Half an hour later you found yourself carrying a dinner tray down the hall that was quickly becoming all too familiar. Stopping at Negan's door, you balanced the tray on one hand and used the other to knock softly.
A few seconds later the door opened and Negan stood staring down at you with a stern expression.
"You're three fucking minutes late."
It took a great deal of willpower not to roll your eyes at his greeting. You had no clue why he was in such a piss-poor mood today, but lack of sleep and your emotions being thrown all over the place courtesy of Negan meant that you were running short on patience.
Stepping into the room, memories assaulted you from last night. A small blush heated your cheeks when you glanced over to the section of wall where you had been pressed less than 24 hours ago. Averting your eyes from the spot, you glanced around the room, unsure where to put down the tray. The desk was still covered with papers and books, as were all the end tables. The dilemma was solved when Negan went over to the doorway on your right and gestured for you to precede him inside.
A small bubble of panic hit at the realization that he was expecting you to go into what was most likely his bedroom. Briefly considering throwing the tray up in the air and bolting, you instead squared your shoulders and marched through the doorway. As soon as the meal was set, you could hightail it out of there, get back to the kitchen, and help with the rest of the cleanup.
Walking into Negan's bedroom, your eyes widened at the splendor of the large room and its lavish décor. You had been wrong in thinking the first room was his living area. It was more equivalent to a small work area and this...this was the fanciest room you had seen since before the apocalypse began. There was even a damn chandelier hanging from the ceiling!
There were large windows all along the walls to your left and straight ahead, which allowed a great deal of sunlight to filter into the room. Inside the doorway to the left was a white camelback couch that looked to be antique and extremely comfortable. To the right was a black marble fireplace with a large mirror taking up the entire wall above the mantel. Past the fireplace was a dark wooden bureau dresser that also looked to be antique. The floor was silver and grey swirled linoleum but in the middle of the room was a large square carpet that was white with a thick black border. The carpet framed the largest piece of furniture in the room, the one thing you had been prepared for but still felt embarrassed to look at: Negan's king-sized bed. The giant four-poster was made of black wood and had a padded headboard that was pressed up against the wall to the left. And of course he would have dark red satin sheets. They were currently drawn tight and neatly folded over the tall mattress, but you couldn't help wondering how recently they had been rumpled and occupied by one of his wives. Hell he could fit all of his wives on there at once if he so desired.
Jerking your gaze away from the bed, you saw that Negan was on the other side of the room where two white armchairs sat on either side of a round black table just big enough for two people to sit and eat. Giving the bed as wide a berth as possible, you crossed the room to join him and set the tray on the table.
You could feel him staring as you arranged the bowl of food and plate of rolls, folding a napkin and neatly placing the silverware on top. Taking the glass of ice, you filled it with water from a pitcher before placing them both on the table, leaving you with an empty tray and a feeling of relief that the job was done. Stepping back, you motioned that you were finished and watched as Negan took off his gloves and sat down at the table, his gaze scrutinizing every detail of the meal in front of him.
"Bon appetite," you said, turning to leave the room.
You barely made it two steps before Negan asked, "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"
Freezing, you slowly turned back around before replying, "I was just going back to the kitchen so that I could..."
"No. Sit." Negan ordered.
Fuck. Fucking fuck.
Wondering how far you could make it before he got out of the chair and caught you, the idea of running seemed pointless since it was likely you wouldn't even make it as far as the next room.
Shuffling unwillingly across the linoleum, you sat down in the empty chair and stared down at the hands in your lap. Thinking that escape had been imminent, you hadn't considered that he'd expect you to stay while he ate. You felt like a bird who had found its cage door open, only to fly out and hit a glass window.
"Don't look so fucking happy to be here," he provoked, stuffing half a roll into his mouth.
Looking down at the bread he exclaimed, "Damn these are fucking good! You should put Trixie on roll duty every night."
Annoyance at him bringing up Trixie caused you to lift your head and meet his gaze.
"I'm surprised you didn't ask her to bring the tray instead. She seemed more than willing to serve you in whatever way you desire," you retorted.
"Probably, but fucking barely legal teens isn't really my thing. Although I will say, she does have a nice little ass on her," he said with a smirk before taking a bite of stir fry.
Wishing that you could take the bowl and throw the hot food all over his arrogant and maddeningly handsome face, you instead remained silent and tried not to let him know that his statement had bothered you. Trixie was an adult; she could fuck whoever she wanted. However, the thought of her spread out on the large bed behind you caused the spark of an emotion that you didn't want to acknowledge. It's called jealousy your subconscious whispered, but you promptly pushed the thought aside and told your subconscious to shut the fuck up.
"Despite the fact that peanut butter belongs on top of jelly and not rice, this shit ain't too fucking bad," he remarked while dipping a piece of roll into the sauce.
Shocked to hear what actually sounded like a compliment coming from his lips, you mumbled a quiet "thank you" in response.
"Yea, you and Benny boy did a good job. By the way, how long have you two been fucking?" he asked, all trace of a smirk gone as he put down his spoon and looked at you.
"Excuse me?!" you all but screeched, utterly and completely shocked by his question. "Ben and I don't....we're not..."
"Oh come on, doll. You expect me to fucking believe that he gives you those puppy dog eyes and all but kisses your fucking ass, and you're not putting out for him? Poor fuck. Now I almost feel sorry for him."
You weren't shocked any more. Oh no, you were pissed. Infuriatingly pissed. The smart move would be to stay silent and not let your emotions take over, but Negan had been pushing your buttons for the last 24 hours and you were at the breaking point.
