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walkerwords · 4 years

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“The Savior Sessions” Part 3 of 33 - Negan x GN!Reader

IMAGE CREDIT: Gene Page/AMC

SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Part three of the savior sessions. Both the reader and Negan open up about their fears on a rainy day.

Word Count: 3130

Warning: Mention of The Governor being a rapist (briefly)

Song I Wrote To: “Rain” by Ben Platt

Note: I am trying to make these as gender-neutral as possible. If you have seen me use specific pronouns or anything that counters that, let me know! Thanks! I am working on my Daryl story, but I wanted to throw this out there as I do.

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It was raining when you woke up.

Droplets raced down your windows and thunder rolled in the distance. You knew it would be a day that was spent mostly inside. However, you also knew you had to pay Negan a visit.

It was odd. He had surprised you. You could still see the layers of the man he was years before, but there was something...new that wasn’t there when he stepped out of that RV and introduced himself to your people.

Since you were young, you always believed in second chances. You never really thought anyone was truly evil until the world ended. Then, you had met people like the Governor and Gareth, two men who killed who for fun, who took pleasure in the torture and destruction of others.

While Negan had done evil things, you didn’t think he was evil. If horrific acts categorize someone as unsavable, then those closest to you, and even yourself, would be considered just as bad. Nobody was innocent in the new world, but perhaps some of them could still find redemption.

Rolling onto your back, you stared up at the ceiling as the rain pelted the roof. The drumming of it drowned out the world for just a moment and you allowed yourself just a few more seconds of peace before throwing the blanket off and getting up for the day.

You quickly dressed and then made way your way to the window. Few people milled around in the soaked streets. A few kids splashed in puddles as their parents smiled from the cover of their porches. You watched as Gracie ran around as Aaron tried to catch her, both of them laughing the whole time.

Your house was one of the only ones that were left unscathed from the Savior’s attack. You lived next to Rosita who would sometimes use your spare bedroom when she needed a break from her boys. However, you tended to be alone for the most part unless one of the parents asked you to watch the kids. Being a teacher before the turn, you were really the only one who was able to get the little ones to calm down and listen.

Many people figured you would be the one to take over as the full-time teacher in Alexandria, but you couldn’t do it. You loved teaching back then, but now after everything, you were so different. And while you still cared about the kids, you were now more comfortable with a gun on your hip, watching the walls, or now, chatting with a killer.

You grabbed your coat and then headed out of your house, walking towards the infirmary. Siddiq had been experimenting with a new tea that would help improve the immune systems of the Alexandria residents as the weather turned for the worse. Laura had been his last guinea pig for a taste test and the blonde had nearly choked it down while she tried to put on a brave face. However, the doctor had seen right through her and tried again.

You were more than willing to help him out this morning as he had stitched you up enough over the past few years. The rain soaked your hair as you walked down the road, trying to keep your jacket tucked around your neck to keep the bandage that was placed there somewhat dry. Siddiq had patched you up the day before, but you had no desire to get an infection from a ruined bandage.

As you approached the infirmary, Siddiq was already waiting for you on the porch. “I saw you coming,” he said with a warm smile.

“I would have been here sooner, but I slept in,” you said with an apologetic shrug.

“It’s the weather,” Siddiq said as he picked up two mugs from the table by the door. When he handed both of them to you, you rose a brow in question. “It gets cold in that cell,” he said with a shrug of his own. You smiled slightly, oddly touched that Siddiq had thought of Negan. Then again, he was the one who had looked after the man after Rick had opened his throat.

You took a hesitant sip of the sweet-smelling tea and then relaxed as it actually tasted pretty good. “I think you managed to get this one right, Doctor,” you said raising your cup to him.

“Mind telling other people that?” he asked.

“I’ll spread the word, Siddiq,” you said, walking back down his steps.

“Have fun,” he teased.

“If both of my hands weren’t occupied, I would be sending you a very rude gesture right now,” you called over your shoulder as you continued toward the main road that led to Negan’s cell.

The guard waved to you as he left his post. You figured he hadn’t been there long. You were also trying to convince Michonne to drop the guard altogether. Negan knew he would most likely be executed if he broke out and from your conversations with him, you didn’t think he would try anyway.

Balancing the mugs in one hand, you entered the stone building, shoving the door close with your foot. “Someone has their hands full this mornin’,” Negan said as he stood by the bars.

“Courtesy of the good doctor,” you said, approaching him and handing him a steaming mug. “Trust me, I already checked for poison.” You hadn’t but it amused him. Negan took the mug through the bars and enclosed his hands around it.

Not bothering with the chair this time, you sat on the ground by the bars, pulling your knees up. Negan joined you, leaning against the cold wall. “How was your morning?” he asked, pleasantly. You chuckled under your breath. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said shaking your head. “It’s been...wet.�� Negan looked at you and you rolled your eyes. “Don’t be gross,” you warned and he raised a hand in surrender.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said.

“No, but you were thinking it,” you said with narrowed eyes.

“Ah, see, would you look at that! We’re so close we can already read each other’s minds.”

“Oh, great,” you said, turning up your nose. Negan mirrored your earlier expression and rolled his own eyes.

“So, you don’t like the rain, then?” he asked.

“I don’t care for the thunderstorms, but I like a little rain. It makes the Walkers slower and freshens up the rotten air,” you explained, sipping on your tea.

“Yeah,” Negan agreed, “I’m not too big on the thunderstorms either. Way back when the world was still somewhat functioning, we had a massive storm that cut the power right in the middle of the school day. Kids are rambunctious enough and then you give the little assholes a power outage and well…”

“Shit hits the fan,” you concluded.

“You sound like you have personal experience,” Negan noticed.

“I used to teach middle and high school English,” you revealed and Negan looked at you in surprise.

“Did you like it?”

“It was better than this,” you said with a snort.

“Fair enough,” Negan said. You let your head fall back and that’s when he noticed the bandage on your neck. “What happened there?” Your hand came up to touch the dressing.

“Oh, I got cut when I was helping Scott with one of the walls. Walkers snuck up on us and I tripped on a piece of metal, scratch it on my way down. No big deal, I’ve had worse.”

“Haven’t we all,” Negan muttered and you saw a flash of something behind his eyes, but it was gone in a second. “Well, you need to be more careful (Y/N), I can’t have my BFF gettin’ munched on by a corpse.”

“BFF?” you asked with raised brows. Negan just winked back. “Alright, Mister, today, I want to hear a story from you.”

“I thought you said you were going to tell me what your vote would be,” Negan said, turning his head to look at you, waiting. You sighed as you remembered promising him that at the end of your last conversation, but you had been doing most of the talking in these sessions and it was his turn.

“Story first,” you told him. “Then I’ll tell you.” He looked at you annoyed for a moment before shrugging.

“As you wish, your majesty,” he said, but then he began his story. “Alright, how about the first time I ran into a herd?”

“Oh? Do tell,” you said, resting your elbow on your knee and watching him.

“Right, so, it wasn’t long after the Turn. Corpses were everywhere and you couldn’t walk out the door without having to bash in some skulls. I was trying to find someplace to hold up for a few days. I was with two other people, both are dead now, but they were decent people to travel with. My wife had just died and I needed to just leave, you know?” you nodded, understanding. “I made it to Richmond and god the number of Walkers was fucking terrifying. At this point, nobody knew what the fuck was going on. Not like we do now, but it was different back then as you remember.

“We moved into the city and then when I headed into the main district, lookin’ for the old FEMA centers, that’s when we saw it. Must have been over five hundred, maybe more. It was like they were all rotating in one big circle and then the bastards saw us and...well shit, I had never run so damn fast in my life. It was like we were magnets for the things and no matter where we turned, there were more and more…” Negan let out a breath as his memories haunted him.

“What did you do to get away?” you asked.

“Managed to get an old tow truck workin’,” he said. “Plowed that sucker right through them until we could find high ground. Wasn’t pretty, but dealing with Walkers never is.”

“I think we all learned not to go to cities again after the first time,” you said, finishing your tea.

“You did it too?”

“Atlanta,” you said with a nod. “Though, I did it multiple times for supplies so I guess I’m the idiot here.”

“These were the runs you went on with Glenn?” he asked and you were surprised to hear him say Glenn’s name, but you nodded nonetheless.

“Right,” you confirmed. “Though, I wasn’t with him the day he found Rick.”

Negan was quiet then and you knew he was thinking about Glenn. A few days before, Gabriel had come to you and told you that he sometimes overheard Negan saying his victims’ names in his sleep. Negan probably didn’t even know he was doing it, but it only added to your theory that Negan felt guilt for what happened at the line-up and everything afterward.

“The fear I felt when all those Walkers were coming for us…” Negan continued. “It was the most primal thing I had ever felt. You know how they talk about fight or flight?”

“Yeah.”

“I never once thought to fight at that moment. All I wanted to do was run and not look back. It wasn’t until weeks later that I got sick of running and I finally made Lucille.”

“‘Lucille, give me strength’,” you quoted and his head whipped towards you. “I told you, I was good at surveillance. I guess she did more for you than we all first thought. Not just a bat after all.”

“Never was that simple,” he said and you could hear the sadness in his voice as he spoke the words.

You were wondering if you could find her out in that field. It had been years, but if by some miracle it was there, you may be able to get it. Not that you were going to give it to Negan, but maybe someday if he was let out and went looking for her, you could give that piece back to him. The thing that was hated by your people but created the resilient man before you. You figured that was something.

“You asked me before who the first person I killed was,” you began. Negan waited patiently. “I never knew his name or if he had a family, but I remember his face and how I felt at that moment. I was terrified. We were under attack by this man who called himself The Governor. This man ran a community, a town, and he was horrible. He was a rapist, a killer, and an overall tyrant. Not somebody that would have been welcomed here or the Sanctuary.”

“Damn right,” Negan sneered.

“We had liberated the town and Michonne had tried to kill him so he was pissed and eventually rolled up to the gates of the prison we were living in. He blasted our towers to rubble and his men and women began killing us. We were lucky enough to be pretty strong then and we killed most of them. Daryl got his hands on some grenades and took the tank out.”

“Tank?” Negan asked.

“I told you, son of a bitch was crazy. His people attacked and we had to defend ourselves. I was trying to wrangle all the kids with a man by the name of Tyreese. He was Sasha’s brother. He and I were almost out when this man came up and tried to kill Tyreese as he held a very young Judith in his arms.”

