Author's note: Thank you so much for the incredibly kind reviews y'all have left me on this. I can't begin to describe how wonderful it feels to write these characters again and bring this story to the eventual end it (and you guys) deserve. I really hope you enjoy this slightly longish chapter to kick off your Halloweekend. Thank Noodles the pug for the bones day motivation that helped me crank out the last couple sections of this chapter in honor of it lol. Thank you for still being here. Thank you for reading, reviewing, and most of all enjoying my little slice of this TWD world. The next chapter is well under way and should hopefully be out soonish.
Negan
I splash cold water on my face and stare straight ahead into my fucking dead eyes in the mirror as it drips down off me. Jesus fucking Christ I've become one old motherfucker. My head still throbs slightly from the early morning light coming through the windows of my room, a remnant from the nightmare hangover of days past. I'd rather fuck my own dick hole with a coat hanger than deal with that bullshit again. I've been sober for two days now but still dealing with the aftermath of the near constant bender I'd been on previously.
My hands have finally stopped shaking however. My hands have never been steadier than they've felt today and they damn well better fucking stay that way the whole day through. I can't afford failure. Not with everything I have on the line. I have every-fucking-thing on the line.
I reach for the shaving cream and dispense a dollop of the aeresolized jizz into my palm but pause before I slather it on my face. She looked like I'd cut the hair off her favorite barbie when I came home clean shaven after dropping the psycho cyclops kid back home in Alexandria. It shouldn't matter to me. It doesn't matter to me. But I rinse the shaving cream off my palm and just dry my face and hands anyway. I'm a pussy-whipped little bitch sometimes. Fucking sue me.
In my room I'd already laid out my clean white shirt on the bed like a fucking nerd ironing his pocket protector before the first day of junior year. I slip it on over my head, smoothing that shit down. I may be an old motherfucker but I'm a damn fine motherfucker when I get cleaned up. My jacket and scarf go on next and I look myself over in the mirror. Perfect. Cool as shit. Tough as shit. Despite the fucking clusterfuck I've been in recent days, I am still the baddest, biggest swinging dick those alexandria fucks have ever or will ever see in their pathetic lives and today will make that crystal fucking clear. If everything goes to plan. Everything will fucking go to plan. Lucille glows beautifully in the sunlight, fresh polish making her stunning as ever when I hold her up to look her over.
"You'll get some fucking blood today, my girl," I assure her. I'm gonna make goddamned sure of that.
Rori
The alien features, so clearly depicting a chubby little face with a prominent cupid's bow on perfect little lips and a tiny little nubbin of a perfect little nose, gaze up at me from the ultrasound image in my hands. I feel like I haven't set the photo down since the day it was handed to me.
Even a week after first being brought to Alexandria as a prisoner, I really can't say they have gone back on their word to King Ezekiel that I'd be cared for. My water pitcher has never run dry. I haven't missed a single meal or a morning's prenatal found a real mattress for me and provided me with extra blankets. They even gave up a small bassinet that evidently a child in the community outgrew, to have a place for the baby to sleep when they make their debut. For a prison cell, It's honestly almost cozy.
And despite the fact that I have given the same response to Rick on every occasion he's asked me to betray Negan, in a bout of braxton hicks so severe I'd thought they were the start of labor, I was still brought to Hilltop to be evaluated by Dr. Carson 2.0.
That day had terrified me, but left me with the very photo that feels like the last thread holding me together. The baby is still breech. But perfectly nubbin nosed and healthy.
Despite the shockingly humane treatment from the Alexandrians, I am, however, still a prisoner. And there is not much one can do to keep themselves occupied as a prisoner, so I move from sitting up on my mattress, staring at my perfect alien, to laying down on my side to feel the little thing tapdance against my bladder. It's not going to be long before I have to call out for another bathroom break, but at least the trip out of my cell, blindfolded though it may be, will break up some of the monotony.
I haven't the faintest idea how long I'd been dozing when I sit up so fast I feel a jolt of pain in my pelvis. "Who the fuck are you?" I spit out, locking eyes on the strange woman in all black on the other side of my cell. Besides the woman with dreadlocks and Rick, no one has come down the stairs to my prison since the day I was locked up here and every instinct in my gut says this is not good.
She holds up keys and the fear of having the inherent iron barrier between me and anyone who might mean me harm removed becomes more acute than I would've imagined it to be. I scoot back on my bed, trying to create some distance.
