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Through pinprick openings in the weave of the fabric over her head, artificial light streams through. Everything around her is vague shades and colors, difficult to parse but clear enough that she doesn’t run directly into anything. The man that ushers along her is more meek than the one she’s used to. Simon oversaw her community’s dwindling numbers for the better part of five months, and had been the one to initially tie her up earlier in the afternoon. This man must be similarly aggressive, though. No one from the team of minions working for Negan lacks a sense of anger. So despite his comparatively small hand on her forearm, bound behind her back, she doesn’t fight him.
He tempts her, though. Goads her. Shoves her when he doesn’t need to. Huffs at her to walk faster when he’s the one dragging his feet. After being thrown around so much in the back of a van, she’s getting tired of being treated like this. The car ride lasted something like an hour, maybe longer. Halfway through, they stopped for her to exchange hands. Simon gave her a couple pats on the back as he left, so hard they stung more like slaps. She’s pretty sure the man she’s with now had been the one to drive her the rest of the way here.
Currently being escorted, she notes that the hallways they walk are surprisingly well-kept. She isn’t maneuvered through piles of wreckage and it feels like they have working air conditioning here. The floors aren’t sticky or dirty, the footsteps everyone makes sound clean and sharp.
She shouldn’t be surprised. The Saviors seem like they’ve been well-off for longer than she’s even been aware of the outbreak.
Her warden yanks back on the ropes around her wrists so she stops in her tracks.
“He’s ready?” asks the man behind her.
The other guard must nod, the door ends up opening quietly and she’s pushed stumbling inside. Nostrils flare and she huffs out a breath as she does her best not to trip. For all the good it’s worth, her head whips around in his direction, “just tell me to move.”
He shoves her in the back again instead.
Though seething, she manages to keep quiet and takes several steps ahead of the man, forceful enough that she feels the resistance on her bindings when he’s too complacent to keep up. The door slams behind them. It’s harsh enough that the doorframe rattles annoyingly.
When there’s whistling that comes from in front of her, something like a cat call, she stands still. Unsure what to make of this, the room doesn’t sound too large from the echoes so she has to be near the center.
Unceremoniously, her escort says “kneel.”
She sighs slow through her nose. He didn’t pay her request any mind, so she does the same of his.
“Kneel, damnit,” he repeats. This time, however, he doesn’t wait so she can stand by being stubborn. No scrap of patience left, his boot pushes into the pit of her knee and forces her to buckle forward. Unable to break her own fall, her wrists strain against the rope in an attempt anyway.
Knees hit the floor first, she angles her shoulder to hit the ground next and for a moment, she indulges in the thought of cursing them out and thrashing around. This is quickly snuffed out by how frustrating it is to wobble around like this, unable to support herself or sit up. It’s humiliating and undercuts any good impression she might be able to make on the head asshole. Though significant leniency isn’t likely, a bend is something she can break with enough time.
She’s done it before.
“Get ‘er up.”
A particularly amused voice speaks dismissively in front of her.
The person behind her puts his hands on her shoulders and hefts her back, puts her in the kneeling position he so kindly asked for. The sting of frustration and scuffed skin settle in but don’t compare to what can only be rug burn she sustains when painful burlap gets pulled from over her head. It rakes against her ears harshly and she has to fight to keep it from catching on her chin.
There’s a gasp for clean air when it’s off, she takes a deep breath and quickly looks around the room. The quick scan reveals an office space. A bookshelf on one wall, cabinets on the opposite. Ahead of her is the lower half of a man, leaned back against a desk. He’s backlit from setting daylight by a large window behind him. To his sides are chairs she assumes would normally be between them, but are pushed away for the floor space.
His sturdy boots have been recently polished. Clean, dark denim jeans. White shirt that’s seen a bit of aging, neck hole is slightly worn grey. The thing she fixates on the most is his jacket— black leather, bright silver zippers, not a scratch in sight. He’s pristinely put together.
“Well, hellooo , nurse,” the man lilts. His whole body jovially bounces with the passing syllables.