Taking a breath, you tried to stay calm as you recounted the events. “He was gonna kill the baby and I had one of Daryl’s knife so I just rammed it into the man’s neck. I didn’t think it would be that hard, you know? Walkers are much easier, so when the blade made contact, it almost didn’t go through. Blood flowed all over me from the artery I had severed and Tyreese ran with Judith. I watched the man die at my feet as I collected myself, but it didn’t last long. A second later and an explosion racked the courtyard and I went down. I didn’t see Tyreese or the baby until we were all reunited.”

“You did it to protect your people, to protect a child,” Negan reminded you.

“I wasn’t upset I killed him, Negan,” you said. “I was upset at how easy it was to do it.”

“I get that,” he said and you could tell he was being honest. That was something you admired about him, he never lied if he could help it. “What happened after that?”

“Michonne killed the Governor and I woke up just as a Walker was about to kill me. Then, Glenn came out of nowhere and killed it and I ended up staying with him and Tara as we went to find the others. On the road is where we met Rosita, Abraham, and Eugene. I didn’t know it then, but I would be killing a lot more in the next few weeks.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not and you wouldn’t be either if you knew who tried to kill us...who tried to fucking slaughter us like cows…” your fists curled in as the visuals of Terminus flashed behind your eyes.

You hadn’t realized you were shaking until you felt a hand on yours as Negan reached through the bars to calm your hands. You realized then that this was the first time he had touched you and you felt oddly comforted. You patted his hand in thanks and he withdrew it, placing it back in his lap. “So, just know you’re not the only one who has felt fear like you did in that city.”

“But you fought,” he said.

“I did, but all I wanted to do was run. It took me a long time to run towards danger than from it. Rick, Daryl, Carol, Abe, they all taught me to fight.”

“They did a good job,” he complimented. “You are one certified badass (Y/L/N).”

“Who told you my last name?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Judith,” he said with a grin.

“Should have known,” you said with a small smile.

“There it is,” Negan said, pointing at your mouth. “I like seeing you smile.” You went to roll your eyes again, but a loud crash of thunder interrupted you. You jumped.

“Jesus,” you swore under your breath. “That is why I hate storms.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” he joked and you pushed his shoulder through the bars, making him laugh. The two of you sat in silence then, listening to the rain. This was only your third time speaking to him, but you were starting to feel a kind of camaraderie between the two of you. It was strange, but it began to feel natural. You wondered if this is how Judith felt when she spoke to him, this kind of calmness. Then again, Judith could make friends with everyone.

Negan’s eyes fell closed as he breathed in deep. In the low light of the cell, you could see the shiny line of the scar that permanently marked his throat and you finally answered his question.

“I would have voted no,” you whispered. His eyes opened slowly and his head rolled to the right to look at you.

“Why?” he simply asked. You kept eye contact as you spoke, making sure he understood every word.

“None of us are saints, Negan,” you began. “All of us, Hilltop, Alexandria, Kingdom, Oceanside, we’ve all killed without a second thought to protect what’s ours. I’m not saying what you did was right, but sometimes I think back to the line-up or when you set the Walkers loose on Hilltop and I can’t help but think that I would’ve done the same if the situation was reversed. Maybe not with a baseball bat, but we’ve tortured and we’ve executed.”

“So, you’re saying that you wouldn’t have killed me because you’ve done shitty things, too?” he asked.

“There is enough death in the world already,” you said with a shrug.

“Unbeing dead isn't being alive,” Negan quotes and you tilted your head slightly.

“E.E. Cummings was a wise man.”

“Indeed he was,” Negan agreed with a smile. “Thanks for saying that.”

“I told you I didn’t hate you and I meant it. To an outsider, we’re both monsters,” you explained. “I imagine that if I had been with the Saviors, I would have seen this side as the villains. All about perception, my friend.”

“Ah, so you agree,” he said with a grin, “we are friends.”

“Oh, shut up.”

TAGS: @thanossexual @yes-sir-hotchner @boom-bunny @delusionalteenagewhispers @sophia-gwendolyn @ritajammer21

#walkerwords #savior sessions #twd #twd imagines #negan imagine #negan x reader #reader insert #The Walking Dead #the walking dead imagines #the walking dead fanfiction #TWD season 9 #Prison Negan

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stonecoldjerseyfox · 4 years

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Jersey on my mind (part 27)

Daryl places three soft knocks on the passenger door’s window of the old Chevy pickup. The lock clicks and Mila opens the door, letting out the faint sound of Bob Dylan singing:

“-Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood, when blackness was a virtue the road was full of mud. I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form. Come in, she said, I’ll give ya shelter from the storm-”

“Hi.” Mila greets him, halfway through a bottle of Stolichnaya. Juri’s lying in the passenger seat, resting his head in her lap.

”Having a party?” Daryl leans up against the car and looks at the tired, blood stained woman in the driver’s seat, looking back at him.

”Celebrating another day of being alive, I guess.” Mila replies. ”Hop in.”

She scoots over and Daryl gets in, shuts the passenger door behind him. The worn buttons and wheels of the radio shine faintly in the darkness.

“You missed me?”

“Yeah.” Daryl adjusts in the seat, as Mila lifts his arm and puts it around her neck, rests her head at his shoulder. Juri continues to sleep, breathes calmly in her lap. A heavy odor of vodka surrounds Mila and the half full, half empty, bottle tattles that she’s not sloshed, but seems like planning to be.

As the fire spread over the pond in the middle of the community, like a bonfire on the 4th of July, and the walkers started to drag their feets towards it, Daryl climbed down from the truck’s roof. He’d seen Mila in the middle of the sea of rotting limbs and melting scalps, covered in blood and seemingly dead tired, with her arms hanging along the sides. A demeanor he had not seen before in her. Despite the distance between them, he saw that something was wrong. Mila seemed distracted. Deranged. When he landed on his feet on the ground, he stabbed his way through the crowd, struggling to reach her.

Was she injured? It was hard to see at a distance and her being spattered with blood, that could just as well be the blood of the walkers. When he finally reached her, she had awoken from her trance-like state, returning to slaughtering, but her mind was still stuck in another galaxy it seemed. She was there, just not present, like if she had to empty her system a bit, by killing off the remaining walkers. She walked around the grounds, managed to find twelve bastards hiding out in nooks and crannies, until the last of ‘em was annihilated. Daryl walked up close to her and said, as soft as he could, that it was over now.

“They’re dead. All of ’em.”

If he believed his words would pull her back to the present, to make her feel better- damn, he was wrong. Instead he managed to lose sight of her as soon as the others gathered up around him, Abe, Sasha, Glenn, Maggie and Enid. It was Carol who pointed out where she, and Juri went, when things had calmed down.

Mila holds up the bottle for him. He takes it.

“Ya’ fought well, back there.” Daryl unscrews the lid. “Like goddamn’ Rambo.” He says and hopes it will make her smile.

“Yeah, I had to let off some steam.” Mila says in a husky, ‘half a bottle of vodka’-voice. “It was a bit much… all of it.”

“Ya’ okay?” Softly, yet steady, Daryl turns her face towards his, with his hand on her chin. “Ey, Jersey-”

The big blue eyes, not even slightly hazy from the vast amount of alcohol Mila’s devoured herself in, looks back at him. They’re gleaming like a sky full of stars, like she has been crying recently. He hasn’t seen her like this before, something between sad and almost afraid of her own feelings, exhausted with the strong combination of emotions.

“I froze.” She manages to utter, raspy. “I- he could’ve died. Carl.” Mila sighs. “If I- I was scared. For the first time in-” her voice cracks. “Since I killed him.”

“Ey, Ya’ didn’t kill him. He’ll be alright.” Daryl says, in an attempt to cheer her up. “Carl’s a strong kid.”

“That’s not-” She pauses. “The flashbacks- It was like I was back at that motel in fucking, shitty Missouri. Killing Jim all over again. I- I panicked.”

Daryl’s astonished to see her like this; vulnerable, afraid even. She must’ve drowned her sorrows pretty good, while being on her own with the kid, after killing that guy. Jim.

His throat burns as he sweeps the last drops of the clear colored beverage in the bottle. Mila reaches for a new bottle, cracks it open and pours a mouthful sip onto her system, without making a face. She then hands him the bottle. Daryl, in the mood to unwind, takes it and drinks.

“Ya’ had to do what you had to do.” Daryl says husky, as soon as he has swallowed. “I- I killed my brother.” He lets the bottle rest on his leg. “Merle.”

The memory of Merle looking at him with that dead gaze, has haunted him ever since. Not everyday thank fuckin’ god for that, but sometimes he can see the face in his dreams. He wasn’t there, yet he moved around, his body moved around, tried to attack him. But it wasn’t Merle anymore. The sight of him made Daryl feel it all; grief, anxiety, anger, and boy it hurt. And he didn’t know how to handle it, except with unhealthy amounts of booze, like Mila.

“Sorry.” Mila says.

”Nobody liked him anyway.”

What a lousy fucking excuse.

”How so?” Mila asks.

“He was a jerk. An ass.” Daryl huffs. “Saved us back at the prison though, the last thing he did before- yeah.” Mila leans her head on his shoulder, intertwines her fingers with his, to the raspy tunes of another Dylan folk-song. ”He saved me-” Daryl continues, fixating his gaze on the dashboard. ”-more than once. Treated me like fuckin’ shit sometimes but- I owed him a lot. Guess he didn’t know better.”

Yeah, Merle always kept an eye on him, ever since when they were younger, in one way or another; well, except when he was sent away to juvenile prison. Despite being the teasing big brother he sometimes stepped up and helped him fend off their old man, beating him, doing things- They never talked about what they’d been through, not back then or later for that matter, instead they kept it to themselves. The secrets, the shame- everything oppressed to the point of no return, Daryl thought for a very long time, until he couldn’t carry it inside anymore. So he began to act out. Drink, fight and steal. Let off steam. What difference would it make? He was damaged. He only had Merle, who, despite the arguing and the fights, was the only person he relied on. Not that it was uncomplicated, hell no! Merle could be cruel, which made Daryl’s feelings against him ambivalent if anything. His brother was a huge reason why Daryl more than often found himself in fucked up situations and couldn’t establish contact with anyone, least of all women. Merle taunted him for it and Daryl went deeper into shame and insecurity, closing more and more, until he created an invisible, but armor thick shell where no one could reach him.

“Ya’ ever been with a chick, little brother?” Merle once laughed at him, badly sloshed, so the whole bar they hung out at heard it. “Ya’ boned any of ‘em ladies, huh? Or ‘ya a damn virgin, ya’ pussy?”

