Chapter Text
Negan hates boats.
And ships.
Basically any stupid fucking goddamned buoyant devices people are idiotic enough to hop onto and sail right out into the middle of the ocean. Humans aren't made to be out there. There's no fucking way they are. Or at least, that's what Negan's mind keeps telling him as he sits with the latter half of his body doubled over the rail, trying to decide if he's going to hurl or not. It pisses him off that he's seemingly the only person on the party deck looking like this right now, but he also imagines it's because he has yet to work up the gumption to make his way down to his stateroom, where it's a lot less noisy and a generally better environment for puking your intestines up.
The water in Galveston Island isn't exactly gorgeous, though, and from the way the ship is still kicking up dirt a mile out from the dock, Negan figures what he's depositing into the water isn't nearly as bad as other things that have probably made their way down there. His biggest concern is the people on the lower decks, because he really doesn't feel like being the guy who barfed on someone from all the way up on the Lido deck.
Honestly, the only thing keeping Negan here, hunched over the side of a fourteen-story cruise ship, is the fear that if he backs away, he's going to have to deal with the embarrassment of yarking all over the Lido deck's floor and have to explain his seasickness to one of the workers, who will probably wonder why in the fuck he's on a cruise ship if he knows he's gonna be sick the whole time.
In his defense, this isn't entirely by choice. Simon, that asshole, has dragged him along because he's apparently been reverting back to being that mopey douche canoe he was after Lucille's death. Negan doesn't remember being that way as of late, but apparently, Simon's seen it and he's 'not putting up with that shit anymore', and he seems to think a five-day cruise to and from Cozumel, Mexico is the best way to remedy that.
There's a reason Negan and Simon are best friends. Negan's a pretty turbulent guy, and his moods and decisions are often impulsive and unpredictable. Simon's not quite so capricious, but he's headstrong and somehow knows exactly how to counteract basically everything about Negan, so he's one of the few people who've managed to get in there close enough to Negan to stick around for more than just a matter of days or weeks, or hours...or seconds. Whatever.
In any case, his ass has decided that Negan's ass needs a vacation, so both of their asses are on a goddamned boat right now, and Simon's off doing fuck-all with not a trace of nausea to deal with. That fucker's probably down on the lower level of the deck, jamming his stupid ass off with a bunch of half-naked girls dancing around him.
Dickbag.
The boat isn't even swaying that much, honestly. The structure is big enough that most of the movement goes unnoticed, and they haven't even gotten out onto the open ocean yet. What's getting to Negan is that the ship has gone from stationary to pumping its way out onto the sea, and something about the subtle force there has him wishing he'd thought about seasickness before stepping foot onto what would be his home for five whole goddamned days.
They sell dramamine in the gift shop downstairs, but much like his own stateroom, Negan has to somehow get there. Experimentally, he braces both hands atop the guardrail and pushes himself upright. Gravity and velocity seem to be against him right now, though, and Negan flops back down when his stomach lurches again, swallowing down a lesson in trajectory that's threatening to force its way up from his belly.
“You gotta be shitting me.” He groans.
How long does seasickness last? Are there breaks in between if the boat isn't stopping? Is Negan going to be forced to lounge out here on Lido deck on one of those deck chairs until the boat docks in Mexico? God, he fucking hopes not. Believe it or not, the amenities the cruise has to offer all sound pretty damned amazing, Negan's reluctance to board the ship aside, and it'll be a real fucking disgrace if he can't actually enjoy them.
Plus, he'd never hear the end of it from Simon, who paid over a grand to drag his ass onto this damned thing.
At the very least, if Negan's going to hurl, he won't hear it over the music blaring across the entirety of Lido deck. From the sound of it, the DJ is taking the partiers on the dance floor through about every line dance they've ever done in high school, and the current stop is the Casper Slide. This kind of fucks Negan up, because sliding to the left and sliding to the right and hopping all sound like things this boat might do if the waves get particularly crazy, and he feels like gagging just thinking about it.
