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» THE STORM PT.2 «

Sweater Weather

(3rd POV)

Heather dragged a finger along the frosted window, a small trail left in the steam. She looked through the clear parts to watch the storm outside, the blizzard causing havoc just an inch from her face.

"You might wanna stay away from the windows, kiddo." A low voice suggested, causing the child to turn with a glare. She had never met Negan before coming back to Alexandria, but he didn't appear to live up to stories her parents told her, or the warnings to stay away that they ingrained in her mind when they used to live there. Maybe it was the drawn expression on his face, or the strangely cozy clothes he wore, but nothing about him screamed 'scary' to her.

"My dad said I should stay away from you." She commented, turning back to the window in defiance. She felt a need to disobey anything this man said to her.

"So you make a habit of not listening to people, huh?" He pointed out. He wasn't wrong, she had been peering through the bars of his cell most days as a form of entertainment and rebellion, but that was when no one else could see her. It would only be for an hour or so, making small conversation with him as he bounced a ball on the blocks of his room. But it was enough for them to create their own game- the goal was to stand several metres away and aim the ball through the bars. Ten points if it didn't touch the sides.

"Listen, kid, I'm the one that's gonna take all the heat when your mom comes to get you. I just didn't think you'd want that blood on your hands." Negan joked, his hands held up as high as they could, restricted by the ropes. Just because he was allowed out, doesn't mean he was free.

Alexandria was in a struggle during the hellish storm, causing the residents to flood between the largest houses for warmth and safety. Unfortunately, that included Negan himself.

Heather sighed, slumping down the wall beside the man. "She's probably not even coming." She shrugged dejectedly, her fingers picking at the rubber ball in her hand.

Even Negan, one of the most villainous people alive, felt a certain sympathy for the girl. He frowned at her disappointed words, his eyebrows furrowing genuinely. "Why wouldn't she?"

"I don't know, I don't see her much anymore. She didn't even say goodbye." The child replied quietly. She was worried that if she spoke any louder her voice would break from emotion, and that wasn't something she could stand to do.

Heather loved her mother more than anyone in the world, but the last few months had been hard for them all. "She's got some things to figure out" was all her father said when he dropped her off in Alexandria, a weak smile on his lips as he said goodbye. He promised it wouldn't be long, just until the Hilltop was running smoothly again. That was a two months ago.

Negan shuffled lower, trying to meet her sad eyes. "I respect the shit out of your mom, your dad, too. And if you are anything like them then I know you can handle yourself."

Heather sniffled, her head perking up slightly. "You know my dad?" She asked curiously, her fingers wiping her nose.

Negan nodded certainly. "Hell yeah, I do. He is one scary- I mean, not scary. Uh, badass- son of a bitch. Man, you look just like him, in a kinda creepy way."

Heather ignored the slightly insulting words, choosing to focus on the positives instead. "He said you're an asshole. I think he's right." She shrugged, finally wandering away from the window. "I wanna be just like him when I grow up."

Negan couldn't help but laugh, but not in a mocking way. This little girl was such a strange light, so small and innocent but courageous at the same time. He wasn't lying when he said he respected Belle and Carl, something that surprised even himself. When he first got the news from Rick that the kids were the current leaders of the Sanctuary, several thoughts went through his head. One of the most prominent ones was something similar to pride- there was no surprise inside him at all, already knowing they were a perfect fit even when he found out they had a kid of their own. It had been years since he spoke to the girl himself, only catching brief glimpses of her through the bars of his cell. How long had it been- five years, six? But if her daughter was a reflection of herself, then he knew she wouldn't have changed a bit. The woman she was describing now sounded nothing like that, but her father was something else.