WARNING: Set during the TWD season 6 finale, so there may be spoilers, but thereâs not a lot in here that was in the scene, so.
A/N: Did I write this in, like, 20 minutes? Yes. Am I proud? You have no idea. Dudes, this is a completely new style of writing for me but I tried it and I am very proud of this short piece of work. All in all, itâs basically a set-up for a future fic, but you can 10000% read it as a standalone. I wasnât even going to post it but I liked it, so, here! (Also, I know it probably hasnât been five years, but does anyone honestly know the timescale for this damn show? XD) I hope you enjoy <3
Summary:Â You couldnât smile. You just couldnât. But neither could he. This wasnât the reunion youâd been expecting.
You could still remember it. Lined up, in between Daryl and Michonne, shaking, not because of what was happening, but because you hadnât seen him in so long.
âIâm gonna beat the holy hell outta one of you.â
He lifted his face. Lucille â it upset you to call this object that â hung limply by his side, swinging gently, threateningly. âWhatâd you say?â The words dripped from his mouth. He spoke low, lower than youâd ever heard him before.
But the last time youâd heard him was almost five years ago.
People could change in that time. Apparently.
âI-â You stumbled on your words, and you werenât afraid to admit it. Your head was still dipped, hair falling about your face and effectively hiding it from view. Daryl moved beside you, whispering harshly at you to shut up. âI said no,â you managed to say, âyouâre not. You- you canât kill anyone.â
Negan smiled, though you couldnât see him. He would be lying if he said he wasnât confused, but he was also intrigued. Who was this girl, probably the youngest in the group lined in front of him, to think she could speak out? Speak out against him? âThat so?â He moved closer. Slowly. The bat was still held loosely in his hand, its barbed wire glinting in the torch lights around them. âWhy wonât I kill anyone? Why canât I kill anyone?â
âBecause you know me.â It was the last thing you wanted to say, but the only thing you could say. The only thing that could have a chance of saving your friends. Your family. Daryl stopped whispering, sitting back on his knees. He knew you?
Negan looked no less perplexed. He drew his head back slightly and paused in his steps. Everything was silent for a moment, the only sound being Maggieâs slight whimpers and the men â had they called themselves Saviours? â shuffling apprehensively around the group. His eyebrows furrowed. You could see it, through the wisps of hair hiding your face. For a brief moment, Negan looked human.
âI do?â He still didnât move, standing a little way off in front of you. His brown eyes were locked on your ducked form, as if trying to make out who it was through your mound of hair and blood and dirt and the darkness that enveloped you all like a blanket. A nebulous, enigmatic blanket. You wished it would suffocate you.
Or, maybe you didnât. Maybe you wanted to see how this would end. How they would end.
If youâd looked up, you wouldâve seen those furrowed eyebrows move back to their normal place. Slightly. Only slightly. His brown eyes blinked. Once. Twice. Memories clouded him. Familiarity clouded him. Was he seeing things?
If youâd looked up, you wouldâve seen him move one foot forward. Slightly. Only slightly. Couldnât get too close. What if it wasnât her?
If youâd looked up, you wouldâve seen his composure drop, as if he was relaxing for the first time in years. But⊠slightly. Only slightly. He did it unconsciously; he wouldnât have wanted anyone to see it. And he didnât want to get his hopes up. Was this a trick?
You didnât answer him at first. You couldnât. Earlier, waiting for him to come out of the truck, you hadnât wanted to believe it was him. But, as soon as he spoke, all hope turned into dust. All hope that this inevitable war would not be between two people you loved. All hope that this wasnât the man youâd been wanting to see for the past five yearsâŠ
âLittle girl.â He didnât say it venomously, or forcefully. It was quiet, soft, and you thought you caught an underlying tenor that screamed pleaseâŠ
And, so, you looked up. Eyes shining with un-shed tears, while more rolled down your cheeks, streaking mud and blood and whatever else was painted on your skin. Your hair was in knots, tangles running through it, twigs, leaves, more mud, more blood. His own eyes locked onto yours, and you saw his resolve almost crumble. Almost. His lip quivered a little, you saw it, and they both parted in what could only be taken as surprise. He dropped Lucille. The impact she made on the floor caused him to jump.
He shook himself. Really, physically shook himself. His way of slapping himself out of dysphoria, you believed.
You saw him take in a large breath and gently motion for someone behind him to pick the bat up.
A man stepped forward, leaned down, gingerly grabbed the handle, and gave it to him like he was giving a king his sword. Negan took it, and you watched him clench his gloved hand around it. He looked angry. Why did he look angry?
But then, heâd always been one to show sadness through anger. What was the saying he used to use? âItâs easier to be angry than sad.â
You could believe that. Not back then, but now? Yes.
âDammit.â Was that what he said? You couldnât hear him properly, heâd spoken so quiet. âDammit.â It seemed like something he would say, but then, you hadnât seen him in five years.
He stared down at Lucille, hanging by his side, glove probably hiding the whiteness of his knuckles. His mouth was clenched in a straight, firm line. Restraint. He was restraining himself.
Now was not a good time for him to show his sadness through anger.
Funny, how youâd put it down to sadness.
Was that really what it was?
You thought so. You believed so. And then you knew so, as he spun suddenly to face you yet again, and you saw his eyes shining with a wetness that hadnât been there before. He turned fully, and you saw him breathe in. Sharply. âY/N?â
There. He said your name.
And you cried. He said your name.
Five years without hearing him say your name. Youâd missed him. You said that every day. But then, when youâd heard his name mentioned for the first time in a long time â only a few weeks ago, it was â apparently because heâd been doing all these horrible things, youâd willed it not to be him. Because you couldnât remember him being like that.
âIâm Negan.â No, youâre not, youâd thought with such amusement that you wanted to punch yourself now for having let Rick and the others think theyâd actually killed him; the real one.
Heâd walked out of that trailer, and youâd listened to his steps, because you hadnât wanted to look at him. Please, donât be him. That was the mantra you were repeating in your head. Willing, pleading, begging.
Heâd spoke, just like he spoke your name. Did his voice crack? His voice cracked.
Tears were gushing freely from your eyes, and you felt like an eleven-year old again, five years ago, when youâd been together, before all this. Before youâd lost him. You didnât want to look beside you, at the people you called your family, because you knew theyâd look so confused. Or, maybe theyâd look betrayed. Which was worse?
You cried, and you didnât completely know why. I missed him, you dumb shit, you thought to yourself, angrily, why am I not allowed to cry? I missed him!
This wasnât the reunion youâd been expecting.
You opened your mouth to speak, and he blinked, a tear rushing down his cheek like it was trying to hide from view before it had even been seen.
Because heâd questioned your name.
He couldnât believe it.
He didnât want to believe it.
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