Silently the woman unlocks my cell and the hinges squeal in protest as the door swings open. "Up," she tells me, monotone. "Come. Walk." She repeats when I don't listen. "Now."
I tuck away the ultrasound printout into my pocket and scramble up from the bed, backing up against the wall. I am quite literally cornered and my heart squeezes as split seconds let me consider my options. I can't run obviously, not with her blocking the cell door. Fighting, while once a choice I would've made in an instant seems equally impossible. Those fucking liars. Is this the end game for the Alexandrians? I wouldn't give up Negan and now I'm going to be disposed of?
That is not going to happen. Fighting is the only option. I start towards the cell door slowly, pretending to capitulate till I am within reach of the iron bars. I grab the door and pull it towards me, closing it as much as I can until the woman grabs it back, trying to get it open again. I take my chance and move swiftly, forcing the door back towards her. The woman cries out in pain and the sickening vibration of metal meeting bone makes me let go of the bars as it slams into her face. I don't waste a moment and run for the stairs. I barely make it to the steps when I run into a second woman who shoves me back so hard I nearly fall.
The first woman, reeling and bloody faced, is there behind me in an instant and we both almost topple from the impact. But she doesn't have a completely fucked center of gravity and she grabs my arms as the second woman closes the distance, holding me still as well. I writhe in her grasp as my wrists are pinned behind me. Cold metal bites into my skin as cuffs are secured in place. "Fight is no use," the second woman jeers. "Come now. You walk."
I'll be damned if fighting is no fucking use. I jerk and twist violently to try and free myself from the women's grasp as they drag me up the stairs. The unfiltered sunlight burns my eyes as they force me forward step by step, holding me up, staving off my attempts to kick their feet out. I have never seen Alexandria in full before, but everything about the scene before me tells me that something horrifying has gone wrong. Guns are drawn on citizens kneeling before their captors with weapons of their own laid down at their feet.
We stagger through the display of frozen violence coloring what would've once been a normal, affluent suburban neighborhood. As we near the massive iron gates at the front of the community, all the fight within me is stifled.
"Now, I brought her so I wouldn't have to kill all of you. And not killing all of you, could get fucking complicated!"
If it weren't for the women on either side of me, holding me up and dragging me forward, I would've hit the ground hard from the way my knees give out. That voice is the only one that has ever gone through me like that, pierced through my ears and deep into my soul, filling me with emotions that well up, stinging behind my eyes.
My chest tightens. His voice is full of all the charisma and passion of an oscar winning actor delivering the penultimate monologue. "See, I know there's a lot of firepower left in there, Rick. So I'm gonna make this simple. I want all the guns you've managed to scrape up. I want my fucking wife back. And if there's a single curly cue, or hell, a fucking freckle out of place on her body, I'll burn this shitstain palace to the ground."
When Negan comes into view through the bars of the front gate, sauntering in front of a coffin situated on the flatbed of one Sanctuary's supply trucks, he even looks the part. He is exactly the showman he's ever been, with the same gleeful look in his eyes he always had when acting the role of the unwavering leader. Until he waivers. It's only for a moment. He locks eyes on me and I swear I can see the breath hitch in his chest. "Dwight," he says. Negan's gaze moves away from me and instantly the facade is locked in place once more.
I, however, can't stop watching, even as Dwight approaches the gate and two of the strange people dressed in black open it wide enough for me to be escorted through. He waives off the women who'd taken me from the cell and assumes one of their places, leading me by the bicep, past the arrangement of trucks and Saviors stationed outside the gates. He leads me until I'd have to twist my neck around exorcist style to continue watching the spectacle.
"I want a person of your own choosing, for Lucille," Negan carries on. "Daryl. Ooh I gotta get me my Daryl back. I see you. And... a pool table and all the pool cues and chalk, and I want it now. Or Sasha dies. And then all of you. Probably."
"Just get in the truck," Dwight tells me in an exhausted voice, clearly not in the mood to deal with the struggle I'd given the women who brought me forth. At least I know him. At least I more than likely am not being led to my death if I get in the cab with him. Not if Negan was worried there was a chance I could've been harmed while I was held captive here. Why would he go through the trouble of getting me back if it was just to kill me himself? I allow Dwight to help me into the truck without fighting him. He climbs in the driver's seat and we start to drive.
I look back over my shoulder at the cold war behind me, and we are barely around the turn that takes it out of view when evidently the war turns hot. Gunfire breaks out and screams fill the air. Dwight presses his foot down harder on the gas pedal. "Wait!" I grab his wrist and he shakes me off.
