Chapter Text
The shrill ring is both unexpected and wholly anticipated. And while he’s cooking the damn eggs, too. The pan sizzles, and for a moment, he almost ignores it. But the phone rings twice more, and, like the mercurial bastard he is, he changes his mind.
Negan lifts the handset off the switch hook, placing the receiver at his ear, cradled against his shoulder.
A few, silent, tense breaths. Then:
“He’s out.”
Normally, he’d respond with a smartass quip. For once, he is entirely silent as he gently cradles the phone. He abandons the eggs he was cooking, slamming them to the back, unlit burner. In the same swift movement, he pulls a pack from his breast pocket, taps out a smoke, and lights it with a match. Breathes in deep. Exhales in a plume of smoke.
Smiles bitterly at the wall.
Took you long enough, asshole.
***
He is in all technicality an outlaw, but that doesn’t mean Negan is stupid. In his way of life, stupidity gets you killed quick.
His home may be a ramshackle dump of what it once was, but it’s his, damn it. One bad pipe away from condemnation, it’s a small trailer home hidden in the back of the woods, nearly a mile from the nearest living person in all directions. This, of course, is on purpose. The walls remain standing solely due to his own diligent work. The fridge is a shitty white hunk of metal right next to a deep freezer that has not once housed a dead body, thank you so fucking much. Again, stupidity gets you killed.
It is, however, stuffed full of frozen meat, in case of a situation like this wherein he may need to hunker down for a while. Though, really, he doesn’t anticipate needing to wait longer than an hour.
Negan hums Johnny Cash to himself as he works, double-checking the boarded-up windows while he swings his favorite bat at his side. He doesn’t have much that’s breakable, maybe the junker of a black and white television he salvaged. Oh, and the landline, of course.
Ergo, he swings Lucille with pleasure while he confirms his own version of security. He’s heard tell that rich folk in Hollywood can afford some new-fangled technological security systems. Wouldn’t that be convenient?
Ah, well. He’s found the hands-on method more effective, anyway.
Once assured his windows are nice and boarded, Negan returns to the living room. He gives the handle of the bat a kiss.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but this is a gunpowder and lead affair. Hope you understand.”
Lucille doesn’t respond. Good girl.
Negan leans her behind the couch, within easy duck-and-run reach if necessary. The carpet protests from the barbed wire wrapped around her, but hell, it’s ugly work anyway.
Hm. Maybe he can afford new carpet once this asshole’s been wasted. It’s something to consider, at least. The bounty on his head isn’t spectacular, but not nothin’, either.
Negan takes a seat on the rickety stairs located in front of the foyer. Hums as he double-checks his shotgun, loading it with a little song under his breath.
“Thunder rolls… and the lightnin’ strikes… another love goes cold… on a moonless night…”
Pity it’s broad daylight without a cloud in sight. Then again, he isn’t a jilted lover, either.
Now prepared, Negan has nothing but time. He doesn’t hum. Doesn’t fidget. Already took a piss after the call, so he’s got time.
He waits.
Nearly an hour passes by before he hears the all-too familiar sound of truck tires on a gravel road. Negan stubs out a cigarette on the banister, silently apologizing to his late wife, and stands.
Chambers the first bullet.
Aims it at the door.
His grin is bloodthirsty. Come in for dinner, asshole. Got you your favorite: hot lead, straight down the gullet.
***
“Fuckin’ bullshit,” grouses Shane as he parks the truck. “I didn’t join the force to perform some damn wellness checks.”
Wisely, Rick doesn’t answer. He ensures his gun is properly holstered and ready to fire before glancing at his best friend. “I’ll go,” he states, quiet but firm. “You wait here.”
“Fuck, no. You seein’ that shithole?” Shane gestures at the sad excuse for a house before them, his scowl deep. “I’m willin’ to bet you’re gonna find some methhead coked out of his mind.”
Barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Rick says, still calm, “Which is why one of us needs to stay here, yeah? Radio in if it all goes south.”
Though he still looks uneasy, Shane nods. “Fine. But I hear even one gunshot, and I’m gonna be shootin’ first and askin’ questions later.”
Rick hopes to god that doesn’t come to pass.
Rather than acknowledge his partner’s threat, he opens the passenger side door of their squad truck, hopping out with a crunch of gravel beneath his boots. Shane’s being paranoid, he reminds himself as he approaches the home. They were asked by a concerned friend to perform a wellness check. That’s all.
Still, he hooks his thumb into his belt, just behind the holster.
