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“It isn’t anything special,” Rick and Dickhead (mainly Rick, with the bar owner smirking at Shane, perfectly positioned to keep his expression hidden from his boyfriend-maybe-husband-mate) insist to everyone. “It’s just a… celebration now that Negan has officially sold his house, now that we’re livin’ together full-time,” Rick further explains, as though the two of them haven’t been sporting matching matte black bands around their respective ring fingers for the last fortnight—as though Judith hadn’t already spilled the beans to Uncle Shane when he’d watched her after a shift the previous week, gushing about the pretty dress Negan had gifted her to watch Daddy and Negan kiss, she’d relayed, sticking out her tongue and wrinkling her little nose in a child's typical display of disgust at their parental figures showing affection.
Andrea, darting between tables and bar patrons with that easy sort of grace gifted solely to servers and ballerinas, can’t seem to help the response she tosses at Negan as she slides Glenn another beer. “Well, Michonne and I would appreciate it if you’d let us know the next time you decide to have a celebration in the back room.”
(Tequila burns going down the hatch and coming out of one’s nose, Shane discovers.)
*
It’s more like a family barbecue than anything formal. (Shane is still wearing a nice button-up and neatly-pressed slacks, per Rick’s annoyed response to Shane’s suggestion of biker chic.) Rick is at the grill with Simon, Dwight, Michonne, and Carl, his easy laugh filling the modest backyard as the two Alpha men spout one unbelievable tale after another to Rick.
Hershel appears with Maggie and Beth and Glenn, relaxed and casual, his smile coming as easily as it always had before the car accident, his pant leg shifting to allow a flash of the artificial limb he now bears. The old man limps over to Rick, Beth at his side, and greets both Rick and Carl with an embrace.
Daryl is near the fence, the man as quiet as ever, observing more than participating until Jesus abandons his post by the grill, sidling up next to the Beta, smiling up at the other man as he murmurs something that makes Daryl close his eyes, the corners of his mouth tipping upward into a small smile.
Rosita and Tara and Sherry are arguing over who should start the first game of cornhole, of all goddamn games. Bob and Sasha and Andrea are unabashedly stealing every visible pinwheel from the appetizer spread. Carol is laughing at something Abraham is saying to Eugene, Sophia at her side and looking longingly at the grill where Carl stands with his father.
Person after person after person is accounted for—except Negan, the leather-wrapped rat bastard, an entire half of the reason they’re all here on a hot-as-fuck Saturday afternoon, mingling. Shane looks around for the man—as if he’s missed the tall fuckstick hiding in the bushes somehow—but catches no sign (or scent) of him.
(It’s not a wedding, but the asshole can at least pretend to care and make an appearance—for Rick’s sake, at the very least.)
Annoyed, Shane drains the remainder of his beer and makes his way to the house, dodging children and clapping his fellow adults heartily on the back. He does another sweep of the spacious yard from his vantage point on the deck and scowls when, once again, neither hide nor hair of the man is seen.
What the fuck, Shane grumbles to himself and turns on his heel to enter the kitchen. He has to dig through both the ice chest and Rick’s refrigerator before he brandishes a Corona in triumph, then he snatches up the last lime slice, squeezing the little wedge and dropping it into the bottle before taking a long pull.
He closes the refrigerator and takes another sip as he studies the photos on the door, the most recent addition pinned by an absurd number of princess and alphabet magnets; he smiles, picturing Judith with her nose scrunching up as she concentrates, aligning Jasmine and Belle and Rapunzel with the colorful plastic letters, slightly smaller magnets of Pascal and Iago and that goddamn reindeer from the freezing sisters flick scattered around it, as though she’d abandoned a previous theme for the princesses. Rick and Judith grin brightly up at him from the photo, Carl giving the camera the barest of teenage acknowledgment (even with the odd angle, though, Shane can make out the upward curve of the Alpha teen’s lips); each of them is decked out in swimwear, their hair clearly dripping.
