Chapter Text
Rick knew something was different the moment he woke up from that coma. Not something different with the world, that was a given when he saw that half eaten body in the hospital corridor but, something different about himself. He woke up delirious with thirst, weak and atrophied, beyond hungry but, he'd managed to walk out of there, hell he'd even managed to ride a bike. He should've been dpead.
Those flowers that Shane had brought were dry and dead when he'd woken up, having already dropped a number of brittle petals onto the side table. The place was abandoned, the corpses outside already considerably rotted and there were no people in sight. He had to assume he'd been left there for days and still he didn't succumb to hunger, let alone dehydration.
Instead, by some miracle, he'd woken up. Something had kept him alive. Perhaps it was some otherworldly phenomenon, or God himself, or maybe it was simply something he already had.
Whatever the reason, he'd survived and he kept surviving, gathering people and finding family along the way. Ever since he'd woken up to the end of the world, he'd managed to escape death over and over again. He knew it was bound to catch up someday soon.
He has regrets, doubts and a constant burden that seems to rest heavy on his shoulders, dragging at his ankles and threatening to keep him in one place. It threatens to leave him weary, downtrodden, and unwilling to press on, it nips at his heels and threatens to trip him up. It taunts him everyday, like the sun that beats harshly upon his skin and the constant murmur of the leaves. So soft and warm but, oh did it sting like nothing else, but he always kept going, always finding a way out.
He's trapped now, the past stretching behind him and the future teetering over a cliff before him. The present, oh it was right in front of his face, laughing and with a voice so charming it could only belong to the Devil. Whatever it is that keeps him going, that mystery that keeps his heart beating - it is gone, all of its usefulness now reduced to a red haze that lays thick across his mind.
Rick stares at the ground, knowing if he looks up, if he dares meet the eyes of that man, if he sees that smile, he'll sink his teeth straight into his windpipe. Blood roars in his ears and red dances at the edges of his vision, he swallows and blinks, trying to chase it away. He thinks bitterly, that Negan would finally shut the fuck up.
His eyes flick up for a moment, catching a glimpse of leather and a barbed wire bat swinging into his vision, and suddenly everything is too loud. He can hear the creak of leather, the soft shift of clothes on skin, whimpers, murmurs, breathing, sobs, and the deafening crunch of boots on gravel. Rick can practically feel each noise as they reach his ears, loud, clapping like thunder but, soft as rain next to the boom of Negan's voice.
“Everybody's at the table waiting for me to order-” Rick clenches his jaw so tight he can hear his teeth protest the abuse and he digs his nails into his palms where they rest on his jeans, leaving bloody crescent moons he can't feel.
Negan's sentence hangs in the air, a collective breath held only to rush out when he whistles, slinging Lucille over his shoulder. “And I simply cannot decide.”
He can sense eyes on him, like a prickling that dances uncomfortably down his spine and makes his hackles rise. Rick looks up, he can't stop some animalistic instinct, some primal desire to track the predator that looms before him.
Negan smiles, a wide thing that pushes up his cheeks and crinkles his eyes, all threatening, self-congratulatory, with a tongue pressed to the back of his teeth. Rick answers, not with words but a slow curling of his lips, a snarl unlike any that's graced his face since the Claimers threatened Carl. He forces his gaze back down if only to reign in a sense of control.
His chest rattles with a growl, low and barely audible, it is not punctuated by an inhale of air. It's a constant din, like the rumble of an engine and it seems to set the others on edge, if not make them concerned for what he might do. He can hear Sasha shift beside him, he can see Abraham and Maggie from his peripherals both giving him a quick glance, and he knows Carl is looking at him as well.
“I got an idea.” A low chuckle and Rick doesn't have to look to see Negan's smirk. A whistle fills the air, demanding attention, filling the silence but, still Rick looks at his hands.
The countdown starts, a sick and depraved version of a game played by children on the playground. A little nursery rhyme, a little song used by grade schoolers to make decisions, now twisted into a haunting chant and Rick can hear the steps approach him before he sees Lucille.
They slow, hesitating, lingering just in front of him. He thinks he should lunge forward, jump up and tackle the man to the ground. He wants to bite as hard as he can, wherever he can until clothing gives way to soft flesh and that gives way to bone. He wants to taste blood in his mouth, to feel the rubber of muscle and fat rest heavy and fresh, and keep going.
Rick shuts his eyes against the sensation, a hunger clawing at his stomach. Painful and churning, bile crawling up his throat as he rocks forward. Whimpers replace the growling, it hurts. He pushes his fists into his jeans and hunches lower, he can't feel his nails as they break skin or the gravel that digs into his knees. He's starving and it is so unlike any starvation he's felt before. Not even when he became exhausted, gaunt and thin on the road to Terminus, it's nothing compared to this.
Because he doesn't know this hunger. He's never felt it. What a time for it to rear its head, thrash just behind his eyes like a walker chained and no matter how it tugged, or pulled, or yanked it could never reach its prey. He bites his tongue, blood fills his mouth but its bitter, far too bitter. It's like a poison and he wants to spit it out but, he can't move, can't blink, can't breath. He's scared of what he might do, of what he might become, of what he already is.
The footsteps stop. “Anybody moves, anybody says anything, cut the boy's other eye out and feed it to his father.” Negan's voice drops, low and soft, into a threat, no a promise, “And then we'll start.”
“You can breath.”
He doesn't.
“You can blink.”
He can't.
“You can cry.”
He is. One of the few things he can feel is the tears on his cheeks, cold as they evaporate into the night air only to be replaced by more. Even with his eyes tightly shut, they still fall and he can't remember when he started crying, only that he hasn't stopped. Not even the hunger, nor the rage or the visceral sensation of eyes on him can stop them.
This is on him.
Negan laughs, “Hell you're gonna be doing a lot of that.”
A moment of silence is broken by the thud of an immovable object met with an unstoppable force.
Rick's gaze snaps up in time to see blood run down Abraham's face, the man himself staring up almost unflinchingly up at his assailant. His skull is visibly cracked open yet, he barely seems to waver.
“Oh! Look at that!” Rick looks to Negan and the man seems genuinely surprised to see that Abraham managed to get back up. For a moment he rocks back on his heels, swinging Lucille low, the wires nearly touching his pants, and a thousand watt smile on his face like he just unwrapped his first present on Christmas Day.