While driving in, he didn’t notice anything unusual outside of the state of the home itself. Still, his trained instincts kick in, eyes sharp as he surveys his surroundings. One car parked under a shoddy overhang, an ancient Toyota that one can only hope is in driving condition, a second car that looks newer but has been gutted, the windshield cracked to hell and back. The second vehicle looks like someone took a bat and a hatchet to it simultaneously. Not illegal, but maybe Shane has a point about being leery.
Rick steps onto the porch. Surprisingly, it appears to be in good condition; doesn’t even creak. He raises his hand and raps with his back knuckles. “Mr. Smith? It’s the police.”
He expects silence, not a loud thunk. Eyes narrowed, Rick takes half a step back, hand on his gun—and as the door swings open, he’s faced with a very unideal sight.
The man inside remains a good two steps back, shotgun aimed right at Rick’s chest. He’s tall, is the first thing Rick notices, easily over six feet.
He also doesn’t have his finger on the trigger, which is the only reason Rick allows his hand to relax.
“Shit timing, officer,” says the man. His smile is broad and attractive, yet cold, and his hazel eyes even colder. “I’d move along if I were you.”
Rick pauses to take the man in. His posture is lax, but his hazel eyes are tense. Like he expected someone, just not a deputy. All of Rick’s honed instincts are insisting something is wrong. But… none of them are saying he’s in danger, either. Though the man wears a well-loved black leather jacket, fingerless gloves, and steel-toes that could cave someone’s head in, Rick doesn’t get a bad sense from this guy. At least, not yet.
Firmly, he says, “That’s deputy. We’re here for a wellness check. Where’s Mr. Smith?”
The man’s smile sharpens. “You’re lookin’ at him, deputy.”
Despite his mocking tone, Rick doesn’t budge. “What’s with the shotgun?”
“You don’t wanna know.” Using said shotgun, Mr. Smith gestures. “As you can see, I’m healthy and hale. Best get along, now.”
Something is dreadfully wrong. “Mind if I come in, make sure you’re all right?”
Mr. Smith cocks his head. He seems to be considering Rick, a strange smile playing on his lips. “Nah. Not fond of strangers in my home.”
“Rick Grimes.”
“Come again?”
Rick suppresses the urge to smile. “I’m Rick Grimes. Now we ain’t strangers, Mr. Smith.”
Mr. Smith utters a startled laugh. For the first time, he lowers the shotgun, though he doesn’t put it away. He flashes another strange smile Rick’s way. “I’m Negan. Come on in, deputy.”
Ignoring the way the other man mimics his drawl, Rick steps inside, pausing to gesture for Shane to stay put. His partner purses his lips but remains in the truck.
While keeping an eye trained on the man—Negan—Rick surveys inside the home. Truth be told, it’s not much better than outside would have one believe. The boarded-up windows are somehow twice as obvious, probably due to the living room’s single, swinging light bulb. The couch is threadbare, the TV stand surprisingly newish and sturdy-looking. Aside from those and the television set itself, there isn’t much to show that someone occupies the home. It’s the lack of personal items that strikes him as strange.
At least until he steps past the couch while following Negan into the kitchen.
“Watch your toes,” calls Negan over his shoulder. “Lucille’s a sweetheart but she still bites.”
Rick stares at the bat wrapped in barbed wire. Damn it. Maybe he should call Shane in.
Instead, he asks politely, “Lucille?”
“Yep.”
It doesn’t seem as though Negan is going to be any more forthcoming. Rick returns his attention to the man, stepping into the kitchen with a wary eye on the cracked linoleum. At the very least, Negan has shouldered the shotgun.
“Coffee, deputy?” Rick demures with a shake of his head. Shrugging, Negan pours himself a cup. No steam emits, like the brew’s already gone cold.
Softly, Rick asks, “Anyone live with you?”
“Nope.” Negan licks his lips after a long gulp, setting the mug down on the counter. While everything looks old and in some state of disrepair, the house is clean. No odd smells or burn marks.
“Attic? Basement?”
“Neither.” Negan smirks. It’s an unkind, pointed look. “You need to check my room for cooking materials, de-pu-ty?”
Rick can feel his cheeks warming. What the hell? This never happens when he’s on duty.
Despite that, his voice is cool and collected. “No. I just want to ensure you’re Negan Smith and that you’re truly okay.”
The other man’s smile turns strange. “Pity. Could show you a good time, blue eyes.”
Rick blinks. Wait, is… is this man…?
Blasé, Negan continues, “Though, of course, I’m expectin’ company. It’d have to be another time.”