Negan is in the foreground, silver-streaked dark hair sticking up ridiculously from a careless towel-down, broad grin across his face, disgustingly perfect smile on display as he angles the camera to get all four of them inside the frame. His free hand rests on Rick’s knee, just below the leg of blue swim trunks, Judith hanging over his forearm as the now-almost-six-year-old shows off each and every one of her baby teeth. Only the tip-top of Carl’s head is cut from the photo, clearly due to the teen’s usual desire to be at least a foot away from any PDA administered to his father.
It’s a damn good picture, Shane thinks—one that makes them look like the family he knows Rick has always wanted. His partner looks… content; even with Lori, Rick had never looked so relaxed as he does in this one photo, despite the amount of love Shane knows Rick had held for her—still holds.
The Corona is nearly gone when he remembers the main reason he had entered the Grimes home: Negan. Judith, too, now that Shane takes a moment to think about it.
He takes a subtle sniff of the air and follows the strongest trail of the other Alpha’s scent; he avoids the third step on the stairs—one memorable night of babysitting, having gotten a six-month-old Judy down for the count before hitting that godforsaken third step only to have her wake with an attitude fit for a rabid dog at the creak it had emitted, has had him constantly on alert since—and quietly sneaks up to the second floor. Carl’s room is as disorganized as usual with graphic novels and comics and video game cases strewn about most every surface. The kids’ bathroom clearly hasn’t been touched since the morning, Carl’s damp towel still hanging from the shower rod. Judith’s bedroom is empty, her big girl bed unmade with several outfits discarded across the wrinkled sheets and stuffed animals; a fish stands out amongst them, propped next to the pillows, a small block of sequins on its side giving the illusion of a single glittering scale.
The only place remaining is the master bedroom.
He hears Judith as he draws near, her voice shaky in the way it used to get when she skipped afternoon nap as she vents her frustrations to, presumably, Negan. “I don’t wanna wear this dress!” The slightest odor of the little girl’s distress comes from the doorway as Shane gets closer. She sounds exhausted; maybe she is overdue a quick sleep—do kindergarteners still do naps? He hasn’t babysat Judith in a while—Maggie and Glenn have been volunteering more often over the last several months, once newborn Hershel had gotten less fragile, at Judith’s behest—but the last time he’d kept her (it’s Daddy’s night out, Negan had grinned, tongue caught between those punchable teeth, eyebrows waggling, and Shane had felt like throttling the other Alpha, as per usual), she’d had the energy to rival several nuclear power plants, so… no nap.
“And who the hell said you had to?” Bastard’s still cussing in front of Judy; Shane hopes Rick hears the guy next time.
He stops a few feet from the doorframe, choosing to eavesdrop; it’ll be interesting to hear how the abrasive bar owner handles whatever crisis is plaguing the little girl.
There’s a soft sniffle, and Judith replies, “I dunno.” Shane can picture her tiny shoulders shrugging, her head ducking as she struggles to pinpoint the reason for her own upset.
“So this is just the one your daddy laid out for you this morning?” Shane hears a quiet rustle of clothing—a nod? “Well,” the other man begins slowly, as if weighing his next words and the possible consequences very heavily, “what do you want to wear?”
Shane hears Judith shuffling her feet on the hardwood floor. “I wanna be a princess,” she tells Negan in her quietest voice. (Shane is pretty sure he can feel his melted heart dripping down his ribs and into his belly.)
“A princess?” Negan repeats, and Shane rolls his eyes—hadn’t Judith just said it? He waits for the childish huff, for the attitude Shane always expects to catch when he needles the little girl into switching her mood from sad to annoyed—anything is better than tears, Shane reasons—but Judith just mumbles her affirmation and waits for Negan’s response. “Well,” the man begins slowly, “I don’t see why that’s a problem.”