“Taking it like a champ!” Rick feels cold, suspended in time as the last word hangs in the air. He looks from Negan to Abraham, back and forth, eyes barely focusing, distant and glazed, seeing but, not really. He opens his mouth, and finally he inhales shakily, licking his lips and still he tastes poison from his tongue. He can practically taste the copper of fresh blood in the air. It roils, a nauseous wave in his gut that's echoed by an insatiable hunger.
Abraham speaks, perhaps a bit slow but, with no less gusto, as if a mad man hadn't taken a crack at his head with the hardest downward swing he could muster.
Negan keeps going, each thud ringing out like a gunshot, one after another after another, until he's worked himself breathless.
“Did you hear that?” It's a weak breathy, chuckle, satisfied and thoroughly entertained. It's not even a question, more of a statement and Negan looks right at Rick when he says it.
“He-” Negan pauses the sentence dissolving into a child-like laugh as he shakes his head, looking to the side as if even he can't believe it, “He said 'suck my nuts.’”
For a moment Negan just chuckles, breaking eye contact with Rick and sucking in a short breath through his teeth. In the next heartbeat he brings Lucille down.
Again and again and again.
He watches every single swing, as it hits its mark. He can't look away, can't pretend like he doesn't hear the sick squelch of flesh, or hear his people cry, or smell the sweet, ripe, metallic scent of a fresh corpse.
Rick licks his lips and swallows. He can't stop shaking, can't stop the short breaths that push from his chest without his permission, faster and faster until they're just panting punctuated by a pitiful whine with each exhale. He raises up on his knees, straightening his back and reaching forward. He thinks twice about moving, instead collapsing onto himself.
Shaking and pitiful, he can hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears but, it's sickening because he cannot feel a thumping in his chest. It's hollow, a yawning chasm, and he realizes the heartbeat he hears can't be his. It can't be. He can't feel his heart, can't feel the cold, or the exhaustion, there's only desperation, a broiling that boils his blood and curdles his thoughts into rotten, unrecognizable forms of what they once were.
This is his fault.
He squints against the harsh light of the headlights as he looks up at Negan. There is no more thudding. There is no more grunts of exertion. Only a laugh, that damn laugh as if he's heard a funny joke at the bar. “Oh-ho, my goodness.”
Negan brings Lucille closer to his face, to get a nice long look at the bat head and then swings her around to point at Rick, “Look at this!”
Blood splatters hot against his face, and he flinches away at the sensation. Like a live wire suddenly pressed to his cheek, it lights up the nerves under his skin. He blinks, the drops smearing, mixing with his sweat. All he can smell is copper, it fills his nose, his mouth and it swirls a heady, intoxicating perfume in his brain. Rick can barely focus.
“You guys.” Negan addresses them as if they're children in a classroom, giddy and excited for them to see what he has to show them. Only it's not a season of Bill Nye the Science guy on VHS, it's death and gore. “Look at my dirty girl!”
No one says a word and Negan takes it as his cue to catch his breath. He walks in front of Rosita, hovering the bat just in front of her nose. Viscera drips noisily onto the ground. It's a soft pitter patter that will haunt Rick just as each crunch of Abraham's skull surely will.
“Sweetheart…” He says it soft, as if it will offer any semblance of comfort. It's a crude gesture and Rick looks at Rosita's face, trying to muster up words but, having none. “Lay your eyes on this.”
A part of him wants to leap to his feet, stand between her and that cursed bat. He wants to shield her from whatever humiliation, whatever intimidation or degrading tactic Negan plans to use on her. A part of him wants to grab the bat from Negan's hands, a bloodthirsty part that wants to drive it through his mouth until it comes out the back of his head. Let him choke on his words.
Negan hesitates for a moment, glancing at Abraham's body. “Oh... damn.”
Rick curls his lips, this man's voice had no business sounding that sincere, as if he actually gave a shit when minutes ago he was cheerfully swinging away.
“Were you-” Negan pauses, “Were you together?” Rick must be hearing things, because it almost sounds as if Negan's voice cracked on the word together. It's entirely possible he’s losing it, with how he suddenly feels like someone, or something else is encircling his thoughts, waiting to infect him.
“That sucks… But, if you were, you should know there was a reason for all this.” Negan licks his lips and that smile slides right back onto his face, “Red- and hell he was, is and will ever be red!”
Red, Rick thinks, like the color of the blood on his face and the haze clouding his vision. Red like the scarf on Negan's neck. Red that he can imagine, that he wants, staining his teeth and dripping from his hands. Red, red, red, he repeats it like a mantra in his head.
Negan's voice is booming through the clearing once more, drawing Rick back into reality and chasing away the red, “He just took one, or six- or seven- for the team!”
“So take.” Negan raises the bat back to Rosita's face, “A damn. Look.” It's an order, ground out through clenched teeth, and that carefree facade falls away.
Rosita looks past the bat, mouth open and refusing to focus on Lucille. Rick rocks forward, hand splayed across the rocks on the ground. His other raises up, reaching but, he tucks it back towards himself.
“Take a damn look!”
Something in that shout sparks a reaction. He can see Daryl move, like a slow motion picture movie and despite the consequences he lunges to stop him. He knows it will be undoubtedly worse if Daryl manages to land a hit on Negan.
Rick lunges to his feet. It's instantaneous and he crosses the distance between himself and the hunter. His movements are not his own, his thoughts even less so, and he can only slam futilely against the cage his consciousness has formed around him. It's some animalistic instinct, come rushing to the surface, spurred on by the adrenaline and let forth by the need to protect, even if it hurts others in the long run. No one else needs to die.
He tackles Daryl to the ground, leaning down heavily, forearm pressing into the hunter's throat while his hand comes up to grab the left hook thrown at his face. Anger makes Daryl snarl in his face, as if he doesn't realize who Rick is. Confusion steps in a moment later, creasing the hunter's brow. Betrayal enters last and Rick can see the moment the eyes beneath him turn cold, and with renewed vigor the body beneath him struggles.
“Stay down.” Rick snarls, honest to God snapping at Daryl’s face with his teeth and for all the world acting like the rotting corpses he fought for so many years.
Daryl cranes his neck, eyes going wide and face turning away. It's an instinct born from years of avoiding teeth that could kill. His sweat slick wrist twists in Rick's grip but, he keeps the pressure up like a vice, squeezing until he feels the bones give way and a pained, panicked grunt escapes Daryl.
Hands land on his shoulders, he doesn't budge. He can only see Daryl, can only feel as the hunter tries to throw him off. He can smell his injury, can smell the infection and the weakness and the blood and the meat.
“Get him off, now!”