Focus. “Company, hm? Would this company happen to find themselves on the wrong end of your gun, Mr. Smith?”
All teasing flees from Negan’s voice, even as his smile ices over. “Now, that’s a mighty big accusation, Deputy Grimes.” Rick keeps a level stare on him. Eventually, Negan shrugs. “What? A man doesn’t have a right to defend himself anymore? Shiiiit, if that’s changed, I’m gonna have to vote a lil different next term.”
Unphased, Rick rocks back on his heels, thumbs in his belt. “Are you expecting a need to defend yourself?”
The amusement vanishes from Negan’s face. “Tour’s over, deputy.”
Before Rick can reply, an all-too familiar sound explodes from outside. Gunfire. His attention is immediately diverted from the strange man before him.
Shane!
“Stay here,” he orders, giving Negan a warning look before aiming for the open front door.
***
Negan’s gotta admit, the speed in which Deputy Rick Grimes pulls out his gun and heads to the front door is admirable. He tilts his head. Nice ass, too.
All right, better than nice. Fuck. If Rick Grimes looks this good in uniform, Negan can’t help but wonder how it’d look wrapped around his cock.
Another shot rings out. Annoyed, Negan chambers the round and explicitly disobeys by following the deputy, kitty-cat quiet.
The deputy is no slouch. He’s smartly taken cover by flattening himself against the wall. Despite the grimness lining his face, and the trickle of sweat down his stubbly cheek, he doesn’t jump immediately into the fray for his partner.
Negan resists the urge to lick that bead of sweat. Another time.
He considers the situation. If he waits long enough, Simon will come to him, or get killed by the second officer. Or even take the deputy's partner hostage, depending on how good the guy is at his job. Either way, Simon knows damn well there’s law enforcement in the house with Negan. He won’t come to them.
“Fuckin’ jackass,” he mutters.
Rick’s head snaps his way. “I told you to stay back,” he hisses.
“Is that what you said? Weird. Somehow I heard, Negan, you sexy thing, that maniac outside must be the one you’re waiting for, go take care of your guest.” The array of emotion that flickers across Rick’s face in that split second gets a good laugh out of him. “Relax, officer. This guy wants me to suffer first, he won’t kill me right off.”
“What in the damn hell—”
Negan doesn’t wait to hear the rest. He drops the shotgun to his couch, picks up Lucille, and strides outside.
The scene is… well, shit, it’s about what he expected after the volley of gunfire. A lean man crouches in the passenger side of the truck, the windows having been shot out. Even with that, there’s no blood. Negan thinks that’s good—right until the officer levels his pistol at him, eyes hard.
The radio crackles. “Don’t shoot!”
The officer curses, grabbing the radio attached to his uniform. Whatever he has to say to Deputy Rick Grimes, Negan doesn’t hear because he’s rounded the truck, Lucille on his shoulder, grinning.
“Simon,” he calls pleasantly. “They finally let you out and the first thing ya do is come see me instead of getting laid? I’m fucking flattered, really.”
The man in question doesn’t look the least bit ruffled, which admittedly pisses Negan off in a quiet, simmering way. He doesn’t pause in his stride, though, lazily prowling down the dirt road to meet the other man face-to-face. As he gets closer, he sees that Simon is actually somewhat smiling. Mustachioed motherfucker.
Negan keeps his voice raised. “You look like shit right outta the slammer.”
Simon cocks his head, keeping his rifle aimed toward the truck. Interesting.
“Not like you to come out shootin’ the law,” continues Negan. He stops a good few feet away. “Sloppy there, old friend. You on a suicide mission?”
Simon snorts. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? That’s your problem, Negan. Always think you’re the smartest asshole in the room.”
Negan gestures with Lucille. It’s the first time Simon twitches the rifle in his direction, though he quickly aims it back to the truck. “And the most handsome, don’t forget that.” Simon doesn’t laugh. Fucker. “Care to share with the class?”
A short, rueful laugh escapes from the other man. “Unlike you, I don’t monologue.”
“Shame. It’s good fun.” Even as he speaks, Negan is taking in the situation. Simon, fresh out of jail, ought to be looking to shed some blood. It’s due to Negan that he ever landed in prison in the first place. But he doesn’t seem at all concerned with shooting Negan.
Why shoot the fucking cops? Why call them out here at all?
“Let me guess,” says Negan. “You wanted an audience? Shoot me, death by cop?”
Simon frowns.
Eyes narrowing, Negan tries again. “You want me to strike first? Get me arrested for killin’ you, that it?”
