’s entrance, rubbing slow circles until the man relaxed under him. He pressed a finger in, feeling the hot tightness, the way Negan’s muscles clenched and then let go while Negan’s head tipped back, mouth open, breath stuttering. “God, yeah, fuck—like that. More.” Rick slid in a second finger, scissoring, stretching, curling up to find that spot that made Negan’s hips jump as the man under him let out an animalistic groan, legs falling wider, hands clutching at Rick’s shoulders, nails digging in. “You prepping me like a pro, baby blue. You think about this? Think about splitting me open? I want you to screw me so good! Fuck your Daddy, come on, Ricky.” Rick’s voice went husky, hot and close, he had to be careful not to finish before even starting. “Every damn night...you're perfect. The best birthday gift I could dream for.”

He slid in a third finger, twisting, stretching, letting Negan fuck down onto his hand, moaning and cursing. When he was ready and literally couldn't wait anymore, slick and loose, he grabbed the younger man by the neck, hauling him in for another filthy kiss. “Now,” he gasped. “Come on, Rick. Give it to me.”

Rick lined up, cock leaking, head pressed to Negan’s entrance as he pushed in slow, the tight heat almost making him dizzy. Negan’s breath slowed, his body arching while the man on top of him watched every flicker of pain and pleasure across his face, stopping when Negan’s hands tightened on his arms. Negan gritted his teeth. “Don’t you dare stop, I want to feel all of it.” His boyfriend pushed deeper, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, hips pressed flush, chest slick against Negan’s while Negan’s body trembled around him, legs clamped tight around his waist. Their foreheads pressed together, breath mixing, eyes locked. “Fuck, Rick, fuck, you fill me up—yeah, just like that. Give me all you got.” Negan’s voice was rough, needy, breaking in places he never let anyone see while Rick pulled back, then thrust in again, slow at first, letting him adjust, then harder, deeper, hips snapping with every push. Negan met him thrust for thrust, hands clawing at Rick’s back, voice rising in filthy curses and desperate moans. “You like this?” Rick growled, picking up the pace, sweat dripping down his temple. “You’re mine, love, the most beautiful thing ever. DADDY, right?” Negan bared his teeth, head thrown back. “Yours. Your Daddy, your everything, fuck—nobody else ever fucked me like this. Ruin me, Rick, fuckin’ take everything.” Rick braced one hand under Negan’s thigh, driving in deeper, pounding him against the mattress. The bed squeaked, the candles flickered, the place filled with the sounds of bodies slapping, breathless curses, Rick’s name in Negan’s broken voice. The older man's own cock was trapped between them, leaking, his abs slick with sweat and precome as Rick’s mouth found his neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, tongue laving over the spot. Negan shuddered, hips stuttering. “You wanna make Daddy come? Stroke me, baby blue—show me how bad you want it.”

Rick’s hand slid between them, wrapping around Negan’s cock, stroking hard and fast in rhythm with his thrusts, Negan bucking up, his whole body tight, jaw clenched, breath coming in pants. “Fuck, Rickyyy, I’m gonna—shit, I—” Rick kissed him, swallowing the moan as Negan came, spilling over the cop's hand and his own stomach, body clamping down tight around Rick’s cock. The feeling ripped Rick over the edge, hips jerking, vision going white as he emptied himself deep inside Negan, gasping his name. They collapsed together, bodies tangled, sweat-slick, the scent of sex and candle wax heavy in the air. Negan pulled Rick in, strong arm around his back, kissing him slow and deep, tongue curling, teeth nipping. “Happy fuckin’ birthday, sheriff.” Rick buried his face in Negan’s neck, breath shuddering out. “Whoa....best birthday I ever had.”

Negan chuckled, low and spent, fingers threading through Rick’s curly hair. “Oh really? Cause next year I’ll bring the whip cream.” They lied there, candles burning low, bodies still joined, hands wandering over every inch of skin, as if memorizing the moment for all the years they’d lost. And for the first time after so much wanting and waiting that if felt unbelievable, neither one felt like they had to hide any part of themselves.

***

The motel was the kind of place that didn’t ask questions—just took your cash, handed over a sticky plastic key, and let you fade into the anonymous dark. Shane liked it that way. He’d lived out of worse for months now, drifting across the California sprawl with nothing but callused hands and day-old sweat for company, working every job a man could do with his head down and his mouth shut. He’d tried to forget them both— his husband and Rick. Tried to scrub their names out of his head with cheap whiskey, bus station bathrooms, women who looked at him with hollow eyes but nothing stuck. The ache never went away. If anything, it got worse with distance.

When he finally landed back in Atlanta, beard grown thick, chocolate brown hair longer than he’d ever worn it, he booked a room on the edge of town. The city was different now, meaner, sharper, didn’t felt like home anymore, he felt invisible in it but he somehow liked that, too.

Yet at night, when the street noise faded, when the neon buzzing outside was all that kept the dark at bay, it was just him—and the ghosts he couldn’t stop wanting. He lied back on the sagging motel bed, boots kicked off, jeans halfway down his thighs. The room stank of old cigarettes and mildew, the A/C rattling like broken teeth. He gripped himself hard, rough from too many days without softness, spit in his palm just to make it easier.

It always started the same: his ex-husband who wasn't his ex officially and legally, wild and laughing, big hazel eyes bright with challenge—back before the hospital, before everything went to hell. Shane would picture him strutting across their kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, mouth running like a river of filth. Sometimes Shane remembered the feel of Negan’s mouth, hot and eager, the scrape of beard over his belly, the way he’d look up with that mocking little grin.

He squeezed harder, thumb dragging under the head, groaning low. “Fuck, Daddy…” He’d whisper it to the ceiling, pretending Negan was in the room, sprawled out on his back, big cock hard and leaking for him. In the dark, the former cop let himself imagine Negan begging—voice wrecked, hands grabbing for Shane’s hips, cursing him for making him wait so long.

Other nights, the fantasy spun darker, Rick there too, blue eyes wide, lips parted, caught between wanting and resisting. Shane loved the thought of them both together—Negan sprawled on the bed, Rick kneeling beside him, Shane’s hands in both their hair, controlling the pace, the pressure, the depth. He’d close his eyes and jerk himself harder, breath coming ragged. “Yeah, you like that?” he’d mutter, half-delirious, picturing Rick’s hot mouth around his cock, Negan’s voice in his ear, all of them lost in sweat and need. “You fuckin’ like it when I use you? Bet you do, brother. And I know you missed me, didn’t you, husband?” He’d imagine Rick moaning, Negan’s head thrown back, sweat shining on his chest dark hair. Sometimes he pictured himself fucking Negan slow, face to face, hands locked tight on his wrists—showing him who he belonged to, who could make him beg. Other times it was rough, wild, the older man on his stomach, ass up, Shane pounding into him while Rick watched, torn between shame and raw hunger.

He stroked faster, teeth bared, hips bucking up into his fist. He’d curse them both, tell them how they ruined his life, how he wanted to ruin them right back. “I bet you’re fuckin’ him now, huh? Bet you take turns, make each other scream. Wish I was there. Wish you’d let me in again…” His mind twisted, spiraled, Negan on his knees, lips wrapped around Shane’s cock, Rick riding him, both of them desperate, greedy for his touch. He imagined their mouths together, their hands all over him, sweat and spit and curses tangled up with love and hate and history.

He groaned, voice harsh, stroking faster now, palm sliding slick over the swollen head. “Fuck, Negan… fuck, Rick… you fuckin' traitors. You think I’m gone? You think I don’t remember what you sound like when you come?” He pressed his thumb hard against the tip, gritting his teeth as the edge closed in. His hips jerked, thighs trembling, head thrown back as he spilled over his stomach, breath punching out of him in a growl.
For a second, all the world was silent. The only sound was the blood pounding in his ears, the sticky mess cooling on his belly.

Now he was there, shivering, hand going limp. The ache was still there—lonely, bitter, but mixed now with shame and something almost sweet. He wiped himself clean with the motel’s scratchy towel, staring at the ceiling until the world blurred. He told himself he’d just watch, just get close, just see them from a distance before he did anything else. But even he didn’t believe it because in the dark, he dreamed of his husband’s laughter, of Rick’s sensual lips and baby blues, of a home he’d broken with his own hands.

And when sleep finally took him, he was still reaching out, hungry for what he’d lost—wanting to ruin it all over again, if only for one more night. One thing was sure, he wasn’t going to grant his husband divorce willingly. EVER.

Chapter Text

Morning light slid through the slats of the kitchen blinds, throwing stripes across the table, the battered coffee pot, Negan’s bare tattooed forearms. He’d been up since before dawn—just a mess of nerves and ugly hope, thumb brushing the screen of his phone, rereading the lawyer’s message like it might vanish if he blinked. It was Rick who found him—half-dressed, sleep-mussed, rubbing at the stubble on his jaw. “Hey. You’re up early.” Negan grunted, forced a smirk. “Yeah, well. Law firms don’t sleep, turns out.”

