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The forest blurred into a haze of decay and shadow as Negan charged through, Rick’s limp body slung over his shoulder. Rick’s weight pressed heavy but steady against Negan’s frame, his blood seeping warm and sticky through Negan’s jacket. The air stank of rot and pine, thick with the guttural snarls of walkers lurching through the underbrush. Negan’s boots pounded the uneven ground as he dodged a walker’s snapping jaws with a sharp sidestep.
Ahead loomed the crumbling safehouse — a dilapidated shack, its wooden walls half-devoured by creeping vines. The door sagged on rusted hinges. Negan barreled through a knot of walkers, his bat arcing to clear a path. With a grunt, he kicked the door open and hauled Rick inside. He eased Rick against a wall, movements swift yet careful, as the distant moans of walkers echoed outside.
Negan crouched, lifting Rick’s shirttail to inspect the wound. The gash wasn’t fatal but deep enough to bleed heavily, demanding immediate attention. Rick needed care. Whether Negan was the right one to give it was another question. A twisted thrill flickered in Negan’s gut at the sight of Rick’s broken form, the shallow, desperate gasps for air. His fingers brushed the wound, not gently, pressing just enough to draw a sharp hiss from Rick’s lips.
There was something sick inside Negan's mind, telling him to tear the wound open, to expose the raw, pulsing flesh, just to watch Rick suffer. His fingered still lingering near the wound, teasing the edges of Rick’s agony without fully committing to the act. The thought danced tantalizingly at the edges of his consciousness, but he stopped. For reasons he didn’t fully grasp.
Rick stirred, breath ragged, consciousness clawing its way back. His eyes burned with defiance, refusing to break despite the pain. Clenching his teeth to stifle a moan, he glared at Negan, hatred searing through his vulnerability. “Get away from me,” he spat, voice raw but unyielding.
"You’re a mess." Despite Rick's expectations, there was no sense of sneer in Negan's voice, no mockery.
Negan leaned closer, pulling a small knife out of his pocket. Rick's heart raced as he caught sight of the blade glinting in the low light, its edge sharp and menacing. He instinctively tensed, every muscle in his body ready to react.
Negan held the knife steady, its tip hovering just above Rick’s wound. Rick’s eyes darted from the blade to Negan’s face, searching for any hint of his next move. The pain throbbed relentlessly, but Rick forced himself Chamber of Commerce focus, to stay sharp despite the fog of agony.
"Relax, Rick," Negan said, his voice low, almost soothing. "I ain’t gonna gut you. Not yet, anyway." He tilted his head. "You gotta trust me a little here."
"Trust you?" Rick’s voice was hoarse, dripping with disdain. "That’s a death sentence." He shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure on his wound, but the movement only sent a fresh wave of pain searing through him.
Nagan twirled the knife between his fingers in a way that made Rick’s stomach twist. "But you’re still bleedin’ like a stuck pig, and I’m the only one here with a knife and a steady hand. You gonna let me help you."
Rick’s jaw tightened. Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to push Negan away, but the blood pooling beneath him was a stark reminder of his reality. He couldn’t afford to die here, not for his own sake, but for those who depended on him. Carl. Judith. The others. He forced himself to meet Negan’s gaze, his blue eyes burning with defiance despite the exhaustion creeping in.
"Do it," Rick muttered through gritted teeth. "But if you try anything, I’ll kill you."
Negan’s smirk widened, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes, respect, maybe, or curiosity. The knife dipping toward the wound. Rick tensed, his breath catching as the cold metal brushed against his skin. But instead of cutting deeper, Negan used the blade to carefully slice away the blood-soaked fabric of Rick’s shirt, exposing the gash fully.
The wound was ugly, jagged and deep, oozing blood with every shallow breath Rick took. Negan whistled low, his expression shifting to something almost clinical. "I’m stitching that shit up," he said, not asking but commanding. "It’s gonna hurt like hell, but it’s your only shot at not bleeding out."
Rick knew, that Negan wasn’t trustworthy, far from it, but he was right about one thing: Rick was running out of time. The edges of his vision were starting to blur again, and the cold sweat beading on his forehead told him he was closer to passing out than he’d like to admit.
Rick rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "I swear, if you screw me over -"
"Yeah, yeah, you'll kill me," Negan interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "I get it the first time. Save your energy, tough guy." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, battered first-aid kit, the kind you’d find in an old survival pack. It was surprisingly well-stocked: needle, thread, alcohol wipes, even a small roll of gauze. Negan caught Rick’s surprised glance and grinned. "What? You think I run around bashin’ skulls without a backup plan? I’m a practical man."
Rick didn’t respond, focusing instead on staying conscious as Negan poured alcohol onto a cloth and pressed it against the wound. The sting was immediate and brutal, ripping a guttural cry from Rick’s throat before he could stop it. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep still.
"Try not to move," Negan murmured, his tone almost gentle. He threaded the needle with practiced ease, his movements unusually steady and precise. "You scream too loud, you’ll scare the walkers. Or worse, you’ll make me think you’re enjoyin’ this."
Rick glared at him, his chest heaving. "Go to hell," he managed, his voice strained but venomous.
Negan laughed, a genuine, booming sound. "Oh, Rick, I’m already fucking there. Question is, you gonna join me?" He didn’t wait for a reply, his focus shifting to the wound as he began to stitch, the needle piercing skin with a sickening tug.
Rick gritted his teeth, each stitch a fresh agony, but he refused to cry out again. He focused on Negan’s hands, watching the careful, almost meticulous way he worked. It was unsettling, seeing this side of him, competent, controlled. It didn’t fit the monster Rick knew, and that dissonance gnawed at him, even through the haze of pain.
