A/N This actually started off as a goofy smut one-shot about Negan's love for pumpkin pie, but I went off the deep end. Told from the OC's POV. Part one of six.
God, I hate this job. This minimum wage nonsense that I'm way overqualified for, yet I'm too complacent to go anywhere else. I wipe my hands down the front of my apron. Flour and frosting everywhere.
"Did you really make a pumpkin pie?" My boss shakes the sugary dish at me.
I stare back at her because she can't be that stupid. Pumpkin pie is universally recognizable.
"It's June! No one eats pumpkin pie in June. This is coming out of your paycheck. Waste of ingredients."
Who gets this upset over pie? It's delicious. Jesus. Hmm, I wonder if I set my DVR to record—
"Are you listening to me? Put this shit in the case!" She shoves it into my filthy apron.
That's hardly sanitary. After I'm left unattended, I immaturely write 'shit' on the little card and set it in front of the pie in the display case.
I hear a deep snicker above the case.
My head comes out from inside it as my eyes move up higher, higher, higher. How did this guy even fit in the front door? He's built like a tank and as tall as one, too. Military equipment aside, my cheeks redden because I've never seen a man that looks this good. Even despite his age.
"Slice of pie." His thick finger pushes against the glass.
That is one of my biggest annoyances working here. Usually the cause of unattended children. It furthers my annoyance when it's adults. Now him? I don't care. Actually, I've got a better use for that finger. "Four sixty-nine, sir."
He hands me a five. "Keep the change."
It's a tip that would be insulting, but I'm not thinking about anything other than him putting me against the glass— oh crap. His pie. "H— here, sir." Nothing about me screams put me into, well, anything. I'm just your average girl. Covered in aisle five baking goods. My long blonde hair trapped in this netted oppression on the top of my head.
I watch pie man for a brief moment as he reads the paper, his lip turned up at everything except for when it settles after each bite. I wish my boss could see this.
In a desperate attempt, I take the rag over to the table near the brute and start to wipe it down. A little bad porn production as I bend over the table and make my ass as noticeable as possible. Oh, god. What am I doing?
"You missed a spot. Like you sat in shit."
I am mortified because I was certain I didn't spill any of that coffee in the subway seat this morning. I hate people. That means I've been here for five hours with stained jeans and no one has said a thing! "Occupational hazard," I joke, uncertain where this confidence is coming from.
"Probably should have tipped more for a new pair of jeans."
You can tip me over this table. I slam my eyes shut and go back behind the counter to survey the damage to my denim. Tip me over the table… then I wonder why I'm single.
I feel foolish trying to seduce a man that could easily have any woman he wants, so I stay behind the register until I'm alone. As I drum my fingers against the counter, I notice money on his vacant table. Oh. Twenty dollars? That's generous.
Every day for the next week, he comes in here at the exact time for pie. Only pumpkin, though. Which I have to sneak to make it. But as the days pass, so do missed opportunities to talk to him.
He never speaks now that I know his order. Truthfully, he looks sad.
"Do you want some coffee?" It's not my job to wait on people, but I have to try some attempt at flirting.
He shakes his head side to side, his eyes focused on the baseball game on TV.
Good job with that. God, I'm a loser.
He points at the TV.
I turn to look at it and notice Angelina Jolie in a commercial. Everyone always makes the comment that I've got her mouth, well, her lips. I've seen this movie a million times they're advertising a rerun for. When I turn around, I imitate her sultry look for a minute.
It makes him laugh, well, sorta. It's never audible. Just some silent chuckle. Score one for me. Yes. I hurry back around the counter before I do something embarrassing and ruin the moment.
Despite yesterday, things fall stale today. I catch his gaze my way, but I just think it happens to be one of those things where two people randomly look up at the same time.
After I lock up, I go to the market to get a few things. They're out of my shampoo. I really don't want to go to that massive store out of the way from my usual route. Oh, wait. There's some overflow stock on the top shelf. I stick my tongue out of the corner of my mouth for super stretch abilities, but it's pointless when you're short.
A worn leather sleeve reaches over me and retrieves the box.
I start to thank him, but notice it's the bakery pie man so naturally words have evaded me.
He even opens the box for me to get a bottle out.
Hmm, he doesn't have a basket to cart things around in.
As he puts the bottle in my basket, he notices the can of pumpkin pie filling. Like he knows I have to sneak it. "Thank you for the shampoo."