Negan's voice cuts through the red and Rick slackens his grip, allowing the hands, many, many hands, to yank him up. They pull him and he stumbles to stand as they drag him a safe distance away. He thrashes against the grip, twisting and turning and for a moment the red returns. He cranes his neck, biting and yelling and growling at the hands holding him fast. They shove him unceremoniously back onto his knees, the end of a gun pressing his head to the side.
Rick relents with heaving breaths and one last tug at his captors’ grip. He watches as Daryl is pulled up painfully by his hair, only to be shoved face down into the gravel, a cross bow aimed at his face. The hunter grabs at the hands, and tries to hoist himself up as he watches Rick with a weary gaze. He seems more afraid of his friend in that moment than the Savior's around them. That fear slams Rick back into clarity. Daryl doesn't scare easy. He doesn't do fear but, here he is looking at him- scared.
“Holy Hell.” Negan raises a fist to his face, hovering beneath a giddy smile, “Now that I did not see coming!”
He slings Lucille onto his shoulder, “No, oh no.” Negan turns to face away from them, “That?”
He turns back around, coming to crouch right in front of Daryl. “That- is a no-no.”
Rick watches, shaking and wondering if he's just sealed their fate. His head bobs up and down in a rhythm he can't stop. He looks at everyone else, all kneeling, now in front of him. He looks at Carl, as if to be sure he's alive. No one meets his eyes.
He looks at the ground, licking his lips and the gun aimed at his temple only seems to push harder.
“The whole fucking thing.” Rick glances up in time to meet Negan's gaze. “Not one bit of that shit flies here.”
The man with the crossbow presses it closer, nearly touching the back of Daryl's head, “Do you want me to do it?”
Negan grabs Daryl's hair, forcing a grunt from him as he pulls his head up. It's as if he's inspecting him, “No.”
He lets Daryl go, “No, you don't kill them.” The hunter's labored breathing fills Rick's ears. “Not until you try a little.”
Relief does not overcome Rick, instead dread drops his stomach to his feet and he wants to be sick. They drag Daryl back into the lineup, leaving Rick the odd one out.
Negan stands, turning his attention on Rick. “And anyway…” He steps right in front of him, leering down and looming over him. He does not crouch, does not attempt to get on the same level. He simply looks down the length of his bat, right into Rick's eyes. Rick looks back, every bit a man shaken and scared and confused but, look he does.
“That's not how this works.” Negan gestures to the Saviors holding him, and the pressure of the gun is lifted, so are the hands. Rick has half a mind to use his new found freedom. His better judgement keeps him firmly on the ground.
“Now, I already told you.” Negan swings Lucille dangerously close to his nose. He can feel blood drip on to his hands, soak into his lap, and the red starts to creep back. Ricks lip curls back, ever so slightly flashing a hint of pale teeth. If Negan notices, he doesn't comment. “The first one's free. Then, what'd I say? I said I will shut that shit down!”
Negan shouts, never turning to look at the rest of Rick's people. It's meant for him. All of it is.
“No exceptions.” That smile lights up his face, and Negan leans back, pulling Lucille away.
Rick nearly crawls after Negan, reaching for the legs of his pants as the man turns away, bat swinging to point at the collective. Rick knows keeping Negan's attention on him means he won't be able to focus on killing anyone else. He's willing to beg, on his hands and knees, he's willing to do anything as long as they get to live. Just as Rick lurches forward, Negan whips back around.
“But I'll be damned!” Rick scrambles backwards at the unexpected outburst, arms giving out for a moment and he lands flat on his back. Negan advances on him and Rick pushes himself backwards with one arm as the other comes up, a weak, shaking palm raised to shield himself.
“Ya know, I really underestimated you, Rick.” Negan grabs the front of his shirt, hoisting him up and keeping his grip there. Rick is forced to follow and he stands there, face brought much too close to Negan's as his fingers slide, sweaty and useless against leather sleeves. Negan practically forces Rick on to his tiptoes and the sound of ripping seams is too loud.
“Now here I thought you just weren't getting the bigger picture.” Negan pulls him up closer, grinning, “But I was fucking wrong. Turns out you're smarter than you look.”
Negan let's go. It's so sudden he can only drop to all fours, and then fall back to his knees, staring at Negan's boots, as he tries to compose himself. He can't stop seeing Abraham’s head bashed into a pulp.
“Shit, I kill one of your men-” Negan gives Lucille a little swing, thrusting his hips, overtly suggestive and Rick's face is much too close to the other man's crotch, “-a small price to pay in my opinion.” Negan rests Lucille on his shoulder, tilting his head with that irksome smile, “And you're just bending over and taking it.”
Negan looks down his nose at him, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth in a wide splitting grin, “Hell, you nearly bit his damn face off for that little stunt he pulled.” Negan points Lucille at Daryl, shaking the bat for emphasis.
He can't stop seeing Daryl's frightened eyes. He can't tune out the stifled sobs, and the shouts, and the crying as thunderous cracks fill the air. It's all on him, always.
“Damn, Rick. If I'd known you were such a little bitch-” Negan trails off with a huff, shaking his head, “I certainly wouldn't have gone to all this trouble!” Negan leers down at him, waving his hand in the direction of everyone, towards Abraham's corpse, and shrugs his shoulders.
Rick whispers the only thing that comes to mind, “I'm gonna kill you.”
He doesn't want to be seen as weak, as a man who caves in easily. He's doing all of this, kneeling and bowing his head, stopping Daryl, and protecting Negan, he does it all only because he wants them to survive. He has to endure because, one day, he will kill this man. He has to live for that to happen.
Negan stops, crouching down in front of him, “I didn't quite catch that, you're gonna have to speak up.”
Rick tilts his head up, looking him in the eyes, “Not today… Not tomorrow…”
He shakes his head, “But I'm gonna kill you.”
Negan's smile falls slightly, just the barest hint of the corners drooping, before he purses his lips and inhales sharply, “Jesus.”
It's the softest Negan’s spoken the whole night. The drone of crickets fills the air for a moment, Negan never blinking, never looking away for even a moment. “Simon, what'd he have- a knife?”
“... He had a hatchet.”
Negan breaks eye contact and Rick watches as his eyebrows draw up, “A hatchet?”
“He had an ax.”
Negan seems much more satisfied with that answer, licking his lips with the smallest nod. “Simon's my right hand man.”
“Having one of those is important.” Rick looks past Negan for just a split second, a wandering of the eye that's so fast it's almost undetectable.
