#sympathetic

Reader has found sympathy to Negan after him being locked up after Alexandria defeated the Saviors.

The air in the basement cell was thick, damp, and smelled of rust. Negan sat on the edge of his cot, the only furniture in a room designed for silence, watching the small, barred window near the ceiling. He was bored, he was angry, and he was, for the first time in his life, lonely.

He heard the heavy iron door at the top of the stairs creak open, followed by the soft, deliberate footsteps of someone who didn't want to be heard.

It wasn't Rick, looking to gloat. It wasn't Daryl, looking to kill him with his eyes.

It was Y/n.

She was different from the rest of them. While she had been at the front lines of the war, fighting beside Rick and Michonne, and felt the raw, searing grief of losing Abraham and Glenn just as deeply, she carried it differently. She was mature, focused on keeping Carl’s vision of a future alive—a future that included bringing this madman to justice, not just murdering him.

She stopped at the bars, a small cloth bag in her hand. "Hello, Negan."

"Well, if it isn't my favorite resident of this hellhole," Negan said, rising slowly to his feet, a familiar smirk trying to form, though it felt heavy. "You know, if you wanted to see me, you didn't have to keep it a secret."

Y/n didn't smile. She reached into the bag and pulled out a small, foil-wrapped package. "I didn't bring this for the conversation."

She passed it through the small food slot. Negan took it, the smell of cinnamon and sugar instantly filling the small area. His eyes softened, just a fraction.

"Pastries," he whispered. "You actually remembered."

"Don't make me regret it," Y/n said, her voice turning cold. She watched as he unhooked the wire from the bag. "They didn't have the last one, so this is just for you."

Negan tore open the foil and took a slow, deliberate bite, closing his eyes. It was stupidly delicious. It was a piece of the old world.

"You're a strange one, Y/n," Negan said, chewing slowly. "You know I killed them, right? You know I painted the ground with their brains. You hate me more than anyone, probably. Why come down here?"

Y/n leaned against the cold damp wall of the hallway. "Because I'm not you. Because Rick and Michonne are trying to build something better. Because that's what Carl wanted." She looked directly into his eyes, her expression intense. "And honestly, because if I don't see you rotting down here, I think I might go crazy."

Negan chuckled, a low, genuinely amused sound. He finished the pastry and wiped his hands on his dirty pants. "You're tough. I always liked that about you. You're not like the rest of these soft idiots here. You know how to play the game."

"It's not a game," Y/n snapped. "It was never a game. You took everything."

"I did," Negan agreed, his voice dropping, losing the arrogant edge. He sat back down on his cot, looking up at her. "I took a lot. And I’d do it again to protect my people. But... I didn’t think you, of all people, would be the one to show a little mercy."

He paused, looking at her with an intensity that made her breath hitch. "You're beautiful when you're angry, you know that? But you're even better when you're smart."

Y/n felt her face flush, angry at herself for feeling a pull towards him. She was supposed to despise him. But in the dim light, she saw a man who had lost everything, just like them.

"I need to go," she said quickly, stepping back.

"Wait," Negan said, standing up and stepping to the bars. He wasn't acting like the savior leader anymore. "Thank you. For this. And... for not being like them. For taking the time to see me."

Y/n looked at him for a long moment, the anger warring with a strange, undeniable compassion. "Don't make me regret this, Negan."

She turned and left, her footsteps retreating up the stairs.

Negan watched her go, the scent of the pastry still lingering in the air. He leaned his forehead against the cold bars, a faint smile on his face. She was strong. She was smart. She was everything he used to look for in his own people, but better.

"Damn," he whispered to the empty room. "I might just be falling in love with her."

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The next morning, the sun had barely crested the walls of Alexandria when Daryl intercepted Y/n near the pantry. He didn’t say a word at first, just leaned against a wooden post, his arms crossed and his gaze like flint.

"You're up early," Daryl grunted, his voice a low rasp.

Y/n tried to keep her expression neutral, though her heart hammered against her ribs. She had two apple-cinnamon rolls tucked into a cloth napkin inside her jacket. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd get a head start on the inventory."

Daryl stepped into her path, his eyes dropping to the slight bulge in her coat. "Inventory’s already done. And we're short on sugar. Funny thing, that." He stepped closer, the smell of leather and woodsmoke following him. "I saw you last night, Y/n. Heading to the basement."

Y/n steeled herself. She loved Daryl like a brother, but she wasn't going to let him intimidate her out of her own sense of morality. "I’m keeping a promise to Carl, Daryl. We’re supposed to be showing him a different way."

"He killed Glenn," Daryl hissed, the pain of that night still raw in his eyes. "He killed Abe. He don't deserve sugar. He deserves a hole."