And he laughed even louder, followed by a bad attempt to apologize for his so called ‘joke’. Well, it wasn’t funny and the damage was already done. Daryl felt humiliated down to his core. No fuckin’ wonder he’d never tried to find himself a girlfriend. Not that he’d ever wanted to or tried. Who would want to have him? As far as he was concerned back then, he was trash. A nobody.

Daryl looks down at Mila, whose blue eyes are locked at the steering wheel. Well, until now, he thinks.

“I killed him.” Daryl continues, still focusing on the dashboard panel. “I killed Merle. He’d already turned and I killed him. We’ve all killed someone that just... felt more- worse.” He can’t find the right word. “Ya’ know ‘bout Beth?”

“Maggie told me.” Mila replies and nods slightly, while continuing to look at the steering wheel.

“She was my friend, and I couldn’t save her. Failed her, failed Maggie.” Daryl says and throws a glance out of the window. “Ya’ didn’t fail Carl. He’s alive.”

The tips of Mila’s fingers run gently up and down his arm. Her touch is the most tender he has ever felt. He felt it the same moment he took her hand the first time they met. The fact her touch didn’t make the hair on his body stand upright in discomfort as if he was a frightened deer, was proof enough Mila was special.

“Come on, gotta get ya’ to bed.” Daryl nods towards Juri. “Can’t sleep in the front seat of a goddamn pickup when there’s plenty of beds.”

Daryl gets out of the car and walks around to the passenger side, where he lifts the sleeping boy from the long seat, placing the blonde head carefully on his shoulder. Mila stumbles out of the car and shuts the door after her with a thud, holding on to her trusted rifle and the vodka bottle. She walks around the car, over to him.

“That... zhopa, the wolf-guy’s dead.” Mila says while caressing Juri’s limp leg. “Wish I’d killed him when I had the chance.” She lets out a dry chuckle and steers the big vodka bottle to her mouth. “That’d cheered me up. Is that fucked up?”

“Nah. Can’t blame ya’.” Daryl lets his hand find its way around her waist, placing itself towards the soft leather in her jacket, to steer her in the direction of the houses and to prevent her from tripping over some walker’s bodies. “Let’s go Jersey- Ain’t carrying both of ya’.”

“Don’t have to.” Mila says doughty and frowns a little. “ I’m not even half drunk.”

Talk about strong Russian genes, Daryl thinks to himself. And the stubbornness, is that part of the genes as well? He inhales the cool night air deeply into his lungs as they walk to the house. It’s calm, quiet and the air is different. Even though the threat isn’t eliminated, not by far, everything feels somewhat at ease for now. They have posted guards at the breached wall and will start to fix it first thing in the morning. Daryl hands the sleeping toddler over to Mila at the stairs to the porch, looking after her as she announces that she’ll be back as soon as she has tucked Juri in. He sits down at the stairs and leans up against the pole holding the roof up. When Mila returns, she has changed her t-shirt to one without blood and guts all over it. She sits down next to him and looks out over the empty street, sprinkled with bodies.

“Ya cold?”

Mila meets his gaze and shakes her head, making the long hair sway around her face.

“Got all I need here.” She nods at the bottle of vodka placed next to her boots, meaning that sooner or later she’ll be intoxicated to the point where she doesn't feel the cool breeze. “I’m Russian- used to much worse.”

Ain’t a good enough answer. Daryl gets up, walks into the calm and quiet house, and grabs the worn, but warm, Navajo poncho he’s managed to hold on to for quite a while now.

“Here-” Daryl says and places the warm garment over her shoulders. “-Ya’ ain’t that drunk yet, Jersey.”

Mila smiles a little at him as he sits down again, moves closer and wraps the poncho around her shoulders.

“Started to think you bailed before.” She says and meets his eyes through the dark, giving him a cheeky smile. “You took your time, Dixon.”

Daryl grunts a little, smiles faintly.

“Ya’ seemed to have everything under control.”

“I always do.” Mila leans against his arm and the amazing scent of her hair surrounds him, wraps him in a sense of security, drowns all other scents around them; sweat, blood. Daryl inhales her hair deep into his nose, it makes him all warm inside. It’s a complex composition of flowers; he can smell magnolia, he thinks, and something woody, like cedar or sandal. It’s a soulful mixture, it embodies her. He could recognize the scent of her from miles away, he’s sure of it. “But I’m glad you're back.” She sighs and cuddles up even closer against him, turns her head and looks up at him.

“Well, I ain’t going anywhere now.” Daryl says, almost in a whisper, leans his forehead down against Milas. “I promise.”

Her breath smells like a solid 40%, but it’s of no importance, he wants her anyway, more than anything. He clenches to the soft leather in the worn biker jacket she wears, not wanting to let go. From not wanting any human contact at all for decades it seems, it feels like he can’t be an inch away from her; she’s the final piece of the ship after a shipwreck. Daryl has to cling to it, or else he drowns.

”I can’t lose ya’-” he says quietly, knows that he’s more vulnerable than ever when he does so. ”I can’t-”

”You won’t.” Mila whispers softly. ”You won’t.”

”I won’t let anything happen to ya’.” Daryl mumbles, his voice hoarse from vodka. He needs to be closer to her, in the haze of the initiated jagg he feels an urge to pour his heart out to her, this magnificent woman. ”I care for ya’, so much-” He met her eyes. ”I like this. Just, being with you. And the kid.”

Vodka really does wonders, Daryl thinks to himself as he draws in the young woman by his side. Or is he this goddamn’ talkative and honest because he’s so sure, more sure than he’s ever been about something in his life, that this is what he wants, more than anything?

As if she could read his mind, answering all of his questions, Mila says:

“You remember what I said about choice in life? How I said that I made some stupid ones?” She takes his hand, hugs it. “This is not one of them. I want you too, Daryl.”

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl fanfiction #daryl x oc #twd fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead fandom #the walking dead fanficition #jersey on my mind #twd daryl #twd fanfic

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shimmershaewrites · 6 years

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Waltzing's for Dreamers, Chapter 8 (a Walking Dead story, Caryl AU).

Title: Waltzing's for Dreamers

Ratings: G.

Warnings: No real warnings, unless you count fluffiness. Implied angst, I guess.

Characters/Pairings: mild Carol Peletier/Other, Tobin, allusions to Nabila/Jerry, Sophia Peletier, original character, mentions of Daryl, Glenn Rhee, Tara Chambler, mentions of Maggie Greene.

It's 4:30 in the morning and I've been wide awake since about 8 am yesterday so...please forgive any glaring mistakes in this chapter and point me toward them. I'll fix them when I've had some actual sleep, hahaha. Insomnia sucks, yeah?

Waltzing’s for Dreamers

Seven years after Vegas. Less than a week before Valentine’s Day.

“Looks like you have company,” Tobin remarks as he turns onto her street.

“Looks like it,” Carol muses softly. Her fingers tighten reflexively around the strap of the purse resting in her lap and she searches his profile, looks for further signs of the faint disappointment that laces his words but they’re not there. At least not outwardly because that hopeful smile he’s been aiming at her for much of the night remains and guilt almost compels her to blurt out a reluctant invitation when he pulls into her driveway. Almost. Instead, she voices a gentle reminder when he parks the car and lets it idle. “Not for much longer, though. It’s getting late.”

“Walk you to your door?”

“I hardly think the pizza boy’s lying in wait, just waiting to attack,” she deflects with a close-lipped smile.

“Never be too sure about those pizza boys,” he tries again, teasing her and chuckling at his own joke. Gazing at her with simple, unfettered affection.

When his hand leaves the steering wheel and breaches the small distance between them to cup her cheek, Carol ducks her head and his incoming kiss. It grazes her forehead instead and she gives his forearm an apologetic squeeze in response. “Not tonight, okay? It’s getting late and I’m tired. It’s been such a long week with all the preparations for the dance, and I just…not tonight.”

“Not tonight.” He finally nods. Drops another kiss to her hair before giving her back her space. “Say goodnight to the kids for me?”

“Of course,” Carol promises in parting. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Monday,” Tobin echoes.

She doesn’t actually turn around to head inside, rather watches until his taillights fade into the distance. Stands there, arms wrapped around herself for warmth against the slight bite in the night air. Blue eyes unfocused and teeth worrying her bottom lip until a light goes on in the house across the street and the garage door creaks open, her longtime neighbor emerging and eying her with thinly veiled concern as she approaches, only stopping when she reaches the end of her own driveway.

“Everything okay, Ma’am?”

Carol’s long since stopped trying to correct her politeness, just accepts it’s her way. Has been her manner since they met, back when she and Daryl and Sophia first moved into this neighborhood years ago and found her and her husband on their doorstep bearing the gift of warm, sweet peach cobbler that hadn’t lasted the rest of that day. “I’m fine, Nabila. Really,” she hastens to add when her claim is met with a healthy dose of skepticism. “What about you? The kids have been gushing about the new addition to your family. Especially Sophia.”

Nabila’s face splits into a wide grin and she bends to lift a stubby legged puppy in her arms, dodges the eager little tongue and laughs when her efforts lead the tiny ball of fluff to bark playfully at her. “Meet Honeydew. By Dr. Greene’s best guess, he’s a Corgi, Golden retriever mix.”

“He?” Carol smirks. Her question is met with a shrug of the other woman’s shoulders.

“By the time we figured out she was actually a he, the name had already stuck.”

“Well, He’s every bit as adorable as Sophia claimed.”

Nabila puffs up with pride. “Thank you.”

The opportunistic puppy uses her distraction against her, licking her full on in the mouth and wiggling its furry butt in pleasure and the sight melts the rest of Carol’s heavy thoughts from her burdened shoulders, makes her laugh and startle the puppy into yipping. Quite loudly. When her own kitchen light comes on and she sees a little face pressed up against the window framed by ten small fingers, she says her goodbyes. “I better go. Looks like someone’s up way past their bedtime.”

“Don’t be too hard on him, Ma’am.”

Carol purses her lips. “How long have you known me?”

“Long enough to know not to get on your bad side, Ma’am.”

“Nabila,” she protests.

Not even a second later, the other woman’s mock serious expression cracks and she beams. “Long enough to know that boy of yours is going to charm his way out of trouble. Night, Ma’am.”

Nabila’s words turn out to be prophetic because all it takes is one look into her son’s big blue eyes and Carol’s sighing in resignation and overlooking the chocolate milk stains down the front of his Spiderman pajamas. Leaving her purse on the kitchen table and bending to thumb the pizza sauce from the preschooler’s smooth cheeks. “What am I going to do with you, huh?”