"It's nothing you want to see, Rori."
I want to argue the point, but as much as I have seen the absolute worst of humanity in my life, I have never seen first hand the true horror of war. My hands knot together behind my back as my head bows forward and nausea roils my stomach. There is no winning a war like this. The hatred on both sides runs too deep. "He's never going to stop, is he? If he makes it through today, it won't be the end of it."
"Nope." Dwight's knuckles are white around the steering wheel. "And he'll make it through today. He'll make sure of that." His words are bitter, but there is reassurance in them.
It's reassurance I would've never asked for, but the very most pathetic parts of me are grateful for it. But even if Dwight is right, I still can't just go back. I don't know what awaits me at Sanctuary. I've broken so many rules at this point I've lost count, yet still I don't think Negan will kill me for my crimes. Maybe exile after I give birth? Maybe the iron and then life as a point's worker thereafter? I'm sick to my stomach just thinking about it. Just because I don't want Negan dead, doesn't mean I'm not petrified of what being returned to him will mean for me. When we slow to swerve around a fallen tree in the road, I twist around and manage to test the door of the truck by stretching my hands as far back and to my side as I'm capable. The handle moves without even the slightest sensation of back pressure from the locking mechanism. Jiggling it several times more amounts to the same result. "You child locked it." I glare up at the man who pays me little attention.
"There's no outs this time, Rori," Dwight says, emotionless.
"You promised me," I snap. "Anything I asked. Anytime. We had a deal."
"And I risked my ass to get you to the Kingdom. Our deal is done."
Fuck him. There was no one time limit to that fucking promise. But really, at this point what leverage do I even have over him? What weight would my word carry with Negan even if I tried to rat Dwight out? I had my chance at freedom and I fucked it up. Ezekiel fucked it up. Daryl fucked it up. I should've known better that there would never be an escape. Negan is everywhere. "It's not fucking fair," I choke like a whiny little brat. Life isn't fucking fair. You'd have thought I'd learn that by now.
The gates of Sanctuary open up for us straight away after the rest of the long, silent drive. They must've been expecting us. Of course they were. I'm only surprised when instead of taking the left turn towards the main structure, towards the Hold, we take a right turn. Instead of being led to a prison cell. I'm led to my old home, the only true home I've known in this place. Up the stairs and down the hall to the right we go.
Dwight pushes open the door to my old bedroom. The double bed with the cute quilt and bed frame I'd first slept on before moving into the master bedroom with Negan are now accompanied by a beautiful crib and all the baby supplies I'd picked out long ago from the commissary. Even the ratty old gremblygunk I'd had to leave behind rests atop a stack of baby blankets inside the crib. This… was not what I was expecting.
Dwight undoes my handcuffs and lets himself out without any additional fanfare. The lock turns as soon as the door shuts. That is a little more like what I was expecting. The cell is an upgrade, a very fancy one at that, but I'm still a prisoner even in my home.
With one hand resting on my belly, and one hand placed on the bed to support me on the way down, I lower myself to the bed. My little alien's feet bounce against my palm, blissfully unaware of the ordeal we've gone through today. "I'm sorry," I whisper aloud. "I'm so sorry. I tried." I really fucking tried. Every risk I took to get us out of here flew back in my face and somehow landed us right back where we started.
Hours pass before the door opens and my stomach leaps into my throat. I sit up, anticipation racing through my veins at the expectation of seeing Negan fill my door frame, only... "Simon?" I don't know why I ask the question. I know this man well. But if Simon is here, where is Negan? "He isn't…" My voice trails off. I can't even bring myself to say that thought aloud.
Simon shakes his head. "He's alive." From the looks of the blood spattering Simon's clothes and the fresh shiner on his cheek, it isn't for the lack of fight on the Alexandrians part.
The relief is overwhelming, like someone released a stranglehold on my heart. I let out a breath that had frozen in my chest as Simon steps into the room and sets down a tray of food on my bed. I don't even have to lift the metal cover to know what it is. I could recognize it from the smell alone. Orange chicken. Once again, the Savior leader has wasted a shit ton of resources for the sole purpose of providing me with my favorite meal along with a large glass of apple juice, a large glass of water, and a small plate of cookies that didn't fit under the cover.
"If there is anything you need, anything you want, I'm to get it for you," Simon informs me as he starts towards my door.