“I mean, what do you have left without them? A whole lot of work.”
Silence.
“Do you have one? Maybe one of these fine people still breathing?” Rick turns his head, looking away from those piercing eyes. He sweeps his gaze over all his people, his son, past Abraham's body and finally lands on Daryl. He wonders what his brother in arms must be thinking about him now.
“Oh, or did I-” Negan raises Lucille, flicking his wrist and clucking his tongue.
“Or maybe-” Negan smiles, “it's your buddy over there?” Negan nods his head towards Daryl.
Rick can feel himself losing control. He doesn't speak, doesn't blink, hell he doesn't even breath. Negan's face turns hard, a cold steel replacing that cheery disposition. Rick knows Negan sees something he doesn't like.
Negan heaves a sigh, “Sure. Yeah… Give me his ax.”
Heavy footsteps approach, and the ax passes between them. Negan grabs the handle, bringing the head of the hatchet to his chin. For a minute, he just stares. Seeing something in Rick's eyes. Maybe it's defiance, maybe he's just not broken enough, even though he'd jumped without a single thought to protect the Savior. Whatever it is, Negan doesn't like what he sees and Rick can feel the displeasure practically roll off him.
Negan gets to his feet, shoving the hatchet into his belt. Rick looks away, suddenly uncomfortable by the implications of his current position. He blinks away the red hot embarrassment creeps up his neck and stings his ears.
A solid hand claps him on the shoulder, gripping the back of his jacket, yanking him forward. Rick flinches and the fear of that touch, the weight of it sends him panicking, flung straight back into a world of crimson. “I'll be right back.”
He is forced to crawl after Negan as he drags him along. One hand scrabbles at the ground, supporting his weight while the other claws for the grip at his back. The whole time he gnashes his teeth, wishing he could pull himself close enough to hurt him.
“Maybe Rick will be with me.” Negan readjusts, digging his fingers into the back of Rick's neck.
Large fingers press into the muscles there and Rick stops struggling, going limp and frightened by the touch. “If not, well, we can just turn these people inside out won't we?”
Negan heaves him up the RV's steps, tossing him with ease as if he's just taking out the trash, “I mean…. The ones that are left.”
It's dark, and Rick's boots catch on the steps. He throws his hands out to catch himself, landing heavily on the linoleum and catching his side on the sharp corners of cabinets and benches.
He tries to get up, he stays crouched, ready to jump up and fight, eyes already adjusting to the dark and for once he agrees with that desire in his mind. The desire to kill this man by any means possible. The red is his, or so that's what he believes. He clings to it like a lifeline.
The door slams shut behind heavy boots.
Negan grabs the back of his jacket, and throws him roughly into the cabinets sending him back to the floor. He doesn't even have a chance to get his feet under him.
Rick yelps, like a dog kicked in the side, as his ribs collide with multiple hard surfaces. He closes his eyes and for a moment the world is blissfully dark. The fight has fled him like a breath punched from his body.
A metallic thud breaks the silence, followed by a long sigh. Rick looks up, over his shoulder and at the hatchet buried in the table. Negan watches him, looking down at him like Rick is just a dog begging and whining for scraps at his feet. A pathetic, sorry sight.
He turns away. Rick doesn't move to follow, it's as if his hands are glued to the floor. He stays crouched with his metaphorical tail between his legs.
Rick looks at the hatchet, his hatchet. Then he looks to the back of Negan's head. He could do it. End it right here and the red creeps back, coaxing him, drawing him in with the promise to fix his mistake in one easy blow.
Another long sigh leaves Negan, “Let's go for a ride.” The man turns the key and the RV only sputters, the engine failing to turn over.
Rick crawls closer, bringing a hand up to grip the back of the booth as he pulls himself up. He's so close. He can almost see it, almost taste it. The blood that would gush from Negan's head as he cleaved his skull, as he drove the iron straight into his brain.
“Wow, what a piece of shit.” Negan stops trying to start the RV and Rick pauses, attention drawn to the rear view mirror. He can see Negan's eyes. He doesn't need to see the rest of his face to know he's smiling.
“I'm gonna kill you.” It's a piss poor imitation of Rick's voice, a sheer mockery. Negan chuckles, seeming to find himself hilarious.
“Are you kidding me? Did you just see what happened, what I just did?”
Rick blinks, looking away for a moment. He thinks of the blood on his face that is nearly dry. The blood he hasn't bothered to wipe off. He can't.
“You just-” Negan cuts himself off with a soft click of his tongue and a sigh, almost a tut, as if he's disappointed. Like Rick is some misbehaving child who can't see that Negan is right and he's wrong.
“You're best chance, is to stand up. Grab that ax and drive it through the back of my head.”
Rick knows it's just a ploy, a game at his expense. He can't stop himself from thinking, if he moves fast enough, if he's quick enough maybe Negan won't stop him in time. Rick raises himself up into a crouch, hand inching forward, all while he holds eye contact with the reflection in the mirror.
“See how you do.” Oh, does that make his blood boil, not the words, or the meaning behind them. It's the tone. That self assured, self righteous, sheer assholery of it all. He pulls his lip back over his teeth. An angry, feral thing that he hopes Negan can see.
“Keep actin’ tough. Go ahead.”
Rick closes his eyes. Trying to just stop and think for a moment. He tries to stop the thing inside him, that beats and yells and screams to do it. To grab the ax. To kill this man. To relish every second of its brutality.
“Grab the damn ax.”
Rick surges forward, ripping the ax from table in one easy movement. He draws it back over his head but, Negan moves to meet him, leveling a gun at his chest and ready to fire. It stops him in his tracks.
He thinks about it, ax still raised, still ready to swing down. He thinks maybe he could make it. He just needs to be fast enough, have enough momentum to at least swing the thing across Negan's throat, or into that smarmy face, before the bullets stop him.
“Drop it.” It's just a whisper but, it's an order, one Rick forces himself to follow. Arm shaking from where he grips the handle tight, he lowers the ax and lets it clatter at his boots.
He can't stop himself from baring his teeth and lowering his head. A cold, defiant gaze and the rumble of a growl in his throat.
The gun's barrel drives straight into his chest, below his sternum, with a sudden thrust. Rick falls, curling in on himself, wheezing and coughing. His hands grab at his midsection as he gasps for air. His chest aches with the hit and as much as he doesn't want to he's forced to hunch on the ground utterly exposed to Negan.
The pain subsides, as quick as it arrived, leaving him numb and knowing that it should still hurt, still burn and throb like any other bruising blow to the chest. But, it doesn't.