There’s quiet movement—little feet moving farther from Shane and the door, closer to Negan. “I can’t braid my hair, and Daddy’s busy.” Her little voice is tight with tears, and Shane fights the urges to either burst into the room to comfort his almost-niece or escape back downstairs, far away from the five-year-old’s (almost six, Uncle Shane!) emotional turmoil.
“Well,” repeats the Alpha, voice bright with the smile Shane knows the man offers only to the little girl. He lowers his volume, but Shane still catches the quiet, “My Lucille taught me how to do a French braid.”
Lucille?
Who the fuck is Lucille?
“Did my mommy know how to make braids, too?”
Shane feels like he’s been punched in the gut—no, like he’s been shot, his Kevlar stopping the bullet, but his body battered and bruised. Judith’s voice is as low as Negan’s; he pictures their heads together, a small hand on a scruffy cheek as the sweet girl asks her innocently heartbreaking question.
“I’ll bet she did,” Negan responds, still quiet, serious. “All women seem to figure out that magic, eventually.”
Shane’s eyes flash automatically to the photo between the kids’ bedrooms, to a less gray-streaked Rick and a much younger Carl both enveloping a smiling Lori in a hug, an intricate-looking braid the Beta had dubbed a fishtail hooked over one shoulder. He takes a moment to mourn one of his best friends, to mourn for her children and for Rick once more; they’re missing out on so much.
(But also experiencing different, just-as-important things with Negan by their sides, someone whispers in his mind, voice feminine and hopeful. Shane wants to gag.)
“What do you say we see if I remember how to do this, sweetpea?”
Shane begins slowly retracing his steps once he hears movement from within the bedroom, imagining Judith sitting crisscross-applesauce in front of Negan, head tilting forward as clumsy (he’s guessing) fingers detangle stubborn curls.
He snags a beer from one of the ice chests on the deck as he returns to the backyard, popping the top off and taking a swig, gaze unfocused, mind replaying the last few minutes.
Who the hell is Lucille? A sister? His mother? Ex-wife?
Shane blinks, his brow furrowing as a long-forgotten memory resurfaces.
“What can you have in common with this guy?” Shane asks, tossing his free hand in the air over the console between them. “You haven’t even looked at anyone else in over two years, man. You just met him two months ago, and you sound like you’re already all-in. What the fuck?” Rick has never been the impulsive one of their duo, never been the one to jump headfirst into anything, but here the man is, already contemplating the right time to introduce this strange Alpha to Carl and Judith.
Rick blinks his suddenly sad blue eyes at Shane, gaze going distant before he glances away to watch the road in front of them. “We’ve both just been… survivin’,” he eventually answers, voice soft. “He understands me more than anyone I’ve ever known—more than I thought anyone ever could.”
“Everything alright?”
Rick is staring at him with the same look he’d sported the last time Shane had taken a knock to the head, worry heavy in those bright eyes. Shane clears his throat, shaking away the memory, the blooming realizations. “All good, man,” he tosses back with his signature grin.
The eldest Grimes tilts his head and narrows his eyes, suspicious, but moves on. “Did you see Judith in the house?” he questions, paternal concern rearing its head. “She was supposed to start getting into her dress—” He glances at his watch. “—thirty minutes ago.”
Shane opens his mouth to respond, but a little girl’s tinkling giggle sounds from behind Rick. “I’m here, daddy!” Judith skips out of the patio doors, then stops abruptly to twirl in front of her father and Shane, multiple shades of blue and silver swishing around her. A tiara sits upon her head, settled atop the start of a slightly messy French braid, the tail end—much neater than the start—trailing down to curl over her delicate shoulder. “I’m Queen Elsa!”
From princess to Queen in fifteen minutes, Shane chuckles.
Dryly, Rick says, “So you are,” a smile tugging at his lips.
