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bring-forth-his-sac · 7 days ago

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The Christmas Party - Chapter 1

Summary: Your first year at Alexandria High is going smoothly, until you accidentally offer to plan the staff Christmas party. To make matters worse? You're stuck planning it with the one person you made a terrible first impression on; Negan.

Tags: Modern AU, Teacher AU, Gossip, Swearing, Pet Names, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: ok this is partially based on how common Negan's surname is... I mean, Smith?! Really??? Also I have written this very fast and there are many more chapters to come. My plan is to have it complete by Christmas Eve so hopefully you stay tuned until then!!

You tend to avoid Negan Smith. From what you’ve heard, there isn’t a good reason to go near the man. Womanizer. Loudmouth. Curses like a sailor and a professional at ghosting.

But, the job of a teacher sometimes means dealing with people you don’t like. Whether that be talking to a parent who’s convinced their child is a saint or, like in this case, him .

You haven’t even made it to the Christmas break yet and you’re about to knock heads with another teacher. Great. You suppose this is a good thing considering you’ve managed to make it past Halloween unscathed.

Still, it’s not a good look to be confronting another teacher in your first year at a new job, especially when he has taught here for years. You sigh, hand automatically raising to block the surprisingly warm rays of the Winter sun as you scan the track and field.

Ew. Sports. Or more specifically, track. You've never understood appeal to any sports, whether to participate, watch or worse; teach.

With it being midday already, the field is quite busy, with more students mulling around than you anticipated. Some kids sit on the grass surrounding the running track, lacing up sneakers and complaining about upcoming tests.

On the far side of the track, a smaller group of students mess with the plastic javelins that are stuck in the ground, bouncing them back and forth to see how far they’ll bend. You know you should probably tell them to stop and that it’s some kind of safety hazard to be messing with them but this isn’t your class.

If it was in the classroom then of course you’d tell them to stop to save your own skin, but out here, you can pretend to have not noticed the incessant messing they’re doing.

On the actual track is where the bulk of students are, running at a good pace while getting yelled at by some middle aged man with a whistle. The joys of high school.

It takes a certain kind of person to be a teacher, you should know. But to teach gym ? Yeah, that’s some sociopathic shit.

You watch as who you assume is Coach Smith yells at one of the quieter kids to keep up. Well, he’s definitely living up to the loudmouth tag he’s been labelled with.

But that’s not all he has a reputation for. Negan happened to be some of the first gossip you got when you moved here. Well, you’d call it gossip. Others might say it was a cautionary tale or a straight out warning.

Word on the corridor is that he's basically tasked himself to sleep with every female teacher, adding more notches to his bedpost and undoubtedly collecting diseases as if they’re baseball cards.

“You…” the sudden voice catches you off guard, snapping you out of your thoughts as another teacher approaches “do not look like you belong here”.

Another one of the gym teachers, oh goodie.

Considering the size of the school, there were three in total; Coach Smith aka the town bike, the other coach who teaches basketball and another new teaching addition who deals with the tennis and badminton teams. Despite not knowing the new coach, you’d like to think there’s an unspoken alliance between you two since you’re both newbies this year.

Unfortunately, luck isn’t on your side today and it’s the one that teaches basketball that approaches you

You put your best generic smile on and shrug. “Yeah, I’m more at home in the classroom,” you agree ��I’m the new teacher for Literacy studies”.

He shook his head in response “No fuckin’ kidding, English teacher, eh? They’ll slap a fancy title on anything nowadays”.

You give a small laugh in response, subtly glancing around to make sure none of the kids are in earshot. And you thought you had a potty mouth.

“And why’re you out here? Checking out what the coaches have to offer?” he comments with a hint of amusement, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he casually leans back against nothing but air, tilting his tall frame.

“Oh I just need a quick word with Coach Smith,” you gesture in the direction of the running teacher, ignoring the latter half of his question.

“About?”.