Okay, okay, this is bullshit. Enough pussyfooting around. Negan knows he's either gonna be sick or he's not, and at this point, there's no telling when or where it might happen. If he has the choice though, it's going to be in his stateroom, where he can lie down on his bed afterward and sleep off the discomfort. So, all that in mind, he needs to get the fuck off the ass of this fucking ship and get back to his room, where he doesn't stick out like a sore thumb.
And if he happens to run into Simon on the way, he's sending the guy off to get some dramamine.
The music shifts from the Casper Slide to Zoot Suit Riot, and Negan decides he really needs to get the fuck off of this deck now. He's upright, ignoring the turning in his stomach, and pivots to make his way down the stairs off to his right. So far, so good. He still feels like he could lose his lunch any second, but the movement of the boat doesn't feel as dramatic while he's walking.
The stairs take him down half a level, and he immediately passes through the lower half of the Lido deck to get to the elevators. They're cripplingly small for the amount of passengers on the ship, and when Negan rushes in, people billow in afterward like smoke to the fire he probably lit while beelining here. He probably looks green, and when people start staring at him, he finds himself growing irritable. They're on water, for fuck's sake. Surely, they've seen someone get seasick before.
And then it occurs to him that they're waiting to know what floor he wants. “...Six. Fuckin'...six.” He croaks, before he rolls his head back and braces against the wall. These people smell like the saltwater from the pool, and like lemonade and soda, and Negan's stomach churns uncomfortably at the assault on his senses. By the time they get to the sixth deck, where staterooms await, Negan is out in nothing flat.
A stranger stops him—a small woman with graying hair and a timid smile on her face. Her grip on his arm defies the shy look, however, and Negan feels compelled by the hold alone to regard her, even though he's feeling worse by the second. It doesn't help that the decks with staterooms are all made up of thin hallways and the carpets are patterned with the swirliest looking blue and green shit Negan's ever seen.
“You look like you could use these.” The woman says politely, using her free hand to hold up the tiniest of ziploc bags. In the bag are a handful of foil packages that kind of resemble small condom wrappers. Negan cocks an eyebrow, and the woman catches his confusion and explains posthaste. “They're seasickness patches. My daughter, she insisted I go to the doctor and ask for some. This isn't my first time on one of these ships, though, and I don't think I get seasick. You, however, look like you're miserable.”
“That noticeable, huh?” Negan questions, leaning back against the wall outside the elevator. He finds that if he closes his eyes, the rolling in his stomach subsides, even if briefly. “You always go handing your prescriptions out to poor fuckers like me?”
“If you could see your complexion,” the woman seems virtually unharmed by Negan's borderline accusation, “you'd understand. Just put one behind your ear. They don't fall off in the shower, and they're supposed to last three days.”
“Uh huh.” Negan opens his eyes to see the woman still smiling at him, and he can't help the chuckle that escapes his lips, even if his stomach kind of regrets it afterward. “Well, uh, thanks....” He rolls his wrist and draws out the last word, hoping to get a name out of the woman.
“Carol.” She answers, and Negan can tell she gets some sort of satisfaction out of him taking the patches from her. Stranger danger, anyone? “And of course. I'm on this same floor, so I'm sure we'll run into each other again. Take care, you.” She pats Negan's shoulder and then disappears off down the hall.
Deck six looks empty as fuck once the aforementioned Carol is gone, and Negan almost feels like he's just run into a ghost. Wouldn't that be something, finding out the deck you're sleeping on is haunted by the spirit of a woman who seeks out the seasick and offers them tiny condom wrappers with the solution to seasickness nestled inside? Maybe she's the guardian spirit of the carpet or some shit. A la 'don't you dare throw up on my carpet, you little shit, or I'll haunt your ass every single one of these five days' or some bullhockey like that.
