Chapter Text
The ride had been relatively silent but, about a half hour down the road Patrick speaks up, glaring at Rick who's forced to kneel across from him.
"Why don't we just kill him?"
"Negan wants him alive." A woman with dark skin and a could care less demeanor shrugs, leveling the blond man with an exasperated look.
"So he just gets to live, then?" Patrick sneers, looking down his nose.
The woman heaves a sigh, exasperation for the other Savior's behavior written in every line of her body. "You want him dead so bad? Put a knife through his skull and let me know how that plays out for you."
She holds a blade out to him, handle first and when the blond man doesn't take it she shakes it, raising an eyebrow and letting it dangle there between them. "That's what I thought."
She sheathes the knife, returning her grip to her rifle and training her gaze over the cab of the truck.
Patrick huffs, muttering darkly under his breath and if glares could kill, Rick would be set aflame instantaneously.
He tries to ignore the feeling of the murderous gaze, falling into the reprieve of his own thoughts and the bump of the tires on the cracked asphalt.
They didn't put a bag over his head, they only tied his wrists in front of him and stationed Saviors on either side of him, twin grasps on his shoulders that keep him kneeling and the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his skull like a cold threat.
He supposes they don't know that a bullet through his brain won't kill him but, even so it'd send him straight into an oblivion, losing time and humanity to the thing in his head, and the looming uncertainty of not coming back keeps him compliant.
They don't expect him to escape.
He knows the way to the Sanctuary now but, if they're so confident he'll never use it against them than they must have one hell of a time in store for him.
They roll past the gates when the sun is still climbing into the sky, unforgiving rays making the cramped truck bed feel even more suffocating.
The walkers chained to the fences draw his attention as well as several people in tan sweat suits with orange letters spray painted crudely on their fronts. They seem to be working to put the walkers there, using snare poles and lengths of chain.
He can't imagine they're out there by choice, judging by their dirty, ragged appearances, lack of footwear, and hollow cheeks accompanied by blank eyes.
Before the vehicle comes to a stop in front of a rundown factory building, he's being yanked to his feet, socks slipping on the truck bed as he's dragged onto the gravel ground.
"Get up." A kick to his side prompts him to stand up, awkwardly bracing his bound hands against the ground for leverage.
That same woman from earlier shoves him forward, forcing him to step hurriedly through a series of double doors.
He stumbles and staggers as more hands push him towards the center of the factory floor, until he's standing alone in a throng of people. He shuffles, testing the ropes around his wrists as eyes scrutinize him from every direction.
Workers on the factory floor all pause in their tasks, gathering to watch the scene unfold like it's the latest pay per view television show.
He recognizes some of them as the foot soldiers Negan is usually accompanied with but others look as if they work in the factory exclusively, opting for less leather and more practical wear for carrying out various duties. There's even a few children, all peeking around taller bodies to catch a glimpse of him.
And what a sight he must make, covered in blood, rapidly healing bullet wounds in his chest and neck, and looking the part of a walker with red stains on his face and teeth.
A whistle fills the air and all attention turns to the catwalk above as a clang of metal forces the whispers into a hush.
"This-" Negan pauses, thrusting an open palm down towards Rick with an entertainer's smile. "-is Rick the Prick, the very same one who killed a whole helluva lot of people."
Murmurs start up and Negan continues on, his words darkening. "Your brothers and sisters in arms."
He lets the sentence hang in the air, draping his forearm across the yellow railing as he leers down at Rick, looking like the cat who's got the cream. "He is our prisoner and I'd like you to treat him as such, really give him the old Savior welcome."
"And for anyone wondering what that means?" Negan moves, tapping Lucille on the metal as he walks down the length of the catwalk. "I mean you treat him like the fuckin' shit stain he is."
Negan growls out the words, watching Rick with a sick smirk of satisfaction as the ranks close in around him.
Helpless, he raises his bound fists in preparation, moving into a lower stance as he spins in place, backing away from the few eager souls who step too close. A rumble grows in his chest and his lip curls with the beginnings of a snarl that tears out of his throat with a snap of his teeth when fingers hook into his collarbone.
He yanks himself away from the grip, vision flickering to a monotone wash of red as his proverbial hackles raise. Twisting his hands with a fervent, frantic energy he can feel the rope dig in, rubbing away his skin to stain the tan rope a dark brown with blood.