He doesn't bother with putting the box back on the top shelf, it just gets shoved in randomly as it messes up the shelf.
I'm oddly turned on by his disregard for faced goods. Or maybe it's the leather jacket. No, it's just him. It's a good thing I'm buying shampoo, and not batteries for my vibrator. God, I'd never be able to serve him again. I get this weird feeling from him like we could just stand here in this same spot and he'd be perfectly content with it. Guess it's no surprise then I'm the one that says goodnight first. I have a permanent smile as I finish picking up the rest of my groceries. I actually see him again as I'm checking out, but he just walks out the front door empty-handed. I've got to think of something to say to him...
The problem is, I don't even know what to say to a man twentyish years older than I am. When I set down his pie, I realize just how foolish this all is when I catch a glimpse of his wedding ring. I return to my slump in the chair by the register, because I can't be bothered with standing, and sulk knowing he's married. Which is stupid considering I didn't stand a chance.
On the train ride home, I like to think about him. Which makes me feel even more disgusted with myself now that I know he's going home to his wife.
"Is this seat taken?"
I shake my head no, but come on! There are twenty other places to sit.
Still, the guy my age has a seat. "I'm Bill."
I'm not interested. How could anyone compare with my bakery man? Not this guy, that's for sure. And Bill is persistent.
Bill even comes into the bakery which kinda freaks me out. "Do you want to have dinner sometime?"
"I can't."
"I didn't even give you a time. Come on, don't be like that. You haven't even told me your name."
"She ain't fucking interested, fuckwit," a voice snaps from the corner of the bakery. My pie man rises to his full height from the chair. One long dominating stride towards Bill.
"Sorry," Bill mutters embarrassed, hurrying from the bakery.
"Thank you," I smile at my Savior.
He grunts and turns back for his table. "Next time, don't lead the poor fuck on. He asks to have a seat next to you, spare him the trouble."
I just want to die right now. I'm mortified. How does he know about the subway? Well, duh. He obviously rides it. Have I been that oblivious to my surroundings? I wasn't trying to lead anyone on. Well, that's not true. I did bend over a table for this man. I've never wanted to go home more than I do right now and that speaks volumes because I hate this place. In fact, I rip my apron off and flee from it.
Later that week, I get a job at the coffee shop. I've basically traded one soiled apron for another. I never realized how good I had it at the bakery. They keep me hidden in the back. Guess I'm too hideous for this trendy place to be seen at the register.
As I put up the sign for the pumpkin spice latte, it makes me think of him. Christ, months have passed since that day in the bakery, but I still think about him. My cell phone rings. It's my sister. I'll get it later. Only, it rings six more times. "I'm at wor—"
"Daddy was in an accident…"
We bury my father on the day of the first snow. I don't feel anything except for my sibling who lost her father because he was too drunk to be driving. I leave as they lower the casket into the ground and walk towards the entrance. That's when I notice a man knelt down in front of a grave.
Lucille.
Beloved wife.
He rises and startles me.
Oh, god. My bakery pie man.
His worn eyes look me over, then the direction I came.
I hurry past him, trying to loosen my scarf to breathe only it's not what's choking me. It's the guilt from my stupid crush and wishing he didn't have a wife so we could act on desire. Now I find out she's been gone for almost two years by the date on the headstone. I'm a jerk.
My sister will expect me for dinner, but I get on the train home instead. I don't want to hear people talk about my father in the past tense. Especially, singing his praises. He was a degenerate who spent our rent money on whores after my mother died. I stare out the window as concrete speeds by with a heavy sigh.
"Is this seat taken?"
"Yes." Jesus, not now. This is the last thing I need.
He has a seat next to me anyway. His frame is so large, his shoulder rubs against mine when he sits. "Good girl."
That's when I realize it's the bakery man. Well, that and his voice.
"You look even more miserable at the coffee shop than you did the bakery."
He has my attention now. "I didn't know you knew I worked at the coffee shop."
"You're shit at being aware of your surroundings."
I guess I am. Maybe I've just been in this funk for the last few months. "Why do you keep following me?" It's funny how I found this creepy with Bill, but it's flattering with him.
He grunts as his eyes shift to the window. "I don't know. I've never done anything like this. Truthfully, I could lose my fucking job over this shit. I'm sorry."
I wonder if he's a police officer? "Will you tell me your name at least?"
