#bargaining chip

Rick… Rick… Rick! Her eyes widened with excitement when she realized he wasn’t some kind of vision, some drunken hallucination her brain had fashioned to help her get through this night. He was actually there, his axe in his hand and the moon in his hair. But wait, what if Negan…

Rick pointed at Negan’s snoring form as he let go of her mouth, beckoning a second time for her to get out of bed. His eyes were wild with fear and determination as he took an account of all the exit points in the room.

Blossom wished to God she hadn’t gotten as drunk as she did earlier. Why did she have to drink four glasses of champagne? Why couldn’t she have just drank one? Why couldn’t she have stayed alert enough to take in everything he told her? Maybe then getting out of this bed wouldn’t be so goddamn difficult.

Rick held onto her as she stumbled out of the down comforter, catching her limbs before they could make a sound against the hardwood floor. His familiar scent flooded her senses, placing her back to the day they first met on the road while reminding her how powerful a drug alcohol really was. The sweat from his curls dripped onto her neck in an uneven pattern as she wrapped herself around him, his heart beating erratically against his chest.

He took in a deep breath before lifting her up, doing his best not to run into anything as he made his way to the large window that made up most of the wall. He set Blossom down against the couch as he opened the window and glanced back at Negan. He let out a sigh of relief to find that he was still asleep.

The window opened to Michonne as she reached her hands out to Blossom, her sword secure in its sheath on her back. “Come on,” Michonne whispered, lifting her up and over the barrier.

Blossom winced as she climbed out of the building, the pebbles on the rooftop piercing her bare feet as she stepped out of view. She held onto Michonne, doing her best to keep her balance as she stepped over the dead body that was supposed to be standing guard for the Sanctuary. His head had been sliced in half.

Michonne looked her up and down, taking the scarf off her head and ripping it in half with her teeth. She bent down and wrapped each half around Blossom’s feet, giving her makeshift shoes while she stood on the uneven rooftop. She smiled as she finished tying her left foot and stood up as Rick climbed out of the window.

“Let’s go,” he mouthed to them, playfully shaking a walkie talkie he stole from Negan’s bedside. He pointed to the opposite end of the roof and slid his shoulder under Blossom’s arm, watching Michonne follow suit as they started to make it across the pebble-covered surface.

Blossom did her best to move her feet as the alcohol continued to make her sluggish. She held onto her friends as tightly as she could, grateful they had risked coming to get her, but afraid of what Negan might do if he woke up. Would he kill them all? Would he spare Rick again? It was hard to tell. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure he hadn’t noticed her absence and realized they had reached the end of the roof.

“Nice and easy, okay?” Rick held onto her as Michonne climbed down the ladder first. His eyes scanned her wavering figure, his concern for her paternal as he patted her down for any injuries. He could tell she was impaired and not just sleepy, his late night calls at the sheriff’s station flashing back to him, but didn’t bother asking her about it just yet. Who knew what Negan made her drink while she was with him? Or what he made her take? He would have time to ask her all that once they were safe in Alexandria.

“Your turn,” he coached her.

Blossom backed up onto the ladder, the sweaty silk of Michonne’s scarf slipping on the rungs coated with a fresh morning’s dew. She could hear Michonne whisper to her, the sound of her voice warm and comforting as she took each step closer to the ground. She kept her eyes directly in front of her, on her white knuckles as she clasped onto each rung in fear of losing her balance if she looked anywhere else. The last step turned into more gravel beneath her feet as Michonne pulled her away from the building to make room for Rick. She must have been moving a lot slower than she thought.

A quick whistle sounded, forcing Rick to pull his axe out of his belt and Michonne her sword from its sheath. Blossom turned around slowly to see Daryl with his crossbow at the ready.

“All the scouts are out. Let’s go.”

There was no time for emotional reunions outside the Sanctuary walls when they stole her from her sleep. Daryl tossed her over his shoulder as they ran off into the woods to find a car they’d fixed up on the side of the road. Rick had wanted something different after Negan saw their vehicles on his previous visit, although he would probably figure out who took her. The four of them rode in silence as Blossom drifted in and out of sleep in the back seat, her head safe in Daryl’s lap.

She barely woke when they drove through the gates of Alexandria, the sounds and sensations of Daryl getting her out of the car and up the stairs failing to phase her in her current state. As far as she was concerned, it was just another drunken night before the world had ended, and her friends were taking care of her after a bad night out at the club.

Only it wasn’t a bad night out, not even close. She rubbed the sleepy intoxication from her eyes as she sat up in bed, watching Daryl unwrap the shredded bits of scarf from her feet.