You try not to let his crass or nosiness annoy you. Pushing down your slight irritation, you keep your smile in place “Just a mix up with a student we both have… he stayed late at one of my classes because we had a test, then he was late for gym, got detention, you know the drill”.

‘Now please fuck off ,’ you so desperately want to add to the end of that sentence, but bit your tongue.

“And what?” the hint of a smirk begin to grace his face “You’re here to get the kid off the hook?”.

“Well, it was my class that kept him behind,” you reply, keeping your gaze on Coach Smith.

That’s all you were going to say but even with your eyes focused on the other coach, you could sense the man beside you practically sizing you up. A flutter of panic pangs at your heart and for a brief moment, you wonder if this other coach thinks you’re being incompetent, or that you’re somehow in the wrong.

“I mean, I did give Henry a note explaining why he was late but obviously that wasn’t enough for Coach Smith” you’re starting to ramble and the worst part is, you know it.

He hums in response, nodding as if he knows all too well “So he’s being a real jackass, huh?”.

“Uh-huh, jackass” you agree, before quietly mumbling “along with a few other things”.

You know it’s time to stop talking now. The last thing you want is to ramble on about things that are none of your business.

“Oh?” that piques his interest.

“Well, y’know… word travels fast and all that,” that rational part of your brain begs you to stay vague “small town gossip spreads like wildfire”.

“And I am just dying to know what that small town gossip is” he turns his face to you fully, giving you his undivided attention.

Being truthful, it’s intense. His gaze is welcoming and yet it’s as if he’s waiting for you to slip up, to say the wrong thing so he can swoop in to defend his colleague.

“Oh it’s nothing really,” you quickly backtrack, every fibre in your body screaming how it’s a bad idea to gossip about another teacher “just stupid hearsay”.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” the man coaxes “let me indulge a little”.

Shrugging, you look back at Coach Smith who’s still in the middle of a class and with no intention of stopping anytime soon.

Don’t do it. It’s not worth it… but can it really be considered gossip when it’s true?

“I’ve just been told it’s best to stay away” you answer honestly.

“ Me-ow !” he punctuates the word, a large grin on his face and undeniably revelling in the small nugget of information “is there a cat fight on the horizon? One of the other teacher’s already got her claws in him?”.

You laughs at that, mostly out of shock. “Not that I would know,” you reply “but by the sounds of it, he’s got enough claws in him as it is”.

A surprised look spreads across the coach’s face, eyebrows raised and mouth slacking open as he uses his thumb to point to Smith, mouthing “Him? Really?”.

You nod. This is going better than expected. A part of you presumed all gym teachers would be macho men with zero personality but this one’s actually charismatic. “Guess they really call him coach for a reason,” you jibe, watching as the man’s face shifts into confusion.

“And why’s that?”.

“Well from what I’ve heard, he’s definitely surpassed the status of player… though he’s probably riddled with… y’know” you raise your eyebrows, hoping the insinuation alone would be enough to get your point across.

He chuckles, glancing back at his colleague with a sigh “His poor wife”.

By now, it looks like Coach Smith is slowing to a halt, his students quickly following suit. About time. Though he’s not completely done yet, giving his class a rundown of the lesson and squirting water into his mouth from a water bottle he’s holding a little too high above his head.

“Yeah,” you sigh solemnly “I heard about that”.

This piece of information was also included in your warning. Apparently Coach Smith’s wife died a few years back. Cancer. And that’s what subsequently led to his quest to fuck anything that a) has a pulse and b) has a vag.

Damn, maybe you really are a gossip.

"It's pretty awful, though," you mutter without thinking, continuing to ramble "I mean, from what I've heard, her side of the bed wasn't even cold and he was already crawling into the beds of other women”.

The man watches you intently, his expression growing flat and unreadable. That’s the shift you feared—the ‘you’ve said too much’ look settling into place.

“But I-“ you’re about to continue, hoping to seem more genuine in your regards when the newest coach appears.