He thinks he's almost got them slick enough to slip free when that metal clang sounds again, freezing everyone where they stand, not moving away but no longer actively reaching for him.
"I know you're all eager fuckin' beavers to beat the holy hell outta Rick here but, we're on a tight schedule."
Negan leans against the railing of the last stair step, gloved hand gripping the metal as he longues against it, like he's watching a particularly fascinating scene in a play. An expectant look has the Savior arching an eyebrow and casting his gaze out at the crowd, Lucille swinging low at his side.
Simon seems to catch on to the silent exchange, breaking rank to wave his hands in the air in a move along gesture. "Alright, you heard the boss, get back to work!"
People start to file out into different parts of the factory, a fair share of whispers and murmurs as well as disgruntled grumbles being exchanged. When the doors swing shut for the final time, only a handful of Saviors remain.
"Thought you killed him?" Simon looks to Negan, talking over Rick's head as if he isn't there.
"I fuckin' did." Negan pushes himself off the railing, finally stepping down to the ground floor. "Dumbass doesn't know how to stay dead."
Simon gives a sound of affirmation, nodding and rubbing a hand over his beard as if deep in thought, his eyes roaming over Rick in a way that makes him feel like a rather bothersome fly. "What're we doing with him? You puttin' him to work in the yard?"
"Not yet." Negan calls over his shoulder, propping his baseball bat against the row of lockers he's rummaging through. "Shit."
Rick angles his head, it's odd seeing the Savior do anything but be intimidating and struggling to open a locker was a touch too domestic for his whole big, badass visage.
He looks to Simon, the man keeps a carefully neutral expression, leveling him with a raised eyebrow as if daring him to say anything so he'd have an excuse to hurt him.
"Fuckin' finally." The locker slams close with an echoing bang as Negan picks Lucille back up, this time a bundle of tan cloth in his other hand.
He tosses it at Rick's feet, letting it fall on the damp and dirty ground in a crumpled heap.
Not sure what he's supposed to do, Rick kicks at the clothing, giving a quizzical head tilt at the notion they expect him to change with his hands bound.
Negan's booming command comes a moment later, the man falling back onto a couch across the way with a sigh. "Strip him."
Rick steps back, shaking his head and opening his palms as best he can to try and reason with his captors.
Looking to Negan, he waits for the man to say its a joke and laugh his smug ass off, all he sees is Negan cleaning his beloved baseball bat with a rag and alcohol, a careful reverence in his motions even with his feet kicked out as he sags into the sofa.
The Savior doesn't afford Rick even a fraction of his attention.
Desperately, he backs himself against the wall, uncaring concrete pressing into his lower back as he curses his mind for being uncharacteristically quiet.
That feral presence is seemingly idle, taking a back seat for the moment as adrenaline sweeps through his frame.
He nearly slips his wrists from the ropes, small splatters of blood littering the ground and his clothes. Panicked huffs leave him with a slight rattle and wheeze, and they only get quicker as Simon looms over him.
Baring his teeth in some animalistic response he lets out a feral sound, faking a lunge at the bigger man. It makes Simon startle, taking a step back with an expression that suggest he's genuinely taken aback.
"Careful, he bites."
Negan's comment makes Rick focus his attention on the man across the room and lose sight of the more immediate threat.
Of course, this serves as the perfect opportunity for Simon.
The world spins as Rick's turned violently and shoved into the wall, a hand on the back of his head smashing his cheek into the concrete and his hands now trapped uselessly against his front.
He tries to buck him off, wriggling and twisting as far as he can but the bigger man only pushes harder, grinding his face into the rough stone, his teeth catching on the wall with a jarring clack.
Gritting his teeth against the sensation of a knife gliding across his skin he tries to kick at Simon's shins, stomp on his toes, really anything that'll make him stop. His efforts are futile and his shirt is cut off with a mechanical efficiency that begets the involuntary curdle of his insides as discomfort roils low in his abdomen like hot coals.
His clothes peel off, tearing from dried blood stuck to his skin and bullet wounds nearly healed with a noise that echoes in his ears.
While the whole process isn't overtly sexual in nature it's a cruel facsimile and it leaves him staring off to the side, fight having switched to fawn as each layer of clothing is stripped from his body like physical layers of his soul.
