Chapter 6
Series: The Cockroach
Pairings: Negan Smith x Female! Reader; Lucille Smith x Female! Reader; Negan Smith x Lucille Smith
Word count: 2,5k+
Warnings: usual twd themes, cancer mentions and treatment, nightmares, panic attack
If you're not on the taglist but would like to be tagged, let me know!
Main Masterlist || "The Cockroach" Masterlist
PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER
It had been days. Maybe longer. Time didn’t feel real anymore.
Your bruises were still ugly, your ribs still sore, but at least you could move without wanting to vomit. Progress. Physically, at least. Mentally? Different story. Sleep was a joke, and when it did come, it wasn’t relief—it was Murphy. His voice, his face, his name sitting heavy in your throat like a swallowed scream.
You shouldn’t have left him. You needed him. Murphy was your anchor, your world, and no matter what you felt for Lucille, no matter what this place meant for you now—you would not leave him behind.
The dim glow of the basement faded, replaced by warm sunlight pooling through white sheets.
Murphy’s smile. Bright, boyish, untouched by the weight of the world. He lay beside you, half-hidden beneath the covers, his messy hair a dark halo against the pillow. His blue eyes sparkled as he nudged your side, his body warm and solid against yours.
“You ever think about just staying like this forever?” His voice was hushed, like speaking too loud would shatter the moment.
You smirked, rolling onto your side to face him. “You’d get bored.”
“Nah,” he grinned wider, reaching out to push a strand of hair from your face. “Not with you.”
The sheets filtered the morning light, turning everything soft and hazy. It felt safe here, hidden away from all the bullshit. Just you and him.
You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re such an idiot.”
Murphy leaned in closer, nose brushing against yours. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”
You wanted to freeze time. Keep him here. Keep him safe. Keep him yours.
But the memory fractured—ripped away like torn fabric.
The dim basement light returned, washing the world in cold, sickly yellow.
The silence was unbearable tonight.
You sat at the kitchen table, thumb picking at a loose thread on your sleeve, knee bouncing. Across from you, Lucille sipped weak tea, her expression unreadable. The sound of the chemotherapy bag dripping into her IV filled the space between you. Or maybe that sound was just in your head.
Her gaze flicked toward you. She noticed. The restless energy, the way your fingers twitched like they wanted to wrap around something solid—like they needed something to fight.
“You should get some sleep,” she said gently.
You let out a sharp exhale, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’ll pencil that in right after my mental breakdown.” It came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t bother softening it.
Lucille exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. Her lips twitched, like she wanted to smile but wouldn’t.
“You’re restless.”
“Gee, what gave it away? You should be a detective,” you deadpanned.
She didn’t react to the sarcasm. Just waited. That was the worst part. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just giving you space to step forward or step back.
You rubbed a hand over your face, fingers pressing into your temples as you let out a slow breath. The words weren’t ready to leave you yet. But Lucille was patient. And patience was the one thing that always broke you.
“I left him.” The confession was barely above a whisper, pried from between clenched teeth.
Lucille didn’t ask who. Maybe she already knew. Maybe she just knew you.
Who else could it be? You had no boyfriend. No casual flings. Just you and Murphy. A relationship so tangled, so blurred at the edges that defining it was impossible. It was a whole thing.
A hollow laugh slipped from your throat. Sharp. Bitter. Fractured.
“Very dramatic. Blood, yelling—a real ‘go, save yourself’ moment. Would’ve been a hit in theaters.” You tried to make it sound like a joke, but your voice shook at the edges.
Lucille’s expression softened. “And now you can’t stop thinking about him.”
“Huh. You are perceptive,” you mocked, but it lacked any real heat.
She gave you a look. The kind that made you feel like a petulant child. The kind that Murphy used to give you when you got too stubborn for your own good.
You scoffed, crossing your arms.
“I should’ve fought harder.” The words fell out, raw and jagged. “I should’ve—I don’t know. I should’ve done something.”
You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat didn’t budge.
“And now he’s out there, and I’m here. Sitting on my ass like some goddamn—”
You cut yourself off, but the damage was done. The tears gathered, hot and stinging, burning at the corners of your eyes. You blinked rapidly, looking away, pretending they weren’t there.
Lucille leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. Drip. Drip.
“You don’t have to hold it in.” Her voice was soft, but firm.
You let out a tight, bitter laugh. Shook your head.
“No, I can’t.”
She frowned, but before she could argue, you pushed forward, voice quieter now. Raw.
“Because if I start, I won’t be able to stop. And if I can’t stop… then I can’t save him.”
Silence.
