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It had been eight long years since Rick Grimes had resigned from the King County Sheriff Department, hanging up the metaphorical-and literal- hat. Eight years since he’d been shot on duty and woke up fifty-nine days later disoriented and weak and confused in a hospital bed with Lori and Carl’s tearful eyes blinking down at him.
It had been four and a half years since he’d lost Lori, and the same number of years since he’d gained Judith. Two years since he’d met Negan. One year since Rick had popped the question, down on one knee just like he’d done with Lori, out by the lazy, willow-lined river that Negan had taken him and the kids to visit during their camping trip together as a family.
Rick still found it hard to believe that he was one of those old fogies that kept track of things by the years. Not summer-to-Christmas-to-summer like a child, living for school breaks and long weekends. Hell, now he wasn’t even working for the weekends- his work at his close friend Hershel’s farm was hardly a nine-to-five, but on the upside, some days it hardly felt like a job at all.
But still. Eight years. And eight years had done a lot to Rick- not just as far as his job and family went, either.
His uniform, still pristine and neatly pressed in a zippered bag in the back of his closet with old Christmas sweaters that Rick had hidden from Negan, was the same as it had ever been. And that was the problem.
Rick tried not to think about his aging body very much. Sure, he cringed a little when he looked in the mirror to see even more grey streaking his beard and temples, and yeah, maybe he wasn’t as slim as he’d always been, but Negan had certainly never complained, and god knew that man had explored every inch of Rick’s body like a cartographer charting new land. He’d planted his flag wherever he could.
Now, though, faced with the way his uniform pants clung a little too tightly to his hips and backside and thighs, Rick was second-guessing himself. He was ashamed to admit that he had to wrestle with the button for a solid minute and a half before getting himself zipped away. The shirt was no better, the starchy fabric pulling taught across his broad chest and shoulders. He was reminded of how he’d felt back in middle school when his first growth spurt had hit and in the span of a single summer his jeans were showing a good three inches of ankle and all his shirts felt like shrink-wrap.
He reluctantly donned his hat, which he’d had to tidy up a bit because Carl had taken to wearing it for a season. It completed the ensemble in a truly terrible way, and Rick found himself dodging his reflection in the mirror.
“Christ,” he muttered, rubbing one hand across the greying beard stubble on his jaw.
Maybe agreeing to attend the Sheriff’s retirement party as a former officer instead of just a friend had been a mistake. He thought of all the people he still knew on the force- Shane, Tara, Abraham, Sasha…Christ, he’d look like an old man next to them. Not to mention that Abraham had a good five years on him at least, but that man’s hair was still as fiery orange as a nectarine.
He was reminded now why he'd never tried on the uniform for Negan despite the incessant begging and promises of daily blow jobs (yeah, like Negan wouldn’t have offered that up anyway). His husband had definitely been picturing something stripper-esque and sexy, not something that Rick could pop the buttons off of by taking a deep breath. It was a shame, too- Lori had always adored him in uniform. There had been a time or two- or three or four- where Rick had dared to wear it into the bedroom, and it had always resulted in some...fun. Particularly when Rick’s handcuffs got involved. But for so long, the uniform had held too many painful memories to pull out, and then it became a small, understated worry that if Rick was to pull it out and try it on, the result would be something like what was happening now: cringe-worthy.
At least Negan isn’t here to see it. Maybe I can get it altered before Friday. Or better yet, call Sheriff Welles and tell him that you’ll be coming as a civilian since it's a waste of money to alter something you're only going to wear once-
The familiar, well-worn sound of boots tromping up the staircase made Rick freeze up like a deer in the headlights. Shit, shit, shit-
“Rick!” Negan’s voice was close- too close for Rick to change clothes before he stepped into their bedroom and witnessed Rick’s shame. “Got outta that fuckin’ PTA meeting early. Get this, apparently I’m- and I’m quoting principal limpdick here- ‘inappropriately vulgar and aggressive toward parents who are just seeking to better their children’. Can you believe that shit? All because I told some helicopter dad at the last meeting to stop fucking doing little Jimmy’s science fair projects for him.” Negan’s deep, rumbling chuckle sounded from just outside the cracked door, a and then the man was stepping inside. “Still can’t believe I got roped into bein’ a judge for that shitshow- I’m the goddamned gym teacher for cryin’ out loud, what the fuck do I know about baking soda volcanoes and the scientific method-”
Negan stopped short mid-stride, looking comically gobsmacked by the scene he’d walked in on. Rick felt his cheeks heat up when the man didn’t immediately speak, sweat prickling under the too-tight collar of the uniform shirt. Just say I look ridiculous and get it over with, asshole.
