24 Hours with Negan (A Negan/Reader fanfic)

Where the Track Splits

You take a deep breath and shake away whatever strange thoughts are going through your mind. You just met this man, you don't know him, he could be a cold-blooded killer for all you know. Instead you curl yourself up against the arm of the sofa and try to catch some sleep.

A soft sob drifts from the upstairs, a quiet sniffling punctuated by an occasional hiccup. "Negan?" you whisper. The light from outside casts everything in an orange glow and you rub your palms against your eyes as you struggle to adjust them to the darkness.

"Negan!" You call out again. When there's no reply you grab your axe handle firmly, following the sounds coming from above you. A wailing sob echoes through the house, but you realise with dread it's not the sounds of a man crying. The sound of it twists something in your stomach and you feel a familiar knot well up as you recognize the crying for what it is- one from a child. You slowly climb the stairs, holding the handle out in front of you as the light of the moon fades away.

At the end of the hall, is the child's room. And the sound suddenly grows steadily louder as you approach. Soon your grimacing against the wailing, bringing one hand up to clamp around your ear. Your heart is pounding wildly, but almost as though you can't control yourself your body moves through the hall. You open the door and all sound ceases. All that remains is a low ringing in it's absence.

Your step mother is sitting on the edge of the bed. Her long red hair falling like a curtain around a child cradled in her arms. You recognize the child as the walker from the attic, only this time it's face isn't sunken with decay. She's cooing at the babe, brushing it's tears from it's cheeks before latching the child to her breast.

"I know you've always hated me," she tells you without looking up, "but you didn't have to kill him. He was my only child. He was your brother!" Her long hair is beginning to dull and the child who was once drinking is now gnawing at her flesh, it's tiny mouth red as it pulls the flesh of her nipple away from her body. When she finally looks up at you, her eyes are filled with hatred. "You murdered your brother! You murdered all of us!" She hisses through her teeth, "YOU MURDERED ALL OF US!"

Your eyes flutter open. Unlike in the past, when similar dreams sent you into a full blown panic, you simply lay there waiting for your racing heart to calm itself. For the most part, you've learned to control the guilt. But the sadness ebbs and flows, making your limbs heavy with regret.

"I didn't hate her."

Negan looks over at you from where's he's sitting. You must've not been asleep for long because his hair's still wet, little droplets of water falling from its tips and soaking into his shirt. Unlike you he's opted to wear the same clothes as earlier.

You don't wait for him to reply, you're not even really talking to him if you're honest. You just need to get the words out before they dissolve you from the inside. "I didn't want to kill him. Can you even kill the dead?  I didn't want to kill any of them."

Negan moves to sit by you, gently reaching over to wipe your cheek with the back of his finger. You feel a bit of shame as you realize you're crying, thick hot tears that leave a salty burn.

"You did the right thing. Trust me. There ain't a worse fate than being one of them nasty fuckers." He takes a deep breath, and you can't quite tell if it's from exhaustion or annoyance. "You wanna talk about it? I can't promise I'll sympathize, but I'll listen."

You look up at him. The only other person who knew about their deaths was Matt, and you're not sure if that's a good thing or not. Without putting anymore thought into it, you let the words spill.

"It wasn't that he was a walker that really gets me, it's that I knew he was gonna turn and I didn't say anything. I saw a scratch or a bite or something on his leg. But my step mom begged me not say anything! She promised me it was nothing! That he just had a cold!" You realize suddenly that your tears are coming faster, your breath catching in your chest as you struggle to tell your story. "She told me I shouldn't make my father worry about any more than he had to. That he had too much to worry about already. And she was right, he really did have too much..."