“Daryl,” she smiled.

“It’s good te have ya back,” he grumbled, his lips turning up just enough to display a smile in the Daryl Dixon code of facial expressions.

She pulled her foot away as the scarf rubbed against a pebble that had gotten stuck between the cloth and her skin, cutting into the curve of her foot.

“Sorry,” he whispered, rubbing the skin around it. He pulled a clean roll of gauze from beside him and wrapped it around her wound, glancing up at her every now and again as he continued to wrap it like a mummy.

She winced, glaring at Daryl as he taped the entire roll of gauze around her tiny cut. Even as it wore off, the alcohol had made her touchy despite how overjoyed she was to be back in her own bed. No more Negan, no more Dwight, no more fear. She was home.

Daryl stared at his handywork and nodded, holding onto her foot for dear life as he weighed the pros and cons of his thoughts in silence. Worried eyes shifted back and forth under messy brown locks as her foot rested on his knee. He cleared his throat and squeezed her ankle tightly before letting out a heavy sigh.

“Rick said he found you in his bed.” He wasn’t accusing or speculating. His tone was more factual, but she could still tell he was confused.

“He made me sleep there,” she told him.

“He made you?” His eyes shot daggers whether he wanted them to or not. “He make you wear that dress, too?”

She lifted her foot off his knee and turned away from him, the chill of his words freezing her shoulders. She didn’t expect her welcoming party to be so goddamn judgmental. “He locked me in a cell before that. Gave me a piece of moldy bread every few days when he remembered I was there.” She sat up and scooted to the opposite side of the bed, refusing to look back at him.

Silence.

Daryl was always quiet, but this was different. This silence was thick, filled with dread and regret as it rang loudly in her ears; or maybe that was just the alcohol. She could tell that his wheels were turning, the worst fears of someone like them in the hands of someone like him playing out in his brain. Had it kept him up at night? Worried him sick until he convinced Rick and Michonne to come along with him? She didn’t imagine Rick was the one to initiate her rescue party.

“Did he try to…” He couldn’t bring himself to even finish his sentence, the possibilities at the end too grave for him to deal with.

“No,” she eased his mind, shaking her head. “He didn’t. He wasn’t…” She didn’t know how to explain her encounter with him without sounding sympathetic.

“Hey,” He cleared his throat and sat down next to her, taking her hand and squeezing it. “We’re gonna get ‘im.”

“Promise?” She asked, leaning into his shoulder.

She must’ve been out of her goddamn mind to think she could meddle in the middle of this mess, this game of chess when she was so defenseless; but she had to try. She wished to God Negan would have chosen Rosita that morning instead of her. She at least had a habit of spreading her legs for anyone who came knocking on her door, and would’ve done a hell of a lot better job at this than her.

Wish though she might, Blossom stood before Negan in his bedroom just the way he’d wanted her. All of the elements of a romantic dinner were there: candles, music, two different plates full of food she’s only dreamt about and champagne. She never really liked dating or all the societal pressures that came with it. She never thought she’d have to deal with something like this again after what had happened, but here she was, back in a misogynist world run by a rich white man.

“Holy SHIT!” Negan stood up from one of the couches and walked over to her. “You look like a goddamn Bond Girl!” He traced his fingers through her hair. “I mean, you looked good before, but DAMN!” He leaned back with the last word, grinning like a kid in a candy store.

“Sherry did a good job, didn’t she?” She fixed the wave Negan messed up in her locks.

“Oh it has nothing to do with Sherry, but yeah!” He scanned her with dark eyes, slowly stepping forward as the gap between them closed.

“Is all that food for us?” She avoided his intense stare, feeling her muscles tighten up.

“Yup.” He glanced over at the table then back at her. “You hungry?” He grinned again, rolling his tongue across his perfectly white teeth.

“A little,” she admitted, seeing a cheeseburger and fries set out for both of them.

“Look Blossom, I know this is all a little fucked up… I bop two of your friends, put you in a cell, almost kill Daryl right in front of you…”

“Cut me open in front of Rick.” She rose her eyebrows as her heart fluttered. “Don’t forget that.”

“All for show.” He reassured her, grinning like the joker he thought he was. “Sometimes you have to be a little dramatic to get your point across.” He walked over to the table, picking up two glasses bubbling with champagne. “You think I liked killing your friends like that? That I lost Big Red when I could have used him for so many things here at the Sanctuary? You think I wanted to stay up all morning kicking Rick the Prick’s ass in that RV until he figured out who’s in charge?”

She blinked, not sure what he wanted her to say.