“Fuck,” Negan muttered thickly, hazel eyes raking Rick’s body like it was the first time he’d laid eyes on him. “I, uh- fuck. What was I sayin’?” Negan shook his head slowly, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Not important, actually. Nothing else could possibly be as important as this. They could be dropping fucking bombs outside and that would still come in a very distant second as far as priorities go.”
Rick heaved a sigh. “Go ahead.”
Negan quirked an eyebrow. “Go ahead and what?”
Rick shifted on his feet, too aware of how his thighs pressed together. “I know you’ve got plenty to say about…this.” Rick gestured to the atrocity he was wearing. “Get it over with.”
“I don’t even fuckin’ know where to start, Rick. Give me a minute.”
“Hurry the hell up, I wanna get out of it.”
Negan grinned wickedly. “Oh, I’ll get you out of it, alright.”
Rick rolled his eyes and tossed the hat at Negan’s smirking face. “Shut up.”
“Give me a spin, Rick, let me see my favorite ass all wrapped up in this uniform. C’mon. No, wait! I’ll put some music on- Pour Some Sugar on Me, maybe?” Rick gritted his teeth. “No? How about Baby Got Back?”
Rick snorted and shook his head. “Baby’s got a little too much back these days.”
“No such thing, Rick.”
“These pants say otherwise. It was a fight just to get ‘em buttoned.” The confession made Rick’s blush deepen- it was hardly sexy to tell your boyfriend about how you were too goddamned chubby to fit into your pants.
“Well, yeah. You’re thick as fuck now, Rick. You put on a lot of muscle workin’ the land for Papa Greene.”
“Yeah,” Rick mumbled sarcastically, “muscle.” He went to unbutton the shirt- Negan had gotten more than enough of an eyeful of him looking foolish for today- only to be stopped by a warm, tall body pressed up behind him and a gentle hand stilling his wrist.
“Rick,” Negan rumbled, and Rick could hear the disapproving frown in his voice. “I fucking know you’re not sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’, because you’re smarter than that.”
Rick pulled his wrist out of Negan’s grip and started on the straining buttons. “Smarter than what, Negan?”
“You don’t really think you’re fat, do you?”
“Well, if the shoe fits,” Rick muttered, and then, with a wry smirk: “and they do, by the way. Unlike the rest of my uniform.”
“Rick, Rick, Rick.” Negan shook his head, nose brushing Rick’s long chestnut curls. “Look, baby, I’ve seen pictures of you back when you were on the force. You were hot as sin- Lori was the luckiest woman in King County. By a fuckin’ landslide. But now?” Negan’s hands slid over Rick’s hips, and Rick cringed, knowing his boyfriend could feel the softness of flesh there from where the pants were squeezing him. “Now, I’m the luckiest sunofabitch in town. Still no contest.” Rick inhaled sharply when Negan’s fingers deftly undid the button and zipper to his pants. “So you aren’t the same size that you were eight years ago- so fucking what? You’re still the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Negan mouthed at the side of Rick’s neck, and Rik felt himself shudder and relax back against the man behind him. “You’re every bit as hot as you were back when this shit still fit. Hotter, even. Now you’ve got that whole sexy-rugged-muscled look.”
Rick wasn’t sure how his shirt ended up pooled on the floor, but suddenly Negan’s hands were roaming over his chest and down his belly, raking through the sparse hair on his chest and beneath his navel. “I’m not-” Rick began, “it’s not- it’s not just muscle.”
Rick had been the parent to a teenager for many years now, so he had developed a sixth sense for eye-rolls without even having to see them, and that sense was firing on all cylinders now as Negan spoke low in his ear. “Of course it’s not. Nobody’s all muscle. But the soft stuff?” Negan squeezed Rick’s hips, then the supple mounds of Rick’s ass through the uniform pants. “The soft stuff is just as good.”