Finally putting his face to focus, her eyes drift up past his shoulders. He’s smiling at her, lazy expression looks comfortable. When she meets his gaze, his head tilts forward and his tongue slides along his teeth. He nods to the side like he’s acknowledging a point she’s made.
“You look good on your knees.”
The leader of the Saviors is far more attractive than she expected, though she supposes his face matches his voice. Big nose, heavy-set eyebrows. The scruffy beginnings of a salt and pepper beard. Negan’s dark hair is slicked back. He evokes the same energy as a greaser did to her when she was younger. Intimidatingly cool, could get away with anything devilish based on looks and bravado. He’s a retired one now though, and regardless, she’s grown up enough to realize Danny Zuko was a cornball. Given his opening line, she can’t help but feel the same about the man in front of her.
She gives her best Sandra Dee. “I’m flattered.”
“Then let’s get started.” He sounds excited, pushes off of the desk with both hands and propels himself forward. His hands clap together and then rub, playing up the anticipation as he steps closer to her. He saunters, relishes in their established statuses.
She simmers in an odd blend of indignance and humility. He’s the source of the vast majority of the problems she’s faced lately. In the same breath, he wholly ordered an end to everything that troubled her.
It was not by choice that she joined her previous flock. She was and is no stranger to the nature of adapting to fit a new hierarchy. Pulling sheepskin over herself, she fit in to the group by playing pacified and polite for as long as she could. The Saviors upset that balance. The shepherd of the swarm she lived in was too willing to sacrifice lives. Not far up enough on the ladder, she was unable to sway the leader out of rolling over and submitting effortlessly.
Penelope Lake knew one thing, the sole thing that mattered. She would not die. So she made peace with the fact that she would have to give up tranquility for her greater good. It’s why she doesn’t find it within herself to view Negan with total derision.
“Of course.”
“It’s nice finally meeting the doctor. That is who you are, ain’t it? Or did they drag me the wrong piece of ass.”
It was her that spoke up when Simon came back to the encampment demanding a sacrificial lamb. Not to volunteer herself, but information.
“I’m the doctor,” she confirms. The same phrase that spared her. They had taken her roommate instead and the infighting began. No one forgave her for saving her own skin. The seeds of discontent only grew over time.
He squints with a smile as it spreads, his hands still, clasped together before one points and shakes at her. “Lucky you! We just had a spot in the infirmary open up.”
She nods slowly like she has to actually consider the opportunity. In the moments she takes to process the implications here, his hand is on her chin. Tilts her head up to look more directly at him. Negan looks like he’s about to make another smarmy, snarky comment, but she stops him before he can start.
“Don’t touch me.” Her tone is even with no trace of malice.
His brows lift with obvious fascination. “I don’t think you’re in a position to tell me what to do. Do you?”
The patronizing way he speaks makes her think he’s expecting her to immediately walk it back with his allowance. It’s a game of control he plays in everything that she’s seen so far, and it’s readily evident he never loses.
That doesn’t stop her from trying him. He’s already shown his hand in needing her here, so she’s feeling relatively secure. Enough to test the new leader she’ll be under. See how much she can get away with from the boss directly, rather than the henchmen who wanted her executed first.
“Just let go.” She blinks up at him, perfectly casual.
He repositions and grips harder, squeezes her cheeks in. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
She lets him keep squeezing by parting her jaw, mouth comes slightly open. In a split second of fractured self-control, she opens wider, jerks forward, and bites hard into his hand. Clamping down, it takes real effort for him to snatch himself away. The side of his palm is yanked from between her teeth with a hiss.
“Jesus motherfuckin’ Christ,” he laughs, boisterous and out of breath. Negan surveys both her and his hand. Exaggeratedly condescending, “the biters stay outside the gates.”
She doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t put his hand back on her face.
“You’ve got awful manners. Anyone ever told you that?” Flexing his fingers, his laughing calms down. She doesn’t think she sees blood on him, doesn’t taste it when she licks her lips. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds.”
“I’m not beholden to you,” she counters reflexively.
He toes his boot in the tile beneath them like he’s digging in to stand his ground. Regardless of the seriousness in his body language, his tone is intrigued and playful. “Now I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“Seems like you’ve forgotten your manners too,” she deflects. With her mask slowly slipping, she can’t help but be a little antagonistic.
