CONQUEST • Negan

The Fall of Rome

Waking up after going literally comatose for 2 days was a damn shock. The doctor said it was the concussion paired with exhaustion and trauma, both physical and mental, overloading my brain and forcing me into shutdown mode.

After Carson gave me the all clear, Negan came to find me, not even bothering to knock on my door before pushing it open. I had expected him to come. Carson warned me prior to leaving that Negan had gone a little manic whilst I was knocked out, sitting by my bed when he had free time and demanding full detailed updates and reports on my condition every hour.

The doctor had apologised, leaving me to go find Negan, as he'd been instructed, and tell him I was awake and even five minutes had passed since Carson left, before Negan threw my room door open, abandoning the meeting Carson told me he was in.

The black-out curtains were drawn shut, sheilding me from any light that threatened to pierce into my room, and penetrate my brain, aggravating this searing migraine, courtesy of my exhaustion and concussion.

"Damn, it's depression central up in here." Negan huffed out a nervous chuckle. I could only make out his shadow, standing like a visitor to my nightmares in the doorway.

"Get out."

"I—see—I was gonna—but," He cleared his throat. "You're— fuck, I'm bad at this."

"Get out, Negan."

"Yeah, yeah, I will, I just-" He stepped into the room, gently clicking the door shut begind him. "Where are you, Dice? Can't see shit in here." He mumbled to himself, stumbling forward, hissing out a curse as he thudded into a chair. "Where are ya', Sweetheart?"

I was curled up like a cat on my large bed, head resting in my arms, but I wasn't going to tell him that. I prayed he tripped again and fell through the window this time, doing us both a favour.

His eyes must've began adjusting to the black, like mine already had, because he eventually found me, looking right at me, eyes locking onto mine. A soft smile slipped over his mouth. "There ya' are, I can see you now." He knew better than to move any closer to me, taking station at the foot of the bed. "How ya' feeling, Darlin'? Carson says there isn't any real damage done, thank fuck."

I blinked.

He sighed. "Yeah, I get it. You don't wanna talk to me. I get it." He braced his hands on the footboard and hunched over it, leather jacket creaking. "I won't give ya' another apology, I know you don't wanna hear it, but just— tell me your good, Dice."

"You just want me to tell you what you wanna hear, even if it's not true."

"Yeah. Maybe I do," he chuckled emptily. "I've- I've been tearing myself up over what happened, Dice. You were asleep for almost three days, and I didn't know if— I worried you wouldn't wake up again. It was fuckin' scary."

"Why? Cos' if I die then you lose you're advantage over Rick and Daryl, is that it?"

His eyes flashed, knuckles squeezing the footboard so hard it groaned. "No!"

I flinched from the sudden loud noise, head throbbing.

"Shit. Sorry." He whispered and adjusted his volume to say, "No. No. That isn't why I was scared and you godamn well know it."

I wanted to laugh but it only would've hurt. "Take your feelings, Negan, and ram them up your ass. I don't give a fuck how worried you were. It quite literally means nothing to me."

"I know." He sounded so hollow and hopeless. Good.

What an astonishing actor he was. Really, this guy could've given Daddy Dearest some pointers, and thats saying something, since Carter Marlow was a three-time, oscar-winning actor. Best of the best. Negan could give him a run for his money.