Negan glances down at the package in his hand, and softly 'huh's to himself, before a slight shift in the boat's movement reminds him that they're out on the water, and he's back to half-sprinting for his stateroom.
The collision happens so quickly that Negan doesn't see it coming. One minute, he's digging his key card out of his pocket, and the next, he's colliding abruptly into something. And apparently, the two forces are both in aggressive forward motion, because the impact is rough enough that it sends Negan reeling backward, stumbling a few steps, before he braces himself against one of the walls of the narrow hallway. The patches fall out of his hand and hit the ground, but Negan doesn't notice, because his hand is suddenly on his forehead and he's trying desperately not to empty his stomach right on the shitty-swirly carpet in front of him, especially now that he knows there's someone somewhere in his general vicinity.
“I know this hall's fucking virgin-thin, but damn...” Negan curses, and he finally braves looking up and seeing just who the other half of their accident is, and then he's gawking like a fucking dumbass, because ho-lee shit, there's no way a set of eyes could ever be that blue.
The body the impossibly blue eyes are attached to is perched on its ass, gawking right back up at Negan. He notices that this person looks just as out of place as he feels, dressed in a button-up and slacks, while Negan himself is sporting his favorite leather jacket and dark pants. This man has curly hair that he's somehow managed to comb back into a semi-tame look, and he has a fierce jawline, mouth hanging open as he stares up at Negan.
The words fall from his mouth before he can stop himself. “...Well, hello there, Blue Eyes...”
The man frowns. “Excuse me?” He dusts himself off and starts working his way to his feet.
“Too late.” Negan corrects, even though he knows full well what the guy's referring to. “That's something you should've said before you decided to crash right the fuck into me.”
He watches the man pick up the package he'd dropped during the incident, and it's astonishing that the guy offers it out to him without a second thought. “You ran into me, too.”
Negan's stomach takes that moment to turn again, and Negan realizes that oh, fuck, he's really going to be sick this time. His stateroom is still a ways down the path, though, and this isn't a 'sprint to the bathroom' kind of moment. It's a 'tilt your head so you don't yark all over everything in sight' type of thing, and that's just what Negan does.
This is a prime example of a good time for Blue Eyes to get his happy ass the fuck out of Dodge, but for some reason, the dude stays rooted to the spot and just watches Negan hurl on the carpet in front of him. Of all the people to puke in front of, Negan can't shake the thought that this guy is the last one he wishes it would be.
“Shit...” The man says, and Negan looks up at him just in time to see him laugh. “...The getup you're wearin', I'd have never pegged you as the type to get motion sickness.”
As he hiccups and spits onto the ground, Negan notices an accent in this guy's voice. Alabama, or Georgia or something. In any case, he narrows his eyes up at the man still standing here. “Shut the fuck up, asshole. Just...help me put this shit on.” He doesn't remember actually taking the patches back from this guy, but he extends them once more out to him regardless.
Once the guy takes them, he motions for him to follow further down the hall. He feels a little uncomfortable leaving the mess on the ground for someone to just happen upon, but he figures maybe he can call room service once the patch is in place and get it squared away. Right now, he wants to get this shit on before he's sick to his stomach and barfs in front of any other blue-eyed beauties today. Hadn't Simon suggested he try to get laid during this cruise? Kinda hard to do that when you're struggling to get your sea legs.
“You're supposed to put those on a couple hours before the ship sets sail.” Blue Eyes says, and Negan shrugs as he stops in front of his door and withdraws his key card from his pocket.
“My goddamned mistake. Trust me, I'm regretting the shit out of it, but all I give a fuck about right now is getting the thing on and being able to function for the next five days. So,” he unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping inside, “Help me with it so I can get to the fun part of this cruise.”
Negan notices that the guy hasn't followed him into the room. He's stopped at the doorway, both hands resting on either side of it.
“You're not gonna feel better for a couple hours, you know. Takes a while for that stuff to seep in.” The man cocks an eyebrow. “Didn't your doctor tell you this stuff?”
