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It had been about a week or close enough after Rick had fallen into Negan’s bed and slept intermittently for almost twelve fucking hours and Negan thought it was done with. Rick got some fucking sleep and now things were back to normal, i.e. Rick wasn’t bashing any heads in. At least not Savior heads.
And yet.
Now that he knew what Rick looked like when he wasn’t sleeping he was starting to realise that since he’d known the man he’d always held that deep seated fatigue.
Which…wasn’t the best fucking news.
Everyone in the Sanctuary knew about his nightmares that had him screaming awake. But it wasn’t like they happened every fucking night. And Negan knew that for a fucking fact because they’d gone on runs together and Rick always slept like a fucking log.
Okay, fair enough, they hadn’t gone on any runs together recently—Simon was antsy and needed to show everyone why he was Negan’s right hand man so he’d let him take point on runs, Rick usually in tow.
But Simon would’ve let him know if Rick was screaming his lungs out on those runs, so…
He had to assume he was sleeping.
But if he was fucking sleeping, than why the fucking fuck did he still look like a walking pile of dogshit?
It was something Negan thought about off and on as the days went by and he—and Simon, who suggested setting Rick free via a bullet—saw the return of pissy Rick.
Negan sent him on more runs.
Rick returned covered in blood and the Saviors newfound respect and awe. And fear. Oh yeah, a fucking lot of that.
Negan had him help with the walls.
Rick almost bludgeoned a man with a hammer who tried to give him advice on how they should fortify.
Negan had him on guard duty.
Rick went over the wall and didn’t come back for two days.
So yeah. You could say that Negan was close to pulling his fucking hair out and Simon wasn’t any better.
Which meant Negan had Rick escorted up to his quarters and tried a different tact. Not one he usually employed, but Rick was a fucking special case.
“What’s going on?”
That’s right, the classic ‘you can talk to me, kid’ approach he used to use on difficult kids back in another life where he actually gave a shit.
Rick glared at him.
“Nothin’ is ‘goin’ on’.”
Negan got up and rounded his desk so he could lean against the front of it, hands braced on the edges, trying to shake off the rust as he tried to fucking let his expression show just a smidge of the worry he was feeling through.
Rick’s brow furrowed in irritation.
“What? Is this some kind of interrogation? I’m pulling my fucking weight which is more than your group of fuckin’ assholes is doin’ right now.”
Oh yeah, the guy’s hackles were fucking raised.
Time to up the ante even if it meant being fucking honest about—of all fucking things—himself.
“Rick…I’m worried about you.”
Rick flinched like he’d just been fucking slapped.
“Don’t be.” He growled.
“You can talk to me, sunshine.”
And yeah, maybe it came out softer than he’d intended but the last fucking thing he expected was for Rick’s expression to—honest to fucking god—wobble.
Negan waited.
The man couldn’t hold his gaze, eyes darting around anxiously, one hand rubbing at his beard the other going to his hip.
“…I don’t know…it…I just…I don’t know.” He said, frustrated.
Negan slowly nodded.
Rick glanced at him quickly then dropped his gaze.
Silence spread, Rick clearly having no fucking idea what to say or how to explain whatever the fuck was going on up in his head and the longer time passed the more Rick resembled some fucked up human embodiment of a goddamn spring wound just too tight.
Goddamn, it almost hurt to look at the guy.
Straightening up, Negan cautiously walked over to him, aware that Rick was warily tracking his movements.
Stopping in front of him, he reached over to rest a hand on the man’s shoulder. Rick didn’t move or pull away—or lash out, another win—and Negan relaxed.
“Tired?”
Rick hesitated and then nodded, one slightly shaking hand briefly covering his eyes.
“Okay.” Negan squeezed his shoulder and then steered him over to the bed, Rick letting him guide him until he was sat down.
“Feel like laying down?” He asked quietly.
Rick looked at the bed and gave another short nod.
“Go on then.”
Rick glanced quickly at him and then did just that, laying on his back and almost jumping when Negan lifted up his leg by the ankle and pulled off his boot.
“These sheets are thousand thread count silk, sunshine.” Negan gave him a half smile, removing the other boot the same way and then dropping them by the side of the bed. “Now you want me to tuck you in again?” He asked only half teasing. Goddamn, he was getting fucking soft.
Rick scowled and got under the covers himself, face pink.
Smirking, Negan patted his leg and then went over to get himself a drink, feeling eyes on him the whole way.
Part of him wanted to give the man some space, but the other part of him asked why the fuck do that? If he couldn’t fall asleep in the very nice room he had that he didn’t have to fucking share, having one person there wasn’t going to make much difference.
And besides—these were Negan’s fucking quarters.
So he poured himself a drink, sat himself down in the armchair and looked out the window, boots kicked up onto the coffee table.
He was halfway through his drink when he felt the feeling of being stared at lifting, a quick glance over to the bed showing Rick now soundly sleeping.
Mouth curling up at the edge with what felt terribly like fondness, Negan relaxed more in his chair.
High maintenance little fuck.