Rick cocked his head, that searching cop look he wore even in his boxers. “Something happen, you’re not an early riser?” Negan drew a breath, staring at the calendar pinned to the fridge—a day already circled, the ink so fresh it hadn’t even dried. “Yeah. They set the date. For the goddamn divorce I've been waiting for like forever.”

Rick went still. For a second, he didn’t say a word. “That’s good, right? I mean—finally?” Negan barked a laugh, no humor in it. “Sure. They set it for September twentieth.” Rick blinked. “Wait—Shane’s birthday?”

“Cosmic fuckin’ joke, right?” The older man tossed the phone onto the table, rubbing his face. “Supposed to make it easy. Quick hearing, get his signature, done and dusted. They even managed to track him down. He’s actually gonna show.” Rick moved to him, silent for a beat, then slid his arms around his taller half’s waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. His voice was soft, unshakable. “He’s not the center of this anymore. He can’t keep you forever. He signs, or the court grants it. Either way, you’re free.” Negan’s laugh was shaky now, almost a sob. “Feels like I been waitin’ a hundred years.” Rick pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “And I’d wait another hundred, if it’s what it took. But we’re almost there.” Negan leaned back into him, let himself be held—just for a moment. Rick’s hands were warm, sure, grounding him like a tether to a world that wasn’t always falling apart.

Later, over breakfast, Carl wandered in— his hair longer and so stylish now like straight up teen male model, Judith trailing behind, asking about chocolate milk. The morning had the uneasy peace of families trying to pretend everything was normal. Negan ruffled Carl’s hair, voice lighter now. “You up for an adventure, Sheriff Serial Killer Junior? Got us a courthouse date next week. Your godfather’s finally gonna face the music.” Carl deadpanned, never missing a beat. “He gonna throw a fit or what? I know what happened, Negan...I'm not a little boy anymore but maybe, he I mean Shane, is.” Rick snorted. “If he does, we’ll handle it. He can’t stop this.”

Carl peered at Negan. “He’s not dangerous, right?” Negan’s grin went wolfish, but softer than it used to be. “Kid, only thing dangerous about Shane these days is his stubborn streak but he can’t hurt us. Not anymore. If he thinks I am not gonna crush his little balls and stuff them in his damn mouth—” He quickly paused his language, suddenly aware the little Judy was there as well when she piped up, “Is Uncle Shane coming for cake?” Negan laughed, some of the tension finally breaking. “No, little angel. No cake. Just a quick trip to say goodbye, we don't need his gross cakes anyway, uncle Negan will make you a better one.” Rick’s hand closed over Negan’s, squeezing tight under the table.

The rest of the day simply dragged. The older man tried to distract himself—fixing a leaky faucet, answering useless college emails, pacing the porch like a caged animal. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Shane’s face— angry, wounded, refusing to let go.

Rick found him at the window, staring at nothing. “You’re thinking too much again, it's not like you. We have three more days.” Negan snorted. “Hell, when am I not? Truth is, Rick, lately I’m scared. Not of him—just… what if he won’t sign? What if he tries to make it hell? I don’t want you or the kids caught in any more of my mess. I also have to control because all I see is RED and I wanna punch him in the goddamn cunt face so much! Motherfucker!” Rick leaned in, crowding his space, hands strong on boyfriend’s shoulders. “Negan. Listen to me, he doesn’t get to decide how this ends. You already walked away. The rest is just legal bullshit and this is coming from a cop. You're already OUR family, not HIS.” The older man looked down, voice a low rasp. “Feels like he still owns a piece of me. I feel like fucker’s waitin’ to blow it all up, just ‘cause he can’t stand to lose but you know, neither can I.”

Rick’s hands slid to his face, tipping it up so their eyes met. “He lost you the minute he ran away like a coward after the shit in Virginia and you chose yourself. You belong to you now—and if you’ll have me, to me, too.” Negan’s laugh was watery, raw. “Hell, Ricky baby, you always know how to sweet-talk a bastard.” The cop smiled, but his eyes were pure steel. “I mean it. Whatever happens next week, we’re walking out together. Promise me you won’t make a scene, I want you cold as fuck.” Negan nodded, throat tight. “I promise, Daddy’s gonna be a rock.”

***

That night, when the house was quiet again, they sat on the porch with two beers, the air heavy with rain. Rick reached over, threading his fingers through Negan’s. “You ever think about… all of it? The future? The papers, maybe another marriage, I mean I'll never pressure you and I don't want to remind you but in that hospital in Virginia I often thought if I hadn't married the wrong person and you hadn't too, the whole damn mess, the process would be easier, thanks to my job they agreed to hand me information and let me stay, I don’t want to ever leave you alone like this. Ever again...” Negan exhaled, slow. “Been thinkin’ about nothing else. Got a ring picked out, even. Gonna be the gaudiest shit you ever saw. White gold, a little bit of black onyx—‘cause nothing’s ever simple with us, is it, Pretty Ricky?” Rick’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I’d wear anything you gave me. Hell, I’d wear a damn twist-tie if it meant I got to keep you.”

The older man’s laugh was shaky, but real. “Once the bastard signs, or the judge stamps it, I want to do it all right. Papers, vows, cake. Family. You deserve it. If you asked me a few months ago, maybe before meeting you obviously and not so fucking obviously to me again, I would never want to be married again, yet alone to a cop, no exceptions...but when it comes to Rick fuckin' Grimes, I believe I can make an exception, right?” His boyfriend just smiled and kissed his knuckles, slow and sure. For a while, they just sat there, the storm rolling in, the future a little closer, a little brighter—if only for a night.

***

Across town, in a cheap motel room, Shane stared at the battered calendar on the wall. September 20th, circled in red. The summons letter on the table.
He ran a thumb across his jaw, dark eyes narrowing. “Happy fuckin’ birthday to me, huh?” He read the letter again, teeth gritted. Divorce Hearing — Atlanta County Courthouse, 10:00am. Both parties required to attend. He tossed it aside, cracking a beer, and looked in the mirror—now with a beard, looking older and meaner too, hair longer than his professional ass ever let it just to barely be reminded of someone else...and lonelier than ever. “You want closure, my love? You want a show?” His lips curled into a dangerous smile. “I’ll give you a goddamn show.” He raised the bottle in a mock toast to his own reflection. “Not signing shit. Not till I see you both. Not till I get what I’m owed.”

***

September Twentieth finally came, in the waiting room the bench was hard, the walls a dull tan, everything too bright under the courthouse fluorescents. Rick was sitting upright, leg bouncing, trying to project calm in a simple white shirt and black pants. Next to him, Negan was the picture of control—hair slicked back, beard finally perfectly trimmed, deep blue shirt hugging his frame just right, blazer neat. But his hands… those were another story, clenched tight on his knees, fingers twitching. Simon Smith—Negan’s cousin, friend and a hyena type of sly lawyer, in an ill-fitting jacket with a coffee stain on the sleeve—was sitting on Negan’s other side, eyes on his phone, thumb scrolling like nothing could surprise him anymore.

Negan kept his voice low, breath fogging at the edges. “Tell me how I’m supposed to keep my hands off that little fucker, Rick. I swear to Christ—if Shane so much as smirks, I might just beat the holy shit out of him right here, divorce or not.” The younger man put a steadying hand over Negan’s, squeezing hard. “Don’t. You give him the satisfaction, he wins. We’re here for the papers, not the drama.” Negan huffed, big dark hazel eyes roaming the lobby. “Wish I could say that’s enough. All this time, he’s been stringing it out just to make us dance. If he pulls some shit, I swear—” Simon cut in, deadpan. “If you punch him in here, I’ll make you write your own closing statement. And you’ll lose.” Negan let out a sharp laugh. “Bastard.” Simon grinned back. “Family law, man.”

They fell silent as the old wall clock ticked, every minute stretched tight as piano wire. Lawyers in bad suits murmured by the copy machine. Some teenager in a denim jacket stared at his shoes, earbuds in. It all felt too small for what was about to happen.

Then the elevator chimed. The temperature in the room dropped. Shane Walsh entered like a storm cloud—bigger, hair grown out and wild, thick beard framing a jaw that looked even harder than before. Black dress shirt, black pants, too formal for anyone who cared, but he wore it like armor. On his arm was some tall younger guy, maybe even taller than Negan —mid-twenties or early thirties at most, slim and smug, light brown hair styled like a rich stud, wearing tight navy pants and a shirt just trendy enough to scream “look at me.” Behind them, Attorney Deanna Monroe followed—regal in a powder-blue suit, a lawyer’s folder clutched to her chest, eyes already scanning the competition.

