We're back! A couple things before we start; I learned a few things about writing dead characters and dialogue, so now whenever quotes are used around Wendy's words, she is signing. I'll continue to italicize her words when she is writing. This story came about through a prompt, specifically "demisexuality." There's a lack of representation in fiction, and I washed to take the opportunity to try and explain what it is. I drew from my own experiences as a demi and don't mean this as the be-all-end-all explanation. If anyone is confused, curious, or just looking for resources, you can look it up on , or message me.
I hope you enjoy!
There used to be a time when the autumn meant something. The drop in temperature and the changing of the leaves was the cue that there were only a few short weeks of freedom left before classes started and Negan was held as much of a hostage to the bell as the kids he taught. These days, all the changing season meant was there was less daylight to go in reasonable safety and less time to prepare for a winter they had lost all the tools to predict.
Just fucking great.
Most of his days lately were spent going over inventory lists and comparing them to his census of everyone in the Sanctuary, trying to plan for "enough" and "in case of emergency." So many fucking numbers he started reconciling them in his sleep. The hard part was the tribute coming in from other communities. On one hand, he understood that his people weren't the only ones bracing themselves. On the other, if he gave an inch they'd take a mile, and if they kept trying to short him, he and Lucille would have to pay a few people a visit.
Supplies aside, evidently the Sanctuary was in worse shape than he thought, all the projects Wendy brought to him for improvements to the building. She seemed to be at least as busy as him these days and the sign language lessons had come to a necessary halt. The last words he'd exchanged with her had been about winterizing the garden, something he'd never given a thought to before, leading him to suspect she'd have some weird ass DIY shit in the works before much longer.
He was having a particularly aggravating day-no fewer than three communities had been short on their offerings and meanwhile the Sanctuary was living skinny-when one of his men sought him out. "Hey, boss?"
Negan rounded on him with a glare. "I'm fucking busy," he said. "I'll get to you in half a fucking second."
"Sorry," the guy went on, "but we got a problem in the garden."
"Then fucking fix it! Surely you motherfuckers can handle some of this shit your goddamned selves-"
"That deaf chick is in the middle of it."
Negan heaved a sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face in exasperation. Of course she fucking was.
"And I figured you'd want to see to it yourself-"
"Yeah, yeah, what the fuck ever. Let's see what the fucking deal is, already."
It wasn't cold outside yet but there was a bite in the wind that took some of the edge off his temper. Some. It didn't seem likely to last long, though, as they neared the garden and saw the crowd gathered around. The atmosphere was tense and the faces uneasy, but everyone stood aside as Negan walked closer. It was like a fight on a high school field, with onlookers clustered around empty ground to leave space for the combatants. One man was restrained by another, and Negan recognized him as Travis, the doomsday prophet who would have cost them their crop during the rain. He was bleeding from his mouth and nose, and lowered his head at Negan's approach. Standing opposite, that kid and older woman standing guard on either side, was Wendy. Her face was as weathered as ever, but there was no missing the bruise on her face or the cut above her eye.
In another world, the woman who meant more to him than anything said his temper was like a storm of wind and thunder, raining down everywhere until it expended itself, but when he was truly angry it was quiet, static, like the split second between pushing the detonator and the bomb going off. Calculated, grand-scale destruction. Seeing the damage to someone else he cared about quite a bit, Negan accepted the assessment. He felt his earlier ire calm, collecting itself for an explosion. "Someone tell me what. The fuck. Is going on here."
His words were soft, but he had a feeling everyone was listening in. And yet no one spoke. He turned to Travis, who was still staring at the ground. "Trav?" he said. "Something you wanna tell me?" He glanced up at the crowd again. "Anyone?"
Motion at the corner of his eye caught his attention; Wendy had raised her hands to speak. "I was working alone," she began slowly.
Travis was quick to speak once she had done so first. "I found her destroying the stock!" he burst out as though desperate to tell his side after all. "She had a fire going and was throwing everything onto it!"
Wendy waved her hands emphatically to regain Negan's attention and went on, "There's leaf spot in the garden and almost half of the plants are affected. It's serious."
"How serious?" he asked, ignoring Travis. "And what the fuck is leaf spot?"
"Leaf spot is a plant disease," Travis started to explain, but Negan wasn't listening, watching Wendy's hands instead.
"It's bad," she said. "It affects plant yield, it spreads through infected seeds, there's no treating it, and almost no controlling it once it settles in."
"How does it affect yield?"
"The plant produces less and when it does, the fruit isn't fit to eat. Most of it isn't, anyway."