“Sir! Sir! Have you moved the javelins? I was supposed to use them for my ’Aerodynamics in Training’ lesson but they’re not in the storage room” he blurts out as if this is a national disaster.

The man puts up a hand to stop him “Fa–, Joey , can you not see I’m in the middle of something? And the fuck did I tell you about calling me sir all the damn time?”.

Joey, or well, Coach Joey, stumbles over his words before replying, his eyes darting between the two of them “Oh! Oh, I am so sorry sir– uh, Coach Smith,”.

You’re not too sure what Joey said after that, your brain pausing for a moment to process his words. That can’t be right. Not when Mr Jones, the economics teacher specifically pointed at the Ken doll that’s still giving the exhausted teenages a pep talk and said that that’s Coach Smith.

“Coach what?” you blurt, unsure whether you’ve just interrupted Joey or not. You’re surprised the words actually came out coherent, your throat growing tighter by the second.

“Smith” Joey replies without missing a beat. The other man stays quiet and frankly, you refuse to look his way, not wanting to see the look on his face.

“What?” your generic smile graces your face yet again, a defence mechanism to hopefully stop any genuine facial expressions from leaking out “But I thought… over there… that’s Coach Smith”.

Joey gives you a reassuring smile “It’s ok, it confused me too when I got here”.

That still doesn’t answer your question.

“He’s Coach Mark Smith,” Joey points passed the two of them and to the Ken doll “and then this is Coach Negan Smith”. He tries to put his hand on Negan’s upper arm but he quickly shrugs him off, gaze trying to catch yours.

You refuse to meet that gaze, the reality of your fuck up sinking in. While numerous responses whizz around your head, you fail to vocalise any, instead opting to stand there utterly dumbfounded.

Joey doesn’t notice and laughs to himself “It’s confusing, I know but it gets easier when you just associate Coach Smith with Mark and Coach Negan with… haha, well with Negan”.

Your mouth opens but you have no idea what to say or where to ever start. Not that it matters because you’re cut off by the alleged Coach (Negan) Smith.

“Or if that doesn’t suit, you can always tell us apart with him being the clean one and me being… What did you say again? Riddled?”.

Oh dear God no.

That makes your look at him, your eyes wide with sheer embarrassment. “What?” Joey speaks up.

The look in Negan’s eye isn’t one of offence or even annoyance. He’s more pleased that he’s caught you in such an elaborate snare, a glimmer of playfulness in his intense stare that tests you endlessly. Before you can even process what to do, your instincts kick in and you use your best teacher voice to say “Henry won’t be going to detention today. He was late and that’s on me, not him so leave him be”.

Turning on your heels, you quickly walk off and disappear back inside the school building. You don’t look back as you walk away, unwilling to look at the man you were just badmouthing to his face again.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Mondays are usually good days but considering your earlier mishap, you‘re beginning to doubt that. Thankfully, you have a few classes off so you can spend your time overthinking your recent mistake.

Propping your head up with your hands, you look around the classroom you can now call your own. It’s one of the older rooms in the school, a bit drafty but yours nonetheless.

With a quick knock at the door, the skeptical face of Ms. Peletier enters your peripheral vision. “Hi! Is it just you in here?,” she asks in a cheery voice, waltzing into the room.

You give a silent nod and she drops the act.

“I don’t know why I do this to myself. I mean, the kids… it’s like they’re getting more annoying” she huffs, pulling up a chair.

Ms. Peletier, the home ec teacher usually stops by on Mondays. She has a free period at the same time as you and likes to use it venting about how much she hates kids, but also enjoys teaching them and then realizes that maybe she actually likes her job.

It’s a love hate relationship.

But today you’re not as eager to listen. “Have I entered the Twilight Zone?” she does another quick glance, double checking there’s no lingering teacher or student outside “Where’s the bubbly ‘Hi Carol!’ that makes me want to rip my hair out?”.

Bringing her attention back to the statue that is you, an eyebrow quirks up “Are you… moping right now?”.

“It’s been a rough morning” you admit.

