#like ofc bringing up her dead dad every damn time would trigger her

[lycrosis]

You know acosf had the potential be one of the greater, sweeter stories where a lost, traumatised side character finds their footing away from the main story's noise.

But I feel like sjm wanted to write villain's redemption (like sharpay or even regina george-esque) but thats not Nesta, she isnt a villain. She's just sharp-tongued and mean.

The worst thing she did doesn't amount to the worst thing that any of the IC did, so the structure of the story doesn't make sense but it still follows those emotional beats.

With her getting a 'nice guy' who 'makes her better', friends who have a similar backstory in trauma, a family that 'forgives her' and her giving up something huge to measure up to what Feyre used to sacrfice for her.

But were these things what Nesta needed?

[stopforamoment]

Part Eight: The Broken Promise  (Series 8, Part 8 of 8) TRIGGERS

Series Eight: Good Guys Do Exist (Eight Parts)

Part Eight: The Broken Promise  (Series 8, Part 8 of 8)

***TRIGGERS for violent content, graphic description of a school shooting and violent death******

Masterlist

Book: The Royal Romance (After Book Three—or Four?)

Pairing: Bastien Lykel x OFC Rinda Parks

Word Count: 2,398

Rating: R and V for Language, Violent Content, Graphic Reference to Violent Death and School Shooting, Grief after the Death of a Husband

***TRIGGERS for violent content, graphic description of a school shooting and violent death******

Author’s Note: Obligatory disclaimer that Pixelberry Studios owns the TRR characters and my pocketbook with those darn diamond scenes. OFC with all of her quirks is all mine. My apologies if Tumblr or I do something stupid when I try to post this. The keep reading link shows up on my laptop but not my phone. Ugh.

Series Summary: It’s the fourth week of school, going into October, and it’s Bastien’s last week as security officer at the school. He’s just helping Drake with the transition, and then he’s back to the palace as Head of Security for the Royal Guard. This series starts to transition Drake into the school and sets him up as a “good guy,” (our marshmallow!) just like Bastien.

Summary: In part eight Rinda reveals that she was actually in the school the day of the school shooting, when Jameson died.

***TRIGGERS for violent content, graphic description of a school shooting and violent death******

@asherella-is-a-dork-3  @liam-rhys

Thursday Night, Week Four

“Tria, Henry was talking about some things tonight, and I have to ask you a question. But you don’t have to answer me.”

Rinda paled. What? What did Henry say? “Ask me what, Tiger?”

“Were you in the school building when Jameson died?”

Rinda froze. She didn’t know if she was relieved to finally get it out in the open or horrified that she had to answer. Once she said “yes,” there was no going back. It was one more way people would pity her. Another way she was weak, a widow who was a victim of circumstances and a still an overall mess who couldn’t move on. But now Bastien was here, looking at her with those grey eyes that could read her soul. Yes, she could tell him.

“Bastien, that’s the part where my brain is broken. I think I remember something and then I push it down. But it comes back up. And every time it comes back up, I remember something else. I truly don’t know what actually happened or what’s from my nightmares. Or what real memories came out through nightmares. I had a lot of nightmares the first year, and I still get them once in awhile. There really is a lot that is blurry for me because those nightmares were so real.”

She took a deep breath. “Laura and Drake are the only ones in Cordonia that I told. Please, be honest. What do you already know from them or from my file? I’m not upset. I just need to know how much detail I have to go into. I also asked that the end of Jameson’s body cam footage be deleted. Not the things that can be used to train other officers. I’m fine with that being used so we can learn from it and keep more people safe. But not the footage after Jameson was dead. Anything with me and Cassie. I never wanted anyone to ever see that again.”

The file. That damn fucking file. It won’t ever go away, will it? “Tria, I never saw any footage besides what was shown that day in the gym. I promise that there isn’t anything else. And your file. Sweetheart, I never even finished reading it. I started to. But when I read that you and Jameson had a son, that you have Henry, that’s when I left to get a drink. That’s when I saw you in the music room and invited you to go with me. I haven’t looked at your file since then, except when you asked me to find information about . . .” He trailed off, but Rinda nodded. He was talking about when Rinda asked him to find information about the night she was assaulted.

“Bastien, this is what I remember, but it might be completely wrong. I don’t trust anything of my memory that day. Only the feelings, and I’m not ready to share them. I started to with Laura because I needed advice on how to ask questions during training, so we could discuss scenarios that are just too horrible for a person without those experiences to come up with on their own. I told Drake because I needed to know how to help Henry. But I didn’t share everything. I don’t know if I ever can, okay? And I never told you because I honestly thought you already knew, and I just didn’t want to go there. You’ve helped me with so much other stuff and I have to do this in layers. Reveal things about myself, I mean. If that makes any sense at all.”

. . . . .

Rinda was a parent volunteer and she was there when it happened, but Henry wasn’t in the classroom. He was in an accelerated math class and in a different room, in a different part of the school. If the shooting had happened ten minutes later he would have been transitioning back to his classroom. He would have been in the hallway. A lot of other students would have been transitioning to their next activity. But they weren’t. The shooting started ten minutes earlier, and Rinda thanked God for that every day.

Rinda was in Henry’s regular classroom helping students during a writing workshop. They were lucky. They were in a ground-level classroom, away from the main doors, so the teacher was able to get everyone she was responsible for at that moment out of the building safely. Everyone except one child who was unaccounted for. Cassie. She left to deliver something to the front office. The front office was by the front doors and the teacher was the one who chose Cassie. Who sent Cassie. Who unintentionally put Cassie right in the shooter’s path. And Rinda could see the teacher wasn’t able to lock the door—lock Cassie out—even though it was necessary to protect the other children.

So Rinda made the choice. She stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her, locking the rest of them in safely. She wasn’t going to force the teacher to make that choice. And besides, now she was on the same side of the locked door as Henry. She had to find him, even if she died trying.

Then the realization dawned on her, once the door was closed and she heard the lock click. When it was too late to change her mind. If she yelled to Henry she would only put him in further danger. And his classroom door should be locked and they wouldn’t open the door for her. She made a stupid choice, but at least she could find Cassie. And besides, everything happens for a reason.

Then Rinda got the feeling. Jameson was her world. She knew when he was about to get called into work. She knew when he was near. And she knew when he was in danger.

She knew he was in the building. She just knew. And she knew he was in pain, knowing she and Henry were in the building. They were all in that damn building. So close but so far away from each other. So she prayed. That he wouldn’t be distracted. That he would be able to focus. That he’d be safe. That they’d all come home that night. They’d let Henry sleep in their bed that night. They’d all be together at the end of the day.

But then the gunfire stopped and she knew. She felt it. That sudden feeling of emptiness. And she ran to find him. To be with him. That’s when she saw Cassie. It wasn’t the other officers who found Cassie first when they cleared the building. It was Rinda. She found Cassie curled up by Jameson, covered in his blood, begging him to wake up.

They were a team. They were always a team. Even as he died, he was helping her keep Henry safe. And he kept Cassie safe.

When the building was finally secure the police saw Cassie sobbing on Jameson, begging him to wake up. And they saw Rinda, holding Jameson and talking to him, begging him to hang on. To please come back to her. To stay with her.

Jameson was wearing a ballistics vest and the fatal shot wasn’t a chest wound. It was higher. And Rinda was trying to hold his head in her lap, trying to stroke his hair. But he was shot above his vest. And whatever hadn’t broke in Rinda before that moment absolutely shattered when they tried to remove her from Jameson—what happened when they pulled her from his body because she refused to let him go. That was one of the things that broke Rinda so hard that she’d never be okay again. The thing that had to be deleted from the body cam. Cassie was already removed from the building, but the other officers came running when they heard Rinda’s hysterical screams and they immediately sent one of the officers to take Henry to his house and wait with him. They knew Henry shouldn’t see his mother like that, no matter how desperately Henry needed to be with her. And that was the second thing that broke her. She couldn’t be there for Henry that evening, when he needed her the most. That was the other thing she would never forget and she would never forgive herself.