Lucille didn’t tell you it was okay. She didn’t feed you empty reassurances. She just let you sit in it. Let you breathe through it.
The clock ticked. Your pulse slowed. The tears didn’t fall, but they were there—a storm behind your ribs, waiting for permission to break.
Lucille nodded once. Decisive. Certain.
“Then we’ll figure it out.”
And just like that, the conversation was over. No pity. No sugarcoated comfort. Just a plan.
You nodded back, exhaling.
The storm didn’t break tonight.
You headed upstairs, looking for something to do—anything to make the weight in your chest disappear. Anything that would silence Murphy’s voice, the echo of his last words still gnawing at the edges of your mind.
You didn’t have anything against his voice, but you sure as hell didn’t want to hear that moment replaying over and over again.
“Go.” The unsaid ‘save yourself’.
Like hell you could.
You pushed the thought down and stepped onto the porch, where you found Negan, slouched in a chair, smoking. He was back from wherever the hell he disappeared to, looking like he was trying way too hard to be unbothered.
You weren’t stupid.
He was doing it again—pretending. Acting like Lucille’s condition wasn’t sitting on his chest like a goddamn anvil. Acting like the slow creep of death in the next room wasn’t tearing him apart the same way it was tearing you apart.
But it was always there.
The sickly pale color of her skin. The wigs she insisted on wearing every day. The dark circles under her eyes, beautiful even as they dimmed.
Negan could pretend all he wanted—but you saw it. And he saw that you saw it.
Without a word, you sat down next to him, carefully keeping some distance between you. Close enough to share the moment, far enough that you wouldn’t have to acknowledge it.
“Share?” you asked, holding out your hand for the cigarette before he could even think about telling you no.
Negan sighed, side-eyeing you before handing it over. He didn’t protest, but you could tell by the way he rubbed a hand over his face that he wanted to.
And in true Negan fashion, he didn’t offer comfort—just commentary.
“You look like a kicked puppy. That a new aesthetic choice, or are we just leanin’ into the whole ‘existential crisis’ thing?”
You took a drag from the cigarette, exhaled slow, hoping it would settle you. It didn’t.
“Can you just shut up for once? Or is that too hard of a job for you?”
Negan let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.
“You’re the one who chose to come out here, sit next to me, take my damn cigarette—and now I need to shut up?” His voice curled with annoyance, every word growing sharper. “I think the fuck not.”
Your grip tightened around the cigarette, the burn of it grounding you.
“Jesus Christ, Negan.” You turned toward him, eyes narrowed. “I don't know how Lucille puts up with you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—am I not grieving properly for you?” His smirk was mocking, but his voice was cutting. “You wanna teach me how it’s done? Maybe I should sit in a dark corner and mope until I implode—that more your speed?”
Your jaw clenched.
“You are so goddamn exhausting.”
“And you are so goddamn predictable.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You think I don’t see what you’re doin’? The whole tortured, guilt-ridden, it-shoulda-been-me act?”
Your breath hitched, but you refused to react.
“News flash—you can sit here and hate yourself all you want, but it ain’t gonna bring your boy back.”
The world stopped.
You went still.
The cigarette slipped between your fingers, hitting the porch floor with a faint sizzle.
Negan’s eyes flashed when he realized he hit something real.
“Ah. There it is.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “That’s what this is about, huh? Poor little girl lost her best buddy, and now she don’t know what the fuck to do with herself.”
That was it.
Before you could think—before you could stop yourself—your hand lashed out.
Crack.
The sound of skin meeting skin cut through the night.
Negan’s head snapped to the side, jaw tight, the ghost of your slap burning red against his cheek.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Your hand trembled, but your face remained stone cold.
Negan slowly turned back to you, jaw flexing. His tongue ran over his teeth, and for the first time, he didn’t have a smartass response.
You saw the moment he decided not to react. The way he swallowed down the anger, the fight, the instinct to throw another verbal punch.
Instead, he let out a slow, low chuckle.
“That all you got?” His voice was hoarse, full of something you couldn’t place.
You ground your teeth together so hard it hurt.
Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms, the weight of his words pressing against your ribs like a vice.
You turned and walked away.
Your boots thudded against the wooden floorboards, each step carrying the raw, burning rage he’d just set loose.
Negan stayed where he was, watching you disappear into the house.
Neither of you said another word.
But the fight?
It wasn’t over.
The night crept in, slow and heavy, wrapping itself around you like a too-tight rope.
You tossed and turned on your makeshift bed, your body restless, your mind refusing to shut the hell up. It wasn’t about the discomfort—Lucille had done her best, piling blankets and pillows together until it almost felt like a real bed. Almost.