"What's she saying?" Travis demanded. "Is she telling you how she's vandalized our stores and we have no seeds for next season, thanks to her?"
"Trav, I'm fairly sure I've told you about interruptions before," Negan snapped, "now do yourself a favor and keep your fucking mouth shut until I say otherwise. Got it?"
The other man looked angry but stayed quiet, and Negan motioned for Wendy to continue.
"I noticed it when I was clearing out the old plants," she said, "and I double-checked against the harvest to be sure. The only thing to do at this point is burn the infected stock."
"Even the seeds?" he asked.
She nodded.
Negan could guess the rest. Travis had come upon her weenie roast and jumped to conclusions before giving her the chance to explain herself. Understandable, but he'd still laid his goddamn hands on her, and there was no fucking way Negan could let that shit slide. No. Fucking. Way.
"Wendy tells me she just saved our sorry asses," he said, rounding on Travis. "She tells me there's something called leaf spot in the garden, and that's it's fucking serious. Now tell me, Travis. Is she right about that?"
Travis's brow furrowed and he answered in a low voice, "I don't know for sure we have it, but-"
"Is it serious?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes. It is."
"Well then. First question: Why the fuck didn't anybody notice it sooner? Before we would have lost so much stock?"
He hesitated, then stayed silent.
"Second question," Negan went on, "what the motherfucking shit. Made you think you could raise your hands to a woman on my fucking watch and get the fuck away with it?"
Travis didn't answer, but he went deathly pale.
"Well?"
"I saw when it started," a bystander chimed in. "She pushed him first."
"Did I fucking ask who pushed first?"
He could feel the fury building within him, his blood running like fire and his hands shaking with the urge to choke the fucking life out of the goddamn piece of fucking shit standing in front of him. Anybody who moved against anyone he called friend was a stupid motherfucker that needed to be taught a really good lesson.
He was still trying to decide the best punishment when he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see Wendy, wiping blood out of her eye before saying, "Can we talk in private?"
Casting a look at the crowd around them, he was inclined to comply, but he was still too pissed to leave things unresolved. She stared at him a moment, then added, "Before you make any permanent decisions, at least."
Before he bashed someone's goddamn motherfucking brains out. He stared back at her for a long minute, then turned to the Savior that had brought him outside to begin with. "Find our buddy Travis here a place to cool his heels until I decide what to do with him," he instructed. "The rest of you, get back to whatever the fuck it was you were doing, and I swear to fucking Christ, you sorry shits better start playing nice with each other, because I am not handing out any more fucking time-outs around here. If that is in any way unclear for any-fucking-body, step right the fuck up."
Nobody challenged him and the crowd started to break up. Negan looked to Wendy and nodded towards the building, and she followed him to his office.
"Okay, doll," he said, facing her as she pushed the door closed behind her. "Talk."
"What are you planning on doing with him?" she asked.
"I planned on letting him try his fucking luck with Lucille, since he wants to hit a lady," he replied. "See if he can keep his hands to himself once she's reasoned with him."
"Really, Negan? You're going to kill him over a fight that I started?"
"Who said anything about killing him? First blood sounds fair enough."
She gave him a skeptical look that seemed grotesquely exaggerated by the blood still dripping into her eye. He shook his head and sighed, "Sit down, Wendy darling." She dropped into one of the chairs in front of the desk while he went to the liquor cabinet and gathered a bottle of whiskey, a glass, and after thinking it over, the drawstring bag from a cached bottled of Crown Royal. He poured a shot and handed it to her, sitting on the edge of the desk in front of her. "Knock it back, doll. None of that prissy sipping bullshit."
She gestured with one hand to indicate she didn't usually drink but he brushed it off. "Don't care," he said, splashing whiskey onto the purple bag in his hand. "Shoot it. Trust me." She still hesitated, and he added with the shadow of a grin, "I dare you."
The skepticism turned into a glare and he smiled even wider. "That's right, I said it. I fucking dare you."
She took a deep breath as if about to deep-sea dive, pinched her nose and gulped down the alcohol, shuddering and grimacing as she lowered the glass, and he swooped in before she could catch on and bathed the cut above her eye.
She hissed sharply through her teeth and slapped her hand onto the desk next to him. He raised his free hand to the side of her face to hold her steady, cleaning away the blood and surprised to see dirt. "Did you fall?" he asked. Her eyes were squeezed shut and he tapped hey cheek gently and repeated the question when she could see him. "Did you fall?"
She nodded, miming hitting something against her eye, and he understood. Travis didn't do that part. She got the cut when she hit the ground. "But he did hit you?" he asked.
She nodded again and pointed to her bruised cheek, then added, "After I pushed him."