“Don’t forget why you’re here. Everyone is dead but you, sugar.” Surprisingly, this doesn’t come off like a taunt. It’s frank but not cruel. “That means a lot of my property is dead. Less people bringing me my shit.”
During the ride to Sanctuary, she came to peace with the deaths. The mourning for that community had started in stages long before the slaughter today. Compared to the last couple months collectively, less lives were lost this afternoon— this was the extinguishing blow to a candle that had been slowly burning out. Cleaning up flickers left behind. Compartmentalization came once the initial gunshot shock was over. The strongest surprise was that she wasn’t among the corpses.
When Simon came after her, the last standing in the room, it was pure instinct that made her fight like hell. Once she touched the floor and the others began to help him, the kicking and writhing was more half-hearted. Striking logic hit that they weren’t going to kill her. If she was intended to be an example, she would’ve been brought in front of a crowd. Not the subject to that very group being dispatched. Saviors wouldn’t waste time, effort, or resources to abduct her if there wasn’t a purpose.
However grim that purpose was, it necessitated her being alive. And that was enough.
She wouldn’t be delegated to counting canned goods anymore.
This reality doesn’t stop her from progressively more blatant sarcasm. “I’m so sorry.”
Negan frowns out of neutrality that lasted moments long. “I’m not sensing any regret. Their blood is on your hands. You know that, right?”
She’s quiet. He’s half right. Though her palms are stained crimson, his whole body is drenched.
“ You got them killed, acting out like Simon said. Especially that stunt with the spare generator.”
She gives him a candid retort.
“I’d do it again.”
The respect on his face is instant.
“Oh, I like you, sweetheart. You've got balls, I'll give you that.” The enchanted way he sounds confirms an incredible amount of her assumptions about him. It’s vindicating to finally have someone that appreciates her perspective. This sense of understanding isn’t tainted by what he follows with. “But there’s no one left to punish, other than you.”
“I don’t care,” she whips back. No one that died today wouldn’t have put her first if they could’ve. Come what may, she’s still breathing and they aren’t.
Negan purses his lips, amused but understandably skeptical. One of his thumbs hooks into his belt loop and he gestures with the spare hand. “Walk me through that.”
“I’m not dead,” she starts. There’s a laundry list of things she could say but she ultimately elects for the most straightforward one. She shifts on the floor, dares him with a tilt of her head. “And you’re not going to kill me.”
The man above her languidly strokes some of her hair out of her eyes with a couple fingers. Curls drape out of her vision, over her shoulder. “You’re sure?”
She breaks the rule she was trying to set a precedent for in letting him touch her. But he’s careful. Mindful enough that she can’t find it in herself to be upset. Already sensing he loves to push boundaries, he gives the slightest hint that he’s respecting one of hers. It’s not as though she hasn’t seen his directives unleashed on others who would disobey him.
Her blood isn’t on the ground. She likes that.
“You would’ve done it already. You’re Negan .”
When he crouches down, putting them at an even level, she can see that his glinting eyes are hazel. “Look at you, smarty pants.”
“It’s not hard to figure out. You run everything.” It’s sucking up to him, she supposes, but it’s true. She’s beginning not to see the harm in flirting back, gives her another way to prod at him. He seems to like the audacity anyway. “I never stop hearing your name.”
“And we are far from finished with that, Penelope,” he murmurs, looking momentarily pleased when she reacts to her own name. “You come up a lot. Simon thinks you’re a problem.”
Confidence is infectious, especially when her impact is confirmed. Boldness is something she’s missed— coming from such a passive gaggle of people directly into the lion’s den has shifted everything about her future for the better. She can see a path here. How she can play his game, become indispensable. Unable to conceal it, a hint of a smile breaks through when words can’t.
“So she can smile! I was beginning to think you were arrogant and bitchy.” His brow furrows down as he grins, entertained, and scrutinizes her face with a lick of his lips. “It’s a good smile too. You’ve almost got me convinced!”
The smile takes shape further, curious. “Convinced?”
“That you mean it!”