Shane didn’t even glance at Rick or Negan at first. He pushed his younger company against the wall, fingers curling in his shirt, and kissed him. Not a sweet greeting, but something hungry and territorial, tongues visible, hands on hips, pulling the other man flush to his body like he wanted to prove something. Spencer let out a laugh, a showy little moan. “Save some for the courtroom, Officer Hottie,” he whispered loud enough for everyone to hear. Deanna’s voice cut like a knife—“Son, both gentlemen, please. Atlanta’s got enough scandals without adding ‘public indecency’ in the courthouse lobby. Shane, sit down.”

Shane broke the kiss with apparently his lawyer’s son, wiped his mouth, stared right at his husband who was not his now—eyes dark, amused, and dangerous. “Well, look who bothered to dress up,” he said, voice too loud. “Didn’t know they let criminals wear silk these days.” Negan’s jaw worked, one muscle jumping and Rick just tensed, standing a little taller, but Simon laid a warning hand on Negan’s shoulder. Spencer, still smirking, glanced at Rick and Negan. “God, is it true what they say about older men? Because, again which one was yours, baby—” he thumbed at Shane, “—blue blazer, darker hair and eyes, that one looks fucking insatiable.” Negan’s nostrils flared. He looked ready to pounce, but Rick’s grip on his wrist was iron. “Not worth it,” his boyfriend murmured.

Deanna, already bored, swept past, dropping her briefcase beside Simon’s. “Oh, Simon. Glad to see you’re still losing cases in style.” The man shot her a deadpan look. “Still nice tits for a lady your age, Deanna. But the suit, you stole it off a judge’s corpse or what?” Shane slid into a chair opposite Negan, slinging an arm around Spencer’s shoulder, legs spread wide. For a moment, nobody spoke. The tension buzzed like a hornet in a jar. Negan’s voice, low and venomous, barely carried. “You done parading, or you need to mark your territory again?” Shane leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Why, you jealous now, babe? I can take care of you too, hear me out, meet me at the courthouse toilets after the process.” He winked full of arrogance. Negan’s lip curled. “I’m just amazed you found someone who can stand your ugly pug mug.” Spencer laughed. “He is a real man unlike your blue-eyed boyfriend.”

"Careful."

Deanna, sighing, flipped open her folder. “We’re here for the hearing, not whatever this is. Keep it civil. Spencer, I won’t remind you again.” Simon, under his breath to Negan, “We can win if you keep your cool. You want to walk out free, right?” His cousin nodded, swallowing hard, hands still trembling while Rick’s thumb traced a slow circle on the back of his hand.

At that moment, the bailiff called out from the door. “Walsh VS Smith? Parties, please step into Courtroom Three.” Shane stood, brushing a thumb over Spencer’s jaw, then shot Negan a last, wolfish grin. “Let’s get this shit over with, DADDY.” Negan exhaled, squaring his shoulders, and walked in besides Rick—every inch the man Shane thought he could break, but couldn’t.

Courtroom Three was nothing like TV: cracked ceiling tiles, sticky floors, and the humming of old A/C that didn’t quite reach the back. A scattering of strangers sat in the gallery—divorcees, bailiffs, and bored clerks. At the front: an old Georgia flag, a cross-eyed state seal, and Judge Carol Peletier, silver hair pinned up, sharp blue eyes under steel-blue shadow, scanning her docket. Simon nudged Negan towards the front, Rick close at his side. Across the aisle, Deanna laid out files, Shane slouched in his chair, Spencer leaning in, whispering something that made the former cop smirk.

Judge Peletier rapped her gavel. “Let’s bring this circus to order. Walsh versus Smith. Parties present?” Simon called first. “Negan Smith, Your Honor, and his partner, Mr. Grimes, here for support.” And then Deanna.“Shane Walsh, represented by myself, Deanna Monroe. My son Spencer Monroe as support, Your Honor.” Carol’s gaze flicked up, catching every nuance. “Alright. First things first—this is a divorce hearing, not a soap opera. Mr. Smith, Mr. Walsh—do you both understand why you’re here today?” Negan’s jaw tightened, but his voice was steady. “Yes, Your Honor.” Shane responded next, chin high. “I know why, but I don’t agree with it.” Carol raised an eyebrow. “Noted. We’ll get to that.”

She nodded at the bailiff, who swore everyone in. Simon handed over the petition and supporting docs. “Let’s hear from the petitioner.”

“Your Honor, my client seeks dissolution of marriage on grounds of irretrievable breakdown. There has been no cohabitation for over six months, no attempts at reconciliation, and—” Shane cut in, voice tight. “That’s bullshit. I tried to reach out. He never answered.” Carol’s eyes narrowed, voice velvet and iron. “Mr. Walsh, you’ll get your turn. Continue, Mr. Smith.”

“Mr. Walsh abandoned my client after a medical crisis, leaving him in hospital. There has been no support, no financial or emotional contact, and my client has attempted for months to move forward. Mr. Walsh has failed to respond to correspondence or provide for marital property upkeep.” Deanna cut in, tone clipped. “Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Walsh contests the nature of the separation. He was not properly served with notice of intent to divorce and has been denied access to joint property in Atlanta.”

“Overruled—for now. Mr. Walsh, you’re saying you do not consent to divorce?” Shane, stubborn, shaking his head replied. “No, ma’am. I want to work it out.” A wave of tension rolled through the room. Negan barked a hollow laugh. “Work it out? ASSHOLE, you left me for dead! You vanished. You never called, never texted, never even sent a fucking postcard!” Carol, sharply interrupted. “Mr. Smith, control yourself.”

“He’s full of shit, Your Honor. Half a year—gone. He’s here now with some rent boy just to show off.” Spencer started to argue. “Excuse me? Who are you?” Rick couldn't keep quiet any longer, voice low and dangerous. “Sit down, kid.”

Carol held up a hand. “Everyone—enough. This isn’t a bar fight. Mr. Walsh, you say you want to reconcile, but you’ve made no effort in six months?”

“I was… figuring things out. He wouldn’t let me back in. And look at him now. Moves out, runs off with my former best friend like none of it ever mattered.”

“That’s rich. You never wanted me—just wanted to own me like a pet in a goddamn cabin.” Shane finally looked straight at the older man, voice shaking. “I loved you. I still do, goddammit. But look at you. You don’t even miss me. You just wanted out so you could fuck another cop!”

“You think this was easy? You think I wanted to be alone in a hospital bed, praying you’d call, then watch you show up here with some spoiled brat and a lawyer mommy?” The judge interrupted in a higher voice. “ENOUGH! Both of you.” She turned to Rick. “Mr. Grimes, you are here as support. Unless you are called as a witness, you’ll remain silent.” Rick, jaw tight, nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” Negan sat back, hands shaking, Simon whispering calming words. Across the aisle, Shane looked gutted—but still furious. Spencer squeezed his hand, smug as ever. Deanna leaned in, stage-whispering a strategy.

Carol shifted gears. “Let’s address property. There are two main assets: The Atlanta house and the Virginia cabin. Mrs. Monroe?”

“Your Honor, my client claims joint ownership of the Atlanta house as marital property. He contributed to mortgage and improvements during the marriage. As for the Virginia cabin, my client acknowledges that it was purchased prior to marriage but believes significant investments were made during cohabitation that entitle him to a share.”

“Objection. The Atlanta house is my client’s primary residence and was maintained exclusively by Mr. Smith for the past year. Mr. Walsh abandoned the property and has not contributed since leaving. The cabin is a non-marital asset—there are no records of co-mingled funds.”

“What’s your stance, Mr. Smith?”

“He can keep the goddamn cabin if it’s still standing. Let him play lumberjack. The house is mine—always was. He walked away. He doesn’t get to play victim now.” Shane, loud and venomous almost yelled then. “You think you can just cut me out? That house is as much mine as yours, in fact I put your name on the documents. I put my sweat and blood into it! Just because you’re screwin' my ex-friend doesn’t mean you get to keep everything, greedy authoritarian slu—“You never even liked Atlanta, you bastard. You only want it now ‘cause you know I built a life here.”

“You built it on my back, asshole! Everything you got, you got from me! You weren't even born in Georgia.”

“Everything I got, I clawed out of hell after you left, jealous prick. All you ever did was try to break me down!”

Carol’s gavel crashed. “If there’s another outburst, I’ll clear the room.” She paused, looking directly at Shane, voice steely but quiet. “I know what it’s like to survive being left behind, Mr. Walsh. But this is court, not confession. This marriage is over, and if you keep fighting for the sake of fighting, you’ll only drag out your own pain.” Shane, refused to look up, dark brown eyes shining.“Your Honor, my client still wishes to attempt counseling, to preserve the marriage—“Six months absent, new boyfriend in court, but you want to reconcile?”