"Can I get out of my room anytime soon?"
"Anything but that," he replies. Unsurprising. What is surprising is the very genuine look that comes across his face. "It's better this way. It's good to have you back. Good for all of us."
I nod as he closes and locks my door behind him, but I haven't the faintest idea what he actually means by that. I was never very close with Simon. I always felt like he looked down on me to forego the opportunity I had to serve as a medic with the Saviors when I became Negan's wife. After everything with Bailey, everything that happened in the furnace room after Daryl's escape, I am surprised there's anything but disdain and mockery for me from anyone in this place.
Despite the food being delicious and warm as it fills my belly, I have to force myself to choke down the majority of it. I don't have much of an appetite after all that has happened today and the uncertainties of what lay ahead. If Negan is alive, does that mean the Alexandrians are dead? Did we win the war? When did there start being a "we" again in my head?
The comparison between the passage of my hours each day here in my Sanctuary prison and my cell in Alexandria are laughably similar, despite the significantly more lavish accommodations. Though instead of Rick or his wife bringing me meals or escorting me to the restroom, it's Simon, who I will say is at least more pleasant to be around. Instead of only staring at my ultrasound printout for entertainment, I do have a collection of books, both medical and fiction to keep my mind occupied. Throughout it all however, Negan never comes, not even once. On several occasions, I hear his voice, muffled through the walls down the hallway. I hear the sound of his heavy boots coming up the stairs, but they never turn down the corridor to my room.
It only takes a day or two before I settle into the monotony of this new routine about as well as I had to the one in Alexandria. At least I'm no longer being pestered to give up information several times a day anymore as well.
The monotony finds a change when instead of Simon alone, on this particular afternoon, a familiar face stands beside him. Dr. Carson. Significant layers of concern wane slightly for me at the sight of the man. I haven't had any more serious braxton hicks contractions since the last incident, but it still has been a constant worry in my mind that I myself was somehow the only qualified medical staff who might help me deliver this baby here.
"I'll let you two have your privacy," Simon nods, allowing the doctor inside.
"Rori," Carson greets me awkwardly, far more stilted and off kilter than I'd ever seen him at Hilltop. It only makes sense though. I would be shocked if he found himself in the service of the Saviors willingly. He is likely just as much a prisoner here as I am. Thankfully for the sake of the alignment of his nose and the integrity of his ribs, he must be a more cooperative prisoner than Daryl had been. "How have you been feeling?"
"I'm alright. Just. Well… You know." Stuck in a room. Exhausted and sore, worsening each day. Completely out of touch with anything that isn't these four fucking walls, or Simon's goddamn mustache.
The man nods. "Let's see how the baby is doing, alright?"
The exam is much more hands-on without the convenience of the ultrasound machine. Leopold's maneuvers determine that the baby is still breech, but thankfully through the vaginal exam, the doctor is able to determine that I am not dilating yet at all.
"The baby is still high, the feet are at -4 station so they're still floating in there, but starting to descend." He has a seat on the rocking chair beside my bed and I feel like the conversation isn't truly over yet. "I am concerned however that at this point, you are full term and the baby does not show any signs of rotating into an adequate position."
I nod, staring blankly at him and his words feel distant. "Babies can be delivered breech though, right? I didn't read up a ton on OB, but I remember that much."
"They can," he frowns and his words give me little reassurance. "But every baby I delivered breech in the old world was delivered in a hospital, where an emergency cesarean could be initiated immediately if necessary, and often it was."
A fucking C-section in this world is a death sentence. You don't have to have gone to a real medical school to know that much. I refuse to acknowledge that is even a possibility and not even for my sake. What odds would this child have of making it through a crude surgical birth in non-sterile conditions, without a mother to nurse them. Is Negan going to step up and warm formula in the dead of night, or would he just pass my child off to one of the other wives to raise? That will not fucking happen. "That isn't an option."
Dr. Carson frowns. "I know. Do you remember me speaking to you about the last option we might have to help the baby rotate into position?"
"From the outside, right? Kind of helping rearrange them manually?"
"Exactly," he nods. "It's a procedure called an external cephalic version. It's not the most common, but it can be highly effective at encouraging the baby to assume a more favorable position for delivery. I would administer a medication to relax your uterus and then use my hands to," he motions pushing in alternate directions and rolling his hands slightly, "adjust the baby into place."
