Chapter Text
Rick was propped up against too-white pillows, skin still pale but not ghostly anymore, those baby blues brighter than Negan thought he’d ever see them again. The monitors ticked steady at his side, soft beeps like a metronome for his stubborn heartbeat, and his sheriff’s curls stuck damp to his forehead from the effort of just being awake.
Carl had just been there, his Dad’s Sheriff hat clutched tight in his hands, trying so damn hard to look grown while Negan had stood back, letting father and son have that impossible moment together, swallowing down the way his throat burned when Rick reached for Carl’s cheek, when Carl’s voice cracked saying “Dad.”
But now the boy had gone to get soda from the machine, promising to come right back, and it was just the two of them in the too-bright, too-quiet room.
The older man hovered at the foot of the bed, hand on the cold metal railing, afraid if he touched Rick he’d shatter into a thousand sharp pieces. His voice came out rough, full of gravel and unspilled tears. “Goddamn it, Rick. I knew you’d make it, hell, you were too goddamn stubborn to let a little bullet and some hospital sheets take you down. Didn’t matter what those white-coat bastards said, I always knew.” Rick’s lips curved, soft, tired but full of that slow warmth that always gutted the other man.
His voice was hoarse, scraped raw from days of silence, but steady. “I dreamt of Carl,” he whispered. Then his eyes flicked up, blue cutting through the haze, locking on Negan like he was the only thing in the room. “And I dreamt of you, every night. I dreamt of your face, Negan.” His throat worked, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob catching in his chest. “Thought I was gone, thought I was dyin’… and I was ready, because I’d met the love of my life before it happened.” His eyes shone wet, smile breaking and breaking again. “I am so goddamn lucky to have you.”
The other man felt his whole chest seize—like guilt and love were wrestling under his ribs, trying to tear him in two. His hand came up to scrub over his mouth, like maybe he could choke back the sob threatening to crawl out. He forced a grin instead, shaky, white teeth showing just to keep from crying.“Jesus Christ, Rick, you tryin’ to kill me all over again with that Hallmark bullshit? You can’t just lie there lookin’ like some beat-up angel and drop that kinda line on me, you son of a bitch.” His voice cracked at the edges despite the joke. “Fuck, I—” He broke off, shaking his head, swallowing down the confession he couldn’t dare say, the secret gnawing holes inside him but Rick reached for him, hand trembling but steady enough, and Negan couldn’t not take it. Their fingers laced tight, Rick’s grip weak but full of intent as he studied his lover, blue eyes even softer now.
“When can I come home? I missed you. I missed… us, our family.” Negan huffed, squeezing his hand, trying to keep it light though his heart was breaking. “Don’t be actin’ all tough, Sheriff. Maybe in a few days you’ll be outta here, but we gotta do this the right way. Physiotherapy, check-ups, all that boring shit. You ain’t getting outta laps just ‘cause you took a bullet.” Rick’s grin tilted, sly through the exhaustion, eyes glinting with something warmer than pain.
He winked, and for a second he was the man Negan fell for, cocky and dangerous just in a different ways than him. “Me and you—we got a lot to catch up on. Pretty sure we can do all the exercise I need.” His smile deepened, breath hitching with soft laughter. “Ain’t that right, Coach Smith?” Negan barked a laugh that came out more like a sob, hand tightening around Rick’s. He leaned down, forehead almost touching the other man’s, voice a ragged whisper meant for him alone. “Christ, you’re somethin’ else. Don’t you dare scare me like that again, right, pretty little prick? ‘Cause I swear to God, if you check out on me one more time, I’ll drag your ass back from the grave myself.”
Rick just smiled, weak but shining, and in that moment it was too much—love, relief, guilt, all tangled until Negan could barely breathe. He kissed Rick’s knuckles, quick, desperate, like a vow, and blinked hard to keep himself from falling apart right there at his lover’s bedside.
***
The room was dark except for the soft green glow of the monitors, the faint hiss of oxygen. Rick shifted on the bed, wincing at the pull in his chest, but he refused the morphine button again, hand reaching instead for the warm weight of his man’s on the railing.