“Christ, don’t you ever shut up?” It’s the first terse thing Simon’s said to him. Simon says. Ha, thinks Negan with a grin. That only seems to irk the other man more. “Should’ve had a clean shot, but that fucking pig moved.”
“Strange, ain’t it? People movin’ around and such.”
Simon ignores him. “Lucky for me, he’s a lousy shot.” He looks past Negan, raising his voice. “Aren’t you? Fuckin’ shitty cop shot. You even know how to use that thing, or does your partner just shove it up your ass for you?”
Negan does a half-turn, noting how the other officer abruptly shifts and takes aim. In the same moment, he catches movement in the corner of his eye.
Bang! Bang-BANG!
It happens quickly, and so stupidly that Negan nearly falls into a laughing fit. The moment the other officer pulled the trigger, Deputy Rick Grimes also shot—the truck’s front tire. The tire exploded, making the truck sag and the second officer’s shot miss wildly.
“What the fuck?” hollers the lousy shot.
Negan also notices the shift in Simon’s expression. He turns, aiming the rifle toward the house. Toward Rick.
So Negan swings in.
But he fucks up.
Oh, he doesn’t miss. He nails Simon in the side spectacularly, blood spewing and flesh and clothing ripping, all accompanied by the one-man orchestra of Simon’s pained scream. The problem is, knowing Simon, Negan originally intended to cave the fucker’s head in… and changed his mind right before he swung.
No time to beat himself up for it, though. Simon has always been a tenacious asshole, proven when he fumbles for the dropped rifle. Negan raises Lucille again, but a loud, forceful, “Stop!” cuts through and…
… and he stops.
What the fuck am I doing?
Barely does the thought cross his mind before the deputy charges in, kicking the rifle out of Simon’s reach. He aims his pistol at the man. While rather calm and oddly, cutely flustered in Negan’s kitchen, there is none of that man present now. Rick’s eyes are hard, his stance strong, hands perfectly stable.
“Put Lucille down, Negan,” he orders without looking at him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Please.”
Maybe it’s because he said to put her down instead of drop her. Maybe it’s the please, so fucking polite. Maybe it’s—nah, it’s at least in part, definitely due to the fact Rick’s tone got his cock interested in the situation.
What can he say? Negan likes ‘em feisty.
Opposite hand raised to show he’s otherwise unarmed, Negan crouches and sets Lucille down in the dirt. He’ll give her a good clean later, he tells himself. It’s the least he can do.
Simon lays on the ground, miserably clutching his ugly, torn side. “Kill me,” he spits.
Rick’s jaw tenses. Then, in hard, professional tones, he says, “You’re under arrest for attempted murder and trespassing. Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law…”
As he drones on, Negan glances down to the squad truck. The deputy’s partner is talking vehemently into the radio, making wild hand gestures. From here, Negan can’t hear everything he’s saying, but he does make out a good few fucks and fuckin’ bullshits.
When he looks back, Rick has Simon handcuffed and is dragging him to his feet. The deputy meets his gaze, averting his face briefly. Negan swears there’s a slight pink to his cheeks.
Now his dick is invested.
“Wait inside the house,” says Rick gruffly, barely looking at him. “I’ll need your statement.”
Negan flashes a smile. “Take your time, deputy.” He draws out the last word, admittedly eye-fucking the officer. Pitiably, Rick doesn’t see it, already hauling Simon to the squad truck.
“Shane, we need an ambulance—”
The driver’s side door bursts open. “We need a fucking tow truck. What the fuck, man? The fuck is wrong with you?”
Negan hums slightly. He figures now is as good a time as any to do what the good deputy said and head inside. When he bends to retrieve Lucille, however, Officer Trigger-Happy points his gun back at him.
“Stand down, asshole!”
Too bad Rick is a good shot, thinks Negan dryly. Still, he’s the one unarmed, so he raises his hands and flashes his best fuck off smile. “Sorry, o-ffi-cer.” He heavily leans into a drawl, amused when Shane’s eyes narrow in his direction.
“Christ,” sighs Rick. He mutters something under his breath, helping a bleeding and sullen Simon into the backseat before slamming the door and turning to his partner. “Shane, just—forget it, I’ll do it.”
The way Shane’s expression flickers is fascinating. His mouth opens like he’s about to argue, but then he seems to remember he’s got a man at gunpoint and scowls at Negan once more.
In-ter-est-ing.