He looks up, just in time for his heart to seize in his chest. Rick cowers, pulling himself away from the downward swing of his very own hatchet. A clang rings out a second later.
“Don't make me get up again.”
Rick looks at his hands. For a moment, he really thought he was dead. Wide and unblinking, he stares. His vision shaking, an unfocused mess that echoes his stuttered breaths and pants.
“Well, look at that.” Rick looks, following Negan's line of sight and the man turns to smile down at him, “Dawn is breakin’.”
“It's a brand-new day, Rick.” He says it as if Rick should be excited, thankful that Negan had allowed him to bear witness to the sunrise.
Negan chuckles, “I want you to think about what could happen.” He shuffles back into the driver's seat, looking right back at Rick through that damned mirror again. Smug as ever, his eyes alight, high on this power trip of his, he watches Rick making sure he's listening.
Rick is, hands braced on his knees and staring ahead. Soft breaths shuddering out between parted lips.
“Think about what happened-” Rick's can't meet his eyes, avoiding that little rectangular mirror, “and what can still happen.”
He looks anywhere but at Negan, scanning the floor, his hands, his jeans, looking at nothing. Everything that dances before his eyes isn't real but, he looks and he looks and he can't turn away. Each thud of a bat, each spray of blood, every person he loves struck a killing blow.
The engine roars to life and he can't stop seeing their faces.
He doesn't know when he made it up onto a bench but, the tell tale growl of a walker draws him into the real world. He's sitting, facing that damn hatchet in the table.
Rick swings his head to look at the windshield, there's nothing but a grey haze beyond its glass. It's so thick, he wonders how Negan can even see the road ahead. It's just a passing though, so fleeting he doesn't even remember it crossing his mind.
A walker collides with the RV, banging against the bumper and head splattering wide open onto the glass.
Rick jolts at the sudden noise. He startles harder at Negan's raucous laughter.
“Oh! Boom!” The laughter trails off and Negan turns his head, “That remind you of anybody you know?”
Another walker falls victim, all manner of guts spraying out onto the RV. Rick looks away, swallowing and shaking his head to chase away the faces, the thoughts, and the doubts in his mind.
The engine cuts off. They've stopped moving, but Rick can still hear the growls, he can still hear the hands as they crawl and grab at the RV looking for a way in.
A low groan and a click of boots tells him that Negan has gotten up. He looks at the base of the table across from him, studying where it merges into the linoleum, he traces the texture of the floor with his eyes.
The bench creaks and the cushion dips. A leg presses along the length of his thigh and a hand reaches across his vision. When it retreats it's holding his hatchet.
“You are mine.”
Negan presses closer, the hatchet head swinging across his vision again. An index finger pointed along its length, pointing back the way they had come. “The people back there- they are mine.”
His hatchet is brought right up under his nose. “This--” Negan twirls it for a moment, “This is mine.”
Negan gets up and Rick watches him move out of view. The door slams open and growling floods his ears and his eyes dart to the side, looking at Negan from the corners of his vision. He stays seated, though, head bowed and quiet. The perfect picture of submission.
The growling draws closer and Negan grunts, a familiar thud filling the air, a sickening crunch as metal meets bone, and the growling stops. Rick turns his head, just enough to get a better view, and in time to see Negan toss the hatchet on to the roof.
It clatters, somehow noisier than the din from outside. Rick raises his head, looking away, and he starts to understand. That this, all of it every single word, is about Negan.
“Hey, Rick.” Negan's voice is oddly soft, almost polite. “Go get my ax. Let's be friends.”
Rick bows his head, refusing to look at Negan, as if it will do anything, change anything. It's a small defiance he clings to and he knows it won't last.
Rick can hear another walker approaching and another thud echos a moment later. The corner of his lip twitches and he can feel his nose crinkle with it, grinding his teeth together. He doesn't look, only dropping his head further.
Lucille is thrust into his peripherals. “Go get my ax.” Negan's voice is different, deeper, harsher, on the edge of guttural. Rick knows he can't stall anymore.
He closes his eyes, bowing his head lower and grimacing. His lips curl and he can feel the muscles in his temple jump as he gnashes his teeth. There's no way out of this.
Rick gets up, moving to walk past Negan and out the open door. He doesn't expect the man to grab him. He's tossed bodily from the RV, landing heavily on his side and the door slams shut behind him.
The growling turns to screeching with the arrival of fresh meat. It's sharp and ear piercing, only making him angrier. Rick digs his nails into the dirt for a moment.
He can't hurt Negan, he can't touch Negan, but maybe he can get away and find someone who can.
With a newfound vigor, he launches himself at the nearest walker with a shout. He digs his fingers into rotting flesh, yelling and snarling right back at the corpse. He tosses it aside and grabs for the next one.
Rick runs past them, racing into the mist, grabbing and throwing whatever is in his path. He stops, dread dragging him to a halt.
All he can see in every direction are shadows, the lumbering silhouettes of walkers in a massive horde.
One growls in his face, grabbing for him. He can feel its fingers tug at his jacket trying to draw him closer to its mouth. He shoves it away only to face two more.
He shouts, twisting out of their grip and feeling their mouths snap at his fingers, their teeth graze his jacket. Rick kicks one away, grabbing the other by the throat.
The force of the kick sends him backwards and the walker's throat tears away in his grip. An oily, slick fistful of rot. His back collides with something hard.
His eyes roll in their sockets for a moment as he tries to process what he's hit. Looking to his right, he can see the shape of a ladder. He scrambles for it, hand now slick with rotting tissue and fluids, it slips on the rungs.
He gives an angry cry, abandoning the ladder for a moment to ward off two more walkers with haphazard punches.
Rick manages to get a grip on the ladder, hoisting himself up until two hands encircle his calf, tugging him back down. He shakes his leg free and kicks the walker in the skull until it lets go.
Rick crests the top of the RV, crawling on hands and knees. He stops for a moment, staring at his hands. He pants, open mouthed and heaving, saliva slipping past his lips and forming little circles in the grime that coats the roof.
He licks his lips, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and gags, coughing and recoiling at the foul taste that invades his mouth. It's the rotten blood of that walker's jugular he'd torn out. Disgust grips his insides, making his stomach roil and his diaphragm heave.
Rick chokes back the bile, feeling it burn his esophagus, a boiling hot snake that slithers back into the pit of his stomach. He can taste it on the back of his tongue and it mingles in the worst way with the walker blood.