It was well after midnight; the nurse had gone, Carl had been sent home with Maggie, and Negan had been left in the too-small recliner by Rick’s side, legs sprawled, half-asleep but twitching at every beep of the machines. Rick’s voice was quiet, hoarse, cutting through the low hum of the hospital night. “Negan?” The older man blinked awake, straightening, rubbing at his face. “Yeah, baby, I’m here. You need water? Nurse? What is it?” The cop shook his head faintly, lips curving. “No. Just… you.” His hand squeezed Negan’s fingers, weak but certain. Then he swallowed, hesitant. “Do you know how… how Shane is?”
The question dropped like a stone into Negan’s chest. His throat went dry. For a second, all he heard was the monitor beeping steady, too damn steady, like it was mocking him. He forced his voice rough and casual, fighting the burn of panic in his gut. “Shane? He’s… he’s fine, yeah I finally met him in person when this shit happened. He's runnin’ his mouth, still eatin’ me outta house and home. He helped a lot, to be honest.” He tried for a smirk, but it came out crooked, brittle. Rick’s eyes softened, a flicker of old worry crossing his tired face. “Good. I kept thinkin’, maybe he got caught in that mess too. Gunfire everywhere… felt like I was already gone before I hit the ground. I was scared they… they shot him too.” His breath hitched, memories weighing heavy, but he pushed through. “Carl told me he’s been around. Helpin’ out. He’s always been… loyal. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
Negan’s jaw clenched. Inside, it felt like glass grinding in his chest. 𝘓𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭. 𝘑𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘴. He wanted to laugh, wanted to spit the truth like poison—𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘰-𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯’ 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯’ 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘣𝘦𝘥.. But Rick’s eyes were shining, grateful, too alive and too fragile for him to torch with the truth, so Negan just nodded, voice low, hoarse. “Yeah. He’s been here. Been… takin’ care of things. You’d be proud...” Rick smiled, weary but true, and Negan almost broke right there, guilt, self-loathing and disgust finally catching up with him fully on.
***
Shane’s fingers drummed restlessly on the steering wheel of the old Crown Vic, radio turned low, engine off but keys still in the ignition—like he might need to gun it out of there any second. He stared up at the hospital’s glowing windows, waiting for something—anything. His phone screen lit up but there were no new messages.
He scrolled to Negan’s name, thumb hovering. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘶𝘱. 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘔𝘳. 𝘓𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘯. But still, hope’s a bastard. He hit CALL, waited, listening to it ring, but once again, there was no fucking answer. Shane sighed, jaw tightening, guilt riding him hard.
Every time he saw Negan’s name now, his stomach twisted. Every time he thought about Rick—hooked up to machines while he and Negan tore each other up in the dark—it got harder to breathe.
He watched the main entrance. Ten minutes. Twenty. Finally—Negan appeared, broad and hunched, hands jammed deep in his jacket pockets, mouth set in a hard line. He barely looked at Shane as he stalked across the parking lot but the younger man opened the car door, standing up, relief and nerves knotted in his chest. “Negan. Hey—” He reached out, tried to catch his arm, but the other man shook him off, the usually warm hazel eyes, now cold as stone.
“The fuck do you want now?” Negan’s voice was a low snarl—tired, wrecked, hanging by a thread but Shane swallowed, tried to hold his ground. “Just—I wanted to see how he’s doin’. Nobody’s tellin’ me shit, man. I been waitin’ out here, worried sick. You could’ve picked up.”
Negan glanced away, making a weird grimace, not trusting himself to look at Shane too long. “He’s awake. He’s… he’s obviously happy to see Carl. He's been asking about you, too but now he needs some damn rest. Doc says he’s gotta take it slow.” Shane stepped closer, lowering his voice, desperate, a hand hovering between apology and plea. “When can I see him, Negan? I just—I need to see him with my own eyes, hear him say he’s alright. You know I wouldn’t…” His voice cracked, trailing off. “I wouldn’t let nothin’ happen to him or his family. I kept my promise.” Negan’s eyes flashed— complex feelings hanging between some kind of gratitude but also disgust, humiliation and shame, but he forced himself to stay hard. “I’ll ask him. Okay? He’s comin’ home in a few days if all goes well. Until then, he needs rest, not more drama.”
The cop searched his face, wanting to reach out, just touch him, anything, but Negan stepped back, arms folded, walls up. “Don’t,” he warned, voice raw. “Don’t start. Not here, damn it, it's not the place or time.” Shane’s hands dropped, helpless. He nodded, looking down at the cracked concrete. “Alright. Just… tell him I was here, yeah? Tell him I’m thinkin’ about him.”