As Negan tied off the final stitch with a deft tug, wiping the blood from his hands onto his pants. The metallic tang of blood hung in the air, mingling with the damp, musty scent of their surroundings. His eyes lingered on the jagged line of stitches, a crude but effective patch job that would keep Rick from bleeding out. For now. "There you go," he said, his voice carrying a casual arrogance, as if he’d just fixed a leaky faucet instead of a man’s torn flesh. "You’re not gonna bleed out on my watch. You’re welcome."
Negan’s hand darted out, calloused fingers grazing Rick’s cheek in a gesture that straddled the line between intimate and unsettling. Too deliberate to be a caress, too soft to be a strike. It sent a shiver down Rick’s spine, his skin prickling under the touch. Rick’s jaw clenched, a flinch betraying his discomfort, but he held his ground. Not out of choice, but because every shred of strength was poured into staying upright, refusing to let Negan see him crumble.
"You’re one tough bastard, I’ll give you that," Negan said, his voice low and tinged with something that could almost pass for admiration. His thumb lingered on Rick’s cheek, tracing the edge of his jaw before he pulled back, his grin becoming sharp and predatory once again. "Most men would’ve been blubberin’ by now. But you? You just keep glarin’ like you’re gonna rip my throat out with your bare hands. Gotta say, it’s kinda hot."
Rick didn’t respond, his breathing still ragged but steadier now. The pain was still there, a dull roar beneath the surface, but the immediate threat of death had receded, at least for the moment. He met Negan’s gaze, searching for the catch, the ulterior motive. Expect there was no taunt in his expression now, no cruel smirk or biting quip. Just a quiet scrutiny, that was peeling back layers Rick fought to keep hidden.
Negan remained crouched beside Rick, uncharacteristically still, his usual restless energy replaced by an unsettling calm. For reasons Rick couldn’t fathom, Negan lingered, his presence a heavy weight in the dim, grimy room. It was a rare, almost unnatural for Negan. For once, he wasn’t performing.
Negan’s gaze locked onto Rick’s, that infuriating smile of his lingering, softer now, but carrying an edge that made Rick’s skin prickle with unease. It wasn’t the smug grin Negan usually wore, the one that screamed control and mockery. This was something else, something that felt too close to genuine, and it set Rick’s nerves on edge. The realization finally sonked in. Negan had hauled him out of the forest, hoisting him over his shoulder like a sack of grain, muscling through the chaos of snapping walkers to drag him into this crumbling safehouse. Rick’s mind churned, his body aching as he leaned against the wall, one question gnawing at him: Why?
Why had Negan, of all people, risked his own neck to save him? Rick studied him, searching for a tell, some crack in the mask, but Negan’s eyes gave nothing away. Just that damn smile, like he knew something Rick didn’t. Rick’s gut told him Negan wouldn’t be straight about it. Hell, maybe Negan didn’t even know himself. Maybe he was dodging the truth, burying it under layers of bravado and sharp words because admitting it would mean cracking open something neither of them was ready to face.
Negan broke the silence first "You’re lookin’ at me like I grew a second head, Grimes. What’s the matter? Not used to bein’ the damsel in distress?" He chuckled, low and rough, but his eyes stayed regardful, watching Rick’s every move.
Rick’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into a fist to ground himself against the pain radiating from his stitched-up side. "Why’d you do it?" he rasped, his voice raw but steady. "You could’ve left me. Should’ve."
Negan’s smile faltered, just for a split second, before he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Maybe I just like the company," he said, the words dripping with his usual sarcasm, but there was a weight to them, something unspoken that hung in the air. He stood abruptly, turning to rummage through the med kit again, like he needed something to do with his hands. "Or maybe I’m just not done with you yet."
Rick didn’t buy it. Not the flippant tone, not the deflection. Negan was a lot of things, ruthless, cunning, thriving on control, but this? This wasn’t just about keeping Rick alive for some game. Rick’s mind flashed to moments before. The way Negan had stitched him up with a focus that bordered on care, the way he’d carried him without a single quip until they were safe. It didn’t add up, not with the man who’d swung a bat and torn their world apart.
"Bullshit," Rick muttered, his voice low but firm. "You don’t drag a man through hell just to play hero."
Negan froze, looking away. For a moment, the only sound was the distant groan of walkers outside, their shadows flickering through the boarded-up windows. Then Negan turned, his smile gone, replaced by something raw, almost unguarded. "Fuck, you think I’m savin’ you outta the goodness of my heart?" he said, his voice quieter now, almost dangerous. "Maybe I just don’t want your blood on my hands. Or maybe…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing, like he was weighing whether to say more. "Maybe you’re not the only one who’s tired of losin’ everyone."
The words hit Rick unexpectedly and heavy. He wanted to call it a lie, to shove it back in Negan’s face, but there was something in his tone, something that sounded too close to truth. Rick’s chest tightened, his mind warring between distrust and the nagging sense that Negan meant it. He didn’t respond, just held Negan’s gaze, searching the angle. But all he saw was a man who looked, for once, like he was carrying a weight he couldn’t shrug off.
Negan broke the moment, rising to his feet, his boots scuffing against the gritty floor. He crossed the room in two strides, snatching a dusty canteen from the table. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it to Rick, who caught it weakly, his fingers trembling. "Drink," he ordered, his voice back to its usual bark. "Rest up for a minute. We’re movin’ out soon. And if you pass out on me, Grimes, I ain’t haulin’ your sorry ass again. Got that?"
But as he turned away, Rick caught the faintest flicker in his expression. Something that looked almost like doubt, like Negan was wrestling with his own reasons as much as Rick was.