ELEANOR . NEGAN

123.

There's many moments in your life where you rethink every word, every action, every touch you have ever given. A splintering moment that hits you like a tidal wave where you regret or encourage every single thing you do. It comes at the most outrageous times; alone in your bed, eating food at a restaurant, or in this case, getting shot in the stomach.

Except, those daunting thoughts never hit her. She's been shot before — excruciating pain that ripped her skin on her lower leg. She went through physiotherapy and walked with a limp for two years. They even called her Hop-Along. But this was the apocalypse... there was no physiotherapist or trauma surgeon, and God, no one here had the medical knowledge to fix her.

But Eleanor knew she wasn't going to die like this. She physically won't let herself. If this is how she goes, a fucking misfire from a trooper who can't aim, then she'll hate herself forever in whatever place she ends up in. It was embarrassing, this was embarrassing — a let down to herself if this is what takes her out.

God, the embarrassment didn't show on her face however. Her verdant eyes were bloodshot, her breathing laboured — it fucking hurt. Tears she didn't welcome was taunting her like a fucking ghost and all she did was look around. She was in shock, but apparently was so everyone else.

That was, of course, until she dropped to the floor, clutching her stomach with havoc heaves. Maybe that knocked everyone else out of their short circuiting — it did. Negan yelled against the restraints he was still stuck in; so loud and primal that Connie pulled away from her sister just to free him. Negan didn't thank her, or even looked at her, just pushed past everyone in the way to be by her side.

His hands replaced hers, harsh and strong against her wound to stop whatever blood there was.

"Is there an exit wound?" Eleanor hiccuped, her voice sounding so eerie. "Negan, is there an exit—"

Daryl now came over, dropping to his knees with an expression she hadn't seen on him in a long time. Not at least until Rick. He was never for emotions — ask anyone! He was as stoic as they come and people who didn't know Daryl would probably call him a psychopath.

But now she had two men who she cared for the most crying over her body like she was lifeless. "Guys!" It was like she was being ignored, or maybe this was all an astral projection and she is definitely dead, and only living the rest out through her mind. Those seven minutes, or whatever the scientists say.

Negan's hands were shaking and he wanted to be strong for his girl but he simply couldn't. He lost Lucille, he can't lose her too.

Daryl shot into action however, blanking out any wanton gasps as he harshly rolled her over. Her clothes were in tact, he let out a whimper. "Shit." He murmured. "There's nothin' there."

"Hey, hey," She groaned as Daryl rolled her back over. "That's good... I- I think." It wasn't good at all so Eleanor's eyes circled around to take in everyone's expression, but she couldn't. Her vision was blurring... "I'm losing too much blood." She slurred.

Negan only pressed harder against her.

"Am gonna die..." Elle whispered to no one really. Maybe a heartening truth to herself that this was it.

"Fuck!" Negan yelled, ripping over his jacket despite the harsh snowy weather only to use it as some surrogate for bandages. Then he twisted his head and locked his sight onto Frankie. He was crying, Negan wanted to punch him. Maybe not the time. "Get some goddamn bandages!"

Frankie sprinted off towards the houses and Negan looked back at Eleanor. "What- how do you—"

"Feel?" She hiccuped. "Not nauseous," she drawled. "I- not confused. I'm not sweating—"