“Make me eat brushy spouts?”

“Maybe,” she says, matching her son’s seriousness even though she wants to laugh. Because her baby boy and Sophia are night and day on the issue of food, and she knows from unfortunate experience that there’s literally nothing the falsely repentant little imp in front of her won’t put into his mouth. In that manner and so many other heart-twisting ways, he reminds her of his father. “Maybe we’ll just skip tomorrow’s bedtime story.”

“Mama,” he grumbles, folding his short arms across his chest.

“I said maybe,” she qualifies with a tiny, helplessly amused smile. Tugging his arms from his chest, she scoops him up and places him on the cluttered kitchen counter in front of her. Lifts the lid of the Gargulio’s Pizza box and frowns at finding it empty. “At least tell me it was good.”

He nods, his dark blond bangs falling into his drooping eyes. “The best.”

“You don’t have to brag about it,” she teases with a tweak of his nose that makes him erupt into giggles that she immediately shushes. “Let’s use those sneaky genes of yours. See what Glenn and Tara and Sis are up to, ‘kay?”

“’kay,” he whispers loudly. Wraps his arms and legs around her like a sleepy monkey around a vine when she plucks him from the counter and perches him on her hip.

He’s warm and sweet and heavy in Carol’s arms when she pads toward the darkened living room in her socked feet. She snuggles him close and breathes his little boy scent in when she reaches the doorway, lingers there and silently surveys the scene unnoticed.

Nestled amidst a sea of pillows and fleece blankets on the bay window seat, Sophia has her nose buried in her latest book of choice. The tiny book light clipped to its corner illuminates the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks and the furrow of intense concentration between her strawberry brows. That said, she’s not as oblivious to their presence or her surroundings as she pretends to be.

She’s ever observant, her sensitive baby girl, and the knowledge makes Carol’s throat tighten for reasons she doesn’t want to dwell on so she doesn’t. She distracts herself with watching the pair with their heads together on her sofa, their faces lit by the glow of the muted television. Lost in a conversation that makes her brows raise.

“I’m just saying, Tara. I’ve been waiting a long time.”

“For two fictional people to smash? Dude. Me, too.”

“What? No. I’m talking about me and Maggie.”

“Uh, I hate to break it to you, but there is no you and Maggie. So smashing's kind of out of the question."

“I want there to be a me and Maggie.”

“Duh,” Sophia interjects without looking up, an expression that’s impressively deadpan on her face. “Everybody knows that. Except maybe Maggie.”

There’s something else there, just beneath the surface of that look that makes Carol’s heart sink. Just a little bit. A shimmery shine to the eyes that never leave their page that opens a door to the future for her, gives her a glimpse of girlish heartache she wishes she could help her little girl avoid.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to know,” Tara blurts, not unkindly. “It’s not like you don’t trip all over your feelings every time you see her. And seriously. Everybody knows Gargulio’s doesn’t deliver as far as the Greene farm. Literally everybody. It’s in the middle of freaking nowhere.”

Crestfallen, Glenn runs his hands over the cap on his head. Squeezes the bill and moans. “Everybody?”

Carol announces her presence with a sympathy laden agreement. “Everybody.”

Tara straightens from her slouch. Winces when she sees her littlest charge nodding off in his mama’s arms. “Again?”

“Again.”

“Ninja skills must be hereditary. Jeez. Want me to take him upstairs?” she offers.

“Like that worked so well the first time,” Glenn comes back to himself enough to mutter. “Everybody?” he asks again, his face falling when they all nod in response. “I am such an idiot. I’m stupid to even think she would notice me. To even like me like that.”

“No, you’re not,” Sophia speaks up, immediately hiding her pink cheeks behind her book when she realizes she has their undivided attention. “I just mean…I just meant…you’re nice. Is all.”

“Yeah,” her little man mumbles his drowsy endorsement against her neck, making everybody but Glenn himself smile. “Best pizza.”

“Pizza.” Glenn’s eyes brighten and he jumps up from the couch, barely even waving a goodbye as he pulls on his jacket and heads toward the door. “That’s it! I know what I have to do.”

“Should I stop him?” Tara asks. “I should stop him.” Shrugging on her own jacket, she ruffles both children’s hair before rushing after her friend. “Glenn! Dude, wait up!” Ducking her pigtailed head around the door one more time before yanking it closed behind her, she holds up her phone. “Call me if you need anything.”

Then she’s gone. Both of them are and Sophia huffs, tosses her book aside in disgust. Stands up and tucks herself against Carol’s other side. “Boys are so stupid.”

The heat of her little girl’s would be tears warms her skin beneath the thin, loose sweater she wears, and her heart hurts for her when she struggles to hold her not-so-hidden feelings inside with a sniffle. Mindful of the little boy drifting off to dreamland in her arms, Carol agrees. Somewhat. “Not all of them and not all of the time. But yeah. They are."

#The Walking Dead #Caryl fanfiction #Caryl #Carol x Daryl #stuff that I write #Waltzing's for Dreamers #aka What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas fic #Tobin #Nabila #Jerry #Sophia Peletier #original character #mention of Daryl Dixon #Tara Chambler #Glenn Rhee #mention of Maggie Greene #fluff #and minor angst #mild Carol/Other

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mst3kproject · 7 years

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Monster on the Campus

This movie has one of the best MST3K pedigrees I’ve seen. The cast includes Whit Bissell, the mad scientist from I Was a Teenage Werewolf, and director Jack Arnold also brought us Revenge of the Creature and The Space Children (and four episodes of Love, American Style). That alone would qualify it as an Episode that Never Was, but wait... there’s more! Monster on the Campus boasts a veritable menagerie of background weirdnesses that the Brains could have gone to town on, including an inexplicable bust of Genghis Khan, a woman who appears to have her dress on backwards, and a door in constant use despite being marked USE OTHER DOOR. Add a werecreature plot even more bizarre than Track of the Moon Beast and I am at an utter loss for how they managed to miss this one.

Professor Donald Blake (no, not that Donald Blake) is a paleontologist who has just received an exciting new specimen: a preserved coelacanth, all the way from Madagascar! He hopes this will take him down roads of science few have ever trod, and oh, boy, will it ever. When Blake cuts himself on the prehistoric fish’ teeth, he transforms into an ape-man and sets out on a rampage. The police investigate his trail of murder and vandalism, while the coelacanth (which Blake pronounces 'silla-canth') continues to infect anything it touches with a sort of de-evolution, like the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode Genesis except much, much sillier.

I didn't think coelacanths actually had teeth, but I googled it and it turns out they do. This is possibly the most scientifically accurate part of the movie. The rest of Monster on the Campus' science is on a par with things like the carbon-dated metal statue in Terror from the Year 5000 or Glenn Manning's single-celled heart in The Amazing Colossal Man. As a major part of its premise, this film proposes that somehow, coelacanth blood actually resists evolution.

This is really, really not how evolution works. If you could sequence the genes of a modern coelacanth and compare them with those of its ancestors eighty million years ago, you'd find that genetically it's about as closely related to them as we are to whatever little possum-like creatures were around back then. Coelacanths might look like they haven't changed, but that's simply because, like sharks or cockroaches, they have happened upon a body plan that works so well for what they do that there's been no reason to change it. Instead, the tweaking happens on the inside – mutations accumulate whether they cause physical changes or not, and modern coelacanths must deal with completely different environmental conditions than prehistoric ones. Factors like predators, prey, temperature, ocean and atmospheric chemistry, and diseases are changing constantly and means that coelacanths must evolve, even if they do so where we can't see it.

Another thing this movie apparently believes about evolution is that creatures in the past were innately angrier and more violent than modern ones. We see several 'primitive' life forms over the course of this story: a saber-toothed German Shepherd that apparently represents the ancestor of modern dogs (and makes about as much evolutionary sense as the saber-toothed squirrel in the Ice Age movies), a giant dragonfly, and the caveman Dr. Blake becomes. All three are shown attacking anything that moves, and sometimes things that don't. There is some implication that the caveman has access to Blake's memories even it can't make sense of them, but its reaction to the things it thus 'recognizes' is still violence. The idea that the past was 'brutal' and modern man must overcome his instincts to progress is a constant running thread in the movie.

This is taken so far, however, that it leaves the viewer wondering – if we evolved from such violent creatures, how did we ever get to where we are? An argument might be made that the prehistoric dog was vicious because it had not yet been domesticated. Fine, but how were humans domesticated? How did the ape-man we see ever stop smashing, raping, and killing long enough to settle down and invent civilization? Its behaviour shows very little evidence of what we'd recognize as intelligence. Maybe the female was a civilizing influence. We never see a prehistoric woman in the movie, and Dr. Blake's display of 'the faces of man' inadvertently implies that woman is the highest form of human evolution. If, as the stereotypes tell us, men are intrinsically domineering and violent while women are supposed to be kind and nurturing, maybe the more feminine humanity becomes, the better.

Oh, wait, there's one more thing the movie's science gets right: the idea of preserving tissues through irradiation. This works exactly the way Blake explains: by killing off all the bacteria in the target material. It's actually a very safe and effective way to prevent food from spoiling – it never really caught on, however, probably mostly because of movies like this one spreading the idea that radiation = oh god, oh god, we're all gonna die.

If we can accept all that, however, the movie is actually very entertaining. The music is pretty good and the effects are not convincing, but they're fun to look at. The caveman doesn't appear on screen until nearly the end, but this is done in such a way that it is suspenseful rather than annoying. We know that something strange has happened to Dr. Blake, and that it's equivalent to what became of Samson the dog and the dragonfly – but the characters don't, at least not at first, and their conclusion that Blake is being stalked by an unknown enemy is an entirely reasonable one given the facts they have. The theory becomes harder to fit to the facts as more facts appear, and the police struggle to keep it plausible. The dog and the dragonfly give us some monster action to keep us interested while we wait for the big reveal.

The reveal itself is not as satisfying as it ought to be, because the caveman makeup is pretty damned bad. The mask almost looks more like a werewolf than an ape-man. The way Blake gets his doses of coelacanth blood is also pretty contrived. The first time, when he cuts his hand on the fish' teeth, kind of works, but the second time, he allows blood to drip into his pipe and them smokes it. This is hilarious in both concept and execution, and even Blake, discussing his theory with his superiors, dismisses a second accident as unlikely.