"He's in a hole!" Y/n shot back, her voice a sharp whisper. "But if we treat him like a monster, we become monsters too. I'm being the adult here, Daryl. Even if it hurts."

Daryl stared at her for a long beat, his jaw tight. He looked like he wanted to argue, to scream, to drag her away from that cell door. Instead, he just spit on the ground and shook his head. "Don't let Rick catch ya. I won't be the one to pull 'im off ya."

He stalked away, leaving Y/n trembling but determined.

She waited until the coast was clear, ducking into the infirmary and through the back way to the cell block. She nearly ran right into Michonne near the stairs, heart leaping into her throat, but she managed to slip into a shadow just in time.

When she finally reached the bars, she was breathless. Negan was already awake, leaning against the wall, looking surprisingly relaxed.

"You're late," he remarked, a playful glint in his eye. "I was starting to think you'd finally come to your senses and realized I’m a lost cause."

Y/n pulled the rolls out, still slightly warm. "Shut up and eat, Negan. I almost got caught by Daryl."

Negan’s smirk faltered for a second. "Daryl, huh? Persistent little squirrel. You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, sliding the food through. She leaned against the bars, watching him eat. For a moment, the tension of the morning faded. They talked—not about the war or the dead—but about nothing. He told her a stupid joke from his days as a gym teacher, and for the first time, she actually let out a small, genuine laugh.

Negan stopped chewing, looking at her with a warmth that felt dangerously out of place in a prison cell. "You have a nice laugh, Y/n. You should use it more."

Before she could respond, the heavy door at the top of the stairs banged open. Father Gabriel hurried down, his brow furrowed with urgency. He didn't even glance at Negan.

"Y/n, thank God," Gabriel said, his voice strained. "I need your help. There’s a situation at the gates—Rick and the others are occupied. We need someone who can keep a cool head."

Y/n looked back at Negan. He was watching her, the casual mask back in place, but his eyes stayed on her a second too long.

"Go," Negan said softly, gesturing with a half-eaten roll. "Duty calls. Don't let 'em break anything important."

Y/n nodded to Gabriel, then took one last look at the man in the cell. "I'll be back," she promised, though she wasn't sure if she was saying it to him or to herself.

As she followed Gabriel up the stairs, she could feel Negan’s gaze lingering on her back, heavier than any set of iron bars.

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Y/n’s pulse didn't quicken as she followed Gabriel up the stairs; it settled into a steady, rhythmic thrum. This was her element. While she spent her mornings playing peacemaker and keeping Carl’s dream alive, her afternoons were often spent on the walls, eyes sharp and fingers calloused from the bowstring.

As they reached the heavy iron gates of Alexandria, the air changed. The quiet domesticity of the community was gone, replaced by the low, guttural moans of walkers and the sharp, frantic shouting of the guards on the catwalks.

"What do we have, Gabe?" Y/n asked, her voice level and calm. She reached into a nearby crate, pulling out a recurve bow and a quiver of arrows. She slung a sleek, matte-black carbine over her shoulder—just in case.

"A horde," Gabriel panted, pointing toward the tree line. "But they’re being steered. Someone’s out there, Y/n. Rick and Michonne are at the South gate dealing with a breach, but this... this looks like a distraction."

Y/n climbed the ladder to the guard post in three fluid motions. She looked out over the fields. A thick line of "lurkers" was pressing against the reinforced steel, but Gabriel was right—they weren't just wandering. They were being funneled by a series of rhythmic clangs coming from the woods.

"I see 'em," Y/n muttered. She didn't look scared; she looked curious. Who was bold enough to knock on their door after the Saviors fell?

She pulled an arrow, the movement practiced and elegant. She didn't aim for the walkers. Instead, she tracked the sound of the clanging. There. A flash of movement behind a scorched oak tree.

"Stay low, Gabe," she commanded. She let the arrow fly. It whistled through the air, thunking deep into the wood of the oak tree, inches from where the figure was hiding. The clanging stopped instantly.

A man stepped out, hands raised, but he was wearing a familiar, tattered leather jacket. He wasn't a Savior, but a scavenger who had clearly picked the wrong day to test Alexandria's resolve.

"Easy! Easy!" the man yelled. "We just want to talk! We heard you got food! We heard the big man in the leather jacket isn't running things anymore!"

Y/n didn't lower her bow. She didn't feel the need to scream. Her voice carried clearly over the groans of the dead. "The 'big man' is in a cell. And if you don't turn those walkers around in the next ten seconds, you’re going to be the next thing they eat. I don't miss twice."

The man looked at the arrow vibrating in the tree beside his head, then back at the calm, deadly woman on the wall. He whistled, a sharp, two-tone signal. His companions emerged from the brush, beginning to lead the walkers away with fresh noise-makers.