The RV shudders beneath him, rocking side to side as walkers slam their hands against it. It's all just clawing, groaning and yowling, like a thousand cats in heat. They're too weak to climb up after him but, they're not dumb enough to leave their potential meal, either.
Rick shifts his legs under him, getting stiffly to his feet. His hatchet is just in front of him. He only needs to walk over, pick it up, and then get his ass back in the RV. He just needs to hand it to Negan, play his little game. Bow his head and grit his teeth, listen to whatever shit he has to say, and then he can leave this behind him.
Orange lights draw his attention, through the smoke and the haze, they draw him up to his full height, hatchet forgotten. A breath is punched from his chest when realization slams into him with the full force of a barbed wire bat.
They never stood a chance. The Saviors knew the endgame all along, all they had to do was make them believe, draw them along a little trail of carefully placed breadcrumbs, make them split up and then swoop in, talons open.
The barricade in the middle of the road is nearly reduced to ash at its center but, the sides are still piled high and burning. Rick had thought it was just meant to turn them around but, now he could see it was a beacon, big enough and bright enough to draw every walker from miles around.
He turns, facing the bridge. A walker claws at the air, hanging from an iron length of chain. It's the same man they'd watched die, tossed over the side of the bridge and left to choke right before their eyes. It was more than a warning, it was a promise.
Rick stares, watching as it pitifully reaches for him, jerking about in mid air.
This never should have happened. Rick braces his hands on his knees, feeling weak, everything catching up to him at once. Grief builds in his chest, gripping his lungs and his throat and his heart.
He falls to one knee, buckling beneath the pressure and bracing a hand against the roof for support. He can barely hold himself up and his throat seizes, a spasming in his chest starts up that echoes the quake in his limbs. He tucks his chin to his chest and curls in on himself further.
“Bet you thought you were all gonna grow old together.”
He brings a fist up, to twist at the fabric of his jacket, pushing it into his middle with a bruising force as if he's trying to physically hold himself together.
“Sitting around the table at Sunday dinner and the happily ever after… But, no- doesn't work like that, Rick.”
He drops his head, pressing it against the cold metal.
“Not anymore.”
He curls in on himself, as tight as he can in a fetal position, as if he could force himself small enough to hide from the world. As if he could close his eyes and pretend that this was all a bad dream, just a nightmare.
“Think about what happened.”
He falls to his side, bringing his knees up as if he could drive them through his own chest. Hands gripping at each other, gripping at his shirt, nails digging in cruelly, looking, searching for something as they press into his sternum but, finding nothing and left to squirm.
A small whimper leaves his mouth and he clamps a hand over it, trying to force it back down his throat. He shakes, his ribs rattling and spasming against the effort to keep himself silent.
“People died Rick, it's what happened. Doesn't mean the rest of them have to.”
The voice chases away the gripping despair, replacing it with a sweeping, all consuming numbness and Rick rolls on to his back, unfurling his limbs, foot nearly hanging off the edge of the RV. He stares up at the sky, so blue and peaceful, and he thinks bitterly that it has no business being so serene. He thinks to himself that hell shouldn't be this beautiful.
“Get my ax.”
The weight of Negan's words are like hands around his neck. Rick looks to his right, the hatchet rests there inches from his nose. He manages to heave his body over, onto his stomach and slowly pull his knees up under himself.
“Thought you were the guy, Rick.”
His heart is frozen over, each inhale treads on thin ice, threatening to send him plunging back into the frigid waters of despair.
“Maybe you're not.”
He looks at the horizon and then his hands, lips moving to form silent names, pleas and prayers.
“We'll give it one more go. Now, I really want you to try this time.”
Rick shakes his head and inhales sharply, his hand forming a fist as he lowers his head. Even with Negan's voice muffled, even with the space separating them, he can feel every word, can practically see Negan standing in front of him.
“Last chance. Bring me my ax!”
The sharp discharge of a gun doesn't register in Rick's mind until his body starts to move on its own accord. He grabs up the ax and runs in the opposite direction of the rapidly encroaching bullet holes, leaping without hesitation off the edge of the roof.
He wraps his arms around the suspended walker like a lifeline. It snaps at his face but, he's too far away, clinging to its lower torso effectively trapping it's arms against its side. All it can do is flail, weakly jostling him as he tries to keep a desperate hold on the hatchet. He looks down, feeling a tug on his foot and walkers swarm beneath him, reaching and grabbing for every part of him.
He slips down with a panicked shout, working harder to keep his grip but, with so many hands he's still losing inches. Nails scrape at his ankles and fingers dig into his calf, and the hatchet falls from his sweaty palms.
A disturbing, ripping squelch echoes in his ears and he looks up. He's slowly decapitating the walker and it's bringing him down, closer to biting mouths and hungry growls. He tries to shimmy up further, kicking his feet at those below, he can feel the graze of teeth through fabric and his efforts double.
He's intimately aware of his chances of survival.
Gunshots rent the air again and he feels a bullet graze his calf, hot and fast but, to his relief the walkers thin out from the rain of bullets. It's just in time, because his lifeline gives out, head cleaving from its body and he hits the ground, falling back first onto a pile of rot and death.
The gunfire ceases and Rick looks dazedly up at the sky.
“Clock is ticking, Rick.”
Think about what can still happen.
A hand paws at his chest and he thrusts out a fist, catching a walker in the skull, the decaying bone folding like wet cardboard. It reminds him of how easily Abraham's skull had caved in.
He lashes out at the walkers that enclose on him, many crawling out from beneath the pile he'd landed on. On hands and knees he swipes, kicks and punches, a desperate, vicious and crazed animal. Each bone that gives beneath his hand, each snap and crunch invades his mind with a picture of his friends, his family, all dead.
Flesh gives way to solid ground, then patches of grass and still he crawls, fingers desperately feeling for the hatchet, eyes straining to see through the haze.
He sees it, scrambling those last few feet, and he grasps the handle. He pauses, squeezing the wood as hard as he can. A walker growls behind him, shuffling steps moving closer. Anger floods his veins and he lets it. Letting it consume him until his vision turns red and he plunges himself into its mindless comfort.
Rick lurches around, bringing the hatchet down through the walker's skull. He swings so hard that it sends him stumbling to the side with the momentum. He recovers swiftly, the rage melting away just enough for panic to rear it's head as he searches the area for any glimpse of the RV.
Rapid beeps of a horn answer his desperation. Negan's helping him, once again, and suddenly he's a match dropped in kerosene. He hacks anything that moves, angry shouts and snarls answering every growl in his direction.