“How so?”.

“I bad mouthed another teacher,” you grimace as you explain “to the teacher”.

That doesn’t make sense to Carol, her head tilting to the side like a confused puppy “Huh?”.

You explain the situation briefly: a kid in your class stayed late because of a test but he had gym class afterwards. Despite you giving him a note explaining the delay, Negan gave him detention anyway.

Carol nods along, listening intently.

“And he told me his gym teacher was Coach Smith, so in my head I was like ‘fuck, ok, this is the infamous womanizer guy’ ”.

“No, you’re getting them mixed up that’s-” Carol stops when she sees the look you give her, vaguely beginning to understand where this story is going.

“Well I didn’t realise that and while I was waiting for Coach Smith as in Mark Smith, I was talking to Coach Smith the second, aka Coach Negan” you want to end the story there and save yourself from reliving the trauma.

“Ahhhh,” Carol leans back in her seat, drumming her fingers on the desk that separated them. She gives you a laid back smile “Did he ask you out? Is that where this is heading?”.

You suppress a sigh “No, I started talking about what I thought I knew about Coach Smith but it was actually information I had on Coach Negan Smith and I basically called him a man-whore to his face”.

Carol's face turns blank as she tries to yet again process this. “There’s no way I’m hearing this right” she concludes, though the small shine of amusement in her eyes lets you know that she is in fact computing what she’s hearing.

Deciding you may as well throw this grenade out there too, you add “Oh and I said he’s awful for screwing around right after his wife died”. Now that bomb almost makes the eyes bulge out of Carol’ head.

“You what?” she splutters, losing all composure.

“It wasn’t like anything bad, I didn't do it mockingly-”.

“ Mockingly ? Oh, you just don’t think, do you?” Whatever sense of amusement that was in Carol’s eyes is overtaken with panic.

“No! No, not mockingly, just like— casually, but obviously I wouldn’t have said it if I knew I was in front of a widower” you hurriedly clarifies “it’s not my fault it’s so confusing with all the Smith’s here!!”.

Carol sinks her head into her hands “Oh god”.

After a moment of silence, she collects herself “So you’re never going near the gym hall or track and field again, right?”.

“Never,” you swiftly confirm “not talking to either Smith after this too… actually I think this is a good excuse to avoid gyms in general”.

Carol smiles at that, leaving the wave of panic subside. “Oh! Actually,” she takes out her phone “I keep meaning to add you to the teacher group chat. It’s awful and mainly it’s Gregory complaining about one thing or another but I’ll add you anyways!”.

A few seconds later and your phone buzzes: “You have been added to: Alexandria High’s Teacher Midlife Crisis Support Line”.

“Oh… well, that’s a cheery name,” you tilt your head “that’s… good?”.

Carol gives a small laugh as she stands, slipping her phone back into her pocket “Well, we can’t all be as creative as you Ms Literacy Studies”. You laugh, rolling your eyes as she leaves and the bell rings. Maybe today won’t be that bad. You hope that the bad start to the day just means the day will end on a high.

But you’re wrong.

By the time your last class rolls around, everything is calm. You’ve told Henry he’s off the hook for detention, no one is acting up in your classes and there’s been no gym teachers around. Everything was calm.

“Alright guys,” you announce to the class, glancing at the clock “how’s about you start that grammar worksheet for the last ten minutes of class? If you get it done now then no homework for the night but if not, make sure it’s done by tomorrow”.

The class immediately starts, mumbling chatter and the sounds of rummaging pencil cases filling the room.

You look to the clock again, as if it’ll magically have moved at least five minutes. It hasn’t. But that’s ok, ten more minutes until freedom. You can do that.

“Knock knock” an unfamiliar voice enters, catching both you and your students off guard. A few heads look up to the door but none match the ‘oh fuck’ expression that is plastered across your face.

What makes it worse is that he knows it too, basking in your reaction. You try to hide your expression, quickly masking it but the smug look you’re met with tells you it’s too late for that.