“Your Honor, my client is entitled to move forward. The law is clear.” Carol nodded, staring Shane down. “Mr. Walsh, unless you have legal grounds, I intend to grant the divorce. I will consider a fair split on the Atlanta house, but you cannot hold Mr. Smith hostage to the past. Do you understand?” Shane just glared, lips pressed white. Carol, weary but firm finally stated her stance.“This court finds the marriage irretrievably broken. Divorce is granted, effective immediately. Counsel will work out the property split—if you can’t agree, I’ll do it for you and neither of you will like it. This isn’t about who loved harder, who lost more. It’s about moving on.” She looked at Negan, then at Rick, then at Shane—softening just a little. “I hope you all find some peace now. Court adjourned. Gentlemen, you are free to go now.” She banged the gavel.

The sharp bang still echoed as the crowd began to rise, shuffling papers and feet, gathering bags, moving for the doors. For a moment, it was just the four of them near the benches—Rick and Negan together, Simon stacking folders, Shane standing up, Spencer at his side, Deanna checking her phone with a lawyer’s bored precision.

Shane lingered, gaze locked on Rick first, face twisted in that familiar sneer—a cruel, crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He let Spencer loop an arm around his waist, tugging him close, the display theatrical and pointed. His voice came out low, biting, but loud enough for the whole damn hallway to hear. “What happened, Rick? You always did love picking through my leftovers. How’s it feel, brother—sleeping in my bed, fucking my husband, pretending you’re the good guy still? Hell, I got myself a newer model. Spencer here, he don’t need to play second fiddle to anybody.” Spencer smirked, looking Rick up and down. “You heard him, officer. Upgrade’s right in front of you.” Rick met his former best friend’s stare, face calm, jaw like granite. “Doesn’t matter who came first, Shane. Only matters who stayed.” For a moment, Shane almost wavered. Something raw flickered in his eyes, gone as quick as it came. He turned on Negan, stepping in close—closer than Deanna liked, but she said nothing, just watched warily. He leaned in, voice low and meant only for now ex-husband’s ear, breath warm and sharp with old anger and possessiveness. “Let me tell you somethin', still co-own that house, you know. You didn’t shake me that easy, husband. You want me gone, you’ll have to drag me out yourself.” He grinned, lips curled up cruel and almost fond. “See you soon, neighbor. Don’t change the locks.”

Negan let the silence stretch just a second too long—eyes burning, fists flexing at his sides, fighting the urge to swing. He leaned back, tilting his head, smile razor-bright.“You show up on my doorstep, you’ll be meeting my fist before you see the welcome mat. EX-HUSBAND.” He kept his voice casual, but there was nothing soft in his eyes. “You want that goddamn house? Fine. But you set foot in my life again, I’ll cut off your balls and shove them in your fuckin' cakehole.” Spencer laughed, mean and light. “Ooooh, somebody’s touchy. You want us to call ahead next time, or just surprise you?” Negan didn’t blink. “Try it, pretty boy. See how long you last.”

Deanna finally stepped between them, her voice cool as winter glass. “Enough. This is done. If either of you set foot on the property before settlement, we’ll be back here faster than you can say ‘restraining order.’”

Simon, always the diplomat, snorted, shouldering his briefcase. “Sounds like a plan, Deanna. Maybe next time your client brings a muzzle.” Shane shrugged Spencer off, stepping back, eyes still burning holes in Negan. “You always did talk big, Negan. Let’s see if you can actually back it up.” The older man squared his shoulders, never breaking eye contact. “Anytime, anywhere, ex-husband. Don’t mistake mercy, Rick’s mercy cause I know you don’t even deserve it for weakness.”

Rick finally stepped forward, planting himself at Negan’s side, steady and silent—a wall that wouldn’t move. He looked Shane over, voice quiet but loaded. “Try me too, if you’re feeling brave. And I'm not the good guy anymore, don't you worry, go screw your boytoy and leave my man alone.”

There was a final moment—a breath held by everyone—before Shane turned away, dragging Spencer down the hall. Spencer shot a mocking wink back at Rick and Negan. Deanna sweeping after them, her heels clacking a warning on the tile.

Simon rolled his eyes, muttering, “Families, huh?”

Negan watched Shane’s back until he was gone, then let out a shaky exhale. Rick’s hand was on his shoulder in a heartbeat, grounding him, pulling him close. “You did good,” Rick said, voice rough. The taller man nodded, but those hazel eyes stayed fixed on the empty hall, where the ghosts hadn’t finished their business just yet.

***

Sunlight hit the courthouse steps sharp and blinding, but Rick didn’t care—he felt lighter, almost giddy. He caught Negan’s arm, pulling him in with a grin that showed every year they’d waited for this. “It’s over,” Rick murmured, voice a low rasp. “He can’t touch you anymore. You’re free, Negan. Really free.” The taller man let himself be tugged in, let his cop boyfriend kiss him right there in front of Simon and the whole world, not caring who saw. For a minute, it was easy—laughter spilling out, hands locked together, Simon muttering about ‘public decency’ but smirking all the same.

But as they reached the car, Negan’s jaw tightened. He stared at his phone, then at nothing, worry creeping in around the edges. Rick saw it, stepped closer, voice gentle. “Hey. You okay?” The man hesitated, then let the truth slip out. “We’re not done, not till that property mess is over. The sicko wants that house just to piss me off. He’s not gonna let go.” Rick cupped Negan’s face, thumb brushing the old scar on his neck. “You got a house, Negan. Mine is yours, it's OURS. You move in, you let the lawyers deal with the rest.” Negan tried to smile, but it faltered. “Yeah. Only trouble is, sometimes trouble comes to you, even if you don’t open the door and he can't just mess with my things and my world order, right?” Rick’s hand slid to his waist, tugging him close, lips to temple. “We’re a team. Whatever he tries, we shut him out. You’re home, my love, right here.” Negan pressed in, needing the warmth, the anchor. But even as Rick’s hands found his, he couldn’t shake the sense that something was coming—something ugly and unfinished, crawling out of the past just when he thought he’d buried it for good.

***

Meanwhils, Negan’s house had never felt emptier, even with music blaring and the stink of expensive cologne though not near as unique or unforgetabble as Negan’s one, mixing with bourbon. Spencer Monroe flung his jacket on the floor, sauntered into the kitchen like he owned the place, pouring shots and toasting his own reflection in the window. “Here’s to winning, birthday boy,” he purred, sliding a glass to Shane.

Shane barely looked up, hands already shaking, face hot with rage and drink. “Fuckin’ winning, huh?” he muttered, voice slurred. Spencer hopped up on the counter, grinning like a fox. “You did it, babe. Got rid of the old man, got yourself a house or half a house whatever, a new lover, and a birthday to remember.” He reached out, tugging the shorter but stronger man in by the belt. “Now quit brooding. It’s our time to celebrate.” Shane stared at Spencer—the too-perfect hair, the cocky mouth, the way he smelled like his mother’s money and someone else’s too masculine and wannabe aftershave. He swallowed the shot, let the tall man's hands slide up under his shirt, nails scraping down his ribs. Spencer pushed him back against the fridge, kissing hard, biting, tongue slick and bratty. “I'd let you fuck me, birthday boy, or just prefer to stand there crying about your old man?”

Shane’s grip turned bruising. He spun the lanky man around, slamming him against the counter, tearing at his pants. He tried to focus—on Spence was really pretty, a lot of guys and girls would be drooling, the smooth skin, the way he moaned and spread his legs, arching up, shameless. But every time he blinked, he saw Negan—his husband laughing, him angry, him on his knees with spit on his bearded chin and that wild look in his hazel eyes. He snarled, shoving his cock against Spencer’s ass, one hand tight on the back of his neck. “You want it rough?” Spencer moaned, “It’s your own party, do your best or 'worst'. Make me scream.” Shane pushed in then, hard, not caring if it hurt, not caring if Spencer liked it or not. All he wanted was to erase the ache, the ghost, the memory of Negan’s voice gasping his name. Sure, he liked a nice body and cute face and the young brat checked all the criteria for a handsome piece of ass. But there was a reason nobody compared to his unfortunately now ex. Negan was a force of nature, dangerous, charming, could be the most cruel dominant top or the biggest slut behind the sheets. He knew when, how, where, he enjoyed it.

The cop continued to thrust deep, over and over, each movement violent, punishing. In his mind, it wasn’t Spencer at all—it was Negan under him, begging, fighting, coming apart. Shane gritted his teeth, pounding harder, sweat dripping down his face, breath ragged. “You like that? You like being my whore?” Spencer gasped, loving every second, biting his lip. “Fuck yeah, birthday boy—fuck me like your ex, show me how a real man does it.” Shane’s eyes squeezed shut, the rage boiling over—suddenly it wasn’t Negan anymore, it was Rick, on his knees, blue eyes wide, mouth stretched, taking it all, begging for more. “Yeah, you want it, don’t you? My fucking leftovers, my fucking mess.” He fucked Spencer harder, slapping his ass, leaving red marks, body shaking with fury and need. Spencer screamed, “Harder! Come on, Shane, come for me—make your ex jealous, make the neighbors jealous, fuck me like you own me!”