Deputy Rick Grimes leans into the truck, snatching up the radio. “This is Grimes. 10-52, last location.” He rattles off the address, voice clipped and precise. A voice crackles an affirmative response. Rick returns the radio to its cradle. “Shane, put the gun away.”
“God fucking damn it, Rick—”
“Now.”
Negan grins when Shane grimaces but returns his gun to his holster. He shoots Negan another dirty look before shouldering past his partner and stomping into the truck. He snatches the radio, slamming the door shut which, unfortunately, doesn’t muffle whatever he starts whining about.
With an apologetic look, Rick nods toward the ground. “You can take your… ah, Lucille back inside.”
“Much obliged, Deputy Daddy.” Negan is absolutely delighted to see Rick’s mouth wobble in an attempt not to smile, along with what he suspects is a pretty pink flush. After giving the man a lingering once-over, Negan kneels and picks up Lucille. Swings her to rest on his shoulder, head cocked. “Still need my statement?”
Rick pauses, seeming to look back. Though, to be fair, he could simply be assessing him as any cop would.
“Yeah,” he says in a softer southern drawl. “Right after I get this guy tended to.”
“Simon,” supplies Negan with a wink. At Rick’s puzzled look, he nods at the truck. “That’s his name.”
“Simon,” repeats Rick. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, deputy.”
He waits until Rick’s back is turned before catching Shane’s glower through the shattered windshield. He pratfalls mockingly, flailing around like the other officer did when the tire blew out.
“Son of a bitch,” shouts Shane.
Negan takes long strides to his house, whistling a ditty while the poor deputy is left to calm his raving partner.
***
Thanks to Mr. Negan Smith’s pettiness, Rick is forced to deal with Shane’s pissy mood while keeping an eye on their arrestee. Simon isn’t talking, naturally, but his injury isn’t life-threatening despite how it looks, and putting in a request to headquarters returns some intriguing information about their men.
Within half an hour—impressive, given how far out in the sticks they are—an ambulance shows up. Rick gets a look of perplexed horror from the EMT. All he can do is shrug.
Once it’s time to whisk Simon away, however, he has to deal with Shane again.
“C’mon, man.” Shane is practically sulking, one foot on the dashboard as he scowls at the shattered windshield. “You know I suck at the whole interrogating injured assholes shit.”
“All the more reason you should do it,” points out Rick. “Sheriff’s been on you about improving your bedside manners.”
“Shit, I ain’t no doctor.”
Exasperation is starting to win out. Much as Shane’s been there for him in the past, especially after Lori’s passing, he has a stubborn way about him that often crosses from admirable to annoying. “Well, you ain’t stayin’ here.”
To his surprise, Shane sneers. “You afraid I’ll go dirty cop and blow the guy’s head off along with his statement?”
A pang of regret strikes Rick in the chest. That is, in fact, exactly what he’s worried about. But he values his friendship and doesn’t want to lose this.
Heaving a sigh, Rick leans against the open driver’s side door. “Honestly,” he says slowly, “I’m tryin’ to do you a solid.” At Shane’s arched eyebrow, Rick adds, “You hate writin’ all that stuff down, and we both know I take better notes.”
Shane squints at him. For a moment, under the sweltering Georgia sun, Rick thinks he can see right through him. He swallows, wishing he had a cold glass of iced tea right then.
Finally, at the irate holler of an EMT, Shane huffs and kicks out of the vehicle. “Fine. Meet you at the station.”
“If the tow truck gets here in time,” agrees Rick, trying not to show his relief. “Otherwise, don’t wait up for me.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Shane pauses on his way to the ambulance, frowning at him. “Be careful.”
Rick can’t help but soften at the show of genuine care. “Always.”
With a tip of his hat, Shane jumps into the ambulance. The doors slam shut. As the engine and sirens roar to life, the ambulance wails off into the late noon.
Rick waits until they’re good and gone before he removes his hat with a sigh. Nothing more to do than get Mr. Smi—Negan’s statement.
His pulse picks up a bit.
Ignoring it, he flips the radio settings so he can be reached through his personal intercom. Once satisfied, he returns to the ramshackle home, somewhat surprised to find the door still open. At the very least, there’s not a dark, leather-jacketed man pointing a shotgun at him this time.
“Mr. Negan,” he calls, stepping through the doorway. “You still alive?”
He hears a loud snort before the man himself emerges from a room upstairs. “Been a while since someone called me mister Negan,” he says, voice smooth with a low throbbing husk underneath. It gives Rick chills—or are they shivers? Before that traitorous train of thought can continue any further, Negan adds somewhat blandly, “Just cleanin’ Lucille, deputy. If you gotta search the house, fucking go for it.”