“Coach Negan,” you greet, getting it right this time “what can I do for you?”.

“I’m sure there’s plenty you could do for me” he moves deeper into the room, taking no notice of the students and shooting you a promiscuous grin you ignore.

Making his way over to your desk, he takes his time peering around at the various trinkets that litter the surface: a mug that says “I’d rather be reading” filled with different pens, a colourful stapler, an empty bowl that was filled with sweets about a week ago, and a stress ball.

“No sweet treats going?” he asks teasingly “well besides the obvious”. Negan winks at you, making your face scrunch up with a mixture of confusion and repugnance.

“Is there a reason why you’re here, Coach?” this time you raise your voice a little more, hoping to remind him of the other ears in the room that are undoubtedly listening in.

Concluding that you won’t take the bait that easily, Negan gives you a firm nod “Just hear to let you know detention starts at four o’ five”.

Your eyes go to the students, most of which are focusing on their work. Of course there are some nosy ones that are hanging onto their every word, loving the idea of hearing some juicy teacher gossip. Oh god. The very reminder of gossip makes you want to shiver.

Lowering your voice to a whisper, you lean across the desk “I already told you, Henry won’t be attending detention today”.

You debate saying more but with Negan, simplicity seems to be key. The less you say then the less he has to pick apart or use against you in some taunting way.

“I know, I know,” he concedes “you got some big ol’ lady balls for practically demanding I let him off the hook… and for some of the other shit you said”.

Oh for fuck’s sake. Your eyes go wide but you manage to give him a glare as you scan the class, hoping no one heard him. Unfortunately, going off the number of smirks the kids are trying to hide by looking down at their worksheet, they heard.

You want to argue back, tell him off for using such language in front of the kids you’re in charge of for the next seven minutes but instead, you take a breath.

After all, you catch more flies with honey.

“And I would like to apologise for what I said,” you keep her voice low, just because Negan has no problem with the kids hearing his side of the conversation doesn’t mean they get to hear your response “what I said was completely inappropriate and insensitive, I’m really sorry and-“.

Looking at his watch, Negan acts as if you aren’t even speaking let alone issuing him an apology. “Oh shit, would you look at that, I’ve got to shoot but remember,�� he loudly slaps his hands against the desk, poorly creating rhythm as he heads back to the door “you got detention at four o’ five”.

He goes to leave but you speak up again “Wait, what? Me?”.

“Yeah, you're on detention duty” he casually replies.

No, you’re not. That kind of thing gets rostered usually at the monthly staff meetings and considering this is your first year here, they’re yet to bestow such a vital job upon you.

“No I haven’t been scheduled for that-“ you’re seriously getting pissed with how much this guy interrupts you.

“Yes, you are, honey,” he says as if this is well known information “so don’t be late”.

And with that, Negan disappears, leaving you more confused than before. At least he didn’t seem that pissed at you for your previous comments. Still, you don't understand how you didn’t know beforehand that you’re on detention duty or why Negan of all people would willingly seek you out to remind you.

Before you can contemplate it too much, the bell goes and you reboot yourself back into teacher mode.

Once everyone has packed up and left, you let out a long huff, packing up your own belongings before heading to the designated classroom for detention. With the rush of bustling kids wanting to leave, you’re able to get there fast, weaving through the current and into the barren classroom.

Going over to the old cabinet that’s tucked away in the corner, you find the clipboard full of the names of the attendees. You skim it haphazardly, seeing if you recognise any of the names before plonking down at the desk at the top of the room. Although one of your student’s older sisters is supposed to show up, no one that you directly teach is listed, which gives you a strange sense of pride.

Pulling out your phone, your attention span forgets about the clipboard in no time. Just as you do, the phone buzzes in your hand, lighting up with a notification from Alexandria High’s Teacher Midlife Crisis Support Line.

Gregory: Friendly reminder, do not park your vehicles in other people’s spots.