The world blurred, heat and sweat and shame crashing down all at once. Shane came with a roar, digging his nails into Spencer’s hips, teeth bared, eyes wild. He pulled out, breathing hard, staring at Spencer collapsed on the counter, fucked-out and laughing, eyes glazed. The tall Monroe boy twisted to look back at him, licking his lips. “Happy birthday, lover boy. You got me now. Let the old men rot.” Shane staggered back, wiping sweat from his brow, heart pounding. But the ache was still there, deeper than ever—Negan’s laughter, Rick’s eyes, the life he’d burned just to win a fight that wasn’t even his anymore. He reached for the bottle, poured another shot, throat burning. “Yeah,” he muttered, half to himself, “let ‘em rot.”

***

Rick’s apartment was warm, soft with lamplight and the promise of something new, but Negan couldn’t settle. He constantly moved on the bed like a fish out of water besides his other half in the dark, staring at the ceiling, fingers drumming restlessly on his thigh.

Rick turned, reaching over to trace circles on Negan’s chest. “Talk to me.” Negan swallowed, voice ragged. “Can’t sleep. Feels like there’s a bomb ticking somewhere, and I can’t find the wire.” Rick pulled him close, lips against his hair. “He’s gone, you’re safe. You’re here.” Negan shook his head, sitting up. “You know, I gotta check something. The house—I don’t trust it. Don’t trust him. Not tonight.”

Rick sat up too, worry creasing his brow. “You want me to come?” The older man smiled, just a little, pressing a kiss to Rick’s mouth—hard, grateful, desperate. “Nah, baby. I need to do this one alone, it won’t be long. I promise I won't go in, stay with the kids.” Rick watched him pull on his leather jacket, a new one Rick specially bought for him and looked exactly like the former one he forgot in Virginia and never wanted to step there again, boots laced up with trembling hands, keys jingling. He paused in the doorway, looking back—one last soft look, the old fear mixing with a new kind of hope. “I’ll call if I need you, sheriff. Don’t wait up.”

Chapter Text

Negan barely remembered the drive, hands clamped white-knuckled on the wheel, headlights slicing through Atlanta’s late-night haze. He rolled to a stop outside the house—their house, his house—and saw the faint yellow glow spilling under the door, a car he didn’t recognize jammed up against the curb like it belonged there, in his property. He didn’t even bother to kill the engine, next he remember he was up the steps and through the front door before his mind caught up to his body, adrenaline screaming in his ears. The place smelled wrong—cheap aftershave nothing like his own signature baddass cologne, stale booze, and intruders.

His boots thudded across the hardwood as he called out, voice echoing through the emptiness. “What the fuck are you doing here, Walsh? You got brain damage or you just didn’t hear the judge say both our asses can’t be in here right now? Or maybe you’re just that fucking desperate for attention, you little retard? Last time I checked, this was my house, and your name’s just a writing on some paper.”

From the hallway, Shane stepped into the light, brown eyes wild, a bottle dangling from one hand, Spencer standing behind him in a rumpled button-down, watching like he wanted to be anywhere else but too stubborn to leave. Shane’s mouth twisted up in a broken grin. “Oh, husband—look at you, stormin’ in all pissed off, all that fire just like the good ol' times here. Didn’t take you long to forget me, did it or maybe you just needed a new officer to keep you warm at night.” Negan barked a laugh, low and venomous. “You really wanna go there, you pathetic weasel? Because trust me, I’m not in the mood for your sad, washed-up pickup lines. In case you forgot—you and me, we just got divorced, fortunately, the best day in my life, believe me! Signed, sealed, delivered, baby, even the judge said it herself.” Shane sneered, lips curling, voice slurred but sharp. “Divorce don’t mean shit, Negan. Not when you and Ricky been playin' house this whole time I been gone —what, you think I don’t see it? You think nobody knows? You’re both fuckin’ whores, screwin’ behind my back—” That was it, the older man’s fist landed before he even realized he’d moved, a crack of bone on bone, his ex staggering back, bottle tumbling to the floor and rolling under the couch. “You keep Rick’s name outta your fuckin’ mouth. Do you understand?” His voice was a growl, chest heaving, hands shaking—not with fear, but with the relief of finally letting it out.

Shane spat blood onto the hardwood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes blazing. “Or what? You gonna finish what you started? Always did like it rough, didn’t you, baby?”

The other man didn't take any of the bait, he was in the game long before his dumb ex-husband, so he just stared Shane down, voice cold, precise, no more room for the past. “It's interesting, isn't it? Where were you, then? After you dragged me out to that goddamn cabin, kept me there like some fuckin’ livestock? Where were you when I needed you—when you left me to rot in a hospital bed, nobody even knowing if I was alive or dead? You know, I got some suspicions how I ended up there, but I’ll let that one slide. Hell, I’d let a lot of shit slide but not anymore. I’m gonna beat the shit out of you the next time you try to provoke me and believe me you won't like it. Not a goddamn inch of that shit flies here, you want to be a jacking off stalker loser, go stalk your Mama's boy new boyfriend. Get out of my life.” Shane’s swagger crumbled. For a second, he looked every bit the broken man he’d become—beard patchy, hair wild and longer than ever, eyes rimmed red, the irony he was in the shape he left Negan in, back in time. He reached into his pocket, fingers fumbling, and pulled out a small silver chain—worn, the metal dulled by years, the other man finding it familiar but still not recalling from where.

The former cop held it up, voice cracking. “Let me ask you somethin', only one question, Negan. Just one honest answer—did you ever love me? Even once? Or was it all just bullshit, like everythin' else in this fucked-up story?” Negan stared at the necklace, frowning, then his voice came out rough and tired. “It doesn’t matter now, Shane. It's not like you would believe me even if I told you.” But the shorter man pressed the chain into his hand anyway, the pendant warm from his skin. “I wore this for you every damn day. Even when I was pissed. Even when I hated you, I never threw it away. I kept it, do you know what it means, your birthday, you dumb son of a bitch.”

For a second, it hung there between them—the past, the promise, all the wasted years. The older man let the chain dangle, staring at it like he was seeing a ghost. Then he shook his head, cold and final, closing his eyes.“Take your closure, Shane. Get your pretty boy with the soft hands and empty eyes and get the fuck outta my house, it's not a goddamn brothel. And I’m not your fucking husband, you're a damn stranger to me. If you want a scene or drama, take it to a motel, where you both belong.”

Spencer snorted, glancing at Shane, already moving for the door. “Told you, birthday boy. Old men are all talk.”

"Speak when you're spoken to, little fucker, you got no guts and check for any balls, too before talking to me." The older man just threw a dismissive smirk at Spencer while Shane ignored his younger boyfriend, dark eyes locked on Negan, searching for something he knew he’d never get back but the man turned just once, doing his signature lean back, voice ringing out one last time. “Get out, Shane, don’t you ever cross my path again or I'll make you regret it. Not my man's, either, you know the guy with the real massive-sized balls who didn't leave his husband at the hospital. Next time, you won’t get a warning, I'm being civil just because Rick wouldn’t want me to gut you both right now, honestly I wouldn't either, why would I fuck up my finally happy life for your sorry asses?”

Shane lingered, shoulders hunched, then finally followed Spencer out into the dark, the door slamming behind them as Negan was left alone there, clutching the necklace, with a heavy chest, the silence ringing in his ears—relief, grief, anger, all burning out at once.

Yet, the house felt like his, again. Bruised, battered, but his. He slipped the necklace into his pocket—not as a memento, but as a tombstone.

***

He was still standing in the hallway, back pressed to the door, when the crunch of tires out front jolted him from whatever daze he’d slipped into. Headlights cut through the dark, shadows moving across the walls, and before he could even pull himself together, Rick, of course, was coming up the steps—boots scuffing the porch, hair mussed from sleep, blue eyes fierce and wired. He didn’t bother knocking, rather just shouldered the door open, the weight of him filling the silence. He had his jacket thrown on over a T-shirt and—Negan clocked it in a flash—his service pistol clipped at his side. Always the sheriff, even now.

“I told you to sleep,” Negan rasped, voice rough from everything he’d just swallowed down. He tried for a smile, but it was more a grimace—tired, raw, spent but Rick didn’t even answer at first, just closed the door behind him, locking it with a practiced flick of his thumb. “Couldn’t,” he said, voice low. “Not when you’re away.” He set his hand on the gun, not drawing, just making sure Negan saw it—making sure he knew Rick wasn’t taking chances. The taller man huffed out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Always gotta be the tough as fuck hero? Little late for patrol, Ricky.”