Rick isn’t of a mind to do that, really. “Do you have a license for that gun?”
A wry smile twists Negan’s lips. “Got legit licenses for all seven of ‘em, Deputy Daddy,” he drawls. Though the name is wildly inappropriate, Rick can’t quite untie his tongue in time to say something. “Be happy to show ‘em to you once I get Lucille set to rights, here.”
Knowing what he knows now, Rick doesn’t question how he addresses the bat. “Take your time.”
“Then make yourself at home.” Negan’s smile turns wicked. “Though if you’re gonna lounge naked, wouldn’t be a bad idea to close the door. Got a bad enough mosquito problem without itchin’ your taint, you know?”
Rick can’t help the startled chuckle that comes out of him. “Duly noted.”
“Duly,” marvels Negan as he wanders back into what Rick presumes is the bathroom. “Fuckin’ fancy daddy deputy we got here, goddamn.”
Shaking his head, Rick closes the front door (he has no intention of stripping; it’s just manners) and makes his way to the kitchen. Though the house appears one bad breeze from falling apart, it’s fastidiously tidy. The entire home has that feel, though he hasn’t looked upstairs yet. Rick won’t be surprised if he gets more of the same.
He does note that the shotgun is no longer on the couch. Considering he hasn’t seen one, much less seven, guns laying around, Rick suspects they’re all kept in the homeowner’s bedroom.
In fact, aside from the mug of cold coffee and a frying pan in the sink, the kitchen looks quite clean. There’s a set of knives, of course, but they’re nothing unusual; standard in most kitchens nowadays.
His radio crackles. “Deputy Grimes, we understand you require a tow?”
Rick presses the button, angling the radio close to his mouth. “10-4.”
The woman’s voice crackles through again, rattling off the address, which he confirms. Then: “Sorry, but there’s gonna have to be a hold on that, deputy.”
Alarmed, he says, clipped, “Why?”
“10-12.”
Rick curses, running a hand through his hair in frustration. It’s not the operator’s fault, but it’s difficult not to get anxious when being told to stand by is the only response.
When next his radio alerts him, it’s the sheriff. “Code 32.”
“Ours?” asks Rick in disbelief.
“Negative. Suspect is with Deputy Walsh.”
Good as that is, it still means someone escaped police custody. Rick’s voice hardens. “Where do you need me?”
“Stand down. Pursuit in progress, deputy, and you’re out of commission besides.” A brief pause. “You have a witness? Way Walsh makes it sound, he’s a perpetrator, but…”
Right. Rick takes a settling breath, glancing toward the staircase. “Yes, a witness. Uninjured. He’s committed no crime; any action taken was in self-defense on his end.”
“Collect his statement, wait for tow. I’d recommend calling home.”
Well, that’s… fucking great. He can’t expect to see his kids at all tonight. Much as it’s part of the job, he fucking hates it.
Rick’s jaw tenses, but he answers, “10-4,” right as Negan descends the stairs, batless. Rick takes his thumb off the radio, frowning. “Where’s Lucille?”
Negan snorts. “My girl likes to rest after a hard day’s work.” He walks past Rick, dumping the coffee down the drain before setting the mug in the sink alongside the dirty pan. “What? Don’t look at me like that, deputy.” Though he’s clearly a bit on edge, Rick still doesn’t get a dangerous feeling from him. Considering how Negan looked when confronting that Simon guy, well… he feels pretty good about that gut instinct.
Shaking himself mentally, Rick says, “Mind if I borrow your phone?”
Negan’s eyebrows damn near fly into his hairline. “Be my guest.”
Rick nods his thanks, finding the bland, beige contraption not too far from the oven. It’s old even by modern standards; a rotary dial rather than buttons, though the cord looks long enough to stretch past the oven and toward the living room.
Figuring he can lecture about fire hazards later, he picks up, dials a number close to his heart, and is relieved when it’s answered within two rings. “Maggie, hey. Y’all mind watching the kids overnight? Job got complicated.”
Over the phone, Maggie chirps, “No problem! I’ll need that nighttime pay, though.”
Smiling faintly, Rick says, “I’ll add in overtime if I don’t get home before sunrise.”
“Nah, no need.” He can hear her frown. “Seriously, everything all right?”
He doesn’t chat shop, and she knows it. So all he can say is, “Yeah. Just some vehicle complications.”