Some students filter into the hall, avoiding eye contact despite the small smile you give each of them. Unsurprisingly, none of them are in a talking mood and take their seats, pulling out homework or some study material to occupy their hour with.

Paul J Monroe : good idea, stop parking in my spot

You move your hand up to cover the smirk tugging at your lips. Gregory, the vice principal, isn't known for his popularity. His entire personality is marked by his distinct sense of entitlement and self-perseveration. It’s baffling that he somehow ended up as vice principal when his leadership style is rooted in only helping himself.

Scrolling through the list of members on the group chat, you recognize a fair amount of names. Of course Carol and Mr Monroe, the counsellor, are in there. The likes of Ms Espinosa the geography and Spanish teacher is there too, as is Mr Abrams the music teacher, both Coach Smiths and surprisingly the Chaplin, Father Stokes, is there too. Unfortunately, most of the names you don’t know, having not done much socialising since getting here.

Sasha: there was a Christmas lights installation van parked across my spot and Rosita’s, will they be there again tomorrow?

Rosita: if it’s there tomorrow I’m slashing its tires

Rosita: that’s a joke

Gregory: I hired them, they’ll be here all week to make things more festive

While waiting to see how the others react to that, you look back at the clipboard, your gaze hardening as you look to the very top of the page. There, in black ink, is the date, followed by which school week this is and finally, the name of the teacher on duty.

And guess what, it sure as shit isn’t your name up there.

If it isn’t for the room full of kids, you would be swearing out loud, having to bite your tongue to stop the words from actually coming out.

That motherfucker. That sly, riddled and sleazy motherfucker. The name Coach N. Smith is at the top of the page with a horizontal line next to it for him to sign, proving that he did actually show up and do his damn job. Yanking your phone back up, you stew silently and watch the messages flow.

Rosita: ur shitting me

Sasha: why weren’t we told about this?!

Gregory: this can be discussed tomorrow

Sasha: discussed tomorrow while they’re parked in our spots AGAIN?

Aaron: Does anyone know where we’re going for the Christmas party? Is it still on for next Friday? Need to hire a babysitter haha :)

Rosita: Gregory?? Reply??

Scrolling to the top of the group chat, you tap to see its members, noticing how it says Gregory is now offline. Typical. Thankfully, Aaron’s message moves the conversation in a new direction and teachers begin to lightly debate whether they should go to the Kingdom for the staff Christmas Party or if they should venture further afield.

Amber: can we not go back to the Kingdom? Pretty sure I got food poisoning last year :S

Gregory: budget for Christmas party is very low this year, if anyone can plan it for next Friday then it can still go ahead.

Rosita: what about our parking spaces? Hello???????

Rosita is once again ignored by Gregory and the topic of the Christmas party stays. You know you shouldn’t be getting such entertainment from this but watching as the teachers try to assert their points, shooting down what the others have to stay while simultaneously trying to stay as polite as possible provides some great amusement.

And, it’s extremely passive aggressive. Oh, what joy.

One of your favourite moments is the science teacher Mr Porter’s response when Gregory struck down his idea of making the Christmas Party a weekend getaway to the closest city.

Eugene: For clarification, are you suggesting the staff members in this here group chat don’t have the sufficient financial funds to rent a hotel room for a night or two?

You want to let out a low ‘ooooo’ noise as if you’re watching a sports game. In all honesty, if you weren’t supervising detention, you probably would be making gleeful noises as you read each text. Gregory ignores Mr Porter’s accusation and instead proposes his own idea.

Gregory: Having it at the school is the best opton, everyone can get there and it’s big enough

You presume that’s a spelling mistake on his part. The next text comes from one of the Coach Smith’s, the one you haven’t badmouthed.

Mark: The gym hall can definitely fit everyone

When you see Mark’s name pop up along with the thumbs up emoji he adds to his text, you go into your options for him, deciding to set yourself a little reminder of who’s who.

Mark (Coach Smith): but I’ll be taking next week off for vacay

Sherry: who’s the new number that’s been added ?