. . . . .

That was the part of her feelings that she shared with Drake. That she was sharing with Bastien now. As Rinda continued to process everything in the days ahead, immediately after the shooting, she was left with the horrible guilt that she failed Henry. Physically, Henry was fine. The class he was in wasn’t able to escape the building, but they were barricaded in and everyone was safe. But when Henry was reunited with his class, his mom wasn’t there and he was frantic with worry. She was still in the building, unwilling to let Jameson go. A police officer had to tell Henry that his mom was safe. His dad? Well, they were going to bring his mom out when she was ready, and he just had to wait with the rest of his class. And an hour after the building was cleared, when the rest of his class had been picked up, one of the police officer’s wives, one of Rinda’s best friends, came to get Henry and take him home and stay with him. Rinda was still inside, in shock, holding what was left of Jameson, refusing to let it go.

Rinda wasn’t there when Henry needed her the most, and she would never do that to him again. In Rinda’s mind she put her husband before her son. She put the man she loved before her own son. Their own son. It was always their agreement. Henry had to survive no matter what, and they were both willing to give their lives so he would be safe. They agreed that they would leave the other person behind, to make that sacrifice if that meant saving Henry. They both promised, but she broke that promise. And she would never do that again. Henry and his healing process were now her top priority. That’s why it was his choice if they stayed in Cordonia or went back home.

And if she would ever date again? If. It wouldn’t be until she was absolutely sure Henry was also ready for her to date again. And he would have to like the man she dated. That man would never replace Jameson as Henry’s dad, but Henry would have to accept him as the man who would be a new part of their life. The man who would replace Jameson as her best friend. Lover. Husband. And it hurt her to even think like that. Replace. No one could, would, ever replace Jameson. He’d have to share a place in her heart with Jameson and Henry, but Rinda had no clue how that would even work. So she was just . . . stuck. In limbo. Not sure if she was staying in Cordonia or going home. Not sure if she should ever try dating and then introduce him to Henry, but then if Henry didn’t like him . . . And her ring. That fucking stone that kept weighing her down. Rinda wasn’t sure if her life right now was a jigsaw puzzle. Once you got the frame put together, it was easy to fill in the rest. Or was it like a row of dominoes? She was trying to set things up, but life always happened to her, no matter how much she planned, and then everything would just come crashing down around her and she would be helpless to stop it once the momentum got going. Again.

. . . . .

Bastien refused to leave Rinda alone that night. He would do whatever Rinda wanted—sleep on the couch. Sleep on the floor so she could stay on the couch. Whatever she needed. Rinda wanted to sit on the couch with him and say nothing, but she wanted him to stroke her hair and hum to her. Maybe even whistle, because he was such a good whistler. But he could leave whenever he needed to. She had her alarm set and she would just sleep on the couch that night. She couldn’t move even if she wanted to. So Bastien went into her room and brought out pillows and blankets to get her snuggled in on the couch. But when she fell asleep, stretched out on the couch with her head in his lap, Bastien didn’t want to leave. Instead he stayed with her the entire night, ignoring the crink in his neck, his focus on keeping her comfortable, watching her sleep, and trying not to look at the picture of Rinda’s family that was on the shelf. He was trying not to think about how happy they must have been, and how no one would ever replace Jameson. And how she was the bravest person he ever met. It was a miracle she wasn’t completely broken, and it would be a miracle if she could ever fully move on.

. . . . .

Several times Mr. Ariti reminded Bastien to be patient. He had talked to Bastien again that night, after watching everyone play football. Mr. Ariti reminded Bastien that Henry really liked him—Henry even told Mr. Ariti that several times. And Mr. Ariti saw how Rinda looked at him. She just needed more time to make sure Henry was okay with staying in Cordonia for the rest of the school year, and make sure they were both ready for the next step. But it would be one step forward and two steps back throughout her healing process. If Bastien was serious, he had to be patient. Otherwise he needed to cut ties with Rinda and Henry now that he was done at the school.

And if Bastien did anything to hurt Rinda or Henry, Mr. Ariti didn’t care if Bastien was the Head of Security for the Royal Guard. Rinda was like a daughter to him, and no one would hurt her under his watch. Bastien nodded solemnly, knowing Mr. Ariti would make good on that threat.

. . . . .

Bastien did eventually fall asleep that night, and his arm was wrapped protectively around Rinda.

[queenofthecon]

On the Man Who Made Malice

Chapter 22 of 23 is now available to read on AO3 or below.

Summary: Mallory loves a monster; a man people fear, a man who seems to be untouchable, unkillable. Negan has a lot of the devil in his soul but Mal knows better than most how the devil was once an angel. She should remember, after all - she loved him before he became the monster.

Word Count: 10.5k; Negan/OFC slow burn smut fic in oh wayyyy too many words now.

A/N: Please comment, kudos, like or reblog. Be kind to all fanfic writers and leave them some goddamn appreciation. Happy Holidays!

Warnings: sex, violence, intrigue, danger! 

@jdms-network @negans-network @strangersangel9 @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash

Chapter Twenty-Two

The world went in and out. The dark and the cold.

Emptiness appeared behind her eyes, daring her, laughing as she tried to fill it up with life, make the terrifying world come back because the nothingness was worse. Softened edges slipped away again and again from her bloodied fingers, like she was trying to grasp silk as thin as a single hair to haul herself up with. Mallory tried, she tried so hard, dragging herself over broken glass just to fail and fall back down again. It was just too much; too much pain, too much fear, too much fatigue. Nothingness looked better the harder she tried to just wake up. It was all she had to do and she couldn’t do it.

Failure had always stalked close behind her, teeth bared, waiting for her to show the parts of her it could chew on. It drove Mallory onward away from it, her mind and body crawling slowly towards the world again as best she could. It all hurt, it all hurt so much that she thought that maybe it was better not to try at all. Let it chew her up, let it choke on her bones.  

But he was there.

Mal didn’t know how she knew it, but he was above her, turning the silk to rough rope so she could haul herself upright. Her dreams were dead, completely devoid of any hope, any pain or sadness, but that didn’t scare her anymore. There was a weight on her arm, warm and calloused and strong as shit, something for her to grip on to. Light was blinding as it anchored her.

Trying to breathe was harder the more she attempted to wake up, only to close her eyes again when it became too much to bear. She heard his heart somewhere near her head, pounding, thundering, beating, and tried to cling to the sound. Her own wet breath rattled in her chest like a spray paint can, though; sticking too long, collapsing back inwards. It would have been easier to let the nothingness take her, to give up, roll back into the jaws of the beast that stalked her. If she was just as blank and cold. If she were weak, if she was done.

Mallory wasn’t that person.

Her eyes sprang open and she battled for breath, clutching desperately at flesh and cloth, body bouncing softly in warm, thick arms. Her head tilted heavily backwards, her vision blurring and spotting as it got harder to breathe, chest constricting, tightening, choking. It was all going away too quickly and all at once, snatched from her bloodied fingers. She couldn’t see anything, not a damn thing, only feel, only hear faint sounds.

“Stay with me,” he said distantly above her, moving faster and faster, each pounding footstep jarring her half-broken body. His heart was pounding next to her ear. “Stay awake.”

Static became the only thing Mallory could see and hear, the world turning back to nothingness as if someone had turned off the light in a snap. Mal couldn’t do anything, couldn’t save herself, couldn’t heal on her own.