But Rick stepped in, scanning the room like he was searching for danger—his eyes landing on the bottle on the floor, the scuff marks on the hardwood, the necklace in Negan’s fist. “Was someone here?” he asked, quiet but direct, that cop edge sharp under the concern.

Negan looked away, jaw tight. He turned the silver chain over in his palm, voice dropping. “No one that matters.” The cop took a step closer, without pushing. “You sure?” He reached up, brushing Negan’s jaw with his knuckles, gentle, steady, the same way he always did when he needed to ground them both. “Negan, you’re shaking.”

The taller man exhaled hard, the fight bleeding out of him. “Doesn’t matter now, nothing you need to fix, it's done.” He tried to sound tough, but the edge was gone—just exhaustion and that deep, aching relief that Rick was really here when blue eyes flicked down, catching the necklace, the way his boyfriend’s hand wouldn’t unclench. “You want to talk about it?” he asked, but the words were an offer, not a demand.

Negan shook his head, eyes shining in the dim light. “Right now, I just want you.” He meant it—every syllable like a prayer and Rick finally stepped in, gun hand dropping away as he pulled Negan in by the lapels of his jacket. The kiss that followed was slow at first, like they both needed to be sure the world wouldn’t fall apart if they touched. Rick tasted of toothpaste and coffee, mouth warm, beard rough against Negan’s jaw and the older man melted into it, hands finding Rick’s hips, clutching him close, anchoring himself to the only thing that felt real tonight.

“You’re safe,” Rick murmured against his lips. “I got you. Doesn’t matter who was here before. Nobody’s touching you now.” Negan’s laugh was shaky, breath hot between them. “Damn right you got me, sheriff. Even when I’m a fuckin’ mess.” He deepened the kiss, hungry now, the tension snapping loose—tongue sliding into Rick’s mouth, hands threading into that ridiculous curly hair. Rick groaned, letting himself be pressed against the wall, gun and all, body fitting perfectly against Negan’s taller frame.

After a while, Rick pulled back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, his thumb stroking Negan’s jaw. “You know you never have to handle it alone, even when you think you do. You have ME now.” His voice was rough, soft in all the places Negan couldn’t touch. “Even if you push me away, I’ll be right here. I don’t care what you say.”

Negan smiled, the first real one all night—crooked, sharp, but real. “Guess I picked the right cop after all.”

Rick let out a huff of laughter, rubbing his nose against Negan’s. “You picked me, I picked you, we picked EACH OTHER. End of story.”

For a long time, they just stood there—hands tangled, bodies pressed close, the house finally quiet. Negan pressed another kiss to Rick’s lips, softer this time, just holding him, breathing him in.

“Come on,” Rick said, nodding toward the bedroom. “Let’s get some sleep. You’re not letting go of me tonight.” His voice had that command in it, the one that always made Negan listen.

Negan didn’t argue. He followed, still clutching the necklace, slipping it onto the nightstand as they crawled into bed together—Rick still half-dressed, gun within arm’s reach, both of them tangled up, hearts pounding.

And for once, Negan let himself rest—no ghosts, no running, just Rick’s hand in his hair, steady and sure, holding him right where he belonged.

***

A few weeks passed in a haze of quiet, ridiculous happiness, the kind that neither man trusted at first after so much chaos. The divorce was finalized, the ink dry, the past mostly kept at bay. The house—their house, now, after more lawyer drama than either ever wanted to live through again—was still being patched up, but it felt alive, warm, not haunted. Negan found himself humming while he mopped the kitchen, Rick whistling while he hammered nails in the new fence, both men trading jokes and kisses in the doorways like some goddamn sitcom couple who’d won the right to be soft.

They were both planning something—though neither had said a word lately. It started as an itch, a pulse under the skin, each man catching the other with a secret little smile, a phone tucked away too quick, a question asked too casually. Negan caught himself grinning like a fool every time Rick’s back was turned, running scenarios in his head: 𝘋𝘰 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘵𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢, 𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘞𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺? The thought of going big—obscenely big—tickled him, but every time he imagined it, he kept seeing Rick’s face, that quiet, blue-eyed awe, the way the man hated attention but still loved to be claimed, deep down. So he made plans. Ridiculous, oversized, full-on Negan plans. He called Carl first, told the kid he needed his help. “Listen up, Grimes Junior —this is a classified operation. You’re gonna be my wingman. I wanna pull this off right, and I need a lookout, a hype man, and someone to drag your old man’s ass out of the house if he tries to hole up with the news.” Carl snorted, all teenage skepticism and secret pride. “Negan, if you don’t make this the most extra proposal Atlanta’s ever seen, I’ll be disappointed. But you do realize he’s probably got something up his sleeve, right? Dad can’t keep a secret for shit.” Negan grinned, voice all bravado, “He can try, but trust me, Daddy’s got this in the bag.”

He didn’t want a ring—he’d ruined that, back at Rick’s birthday with the full on descriptions, with his big mouth. Instead, he picked something that felt like Rick: a Rolex, white gold with a subtle silver face, masculine but clean, nothing too shiny. Because the cop didn’t like yellow gold and this one was identical but in a different color than his own, matching watches—Rick preferred something that won’t shout, something that’ll last longer than either of them, something he’ll wear even if he’s rolling in the dirt after Judith’s soccer ball or grilling burgers out back. He had the back engraved: 𝘛𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘧. 𝘔𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦. —𝘕.

Meanwhile, Rick was plotting in secret too, and if Negan was the master of the grand gesture, he was the king of getting the details right. He roped Maggie in—dragged her to the jeweler’s, talked through options until she rolled her eyes and told him, “You’re worse than Glenn ever was with the nerves when he wanted to buy Daryl engagement ring first, Rick. Just pick what you like and get it over with—he’ll say yes, and he’ll probably never take it off.” Rick smiled, small and quiet, fingers lingering over the rings until he found one—masculine, a deep gold band set with an emerald that caught the light like new grass after rain. Negan always loved color despite his clear preference for black leather biker outsifts, the kind of flash Rick would never have picked for himself, but for his partner, he wanted something wild, something that would look like it belonged to a man who could never be tamed, only loved just like the red scarf he wore in the past, of course way more grandiose.

He had it sized to Negan’s finger, paid in cash, keeping the box in his jacket pocket like a talisman.

Neither of them breathed a word more. Not to other friends with the exception of Maggie, even Michonne and Daryl knowing only a bit, not to Judith, not to each other. Carl caught Negan on the phone more than once, whispering with the jeweler, scribbling notes on napkins while Maggie saw Rick at the kitchen table late at night, the ring box in hand, just staring at it like he couldn’t believe his luck.

When they crossed paths—at home, at work, in the city—they were all smirks and stolen glances, each thinking he was the only one holding a secret, both of them itching with the need to blurt it out and yet determined to make it perfect, to make it count.

Negan kept fantasizing, rolling the watch in his hand, thumb tracing the engraving, imagining Rick’s face when he saw it—𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘩, 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨? 𝘖𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘊𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘢, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘹 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳? Every idea was bigger, bolder, until even Carl had to laugh. “You know he’ll love whatever you do, right? Just don’t make him cry in public or go too cringe, for real.” Negan only grinned wider. “Kid, if I’m lucky, he’ll cry all over me—on his knees, preferably.”

Rick, for his part, practiced what he’d say every morning, alone in the bathroom, the emerald ring heavy in his palm, knowing Negan would see through him the second he tried to wing it. “Negan Smith, I’ve been waiting my whole damn life to find someone who made me want forever. You’re it. You’re all of it.” Maggie, listening from the hallway, just rolled her eyes, couldn't help herself but laughing — “You’re really going Shakespeare all the way on NEGAN, he's gonna roast your ass, just telling you, Rick, be yourself or I’ll propose to him myself.”

So at home both men were a mess—nervous, giddy, hungry for the moment they could stop hiding and just give in to the fact that after all the pain, all the waiting, they’d finally found their home in each other. The only question left was who would get there first—and whether the world was ready for the two biggest, softest idiots in Atlanta to finally drop the act and claim each other, rings, watches, vows, and all.

***

The neon-lit sprawl of Miami Beach hit them like a fever. Rick had been driving the last two hours, tired by now hands on the wheel, squinting at the chaos—music everywhere, palms backlit by red and blue, late-summer air thick enough to chew. Negan was a hurricane in the passenger seat, boots on the dash, sunglasses on even at midnight, running his mouth about how “this is a proper city—look at this, Pretty Ricky! If we get mugged, at least the scenery’s fuckin’ worth it.” The cop only rolled his eyes, trying to hide how good it felt to hear his man sound alive again. “Don’t make me pull this car over,” he threatened, soft but real. Negan just grinned wider, voice rough and bright. “You couldn’t handle me in the back seat, Grimes.”