"Doesn't fucking matter," he said, wiping the last of the blood, dirt, and whiskey off with the dry part of the bag. "You were trying to get his attention the only way you could. He wasn't listening, like the fucking dumbass I took him for."
"He hates me, anyway."
"Why's that, doll?"
"He seems to think I stole his job."
Negan raised an eyebrow. "He's a hot shot Mr.-Fix-It engineer?"
"No. He was more or less in charge of the garden until I came along, then more and more people started looking to me."
He let out a snort. "Says a shitload about his leadership, if you ask me."
"Still."
"Yeah, yeah. You don't need to tell me shit about the male ego I don't already fucking know, babydoll." He looked at the cut one more time, then said, "I think you're all set to kick more ass, Wendy darling. You did a number on your buddy Trav."
"That wasn't all me," she replied. "John saw what was going on and hit him, and might have broken his nose." She paused, then added, "But I punched him in the mouth when I got back on my feet."
Negan grinned and ruffled her hair. "Atta girl."
She smiled and sat looking at him for several moments and he looked right back at her, then she asked, "What are you going to do? I swung first, after all."
"I don't know, my girl," he told her, setting the cloth aside and resting his elbows on his knees. "I gotta do something, you understand. I can't have people fighting and knocking the shit out of each other and thinking there aren't any consequences. And I really don't. Fucking. Like it. When some asshole hits a lady, or a friend of mine. You're both, so that's twice the fuck-up, sweetheart."
"I'm a friend?"
"Of fucking course, babe! Shit, I thought you were smart!"
She shrugged, but she looked pleased.
He heaved a sigh and stared at nothing for a moment, lost in thought. He had to do something about Travis. In fact, he refused to not do something to the prick on a matter of principle. But nothing too extreme...there was no sense in doing away with a somewhat decent worker...
He shook his head. It had been a very long, trying season, and more than anything he just wanted a fucking break. "I need a drink, Wendy darling. Join me for one?"
She looked a little surprised, but she shrugged her consent and he got another glass, pouring two rounds and toasting her. "Here's to you, doll. For all the problems you've solved for me, it's about fucking time you caused one."
"You're welcome," she replied ironically, then took a swallow of Scotch and said, "We really do have a serious problem with the diseased stock-"
"Nope," he interrupted, raising a hand to cut her off. "We're not talking business right now. I've had it up to my motherfucking eyeballs with shit lately and I don't want to hear about goddamned word about it for the next ten years." He took another drink, nearly emptying the glass, then topped it off before going on, "I'll settle for ten minutes, though, if you think you can keep up."
"I'm not much of a drinker," she said.
"And I'm not in the mood to drink alone. Tell you what," he said, lifting the bottle of whiskey and eyeballing the contents, "if you last the rest of this shit with me, I'll let you decide what to do with Travis."
Her eyes widened-the bottle was more than halfway full. "What?"
"You heard me-fuck, didn't mean that, but I sure as fuck meant what I said. He's all yours to deal with, if you can hang for a little happy hour. If you'd rather pass, then..." He shrugged. "I guess I'll think of something."
"What in the world is this going to accomplish?"
"You started the fight, right? You took the blame for that?"
"Yes."
"Then I think a fucking bitch of a hangover is a pretty lenient price to pay for breaking the rules."
"You're serious? This is punishment?"
He chuckled. "It'll probably feel that way tomorrow, doll, I won't lie to you."
She still looked dubious and he added, "Wendy, my dear, you've got a bigger sack on you than a lot of guys I've met and you love to play fair. I respect the absolute fuck out of that. But you gotta understand, I have to be fair, too, and it's not fair if I have to crack the goddamn piss out of ol' Trav's skull and we lose a set of hands and you have to feel bad for starting the fight in the first place and then not stepping up to the fucking plate when you had the chance and I have to go through the unpleasantness of killing somebody, it's really fucking messy, doll, you wouldn't believe it-"
She snatched a sheet of paper and a pen lying on the desk, scribbled a few words on it, then held it where he could read it, glaring furiously at him. He leaned closer to see what she said.
You're a goddamn cunt bag. Pour the fucking drinks.
He burst out laughing and took the paper from her. "I'm fucking framing this shit, sweetheart!" he crowed. "For all that it's been a fucked up day for everyone, it was all worth it for this!"
She waved her hand, urging him to get on with it, a grim look on her face. He didn't blame her. She was thin as a rail with a low tolerance, and he had no doubt it was going to hit her like a runaway train. On second thought, this was probably the worst dumbass idea he'd had in a long time... But then he caught the look in her eyes, a determined, stubborn look that seemed to challenge him to either ante up or fold. She couldn't have said it plainer with words.