The only thing she wanted was her Mom, craving nothing other than to feel the warmth of her smile and the touch of her soft skin against her cheek like she had every night as a child when the monsters got too much. Mallory wanted her Dad, beaming proudly, handing her a hunting rifle and telling her to breathe and squeeze the trigger at the right time to nab a clean buck. Her friends, all laughing and drunk and normal, she wanted to see every one of them just one more time, listen to their bullshit and take their crappy advice. Their baby. She wanted her baby, dead in a blink of an eye. They were all long gone, empty voids she’d tried to fill with anger and violence and blood and calling it survival.

Memories slipped away – faces weren’t quite right anymore, the voices like caricatures of the people she’d known and loved, somehow wrong and right at the same time, taunting and cruel. He must have felt the same about Lucille, her face twisting the more he tried to think about her too. It broke her into pieces – all they had left was each other and maybe she’d just be another twisted face in his mind soon as well.

Mallory wanted to live, to feel loved again, to feel anything again. Her body jarred, the burning travelling to her throat and down to her stomach as if there was a weight crushing her down. He anchored her body tighter, she could tell, clenching fearful arms securing her to his beating, thunderous heart. His face twisted in her blanking mind.

“Please…” he begged one more time before the rope turned back to silk. “Please.”

Fuck. Breathing had been easier when she was unconscious; the bleach or chlorine or whatever the fuck it was burned her nose until she could taste it on her tongue and the back of her sore throat. Her whole body was still now, flat and unmoving as her brain tried to play tag with her limbs. Part of Mal had hoped that she’d wake up and find all the goddamn Biters and death had been a vivid nightmare, that she’d be back in her old bedroom or her apartment, trying to figure out why her nightmares had tricked her for so long. Instead, her twitching fingers found leather and she knew it wasn’t a dream.

“Negan?” Mallory gasped, voice hoarse and croaking. She blinked her eyes and looked down, only able to see the few inches or so in front of her that wasn’t blurred out and hazy. The jacket was draped in her lap, empty and cold. Disappointment flooded over her in waves as she groped the fabric, grunting in pain as she tried to sit up in a panic, the pain growing less fierce in her determination to push it aside.

“Mallory… oh fuck me,�� a rough voice barked from beyond the point her eyes could focus. “Fuck are you doing? Stay fucking still.”

Negan, his face smeared with sweat and blood, came striding up to her without hesitation, worry etched beneath the dirt that masked him. Letting out another shaking, agonising breath, Mal leant her head into his wide palm as he reached out to touch her, the simple gesture conveying everything that needed to be said. He looked as haggard and pained as she felt, though relief at being alive washed over her – finally, the rope was wrapped around her hands.

“Negan…” she croaked in warning, trying again to sit up.

"Fucking Christ, I said don't move!" he commanded, quiet but thunderous. He swiped a thumb across her cheekbone like she was the petal of some delicate flower. "You got a fucking hole in your chest, Mallory. Sit your tiny ass still for once. Fuck me, you’re out for a few hours and you think you’re all healed and ready for another battle…"

Pulling her head upright and away from his hand, Mal peered down at her prone form to see that he was both wrong and right. Instead of just a hole, there was a skinny tube sticking into and out of her chest, around near her collarbone, capped off at the end. The room was empty except for them, though she expected the asshole doctor to not be too far out of earshot.  

"You suck," Mallory groaned, looking at him pointedly. "That's barely the size of a needle, asshole."

Whatever retort was on his lips died as she fell back onto the hard gurney, her shirt missing and replaced with a clean sheet, draped over her like they used to do to dead bodies in morgues. She knew it had been a close call this time, closer than she’d thought. The tightness around her chest wasn’t as crushing but her breath still sounded rattling. For all Peter’s efforts to kill her with a piece of sharpened wood, it hadn’t been the shiv that had caused her all this pain. How the fuck had a one-handed man made a shiv inside a concrete room anyway?

"Might wanna take it easy, you were dying for a hot minute there," he muttered, eyes flicking over her quickly. "Peter the Prick did a number on you, Mallory."

"Did a number on him too," she said quietly, only now noticing the numbed ache deep in her bandaged arm. Mallory grunted as she sat back up, breathing laboured and wet. “You see?”

A small, proud smile ghosted over his lips like it always did. "Yeah I saw. You're fucking brutal as shit,” he replied, standing upright a little more. “Place looks like a fucking crime scene, I gotta get the bleach on the walls to get the bloodstains out.”

Mal leant back on the gurney and smiled weakly, exhausted and relieved and half-broken from it all. "You don’t gotta say it, Negan. I shouldn't have gone down there, not with Arat, not even with you. It was a trap, wasn’t it? Can’t believe it..."

There was a sharp, screeching noise on the linoleum floor by Negan as he drew a stool to sit next to her, his face hardening. "Hindsight’s 20-20, as they used to say when that meant something. You’re too fucking trusting of assholes by half, me included. What in the shit did that creep say to piss you off so much you stabbed him in the back?” His smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. “Loving the literal metaphor, by the way. Outstanding work."

Licking her dry lips as a distraction, she peered away as she tried to remember the details. Everything was still more of a blur, all the words they had said to each other fading from her memory the more she tried to think about them. It was a mess of chaos, except for a few stark words she would never forget and the cold look he gave her.

"Just that he didn't want to win, only wanted you to lose." Her fingers kneaded at the leather jacket draped over her lap like a blanket, taking comfort in the familiarity, imagining that she was clinging to his chest, hearing his pounding heartbeat again. “Meaning… killing me, I guess.”

“He knew he couldn’t get close enough to me to even try,” Negan grumbled, voice teetering with anger. “Knew that I didn’t have any trust he could exploit, but you did.” Mal glanced back up at him, blue eyes watering. “Florence fucking Nightingale. He was chained up for a reason, you ever think of that?”

She wanted to laugh but just the idea made her gut ache, so she settled for shaking her head. “Well that’s bullshit. Peter… he knew you wouldn’t say no to me if I asked you. I’m too trusting and you really are too much of a soft touch when it comes to pretty girls.”

“Maybe. Yeah, maybe,” Negan mumbled, rubbing a palm over his face roughly. He was leaning forward, his elbows planted on his knees, looking like he was trying to say things he didn’t want to say. They both had them. “And it got you three broken ribs, fucked-up lungs and a gaping hole in your arm for it.”

Mallory could have done without the blow-by-blow of her near misses. Even before today, there’d been hundreds of them at the hands of Biters and the living alike, things he was seemingly keen to ignore. “But I won,” she said defiantly, gritting her jaw. “Hurt like Hell, but I goddamn won. You know, you were right about-”

“Normally am…” he mumbled towards the ground, interrupting.

“About needing control,” she snapped back. “I took control back from Peter. He pushed me, he hurt me, so I took it back from him. If that’s what you wanted, why are you so pissed off at me about it?”

Negan almost sneered as he glanced back at her, eyes raging and dark. “Because you nearly fucking didn’t win, Mallory, you got split in half. You didn’t get the agony of hearing what your breathing sounded like, like…. like you were being squeezed until everything was wrung out. You’re as tough a son of a bitch I’ve ever known, and it was still almost not enough to win against one man. I don’t think you get how close I came to...” he stopped and swallowed thickly, looking away. “How the fuck you even walked halfway up the hall, I don’t know. A minute later and I’d have had to shoot you in the fucking skull.”

It was like crawling over broken glass again, the way he was staring, glaring, down at the ground. “I’ve had worse,” she mumbled bitterly, exhaustion seeping into her very bones. “Jesus, what am I gonna have to do to prove to you that I can take care of myself? Cut through every man here? Because I will.”

A cold smirk splayed slowly across his face as he kept his gaze toward the goddamn ground, not even daring to look in her fucking eyes like the coward he was. Negan was still scared when it came to her, she knew. He was breaking apart and being rebuilt from scratch at her feet.

