Chapter 3: Real Fear

Negan's Apartment

It’s 3 a.m.

Negan is lying in bed trying to sleep; his encounter with Maggie is keeping him awake. Maybe he screwed up; maybe she isn't ready yet.

Three sharp knocks sound at his apartment door. Negan doesn't bother getting up; whoever it is will eventually leave, and if it’s an emergency, his walkie-talkie is right there on the nightstand, they’ll call him.

Three more sharp knocks.

"Damn it!"

Reluctantly, Negan gets up, grabs the bat that rests by his bed as usual, and walks toward the door. He’s only wearing pajama bottoms, but he doesn't care; whoever is on the other side, he’s going to get rid of them fast.

"It’s 3 a.m. I swear, if this isn't a matter of life and death, you’re going to find out exactly why I’m the damn head of security for this community..." he snaps as he approaches the door.

Negan opens the door with the bat resting on his bare shoulder, intending to intimidate whoever is standing there.

"Margaret."

Maggie doesn't wait for Negan to invite her in; she walks straight into the apartment, looking determined and furious. She has brought two glasses and a bottle of tequila she’d kept hidden in her own apartment—a bottle she’d found lying in a back room in a shop at New York’s Chinatown. She walks over to the coffee table in front of the dining area sofa and sets the items down. The room is dark; the only light comes from the moon, just enough to make out the few pieces of furniture.

Negan remains standing in the doorway with the door open; he hasn't had time to react. Maggie glares at him furiously, but for a split second, she notices that Negan isn't wearing t-shirt—she’s never seen him like that before. For a moment, she studies the tattoos accompanying his many scars.

Negan slowly closes the door, wearing a mischievous smirk that Maggie doesn't quite catch, and leans his bat against the wall. Without a word, he walks over to a small side table next to the sofa and switches on one of the few lamps in his apartment. The dim light reveals the fury in Maggie’s gaze—that look he has seen so many times and knows so well.

Negan stands before Maggie and sighs, holding her gaze.

"You didn't want to play video games with me earlier, but here you are, showing up at my apartment at 3 a.m. with a bottle of..." Negan picks up the bottle from the table and checks the label. "Wow, good stuff, tequila! Damn, Margaret, you were keeping that hidden, huh?" Negan’s tone shifts back to sarcasm.

He leans over to set the bottle back on the table. Maggie can’t tear her eyes away from him—from his chest, his tattoos, his scars, his slightly tousled hair, or those bright eyes looking at her with a mischievous glint.

"I hate you."

Negan flashes a triumphant smile. He doesn't want to see Maggie suffer, but deep down, right now, he’s the happiest person alive.

"Oh! So you are capable of feeling something? Congratulations!" Negan knows the conversation at the bar hit home. "But let me point out one small detail," he says, speaking slowly and sarcastically. "You don't hate me. You hate what you feel for me. You hate your own feelings.

Maggie says nothing; inside, her heart is a volcano on the verge of erupting. Her rational side and her feelings are locked in a dominance battle. Why is she standing here in Negan's apartment in the dead of night? Why did she go to the bar looking for him? Why does she always end up spilling her guts to him?

"You know? Judging by that bottle, I think you and Mr. Tequila had a very interesting conversation before showing up here."

"I should have killed you. So many years, so many chances..." Maggie continues her internal struggle; she doesn't want to hear the truths Negan is speaking.

"But you didn't. Come on, Maggie—you’re a better person than I am; we both know that. But don’t forget that I’m smarter than you, and we both know that too.

Negan had never been afraid of Maggie; he respected her—she was one of the strongest women he had ever met. He admired her because she was a fighter—fierce and stubborn—yet she possessed more courage than anyone else he had crossed paths with since the world went to hell. He knew her internal battles well; he had witnessed and endured them alongside her for years, but he had also seen her overcome and confront them, and that was what he valued most about her. Despite years of hating him, she had become his greatest support in recent times; she had given him a reason to keep fighting—a purpose. Negan knew he owed Maggie his life. He had known it for a long time.

Maggie can’t take her eyes off Negan. She hates that he’s always right; she respects him when it comes to protecting the community, but now he’s talking about her—about her feelings. *Damn you, Negan,* her inner voice tells her again.

"Maggie, go back to your apartment. You’ve been drinking; you aren't in a state to say—let alone do—anything you might regret later," he pleads.