Donald Blake himself is a reasonably sympathetic character, both the hero and the villain of his own story. We never entirely like him, but that's mainly a product of the movie's age. The first line we hear him say is as he makes a mold of his girlfriend's face to add to his 'faces of man' exhibit - “the female in the perfect state – helpless and silent!” This probably seemed harmlessly funny in the 50's – in the 21st century it makes him seem like a pig and it's kind of an uphill struggle to regain any respect for him. The slow burn of him figuring out who the monster is, and the confusion and terror that accompany it, help a lot – as does the behaviour of his colleagues, who understandably think he's going nuts.

At the end of the movie, Blake decides to perform an experiment – he will inject himself with the coelacanth blood a third time and see what happens. He records a last message, saying “I pray only for the courage to destroy the monster within me.” Sure enough, the caveman re-emerges and threatens Blake's girlfriend Madeline. Upon seeing the photographic evidence, he convinces his colleagues to shoot him, so that the monster will die with him.

I think we're supposed to consider this a tragedy: like Oedipus, Blake could not stop pursuing the truth, and the truth in the end destroyed him. The problem with this is that his suicide seems, quite honestly, totally unnecessary. To keep from committing any more violent crimes, all Blake would have to do is not come into contact with radioactive coelacanth blood, and it doesn't seem like this ought to be a difficult substance to avoid. In fact, he probably has the world's entire supply right there in his lab – burn the damn fish, and you're done! Committing suicide over a problem that easy to solve is the act of a drama queen, Dr. Blake.

It's especially ridiculous when this movie's entire point is that the capacity for brutal violence is latent within all of us, just waiting for an excuse to bubble to the surface. Is the movie trying to say that we should all kill ourselves to avoid the crimes we might commit? I could probably kill somebody if I felt it was necessary – do I deserve to be pre-emptively locked up for that? Blake seems to know that he's not responsible for what his prehistoric alter-ego does, even if the irrational part of him feels guilty regardless. Certainly he doesn't blame Sampson the dog for nearly attacking Madeline while under the influence of the coelacanth blood, so why blame himself? The point made earlier in the movie was that we must resist our urge to violence, to choose to evolve away from it – but rather than rejecting his animal nature, Blake seems to lose all hope of ever doing so.

Confused as the movie is, this is one of the good ones. It had me on its side from the moment it included a Meganeura, one of my favourite under-used prehistoric animals – but even outside of that it's a fun story that keeps the audience engaged. It's definitely not perfect, but the annoying parts don't annoy me enough to detract from the fun ones. Any lover of silly 50's sci-fi should definitely check out Monster on the Campus.

#mst3k #reviews #monster on the campus #episodes that never were #tw: suicide #50s #we're running out of plots #curiously caucasian cavepeople

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kristie-rp · 5 years

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How To Make A Monster

Triggers: mentions of rape, violence, minor character death.

How to make a monster: First you must take something innocent, Then – feed it hate ridicule and betrayal.

All that is left is a soul poisoned by the world.

(bialyjanqueen)

The first time Rita is really, genuinely angry, she is seven years old. Septima is five. Two years younger but five years flawless, Septima is always held up as the gold standard for Rita.

The older girl enjoys school, enjoys playing piano, and enjoys speaking in languages she makes up.

The younger girl, though. She’s new to school, and on her first day, some kid picks on her. In the same situation, Rita would cry. Septima, though? Septima is all gentle smiles and takes the bullies hand. “You should smile more,” she says, completely earnestly. The bullying ends before it really begins, and the guy will be Septima’s friend for years. He follows her around until middle school.

Their parents find out when the school calls, bemused, to ask if the parents mind if their daughter sticks around for the after school care she isn’t signed up for. They’ve just picked up Rita from a different school, and take absolutely no problem with it. “Where’s Septima?” Rita asks.

“Doing good. She made a friend, on her first day.” Her mothers’ reply is distracted; she is calling her husband to tell him the good news, beaming with pride. Rita listens quietly from the backseat, absently doodling while the car is caught in the after-school traffic.

“I know,” her mother says a few minutes later. She’s talking to Rita’s dad; Rita opens her mouth to request that she says hi for her. “I knew it had to be just Rita. It’s not genes that make her like that, it’s just her.” Rita closes her mouth, offended, although she doesn’t yet know the word. All she knows to be is mad.

So she opens her mouth again to interrupt the call with a whine, to which her mom responds with some dismissive comment. Rita gets angrier, annoyed at being ignored on top of the insult she feels. She raises her voice, and her mom does the same, and soon enough there is a screaming match going on in the car.

It’s not until they pull into the driveway at home that Rita really snaps. Her mother says, thoughtlessly, “Your sister wouldn’t behave like this!”

It’s lost in the heavy slam of the car door, as harsh as a seven year old girl can manage as she takes off running.

ii.

There are moments when Rita thinks maybe she is going to be treated fairly. Birthdays – because of course her and Septima are one day apart; why wouldn’t they be? – come with an even number of gifts, but Septima always appreciates hers more than Rita does. It is both because Rita is constantly distracted by whatever offense has been done her recently, letting it fester as she quietly seethes, and because her parents simply haven’t taken the time to actually listen to what Rita says she wants.

The thing is, Rita is quiet about it, too. She feels guilty asking for things her parents have shown no interest in buying for her in the first place. She has spent most of her life since Septima was born withdrawing more and more from her family, reacting only reluctantly to Septima’s attempts to play the nice sister, and refusing to interact with her parents unless necessary. So it is that Rita, who likes books about crime and toys more often relegated to boys, is continually gifted with the sort of girly things Septima absolutely loves.

And because Rita does not like lying, because she cannot bring herself to feign delight, her parents sigh and shake their heads. Septima’s birthday is the day before Rita’s, and they always have fresh reminders of how grateful their youngest daughter is for everything. They scold Rita for nor being more grateful, and the one time her fathers’ brother gives her a remote control car, they confiscate it and talk to him on the side.

The next year, Rita gets a cheap makeup kit and a pink card from the uncle who knew more about her than any other relative.

It burns.

iii.

It becomes a real problem when Rita is about to start high school. She has the words to describe it now, knows it is unfair, that parents who believe the best way to inspire change is to compare their children constantly should never have had more than one child.

Unfortunately, she cannot change the past. Septima has already been born, is thirteen years old in fact, and Rita is far too selfish to bother with running away or entertaining thoughts of ending her own life. She can control the present, though, and she spends less and less time at home, acting like her parents comments don’t reach her. She falls into a particular crowd, and Septima pulls her aside one night to ask if she’s being careful.

Septima is so disgustingly earnest in her concern that Rita very nearly takes her words to heart. Nearly. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Septima’s very real concern – that she’s heard bad things about Glenn Laurens, who is on the edge of Rita’s new group of friends – is no match for Rita’s conditioned contrary independence.

She continues to hang around them.

And the thing is – Glenn is nice, in a way. He doesn’t refer to her sister every other sentence (doesn’t know she exists, doesn’t know her name, the way Rita likes to pretend is reality), doesn’t compare her to other girls. He saves up and buys her an awesome bomber jacket at one point, and she’s flattered. It’s the best thing anyone has given her since that remote control car from her uncle, and she’s outgrown RC cars since.

What she doesn’t count on is the fact that Glenn is older, and obsessive, and selfish enough to make her seem reasonable in comparison. When he assaults her, she doesn’t see it coming. When she reports it, tells the police, they look into it for about two minutes.

The woman cop gives her a sympathetic look, but the male one, with his grey-speckled beard, sounds bored as he explains. “You hung out with the kid all the time,” he says, “and they’re not a good lot. All accounts say you’re just like ‘em. You probably said yes while drunk: there’s nothing we can do.”

And then, to add insult to injury, to the fact that Rita is shaking in her seat, they call her parents.

Her dad comes to collect her, and stands by as she shrugs out of the bomber jacket the cop keeps giving back to her, like she wants it, like it’s needed. It always rains in Port Lyndon: having a jacket on isn’t going to stop it.

Her dad is quieter than her mother. He supports them on his income alone, working in some office he doesn’t like but that gives him the routine he needs. It helps with his condition, helps make their home life stable, and the pay is good enough that they are never left wanting for necessities or struggling to pay bills (it helps that her mother isn’t human and doesn’t need the same things as them). Unfortunately, the quiet constancy of his medicated haze has never allowed him to express a dissenting opinion to his wife, and Rita has never seen him as an ally against her mothers’ judgement. He lingers in the parking lot while Rita pulls herself together, working to stop the shaking and continuing to refuse to let the tears she needs to shed fall. He even runs through the drive through of a McDonalds to buy her a milkshake (vanilla, which she appreciates but doesn’t enjoy) and some food.

They’re home too soon, and he shepherds her inside. Septima and her mother are watching something on TV while her younger sister works at some project or other. Both of them look up, and both of their expressions immediately fall. There is worry in Septima’s gaze, and disappointment in her mothers.

“Honestly, Rita,” she says, voice dripping with exasperation. “I know you feel like we don’t pay enough attention, but crying rape? I thought you were above joking about that, even if you can’t get attention any other way.”

Rita sees red. Later, she remembers nothing of what she screams at the bitch who birthed her.

((iii.v

Septima crawls into her bed that night after setting two cups on Rita’s bedside. The bed is big enough that touching isn’t possible, especially with the older sister curled into such a tight ball. Septima is still careful and cautious, ready and willing to offer both distance and comfort, should Rita ask for it.

“That was a lot of yelling,” she whispers in the dark. Rita supposes she is correct. She doesn’t know what was screamed after her mother accused her of lying in such poor taste; she only knows that her throat is still sore from whatever she said. “Mom’s sorry.”

Rita snorts at that, and immediately regrets it. Septima makes a quiet noise, one that sound sympathetic. It both burns and soothes: burns, because she doesn’t want sympathy, ever; soothes, because it’s nice to be acknowledged in her struggle, even for something so awful.

“There’s tea with honey beside you,” Septima offers after a pause. Rita can hear the concern in her voice, “for your throat.”

Rita hums, regrets it, and slowly uncurls herself. She’s freezing, and she kind of feels like she’ll never be warm again. It’s not even an unusual feeling, not in a city of constant rain, but this time is worse, and her hands are still shaking, despite all the time she’s dedicated to stopping it today. She forces herself to sit, and clutches the mug of tea. It’s a welcome warmth in her hands, even if she’s jumpy and uncomfortable in this position. There are long minutes of silence in the dark before she acknowledges the fact that Septima is staring at her. “What.”

Septima shifts beside her. Rita only notices because the bed dips. “I wish I was as brave as you.”