“Yeah that’s just the fucking thing, right?” he clipped, his leg starting to shake up and down. “Here’s this girl, thin and pale with broken bones and she already fights better, fights harder and dirtier than half of the jackasses I got at my disposal. As much as I got my name, my reputation, out there, your name’s getting out there too and that shit was before all this even happened…”

Mallory frowned in confusion, wondering what the fuck he was talking about. “My name?”

“Your name,” he echoed quietly, unsettled, jittering. “You were alone, stuck in a solid cage with a man you thought you trusted until he tried to kill you, already weak and in pain, and you walked out of it,” his eyes were wild as he looked at her, half-scared and half-excited. “Now I gotta wonder what would happen if you could see the enemy coming at you from a hundred yards, if you were stronger, if you were angrier, had a real weapon back in your hands and people to protect. They’re all starting to wonder what you can really do, Mallory. Everyone underestimated you; I did and I fucking…” he swallowed again, the words shoved back down his throat. “I need you.”

Hot tears pricked at her eyes. Wading into another war, that was what he meant, the words he wasn’t saying outright in case she said yes. He wanted her to clear up the mess around him and find the pieces worth saving. Nobody ever saw her coming, she knew that. Not even Peter, who had seen the look of blood on her teeth, knew what she was willing to do to win. Negan wanted her to be the Queen with a knife in her fist.

Mal was quiet for a moment, her drained mind and body trying to play catch up with everything he’d put on a table and fill in the blanks. “You really don’t know how to pick your moments…” she muttered quietly with a soft, weak smile. “So… I’m your Saviour, that’s what you want from me?”

“Saviours aren’t mine. They don’t protect me, they protect what this place is, they protect the people, Mallory, because people are a fucking asset,” he was begging with his strained voice, his whole body taut. Did he want her to refuse him, to go back to being safe, even if it meant he might lose at the end? “You wanna say no, you say no, but you and me… we both know it’s what you miss. Feeling that chase.”

“I don’t miss killing people, Negan,” Mal warned wearily.

He rolled his eyes. “Not talking about the violence. Purpose, you miss having purpose, a fucking reason to ream me out day after goddamn day. Don’t tell me I’m wrong.”

A sigh escaped her dry lips as she remained silent. He was there, by her side, still streaked with her blood, asking for help with a war he knew he wasn’t going to win. Maybe he just wanted to go down fighting instead, make her watch him die. Who the fuck knew what Negan wanted anymore.

Her fingers groped idly for his jacket in her lap, slipping inside every pocket until she found what she was looking for; the sonogram. It was still exactly where he’d last put it for safe keeping, as close to his chest as he could. They were both experts at secrets, skilled at gutting people with words, with knives, with power, but the life they’d never had made them weak. At least, it made her feel weak.

“Must have looked at this thing a thousand times,” she mumbled, unfolding it. “Every day, every night, missing something I never had.”

Negan sighed too, glancing between her and the picture. “You don’t have to do this again, Mallory.”

“No, I mean, maybe I need to stop missing it? Maybe I need to stop trying to see my Mom’s face, hear my Dad’s voice…” Mal said softly. “I can’t have that baby back, I can’t have that life back. I think that means I can’t have you back either, not like we were,” she swallowed thickly, scared of the after. “If you want me to fight for them, to die for them, okay, I can do that, gladly; but I can’t be the same Mallory, I can’t be yours. Because you know it makes us both vulnerable, the baby makes us vulnerable. Everyone here is at risk if we’re more… and if you really, really give a shit about the people here, about keeping them safe, then you’ll let the past go. And I’ll fight for you, for them.”

They both looked at each other, his jaw ticking and clenching as if he was about to explode. “That an ultimatum, Mallory?”

“No, Negan, it’s not an ultimatum, it’s just what needs to happen,” she affirmed, folding the picture back up and slipping it into his hand. “I guess you’re regretting scooping me up off the floor now, huh?” she chuckled idly, trying to break the tension.

“That wasn’t me,” he mumbled casually, putting the sonogram back into the pocket. “Simon was the one who found you out cold, trail of blood up the wall. Goddamn ran with you in his arms up here.”

Her stomach dropped suddenly, the silence piercing. Negan was back to staring at the ground, his mind occupied while her own tried in vain to remember the face of the man who saved her, what he felt like, what he sounded like. But it was Simon. He was Simon. It was Simon who said please, Simon who had tightened his grip, curled her up in his arms. Simon who begged her to stay. Maybe she’d imagined it all, projected what she wanted from Negan into the arms of another man. But her stomach still felt heavy, remembering what his heart sounded like, pounding next to her ear.

“I must have been way out of it, then,” she said quietly, shaking her head just a little, though she wasn’t entirely convinced that her dying brain hadn’t conjured the straining voice that had pleaded with her to stay alive. Whatever had happened didn’t matter now, did it? “Look, I’m not asking you to make the choice for me, Negan, but I’d still always rather rule in Hell than serve in Heaven.”

He chuckled dryly, nodding just once. “I know, Mallory. But it really is fucking Heaven, isn’t it? Can’t give you up without a goddamn fight if I have to. There has to be a goddamn solution that doesn’t mean us being fucking miserable apart.”

They had a bond, she knew that. Some unspoken connection that drew them to each other, broken and raw but healing and surviving in tandem. There was a reason they had both lived this long, she thought, both stubborn jackasses with nothing left to lose and everything to gain by force. Mallory craved his strength and stubbornness sometimes, had done even when she hated him. It was more than a need for sex, for love or lust, it was the part of herself she clung to when he was with her. As if she was meant for more. Every time he denied her, it shattered something irreparable.

“We can’t get everything we want in life, maybe we shouldn’t,” she said, thinking of the family she’d lost and the family she’d never get. “Can’t love you like I want, have you to myself, can’t make you love me back. I need to know who I am outside of this, what I can do.”

“It used to be playing that fucking piano, every damn night, for hours…” he said quietly, a small smile poking at the corners of his eyes. “Couldn’t drag you away from it.”

“I loved that thing,” she agreed, letting out another rattling breath. “But I think we need to let dreams die sometimes so they don’t drown us. There’s a reason I don’t dream of playing music anymore, there’s just…” her chest tightened again. “Just nothing.”

“Take it easy, shhh,” Negan said, immediately concerned as her chest wheezed in search of breath. “You shouldn’t even be talking right now. Fuck’s wrong with me?”

“How long was I out?” she asked suddenly, having realised the pain in her chest had edged away to a throb as they’d been figuring shit out between them. Her arm didn’t even hurt anymore, though she felt like the sheet around her was weighted, dragging her back under. “My head feels… weird.”

“Yeah, that’ll be the drugs, Mallory,” Negan admitted, sitting up soberly. “You’ve been out maybe eight, ten hours,” he said, looking at the watch on his wrist. “Gotta say, you’re still faring better than your boyfriend next door, I tell you that. Asshole’s not getting any painkillers from me.”

Mallory’s jaw dropped open slightly, panic rising. “I… Peter’s alive?” she stuttered. “But he wasn’t moving? I thought, fuck, I thought he was dead.” Her world spun out of control and she groped aimlessly for Negan’s hand. “I stabbed the thing in his fucking back, how can he be alive still?”

“Twisted it too, right?” he said, gripping her hand right back, tight as a vice. “He’s stubborn as you are, spitting blood in my fucking face. Don’t worry about him, he’s not going anywhere near you, not ever again. I got men watching him like he’s fucking Houdini in a straightjacket, okay? He’s gonna get what’s coming to him tomorrow, in front of everyone. I promise.”

“You’re still executing him?” she asked, shamed at the relief that flooded her. It wasn’t meant to be like that, it was meant to be her begging, pleading for Negan to spare his life but all Mallory wanted was the choice gone and out of her hands. She wanted it to be done, for Peter to be gone out of her life. She thought he was already. “I have to see. I have to be there.”