Negan’s voice was softer, almost breaking. “Yeah. I’ll tell him, maybe you'll tell him yourself when he's out.” He turned, ready to walk away, but Shane called after him, one last thread of hope. “Negan—” The older man paused, not turning back. “What?” Shane’s voice was small, lost. “We’re still family, right?” Suddenly his shoulders tensed, but he didn’t answer. He just kept walking, swallowed by the hospital’s cold lights, leaving Shane alone in the dark with nothing but his regrets.
***
The hospital parking lot bled yellow under the sodium lights, rain beading on the windshield, turning everything outside into a blur of gold and gray. Shane sat behind the wheel, staring at his own cracked knuckles on the steering wheel, heart hammering, mouth bone dry. He should’ve been happy—God knows, he should’ve. Rick was alive. Alive.
He gripped the wheel harder, jaw flexing. But the first thing he thought—shame burning down his spine—was that Negan hadn’t even looked at him. Not really. Not since Rick woke up.
He leaned his head back, eyes closed, pulse throbbing in his throat. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯’ 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥
He snorted, bitter, eyes prickling. Rick was his brother, his family. He’d die for him, did everything but. But those two weeks with Negan—Jesus, he never stood a chance. Nobody ever made him feel like that, not even the wildest girlfriend in the past, not anyone. That man was a goddamn storm, and Shane had stood out in the rain, begging to get struck.
He got out of the car, shoulders tight, walking fast through the drizzle toward the corner store. The clerk barely glanced up as Shane grabbed a bottle, something cheap and hard, just to burn away the need clawing at him from the inside out.
Back in the car, he cracked the seal, took a long pull, hissed as the whiskey lit his chest on fire. His mind ran circles, frantic. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘨 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯'. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦… 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦. He wanted to smash his fist through the dashboard, to make something break, something bleed. But all he did was drink, staring at the hospital doors, hoping to see Negan again—just one more time, just to know he didn’t dream it all up.
𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘭, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘯, 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶? He let out a shaky laugh. 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘩, 𝘦𝘹𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥’𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘺𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘶𝘱, 𝘞𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘩. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴, 𝘩𝘶𝘩?
He couldn’t stop thinking about it—Negan’s mouth, his laugh, the way he gave as good as he got, the rough hands, the bruises, the way he said Shane’s name in the dark. Rick never said his name like that, not even close.
𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘢𝘥. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘕𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬’𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩, 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦.
He took another drink, rolling the bottle between his palms, watching the rain streak down the glass. 𝘐 𝘢𝘪𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯’ 𝘨𝘰. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵. 𝘐𝘧 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘕𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵’𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵. 𝘉𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘉𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘦𝘦. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘕𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯’𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭
He shut his eyes, let the guilt roll over him, sharp and hot, tried to picture Rick’s handsome face—his brother, his family—but all he could see was Negan in the shadows, mouth swollen, voice rough, saying his name like a secret. 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰, 𝘮𝘢𝘯. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯’. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘎𝘰𝘥. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦.
He sat there, rain drumming on the roof, whiskey burning in his gut, the world turning slow and mean outside. The only thing that felt real anymore was the want and if Negan thought he could just walk away—if Rick thought family meant never fucking up—well, he’d just have to show them both how wrong they were.
He took another drink, throat aching, and waited for morning, hoping for a sign, for anything, for Negan to call, to say it wasn’t over because as long as he was out there, breathing, wanting, hurting like he was… Shane wasn’t gonna just let go.
***
The front door banged open, sunlight spilling across the old hardwood and Carl was there before anyone could blink—shoes squealing on the floor, a streak of lanky limbs and sheriff’s hat. Rick barely got his arms up before the teen slammed into him, hugging so hard his ribs creaked. “Easy, Carl,” his Dad wheezed, voice thick with emotion, but his hands were shaking as he held his son. “Missed you, too.” Carl’s voice was muffled in his chest. “Dad! You’re finally home.” Rick pressed a kiss to the boy’s wild hair. “Yeah, well, you know me. Too stubborn to let a little bullet do me in. Besides, couldn’t let you and Coach Smith turn the house into a bachelor pad, could I?” He shot Negan a crooked, teasing grin over his son’s shoulder. “You been keepin’ him in line, Coach?”
Negan smirked, but his eyes were glassy. “Only way I kept this place from burnin’ down was threatenin’ to make the kid eat my cookin’ every night. He’ll take your meatloaf over my spaghetti any day.” Rick laughed, real and grateful, and Carl finally stepped back, eyes a little red but bright with relief. “You look even better now,” he teased, voice trembling with joy.