"Believe it or not, it IS possible to be nice to someone without expecting them to fuck you. Perhaps you could take a lesson from Ben and give that a try."
If looks could kill, then you'd be well on your way to deceased from the expression on Negan's face. The time for snark and humor had passed and now you were both pissed. Was about damn time you were both on the same emotional wavelength.
"You saying I'm not fucking nice, doll?" he growled.
Refusing to back down, you countered, "Name one genuinely nice thing you've done for me that hasn't furthered your own agenda."
He paused a few seconds before responding, "I saved your ass from a fucking walker even though you defied my rule to stay in the fucking compound."
"And you've been holding it against me ever since! It doesn't count as being nice if you're going to use it as leverage against the person. That's twisting the situation to benefit you, as usual."
"Does it count as being nice if it's a lie? Because if so, I was super fucking nice just now when I said the food you made didn't taste like shit," he snarled.
Still angry, but also now a little hurt, you replied coldly, "well it doesn't count as being nice now that you threw it back in my face."
"Well you asked, so now you fucking know," he stated calmly, picking up the glass and taking a gulp of water.
"Any other critiques about my cooking now that we're on the subject? You did say there was an inspection, or was that a lie as well?"
Putting down the glass, he looked thoughtful before answering, "Well, now that you mention it, some people were requesting some fucking dessert once in a while. Probably to counteract the taste of those weird ass sauces."
Your palms were clenched so tightly that nails cut into your palms and your body practically vibrated with anger. A cold smile lifted your lips as you sweetly replied, "Well, why didn't you say so? If I'd have known that, I'd have made a pie or crisp out of the berries I picked a few weeks ago."
It was probably a mistake to antagonize him, but you wanted a reaction out of Negan. You wanted him to feel as insulted and taken off guard as you were, consequences be damned.
"A few weeks ago! How many fucking times have you fucking snuck out??" he roared, abruptly pushing his chair back and standing up.
Scrambling out of the chair, you stood your ground as Negan rounded the table and advanced until your bodies were inches apart.
"I should tan your fucking hide!" he snarled, his large frame towering over yours threateningly.
Your logical half was pissing its pants right about now, but your irrational half was just getting warmed up. "You know what? I'm sick to death of you being so god damn mean! First you pull me from my kitchen duties early and tell me to serve you dinner and watch you eat. Then in the span of about ten minutes you have the nerve to accuse me of fucking my friend, you criticize my cooking, and then you finish it off with a threat of physical violence." Staring him square in the eye, you all but dared him to deny that he had been a royal dick this evening.
Instead he slowly curled his lips up over his teeth in a wolfy grin and pointed out, "That's rich coming from the woman who drug ME from my duties out in the fucking woods because she was about to be walker chow. Not to mention that in the same span of ten minutes you've accused me of wanting to fuck a teenager, criticized my moral character by saying that I don't know how to be fucking nice, and then gloated that you've been repeatedly defying my rules to stay in the fucking compound. Hello, pot. My name is kettle."
You had to admit, he had you there. Hating that he was right, you glared at him and stated, "I despise you."
"You didn't seem to despise me last night. As I recall, it was you who pressed those pretty little lips against mine and broke my cardinal no-kissing rule, all so you could get a taste of yours truly."
Anger dissipated so fast that you felt like a deflated balloon. He was right. Everything he had just said about you was true, which meant that...God, were you really any better than he was?
Staring up at him silently, you had no more verbal ammunition to throw at him. The saying "point a finger at someone and there's three pointing back at you" couldn't be more accurate right now.
Negan gazed down at you, his eyes trailing over your features before dropping down to your neck. Your muscles tensed as he lifted a hand and slowly peeled the band aid off your neck. His fingers felt nothing like the cool leather gloves that you had previously felt on your skin. They were warm and slightly rough as he gently ran the tip of one over the mark on your neck. His eyes darkened as he stared at the spot almost as if in awe.
Intimidated by the look on his face, you started taking steps backwards to get out of his reach. You halted suddenly when he ordered, "take another fucking step and I won't be responsible for my actions."
It took you a few seconds to realize what he meant, but then it registered that you had been backing up not towards the door as you had hoped, but towards his bed. A few more steps and the back of your legs would probably hit the mattress. A vision flashed through your mind of Negan pushing you back onto the red sheets before crawling on top of you. This vision was quickly dashed at the thought that at least five other women had already been in that bed before you.
Holding the band aid up between his thumb and forefinger he declared, "You can accuse me all you want, doll, but I already know I'm a mean motherfucker. At least I don't deny who I am. I don't try to slap band aids over the parts of myself others might not like and pretend they don't fucking exist. You can't keep covering up the imperfect parts or you'll become as fucking lifeless as the walking dead outside these walls."
His words felt as though they were cutting straight to your soul. You didn't want to acknowledge how accurate his analogy was, how much of your true thoughts and feelings you covered up with a smile or sarcastic response so that others stayed at an emotional distance. All of a sudden you were exhausted; all fight was gone and in its place was the strong desire to curl up in a ball and cry until sleep claimed you.
Hoping that he didn't notice the slight tremble of your bottom lip, you gathered enough mental energy to "cover up" your exhaustion with one more sarcastic response.
"Would you be so genuinely nice as to let me leave now?"
Looking at you with a slight frown on his face, Negan nodded silently.
Without waiting for any further response, you turned around and walked woodenly across the room. It wasn't until you made it out of Negan's sight and into the empty hallway that you felt a tear slowly trickle down your cheek.