His other hand grabs for anything within reach, finding a mark and holding it in place as he swings down again and again and again. Cold, foul blood sprays across his face from the force of his blows.
His back hits a hard surface and he's jolted into reality. He turns, pawing along the length of the RV, hatchet swinging in front of him as he searches for the door. He sees that little silver square come into view and he dives for it, tugging at the handle, only to dent the metal with a fist when the door doesn't budge. A sound leaps from his throat, an awful thing somewhere between a shriek and a curse.
A walker dives at him, grabbing for his right hand where it's braced against the RV. Before he can pull away something sharp encloses the palm and he rips his hand away, a moment too late as he feels pain lance up his arm and his skin breaks with a gush of warmth.
It forces him to drop the hatchet. He stares dumbly at the red crescent moon maring his right hand, blood oozing out as pain pulses in time with the thudding in his ears.
The walker snaps at him again and he can see the fresh blood on it's yellow, rotting teeth. He tucks his hand against his chest, backing away and grabbing up the hatchet in his left, swinging wildly.
A noisy clatter sounds behind him and bullets go flying, punching into the undead around him and he drops low on instinct. The moment it stops, he throws himself up the steps through the open door.
He slams it behind him, not even looking up at Negan as he bends over double, breathing hard. The wound on his hand aches and bleeds, his mind stops and stutters as it races to process what that means. It sinks in slow, too slow and the clock ticks, each second bringing him closer and closer to his demise. He refuses to accept it as reality. Not now, not after all of this.
Rick tilts his head up, Negan stands, still clutching the gun, with a smug little tilt on his lips. Rick stands up straight, stepping closer and Negan holds out a gloved hand, palm up and expectant.
He knows Negan won't just take it from him. This is about him doing it willingly, this is about him returning the hatchet to it's new and rightful owner. Rather aggressively, he slams the handle into the gloved palm.
“Attaboy!”
Negan says the word like he's praising a dog who just learned how to fetch. He smiles, a wide approving thing that shows all his teeth, and proceeds to lodge the hatchet back into the table, this time coated in all manner of stinking rot.
Rick falls heavily into the booth, shielding his right hand with his left, covering the bite wound because he thinks perhaps if the world can't see it, then it can't be true.
He can feel himself shaking, so violently his teeth chatter and it's suddenly too cold. Fresh sweat breaks out against his skin and he sinks down further in the booth, overwhelming dizziness spinning his vision into a kaleidoscope. It's too fast, he thinks, it shouldn't be this fast. His heart is pounding so loud, he can't hear and his limbs feel like they're stuffed with static, numb and singing with too much sensation all at once. He groans, eyes fluttering closed and head lolling back, knocking against something solid with a dull thud.
He shuffles his feet, boots scraping noisily as he moves his limbs simply to try and ground himself, even the black behind his eyelids is moving too much.
There's a whistle in his ears, a high pitched ringing that stabs into his brain. He blinks, struggling to pull his head up. He has to stay focused, Negan is still in the RV, he has to make sure it was enough. He has to make sure they live.
A snapping echoes like a thunder clap right next to him. His eyes flutter open to see a hand snapping right in front of his nose, he goes cross eyed focusing on it and he groans at the nausea that overtakes him.
“Hey...hey! We are not finished.”
It sounds like it's so far away and he can see Negan's face, swimming in his vision, across the table and out of focus. He lets his chin fall against his chest and he stares at his limp hands on his lap, the bite mark glaring up at him.
“Rick!”
A gloved hand grips his chin, forcing his head up with a bruising grasp and it sends him into a vertigo tailspin.
“This isn't nap time, prick. So unless you want more people to die-” Negan releases his jaw, and Rick's head bobs for a moment from the sudden loss, “I suggest you get your shit together in the next three seconds.”
Rick licks his lips, head wobbling and mouth opening and closing, air pushing out past clenched teeth. He tries to get his tongue to work but, it's like cotton in his mouth. He simply does his best to nod but, it's more like a shitty attempt to just rock his whole body.
“Are you really going to make me count?”
Rick shakes his head, his lips twitching over his gums as he tries to work his jaw loose. He feels so sick, everything aches and he can't stop himself from crying, a weak shattered little thing that moistens his eyes and threatens to spill down his cheeks. He just wants to go home, spend the last moments he can with his kids. He doesn't want Negan to be the last person he ever sees.
“Three…”
“...Plea…” He breathes out the half word, and tries to keep his eyes straight and his head up but, for all the world he just wants to curl up on the ground and shut his eyes.
“Two…”
“... Nuh…” He catches himself falling sideways, temple nearly bashing against the window and his cheek brushing the blinds with a noisy rattle. He manages to throw an arm up on the table top, hunching over it and trying to brace himself. He tries not to throw up, blinking rapidly as he stares down at the white surface beside his hand. It doesn't seem to satisfy Negan.
“One…”
He can't stop his head as it falls into the crook of his elbow. It's too heavy, so, so heavy. His eyelids drop closed and for a moment he slips away, forgetting the world.
A loud, thunderous slap to the table jolts him awake just in time to see Negan rise to his feet. The fear gives him strength and he throws out his right hand, grasping weakly at Negan's jacket.
Words dribble from his mouth in a feverish babble. Rick's arm drops, falling onto the hatchet handle and slipping down it's length until his wrist bumps into the cold, blood covered head. It hangs there for a minute, and Rick looks at his arm in a daze, wondering why it suddenly won't move no matter how much he tries.
A bone crushing grip grabs up the limb and he's yanked forward, chest crashing into the table edge. He flails about weakly for a moment, trying to pull his arm away and push at the table top with his free hand. His brow creases with the utmost concentration as he tries to think past the fire in his brain.
“You got bit.” Rick nods, eyelids fluttering and mouth working to say something, anything. The grip slackens and his arm falls with a dull lifeless thud.
He draws his arm back towards himself, slow and deliberate, talking all of his willpower. His head falls against the window this time, and he doesn't catch himself, just stares through the slats of the blinds, watching as hands like shadow puppets dance across the glass. The cold feels so nice against his forehead and he lets himself slip into it, feeling the barest hints of reprieve.
Clattering and banging forces him to turn his head to see Negan searching through the overhead cabinets. Rick watches as the man curses and throws various items, all clanging to the floor, each harsh sound sending a bolt through his temple. He wants to tell him to sit the fuck down, just be quiet and leave him in peace. Scream and shout that he's done enough damage, demand that he let his people go. Instead, he shrinks into himself, squeezing his eyes so tight that colors explode behind them.