She raises an eyebrow. “What if I do? You gave me a job.”
“I could give you a hell of a lot more than that,” he sneers. When she doesn’t start giggling and blushing, he lets the joke fall flat. Negan starts to reach towards her again but plays it off by standing up instead. “You’re practical. Good.”
If even a modicum of the flirting is authentic, he’ll enjoy the chase and she’ll enjoy the leverage. So she doesn’t reward the suggestiveness more than she has to, smile spreads to her eyes. “When do I start?”
He bites his lower lip, shrugs. “I’ll give you a couple days to settle in. Meet the family.”
“How generous.”
“Something to say to that?”
“Mm.” She deliberates. Supposes he’s been decent enough to her, considering the circumstances. And it’d be useful to stay on what appears to be his good side. So she swallows a sigh. “Thank you, Negan.”
“Attagirl!” His hand pats her shoulder and she doesn’t try to move it when he leaves it there. He looks over her head, nods towards her. “Dwight. Get the lady a room.”
Finally, she turns to see the man that had carted her here— face half-scarred over from extensive burns. It dawns on her now that she hasn’t looked away from Negan since he introduced himself, too caught up in their back and forth. Dwight looks as wimpy as she expected, and the way he’s furrowing his brows at Negan comes across as confused and frustrated. His dirty blond hair hangs wispy in his face as he doesn’t say anything. This isn’t enough for the boss, the hesitation ends up chastised.
“A private room for the woman. Now ,” the man insists. Dwight jumps a little but not to action so Negan huffs, “Jesus, Dwight.”
He shoves the shorter man out of the way and whips out a knife from his belt, bending down and cutting the rope around her hands. Once his knife is tucked away, he actually goes to help her stand too. She’s quick to let go, stretches out her arms for the first time in hours.
“Thanks,” she mutters, rubs her wrists where they’re chaffed from rope.
Negan looks between her and Dwight, squints his eyes and nods slowly. “I’ll take her.”
Dwight steps passively out of the way and Negan’s hand is presumptive at her lower back when he leads her past the lanky man who looks more sullen than ever. They enter the hallway together and Negan sucks his teeth, clicks a few times.
“You know what they say about good help.”
“Your turnover must be something else.” They take an immediate turn down a hallway she didn’t notice before. Where they walk, she can’t see anyone around. It’s quieter here, more relaxed without prying eyes and ears. Makes sense for a more residential area, so she tries to let herself calm too. Drops her shoulders and looks at the area around her in a way that’s more curious and less analytical.
He chuckles, “people stick around more than you’d think.”
They pass a couple doors adorned with signs, little decorations. Evidence of a degree of comfort. It’s surprising to her that people have made homes of this place. “Clearly.”
“You’ll have to stay and see why.” Negan seems pleased, squeezes her side.
“What all the fuss is about? Maybe so.” She speaks as if she has a choice and wouldn’t end up on a spike in his front lawn if she actually does piss him off and take all this for granted. They carry on more like old friends than a dictator and his newest recruit. She gets the impression he likes to cut the grave intensity of the hierarchy with cloying casualness.
“I keep people satisfied,” he suggests, words curl off his tongue and teeth and imply more than homemaking.
Immediately, she huffs a laugh. “Are you like this with everyone?” When he looks animatedly confused, she scoffs. “The showmanship. The flirting.”
“You can’t be telling me you don’t like theatrics. ” The last half of his indignant sentence is dragged along, each word emphasized as he helps her round a corner.
“That’s not what I asked,” she snips. He looks her over, eyes linger a little too long. It doesn’t feel objectifying which surprises her, just reveals how carefully he’s thinking about his words. This is made more interesting when he relents, to a degree.
“I am.”
“Here I was, thinking I was special.” As a reward, she’s playful in return. More unguarded, she already feels as though she stands out. Though it could be a trick of his natural inclination for compelling others, a part of her trusts her gut. Negan tugs at her waist in response. The action makes her shuffle a half step towards him as they go and would’ve made her stumble if not for the way he was already leading her.
“I don’t always mean it.”