Negan grunted as if he was annoyed. “No fucking way, you nearly died a few hours ago. You’re not moving from this bed for at least a week, fuck the fucking pencil-dick doctor. Peter’s not worth you hurting yourself again, Mallory.”

It didn’t matter. Her broken ribs didn’t matter, her rattling breath was inconsequential. She had to be there; for herself, for Peter, for Aimee. It was a path she had to walk down, even if he’d never understand that line of thinking.

“You’re the one who said my name’s out there now. If I don’t even show my face, how’s that gonna fucking look, especially when you’re the one swinging the axe? They’re not gonna be afraid of me if they think I’m too scared to show my face,” she muttered, slipping her hand out of his as she realised how tightly she was gripping him. “I just need to stand there with my head up, don’t I? I don’t have to kill him, I just need to show everyone I’m not a pussy.”

He seemed to chew it over, looking her up and down tentatively. “Three days, then I’m caving his fucking skull in whether you can stand up or not. There’s only so much shit I can take, and he hurt you, he nearly killed you. Three days is the limit on Lucille and her appetite, and mine too. He’s gonna piss his pants when he sees you standing there.”

Mallory reached up and wiped her fingertips over her dry eyes, drained. “Thank you,” she muttered shallowly, his hand cupping her tender face again, his lips pressing a soft kiss to her clammy forehead. Letting go completely would be nearly impossible. “Thank you.”

The acrid, bitter scent of death hung everywhere in the Sanctuary; it was deep in the walls, somehow, mixed into the cement and the breeze blocks until nothing could scrub it out. It didn’t seem to burn in her nose like it used to and now was barely there. Nothing about the place had really changed in any noticeable way – not the building, not the people or the fear in their eyes or the pity, too. They all kneeled, all washed out in loss, looking to the only thing keeping them alive and safe from the Biters as if he were a God. Negan wasn’t broken, no; he wasn’t like the others, small and scared. He stood before them, above them, turning vengeance into power and respect. Blood into gold.

If there was a change in anything, it was in her. Mallory was no longer kneeling in front of him, weak and dissolved, scared for her life and washed out like the rest of them. Instead, she stood alongside him and his Saviours, toe-to-toe with the most trusted of his army as if she were one of them, as if she was important not just to him, but to all of them kneeling at their feet. He’d told her to stand, to hold her head up and keep her eyes straight and strong, to be like the others he trusted.

It was easy to see how intoxicating he was, standing on the other side. Big, bad Negan. The man they whispered about in secret like an urbaN myth. He loved it. He loved that they were whispering about her, too; they would be after today. She wasn’t going to swing the bat, but she was directing the man behind it.  

She was as cold and pale as a damn ghost when Negan sauntered into the room, Lucille on his shoulder. Every eye in the room strayed onto her body, none of them in any doubt about who she was. Their glances, their mutters and whispers. She wasn’t his property, his wife, someone to be even more pitied than the free people. Fuck, she cringed at the thought of her being his trophy. Negan made those poor women kneel in front of him too, their eyes searing into her bruised skin deeper than any of the others because she stood where none of them had ever stood. He was free to screw all his fucking wives, every night, all night in every depraved way he wanted until they screamed and begged – it didn’t matter. Mallory knew they’d all give an arm and an eye to have the miniscule part of his trust she kept hidden in her pocket. That was power, that was control – and she had it over everyone.

The devil himself turned on his heel and winked at her, Lucille swinging from his shoulder and bouncing readily in his hand as they all waited for him to begin the show. She felt her own heart in her throat as she watched, waiting for the predator to make a move, to bite the throat out of his prey. “Wanna get this party started?” he grinned again, curling his fingers in a gesture to someone else.

And they brought out her failure, beaten and broken.

Her stomach churned at the sight of Peter, barely able to walk on his own legs, as Simon dragged him into the cavernous room by his bound arms. Sweat was beading on his forehead, skin mottled with aging bruises and pale spots. Even she could tell he had barely been patched up from their fight three days ago. Yes, her chest and her ribs still burned, and her breath was still weakened, but everything Peter had done to her was easy to hide, easy to cover up so she looked invincible. He couldn’t hide the fact he was dying, he couldn’t hide anything.

“Enjoy…” she heard Simon mutter vindictively, throwing Peter at Negan’s feet without ceremony. Simon glanced up at Mallory before he came to stand in his rightful place, her cold skin prickling as he slid in next to her. Her eyes remained rooted on Peter, his arms duct-taped together behind his back since one of his hands was missing still.

This is it, she told herself, willing herself to not look away. This is where it begins.

Negan tutted loudly in the back of his throat, bumping the blunt end of Lucille up against the back of Peter’s head. The man at his feet crouched low, face down, forced to kneel with his eyes bent towards the floor. Negan was trying to shield her from looking at his face.

“Ladies and gentlemen, roll up and see the spectacle on sight today!” he bellowed, standing tall and straight. “I want every single one of you out there…” he shouted out to the kneeling masses. “Every single goddamn pricks to know something about me. I was a kind man! I used to have some motherfucking mercy! I was just the same as every other cunt here, dragging my nuts through the dirt, listening to all of your pathetic stories and pleas. Every man out there on his knees today begged on me to take them in and bless my soft Virginia soul, I was merciful!” A chuckle escaped from his lips as he pressed Lucille harder into Peter’s head, breaking the delicate skin. “But I am gonna make this very fucking clear today: there is no such thing as mercy anymore! There is no line left to cross because I am scrubbing it the fuck out! You either suck on my goddamn dick and make me happy, or you die choking on it. Today’s the day when this fuckless wonder, this, this… piece of greasy shit on the bottom of my goddamn shoe here, chokes on my fucking enormous dick.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Peter grunted out, his bent legs shaking underneath him, the side of his head turning just slightly so she could see his ice-cold eyes. Sweat ran in droplets over his brow, mixing with the blood and the dirt, weeks of it caked onto his once beautiful face. Everyone could see the defiance, the anger, the hatred that rolled over him. Negan wanted them to see it. “And screw your little whore too.”

The sick, sadistic smirk bloomed slowly and brightly across Negan’s face. The blunt end of Lucille travelled lower and jabbed into the stab wound lurking under Peter’s dirt-ridden shirt. The man screamed in pain, flesh mincing to a pus-ridden pulp beneath the fabric as Lucille worked her magic on ready-torn muscle. Mallory forced herself not to wince.

“Yeah that’s what I thought,” Negan spat quietly, crouching down and getting right into Peter’s face. “I was gonna make it quick but I kinda love it when you scream, not gonna lie there. Makes me tingly all over. Piece of goddamn shit… you’ll wish she killed you in that cell.”

Mallory’s breath caught in her gut as she watched a waterfall of blood and pus and gunk flow from Peter’s back, soaking into his shirt. The arms that were once wrapped her own midsection had fallen by her side. She couldn’t look away, her eyes widening as his screams of agony bounced around the room. The audience in front of her paled and averted their eyes, some shaking as he just screamed and screamed. She was rooted to the spot.

“Don’t,” Simon muttered lowly next to her as she nearly waivered from the sight of Peter. “Don’t look away. No mercy, that’s the deal from us too.”

Peter continued to scream until Negan pulled the bat away, the end of her coated in blood and glistening brightly in the morning sun. “This weak, pathetic son of a bitch in front of you don’t belong here,” Negan roared, stepping backwards. “Maybe you are asking yourselves ‘what did this motherfucker do that was so bad?’ but I am here to tell you he did nothing. He’s just pissed me off too many times.”

Suddenly Negan swung the bat up in an arc high above his head. Mallory felt a quick, vice-strong grip tugging on her own elbow, roughened hands holding her steady, forcing her to watch what was about to happen.