Something, no someone, settles down in the booth beside him, close and warm, and he's caught between being too cold and too hot, fever clouding his mind and he presses his body closer to the window.
A hand grabs his own, pulling it away from himself with a gentleness unlike any he's experienced in the last twenty-four hours. The chemical stench of alcohol hits his nose a moment before electricity rips through his arm, an icy shock that tears through every nerve.
Rick gives a panicked yelp, desperately pulling his hand away, eyes snapping open and body turning so he can better push against his attacker. He raises a half curled fist but, unfurls it upon seeing who holds his hand.
He watches with a detached sense of self as Negan meticulously dresses the bite wound. Through the sickness, Rick feels utterly awkward and out of place sitting side by side with the man he'd sworn to kill. The man himself gently dabbing a clean square of gauze to the punctures that mar his skin in an ugly painting of reds, blacks and purples.
“... Not-” Rick swallows, voice cracking and his throat refusing to cooperate, “Not gonna… work.”
If Negan hears him, he doesn't make any indication, instead ripping a cloth with his teeth and wrapping the strip over the bite. After tying it tight, Rick watches as Negan just sits for a moment, a small frown on his face, brows dropped low and hazel eyes staring unfocused at Rick's bandaged hand. Rick blinks, as if the picture is just a mirage the fever has conjured up. The picture doesn't change and Rick tugs his hand out of the slack grip, all trembling arm and numb fingers, he lets it fall onto his thigh.
He just stares at it, watching as it spins and drops out of focus, swaying even though he's sitting still. A white patch of cloth that sticks out against the sickly parlor of his skin.
“I know.” It's a whisper and Rick trains his gaze back on Negan's face, the man staring straight ahead, lost in another time, another place but, the look is an unmistakable one of grief and it's definitely not for Rick.
Rick looks back down at his hand, twisting the fingers into the denim of his jeans as nausea returns to him like a fist to the gut. He rocks back and forth, clenching his teeth and fighting to keep the insides of his stomach down. He doesn't realize Negan got up until he hears the engine turn over with a short sputter.
A euphoric wave of relief washes over him that makes a pained smile spread across his lips and his heart soar in his chest. Negan is taking him back to the clearing, back to the other Saviors and more importantly, back to his family, the people he loves and God damn he wants nothing more than to see them, to tell them it's okay, that it will be okay. He can't die, not yet.
The rumble and gentle sway of the RV nearly coax him into a light slumber if not for the occasional squealing of the engine and the smack of walkers run down on the road. Every time his eyes slip closed, he sees Carl, smiling and laughing and alive. He sees Judith, little arms outstretched towards him with a gurgling laugh. He sees Michonne, her warm eyes and her beautiful smile.
The RV comes to a halt. He knows he doesn't have long left, the infection moving so fast through his system that each breath is becoming harder, each thought more muddled, each beat of his heart weaker and faster.
Ignoring Negan's presence, he drags himself to his feet, stumbling and gripping on to every available surface to support himself. A renewed vigor in his veins at the prospect of what lies just beyond that door.
He practically falls onto the latch, fingers catching on the metal and tugging until it gives way and he tumbles down the steps. He stumbles, using the door to hold himself up as he squints and hisses at the bright light that strikes his retinas.
Rick blinks, eyes adjusting slower than usual and for quite some time all he sees is a blinding glare. Finally, he starts to make out the objects in the distance and he lets go of his support, falling to his knees and shuffling towards the silhouettes.
It's oddly quiet.
“Carl?” He raises a shaking hand to shield his eyes, “Michonne?”
The blurry objects merge into one. It's just some trees and fence posts, miles of field stretching out beyond them as the sun climbs higher in the horizon.
A quiet sob bubbles up in his chest, pushing past his lips. Negan steps in front of him, his shadow falling across him and blocking out the sun.
Anger licks at his mind, furious and red, it floods his vision, a cascade of color that drowns out everything else. Rick lunges up at Negan, a wordless scream on his lips and a fist connecting with his face. He only stumbles back but, doesn't even raise a hand to block him or bring Lucille down on him. She just hangs at his side and that makes Rick angrier.
“You fuckin’...” He throws punch after punch at Negan, “... Take me back.” Each hit gets weaker and weaker, and soon enough he's only hitting his chest with a pathetic half formed fist. “Take me back…”
Whatever was keeping him standing suddenly evaporates from his body and his legs give out, he nearly falls into Negan, fingers catching on the man's shirt as he tries to hold himself up, tries to keep punching him, tries to keep hurting him.
“Please…” He pleads, falling to the ground, hunching over his knees as his fingers dig into the soil ripping at the grass.
“For what it's worth, I never meant for this to happen. People are a resource and you could've been a valuable one.” Negan drops into a crouch, Lucille resting across his knees and Rick can only stare at him, unseeing and delirious.
“I really did plan on killing you, though.” Negan is dreadfully serious, no hint of a smile, no hint of mirth, just stating the facts as if he was relaying the weather. “That ‘ennie minie mo’ shit? That was just for show.”
“But, then you had a son and I wasn't gonna kill you in front of your boy.”
“Carl…” Rick thinks of his son. He thinks of what will happen when Negan returns without him. He hopes, no he prays that Carl will be able to move on, just as he did with Lori. He knows Carl will care for Judith. He knows Carl will be okay, eventually, he has to believe everything will continue, even without him.
“So… I'm going to kill you here.” He stands from the crouch, removing a pistol from the front of his waistband, the one that Carl had stolen, “Quick and clean, out of the goodness of my heart, so your son doesn't have to witness that shit.”
“No.” Rick shakes his head, “ No, no… no.” He can't stop himself from repeating the word, as if it will stop the pathogen in his blood, as if it will change Negan's mind.
“Your people will live, so long as they do what they're told.” Negan walks behind him, the gravel crunching ominously and Rick wants to turn to face him, wants to watch death as it deals it's final blow. He can't. He can only look out at the fields, as tears build and tumble down his face and he thinks he should try and get away but, he's stuck, held fast by an unknown force. “I really am sorry.”
Rick grits his teeth, a bitter laugh escaping him as he blinks away tears. He thinks that a man like Negan could never be sorry, not really. A strange sense of calm overwhelms him, a peace that he hasn't felt in a long, long time. “Just… just do it.”
No sooner do the shaky words pass his lips when a deafening bang rings out, and his world crashes to black.