Our walk back to Negan's apartments went unnoticed by me. I was still gripped by memories of my little brother.

Walking with my dad and him, when Carl was a precocious three year old Dad holding one of his pudgy little hands, me holding the other. The birthday parties, the cake and presents, but most of all Carl's wonder each and every year that it was ALL for him. Going to church on Sunday and ending up at our grandparents' house for dinner. Going to the movies, fighting over which cartoons to watch on Saturday mornings. Him splashing in the kiddie pool Dad put up, and seeing the absolute glee on his face when he splashed me. Barbecues in the summer. And Christmas parties in the winter. Halloween costumes. Thanksgiving at the kids' table. And now, he'd NEVER get to experience any of it, not even in the harsh reality that was our reality, with his own family.

Negan, without me even noticing, had put me to bed. I was curled in on myself. Fetal position and feeling like the earth could stop spinning, time could stop, just so I could breathe and FEEL what I needed to feel at the loss of my baby brother's life. His arms wrapped around me from behind and he molded himself against me. Letting his warmth sink through the cold that enveloped me.

"My wife," he whispered, his chin pressed into the top of my head. "Her name was Lucille." I listened to him as the flashes of Carl's far too short life were still rushing through my mind. "She was my REAL wife. And I didn't deserve her." I felt him shake his head a bit. "She was a lot like you, Jessi. A giver. Someone who would take away the sins of every person she loved, just to save them from the guilt of their own shitty actions. MY shitty actions." I felt his lips brush my head. "When I said you weren't like the others, Jessi, I meant it. You're more like my REAL wife than any of them could hope to be."

The images of Carl were flickering slower, a side effect of not living a long life. Him laying in the big bed at Hershel's farm. His pale skin shining even brighter than the crisp white sheets under him. The bandage over his side, the fear that had crept up my spine at the thought of him not making it. Him in Dad's hat, looking so proud that they both survived being shot, and my heart was breaking. How he hardened. How cynical he'd become. The loss of his eye. The loss of his innocence. And now, he was gone, because he'd tried to regain his compassion.

I was sobbing and didn't know when I'd started. Negan's arm tightened around me, holding me together as I raged and sobbed at the loss of my baby brother. At the knowledge that we would never meet again. That we would never make peace between us. Because the very last image that passed before my eyes was him leaning over Olivia's body, and the glare of blame I saw on his face. At me. At his big sister who was supposed to make everything better.

Negan held me as I cried myself out. As my heart broke and re-broke, over and over. I didn't care that Dad hadn't mentioned me or that he didn't even seem to notice when Negan mentioned me at all. I couldn't muster up the outrage at him for dismissing me. All I could feel was loss and pain and failure. Guilt that I wasn't there. That I hadn't stood next to Carl as he tried to help someone. That I wasn't there with Judith to make sure she was safe. That I failed them so damn much by letting myself get lost in my own mind. And now that I was gaining my freedom from the darkness, that I had to FEEL every single pinch of it. Every punch of fear. Every ounce of danger and anger. Every single drop of grief. And it was threatening to overwhelm me, which made me fear that I'd get lost again. Within myself I couldn't save anyone, and so, I had to fight against the temptation to shut down.

Hours later, Negan was still holding me. Still trying to soothe me as best as he could. Tightening his hold on me if my sobs gained volume, rubbing my arm if I was quiet and lost in my memories, and quietly telling me more of his own past. More about Lucille. More about how he failed her, how he wanted to be sure he didn't repeat those mistakes with me. We didn't leave the bed. We didn't eat. We lay there, him curled around my back as I was curled tight into myself.

Finally cried out, finally exhausted by the grief that wasn't gone, not nearly, but at bay for a moment, I turned to face him. His eyes were as tight with grief as mine and I knew he'd spoken the truth to Dad when he said he felt Carl's loss. That he regretted it. That when he asked if his actions had caused it, he truly worried that he had killed him. That it was his fault and that it wasn't just my pain or anger that he feared, but his own.

Cupping his face with my hands, I leaned forward to kiss him softly. I knew my face was swollen and red. That my nose was no doubt a mess. That I looked like I'd lost my heart, because I had lost a huge piece of it. Pulling back, our eyes searched one another's. Looking for comfort, for peace that wasn't easily attainable with so much pain. He kissed me again, sighing into the feeling of my lips on his, and our foreheads met when he pulled back.

"I'm sorry, Jessi." His voice was rough, as though he'd spent hours screaming instead of hours of whispering all of his own pain and loss. "I'm so fucking sorry that he's gone."

I gave a small nod, not ready to speak just yet. Not sure I could without the sobs building again. I brushed his hair from his forehead, and tried to smile. To reassure him that this wasn't a relapse to the other me. His hand met mine and he linked our fingers.

"I'm not sure you heard me tell you-" He started, and his eyes flashed with more pain. Lucille. He wasn't sure I'd heard him tell me about her.

"I did." I was so quiet that I wasn't sure he heard me.

His lips brushed mine again. "I meant it. Every word." I knew he meant that he meant it when he said I reminded him of her. "She wasn't a saint, Jessi." I guess a flash of worry that he'd put me back on that damn pedestal came back. "She had her faults, everyone does, but she tried her damnedest to see the best in other people. In me." He sighed. "I didn't deserve her, I don't deserve you."

I listened to him and I could hear the pain in his voice. The guilt that still nagged him about his sins against her. "It's because you think that, Negan, that you do." His eyes were locked on mine. "People who think they're entitled to the good things in their lives, the good people in their lives, are usually the ones that least deserve them." I shifted on the pillow looking for a more comfortable position and he helped me by sliding his arm under my neck so I was more elevated. "See. I didn't even have to ask you for that. And there you were fixing it." He started to speak but I stopped him. "You deserved her, and you deserve me because WE decided you do. That's all that matters."

Negan studied me. "How do you do that?" He asked, a sad smile coming over his face. "How do you know just what to say to make everyone feel right about themselves?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think I do it for everyone." I felt a flash of guilt at how I treated Andrea. "Some people, they just need to be reminded of who they are, and why they matter."

His thumbs were tracing under my eyes again. And then lower, over my bottom lip. "I want to give you so much, Jessica Grimes."

"Can I request something?" I asked, staring at him. He nodded. "Make me forget. Just for a little while, Negan, make me forget losing him?"

He leaned in and as his mouth covered mine, I thanked God that he understood. And as our clothes fell away, as our bodies joined, Negan once again gave me what I needed.