It hurts with the disturbing intensity of something being pried from beneath his sternum, an intense humiliation that burns at his ears and his eyes.
Of the Saviors he can see, guns in hand and waiting to use them if need be, one is the woman from the truck.
Where the others seem to watch the scene in front of them with rapt attention and varying degrees of interest she looks past Rick, her gaze trained somewhere too high above them to really be looking at where he struggles as if refusing to look means she doesn't have to acknowledge it.
He doesn't even realize that Simon has long since let go of him, leaving him to sag against the wall, phantom hands still holding him in place, digging into his skin with a cruel bruising force intent on harm.
Slowly he pushes away from the surface, still not blinking and thus his eyes retain their glazed over appearance when he turns around.
He keeps his head down, cowed by a prickling sensation that races up and down his neck and forces him to hunch in on himself, trying to hide from the scrutiny, feeling like a raw nerve exposed to the air.
His hands are cut free and he doesn't realize he's wrapped them around his middle, angling himself away from the eyes that scour his skin.
"Shit, Simon you already take all the fight outta him?"
Rick glares at Negan from the corner of his eyes but he's forced to look away, blinking back the blurriness of unbidden tears.
Gritting his teeth he curses himself for being so distraught. Despite his best mental efforts, he can't deny the deep seated sense of violation, like somehow his soul is tainted to match the blood and bruises on his skin.
Negan chuckles, setting Lucille down on the couch cushions and giving her handle a little pat before standing up. "Ah, there's that baby blue stink eye I love to see."
Rick hears the loud boot steps come closer to him, all wide stride and confident as they smack the ground in an ominous circle around him, like a shark closing in on its prey.
"Jesus." Negan draws the word out his steps stopping somewhere in front of him, close enough that Rick can see the toes of the man's boots. "You look like shit- when was the last time you had a fuckin' meal?"
Rick raises his chin, doing his best to square his jaw and level the smug Savior with a look that actually meets Negan's eyes.
The Savior just cracks a smile, his eyes sparkling in a way that is less mirthful and more sadistic. "Fuck, I feel like a stiff breeze would knock your scrawny ass over."
He never really thought about how thin he'd gotten. He was already stretching meals thin before that unfortunate night at the Savior's mercy but with everything that came after, he didn't- no, he doesn't feel hungry- not for a home cooked meal or a granola bar at least.
Nonetheless, a hunger still rumbles in his mind like the brewing of a storm its slow crescendos ebbing and flowing with the snarling beast there.
Glancing down he sees his ribs and his hips beneath his skin, wrapped like a shrub in plastic all pointy edges and hard angles.
It belies the strength of his limbs, he's still very capable of ripping into someone bare tooth and claw and he knows it. Knows it like the whispers of crimson in his ears and the scratch of nails in the folds of his brain.
He knows it like how his teeth ache with the desire to feel the pressure of a bite beneath them as he tears Negan limb from limb.
Negan gives a sweeping up and down gesture in Rick's direction. "Well let's not just stand here dicks swinging in the breeze."
Pointing to the pile of clothes with a thumb over his shoulder the smile falls from Negan's face. "Get dressed, prick."
Rick walks past the Savior, being sure to keep his eyes on the man, effectively pinning Negan with his gaze like a deer watching the approach of a threat.
Negan doesn't seem to care, nonplussed he crosses his arms and drums his fingers on his forearms.
Bending down, Rick grabs up the tan garments, slipping into them with relative ease, his heart pounding for a moment when he loses sight of the world as he's pulling the sweat shirt over his head.
Small red stains spread across the fabric as the bullet wounds continue to bleed sluggishly. He smoothes a hand down the material, feeling a ghost of pain as his palm brushes over the wounds.
"Shouldn't we clean him up first?" The woman from the truck speaks up, letting her rifle drop.
"No." Negan gives her a serious look, the corner of his mouth turning down. "We're not wastin' water on him."
The sound of a paint can being shaken echoes through the factory floor making Rick startle with a visible jolt, his shoulders jumping and his teeth flashing at the raucous noise.
It stirs up the presence in his mind for the first time since that truck ride, he feels it pushing itself through his conscious, parting his common sense and fear like the sea.
It makes him lock eyes with Simon, even though his residual fear screams for him to avert his gaze, to run, he stands fast with his heart clenched in an invisible fist until he feels like he'll suffocate.
