#like yeah i guess the age gap is awkward with the two considering pony would be fourteen when johnny turns seventeen and will be fifteen

[alaskan-wallflower]

personally i don’t have an opinion of either ship. obviously ship what you want, i really couldn’t give a shit less-but how come people are so pressed on people shipping cherry and ponyboy romantically because cherry is sixteen going on seventeen and pony has been fourteen for a month but no one bats an eye at people shipping johnny, who would canonically be almost sixteen and a half, with ponyboy who’s been fourteen for a month? it honestly doesn’t make sense.

[lupienne]

Monday Calling

I got inspired by #193 and the brief glimpse of Negan we were granted. I want to think there’s more to his life than pining over a grave - even if pining over a grave might still be part of his life. This popped into my head and I went with it. It’s not award-winning prose by any means but I still like it.

--

He could feel the presence of Monday like a weight on his chest. Despite them not having a calendar proper, he knew when it fell, when it was coming. They carved notches into a stick and when it reached thirty-one, it became kindling. All months had thirty-one days now and those days weren't named – but still -

He knew when Monday was.

It felt like her hands had, rubbing his back, nudging his ribs in the Before, urging: “Negan, wake up. It's Monday, you're going to be late for work.”

He always forgot to set that fucking alarm on Sunday night.

He no longer lived in that world and he didn’t require alarms. But still, Lucille’s phantom hands turned the gears of his internal clock and let him know – It was Monday, and it was time to go.

He shrugged on his jacket and stepped outside to gather the wilted bouquet from the stoop. He tried to be quiet, but she heard him. He knew she didn't like him going, after all these years.

May swung open the door, her worn bathrobe sprouting more loose threads at the hem. “You're going?”

“Yeah.”

“How long are you going to do this?”

“It's... it's the day. You know. I have to.”

“Do you want me to come with you...?” She already knew his answer, because he'd never taken her along. It was his penance to do this in solitude. And maybe some part of him was afraid Lucille would be angry. He'd had the wives before, sure, but the wives were just warm bodies and distraction, and maybe a laugh or two...but they weren't May.

Of course, Lucille knew about May. She was happy for Negan, but sometimes he wondered. And that is why he went to her alone.

May nodded and went back in without a word. He saw it all in her eyes, like he did every Monday. I wish you could let this go. I wish I could lift this burden off your shoulders.

Despite his extensive vocabulary, he could never find the words to tell her – that she didn't need to lift his burden...that she was the reason this burden hadn't crushed him to the ground.

“You're the reason I can breathe,” he'd told her once, and she hadn't quite understood – thought he was talking of some time or another when she'd saved his hide from an errant walker.

Negan slipped down familiar paths. His former residence was miles away, but he always traveled on foot. He was too heavy for their little pony, Madge. And it felt better this way, anyway. Walking the miles for her. His knees always ached after the long trek. He'd rub them with a smirk. It was funny, considering what he'd done to old Grimes, that he now would suffer from knee pain himself. But of course, he was getting older, one silver hair at a time.

He stopped now and then, listening. For the dead and the living. He saw Carl in the area sometimes and though he ached to speak to the boy – no... the man - he kept hidden. Chickenshit, Negan. Yeah, he was. He knew Old Prick was dead, but somehow, hearing it would make it real. Maybe if he never heard it, he could go on pretending the old Sour Puss was still lording his prickly self all over Alexandria – and beyond.

He'd put Rick in the past. Alexandria, the Saviors, the jail – everything. Everything but her.

He swallowed the lump in his throat as he started down the hill towards his former home.

Five years ago, he'd met May. A spring deluge had soaked him as he wandered the surrounding copses, checking his traps, fishing in the wide streams. He'd started to plant, hunt, trap. He'd started to thrive... survival-wise. Inside, he was a cage of bone, stripped of all life. Maybe he'd become an Undead and didn't even know it.

Then she'd appeared in the gaps between the birches. Soaked through, her teeth chattering. Her hand shaking as she aimed a pistol at him, but her eyes said she didn't want to fire. He'd told her he didn't mind if she did – but she'd be better off following him to four dry walls and a warm meal. So she had.