Can’t turn away. Don’t.

Her breath caught in her throat, choking, singing, as Negan swung hard and fast, cutting through the air. Lucille cracked Peter’s skull from ear-to-ear, his head splitting and bursting instantly. His body slumped forward and twitched as he fought to the end, his face a river of blood in front of her. Peter looked blankly, alive and dead at the same time.

There was another crack and another and another, wild and vicious all over his body. The sight of it would stay with her forever, how Peter’s brain stuck into the barbs of the wire, how his hair, matted with bone and blood, looked so black, like tar. His corpse, mangled and torn from head to waist, jumped and curled into a loose ball on the concrete before stilling.

It was finally quiet. There was silence and the nothingness.

He was gone, and she could finally breathe. Simon’s fingers uncurled from around her elbow quickly. It was over and all there was that remained was silence. No screams, no whispers, no rumours or doubt. Mallory decided in that moment that Negan wasn’t going to win the war; he was the war. Brutal, merciless, violent, unending. Untouchable.

All he had to do was wave a hand and every living person kneeling in front of him practically ran from his path, pushed out by most of his Saviours, all of them rightfully terrified of the devil in black. She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, staring at Peter’s lifeless, mangled carcass before it was dragged back, away from her sight forever. Her eyes looked up from the mess left on the floor, the streaks of nothing, and back up to the monster she loved.

Negan breathed evenly, spattered head to toe with blood and brain, Lucille hanging by his side, loyal and diligent as any man there. He licked his lips as he caught her eye, burning deep holes into her soul. Her heart skipped, his gaze travelling down her body as it always did. It was all Mallory could do not to touch him, to not cup her skinny, shaking hands around his face and breathe calm into his storm-filled eyes, to yield to what he craved. He terrified her too.

“Negan?” she muttered as he came towards, scared that she would be the one to break. It was a weakness still, a vulnerability.

He looked away from her and to his side, unclipping a holster around his leg, unthreading worn leather from his belt and thigh. “This is yours,” he grunted gutturally, shoving it into her hand. “Was always yours. You’re gonna need it.”

Mallory tore her eyes from his and pulled out a familiar handle from the holster; her bowie knife. It glistened in the sun from the windows as she pulled it from the warmed leather. “I don’t-”

“That's you now,” he snapped, wiping Peter’s blood from his face with the back of his hand. “Training begins in a week, since you wanna be my soldier, Mallory. That’s what you wanted.” He turned to glance at Simon next to her. “Make sure she gets back to her room.”

There was barely a heartbeat before Negan ripped himself away from her side, barking orders with the sway of his shoulders and the trail of blood leaving an imprint on her memory. Mal swallowed thickly, exhausted and strong all at once, slipping the knife back into her holster. She let out a steadying breath, feeling truly alone.

There was a stillness in the wind, punctuated only by the gentle hum of sunshine on her bare skin, glowing new and golden in unexpected humidity. The skies stretched boundless for miles above them, undisturbed, alive, but quiet and still. Her body ached but it was strong again, she was strong again. The heat of the sun bore down on her as Simon drilled self-defence moves into her for the thousandth time. Her mind was clear and clean, focussed on cloudless sky for the brief moment she got between attacks.

“Ain’t gonna find a Biter up there, Red,” Simon called over to her, sounding winded as she stretched out her back from the last attack he’d sprung on her. “You’ve only been through six weeks of this, you’ve got a fucker of a job to catch up to the rest of us. We’ve been here years.”

Mallory wiped off the sheen of her forehead with the back of her hand, striding over to him. “Think you’re forgetting how long I survived out there alone and with idiots. I wasn’t sitting on my fat ass, getting lazy from standing in the boss’s shadow,” she smirked. “You’re still pulling your punches on me, Simon, don’t be a little bitch now.”

“Wouldn’t be doing to mess up that pretty face,” he replied, grabbing her arm and spinning her as he feigned another close-quarters attack. Drawing her elbow back, she sunk the joint into Simon’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him harder this round than she had before, though he stepped back before she had a chance to stomp down on his foot. “Motherfucker!”

She grinned to herself as he swung out at her face, dodging the punch easy and kicking out at his ankles instead. He crashed hard to the ground, grabbing her leg and pulling her with him. Mallory wrestled Simon into the dirt, tumbling in the dry earth until she had his wrists pinned next to his head. He bucked his hips, trying to swing her off him. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, pumping her heart harder.

The stinging burn that had lingered in her chest for weeks was gone, her wounds healed, and the only bruises were ones she’d earned as fucking trophies. Simon was going to earn his own trophies today. She pressed her shin across his throat and bore down, beaming wildly.

“Say it, sweetheart.”

“No fucking way,” he gasped out, still attempting to throw her off his body, getting angrier the more she refused.

It only made her bear down on him harder. “Say the words, Simon, and I’ll let you come up for air. I know you got a good view but you’re gonna black out in a minute.”

“You’re a mean bitch,” he spat, eyes sparking at her as she looked down at him pointedly. “Fine, Jesus fuck, I submit to the goddamn Queen!”

In an instant, Mallory was off him and standing above his body on the ground, victorious. “Fuck yeah you do,” she sniffed and wiped off the dust from her jeans. “You’re letting me out in the field tomorrow. No more lame excuses.”

Simon sat up, looking slightly impressed and dumbfounded, shaking his head slightly as he rubbed out his bruised throat. “How’d the fuck you get your centre of gravity so damn high, Red? I should’ve been able to throw you off in a second. I think you crushed my goddamn larynx, do I sound fucked up? I think I sound fucked up.”

Biting back a laugh, Mal held out her hand for him to haul himself up with, turning and walking back to the truck parked near them, its back open and full of weapons. “I wasn’t touching you beyond my hands on your wrists, not before I got on your throat. Keep the spine straight and locked, push down and even a little girl can avoid the counter-move. And I did.”

Whether or not he looked impressed, she wasn’t sure. Negan chose his closest allies carefully, of that much she was sure, and that meant they all played everything close to their chests, her included. Simon had trained her hard, got to work on her weak aim and strengthen up her upper body back to where it had been before Negan took her in. She worked her ass off and it was showing, in more ways than she expected.

“Solar plexus, though?” he questioned, watching as she strapped her holster back to her thigh. “Not bad but your arm’s still weak. Instep goes first next time, drive down until you hear the bones break.”

Her brow arched at him, sliding her bowie knife back into the leather. “It’s like you want me to hurt you.”

“Maybe next time. I think you broke one of my fucking ribs too,” he whined comically.

Mallory laughed softly, her mind brought back to the day three of hers had snapped. “You don’t want that, trust me. They heal quick, but you’ll feel like you’re dying while they do.”

Simon hummed deep in his throat as he reached past her to grab some water, downing half the bottle in one as he rubbed his side. “That was a special case, you were actually dying, Red, I know the sound of a fucking death rattle when I hear one.”

Her eyes shot to the ground for a second, looking anywhere but at Simon. Her memories of him finding her and carrying her got mixed up with other images. “I never thanked you for that,” she muttered almost reluctantly, taking the water bottle as he offered it. “For finding me.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said plainly, leaning up against the truck to watch as she drained the bottle. “Didn’t need to. It’s my job.”

She shot him another confused look, throwing the empty plastic away into the truck. “Your job to what? Save my life?”

Simon looked at her, jaw squaring. “I didn’t save your life, Red, I got you where you needed to go. That’s my job. Point A, point B. Simple as shit and half as hard.” His eyes bore deep into hers and she was still unsure of whether there was something else behind it, another meaning she wasn’t seeing. “Look at what it got me. Cunning, wise-ass, brutal little Freshman who likes it when she makes people submit to her. Negan might be in front of us, leading the charge, but I want people like you at my side. That’s what keeps you alive.”