Simon stops shaking the can then, looking to Negan. "What should we put on it?"
"Ya know-- I feel like a big orange A just doesn't really do it for me." Negan uncrosses his arms, snatching the spray paint out of Simon's proffered hand. "Besides, he doesn't belong to them anymore."
Rick narrows his eyes, a soft growl spilling from his chest as he forces himself to fist his hands in the fabric at his sides lest he lash out and make things worse.
This seems to give the Savior a brilliant idea, his face lit up as he uncaps the can, stepping right into Rick's personal space. "I got it."
Giving Rick a crooked smile Negan grabs the bottom hem of Rick's shirt, stretching it out until any wrinkles in the fabric are gone. "You're gonna want to hold still."
Against Negan's suggestion, Rick steps backwards but it doesn't seem to phase the Savior who continues to concentrate, tongue poking out from between his teeth as the spray paint is discharged with a hiss.
Even when he's finished, Negan holds the shirt up for a few seconds, surveying his handiwork with a nod before letting it drop back against Rick's chest.
Looking down Rick recognizes the word even upside down, mutt glares up at him in relatively neat toxic orange letters, the paint is still wet, bleeding in small lines along the threads of the cotton and overlapping with the pinks and reds already there.
"That's your place in the new world order-" A cruel finger raps against Rick's temple, "and you will live, breath and die by it, prick."
By the time Rick looks up, Negan's already got his back turned to him, the Savior's words still resonating clear as day in Rick's ears.
"Until I think you've earned otherwise."
Negan stops, looking over his shoulder as he adds, "Alright, take him to the hole."
Simon steps forward but is quickly stopped by a hand on his chest.
"Fuck, I almost forgot." Negan steps forward with a finger raised in the air, a smile on his face that makes it seem like he did anything but forget.
The Savior sidles up to Simon, grabbing the pistol from the other man's holster and in the same motion flips off the safety before firing a round straight into Rick's kneecap.
He drops, an involuntary scream leaving him that quickly dissolves into a whimper when the searing pain quickly dissipates, lasting but a moment like the hot flash of lightning that rents the air.
Still, it leaves Rick panting on the ground with his hand clutching at the shattered remains of his knee, looking up at Negan with a death sentence blazing in his eyes.
Red takes over.
Until he finds himself unceremoniously sprawled on his stomach at Negan's feet, his leg having no way to straighten without the joints that connects the femur to the shin and thus sprawling out behind him in a disturbing mess.
He tries to stand up again, this time on his good leg but by then the fight's fled him and he's barely managing to balance. Even though it hurts no worse than a bad paper cut, Rick can't support any weight on the leg, feeling it crumple at the knee when he tries.
Negan watches him, pistol no longer in hand and Rick realizes with a frustrated shout that the man knows exactly what he's doing.
Simply dragging and hopping his way towards the Savior is ridiculous but Rick does it anyway, watching the satisfied smile stretch across Negan's lips with each fruitless step. It only fuels Rick's anger, throwing himself in a mad, desperate effort, but once more his fingers close around thin air and his teeth shut around nothing.
Negan simply takes a step back, watching Rick like he's a horse at the race track with a freshly broken leg- pathetic and particularly disheartening as it keeps trying to stand.
Rick falls hard, glaring up at the man with the seething rage of a mongoose facing a cobra. "I'll kill you."
Negan rolls his eyes, crouching low with his elbows on his knees, the silver pistol dangling in the space between them. "Grab the gun outta my hands. Go ahead, see how far you get."
Negan holds itl out, handle first and Rick remembers the RV when he'd been given the same chance to kill the man but now he doesn't fall for it, instead he glares at the gun wishing it would go off by sheer force alone and put a bullet in Negan's chest.
Rick breaks the glare, looking at the dirty concrete ground in silent defeat, loud breaths falling from his mouth as he feels the warmth of his own blood pool around his leg.
"Now I know that shit's probably gonna heal with whatever X-Men bullshit you got goin' on but you better hope for your sake it slows you down-- because if not?" Negan pauses, placing the tip of the pistol under Rick's chin and forcing the man to look him in the eyes, too bright blue against sadistic hazel.
"I will fire a round into your kneecap every goddamn day until it does." It's barely above a whisper but every word feels like another gunshot.