"No."

"Shit, Maggie." he pleads again.

"No. I need..." Maggie’s voice cracks. She raises her hand and, pointing at him, begins to tap lightly against his bare chest. "I need to understand why I always end up in the same place, why everything always comes back to you." Suddenly, her gaze fixes on a small scar on his left chest; she rests her hand there, knowing it’s from the first time she stabbed him. Maggie knows there is only one way to resolve the uncertainty regarding her feelings. "Do it," she commands.

"Do what?" - Negan doesn't quite grasp her request, though he can guess what it is. His heart is racing at the touch of her hand against his bare chest.

"Kiss me" Maggie says, fighting back tears.

Negan freezes. It was exactly what he had imagined, yet he never thought he’d actually hear the words leave her mouth. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time—years, perhaps. Maggie had become the most important person in his life, for better or worse. He had convinced himself that a relationship between them was impossible for obvious reasons; that was why it hurt so deeply to see her flirting with Luis, even though he wanted her happiness above all else—she deserved it. Now, Negan was the one torn by internal conflict. As much as he wanted to do it—as desperately as he wanted to kiss Maggie—this wasn't the right moment.

"No." Negan can't believe he's actually saying that. "Maggie..." Suddenly, the look in Maggie's eyes shifts from anger to sadness; now, the words fail him. "Damn it!"

Negan turns around and heads toward the door, rubbing his face with his hands. His heart feels like it’s about to burst. He turns back—hands pressed over his mouth in a gesture of supplication—and plants himself once more in front of Maggie, who remains motionless.

Negan’s heart breaks seeing her so vulnerable, yet he knows he could never forgive himself if he took advantage of this moment of fragility.

"Maggie, listen to me," he says, cupping her face in both hands so he can look her straight in the eye and ensure she understands every word he’s about to say. "You are the most important woman in my life right now, and I don’t want to screw things up again; I don’t want to lose you. I wouldn't listen to Lucille, so I walked away; I wasn't there for her final days, and by the time I returned, it was too late. I pushed Annie away, thinking that was how I’d protect her." Negan’s voice falters as he recalls his past; he takes a breath and continues. "You taught me that you have to care for and protect the people you love by staying by their side—not by pushing them away or running off—and that’s what I’ve done these last few years: stayed by your side. Damn it, Margaret, I just needed you to realize that." Negan tries to hold back tears; his hands slide from Maggie’s face down to her shoulders. "I can perfectly understand what you’re going through—I’m Negan," he says, offering a faint smile. "The person you’ve spent so much of your life hating. But right now, that same person would give his life for you—for Hershel—and not just because I owe it to you, but because you deserve it... and because I don't deserve you." He slowly lowers his hands down her arms until he reaches hers, grasping them gently. "Maggie, I’ll keep waiting as long as it takes, but we both need what’s up here"—he releases one of her hands and points to her head—"and what’s down here"—he points to her heart—"to be the same thing. And for that," he says, glancing at the bottle, "I need you to be in your right mind."

Maggie can’t tear her gaze away from Negan. He has just confessed that he’s had feelings for her for a long time and had resigned himself to staying in the shadows, watching her try to rebuild her life with someone else. Negan has been her shadow for ages—they both know it well—but she had never imagined the extent of it.

Negan lets go of her hands while holding her gaze; he sighs and turns back toward the door, grabbing the knob with the intention of showing Maggie she needs to return to her apartment. He pauses for a moment, gripping the handle tightly; he has to open that damn door before he regrets his decision, before his unpredictable side takes over and he lunges for what he truly wants, regardless of the consequences.

Maggie approaches stealthily from behind; from that angle, she can see a second scar on his lower back—the mark from the second time she stabbed him. She finds it hard to believe that Negan bears two scars inflicted by her, and yet has told her everything he just did. He has changed—he has changed so much. Negan is right; her rational side and her emotional side need to be aligned. Now, she is the one who doesn't want to make a mistake. Now, she is the one who doesn't want to hurt him any further.

Negan opens the door; Maggie has reached his side. Both their hearts are racing. They hold each other's gaze for a few seconds before Maggie steps out the door. Negan closes the door behind him, trying to process everything that just happened; he sits on the sofa, grabs the bottle of tequila and, without a second thought, takes a huge swig.