“Well, damn—dang!” In the background, he hears a high-pitched shriek of Damn! Damn! Damn! and bites back a groan. “Er… sorry. I’ll go clean her mouth with soap. Metaphorically.”
“Thanks, Maggie.” He sighs, hanging up after a brief goodbye. Guess he can’t complain about Judith picking up a curse or two when his neighbor is so willing to stay longer at the whims of his work. Still, he doesn’t want it to become a habit…
Fingers snapping in his face startle him. Negan laughs, leaning back. “Not very professional to space out while you’re on the job, is it?”
Frowning, Rick decides to ignore that implication. “I just need your statement.”
“Riiiight.” Negan taps his chin with a long finger. Rick’s eyes follow that digit, strangely wondering if the man’s ever played piano. They don’t quite look so delicate, but they’re definitely dexterous enough. “Well, shit. Have a seat, I guess.”
Glancing around, all Rick sees are two wooden chairs. “No table?”
Negan barks a laugh. “Can’t ya tell?” He spreads his arms wide, drawing his dark tee tight across his chest. “Bachelor pad, baby. The fuck am I gonna do with a table? Nah, I’ll just eat dinner in front of the TV like the naughty boy momma didn’t raise right, jerk off, and fall asleep.”
God damn it, Rick has decided he is not going to blush at every damn lewd thing this man says. Stiffly, he walks to one of the chairs and sits. Negan’s dark eyes sparkle with amusement before he follows suit. Long legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over another.
He is, however, taken aback when Negan pulls out a pack. “Mind if I smoke, deputy?”
Rick blinks. “It’s your house.”
“And they’re your lungs.”
It’s… okay, that’s considerate. After a moment’s consideration, Rick shakes his head. “Fine by me.”
“Ain’t dry-cleaning your uniform just cuz you got kids.”
Rick shoots him a flat look. “I said it’s fine.”
Negan cocks one of those grins that seems to hint at more than Rick can wholly guess. Whatever it is makes his stomach twist—not entirely unpleasantly, either.
Pulling a notepad and pen out of an inner pocket, Rick flips to a blank page near the back. He wasn’t lying when addressing Shane’s reluctance to take notes in comparison. Shane will jot down names and details, but half the time his writing is so illegible that Rick can’t make sense of it after the fact if he wasn’t there right alongside him to remember on his own.
“Can you tell me what happened here?” he asks softly, peering at Negan.
The other man shrugs, cigarette dangling between his lips, one hand over the back of the chair. “Pretty much what ya saw, deputy. Simon came in shootin’ your partner out there, and I went to chat with him.”
“With Lucille,” says Rick dryly.
Negan flashes a grin. Pinches the cigarette between two fingers and inhales, blowing smoke away from Rick. “She’s my home security.”
Rick doesn’t leave out the barbed wire detail. “Got any guesses as t’why our gunman was after you?”
“Oh, I know why he was after me.” Negan barks out a laugh. There’s a tinge of bitterness that Rick doesn’t fail to note. “Motherfucker got out of prison, came to get his revenge.”
This is part of what Rick already knows. He asks anyway. “And why would he do that, Mr. Negan?”
Negan’s nose wrinkles. “Can you can the mister shit? Makes me feel old.”
“The gray hair in the beard doesn’t?” Rick quips back without thinking.
A loud, boisterous laugh booms from deep in Negan’s gut. “Well, goddamn, deputy, ain’t you a sassy thing?” His dark eyes sparkle with something sinister that makes Rick curious more than wary.
Patiently, he prods again. “Why would he come after you after getting out of prison?”
Negan exhales another plume of smoke, considering him. His tongue runs over his upper teeth, eyes squinting with rather endearing crow’s feet. “Well, you know all about that, dont’cha, deputy?”
Rick doesn’t budge. “Indulge me.”
A sharp hiss sounds as Negan sucks his teeth. He abruptly rises, crushing the cigarette out in an ashtray on what would normally be the kitchen windowsill, if the window wasn’t solidly boarded up. Rick has a sudden spark of concern that the other man is about to pull a gun out of his ass or something.
Instead, Negan returns to his seat. Both arms behind the back of his chair now, but there’s very little that’s lax with his posture otherwise.
In a soft, damn near deadly voice, Negan says, “Well, I’m the one who put him there. Your office toldja about that once the fucker was safely arrested, didn’t they?”
Quietly, Rick says, “You’re a police informant.”
“Ding, ding, ding,” singsongs Negan. “Fuckin’ changes your whole perspective of me, don’t it, deputy?”