“Kind of,” he chuckled, handing her the glass. “The point is, Blossom, people are a resource. They only remain a resource if they see things the same way as you do.” He took a sip. “You and I… those women out there… we all need to be on the same page.”

“And what page is that?” She took a large sip, hoping the alcohol would stop her from caring about what happened next.

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore.” His tone changed. It was soft, gentle, even as he looked her dead in the eye. “All of that shit with the bat and the knives and the cell… that’s all in the past. You’re my wife now, and I will do everything in my power to provide for and protect you.” He traced the outline of her face with his knuckles. “All I ask from my wives in return is that they love me.” He followed suit and finished his glass.

“Love?” What an odd fucking word to come out of his mouth. Love? Ha! Love? Wait… maybe she could use this void against him, somehow fill the gap inside of him in a different way...

“I need to know that you’re on board, for your sake and for Rick and Daryl’s… Before we eat, I just need to hear you say those three little words.” He ghosted her shoulder with his fingertips.

“I love you, Negan.” She chanted, finally looking up into his eyes.

“Good.” He smiled, walking over to the table.

Of course he didn’t say it back. Why did she even think that he would? Ugh, this guy had more issues than her psychology courses had prepared her for. Probably mommy issues. An abusive father, maybe, and none of them had time to give him the affection he needed as a child so he spent his free time killing animals out in the field when they weren’t looking. Whoa, this alcohol made her jump to conclusions.

“What made you choose me?” She asked, starting her interview process by sitting down on the couch. “I mean, out of all the other girls…”

“Are you shittin’ me?” He sat down, popping a French fry into his mouth. “You’re super hot! And you seemed to be the least messed up out of everyone… I assumed you weren’t with Ginger Spice or China Town, so I wanted to show you what kind of guy I really am.”

“And what kind of guy is that?” She took a bite out of her cheeseburger, the black bean mixture throwing her off a little.

“You’re looking at him.” He held his hands out in display as he smirked at her, finally swallowing his French fry. “A man of his word.”

The rest of the meal went on in silence, amazing Blossom that he could shut up long enough to put any amount of food in his mouth. The food offered to her was simple for its time, but gourmet to her in the midst of the apocalypse. She imagined Negan had rooms full of refrigerators, freezers, and cabinets. He had to have a giant kitchen somewhere with at least three stovetops and ovens at the ready, with ample cooks to man them. He didn’t skimp on the condiments or garnishes, either, telling her that they had a fresh garden somewhere outside. That moldy bread he forced her to eat up until now was just a tactic, after all.

After their meal and a few more glasses of champagne, Blossom made her way over to the bed. She hopped up onto the soft down comforter, hoping she would at least blackout during the act itself before enjoying a little bit of rest in bed.

Negan stood up and rushed over to her. “Whoa Whoa Whoa, what are you doing, darlin’?” He actually sounded concerned.

“I’m your wife, aren’t I?” She could feel the alcohol as it pulsed through her veins, heating up her entire body as she spread her legs. This is what Rosita would have done, isn’t it?

“You think I’m going to try and fuck you tonight? After all that I’ve done to you?” His face was serious, his tone even moreso.

“I honestly never know what you’re gonna do,” she admitted.

“You’re drunk.” He placed his hand on her shoulder to prevent her from toppling over.

“I’m not drunk!” She spat out mockingly. She couldn’t remember the last time she had gotten drunk, so he may’ve been right.

“This is a lot of shit to pile on you right now, I get that. I also get that you’re not ready, and if you’re not ready, it’s not going to be any fun for either of us.” He took in a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling before glancing back at her. “Look, do you honestly think I have time to sleep with eight, now, nine wives?”

She stared at him, aghast. Even in her drunken stupor she could tell he was being honest. His face was somber, and not that fake somber shit he pulled that morning when he said that this must be really hard on them. No, this was something different entirely.

“You don’t…” she let her mouth hang open. “But all these women are here for…”

“All for show, Blossom. Just like you.” He squeezed her shoulder. Maybe he was telling her this because she was drunk, and she might forget their conversation in the morning. Or maybe he just wanted her to actually feel safe.

“Wha…?” All for show? But the way he spoke, the way he walked, the way he… was all contradicted that fact. She may not be able to feel sexual attraction herself, but she could tell the signs of someone who was hyper sexual. Everything he did and said dripped with sexuality, the way he looked at her, at Rick and Rosita… none of this was making sense.

“All I need is for their brothers, husbands and fathers to THINK that I’m sleeping with them. That keeps my wives happy, and the men in line.” He pulled the covers down her legs and covered her up, resting her head on the pillow. “Like I said, Blossom, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.”