“There's towns around,” he told her after she'd stayed the night. “There's a city. Commonwealth. Nobody has to travel alone anymore...”

He'd thought of moving there. He'd be as non-existent as he was here. Just a body, moving from job to home, rinse and repeat. Out here the birds and mammals reminded him that he was just another animal, surviving as they did. There – the humans would remind him that he was not like them – that he had failed to be.

“I'm not a city and town type person,” she'd said, staring down at the eggs he'd made. “I've...done bad things.”

Haven't we all?

“I won't judge,” he said. “I've got no fucking right to. And neither do they.”

When she finally trusted her eyes to lock with his – he could feel that she was one like Lucille. No – she was not Lucille returning, like he'd deluded himself that the bat had been... she wasn't a spirit - she was herself. But she had that same glow, buried like ember under ash. He trembled inside when she stayed and allowed him, slowly, to coax the ember into a flame.

The first time he'd lay with a woman again after so many years... it was fumbling, like this aging man had become a teenager again. It was desperate almost, too touch-starved and he'd been too awkward, he'd come too quickly.

But she didn't judge. She stayed.

But he could not give himself fully to May with the grave of Lucille looming so near. It didn't feel fair to any of them.

So, five years ago, he'd taken May and they'd moved. They had traveled ten miles west, even deeper into farmland, bordered by wild forest. They found an abandoned house and made it a home.

He knew life again. The blood began to thaw, pulsing warm through his veins. The radiant heat from his heart drew walkers far and wide, but he and May had killed them all. They had found each other and their home – and nothing but Death would break them apart.

Until the Mondays came calling.

Negan's boots scuffed across the path to his old house. He maintained the property weekly. He pulled weeds. Made sure all the entrances were secured. He kept up the appearance that he still lived here. Why, he didn't know. Perhaps it was for Lucille. She deserved a home as lovely as the one he shared with May.

And so, he swept the stoop and wiped the windows clean. On the porch, he smiled to see Carl's latest offering. The fresh bread had a small spot of mold blooming, but he'd tear that out and it would be perfectly fine. He really should talk to the kid – the man – one of these days. For now, he filled his backpack, knowing his shoulders would ache along with his knee when he got back home.

Finally, he turned to the grave. His chest tightened. Warm blood went cold, shivers of grief plummeting from brain stem to his toes. Decades later – centuries even – the tears would still fall down his face. His penance, he supposed. May wished she could take this away from him, but he could not let her. He had to feel this – he had to keep it. His weeping heart was the only pulse Lucille had anymore – he was the life support of her memory.

Carefully, he kneeled, grunting at the discomfort. Old man Negan. Didn't they say gray made a man distinguished? He snorted a laugh through his tears. If you could see me now, babe. Even my pubes are going gray. Guess you'd say I had a real distinguished dick, huh?

He could hear her laugh at that. The tree above rustled softly as a warm breeze played over his hair. He removed the old flowers and brushed stray leaves from her grave. His fingers trailed the weathered stone.

He drew in a breath and placed the new bouquet before her. “Well, let's see. Your Monday update, Lucy. May and I are thinking of getting a dog. Crazy, huh? There's a farmer about five miles from us. Nice guy. His retriever's having a litter of fucking mutt puppies – some lucky stray got her knocked up. Scandalous shit, I know.”

Lucille gave her blessing. She'd never thought he could handle a dog before. He was too irresponsible. But now, she trusted him. Maybe one day, he could even have pups of his own? Negan shuddered at that possibility – but it brought a warm flush of pleasure all the same. He wiped his eyes, telling her of the week past, the cold melting away with each word.

When the breeze faded, he knew she had left him again, floating back to places he could never follow – maybe even after he died. Perhaps he was destined for elsewhere. He stood with another groan, brushing his knees. But it was fine. He had her memory, he had May, and he had life – for however long.

People said not to hold onto the past. He didn't.

He knew when he aimed his boots west, they aimed towards home. The now. The future. May waiting, with a smile and a warm kiss, her forgiveness a balm to all wounds.

He couldn't hold the past. But when he walked, he looked over his shoulder. The past was there – behind him – and that was where he opened his hands and left it.

He went home and he lived in the now.

Until the next Monday called.