"You do not lay a goddamn finger on my people." Negan continues, bringing his face dangerously close to Rick's and he thinks he could just bite the Savior's nose right off, but instead Rick cringes backwards. The metal under his chin is hauntingly cold, keeping him in place but he can't help but think it's still not as cold as Negan's eyes.
"Are we clear?"
He swallows, his vision starting to shake as he strains to hold his chin up high. The barrel of the gun disappears just as he shuts his eyes against it and Rick lets his head fall, a barely discernible whisper leaving his reluctant lips.
An unexpected hand on Rick's shoulder makes his breath shaky, punching out of him faster with a raspy wheeze attributed to liquid in the lungs. He tries to shuffle away from the grip, a desperate hand coming up to grab at the other man's wrist but Negan's fingers curl in like a hawk ensnaring its prey.
Negan manhandles him, pushing him over with a shove and dragging Rick closer by his ankle. He fights him, kicking at the bigger man and gripping the slick ground as wordless protests fall from his mouth.
It does nothing, but Rick's worries are unfounded when all the Savior does is tie a bandana firmly around the minced meat of his knee. It's tugged tight enough to send a white hot jolt of pain racing across every nerve.
With that, Negan lets him go and stands to his full height looking down at him as if he's a raccoon who'd been caught rummaging in the trash can. "Don't need you gettin' the floors fuckin' filthy."
Confusion is about the only thing that rattles around in Rick's mind for a good minute. He delicately traces a hand over the makeshift bandage, as if he can't believe it's there. His stupor doesn't last long.
An aggressive grip on his forearm has him scrambling to keep his feet under him as he's hauled up. His injured leg does little more than crumple uselessly as he's dragged bodily by Simon. The man's face is neutral but his grip is punishing.
"Take him by the doc first and get him a damn muzzle or somethin'-- make it real Hannibal-esque, ya feel me?" Negan chimes in as they pass by, headed deeper into the Sanctuary.
"And get someone to mop this shit up." Negan's shout rings through the air even as the doors close with an ominous crash behind them.
Simon hauls him away, practically holding him up with a grip under his armpit. Every step is preceded by a pathetic dragging of Rick's foot, pulling the leg behind him in an eerily painless shamble that is undeniably that of a walker's.
All limp ankle and bum knee, listing to one side as he tries to match the Simon's pace through the halls lest he be dragged like deadweight or worse.
It sets him on edge, every fiber of his being screams in protest and his jaw creaks with how hard he grinds his teeth.
Entering what has to be the infirmary, an older man in his fifties rushes to greet them, ushering them inside with the nervous energy of a rabbit welcoming a fox into its warren.
"Dr. Carson." The man holds his hand out, quickly taking it back when Rick makes no move to shake it. "Erm-- well, the other Dr. Carson, you probably met my brother -at the Hilltop Colony?"
Rick eyes the doctor silently and thinks if nervousness had a spokesperson, it would be this man.
The doctor's eyes seem to hover across the red stains on Rick's shirt and the toxic orange word emblazoned there.
"Is he injured-- beyond the obvious." The doctor inclines his head towards Rick's knee.
"It'll heal." Simon waves a dismissive hand in the air, shoving Rick forward. "Word on the street is this asshole took a half a dozen bullets to the chest and he's still standing."
Still, the doctor is incredibly skeptical, ushering Rick to sit down while Simon huffs, exasperated by the man's concern. The tall Savior prompts him to hurry up, a small quip under his breath stating that it's not worth his time.
Ignoring him, the doctor lifts Rick's shirt, seeing the evidence of the bullet wounds half healed over and caked with dried blood. He searches for exit wounds, invasive hands cold against Rick's skin.
The wheezing wet rattle of Rick's breaths fill the silence and the doctor listens to the sound for a moment, a distrubed expression darkening his features.
"Some of the bullets are still in him."
A cough punches out of Rick at this revelation, perfect timing it seems because red splatters the hand he raises to cover his mouth.
Panicked, the doctor presses a wad of gauze into a Rick's hand, prompting him to clean up the bloody spittle.
Startled by the sudden gesture, Rick flinches away from the doctor simultaneously letting the cotton fall from his hand as his lips pull back and his nose furrows like an angry dog.
Rick doesn't see how his pupils pin and his eyes seem to cloud over, bright blue bleeding into milky white. Perfect visages of the eyes of the undead.