For some reason, this man cares about what Rick thinks of him. Rick wets his lips, surprised to find himself nervous. He manages to speak lightly, if just barely even. “What, of a man holding an officer at gunpoint when all he’s trying to do is ensure his safety?”
Negan’s eyes slip half-closed. He considers Rick even further, though Rick can’t fathom what’s going on behind those stormy, dark eyes.
“Anything else?” drawls Negan.
The subdued tone of the brash man makes Rick blink. “If you got nothin’ else to tell me, then yes.”
“Good.”
Negan’s foot snaps out. His booted ankle hooks the lower rung of Rick’s chair even as he straightens from his slouch, yanking the other man in swift and sure. Rick barely keeps hold of the notebook, though his pen goes clattering on the broken linoleum.
“You wanna indulge me, now, Rick Grimes?”
The smooth, sinful way he says his name shoots sparks up and down Rick’s spine. He stares in stunned silence, which only makes Negan break into a slow, sly smile.
“If it ain’t clear yet, Deputy Daddy, I’m tryin’ to seduce you here.” Negan all but purrs the words, leaning just so, bumping his knee against Rick’s.
Rick loathes how his inhale trembles. “Soliciting an officer is—”
“Not tryin’ to pay ya, Ricky,” says Negan. His voice remains smooth and dark, like luxurious black coffee first thing in the morning. And like that sort of coffee, Rick feels his body perk at the tone. “I’m just flat-out very, very attracted to you, and I’d like to see what happens if we fall into bed together.”
Despite the hammering in his chest, Rick says, “More like you pushing me into the mattress, ain’t that right? That more like your style, Negan?”
Hazel eyes glint again. Unlike Rick, Negan doesn’t attempt to hide his reactions, a low groan rumbling from his chest.
“Damn. You sure you’re just a deputy, not an FBI profiler? Cuz you got me dead to rights,” murmurs Negan. Rick nearly starts out of his skin to realize how close their faces are now. His eyes flick down to the other man’s mouth, his own suddenly very dry. Even his throat is parched the moment a pink tongue flicks over Negan’s lower lip.
Oh. I’m attracted to him.
It’s a foolish realization. Rick wishes he could kick himself for it. At the same time… well, shit. He hasn’t really had a libido since Lori’s passing. Even with Shane attempting to take him out, help him hook up with other pretty women, only for the night to end with Shane sobbing on Rick’s couch over the loss of Lori, like he is the one suffering in her absence and raising two children alone on a deputy’s salary—
A gentle tap under his chin deeply startles Rick. He looks up and immediately feels pinned by Negan’s stare.
“Somethin’ I said?” asks Negan quietly. “Wasn’t tryin’ to be rude. Been told I think more with my dick than my other head. But I wasn’t looking to upset you, deputy.”
Rick shakes his head. “No, it’s not that. I’m just rememberin’—” He cuts himself off, once more taken aback at how easy it is to talk to this man. This stranger he just met. A police informant.
Pulling away, Rick pushes to his feet. “I apologize, sir,” he murmurs, hooking a thumb in his belt. “I’m still on duty.”
Negan’s gaze follows him before the man himself does. Rick tries not to tense, but it must be obvious in his shoulders or something, because Negan doesn’t follow him past the front door.
Before Rick can get far, however, Negan calls out, “When are you off duty, Rick Grimes?”
Again, the way he just says his name sends perplexingly erotic shudders through Rick until his thighs tighten. He half-turns back, embarrassed how quickly his cock is swelling… but noticing, almost against his will but then not really, that Negan is leaning in the doorway, hand on the jamb, eyes probing and a notable bulge in his jeans.
Hoarsely, Rick answers, “Seein’ as I ain’t going anywhere without a tow, howsabout I let you know?”
Negan’s breath audibly hitches. “Mm. I’d like that, Rick.”
Flushed, hard, and bothered, Rick awkwardly climbs into the lopsided truck. Once Negan closes the front door, he adjusts himself, blows a harsh breath out, and pulls out his notes, ready to make a verbal report.
It’s only when he’s halfway through relaying the information that he remembers that he dropped his pen and never retrieved it. He actually stammers momentarily, alarming the operator, but collects himself in time to finish the oral report.
It’s just a pen, he reminds himself. A shitty, basic plastic provided through taxpayer funds. Hell, he can’t get it to do it’s one function half the time without shaking and licking the tip.
Subconsciously, his own tongue slides between his pressed lips. He looks back to Negan’s home.
Yeah. He definitely needs to get that pen back. Can’t have county property just lying around in random houses, after all.