"Negan. Yours?"
Oddly, it makes me feel better that he doesn't know my name. Like he's been lurking in the shadows only because he has my best interest, not digging through my mail or anything crazy. "I'm Jameson."
"What? Isn't that usually a last name?"
"My father was too drunk to fill out my birth certificate and mixed up my first and last name."
"So I take it you weren't too choked up about today."
My face goes dark. "I don't think about him at all. I went to support my sister."
"Shouldn't you be with her now?"
"She's got like sixty-eight thousand friends on Facebook. They'll be at the house tonight, so I'd just be in the way—"
"This is my stop."
"Alright. Goodnight, Negan." It's nice to have a name other than pie man.
"You feel like baking?"
I hate baking. "Sure."
As I walk behind him, I hold my head higher than I ever have before. It's this delusion that we're more than what we are. That he'd be proud to call me his own, but I feel like he needs to know I'm not even close to him in age. "Negan, I don't turn twenty-one for two more months."
"I'm not buying you alcohol. They tend to frown on coaches doing that shit."
"I don't drink… because of my father. Anyway, I just felt like you should know. Because you're, well, older. Uh, much older."
His brow knits. "That kinda thing bother you?"
"No."
"Well, come on then. And forty-two isn't that old," he mumbles.
The conversation ceases entirely after that. I wish I never would have opened my trap.
Walking down the street, I feel like some escort he's rented. Especially in this dress, expensive coat, and heels, which make it a struggle to keep up with his long legs. The little clicks from my heels against the sidewalk annoy even me.
After he has to stop for the third time so I can catch up, he walks over to one of the many street vendors. When he returns, hanging on his fingers are a pair of flats. The brute gets to one knee.
I steady myself on his broad muscular shoulder as he trades each one out. "Thank you." My heels in his hand look like miniature novelties.
Every woman that passed us gave him and the heels a glance over, then I'm given a jealous glare. Needless to say, I don't feel like an escort anymore. We arrive at this hole in the wall Chinese restaurant. "I'm not really all that hungry."
He shifts uncomfortably, then starts up the ladder beside the building.
Oh, I understand now. He lives in the loft above it.
"I did the cul-de-sac white picket fence bullshit in suburbia, but after she died, I had to get the fuck away. I wanted something as grimy as I felt inside."
I can deal with grimy. I grew up that way. But this? This is just depressing.
All the windows are covered in decrepit newspaper, so brittle, if you touch the paper, it'd break away.
Several mildewed buckets catch water from melted snow on the compromised roof caked in black mold. Oh, look at that. I think those are termites.
Nothing in the loft had privacy. Not even the bathroom. Just a dirty toilet with the lid up, and a hole in the floor for a drain that makes up the shower.
There's a bare mattress on the floor. A pillow with no case. No blanket, either. Guess you wouldn't want to snag it on any of the rusted coils poking from the mattress.
I leave my flats on he bought because there's no carpet. Just dusty stained concrete. I haven't seen his kitchen, but I'm sure he doesn't own any of the things I'd need to bake.
"Have a seat." He gestures his hand to the oversized black leather couch.
Hmm, the condition of this couch isn't bad at all.
He clicks on the TV.
Yes. Clicks. The set is so old, it has these knobs instead of a remote. It's not even in color.
Negan takes a seat beside me. "I didn't ask you here to bake."
"I figured."
"It wasn't to fuck, either."
I didn't expect that, and I'm pretty disappointed now.
"After her, I can't... get it... up."
"Is it because you'd feel guilty being with someone that isn't her?"
"You know, most people would ask how she died."
"Oh," I frown. "I just figured it's none of my business."
"You're right. It isn't any of your business. It's nobody's goddamn business. Yet, people are constantly asking me. Or they're telling me how fucking sorry they are that I'll never see my dead wife again." He cracks some of his knuckles by making a fist. "Would I feel guilty if I emptied inside you? Maybe. Probably not. It's because I don't ever want to get close to someone again. If you don't fuck, you don't feel. Yet, here we motherfucking are. I haven't even been inside you. I don't fucking know you. But I think about you. Yeah, I think about you a lot. It makes the days a little more bearable."
I'm speechless.
"Why'd you quit the bakery?"
"Because I didn't know how to get your attention. And when you snapped at me for that guy, I felt like a fool. Like you weren't interested."