“People like me?” she muttered under her breath.

“People who are gonna live…” Simon said simply.

It took eight weeks, three days and a handful of hours before she snapped.

True to her demands, Simon had put her out in the field and let her take a flank while out on a recon for a couple days. It had yielded little in the way of supplies, though she figured something was better than nothing, even if it was just more canned foods and some seed packs. But she’d taken out countless Biters and was ready to be done. Her old injuries were starting to gripe at her, her ribs aching, her scar on her thigh refusing to let the muscle underneath stretch any further until it was rested. Sweat and dirt and old blood flecked across her skin and clothes until she could think of nothing but steaming hot water and soap, willing herself onward step by step until she got it.

Mallory clanked her weapons back into the armoury, checking them off with the guy at the door. Fucked if she knew what his name was, she just called him Ass Guy since he always wolf whistled at her when Negan wasn’t around. Kid would clam up when the Big Bad Boss Man walked by – funny how that worked. The cockiness of youth, thinking she’d just put up with that shit day after day. Everyone had a breaking point.

It was early morning, just after sunrise, the cool of the night giving way to the spring heat and humidity that Mallory was desperate to escape from already. Her arm burned in pain as she lifted off a holster from her shoulder, the stab wound on her upper arm having proved a tricky one to heal. It was taunting her, that wound. The question on her lips never answered because the one man who would tell her the truth had his head caved in and his body broken in six places.

Because it had to be impossible. It was impossible for a one-handed man, chained to a metal bed, to make a shank from some random piece of wood. It rattled her more because it hadn’t rattled Negan. Someone had to have handed it to him. Someone must have placed it in his palm and told him to try. Either he didn’t care, or he hadn’t realised it himself, but the question hung over her still. It made her arm ache more, the anger burn brighter. She took it out on Biters but the Biters weren’t there in the Sanctuary.

It was eight weeks, three days and a handful of hours when she snapped. Mallory was bent over the tent outside the armoury, checking off her loaned weapons to get cleaned when Ass Guy wolf whistled inches from her face and she was done.

Without hesitation, Mal slipped the bowie knife from her holster, turning on her heel to catch his throat, pressing the blade threateningly against the tender, thin skin. Her eyes were wild and bright, vibrant and piercing, body thrumming with the need to take out her anger again. “You wanna fucking repeat that to my fucking face, shit stain?”

He held his hands up in surrender, looking at her, terrified. Beads of blood were dripping down his neck already. “Shit, shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he pleaded, stammering. “Please don’t kill me!”

“Whistle like that at me ever again and I’ll shove my big knife so far up your ass that you’ll taste metal for a week. You got that?” Mallory seethed quietly, her breath catching up to her. When the kid didn’t answer, she grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked. “You got that?”

“Yes, ma’am, yes, I got it,” he choked.

Gritting her teeth, Mallory threw him off her as if he’d burned her. The kid scurried away, the other men and women in the armoury looking at her like she was a bomb about to go off. Her blood was thrumming with pure, unspent, righteous anger.

It was only a moment later, her knife re-holstered, that she saw Negan, Lucille on his shoulder, looking like someone had put dirt in his coffee.

“Mallory!” he thundered, pointing Lucille up towards the Sanctuary, to one of the highest corners. “Wipe off your fucking face and get your ass up to my office. Now.”

“Fucker…” she whispered under her breath, frowning lightly as she trekked up the familiar apth towards his office.

The bastard kept her waiting in there for what felt like hours, her leg jittering as she sat in one of the chairs opposite his desk. Mal had to settle on a quick wipe over with a washcloth on her face and arms to get rid of the grime.

Unease became an old friend, sitting in his office, waiting for whatever was coming her way. He hadn’t so much as looked at her in nearly eight weeks since she’d been training, even though she knew he was there. Maybe he’d had enough of it, enough of waiting and watching, hoping she’d realise some bullshit lesson and come running back. She wasn’t gonna bend first.

Negan strode into the room without a word, not looking at her. It was like waiting for a punch that never came, just the lingering threat waiting in mid-air. “Looks like you scared Donny half to death. Congratulations,” he rumbled eventually, laying Lucille on the desk. “I had you down for a week from now.”

“He’s a punk,” she retorted, spitting out the word. “I’m surprised you didn’t think it’d happen sooner, frankly. I fucking hate little shits like that, catcalling, whistling, pinching my ass. I’m not apologising to him.”

“Wasn’t gonna ask you to,” he said, standing behind his desk, leaning on the surface. “You think I give a fuck about Donny?”

“No,” she said on a tense laugh, trying to stop her leg from bouncing. “No, I don’t.” Mallory looked up at him, eyes flickering over him from head to toe in a sweep. “Begs the question, why am I here?”

He shot her a look. “Because I don’t give a fuck about Donny, I give all the fucks about you. What’s going on? You don’t usually hold the knife to their throats, you just talk a big game to shits like him.”

Rolling her eyes, Mal stood up, pissed off at the interruption. “What’s going on is that I want a shower and to sleep, Negan, I was out on the road clearing warehouses for you for three fucking days. I’m wired and I’m filthy and hungry, okay?”

“Yeah, you’re lying to me, Princess,” he shot back, chewing on her nickname. “I got the field report. You took down twice as many Biters as the next guy, ‘like a one-woman berserker’ was the phrase Simon used. I see stuff like that, I get interested.”

“Interested?” Mallory scoffed, rubbing the ache from her arm. “I did the job asked of me, better than expected. I’m failing to see the problem or why you’re so concerned now.”

Negan faltered for a moment; it was there and gone as fast as she could blink but it was there. “What the fuck does that mean? ‘Now’?” he demanded quietly.

Mal hung her head for a moment, contemplating letting it lie. She wanted to be able to let her brain rest, let her body rest but she couldn’t, not when someone had tried to kill her, and he hadn’t even realised. It had played on her mind in the quiet times, trying to figure out which asshole fighting beside her had helped Peter try and kill her.

“Means I been thinking. See, my arm’s not healing right, it’s starting to really piss me off that I still can’t punch like I used to. Peter stuck a shiv in my goddamn arm, Negan, and it’s not sitting well with me.”

“And what you want me to do about that?” he challenged, trying to feel her out.

“I want to know who put the thing in his fucking hand because as far as I can tell, he sure as shit didn’t make it himself,” she said on a rush of a breath, letting it out into the open. “It’s not possible. Someone else gave it to him, made it look crude on purpose. Maybe someone I have to fight with now, someone I’m supposed to trust not to let me get ripped apart.”

Negan was quiet, the implication louder than anything. He simple stared at her, pulling off his lone glove. “You think Arat gave him a shiv to stab you with.”

She shook her head slightly. “No, I think she gave him a shiv to kill me.”

He chuckled almost bitterly, jaw clenched. They’d walked down this road before with Arat, the crack from her boot setting off Mal’s brush with death. “Princess…”

“Don’t ‘Princess’ me, you know I’m right!” she said, her hand shaking. “You know I’m fucking right, Peter didn’t make a fucking shiv, he could barely drive the damn thing deep enough to hit bone.”

“Shut up,” he gritted out. Stepping around the desk, Negan took a breath, seeming to hesitate, caught up in her ranting. “Just stop.”

“I’m not gonna stop, never, not until I get some fucking answers!” she seethed as he stood directly in front of her, her anger consuming her. “Nobody’s gonna help me, nobody gives a shit, so I’ll find out myself.”

He snatched up her body to his in a sudden, bruising hug she struggled against. He gripped the back of her head with one palm, fingers sliding into her hair and Mal froze around him, still half-angry and half-scared at the tingling.

“Stop,” he muttered into her crown.