“Hey, keep lyin' to your old man, I earned every wrinkle waitin’ for you to stop growin’ like a weed,” Rick shot back, thumb brushing Carl’s cheek. “Damn, I missed you, son.”
There was a beat, and then Shane was there in the foyer, hands shoved in his pockets, trying not to look like he’d run every red light in Georgia to get here. Rick turned, face splitting in a grin. “Shane. Jesus, man—I kept askin’ if you were okay. I didn’t know… thought maybe you got caught in the crossfire.” He pulled his friend in, one-armed but sincere, hugging him close.
“You all right? You all good?” Shane stiffened at first—muscle memory from all those years of hiding what he felt—but the sound of Rick’s voice, warm and familiar, undid him. He hugged back, tight, jaw clenched against whatever was trying to crawl up his throat. “Yeah, Rick. I’m good, missed you so much, brother. Been… takin’ care of things.”
Behind them, Negan hovered near the kitchen doorway, silent, avoiding Shane’s gaze and the cop saw him there—caught the flinch, the way the older man looked anywhere but at him—and it burned, a brand of shame and longing twisted together...𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴. 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦…
But Rick didn’t see it. He was all light, all gratitude, squeezing Shane’s shoulder. “You always got my back, didn’t doubt it for a second.” His best friend forced a smile, holding onto Rick like he was the last good thing he might ever deserve, but his eyes kept sliding to Negan, hungry and haunted.
***
The first night home, Rick tried to act like everything was back to normal. The table was set, Carl was sitting at his usual spot, Negan passing dishes with surprisingly exaggerated care, Shane cracking beers for the grownups.
But there was a chill in the air, one Rick couldn’t blame on the AC. Carl barely looked at Negan, where he used to light up at the man’s jokes, now he just picked at his food, eyes on his plate, shoulders tight. If Negan tried to tease him, the boy shot back a flat “I’m fine” or a shrug, never meeting his eyes. It was a cold shoulder Rick hadn’t seen since those dark years after losing Lori.
Rick’s fork hovered midair. He watched his son, watched his boyfriend’s awkward attempts, the forced laughter, the way Carl just seemed… harder, sharper. 𝘞𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘰 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘯 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘕𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘢𝘳𝘥. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦? He glanced at Shane, who was uncharacteristically quiet, dark eyes darting between the other two men, his own smile tight and brittle.
Negan caught Rick watching him and tried for a grin. “You know, Sheriff, this kid’s got a mean left hook, a future serial killer. Nearly knocked me out with a pillow last week.” Carl’s lips barely twitched. “You left the stove on. Again.” Rick cleared his throat, searching for a thread. “You two seem like you survived all right, even if the kitchen’s still standing.” He tried for warmth. “Negan’s a handful, ain’t he, son?” Carl didn’t answer at all and then Shane jumped in, maybe too quick. “He did fine, Rick. Better than I expected. I always thought he was just a big-mouth gym teacher but… hell, he stepped up. Didn’t he, Carl?” The boy’s shoulders hunched higher. “Whatever. Can I be excused?”
Rick frowned, real concern etching his face. “You feeling all right? You used to love Coach’s spaghetti—“I’m not hungry.” Carl stood, dishes rattling, and stalked out. The silence left behind was ugly. Negan’s knuckles whitened around his fork. Rick started to speak, then caught Shane’s gaze—something desperate, almost pleading there.
First of all, Rick was a cop before he was a father or a lover. He filed the moment away. 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘭 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘕𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘯. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥? 𝘚𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵—𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯—𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘭 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦’𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦. 𝘏𝘦’𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴.
He tried to break the tension with a joke. “Hell, I thought I’d come home to find you two at each other’s throats. Shane, you remember, you used to say Negan was probably all talk, high-school creepy gym teacher—now look at you, acting like brothers.” Shane forced a laugh, but it came out wrong, sharp around the edges. “Yeah. Guess life’s funny like that. People surprise you and you know, brother, your family, it's my family too.” Rick nodded with a smile but his eyes were still watching the hallway where Carl had disappeared, heart heavy with the knowledge that his family wasn’t as unbreakable as he’d hoped. Maybe time would heal it, maybe not but he’d damn well try.
Later, as the dishes piled up and the laughter felt forced, Rick realized there were a thousand things he’d missed—and not all of them could be blamed on the coma.