I dare you.
He took her glass and went to sit on the other side of his desk, pouring her another drink and sliding it back to her across the polished wood before refilling his own. He lifted it to her and grinned. "Bottoms up, Wendy."
She smiled as she took her glass, flipped him off, then drank.
The first few rounds were a face-off. Neither of them said a word, and she kept up a fucking gem of a poker face, staring him down and glaring while he sat smirking back. He kept a leisurely pace so she wouldn't get too drunk too fast-he wasn't that damn dumb-but he was just fast enough that she had her work cut out for her to keep up. If she was going to win this, then goddamn it she was going to earn it.
The showdown continued until he finally just got so fucking bored he had to strike up small talk. She kept her replies short at first, but the more booze got in her system, the more inclined she was to say more and more. She couldn't hold her glass and sign at the same time, so their pace slowed even more to allow her to use her hands. And the more she drank, he noticed, the larger and wilder her gestures got and the more frequent her pauses between words. It was like the signing version of a drunken slur, and it was fucking awesome.
"I always loved learning how things work," she said; they were about halfway through the whiskey when he asked her about her career in engineering. "My dad was a mechanic, so he was always working on heavy equipment and he let me play with his tools all the time. I got the typical high school boy experience with my first car."
"You bought a piece of shit and fixed it up?" he asked.
"A '66 Dodge Coronet."
He whistled. "Sweet ride, doll."
"It would have been. Some guy ran a light and plowed into me junior year. Totalled it."
"Goddamn. That fucking sucks."
She nodded. "Got a station wagon after that. It was ugly, but it ran forever."
"Good point. Lot more room to get busy in the backseat, too."
She laughed and shook her head.
"Oh, don't tell me you never went parking, Miss Demolition Derby! I don't fucking believe you!"
"It's true!" Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright and slightly unfocused, but her hands moved with greater emphasis than ever. "I didn't even date until college!"
"No way, doll. You're fucking with me."
"It's true!"
"What, you mean a bunch of punk ass kids were scared of a girl who could work on cars and didn't have the balls to ask you out?"
"No, they did. I just didn't want to go out with anyone until I started dating my boyfriend."
"Holding out for Mr. Right?"
"No, I'm-" She stopped and hesitated before shrugging and taking another drink, then reached for a new sheet of paper. She closed her eyes for a moment, blinked several times in an effort to focus, then wrote, I'm demisexual.
Negan read the word several times, but it still held no meaning after four or five tries. "Sorry, Wendy darling," he said, "but what the fuck is that?"
I don't experience attraction the way others do, she answered. I have no urge to be intimate with someone unless I know them very well and like them a lot.
"Oh, hon, that's it?" he exclaimed. "For fuck's sake, I thought I was behind the times! That's just fucking normal!"
She shook her head very seriously. Not quite. It's like She stopped writing and stared into space, looking for words, and he busied himself with refilling their glasses. If you think someone is good-looking, you know pretty much right away if you want to have sex with them, right?
"All the fucking time, my dear," he said, tipping back his glass.
That never happens for me. I can appreciate them the way you'd appreciate a nice car or anything else you find pleasing to look at, but that's it. I feel no desire to sleep with someone based on looks alone.
"That's mighty noble of you. Beauty is only skin deep, and all that other bullshit."
She shook her head, wobbling slightly as the alcohol threw her off-center. That's not it. Just looking doesn't turn me on. You can't connect with somebody just by looking at them, and I don't get attracted without that connection.
Negan furrowed his brow in thought, trying through the fog of booze to understand what she was getting at. "You don't get horny unless you know somebody?"
It's not that black and white, but close enough.
"Huh. So I take it you're not the type of gal to put out on the first date..."
She shook her head. They had slowed down enough between drinks that he could see the liquor affecting her more and more. She was moving much slower, eyes red-rimmed and bleary. She looked like she could fall asleep right there at his desk. I could, she wrote, but I would be running purely on my sex drive, not because I was hot for my partner.
"Now that, at least, I can relate to."
She nodded, moving enough like a bobble head doll that he couldn't help but crack a smile. It's not that I don't get horny, just that it's rarely "for" anybody, if that makes sense. I got a lot of mileage out of solo sex and never went anywhere with someone else until I felt something for them that had nothing to do with sex, and then something clicked.
"I guess you were really into your boyfriend, then."