Mallory screwed her face into his chest, stuttered on the feeling of her breath getting stuck in her lungs again. Of her arm burning in pain. She had too long to think about it. It was different, training with Simon, fighting the battles, that was purpose. Her mind was occupied. It was in the quiet and the dark when the idea festered, that she was a sitting duck waiting to be slaughtered by friendly fire. They’d warned her long ago.

“Negan…” she breathed, forcing her hands to loosen around his sides.

“Shhh…” he said, holding her tighter and pressing a kiss to her crown without hesitation, both slipping backwards into the trust in each other like they’d never left. Her fingers groped at the leather of his jacket, shocked as she felt the sonogram still folded in his pocket. “I know, Mallory. You nearly died, you nearly died, but you didn’t. Don’t you believe for a goddamn second I was gonna let you go when my hand was nearly forced. I kept waiting for you to realise.”

Shudders wracked her slim frame, the relief spreading in an instant as she curled around the only man she could ever truly trust with her life. He wouldn’t lie to her, wouldn’t hurt her. “We’re not over, are we?”

“Never,” he affirmed. “Let me see that arm, Princess.”

Reluctantly, Mallory peeled herself from the comfort of his chest, turning and letting him tug up the sleeve of her t-shirt until it was there. The skin was twisted and rough, still raw and trying to knit back together even eight weeks after the fact. His thumb traced over her scar, jaw ticking as she winced over a more tender spot.

“I gotta lot more,” Mal said as he soothed the anger and fear away from her with a sweet touch. “Broken ribs, buckshot in the gut, stab wound in my thigh…” she muttered, her voice distant as she remembered them. “The butt of Simon’s gun on my head,” she chuckled, reaching up herself to touch the indent through her bright red hair. “Lot of goddamn scars.”

Negan watched the soft rise and fall of her chest as he leant down and kissed the scar on her arm, warmth spreading through her, his lips almost hesitant. She understood why he hesitated when it came to her, as if she was going to shatter if he went to hard. Their bond was a circle of sex and happiness before both realised it was never going to work for one bullshit reason or the next. And still they gravitated back, ineffable, astounding, hungry for each other.

“Got a lot, too, Mallory,” he said, cupping his palm over her cheek like he’d done eight weeks ago when she’d been fighting for breath. “I think you’re one of them.”

It took eight weeks, three days and a handful of hours but Mallory melted.

Wanting nothing more than to find the comfort and freedom in the trust he gave her, she rose up and forwards, claiming his lips back in an agonising, passionate kiss that stole another part of her. It was clumsy and desperate, her demanding hands shoving at his jacket just to feel the warmth underneath, teeth clashing and noses bumping together as they kissed. He had ripped her open and climbed inside a long time ago.

Peeling back for sweetly stolen breath, she smiled almost bitterly into his lips. “Don’t make me hide this,” she asked, her heart thumping against her ribcage. “I can’t do it again.”

“I love you,” he said suddenly, breathless and guttural. “How the fuck could I not love you?”

Shock filtered through her brain and stuck on the word, the one that messed up all of it. It was a manipulation, another way of controlling her, of making her his forever. “Please I can’t hear that if you don’t-”

“I don’t give a fuck if you can’t hear it right now,” Negan seethed, claiming her lips again, groping for her body to press flush to his. “I bleed, Mallory, I bleed and if it’s for anyone, it’s for you now. Fuck, I missed you, more than before. Shit, I fucking love you.”

They stumbled as he gripped her ass, making her groan deep in her chest as he kissed her, trying desperately to touch each other, to pretend that it was going to work. The world was too painful on her own, Mallory decided; she needed him more than she’d ever needed him. Fighting wasn’t enough, being alive wasn’t enough because there was no point to either without his trust. It terrified her, it spurred her.

Mal wanted more of him, to believe he could – and would – love her like she craved. It was a schoolgirl idea, to bring a man that powerful to his knees, but when his tongue lathed down her bare breasts, she believed it was possible. She sat on his desk, shirt off and bra shoved down angrily just so he could get at her tits, sucking and biting the tender flesh until Mallory keened and clutched at his head, wanting more, craving more.

“I need you,” she muttered breathily, his tongue and teeth scraping over the puckered indents of her scars as he went down her stomach. Her cunt ached, empty, soaked, throbbing with the demand only he could fulfil. “Please, please, don’t you fucking stop.”

Breath hot against her skin, he yanked and tugged on her filthy jeans, pulling them down her aching legs and off along with her boots just so he could sink his whole goddamn face into her clothed cunt, stubble scraping her tender thighs until the skin was pink and raw. He would always do this, devour her from the outside in until she was begging. Mallory clutched at the desk, Lucille rolling off the surface as he pushed her ass into the wood.

Negan growled into her underwear, turning to her abandoned jeans to find her bowie knife, slicing through the worn fabric of her cotton panties as if they were butter. The knife clattered to the floor, forgotten, in favour of the meal in front of him. His tongue sunk straight to her core, lapping up all he could. She didn’t care that she hadn’t showered in days and neither did he.

“Sweet peaches, still,” he said, licking and sucking desperately, letting her work her hips over his mouth. Negan sucked his lips around her clit, tugging and licking before pulling away, working her up and down until tremors shook her legs.

His broad, rough hands kept her thighs apart, fingers ignoring the scar on the top of the left. Mallory rocked her hips over his face, grunting in frustration as he pulled back just before she came. He grinned cockily into her soaked cunt, messy and teasing her with a finger crooked inside her.

“You gonna fuck me?” she asked, watching as he licked his lips, getting needier. “Or just gonna make me do it myself?”

“Next time,” he replied, voice dripping with his own desire. “I’m enjoying this moment since I wasted too many of them already. Eight weeks without tasting this sweet pussy makes a man crazy.”

Mallory laid back flat on his desk, the floor littered with the junk he kept on the top of it. She watched as he pulled his thick cock from his pants, hard and stiff and leaking already. She licked her own lips, wanting the feel of him inside her, of him fucking the life back into her.

Negan pulled her towards him with a sharp tug, palms wrapped around her hips. They leant towards each other as he eased his hard cock inside her wet cunt slowly, her body clenching desperately at him as he did, not wanting to let go. Mal canted up, stretched as the pleasure shot off inside her like goddamn fireworks. He went too slow, too fast, not enough and too much all at once.

“Yes,” she gasped as he pulled out and surged back, ankles locked behind his back. The moan was ripped from her mouth as he kissed her, stealing her breath again. “Yes, yes, yes…”

“Mallory,” he groaned, snapping his hips into her harder and faster, the sound messy and filthy, filling the echoing room as his cock drove into her. “I love you, I love you. So fucking beautiful. My girl. Fucking tight little cunt, Jesus…” he rambled, sinking his face into her neck. “Mine.”

Her breasts jiggled at the force of his hips, the desk scraping the floor. Mal hooked her legs higher around him, eyes popping as he hit deeper and she screamed his name for all the building to hear, nails scraping his bare back raw and red, making her own scars, her own mess. Only she got this; his fucking heart, she owned it in the palm of her hand like he owned hers.

“Negan…” she gritted out as he fucked up into her, jarring and forceful and her hips matching his.

His teeth clamped down on her neck as he fucked her harder, deeper, sinking inside her like she’d dreamed. Mallory came hard, her body arching off the desk as her pussy clamped tight around his cock, milking him for everything he had as he came too. His hips jerked and stuttered, filling her, completing her.

Negan reached up and pressed another kiss to her lips, sweeping her hair away from her face and Mallory knew, she knew the one goddamn thing she could be sure of, what she’d always thought was the impossible, out of reach. It was in her grasp so tight, wound securely around her.

“I will find who put the weapon in his hand,” he panted into her ear, voice seething with lust and vengeance. “And you’re going to kill them yourself.”

Mallory’s heart skipped gleefully at the taste of blood on her tongue; they were monsters but monsters together.

She was home.