“Miss?” You look up as a student approaches with a bored face “can I borrow a pen? Or even a pencil?”.

“Oh sure!” You perk up, dropping your phone on to your lap so the student can’t see. The last thing you need is to be the teacher who leaked the mere idea of a teacher group chat being real.

Hurriedly typing out your awkward introductory message of yourself to the group, you send it and focus on helping the student. Taking out your little pencil case, you begin rummaging around for a pen you wouldn’t mind a student ruining.

Mark (Coach Smith): so someone else will have to help Negan set up the gym if we decide to have the party there

Sherry: oh are you the new English teacher?? I haven’t had a chance to meet you yet! hi!

After selecting a black pen, you pause, eyeing the kid with suspicion. “Wait… you spent the whole day at school without a pen or pencil?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

You look down at your messages as the student stalls to answer, rocking back and forth on his heels. There’s a strange socially awkward panic that bubbles in you when you see the new message, knowing you can’t be rude and start texting again when dealing with a student.

But at the same time, the longer you stall in answering, the more you’re convinced you’re coming across as being rude to the group chat.

The kid just shrugs “Yeah.”

“How is that even possible?” you start to ask, but the words fade as your phone buzzes again.

With a silent sigh, you hand the pen over, offering it a quiet farewell. Picking up your phone a little too eagerly, you type out a fast response to Sherry’s question.

You: Yes!! :)

Ok, maybe you went a little overkill with the exclamation points and the smiley face but that’s where panic gets ya. Now that the rush is over, you swipe your finger up a little to look at the message you missed.

Gregory: anyone willing to help plan the Christmas party?

Oh fuck. Your stomach drops as you read the order of messages again. Mark saying he’ll be gone, offering up the gym for the staff Christmas party while knowing full well he’s gone the week leading up to it and won't even be attending.

Sherry asking if you’re the new English teacher.

Gregory, who would rather ask others to help rather than offer any help himself, wondering if someone else can help set up the party.

And then you, enthusiastically texting in a yes. Fuck. Please no. No, no, no. That message was in response to Sherry's message!

You put your phone on the table, screen facing down as you lean back in your chair. This can’t be happening. The last person you want to be around is Negan, never mind plan a goddamn Christmas party with him!

You take some deep breaths, hoping that your message won’t be misread. Surely, it won’t be, not to anyone who was actually paying attention to the different conversations happening.

It buzzes again, louder this time as it vibrates off the table. You don’t want to pick it up. You don’t want to see what it is and yet you still reach for it. Slowly flipping your phone to see the screen, there’s only one new message from the group chat.

It’s Gregory, calling you by your teacher name as he replies…

Gregory: great! I’ll leave it to you and Negan to sort out the finer details

———

Read Chapter 2 here!

gif made from scenepack provided by harleys.scenes on insta <3

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spacechip707 · 2 months ago

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Sweet Wishes

Summary: When MC presents him with the first birthday cake he’s had in decades, Xavier finds his emotional defenses wrecked.

A slight AU to the cake scene for Xavier’s bday event. Fluff and sugar ahead.

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A/N: Xavier’s bday week isn’t over yet!! So please enjoy this quick little Love and Deepspace AU fic because I wanted him to cry at some point during the event.

Dedicating this little fic to my twin and bestie @my-soul-sings as a thank you for resurrecting me out of the writer’s block grave <3

Also available to read here on Ao3!

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It’s the cake that destroys him.

Out of the countless Wanderers and battles he’d faced, out of all the failed attempts to find her, the pain he’d felt then had only fueled him to press forward. To what?

He hadn’t known.

Even when this girl appeared in the no hunt zone like an angel from his dreams, he knew it wasn’t her. So he refused to allow himself to feel anything more than a quiet fondness.

For decades, he’d kept distant from most people. They were temporary factors in his existence, doomed to disappear or fall away with the turn of a new generation.

But MC…

There was no magnanimous event that caused the shift within him. Rather, her little gestures gradually whittled away at his centuries-old shield without his knowing.