He did the talking at the front desk—of course. The hotel was pure South Beach glam, all white stone and blue glass, too slick for their battered luggage and old boots. The clerk barely blinked as Negan leaned in, big, charming silver fox, tattoo peeking out under his sleeve. “We want a room with a view. King-sized bed and no nosy neighbors.” Rick stood behind him, arms folded, cop’s stare making the guy flinch until Negan laughed.

“Don’t mind him, sugar. He just looks scary when he’s happy.”

Upstairs, the suite was ridiculous—king bed, balcony, a view of the surf and lights far as you could see. The older man bounced onto the mattress like a kid, boots kicked off, arms spread. “Fuck, Ricky, we made it. Nobody here but you, me, and a minibar that’s about to get real empty.”Rick was all quiet smiles, dropping his bag, looking out at the black ocean. “You did good,” he said softly, honest, the way he only got in the dark. Negan watched him from the bed, eyes greedy and soft all at once. “Wasn’t hard. Just needed the right company. And you, Sheriff—” He crooked a finger. “Get over here. You ain’t gonna spend our first night in Miami starin’ at the fuckin’ traffic, are you?”

The other grinned, crossing the room, leaning down to press a kiss to Negan’s jaw, fingers finding the chain of the watch under his shirt. “You never just take a break, do you?”

“Not when you’re around, I don’t.” Negan pulled him down, rolling them both across the sheets, laughing when Rick’s cop reflexes tangled them up, both fighting for the top spot. “You’re getting soft,” he teased, breathless, beard rough against lover’s throat. “Soft? Baby, I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock.” Negan flipped him, straddling, pinning the blue-eyed man’s hands above his head. “You wanna see how soft I can get? You wanna see how Miami handles a hotass Southern cop and his even more awesome man with no shame and less self-control?” Rick only laughed, letting himself be held, blue eyes full of light.

“We can’t get kicked out our first night.” But Negan bent down, whispering dirty promises against his ear, hips grinding slow—making it very clear he wasn’t worried about anything but the man under him. “Then you better keep your voice down, sheriff or I’ll make you scream so loud they’ll call your Florida co-workers.”

They spent the night wrapped up in each other—windows open, waves crashing, Negan fucking Rick slow and filthy until they both bit down on their own hands to keep from waking the city.

There was the ring in Rick’s bag and here was the watch in Negan’s pocket but for the first night, they just let it wait—content to burn through Miami one touch, one laugh, one promise at a time.

***

The sunrise crawled up the sand, pink and gold spilling across the waves, the city behind them just a rumor of noise and color as Rick walked barefoot, jeans rolled up, toes digging into the cool surf, arms crossed against the breeze. He looked too damn good with his hair messy, sky blue eyes sharp on the horizon, that little mouth pout that meant he was happy but didn’t want to show it.

His lover let him go ahead for a while, just watching, the Rolex Presidential heavy in his pocket, heart thumping like he’d run a marathon instead of just lying awake all night plotting. He was never the nervous type—he’d faced down cops, courts, and lately both combined with a certain toxic individual who happened to be his ex but now it felt like it never ever happened, maybe to some other version of him.

Now, watching Rick in the dawn, he felt younger and dumber than ever, free of any negative emotions. Finally, he jogged to catch up, bare feet slapping wet sand, voice echoing down the empty beach. “Alright, Pretty Ricky, hold up—got somethin’ for ya.” Rick turned, brow cocked, that half-smirk already threatening. “If you pulled me out here for a workout at sunrise, I'm gonna kill you.” Negan just grinned, dropping to one knee—but not all the way, not just yet, not with both of them smirking like fools. Instead, he fished in his pocket and held out the box, not even bothering to open it at first. “I know, I know, not a ring—I already fucked up the surprise, talkin’ too much like I always do but I got you somethin’ better.” He popped the lid. The white gold watch caught the sunlight, the inscription catching Rick’s eye, his laugh going soft, thick with something old and hopeful. “Damn, Negan, it's so nice but it's also madly expensive, you really....you bought me a Rolex? What, so I’m never late for your bedtime again?” But his voice cracked at the end, and he reached out, thumb brushing the engraving, eyes gone wide and shining. Negan’s own throat tightened, but he still couldn’t let the other man have the last word. “Yeah, well, now you can time how long I last, baby blue—maybe you’ll finally give me a good review.” Rick just huffed out a breath, shoving his hand in his pocket. “Well, you’re not the only one with plans.” And then— as calm as he usually appeared, like it was nothing—he held out the ring, green stone burning against his palm. “I was saving this in case you needed more time, but hell, I’m tired of waiting for the right moment.” On the inside, his heart was going to explode, so he couldn't wait anymore but he just smiled while Negan’s jaw dropped, hazel eyes darting from the ring to Rick’s face, then back again, then he just exploded with laughter—full-body, shaking, the kind that would’ve gotten them kicked out of any restaurant in Atlanta. “You sneaky little shit, you always gotta compete. I was gonna do the whole speech, maybe even cry a little, and you gotta one-up me even today, hell, that’s why I love you, pretty little prick.”

Rick was already grinning, cheeks red, looking younger than he had in years. “Yeah? So which one of us gets down on a knee? You first, me first?” The older man’s eyes glittered, voice dropping to a low growl, full of trouble and promise. “I say we both do it, switch it up. Variety, Ricky, just like in other activities. You damn well know we like to keep it interesting.” He slid the watch onto the shorter man’s wrist, hands shaking just a little, then reached up, grabbing the back of Rick’s neck, pulling him down until their foreheads touched, Rick taking a slow breath then, holding out the ring. “Negan Smith, if you want to marry me, you gotta let me say it at least once.”

“Say it, then, sheriff. Just don’t make it too sappy or I’ll puke right here.”

Rick took a deep breath, trying not to laugh with voice that was soft but strong. “I've loved you since I met you and I want you to let me love you forever. Marry me?” After hearing this, Negan’s laugh turned raw, thick with tears and pride both because he knew the other man was honest. “Right back at you, baby blue, you’re stuck with me. That’s a promise and I'm a man of my word.”

So they both went kneeling, laughing, both cursing a little, each slipping the other’s gift on—a watch for the cop, a wild gold ring for the showman love of his life. The sun burned higher, casting gold across their tangled hands and Rick leaned in, pressing a kiss to Negan’s forehead, soft and protective, just like always—their favorite, the one that always made Negan melt and feel safe at the same time but the older man pulled him in for more, rough kisses, deep and messy, rolling them both in the surf, sand in their hair, Miami waking up behind them. Nobody to see, nobody to judge—just two men, finally accepting they belonged to each other.

Negan was also the first to break from the kiss, laughter still buzzing on his lips, eyes gone wild and shining as he pressed his lover down onto the sand, pinning him with nothing but his grin and that rough, scarred hand on the cop’s chest. “Look at you, all mine now—officially. Feels different, doesn’t it?” His voice was a low growl, something between a threat and a prayer, fingers slipping under Rick’s shirt, dragging it up, exposing that familiar, hard chest to the morning light while Rick’s breath hitched, pupils blown wide, his hands coming up to clutch the other man’s back, nails dragging down his spine, hungry and raw. “Feels right, finally. Been waiting for this, Negan—hell, you’re my fiancé now. Don’t you dare make me regret it.” The older man laughed, hot against his throat. “Oh, I’m gonna make you regret it, all right—regret every goddamn day you made me wait.” He kissed down Rick’s jaw, beard scratching, tongue trailing, biting at the pulse hammering in his neck. His hands were everywhere, greedy, sure, slipping the shirt off, tugging at Rick’s belt with zero patience, making a show of how bad he wanted to see his man laid out.

“Don’t make me beg, Daddy,” Rick rasped, voice already breaking, body arching up into Negan’s touch, heels digging into the sand. “I want you. I want all of you.”

Negan’s smirk was pure sin, but there was something fierce and tender in his eyes. “You don’t gotta beg, I'm a generous man since we're engaged now, sheriff. I'm gonna fuck you like I never plan on letting you go because in fact, I don't.”

He got Rick naked, jeans down, briefs shoved aside, cock already hard and leaking, flushed long and thick against his belly as he took a moment—just a moment—to stare, thumb sliding across the head, collecting slick, making Rick shudder and bite his lip. Then he stripped fast—no show, just need—kicking his own pants aside, not giving a damn about the world, just the man under him. He slicked his fingers with the little bottle of lube he’d smuggled in his pocket, always prepared (he’d been planning this all along, of course—Negan was never without a plan when it came to their intimate life) and reached between Rick’s legs, pushing them up, spreading him wide to the Miami dawn.

He pressed in slow, two fingers at first, watching Rick’s face the whole time, that blend of hunger and trust and pure, reckless love. “You ready for me, Pretty Ricky?” he rasped, voice dropping, fingers scissoring, stretching, curling just right until the cop gasped, clutching at his arms. “Fuck, yes, just do it—want you so bad it hurts,” Rick groaned, head tipping back, curls wild in the sand.