Rita cannot immediately respond to that. She’s not brave, she’s just irritable and cranky and all those other things that make her second best. But she can’t voice that, can’t list the adjectives that her mother has thrown at her over the years, and that she has found quite fitting herself. “I’m not brave.”

“But you are,” Septima insists. “As soon as you could get out of there, you went to the police. You reported everything. That’s brave.”

It’s not. From all the double standards that have been thrown at Rita over the years, all she is sure of is that it’s whiney. He’d said that no one would believe she’d said no, that everyone thought she was an easy skank, and this proved it, didn’t it? “You’re wrong.”

“I’m really not. You’re going to figure out how to be okay, Rita.”

That, too, sounds like a lie to Rita’s ears, at least at first. But the more she thinks about it – well. If she stays broken, if she stays like this, then isn’t it him winning? And if she stays broken – she can’t get even. It won’t be possible, not with no one but her – and, apparently, Septima – even acknowledging his crimes.

She turns her head to stare at Septima, lips parted in surprise. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark enough that she thinks she can make out a sad smile on Septima’s lips as she climbs out of the bed. “One of us is capable of fixing everything that’s wrong with this city,” Septima says like a promise in the night, “and it isn’t me.”))

iv.

Rita goes to college with the intention of becoming a high school principal to the place she and Septima went to school, Port Lyndon High School. She starts out with a bachelor’s degree in accounting and theatre, and then goes on to earn a teaching credential.

(“Those who can’t do, teach,” her mother says. Her words have gotten crueller, and it is ironic for someone who is supposedly angelic.

Septima coaxes her into a subject change before Rita can begin to argue. Since the incident at the beginning of high school, the eldest child doesn’t hold back. Neither does their mother. It’s a problem that makes their lives awkward.)

After the teaching credential, Rita becomes a teacher, focusing on teenagers after completely hating her experience with young children during her placement. She has to gain experience before she can begin to work at actually becoming a principal.

That’s fine with her. Rita has a plan for what she really wants to do.

Septima once told her that one of them was going to fix the city, and their mother thinks it is going to be Septima. They both know that’s wrong. Septima is too soft and too conflict averse to be the one: Rita is all hard edges and unapologetic manipulation. If anyone is going to fix what needs fixing, it is going to be Rita.

So: she joins a gang.

It’s messy and it’s chaotic, and there’s absolutely no order in the lower ranks. She doesn’t have allies, not at first, and she has to be more careful than everyone else is in hiding their identities. After all, she’s a high school teacher at this point: if she gets caught, both of her lives are over.

She doesn’t need there to be order in the lower ranks, not to do what she plans to do. Part of her wishes she could do this faster, but it needs to be gradual, needs to ensure no one realizes what she’s doing.

So she earns the trust of people with more weapons than her, learns to fire a gun and how to use it quietly. She learns when intimidation works better than an outright attack, learns who is best avoided and who is most useful, who she should keep an eye on and who she should keep close. She does things she isn’t proud of, rationalizing that she is following orders – the same way everyone on her level does.

And she gets higher. She gets promoted within the gang, until she’s close enough to the top that a hostile takeover isn’t so hostile. Enough members prefer her leadership style anyway, and her bizarre morals, that don’t always influence them but do often enough for it to matter.

She is the head of a gang before she makes principal, but the two are in close sequence.

Her first act as the head is to enact vengeance on Glenn Laurens.

She’s not the one who makes sure he suffers, but she watches silently as he does. When he’s on the cusp of death, she lifts a hand to stop the violence. Her people pause obligingly. She crouches beside him, takes hold of his chin in her hands, examining the face that was once a little bit handsome and is now black and blue.

“See you in Hell, asshole,” she says, voice soft. She drops his face and lets it hang as she holds out a hand. One of her people presses a .50 caliber Desert Eagle into her hand. She smiles at the familiar weightiness of it, and gets to her feet, gripping it in both hands, as is recommended, lest she break a wrist on the recoil.

She pulls the trigger.

His blood, she notes, goes far.

“A man I don’t know had sex with me,” Septima says. Rita has very reluctantly agreed to meet her for lunch, all these years later. She’s been a principal for five years now, head of the gang for six. She is the epitome of powerful, and still she avoids those related to her by blood.

Anyone else might assume Septima means she had a one night stand. Not Rita. Her throat is dry. “You were raped.”

Septima nods, no hesitation. She does not look shaken in the least, which is infuriating. If this had just happened, she should be in tears – unless, Rita reasons, Septima’s ridiculous habit of forgiving without question has extended to this.

“Please don’t tell me you aren’t pressing charges.”

“I’m not pressing charges because I cannot prove it. It was weeks ago.”

That – that is both better and worse. Better, because now Rita knows that she wasn’t more affected by such an awful violation than Septima was. Worse, because it really doesn’t sound like Septima minds that she has been abused in this way. “Then why am I here? Do you want me to take care of him?”

At this, her little sister frowns. Even in this, she is beautiful, nothing more than a delicate crease forming between her eyes. “How would you do that?”

Rita considers, for a moment, answering honestly. I’d pay one of my people to torture and kill him. She stops herself in a moment of good judgement, which is becoming steadily more common for her. “I suppose I can’t,” she says, without emotion. Septima rolls her eyes.

“Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. I’m pregnant.”

There’s honestly no need for Rita to even think about it. Her heart sinks. She closes her eyes. She is lucky that the asshole she murdered for violating her had the forethought to use a condom, because while demanding her mother pay for an abortion would’ve been a satisfying way to avoid the accusations about inappropriate humor (the only thing worse than a joke about rape is ending a defenceless life, in her mothers eyes. Rita feels no such concern, most of the time), it would’ve made the whole thing even more traumatic. “You’re keeping it, aren’t you,” she says, because it doesn’t need to be a question.

Septima’s smile is gentle, and she presses a hand to her stomach. She isn’t even showing yet, and Rita can tell she’s going to be a disgustingly devoted mother, the sort of person she extends protection to, as her people well know. “It’s not the babies fault that its father is a bad person.”

Rita tries to smile, but she knows it fails. It doesn’t reach her eyes, and it feels more like a grimace.

These are the facts: she and Septima are the children of an angel and a human. They are nephilim. They are not human enough for birthing to be easy, but they are also not angelic enough for pregnancy to be impossible. Of everyone in Port Lyndon, there are maybe two individual people who can deal with the entire pregnancy, and though she believes Septima will survive it – nephilim are hardy indeed – she does not believe it is a good idea.

Septima is going to require constant attention, later in her pregnancy. Her body is designed to deal with 50% humanity and 50% angel DNA; the baby will be a quarter angel. It will throw the equilibrium off. It won’t kill her, but who knows what will happen if she experiences anything like illness – who knows what sort of insanity will happen?

And – and Septima is willing to forgive a rapist, to treasure the baby. She sees it as a sign that she was meant to be raped. She is an incredibly rare hybrid; Rita is the only other one. She will be weak enough that it will depend on a doctor to protect her from Herontesuto’s pursuit, and that’s not a fair thing to ask of any medical professional. Not really. Besides, Rita is half certain Septima will stumble blindly into Heron’s hands, and almost kill her in the process.

She can do this without getting anyone into mortal peril.

Here is another fact:

Rita is going to be beating herself up over this decision for years to come, however much she refuses to regret it.

vi.

The representative of Herontesuto Laboratories has the gall to look at Rita like she’s the villain for refusing custody of the kid, when it’s born.

“Septima named her Corelle,” the scientist says. She’s playing with the baby. It turns out, lab coats diminish in intimidation factor when the scientist in question is intent on entertaining a newborn.

The name is after their mother, in a way. Cordelia. It’s close. Rita would rename her if she ended up with custody. Probably something nice and generic – Sage, maybe. Sage is nice. “Say what you mean,” she snaps.

“You’re her family. You should take her.”

Rita snorts. “I’m the woman who traded her mothers safety for her own.”

The scientist scowls. Rita should really learn the name. “You’re the woman who traded a potentially dangerous supernatural monstrosity for the safety of a more stable variant and a more human descendant.”

Rita’s level look and raised brows should be enough to indicate exactly how little she agrees with that. “I’m the villain in this story,” she says, dismissive. It does not seem to eat at her.

“All the same – your sister would want you to take her.”

It’s said in an attempt to convince her, but it isn’t going to work. It’s probably the last thing that would convince her; instead, it steels her resolve. She stares hard at the baby, committing its’ features to memory. Maybe if she works hard enough, she can figure out who raped her sister and caused this hell. “Put her up for adoption. Babies go fast, anyway,” she says. “Keep our parents out of it – they don’t deserve to know.”

#kristie's writing #kwriting #kwrites #kristie writes #ft. rita #ft. septima #ft. cordelia #ft. herontesuto laboratories

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tortuga-aak · 7 years

Text

'The Walking Dead' actor talks his big return and how he may not be the villain you think

Jackson Lee Davis/AMC

Warning: There are spoilers ahead for "The Walking Dead."

Sunday's episode of "The Walking Dead" showed Rick's group rally farther into the Saviors' territory, but the biggest surprise was the return of a blast from the past at the episode's very end.

Rick came face to face with Morales (Juan Gabriel Pareja) who parted ways with his group of survivors all the way back in season one. At the time, Morales was heading to Alabama in search of family.

INSIDER spoke with Juan Gabriel Pareja about his big return and how it could have happened sooner, how he underwent a transformation to get into shape for season eight, and how Morales may not be the typical Savior villain you think he is right now.

Kirsten Acuna: What is it like to be back on the show after being gone for seven seasons?

Juan Gabriel Pareja: It's pretty awesome. Pretty exciting, I'm not going to lie. I've continued to be a fan of the show, and I've continued to watch the show through the seasons, so I was definitely very pleased when they gave me that call to see if I'd be interested in making a return. It's incredibly exciting.

Gene Page/AMC

Acuna: Yeah, you're in such a unique position, because you were on the show for four episodes [in season one]. Then Morales went off in search of his family. Now, coming back to the show, it's a worldwide phenomenon. What is that experience like?

Pareja: I'm in the process of kind of figuring that out as we go along, myself, to be honest. It's a little overwhelming, and who knows exactly to what degree, because it's hard to really get a true sense of the effect until, I guess, a little more time will pass and we see things develop a little further, but it's very exciting.

A long time ago, I posted a picture of a teaser before I went to a convention, that I think might have been the seed that kind of, over the years has been nurturing the fan base and the appetite to see Morales return, and it's nice to finally have the day arrive.