"Do it," I tell him without hesitation. I appreciate the informed consent style spiel, but I am on board already. This baby is the only thing I have to live for at this point, and it deserves every chance I can offer them in return.
"It will cause you some significant discomfort, Rori."
I hold up my hand to waive off his concern. "So will a fucking c-section. I don't care if it hurts. Do it. Let's do it today."
I am nervous as I watch Dr. Carson set up for the procedure, laying out the medication, the doppler, his blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. I'm scared doing this in my bedroom instead of at least in the infirmary where there are more supplies readily available. Though for this particular procedure, I don't know how much more helpful they would be.
I look away as Dr. Carson injects the medication, terbutaline, into my deltoid muscle, and disposes of the needle in a sharps container. My brows pinch tightly and my lips press together to keep the quivering from being too obvious as I lay back on the bed. My hand rests on my belly as I wait for the medication to kick in. The doctor takes my blood pressure and listens to the baby's heart rate with the doppler and that steady lubdub that once so unnerved me is my life line.
It's pitiful how scared I am, and how much I wish I didn't have to go through this alone. Though Molly held my hand and supported me through the very first ultrasound I'd had at Hilltop, there is only one hand I wish I could squeeze through this right now. In the fear of how painful this might be, of how horribly everything might go wrong, my anger I've held as a barrier between my feelings and the world is almost a non-entity.
I close my eyes when I feel the doctor's gloved hands on the top and bottom of my abdomen. Succumbing to pure weakness, I allow my imagination to betray me. images as if things had never gone wrong, as if Negan were here right now, fill my mind. His hand would be so warm, enveloping mine completely as I held on for dear life. He would brush my hair away from my face,look me in the eyes with his deep chocolate gaze and stroke his thumb across my cheek. He'd sweep freely fallen tears away and tell me that everything would be okay, that he'd make fucking sure of it.
The beautiful falsehoods are shattered in a moment of pure agony. I scream out in excruciating pain and writhe beneath the hands of the doctor while his efforts do not cease. Gritting my teeth and clenching my nails into my palm does nothing to ease the sharp cramping and stabbing in my abdomen even when Dr. Carson steps back, out of breath, removing his hands from me. Tears I'd been fighting back slip free as he pulls out the doppler and searches intently for the fetal heart rate. The only mitigation for the pain is the strength of that heart beat when he finds it.
"Did it work?" I manage to ask him when the cramping slowly starts to ease.
He shakes his head with disappointment. "I'm sorry but the baby would not move," he frowns. "They tolerated it well, there's been no decelerations in the fetal heart rate. They just didn't want to move."
Is it even the least bit surprising that Negan's kid is stubborn to the absolute most extreme extent, even still in the womb? Christ fucking help me if I survive long enough to raise this child.
"We can give it a few moments and allow some of the discomfort to subside before we make another attempt."
I nod, covering my face with my hands as I try to both stop crying like a fucking baby myself and calm my breathing enough to allow the cramps in my abdomen to relax. We can try it again. The second time will work. Painful as it may be, it will work. It has to.
POP. POP. POP. POP. The cracking sound that pierces the air is unmistakable. Gunfire, not from a single gun but from a chorus of them. Four methodical shots all timed at once. "What is that?" I ask the doctor as if he isn't probably just as fucking clueless as I am.
Simon opens the door without knocking. "Doc. You're coming now."
"We're not done," Carson tries to explain as I yank down my sweater to cover my exposed abdomen.
"Yes you are." The look on Simon's face tells me he has no clue what the shots were about either and that is a big cause for concern.
"Go," I tell the doctor. "We can try again when things calm down."
Yet, when I am locked away in my room by myself once more, things do anything but calm down. It is only minutes later after the first shots that tons more ring out, even bouncing off the brick of the home I'm kept in. The wives scream as I can hear them thunder down the stairs, running for their lives as the gunfire continues, this time without ceasing. I run to the door, slamming my palms against the wood and yanking as hard as I can on the locked doorknob. "COME BACK!" I scream, praying that any of the women might hear me, that anyone might hear me. There are no windows in my bedroom, but that offers me little security when I don't know if we're being invaded, and from the sound of the explosions, that's exactly what's happening. I'm a sitting duck in here, trapped. "PLEASE COME BACK! GET ME OUT!"