Negan took his time—just enough to make Rick squirm, then lined up, cock thick and hot, sliding in inch by inch, slow and deep, filling him in one long, claiming thrust while Rick’s back arched, a long, broken sound clawing out of his chest, fingers digging bruises into Negan’s hips. “Jesus, Negan—God, you feel so good. You and nobody else.” The other man fucked him slow at first, hips rolling, breath ragged, every inch about owning Rick, making him feel it. “You’re mine now, sheriff. My fiancé, my pretty little prick, so I'll make you remember this morning every time you see my ring, every time you check that watch. You’re not getting away from me again.” Rick’s legs locked around him, pulling him deeper, meeting every thrust, eyes shining, voice raw. “Not planning on it, you’re stuck with me, my love.”

“Damn right I am.” Negan’s lips claimed his, teeth biting, tongue demanding, hips driving harder, picking up the pace, the slap of skin on skin drowned only by the crash of the waves and their mingled moans. He reached down, wrapped a callouses long hand around Rick’s cock, stroking him in time with every snap of his hips, squeezing just right, making the cop writhe and curse, begging now, shameless.

“Negan, gonna—fuck, don’t stop, don’t ever stop—“

The older man bit his ear, voice thick. “Come for me, fiancé. Show me how much you want your future husband.” That was all it took—Rick jerked, body going tight, cock pulsing hot over Negan’s fist, moaning his name loud and desperate. The man on top went on for a few more minutes, sending Rick to overstimulating frenzy and then followed, hips slamming deep, burying himself to the root, coming with a growl into man’s body, biting down on those sensual lips. Then he simply sprawled himself over Rick, both sweaty, breathless on the empty dawn-lit beach as Negan brushed sand out of his now fiancé’s curls, thumb soft over his cheek, voice gone hoarse but warm. “Fuckin’ hell, I love you.” Rick’s smile was lazy, sated, pure sunshine as he reached up, pulling the man on top down for one more kiss, slow and messy. “I love you too, Negan, now get off me before the lifeguard comes.”

He simply laughed, rolling them so Rick sprawled on top, the two of them sticky and filthy and happier than they’d ever been, the sun rising over a brand new world.

“First day of the rest of our lives, fiancé?” The cop teased, voice soft against Negan’s jaw.

“Damn right,” Negan grinned, kissing his forehead, hands never letting go. “Just wait ‘til tonight. I got much more plans for my fiancé’s ass.”

***

The sky was barely pink by the time they dragged themselves back up the hotel stairs, sandy and half-dressed, hair tangled by sea wind and each other’s hands. Negan had Rick’s shirt in one fist, the other clutching his own Crocs—grinning like a kid who’d stolen Christmas and got away with it. They were a mess, but nobody gave a damn. They stumbled into their room, door clicking shut behind, the hush of the ocean now far below.

Negan didn’t say a word at first—just went to the balcony, the little velvet ring box tucked safe away in Rick’s pocket, the sunrise glinting off the gold and green. Instead, Negan reached into his jeans, pulling out the old silver .22 necklace—the one Shane had pressed into his palm like it meant anything, like it could buy back all the shit between them. He looked at it a long moment, thumb running over the battered pendant, then slipped the old wedding band free from his other pocket, since he stopped wearing it a long time ago. For one second, his face was unreadable—hardened, hazel eyes almost thoughtful, some deep old ache flickering in his eyes but then, without a word, he wound the chain around the ring, twirled it once, and hurled the whole lot out over the balcony with one powerful swing. The necklace and ring arced through the morning air, catching the light before they splashed down somewhere in the wild blue water, swallowed up and gone.

Rick watched, leaning in the doorway, arms folded, eyebrows raised, that half-smile teasing at his lips. “That some kinda ritual, or you just felt like polluting Florida?” Negan snorted, rolling his eyes, shoulders finally dropping all the way down for the first time in years. “Shit, sheriff, don’t start on me about the environment. If I wanted to make the planet cry, I’d have sold the damn thing instead. Probably coulda gotten a bottle of decent bourbon, maybe a lap dance before our wedding comes—hell, coulda put a down payment on our honeymoon suite.” He glanced over, wicked glint returning. “But you know what? It felt better to just let that fuckin’ chapter drown. Jewelry, history, the whole sorry mess.”

Rick stepped onto the balcony beside him, palm curling warm against Negan’s lower back, blue eyes steady, soft but sharp as ever. “So what was all that, really?” he asked, voice quiet, not prying but curious, the kind of question you only ask when you’re sure of the answer since he had a subtle idea what it was but didn't see clearly and the taller man turned to face him, those warm eyes looking kind, grin lazy and honest. “That?” he said, jerking his chin at the rolling sea. “That was a past that has nothing to do with the fiancé of Rick Grimes.” His voice softened, rough edges smoothing out as he leaned in, kissing Rick quick and fierce, still tasting salt and sunrise and freedom.

Rick chuckled, shaking his head, resting his forehead against Negan’s. “So... explain about that lap dance comment, you know our bachelor party is gonna be a single one, right. I'm not lettin' you run to strippers, unless you want me to arrest you. I'm a territorial man, myself.” Negan’s arms slid around his waist, pulling him close, voice low and sure. “Only thing I’m runnin’ toward now is you, Pretty Ricky. And who said I didn't mean paying you for a private lap dance? Everything else is dead and buried.” He pressed another kiss to Rick’s forehead, holding him tight.

***

The Florida sun was barely climbing above the blinds when Rick woke to the familiar scrape of a beard against his thigh, the bedsheets twisted halfway down his legs, the AC humming, and a weightless hush in the hotel suite that meant he’d finally, finally, slept deep in his one and only's arms. He was slow to open his eyes—too blissed-out, too satisfied, the ache in his hips a lazy throb, his hand drifting to tangle in Negan’s hair before he was even fully conscious.

And there he was, already there, settled between Rick’s spread legs, mouth warm and hungry, tongue tracing lazy circles along the inside of his fiancé’s thigh, taking his damn time just because he could. He glanced up, catching the handsome man's in front sleepy, wrecked grin, and smirked—mischief already glinting in those hazel eyes. “Good morning, Pretty Ricky. Figured I’d give my favorite man a little breakfast in bed, so don’t you dare say I ain’t a romantic.”

Rick laughed, voice still raspy after sleep, fingers flexing in Negan’s hair. “Jesus, Negan. You ever get enough?” The other man just grinned wider, sliding his mouth over Rick’s cock, sucking slow and deep, one hand splayed wide over his hip, holding him down when he tried to buck up. “Mmmm— "...Nope. Not in this lifetime, and not in the next. I got a fiancé now—I plan on making up for every fuckin’ year we wasted.”

Rick tried to protest, half-hearted, voice breaking as Negan’s tongue worked him over, hot and slick and maddening. “We—fuck—we gotta get up soon, love. We got work, a flight to catch—Negan, I swear to God—” But the man just hummed around him, sending shivers down Rick’s spine, his beard scratching, mouth relentless. He sucked harder, letting the hard cock hit the back of his throat, then pulling off with a wet pop to tease the tip, thumb sliding in the mess, licking it up like he was starving. “Relax, sheriff. Let Daddy do his thing.” The cop cursed, biting his fist to stifle the moans, but the second Negan slid back down—deep and steady, hand squeezing Rick’s balls, other wrapped tight around his thigh—he was a goner. He came hard, hips arching off the bed, Negan swallowing every drop, groaning around him, filthy and proud.

When it was over, the older man slid up the bed, licking his lips, beard damp, eyes alight with trouble and triumph. He pressed a kiss to Rick’s mouth, not caring that it was messy, just savoring the taste of his man, his future, everything he’d almost lost and Rick pulled him in, holding him close, laughter shaking out of him, full and real. “You’re a menace, you know that?”

Negan grinned, nuzzling into Rick’s neck, voice playful but sure. “But you love it, sheriff. And besides, who says we gotta leave? I say we take a few more days. Celebrate our engagement the right way. I’ll call in sick. You call in… bossy.” Rick just shook his head, eyes crinkling, heart stupidly full. “Negan Smith, I ever tell you're the realest thing I’ve ever known? The hottest, too.” The other’s smile softened, his arms winding tight around the man of his dreams, their legs tangled together in the sunrise. “Yeah, baby. But don’t try to argue again, you're the prettiest fucker that ever existed. Nobody else ever came close.”

They both smiled before Rick pulled his man back in bed to continue his sleep in a comfy embrace, wrapped up in each other, letting the sun spill across their skin, the world outside waiting but neither in any rush to leave. They had nowhere to be but here. Just them, together—free, chosen, and finally, finally whole.

*** 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙀𝙣𝙙 ***