Tweet Embed: https://twitter.com/mims/statuses/522166071873122304?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw Excited to see the #WalkingDead family again & all the fans @WalkerStalkerCon this weekend! #MoralesLIVES http://pic.twitter.com/XpJb0NtONP

Acuna: Right. Since then, fans have just been hoping every single season when the show returns, people are like, "Oh, is Morales maybe going to pop up?" Because we've seen other characters return, such as Morgan. Were there ever any talks of bringing you back earlier? I think I read that maybe there was something with Glen Mazzaro when he was the showrunner?

Pareja: Yes. Yes, there were casual conversations here and there, and some rumors, and formally, I would hear that there was talk of a storyline for Morales' return being developed, but then I think when Glen left, that might have died with him. It's hard to know for sure. The only time I was officially contacted by the good folks at AMC was this spring. Everything prior to that had just been rumor, speculation, and hearsay for the most part.

Acuna: OK. When you first learned [about returning], who approached you? What was that conversation like, and were you just completely taken aback?

Pareja: Oh yeah, it was a very big surprise. I follow, and every now and again, I get tickled by all the rumors and the speculation. It's nice to definitely get a sense that there is such a palpable demand for Morales still somewhere out there in the fan base community. I was definitely surprised, because so much time had passed. I had just gotten out of an audition, I believe, and I got a call from the regional casting office that had originally cast me, and I believe that was the Fincannon Casting Office. I believe one of their associates gave me a call, I think, left a voicemail. I was really kind of confused, and thrown for a loop.

I called right back, maybe, perhaps a little too eagerly, to see what the deal was. It was just a tentative, getting a feeler for the situation: what my schedule was like, if I had a little bit of a window open for production, and just seeing if there'd be any interest on my part, should that actually come to pass. I definitely replied in the affirmative, said I would be more than happy to return to the show.

At that point, it was really kind of left up in the air. It wasn't locked down. They went and talked with my representative, and things went on for a little bit. I was just told that maybe, in two months, they might come back to bring Morales back onto the show.

With that in mind, I had a little bit of time. It was still left up in the air, but I started training and wanted to make sure that if Morales did make a comeback, that he would be a formidable presence on the screen. I actually began a dramatic transformation that I'm continuing to this day. It's been a uniquely wonderful experience in and of itself, in addition to this amazing return to 'The Walking Dead.'

Acuna: What does your transformation consist of? What have you been doing?

Instagram Embed: http://ift.tt/2z4p6aw Width: 800px

Pareja: I started working with Eric the trainer, who's a very popular celebrity trainer out here in North Hollywood. I started working out around six days a week. I got on a pretty strict regimen. I dropped about 40 pounds over the course of five-and-a-half, almost six months now, and put on a significant amount of semi-lean muscle mass. I've always been kind of an overweight guy, and it's really exciting now to look in the mirror and see a different body looking back at me. I'm excited about how that opens up my world, and casting possibilities as well for other projects down the line, and just being able to enjoy life.

I'm actually a new father, myself. I have a freshly turned 9-month-old baby boy.

Instagram Embed: http://ift.tt/2h2Os1M Width: 800px

Acuna: Congrats!

Pareja: Thank you so much. That's also been one of the bigger, wonderful things that's happened this year. It's nice to know that I'm in a much healthier place physically, mentally, and ready to be able to be more relevant in his life, and being more actively involved. It's nice. It's exciting.

Acuna: It sounds like 2017 has been very rewarding for you.

Pareja: Indeed it has been. Indeed. It's been a wonderful couple of years, full of wonderful blessings. I'm feeling incredibly grateful, to be honest.

Acuna: Was there something that was the most difficult about returning to the show?

Pareja: Yes. Most certainly. Like I said earlier, I have continued to be a little bit of a fanboy, and have continued to root for Rick, and have been a hard Team Rick all the way, so the biggest challenge and difficulty was swallowing that bitter pill of the writers bringing Morales back initially as this villain with the Saviors. I kind of had to do a little bit of mental adjustments, and do the work that we have to do as actors and kind of deliver the goods whether or not it's the words that we want to be saying, and turning against the people that we don't want to be turning against, but it's all part of the game. I would say that was definitely the most difficult part.

Acuna: I can understand that. They're all such a close-knit family [on set]. I'm sure it was welcoming to be back in with all of them. It was probably like a homecoming, also, in some ways.

Gene Page/AMC

Pareja: Absolutely. Undoubtedly. Andy [Lincoln] was, like I had mentioned with another reporter the other day who asked me what that was like, I said he's just so remarkably kind, and warm, and generous with his energy, and it was just an immediate pickup of where we left off. It was just the very same thing. It was genuinely nice to see that over all the years that Andy had not changed at all, had maintained that same quality of kind of a peaceful, calm leadership, that basically, I feel, established a tone early on in the show. I think that it's apparently still palpably there.

Acuna: Yeah.

Pareja: I really think that that has to do with Andy's energy and what he brings.

Acuna: How long now did you have to keep people in the dark? You said that you were first talking about returning in the spring, and then you had to wait a little while.

Pareja: Right. Once I went and we started shooting, I believe it was early June, I had to shut the trap and bite my tongue up until last weekend. That's another thing that probably was the most challenging aspect, is to have to hold monumental news and keep that to myself.

Gene Page/AMC

Acuna: Right. Were there times when people ever had an inkling? Or you felt like people ... where you were really nervous about people finding out? I was completely taken off guard. I didn't see it coming.

Pareja: No, not really, just because it had been almost a tongue-in-cheek ongoing joke for so long, even, in some circles. It was easy to laugh off, or add a little sarcasm, or misguide and throw people off. Like, "Yeah, that'll be the day. We've been waiting for that for a long time."

The really hard part was also ... there might have been some spoilers released earlier in the week, and then my social media really started blowing up before the episode even aired, and then everybody was asking questions, and reaching out, and saying this, and saying that. Having to hold radio silence for the most part and not respond to anything was also a little bit of a challenge. Now it's a free-for-all, right?

Acuna: Yep! A lot of the reader comments I'm actually seeing online is about you and Rick having your exchange. A lot of people think Rick should tell Morales about Glenn's death at Negan's hands, maybe to get him on his side. I don't even know if that would matter, because so much time has gone by. It wasn't like you necessarily, like Morales, knew Glenn that well.

Gene Page/AMC

Pareja: Well, it's interesting you mention that. Early on, there was definitely, I think, a very strong tone and connection that was, in fact, within the original Atlanta group. In those extreme circumstances of the zombie apocalypse, those experiences, I think, bring people together, and fused those kinds of families let's say out of strangers in a short amount of time. I think [it] forces that development and that connection early on. But, we'll see. We'll see if that's something that actually is addressed in the coming episodes, and how that possibly might or might not affect Morales. It's interesting that you bring it up.

Acuna: I'm sure you can't say too much, but may we possibly learn what happened to Morales? I think that's the big question from Sunday. What happened to Morales and his family in the time since they parted with Rick?

Pareja: Yeah, like you said, I can't say too much, but I think these are all questions that the fans have been wondering about, and I think that the writers won't disappoint. I think we'll definitely get a little bit of what people have been wanting to hear about Morales, and find out a little bit more about what happened, and how he got to be where he is.

AMC

Acuna: Certainly. I think what's most interesting about his re-entry onto the show, at this point, is that — you had kind of mentioned this — we knew him as a good man, and there is this mutual respect between him and Rick, and all we've ever known is to associate bad things and mostly bad people with Negan's Saviors. Seeing Morales on their side kind of throws a wrench into that. I almost feel like it's there to help hold a mirror up to Rick, maybe, a little.

Pareja: Exactly. Exactly. And I think that was a little bit of the dynamic that they've had in the first season, and it seems to echo when they meet up again in season eight. If you think about it, Rick himself is doing some pretty awful things. Right before he sees Morales, he brutally kills this guy, who, for all intents and purposes, is protecting his child, his daughter.

AMC

As we learn over the years in the world of 'The Walking Dead' morality isn't so clear cut. It's a lot of gray. It's not as black and white. Often times in the name of doing good, supposedly, a lot of our heroes do some things that are very questionable, and sinister, and not so great. I don't think Morales is any more guilty than Rick has been at different points throughout the seasons. I think that's the interesting juxtaposition of seeing these two characters face off at this point. They both come on an interesting journey to that moment, and I'm sure both have had to do some not so wonderful things to arrive at that moment in one piece themselves.

That was initially part of the ... a little bit when I had a conversation with [showrunner Scott M.] Gimple before shooting, and I was trying to deal with this way that Morales was being brought back, as a villain. Scott [was] kind of like, 'No,' [and] helped guide me through that, and not necessarily as a villain, but from his own point of view, it's just what he had to do to survive. It's just not as clear cut. You always have to make the case for your character, and not necessarily write them off as villains, but just people who are doing what they have to do to survive.

Gene Page/AMC

Acuna: Yeah, certainly. It's not black and white. We've already seen that with Dwight. We know how he ended up where he is, and he's not crazy about that. I'm looking forward to see where your character goes for the rest of the season. It's so cool to see another character from season one return. Juan, is there anything else that you want to share about being back, or your experience on set, or anything else about 'Walking Dead'?

Pareja: I just want to say that it's incredibly exciting to be back. I love being part of 'The Walking Dead' family. I want to thank all the fans for keeping the dream alive over the years and making their demands known, and ultimately leading up to this moment where we see that Morales lives. I also just want to invite everybody to please, pick up my social media. You can follow me on Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, Juan G. Pareja.

I've got a fun video game that I've been working on over the last year, it should be coming out in the next year, that a lot of zombie fans, genre fans, should also be excited about, called "State of Decay 2." That's a really fun, exciting title. The first title out was really popular. A lot of 'Walking Dead' fans should definitely enjoy playing.

Acuna: Wonderful.

Pareja: I also want to give a heads up that I just finished up guest starring on 'Chicago Med' a couple of weeks ago, as well. That should be hitting the airwaves in January.

Instagram Embed: http://ift.tt/2z6qzxc Width: 800px

Acuna: Very cool. You're going to be all over the air.

Pareja: Yeah. It's been a good year, like you said.

You can catch Pareja on the next episode of "The Walking Dead" as Morales continues his standoff with Rick. "The Walking Dead" airs Sundays at 9 p.m. on AMC. This interview has been shortened and edited for clarity.

NOW WATCH: Here's what losing weight does to your body and brain

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walkerwords · 4 years

Text

“The Savior Sessions” Part 2 of 33 - Negan x GN!Reader

IMAGE CREDIT: Gene Page/AMC

SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: Part two of the Savior Sessions. Negan asks about how the reader met Rick Grimes and they have a question of their own.