As the threat receded, Y/n lowered her bow, but her mind was elsewhere. They heard Negan isn't running things. The world was watching Alexandria, waiting to see if they were weak without a tyrant.

"Nice shot," a voice rasped from below.

She looked down to see Daryl standing there, having finished his own task at the other gate. He looked up at her, a hint of begrudging respect in his eyes. "You handle it?"

"For now," Y/n said, stepping off the catwalk. She felt a strange pang in her chest. She had just defended the home of the man who had murdered her family—the man she had just been sharing pastries with.

"Daryl," she said as she reached the ground. "They knew he was gone. People are coming for what we have."

Daryl grunted, checking his crossbow. "Let 'em come. We got more than just one boogeyman in a basement now."

Y/n nodded, but as she walked away, her thoughts drifted back to the damp cell. Negan had been right about one thing: the game never really ended.

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Rick and Michonne returned from the South gate, sweat-streaked and breathing hard, just as the last of the scavengers disappeared into the tree line. Rick spotted Y/n stepping down from the catwalk, her recurve bow already slung over her shoulder and her expression unshakeably calm.

"Gabriel told me what happened," Rick said, his voice a mix of heavy fatigue and sudden alertness. He stopped in front of her, his eyes searching the perimeter and then landing back on her. "He said you took the shot without even blinking. Handled the whole group on your own."

He paused, a look of deep, quiet pride crossing his face. Since Carl’s death, Rick had been carrying the weight of the entire world, trying to balance mercy with the reality of survival. Seeing Y/n—someone who had every reason to be broken by grief—step up with such precision was a relief he hadn't realized he needed.

"I didn't want to bother you," Y/n said simply, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek. "They were just testing us. Wanted to see if we were soft now that the leather jacket is behind bars."

Rick’s jaw tightened at the mention of Negan, but he nodded slowly. "They found out we aren't. You did good, Y/n. Real good. You kept your head when most people would have started a war." He reached out, placing a firm, steadying hand on her shoulder. "Carl would’ve been proud. I know I am."

Michonne stepped up beside him, sheathing her katana. She gave Y/n a small, knowing smirk—the kind of look shared between two warriors who didn't need many words. "Daryl’s already grumbling about how you 'stole his kill,' which is his version of a standing ovation."

Rick lingered for a second longer, his gaze softening. "Go get some rest. We’ll double the watch tonight, but you’ve earned a break."

There is one key thing about Vlad’s character/

backstory that this fandom overlooks way too

much.

Vlad was completely right about Jack being at

fault for his accident. 

He was: he messed up, he pushed the button

too soon, he didn’t listen to Maddie or Vlad

when they said to wait, and Vlad paid the price.

So Vlad was right, Jack ruined his life. Especially

after the episode Masters of Time, where it

shows that Maddie would’ve ended up married

to Vlad if it were Jack who’d been hurt. 

Jack really did ‘steal’ Maddie away, so to speak.

Or stole his opportunity to ask her out, at least.

Vlad could’ve led a happy and content life, but

Jack pushed a button too soon and it ruined it.

Not to say Vlad’s actions are justified, the whole

killing-marriage and wanting Danny for a son

thing is weird, don’t get me wrong.

But I know why he did it. Vlad had died because

of Jack, and he’s angry and bigger and vengeful.

Like most people/ghosts would be.

And he’s not entirely a bad person. In TUE he

takes Danny in even without Maddie in the

picture and tries his best to help him cope, even

by drastic means (I.e humanity ripping). 

So Vlad’s desire for Danny to be his son isn’t

Maddie’s influence; the guy really just wants

someone to care for that’s just like him. 

I really think that the writers of DP had some

great chances to make Vlad a sympathetic

Just imagine it. You grew up poor (that's usually what pre-smallville versions of Lex Luthor go with, I think). You wanted to do good things, build monuments to prove that you made something of yourself. And when you finally have everything, when you finally feel like maybe, just maybe, people respect you... that's when you're hit with the sucker punch that is another man stealing what you feel is rightfully yours. Lex worked hard to get where he is. But Superman just has innate powers, and the media fawns on him. Luthor feels inferior. Like a failure. And it hurts. It hurts enough for him to waste his money and time building death traps for Superman. (Superman Adventures #27):

Empathy is defined, from the Oxford Language as "the ability to understand and share the feelings of another."

So for empathy you need to understand the others emotions, and be able to share that feelings.

It is never said Nightmare and Dream will feel the same though or understand!! They just can sense the feelings. They might not be able to empathize with the other person, they just know they might feel bad, but they might not understand why fully or feel bad as well.

Now, sympathy is, as from the Oxford Language, "feelings of pity and sorrow for someone else's misfortune" or "understanding between people; common feeling.", which much more fits!!

🤔