I pound harder and harder, throwing my shoulder into the door, trying to get it to open, but nothing will make it budge and if a single soul hears my pleas, they go unanswered nonetheless. My nails bleed from scratching at the wood in futile attempts. My palms are bruised and my voice hoarse by the time I sink down, with my back against the door in exhaustion. Even long after the gunshots stop firing, no one comes. By the time the light of day beneath the threshold of my door fades into darkness, Still no one has come. By midday the next day, reality sinks in with despair. No one is coming.
My head throbs like it's being squeezed from the inside out. I stair at the textured patterns in the drywall of the bedroom. There's one that looks like a tiger on a ladder, holding a paint bucket, but I lost sight of him a few minutes ago. It may have been hours. I have no concept of time except for the change in light beneath my door. I want to find my tiger.
Searching for patterns keeps my mind off the pain in my skull and the nausea that had me retching up bile from my empty stomach earlier. The acid from my vomit still stinks from where it sank into the bedding beside me. I was much too weak to get up and try to keep it contained to the corner I'd had to use as a bathroom the first couple days. I haven't had to use the bathroom in at least one. Without water or food, or even so much as a leftover glass to collect and drink my own urine from, I am running on fumes and running out of time.
The baby still kicks quite regularly. My body is stealing from my own self to keep their little life going. I've accepted at this point, the odds it'll amount to making any difference is nominal at best. The most I can hope for is that by sucking the life from me in these final days, maybe they won't suffer as much in the end. Maybe their death inside me will be more peaceful than the slow torturous one I'm facing out here.
No one has come. And no one is coming.
I have so many regrets and they torment me. Looking for patterns in the walls is not enough of a distraction to keep my mind from wandering there. I regret killing my brother. Funny, how in the end my death will be so much slower than the bullet I gave him. It's beautiful karma in a way. It's exactly what I deserve. I regret killing the Claimer out in the forest with Negan. If I'd have just screamed when his knife was held to my throat, he would've slit my neck in two and I would've died fast, bleeding out in seconds maybe. It would've saved me so much pain. It would've saved my poor child the agony of growing beyond only a few weeks gestation. I regret not allowing Dr. Carson to tell me the baby's gender. Looking forward to the surprise seems so pointless now. I'm going to die without ever knowing if my little nubbin nose was a perfect baby boy or a perfect baby girl. They are mine and Negan's baby, though so how truly perfect could they be?
Regret, pain, weakness, and the acid stench of vomit. These will be the four horsemen who guide me to my death. And all alone here, I will eventually become one of the undead. It seems fitting, I suppose. This life turned me into a monster. And in death I'll become one as well.
My eyes drift closed and blur when I open them. It'll be impossible now to find my tiger in the wall. Shiva would've looked hilarious holding a paint bucket. The hallucinations must grow more realistic as my dehydration worsens, I must be nearing the end now. Much in the same way I'd imagined Negan's face when Carson was trying to shift the baby, he comes to me now. It makes sense. He was always the very best to me when I was in my weakest moments. His face warps with concern as he crouches down beside me. Two fingers press uncomfortably into my neck.
I muster the tiniest bit of strength and weave my feeble hand around his. My hallucination is just as nice as my imagination. His hand is so warm, so gentle, as he brings my fingers to his lips and they press softly against my skin.
"I'm so sorry," Negan chokes, with ragged emotion, thick in his voice. "I came as soon as I could. I'm so fucking sorry, Rori."
My mind must be slipping more than I'd thought because even my hallucination is making little sense. He isn't here. Not in reality. Even I know that. Maybe he means my death, he's sorry my death couldn't have come sooner, sorry I had to suffer so long before death came for me. It's okay. He's here now, finally. I'm ready to go.
Every inch of my aching body protests when Negan allows my hand to fall away from his and strong arms hook themselves beneath me, scooping my body up against his chest. Each step causes fresh discomfort to rise in waves from the jostling gait he walks is nothing like I ever imagined death would feel like. "You smell so bad," I manage to complain when the stench clinging to him stings my nose, held this close to him. I feel his chuckle through his ribs and the sound of it brings a soft smile to my face despite the odors. His laugh. His smile. They were some of my favorite things during the good days.
This is a good way to go. At least my mind allows me the peace of not feeling alone in these final moments. The good times are what will carry me out. The peaceful times with laughter and tickles fights, passionate sex and lightning speed banter, adventure, gentleness, kindness, love. Maybe he never called it love, but it's the closest thing to a man's love that I'll ever get to know. I close my eyes and let my head loll against Negan's chest. The steady beat of his heart will be the lullaby that eases me into the unknown that is to come.