Significantly more open than she expects, he doesn’t seem to be negging her. There’s genuine admittance there. Another situation where it’s either a slight bit of trust or he’s going to play her even further. He’s a convincing leader and a convincing man. As much as she feels it could be delusional, she trusts her instincts. Negan really does seem genuine in this moment. There’s a tonal shift from before, even when he was leveling with her.
They near the end of the hallway and the hold on her is released so he can open a door to what must be her room and step inside.
The lights flick on inside the room.
After a moment, she speaks unprompted. “It’s Nellie.”
His head ticks towards her a bit, though his back still faces her. “What’s that?”
She doesn’t immediately enter the bedroom, waits at the threshold until he looks back at her to answer. “I go by Nellie.” And adds as she walks through, “to people I like.”
“Well, Nellie,” is almost impishly purred. Facing her, his lips have pulled into a smirk. “I'm gonna make damn sure you like me.”
Now joining him in the room, she doesn’t make further eye contact. She skims the room instead. Around the dresser, over the windowsills, to the bed. It’s not a large space but she doubts very seriously that many people get this sort of privilege. There are divots in the wall, paintings taken down from nails and screws. The surfaces are free of clutter, but dusty. There are more people that she’s seen today alone than there are rooms they’ve passed by, and still this one sat unused. He’s forever withholding.
“It seems like you’re used to getting everything you want.”
From the corner of her eye, she can tell he’s watching her. Negan speaks with total conviction. “I always do.”
Nellie nods thoughtfully. When she returns to looking at him fully, his smile squints again. Happy despite how deep and serious he had been moments before. This delight is more tame than the giddy demeanor had been in front of Dwight. Softer and settling, she slides her hands leisurely into her pockets.
“I’ll have someone bring you clothes.” The end of the conversation begins, starts tapering away but he can’t resist instigating further when he walks her way, heading for the door. “I’d rather see you in something more flattering .”
“Yellow looks good on me. Warm colors,” she plays along, walks with him back to the hall.
He chuckles. “I’ll remember that.”
“Smart man.”
When he steps out, there’s a moment of idling. Stays with her a second longer before starting into the hall. Slow at first, but she can’t convince herself this is hesitation. An opportunity, maybe. So she calls after him, leans just outside of the door.
“Negan—”
Turns to face her, eyebrows raised.
“What makes you think I won’t run the second you walk away?”
He shakes his head, features drift from intrigue into self-assuredness. “You don’t want to leave,” he explains like the answer is that simple and, slyly, winks at her.
At long last, her silence is actually stunned. There’s nothing intentional or rage-induced about it. Faintest hint of heat in her cheeks, she actually doesn’t know how to fire back. Pursing her lips, she shrugs in admitted defeat.
Negan takes it further, inches towards her and leans in, conspiratorial. “Besides. Where would you even go, sugar?”
Mind blank, she sharply inhales, bewildered. Momentarily, she regrets asking him anything at all. In an effort to divert attention from her floundering, she clears her throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Negan.”
There’s a laugh in reply, strolling off and leaving her to finally watch him go. Echoing down the halls as he leaves is another declaration. “Yes you will!”
Nellie doesn’t wait to see him turn the corner they had just taken. Quietly stunned, she has no one to blame but herself. Back within her new home, she pushes the door shut with the flat of her foot. Wandering to an armchair near the sole window, she collapses in it with a breath. The stuffing underneath her cushions the fall and provides the closest thing she’s had to comfort in nearly a year.
Alone, Nellie wonders how long it’ll take for this to feel normal. Exhilaration of different flavors played in phases from the moment she woke until this door closed behind her. In the aftermath, she’s left reflecting. Today has been the most honest she’s been in ages. It’s also the closest she’s been to death. Symmetrical portions of instability and relief color the experience, she wonders what they’ll be like once the dust settles. If his posturing was a temporary fix for her attitude, if her pretenses will become less false. There’s something undeniable about him. Allure she knows she’s already victim to, promises of more that have already swayed her allegiance— as much as she’d like to pretend it was entirely convenience, there’s too much about him she’s fond of.
Somehow, she knows she’s going to get what she deserves out of this. Intuition tells her she’ll like it too.