All he feels is his mind wrenched taught like a metal band, ready to snap at any moment. He watches the only other people in the room with thoughts teetering precariously between threat and food like a disturbing metronome.
Simon seems to find this change amusing rather than threatening, a lopsided smile gracing his face. "Wouldn't get too buddy buddy there, doc."
The smug man leans against the opposite wall, crossing his arms, "This reprobate ripped a lady's throat out with his bare teeth. He sure as hell ain't something you wanna be sympathizing with."
Rick watches with red-tinted vision as the doctor's concern bleeds into fear, his sympathy turning to cautiousness that has him eyeing Rick like a rabid dog and stepping away from the exam table.
He can't stop the way his eyes track the man in the white coat, sizing him up, wondering how easy it would be...
Still, despite his fear the doctor is persistent. "But shouldn't I at least-"
"Let me spell it out for you--" Simon pushes away from the wall, hands raised as he gestures. "He's not in pain, and he's not gonna die."
In the most patronising manner possible, Simon shoves his finger against the doctor's shoulder. "Your only order from Negan is to get this mutt a mask so he keeps those pearly whites to himself, capiche?"
Rick can't help the sound that leaves him as Simon approaches, like the unpleasant chuff of a thoroughly pissed off pit bull spliced with a cat. It's unnatural, guttural and haunting in its entirety. And it's familiar. Like the distant snarls of the walkers strapped to the fence.
The doctor practically leaps away, his demeanor shifting entirely into an unfriendly hostility. Any trace of concern has seemingly fled him permanently. Instead, shifty eyes and a distrubed frown are all that's left as the doctor rummages in the back of a drawer.
Unphased, Simon messes with some of the medical equipment, occupying the space as if he owns every centimeter of it and keeping his back to Rick with the utter ignorance one affords to a pesky gnat.
Visibly disturbed, the doctor straightens up, something made of clear plastic and black straps is clutched awkwardly in his hands.
Rick isn't certain of what it is but he's hazarded a guess that unfortunately turns out to be right. Sitting still, he tries to ignore the fingers brushing his face and the plastic that digs into his cheekbones.
The doctor avoids his eyes, looking everywhere but and actively treating Rick as if he's just some animal who he's been tasked with restraining.
If it makes the task easier, Rick doesn't know but for him it feels like an eternity.
His eyes look at the grey wall ahead of him, staring at the medical charts and little drawers as he ignores the increasing warmth of his own hot breath trapped by the mask and the feel of knuckles brushing against his skull as straps are pulled tight and buckled.
When the doctor finally steps away, an uncomfortable tilt to his lips, Rick feels the pressure on his jaw and he can just barely see the raised plastic, feel it cross the bridge of his nose and dig firmly into the space under his eyes.
It's muzzle. There's no better way to rationalize it and he has to stop himself from reaching up to rip the damn thing off his face.
"It's a um--" The doctor hesitates, addressing Simon while he shoots Rick a sidelong glance. "It's just a medical restraint mask from the psych ward haul a year or two back. So he'll still be able to get it off if he tries."
"Kinky." Simon examines his nail beds, not looking up. "He'll keep it on if he wants to be able to walk someday, ain't that right?"
Simon looks up then, that wide thin smile brimming with teeth and lacking a human disposition hits Rick like a punch to the gut. It forces his eyes down, cowed like a dog.
A mocking finger flicks against his forehead, forcing a growl out of him as his instincts tell him to snap at the sudden intrusion. His jaw can barely open under the force of the restraint so all he manages to do is bare his teeth, separating them so minutely under the tension that they snap close with a quiet clack.
He's stretched thin between the desire to run or the desire to hurt. Looking Simon in the eyes does little to quell that, if anything the internal conflict worsens, his adrenaline clashing against the dissonant howls in his head like some sick out of tune symphony.
It leaves him rattled enough that he doesn't realize he's being hauled somewhere else, his leg once more dragging behind him. This time, they pass people, workers and even a few armed Saviors.
They afford him the same weary eye that one casts at an approaching walker.
Deeper and deeper they seem to go, as he's practically tossed down stairs steps with a firm shove to his back, trying to catch himself only lands him back on the filthy floor. Each time, Simon fists a hand in the back of his shirt, dragging him further still.