“I'm a shitty listener.” Negan lies, because it's easier than telling him about the might-be-ghost named Carol, and then he goes into the bathroom to wash his mouth out. Once satisfied, he takes a seat on the queen-size bed that takes up a good portion of his stateroom. Thankfully, Simon went the extra mile with a balcony room, so he has somewhere to get fresh air if he needs it. He notices the guy's still standing in the doorway. “Oh, come on—if I wanted to fuck you up for running into me, I'd have already done it. Get your ass in here and help me.”
Negan sees something flicker in the guy's sharp gaze, but he complies regardless. A shrug pries his hands off of the doorway and he ascends the two stairs leading into the stateroom, shutting the door behind him. With some hesitation, he takes a seat on the bed next to Negan. He clears his throat.
“You gotta lie down or somethin'.”
Even though Negan still feels like shit, he's apparently doing well enough that his mouth is almost back to its normal level of functionality. No surprise there, considering he's operated on monster hangovers more than his fair share of times before. Either way, he smirks a little. “Well, fuck me, Blue Eyes, but if you're gonna court me, at least give me your name first.”
The man shoves Negan, shooting an icy glare up at him that makes him shudder. “You're taller than me. It'll be easier for me to see this way.”
“Joking, joking.” Negan raises both hands in a gesture of mock-surrender. “Jesus shit, man. I'd still like your name, though.” He flops over until he's lying sideways on the bed. “I mean, I blow chunks right in front of you, and then still somehow manage to cart your candy ass in here to keep me company with this shit, and—“
“Never said I was keepin' you company.” The guy looks confused, but then Negan sees something akin to a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he leans in close and gets to work. “Rick. Rick Grimes.”
Negan feels the soft pressure of a gel-like substance against the skin behind his earlobe, and the sudden cold in contrast with this Rick guy's warmth makes his breath catch in his throat. He ignores it. “You're not gonna leave me to be miserable in here for some indefinite shitstorm of hours until this thing works. No fucking way. Besides, I didn't see a plus one following you around in that hallway, so it's not like you got somewhere to be.”
Rick sits back, satisfied with his work, and rolls his eyes. “I'm not the company you want.”
“Oh, yes you are.” Negan laughs and turns onto his back so that he can look up at his visitor. “Who in the fuck makes fun of a guy while he's sick? You are literally the only guy I can picture being in here right now, because you're the only guy stupid enough to follow the dumbass who just lost his lunch right in front of you into his stateroom and not even get his name. It's Negan, by the way.”
“Negan?” Rick raises a single eyebrow. “Are you a greaser?”
Negan sits up, but when his stomach churns, he flops right the fuck down and closes his eyes. “Fuck you for that, Rick Grimes. Fuck you for stereotyping.” It's actually pretty funny, though, and once Negan's sure he's not about to be sick again, he laughs. “No, I'm not a goddamned greaser. I'm just Negan. So, you gonna stay or what?”
He's got his eyes masked behind the forearm of his jacket, so he doesn't see Rick's reaction. Instead, he just hears his voice. “...How long?”
Negan lifts his arm away from his eyes and both his eyebrows raise up. “Excuse the fuck out of me, Rick, but I know I'm not boring you.” He sees Rick shrug. “Just figured you'd hang around long enough for me to feel like standing upright again and then I'll make it up to you with some primo alcohol. Like, not the cheap shit, and it'll all be on me.” Or, well, on Simon. All of this is coming out of his bank account, after all.
“You just threw up and you want to go drinking?” Rick looks utterly confused, but he's laughing again, and Negan's rapidly becoming aware of the fact that he likes that laugh. “You've gotta work on your priorities, Negan.”
But Negan gets his way. Rick rolls his eyes and then settles himself better onto the bed, finding a spot lying down next to Negan on his back.
Negan hopes Rick knows he's got himself a buddy for the duration of the cruise, now.