“Royalty must always look the part!” comes Negan’s boisterous voice from within the kitchen, folding himself into an exaggerated bow as he stops next to Rick, winking at Judith as she covers her mouth in an effort to muffle her laughter. One leather-clad (and why the fuck does he get to wear a leather jacket? Actually, no, why is he wearing one at all? It’s ninety-one degrees, in the shade) encircles the Omega man’s waist, and Negan tugs Rick closer, ducking his head just a bit to nudge his nose just behind his maybe-mate-spouse’s ear, breathing in the scent there. (Shane kind of wants to punch him, per usual.) “Our Queen simply couldn’t be seen in anything other than her best.”
Shaking his head, Rick snatches Judith up in a tight embrace, tickling her side, eliciting a chorus of giggles. “Of course she couldn’t.” Shane watches Rick’s momentary pause before the man’s hand brushes gently over the crown of his daughter’s head, following the braid. “Your hair looks beautiful, baby,” he tells the little girl, a soft smile spreading.
“Negan did it for me, daddy!” Judith gushes to her father, grinning up at the Alpha who shuffles in place, looking almost shy… until he makes eye contact with Shane; the moment their eyes meet, Negan’s narrow, and his jaw clenches minutely, as though daring Shane to say something, obviously fully aware Shane had been eavesdropping.
My Lucille taught me how to do a French braid.
For some reason, Shane’s throat goes tight for a split-moment, his chest following suit before both relax, then—before he can stop himself, before he can take a moment to remove himself from the partial family unit—he says, “It’s a hairstyle fit for a Queen, Judy,” and if his voice sounds a little rough, fuck off, it doesn’t.
Surprise colors Negan’s expression for only a moment—blink-and-miss-it—before his demeanor shifts from guarded and attack-ready to easy and exuberant, that punchable grin back in place. He smacks a kiss to Judith’s forehead and snags her away from Rick, setting her on the ground and spinning her in place until she shrieks, lurching as dizziness settles in, run-stumbling over to her big brother when Negan makes to go after her a second time.
Rick’s left hand catches Negan’s right, tugging the Alpha to him, leaning into the other man easily, comfortably, a content smile gracing his full lips.
(Shane doesn’t miss the quick caress of the bar owner’s thumb over Rick’s ring finger; their black bands aren’t even conspicuously missing today, but clearly visible, as though no one around can do simple addition, as if one plus one suddenly equals eleven.)
The food is grilled, games are played, and dessert—a suspiciously wedding-like cake monstrosity for the Not Wedding of the obviously Not Married couple, provided by Denise and Tara—is passed around, laughter and good-natured ribbing following as their not-so-little gathering eventually dies down late in the evening. Once each offer of staying late to clean up is refused with a laugh and an embrace from Rick, everyone begins departing by twos and threes and fours, Judith standing at the door with Negan, her freshly-bare feet atop the Alpha’s boots, her little toes wiggling happily at each and every goodbye hug.
Shane and Rick and Carl are left to store away the leftovers and tidy up the few dishes. Shane snatches the last three cheese-filled hotdogs from right under Carl’s nose, tossing them into a container and turning on his heel, ruffling the teen’s overgrown hair as he strolls out, bidding goodbye to Rick over his shoulder after promising to pick up their breakfast order the next morning.
He hears Judith as he’s nearly out the door, her sweet voice drifting down the stairway from the second floor.
“Thank you for my princess hair, Negan.” She sounds like she’s speaking through a yawn. Shane smiles; all the excitement must have worn her out long before her bedtime.
“Queen,” corrects Negan snottily, and Judith giggles.
“Yeah!” There’s a long beat of silence, and Shane is ready to shut the door—he’s eavesdropped enough today, probably—when she adds a soft, “I’m really glad you married my daddy, Negan.”
Shane nearly snorts. Finally, the words have been said.
There are muffled footsteps, then Negan says, as quiet and as sincere as Shane has ever heard the other Alpha, “You and me both, sweetpea.”
The door shuts almost soundlessly behind Shane. He uses his spare key to turn the lock, just in case, and makes his way to his truck, contemplating his plan of attack.
Rick had really thought a surprise elopement would mark him safe from a Shane Walsh bachelor party? Ha. He just needs to make a quick call to Abraham…