The world spins like a carnival ride you never asked to be on, but now you can't get off. The pain is sharp at first, a searing, hot thing, but it settles into a deep ache, something constant, something that knows you. It's in your leg, right where the walker's teeth found their mark. At first, you'd thought it was just a scrape. But when you saw the blood, thick and red, it settled in—this was no accident. This was the beginning of the end.
Now, it's only a matter of time.
But it's the fear that fills you, the panic that takes hold in your chest, that makes it unbearable. Not the pain. Not even the bite. No. What grips you now is the knowledge—that sickening, suffocating realization that you won't be there tomorrow. That you won't be there for the people you've fought for, the people you've loved.
And more than anything, you won't be there for him.
Negan.
You've been through hell together. Fought side by side. Laughed at the absurdity of it all, made sense of the nonsense the world threw at you. He's been your anchor, your constant, in a world that's been anything but steady.
But now... now you're slipping away from him. And you can't bear the thought of it. The thought of him being left behind, alone.
You stumble forward, your body shaking, a faint whisper of tears trying to break through, but you won't let them. Not yet. You've survived this long for a reason. You won't break now.
But your strength is fading, and so are your thoughts. You can feel the darkness creeping in—like someone's slowly pulling the rug out from under you, inch by inch. The world feels soft, almost unreal, and you know it's only a matter of time before you won't be able to stand.
And then, there's his voice—loud, familiar, and steady in the chaos.
"Goddamn it, look at you."
You're so disoriented, you don't even realize he's there at first. But then, the sound of his boots crunching against the dirt brings you back. You glance up, your vision blurry, and see him standing there—his posture, his smirk, everything about him... the same, even if you're not the same.
Negan's eyes are on you, studying you carefully, the weight of his gaze softening when he sees the blood staining your leg, the pallor of your face. His usual cocky grin falters for just a second, but he catches himself.
"Shit," he mutters under his breath. "You're really doin' this, huh?"
It's the way he says it—not an accusation, not judgment, but like he's trying to make sense of it. You know that look. The one that means he's trying to hold it together, trying to remain in control.
But his voice cracks, just barely. "Don't make me do this alone."
That's all it takes. The fear that had been gnawing at you like hunger, like a cold grip around your chest, suddenly rips through you, raw and unfiltered. You open your mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a broken, strangled sound. The tears burn in your eyes, your throat thick with the weight of it.
You try to sit, but your body betrays you. You fall forward, your head spinning, and you can feel him catch you—his hands strong, pulling you into him.
"I'm not ready," you whisper, your breath ragged, barely a sound. "I'm not ready to leave. Not yet. I—I can't—"
"I know, kid," he interrupts softly, his voice low, low enough that it feels like a secret just between the two of you. His arms wrap around you, holding you tightly. "I know."
You sink into his chest, unable to fight it anymore. The tears spill over, hot and silent, and you let them, because this is the moment. The last one. You don't want to be afraid anymore. You want him to take the fear away, but you know he can't.
"I don't want to die, Negan," you whisper, the words strangled and painful. "I'm scared. I don't want to disappear."
He doesn't speak right away. His grip on you tightens, but he doesn't say anything, and you're grateful for the silence, because the words would be too much. The words would mean admitting things neither of you wants to admit.
"Listen," he says after a long, drawn-out moment, his voice ragged and thick. It's not the same Negan you've known all these years. This isn't the man who's cracked jokes and made you laugh through the worst of it. This is something different. Something real.
"I ain't gonna lie to you," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath shaky, just like yours. "I can't change this. Hell, I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat if I could. But I won't let you go alone. Not without you knowin' you matter, alright? You mattered to me. Hell, you matter more than anyone else in this whole damn world."
Your body trembles against his chest, the weight of his words sinking in. The panic doesn't stop, but it dulls just enough for you to breathe. Just enough for you to feel... something in this last moment.
"I've been fightin' this shit for a long time, kid," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper now, like he's confessing something to you that's long been buried. "But what we got—what we've had, all these years—that... that was real. And that's what I'm gonna hold on to. That's what I'm gonna remember."
You're not sure if it's the fever, the exhaustion, or the finality of everything that's about to happen, but the words sink deep into you, heavier than anything. They're the kind of words you never thought you'd hear, but here they are. His words. His feelings. Out in the open. For you. Just you.
"I'm scared too," he says finally, the confession slipping out like the last piece of something precious, something hidden. "You think I'm not? But... I don't want you to be afraid anymore. Not now. Not while you're here with me."
The tears come again, more freely now, and the pain in your chest lessens, just for a moment, as you realize he's not leaving you. Not yet. He's here. Right here. And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's all that matters.
You close your eyes, resting against him, and for the first time, it doesn't feel so terrifying. It doesn't feel like the end, even though you know it is. It feels like... peace. Like something you've fought for, together.
"Thank you," you murmur, your voice weak, but steady. "For everything."
Negan doesn't answer right away. He just holds you tighter, his arms like iron around you, like they'll never let go. He presses his lips to your forehead one last time, as if sealing the moment in time.
"I'm not goin' anywhere," he says, his voice thick with emotion, but somehow steady. "I'm right here, with you."
And, somehow, in those final moments, as the world fades and the fear of death lessens, you know it's true. You know that, no matter what happens next, you won't be alone.
When it's over, when the world has shifted and darkness has claimed its due, Negan stays. The bond forged in years of survival is still there, even if you're not. And though the grief is a heavy thing, it is also a testament to the life you both shared, however imperfect it was.
And for him, that will always be enough.
When the infection finally overtakes you, there is no choice left. The woman he fought beside, the one who had become his anchor in this crumbling world, was slipping away. The fever, the bloodshot eyes, the final tremor in her hand—it was happening. And when the bite finally took its toll, and your breath stopped being yours, the world around him stood still for a moment. But in that moment, Negan knew. He knew what he had to do.
The woman he loved, the one he had shared his last scraps of humanity with, was already gone. The creature in front of him—eyes blank, body twitching, a shell of who she once was—wasn't her.
But the sight of it, the look in her vacant eyes as she tried to reach for him, broke something inside him. He had seen it too many times before. The slow death. The final moments. And now, he was the one left to pull the trigger.
With a shaking hand, he raised the bat, the one named after his first love now killing his second. There was no redemption in this world. Not for either of them.
He whispered her name, but the words never reached her. The last piece of her—the last bit of you—was already gone.