Hell, it was probably better than that shitty excuse for a mattress you had in your apartment.
But comfort had nothing to do with it.
It was the rage—boiling under your skin like molten iron, filling your chest, coiling tight around your ribs. It was the fear, cold and sharp, creeping up your spine, raising goosebumps along your arms. It was the guilt, thick and suffocating, curling around your throat like a noose.
And it was all so insufferable.
A well-deserved torture for leaving Murphy behind.
But eventually, your body betrayed you, exhaustion dragging you under despite the demons still clawing at your mind.
And it was worse.
“Oh, there you are! Missing me already?”
The voice—his voice—snapped your head up so fast, you almost stumbled.
Murphy stood a few feet away, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin pulling at his lips. His blue eyes were bright and joyful.
Just him.
Standing there like nothing had happened.
Your breath hitched, something sharp lodging itself in your throat.
“Murph…?”
The relief came so fast it almost hurt. You wanted to run to him, throw your arms around his shoulders, bury your face in his hoodie and just breathe him in.
He’d press his lips to your forehead, over and over again, like he always did after being apart too long. It was his ritual. His way of saying he missed you.
And every single time, you’d scrunch your nose and shove at his chest, muttering, “Eww, Murphy, you’re slobbering all over me.”
But the truth?
You never wanted him to stop.
You wanted him to do it now.
You took a step forward, a laugh bubbling up past the knot in your throat. “Miss you? That’s rich coming from you—don’t tell me you were crying in your sleep, Murph.”
Murphy gasped dramatically, hand to chest. “Me? Crying? You wound me, honey.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.
You felt warm. Safe.
For the first time in days, your ribs didn’t ache, your chest didn’t feel hollow.
It was just Murphy—his voice, his presence, alive and real.
“You really thought I wouldn’t find you?” He smirked, head tilting. “C’mon, honeypie, have a little faith.”
You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head. He always said that. Always.
And yet…
Something was wrong.
Your stomach twisted. The warmth started to fade.
The light around you dimmed.
Murphy’s smile twitched—just barely—but you saw it.
His body stiffened, the playful glint in his eyes flickering, dimming into something else. Something… unnatural.
His expression slackened.
His hands trembled.
“Murph?” Your voice wavered.
His mouth parted, lips forming a word—your name? No. Not quite.
And then—
His eyes clouded. His skin paled.
And his voice dropped into something hollow.
“You left me.”
Your entire body seized.
Murphy lurched forward, his face twisting, his mouth gaping open, rotting teeth, dark veins spreading down his neck—
No. No. No.
His arms snapped out toward you, fingers curling like claws—
“You left me.”
You ran.
You turned, bolted in the opposite direction, but your feet wouldn’t move fast enough.
His breath rasped behind you, wet, guttural, wrong.
“You left me.”
And then—
Darkness.
You woke up gasping.
A jagged, shuddering inhale that burned your lungs, your chest tight and constricted. Your body shook, fingers curling into the blanket like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.
Panic. Raw and suffocating.
Your throat was tight, your pulse hammering against your ribs, against your skull, against every nerve ending in your fucking body.
Your vision swam.
The walls closed in.
You weren’t in Alexandria. You were back there.
You were back in the moment you ran.
“You left me.”
A sob punched out of you before you could stop it, your hands flying to your mouth, fingers digging into your skin as you rocked forward, trying to breathe, trying to push it down, trying to stop the shaking.
But you couldn’t.
You couldn’t make it stop.
And then—
A voice.
“Sweetheart?”
Lucille.
Your head snapped up, wild-eyed, chest still heaving, vision still blurred.
Lucille was crouched in front of you, voice soft, gaze steady.
Not hovering. Not coddling. Just waiting.
You squeezed your eyes shut, exhaling shakily, grounding yourself in the sound of her breathing.
In. Out. Steady.
Slowly—painfully slowly—your pulse began to even out.
Lucille didn’t ask.
She just nodded. Then she stood.
“Come on.” She offered her hand. “I’ll make you some tea.”
And just like that, the world came back.
It didn’t make the weight in your chest disappear.
It didn’t change anything.
But for now—just for a moment—it was enough.
@whiskeypowder @hopefulatrocity @witheringblooddemon @humanmistakes @yttricuz @twdeadlysins @donttelltheelff @spidergirla5 @sexyseabass @sweetpotatospock @witchygagirl @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @theoraekenslover @thatlebronchick @acezeyez @timeladyrikaofgallifrey @splaterparty0-0 @the-dixon-effect