Yep. We were friends in high school, ended up being lab partners in college, and knew each other so well we could finish each other's sentences. He's one of the few people who bothered to learn ASL so we could talk to each other. We were working on something for our drafting class one day when he happened to lean against me for a second, reaching for a pencil, and that was it. My heart started racing, my hands started shaking. That was the first time I ever reacted that way to someone. She tapped the pen dreamily for a second, then went on, It's fine if it doesn't make sense. It's such a fine line that most people don't know it's there, choosing to be celibate as a personal decision and staying that way because it's how you're wired. I'm not trying to be special or anything, I just know that most people don't function this way. I don't even bother trying to explain the difference that much anymore.
"Then why me?" he asked.
She didn't see the question, staring off into space and looking zoned out.
He reached across the desk and briefly laid his hand on hers to get her attention, then signed, "Why did you tell me?"
She shrugged. "I trust you."
He sat staring at her, unsure how to respond, and she leaned forward onto the desk, burying her face into her folded arms and groaning loudly, totally oblivious to how much noise she was making.
The sound, innocent as she meant it, went straight through him, shooting through his veins to settle most unhelpfully in his crotch and he shifted in his chair to adjust himself, trying to be subtle about it. Class act, right there, his engineer piss drunk and miserable at his coercion and him sitting with a fucking boner because she had no idea what sounds she was making.
Just fucking great.
Well, they couldn't just sit there. The least he could do was get her to her own bed where she could sleep it off, and he still had inventory reports to go over. Trusting she was too out of it too notice what was going on in the whole fucking building, much less in his pants, he got to his feet and took a moment to let his head stop swimming at the movement before walking around the desk and putting a hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently."Come on, doll," he urged, "don't puss out on me yet..."
She released a huffy breath and didn't move, and he shook a little more insistently before reaching under her arms and hauling her to her feet. She grumbled, then moved to hold onto him and try to steady herself while she got her balance. "That's it, Wendy darling. We'll just take it slow."
They made their way to the door and he opened it to lead her out into the hallway, and she went to steps before halting and he saw what was happening just in time to stand clear before she leaned over and threw up.
He heaved a sigh. "Thanks for not puking in my office, doll," he muttered, though it occurred to him that her vomiting had effectively killed his hard-on. Small favors, and he would most certainly assign Travis to mopping up.
It took awhile for Wendy to tell him where her room was, but Negan got her there without further incident. She had a couple roommates, judging by the total of three cots in the cramped space, but neither of them were to be seen. Wendy moved automatically towards her own cot once they were inside and he followed along, still holding her steady. She lowered herself slowly onto the cot with a heavy sigh and stared straight up at the ceiling, looking nothing short of tragic.
He tapped her knee and when she turned to look at him he asked, "You okay, doll?"
She grimaced, but gave a thumbs up. He nodded and turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm to stop him and asked, "What about Travis?"
He paused to consider it for a moment, then answered, "You won. He's all yours."
She closed her eyes and gave a sigh of relief. He went to leave again and she added, "What are we going to do about the stock?"
He shrugged. "We'll worry about it when you're not shit faced."
She nodded, then hesitated before asking, "Can we keep our conversation between us? It's just that people can be really weird about it..."
He smiled and signed, "Your secret is safe with me, Wendy darling."
She smiled back and gave him another thumbs up.
Returning the gesture, he left the room and close the door behind him. It really felt like teaching again, breaking up fights in the yard, settling disputes between students, even playing counselor to one coming out of the closet.
Was that what it was? He'd had a few gay kids before, but they were, well, different. It was black and white with them, the boys who were into other boys and the girls into girls. Everything Wendy told him sat in more of a gray area; she was straight, but...fuck, a straight that was specific to certain individuals? Her motor didn't run at all unless someone had a key?
Hell, maybe that was a good fucking analogy, comparing her to the machinery she loved so much. Except she probably wouldn't appreciate him insinuating she was some kind of automaton. He chuckled. She'd probably cuss him out some more.
Well, whatever the fuck she chose to call herself, whoever she decided to get freaky with and why, one thing he learned from those kids he taught was that coming out could be a huge fucking risk and doing so could mean marking yourself for discrimination. Those kids didn't need him pushing opinions and judgments onto them, they needed to be taken seriously. And shit. None of those kids were drunk. They chose to tell someone about their orientation. Wendy might not have spilled the beans if she'd been sober, and while he might not understand "demisexual," he at least understood that mocking her for it when she might otherwise never have said a word was the biggest asshole move he could make. It didn't even change anything, as far as he was concerned. She was still a fucking genius. But, he resolved, he was going to have to crack down if, when, and as soon as he heard about people "being weird."
But first, he decided as he headed to the infirmary, she had to sober up. And aspirin and water was the least he could do for her.
Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your thoughts :)