The world becomes this flash of imagery and sound and sensation. Some are familiar, some are family, warm smiles and warm meals, warm hands and gentle voices that battle with stern words, harsh kicks and fingerprint shaped bruises across his neck and down his arms.
It's bleak, lifeless even. His existence boiled down to this. His new home is a storage closet stripped bare, a single door leading in and out, and he's left to sit on the floor lame leg stretched as he stares blankly at the dark corner ahead of him.
"Now that certainly suits you."
He blinks, chasing away the phantom traces of his past only for them to be replaced with the haunting visage of a silhouette in the doorway, ringed by golden light and ethereal confidence. It'd be an angel if not for the face of the devil it wore.
Missing his leather jacket and his beloved weapon, Negan looks more like a regular at the local bar and less like some cartoon villain.
"Now I'm still pissed as hell that you killed a lot of my men." Negan's voice lacks its usual ring, instead sounding flat and tired in comparison.
"And when I sent my people, to kill your people, for killing my people? You killed more of my people.” With each pause, Negan steps closer, closing in on Rick who's managed to shove himself in the furthest corner of the room, bending away from the light that streams in.
Wary eyes, flashing their whites like an animal track Negan's movements, everything from his twitching fingers to the subtle dip of his brows. Rick watches it all, coiled like a snake preparing to strike.
"That shit is so not cool.” The Savior's voice dips as his lip curls back just so.
“What's even more uncool?” This time, his words return to their familiar jaunty quality but his shoulders remain a hard line. "I find out that your sorry ass can't die and isn't that just the shit stick in the mud?”
The kick to Rick's shin isn't meant to cause pain but it forces him to his feet, as if his brain's been jump-started into action by the blow.
Leaning heavily against the wall, he tries to drive as much space between himself and Negan as possible. The damn mask clicks noisily against the wall as he dips his head and it makes his skin ignite with a thousand ant bites.
“You don't deserve to live.” Negan steps up, nose to nose with Rick. “Not when people worth more than you gotta die ”
Rick doesn't reply, only huffing loudly as he tries to scratch angry furrows into the walls.
“I mean can you even call this living?” Leaning back on his heels, Negan gives Rick a serious up and down glance before his hand shoots out grabbing the front of the muzzle. It covers most of the little holes at the front of the mask and Rick feels his quickening breaths condensate against his lips and skin.
Damp and warm, it causes the dried blood to turn slick once more and the metallic smell clogs his nose with its enticing allure, like a beckoning promise of life that something in him craves.
Giving Rick's head a quick side to side shake, Negan lets him go with a disinterested shove, like a kid deciding a particular toy is no longer amusing.
“You're lucky I brought you here. Cause I'm gonna fix you up. It's what I do, Rick." Negan draws his name out, making it sound like something that doesn't belong to him anymore. "I save people.”
Rick wants to scoff at the delusional man but, Negan's already turned his back to him. He hates the panic that thrills through him at the idea of being left alone in this dark place with something even darker inside of him.
The next time Rick sees the light he doesn't know how much of him will be left at all.
Standing back in the doorway and once more framed by the fluorescents, Negan grips the door, once more some cruel facade of an angel. "'Sides Samurai is cool and all, but I have a feeling it just ain't the same without you in the picture.”
The door slides shut with the creaking groan of old rusty hinges, still Negan's parting words remain the loudest thing in Rick's ears.
“Sweet dreams, prick."
The light vanishes and a lock clicks, with that the invisible strings keeping him upright snap.
Slumped against the wall, he stares at the tiny yellow sliver beneath the door wondering if he'll ever see the sun again or be stuck with this pale imitation until he forgets what the outside looks like.
Letting his eyes slip closed, he listens to the weak thud of his pulse and the gentle rattle of each breath. He thinks maybe he'll manage to fall into the dark, uncaring embrace of sleep.
The opening drum beats of a song pierce his ear drums, lighting up his brain like the night sky on the fourth of July. Except it's all the wrong colors, no whites and blues just red, red, red.
And he slams his head back into the concrete with a whine, welcoming the explosion of colors that bursts before his eyes with each smack. Because at least it's not red. At least it's not frothing hunger and unquenchable anger. At least it's not curled fingers and desperate teeth.
But the song keeps going. Cheerful singing and cheerful beat on a constant loop until he doesn't know what he's supposed to be anymore.