"You got my attention, alright. You had it the moment I laughed at your smartass sign. Maybe it wasn't an audible laugh, but it was something other than complete apathy. I would have hit your boss if she was a man for the way she spoke to you. Fucking bitch. That's ok, I fucked that one fuck up. Bobby."
"Bill."
"Yeah. Fuck that motherfucker. Little fucking prick."
I didn't even realize Negan had been standing there when my boss yelled at me for that pie. Apparently, there's a lot that went unnoticed. Especially if he went back for Bobby and let him have it. Wait, Bill. Whatever! "I don't think coaches are supposed to do that either."
"Maybe I'm not that good at my job. Where's your head at in all this? You freaked out? Think I'm some stalker? After you leave here, will I spend another two months tracking you down? That ain't really what I meant..."
"I just wish we would have talked sooner. You are always in my thoughts, too."
"Probably best we didn't. I'm not the most charismatic fuck after everything. I used to be. Woulda fucked you bent over that table at the bakery like you were if I had some former resemblance of myself."
"That really would have pissed my boss off..."
He starts to laugh.
I turn to witness something this man just told me he's been incapable of. What a shame because the expression looks good on him.
Negan digs in his pocket and takes out his wallet. Three hundred is removed from it and set on my thigh. "Just... fucking stay with me tonight. It's her two year anniversary and I don't want to be alone."
"Why are you paying me?"
"It makes it feel more like a business deal. Less emotion in it. Fuck, I don't know. Would you really stay with this broken old man if I didn't?"
"Yes."
He scoops the money up and stuffs it back in his wallet. "You're a shitty liar."
"You don't know anything about me." I yank the cash back out of his wallet. "Now that you've insulted me, I'm taking it as compensation." I'm hardly insulted.
This is how Negan and I started this bizarre friendship.
When I stay over that night, he makes me sleep on the couch. I don't sleep because I end up watching how disturbed he is. He wakes up constantly. Once to puke even. His nightmares are hellish even for me because he whimpers in them and this man is anything but vulnerable. When he gets up with the sun, he's even more exhausted looking than when he went to sleep.
"Thanks, Jameson."
I give him his money back and slip out quietly so we can start our day.
For the first month, no personal questions. Mostly, we just sit in silence when I come over and watch this basic TV crap.
On the way from dinner one night, he stops outside of a cellular phone store. Negan often calls me on the payphone two blocks down from his house. That is until the payphone booth is taken out by a dump truck. He turns his lip up at most of the phones because he doesn't understand them.
I find a more basic model to show him.
He likes that and nods.
I text him, but he never texts back. He says it's stupid, but I know it's because he doesn't know how.
Today, we both skipped work and went to the aquarium.
"That motherfucker is big." His eyes follow after the whale shark.
His foul-mouthed I don't care what anyone thinks attitude always makes me laugh.
The guy at the aquarium gives me a wink before holding a penguin up to me.
Negan grunts, resting his hand on my nape. He never touches me unless it's moments like these where he needs to assert his dominance.
I don't mind it. I wouldn't mind more.
As we leave the place with the penguins, his hand is removed.
I always... want more. "Are you ok? Don't be jealous."
He scoffs and rolls his eyes.
"Are you?"
"Am I fucking what?"
"Ok?"
He looks like he's wanted to say something all day. "I have a game Saturday. Are you working?"
It means a lot that he would want me at his side considering the last person who was probably there was her. "No," I smile.
"You need to come then."
I laugh at his awkwardness because he never asks. It's always how I need to do something, but I think it's because he never wants to say how much it would mean to him. "Alright."
Negan waves us down a cab. My plush oversized whale shark tucked under his other arm as a bag of pink cotton candy hangs loosely on his fingers.
"Do I still make you laugh sometimes under your breath?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Happy Birthday, Jameson."
I didn't think he remembered.
He gets the door of the cab for me before sliding in.
"Where to?"
Negan gives the cab driver his address.
I tilt my head to rest against his bicep. It's not until he's laying me down on his couch that I realize I fell asleep.
He sits on the edge of it. "Yes." The whale shark is handed over.
"Yes, what?"
"You still make me laugh. More than just under my breath." Negan surprisingly moves up behind me. He's never shown me any kind of affection.
I close my eyes because I've never enjoyed anything so much. His large hand rests on my hip causing my stomach to jump. "Negan?"
"Hmm?" He's half asleep.
"I love you."