Word Count: 2231

Warning: None

Song I Wrote To: “Lost On You” by LP

Note: Thank you so much for the love on the first one. As I said before, these are just going to be uploaded at random, but I was having writers block so this came out of it while I work on my other works.

---------

It was early the next time you pushed open the heavy door that led to Negan’s cell.

“Rise and shine,” you sang as you entered, biting into a fresh apple. Negan was already awake, sitting on the floor of his cell bouncing a tennis ball against the stone wall.

“Have you always been so cheerful in the mornings?” Negan asked and then succumbed to a yawn. You smiled as you took your chair and positioned it once again in front of the bars.

“Absolutely not,” you answered. “Mornings were the bane of my existence before the world ended.”

“What changed?” he asked.

“Probably the fact that Walkers woke you up no matter what and if you slept in, you risked being eaten or murdered in your sleep,” you finished with a shrug. Negan just shook his head, already amused. “Oh, I got you something,” you told him and then dug into the bag at your side and produced another apple that you had grabbed from Eugene’s backyard. “Breakfast.” Tossing the piece of fruit through the bars, Negan easily caught it, turning it over in his hands.

“Special delivery from my new favourite person? How did I get so lucky?” Negan asked as he took a bite of the apple.

“You’re locked in a cell because you started a war with Rick Grimes, I wouldn’t exactly call that lucky,” you said.

“Actually,” Negan said, getting to this feet, “he started it with me.”

“Optics,” you said with a wave of your hand. Negan chuckled and collapsed onto his cot, watching you through the bars.

“So, what has been going on with you, (Y/N)?”

“Not much,” you said, “I was roped into helping Porter with something yesterday that I highly regret.”

“How’s that?”

“Eugene needed some help scavenging for scrap metal and parts for some new radio he’s going to attempt to build. We went to an old office building about forty miles West and after looking for a couple of hours, he finally found what he was looking for…in the ceiling.”

“Oh no,” Negan said as he took another bite of his apple, clearly absorbed in your story.

“And of course, I was the only one who could fit into the small space so I hauled my ass through the ceiling to grab his damn wires. I have never been a fan of small spaces, but this felt like I was crawling into my own casket. Not a fan and no matter what Eugene wants, that will never be happening again.”

“Ah, Eugene,” Negan mused, “I do miss that weirdo. I did have a soft spot for him at one point.”

“Until he went all double-agent on your ass and blew up your bullets,” you said fondly as you remembered that particular day in the field.

“Can’t win them all, (Y/N),” Negan said.

“No, you cannot,” you agreed. Sitting further back in your chair, you crossed your ankles. “What about you? Anything interesting happening around here?”

“How would I know about anything that goes on in this postcard of a town?” Negan asked with a glint in his eye.

“I know that you listen to us through your window,” you said, pointing to the small hole that offers him a peek at Alexandrian life. Negan smirked, leaning back against the stone wall, matching your position. “Out with it.”

“Very well. Gabe and Scott were arguing about something to do with the council. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but Scotty boy isn’t on the council, right?”

“He’s not,” you confirmed, “but he’s one of Michonne’s right hands when it comes to security. Normal for him to have concerns. He’s practically Judith’s personal bodyguard these days.”

“As if Miss Grimes needs one,” Negan said with a smile.

“You should see her when she used the sword,” you told him. “She looks just like her mom.”

“Always knew she was a special kid,” Negan said. It was silent for a few moments as the two of you finished off your apples and basked in the quiet. Eventually, it got too much and you finally spoke.

“I’ve been thinking about heading over to the Kingdom,” you said, “check in on the King.”

“That guy is weird as shit,” Negan said, “and what was up with the tiger?”

“Shiva?” you asked with a grin. “She was incredible. Ezekiel was a zookeeper before the Turn and he saved her when she got hurt once. When everything went to hell, he went back for her and the two of them took on the Walkers together. Shiva was with him every step of the way.”

“What happened to her?” he asked, noticing your use of past tense. “I didn’t see her after the day everyone rode in here.”

“Walkers got her,” you told him. “Ezekiel was cornered and she fought them off to save him, but there were too many of them.”

“Damn,” Negan said.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” you said. Shiva’s death had hit you pretty hard when Jerry had told you. When you had met the big cat, she had immediately taken to you. Besides Ezekiel, only a few people were able to get close to her. Yourself, Jerry, Daryl, and Carol were those people and all four of you had mourned the loss of Ezekiel’s tiger for weeks after her demise. There was something so primal about hunting alongside the cat and as weird as it was, it felt almost natural to move through the new world alongside a predator such as her.

“So,” Negan said, snapping you out of your reverie. “What’s on the agenda for the day?”

“That’s up to you. I’m just here as a sounding board,” you told him.

“We both know that’s not true,” Negan said as he smiled at you. You shrugged and waited. Eventually, he sighed and gave up. “Fine, fine, I will start,” he said. “How about you tell me how you met the infamous Rick Grimes.”

“I can do that,” you agreed and settled in for the story. “I met Rick the same day that he was reunited with his wife and son. Do you know what happened to him at the beginning of all this?”

“No,” Negan said, intrigued, “do tell.”

“Well, you know he was a cop, right?” Negan nodded. “Right, so before the Turn, Rick was shot on the job and he ended up in a coma. His partner, Shane, tried to get him out of the hospital when everything happened, but he couldn’t wake him up and so he left him behind so Shane could get Lori and Carl to safety. He barricaded Rick’s hospital room to keep him safe and then he left. Rick woke up well after the Walkers began taking over and he was all alone in the hospital.”

“Jesus,” Negan said, cringing at the thought.

“He ended up meeting Morgan not long after and he explained everything that had happened.”

“Stick guy?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, “eventually, Rick made it to Atlanta to look for the refuge centers, but of course the city was overrun. He was pretty much screwed until someone saved his life and got him off the street.”

“Who was that?” Negan asked and you paused. You had tried not to think about Glenn now that you were tasked with speaking to the man who had murdered him, but now it was unavoidable. Negan waited while you tried to control your anger that swelled in your chest.

“It was Glenn,” you said, “Maggie’s husband.” Recognition flashed in his eyes and his face fell, but you continued. “Glenn was just a kid then, but he risked everything to get Rick to him and got him to our group that was scavenging in the city. They’re all dead now, but they were good people. Well, all of them except for Merle Dixon, Daryl’s brother. He was a piece of work…”

“And what happened to him?”

“The first time? Rick handcuffed him to a rooftop cause he was being a racist misogynist and then eventually Merle cut off his own hand to get away. The second time, this asshole we had problems with killed him and let him turn. Daryl had to put him down.” Negan’s brows rose at that, but he didn’t interrupt. “Eventually, Glenn, Rick, and the others got back to our camp at the quarry, and Rick, Lori, and Carl were reunited. Lori introduced me to Rick shortly after.”

“Did you two get along?”

“Not at all,” you laughed as you remembered your first meeting. “I didn’t like him when I met him. He was too...uptight. Daryl also hated him for leaving Merle, but those two worked it out eventually. Rick just showed up and took charge and it bugged me, but I soon realized he was the best person to lead us and so we all fell in line. He ended up saving our asses more times than I can count so I guess we made the right decision after all.”

“Hero type, huh?”

“No,” you disagreed, “if you knew everything he did to protect us, you wouldn’t call him a hero. He was just one of the only ones to do what was necessary to do what needed to be done. I learned a lot from his actions.”

“Meaning what?” Negan asked.

“Meaning I learned quickly how to kill someone when it was necessary to keep my people safe. We all did.”

“Even Carl?”

“Even Carl,” you agreed. “As I said, we’ve all done things. This world never cares how old you are, you just have to survive.”

“Who was the first person you killed?” he asked. You stared at him as the images flashed through your mind. The face of the man whom you killed as he went for Tyreese when the Governor attacked the prison. You could still feel his blood on your fingers as you removed the knife from his skull. It was the first of many kills, but it was still the first.

“We’ll save that one for another time,” you said.

“Did I touch a nerve?” he asked, but it wasn’t his usual snarky comeback, he genuinely seemed concerned. You smiled at him.

“I’m a lot tougher than I look, Negan,” you told him. “You can’t piss me off that easily.”

“Good to know,” he said. His expression changed then, watching you as if trying to read every inch of you like a book. “I can see the gears turning in your head, (Y/N).”

“Is that so?”

“I know you have a question on your mind,” he said. “Go on, ask me what you want to know. God knows I’ve been doin’ all the damn talking.” Negan was right, you did have something you wanted to ask him and it had been on your mind since the day Jadis, or rather, Anne had shown up at the gates of Alexandria looking for Rick.

“Why did you kill all of Jadis’ people? What was the reason for wiping them all out? Was it vengeance or were you just bored?” You hadn’t meant for it to come out as harsh as it did, but this was something you needed. While Jadis wasn’t your favourite person, she had helped your group when it was needed and before she disappeared, she had become a key member of the group. Negan sighed and you could see that the question bothered him.

“I didn’t kill them,” he said in a low voice. “I ordered Simon to go and speak to her and get them to drop their alliance with you, but I never wanted him to… Simon killed Jadis’ people. I didn’t know about it until she told me herself.” You watched him, trying to see if he was lying, but you also knew he wasn’t a liar. In fact, Negan’s whole thing was that he never shied away from the truth. It was annoyingly charming and something that you admired and found incredibly irritating.

“So, you’re not a cold-blooded killer then,” you concluded.

“Not always,” he said with a slight shrug.

The sun was getting higher in the sky now and it began to stream through the small window of Negan’s cell. You knew you would have to leave in a bit. You had promised Aaron that you would watch Gracie so he could run an errand. And by errand, you knew that meant meeting up with Jesus. The man thought he was being slick, but you could see right through his lovesick lies. It was adorable.

“(Y/N),” Negan said, gaining your attention once again. “Let me ask you this because I have been curious since our last visit.”

“Shoot,” you said.

“What was your vote on what to do with me?” he asked.

“We didn’t vote,” you reminded him. Rick had made the decision and that was that.

“Well if you had,” Negan said, “what would you have chosen?” You thought about telling him, but a part of you loved keeping him on his toes.

“I’ll tell you next time,” you said as you got up from your seat.

“Tease!” he said dramatically as he fell back on his cot. You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop the smile that spread on your face.

“Not used to getting what you want, Negan?” he looked over at you with narrowed eyes. You leaned over and wrapped your hands around the bars. “Tragic.”

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