It was the mundane afternoon calls, asking what he ate or wondering if he’d like to join her for a walk. The glimmer in her eyes when they played cards was another contributor, a tell-tale sign of her good-hand. When Xavier felt especially generous, he’d let her win just to hear her laugh, even at his expense.

Maybe worst of all were the random encounters—at the store, on the bus, while hunting. Her face would visibly brighten to the point Xavier often debated if he’d subconsciously manipulated his own Evol just to emphasize her wonder. It was as if seeing him were the highlight of her entire life.

All of it deconstructed his defenses, culminating to this single point in time. The final blow.

“Wh-what’s this?” he stammers out when she retrieves a lighter from her pocket.

She stares at him with feign disbelief. “You’re not so old that you don’t know what a candle on cake is, right?”

He never disclosed his age, and he is old, so he could certainly play into that.

But he can’t manage it, even as a joke. His chest is tightening too quickly as she lowers the flame onto the wick. The last time he’d had a cake in front of him…a candle…she was there too. Well, not her, but…

“Happy Birthday to you,” she begins to sing slightly off key with a synchronized tap of her fingers. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Xav…”

His unfinished name drifts into the air as she catches a glimpse of his face in the moonlight. Her eyes widen in panic. He’s confused until he finally gets a grip on his present reality and notices the purple and white fondant blurring together in his vision.

“Are you—are you crying?” she says before hurriedly grappling at some nearby napkins.

As if the acknowledgment breaks an internal dam, tears begin to spill freely onto his cheeks. He makes no effort to stop them, mostly because he’s stupefied by their existence. A breathy laugh catches in his throat when MC dabs a napkin against his now damp face.

“It’s not that…” he tries before his voice wavers. His face heats with MC’s concern anchored upon him, the soaked cloth clenched in her fists. “I’m sorry—you can finish singing.”

Her eyes search his in an agonizing stretch of vulnerable silence. She’s young, and unlike him, memories of years past…lives past…don’t dim the sparkle in them.

“I hear a lot of people get the birthday blues,” she says quietly, her hand lifting to gently rest atop his head. “It’s normal to feel like time is going too fast or that you’re behind.”

The irony of the statement slams into him, and more moisture accumulates at the edges of his lashes. Time was often the source of his loneliness, but not in the way she was thinking.

Alarm flashes across her features again as she swipes another tissue against his face. “Ah! Sorry, I’m so bad at this,” she says, stepping closer.

His hands catch her wrists, stopping her frantic ministrations midway. “MC,” he says, another breath of laughter escaping him at the sight of her distress on his account. “I’m not sad, I promise.”

The pang in his chest is painful, but it’s tenderness, not melancholy, that causes the sensation.

“But— “ she begins before her shoulders deflate. “I didn’t want to make you cry.”

It’s almost said as an apology—an unnecessary one. Xavier had grown more indifferent about his birthday with every passing year. It wasn’t until MC insisted they did something other than read a book did he realize how her strains of affection had wriggled their way into his head.

For the first time in years, he was enjoying this day. Not that he wanted to celebrate himself…rather, he wanted to celebrate with her.

The chair creaks against the cement as he stands, his hands still clutching hers. With a light tug, she loses her balance and staggers forward into his chest. He envelops her in his arms, savoring her touch when she relaxes into his embrace.

“I’m grateful,” he says after a long moment, her hair soft against his face. “That was all.”

It’s insufficient for what he’s actually feeling. A memory tugs at the back of his mind, and even if it’s far off, he remembers it vividly.

It invokes the smell of vanilla and flowers, the comfortable heat of the mellow sun on his cheeks, and an inexplicable warmth that blossoms from his chest.

His gaze sweeps over his current surroundings, littered with the little details she’d prepared these last few days, and he’s aware of the direct contrasts.

Chocolate instead of vanilla. Paper lantern stars among the potted flowers. The moon instead of the sun beaming down on them.

However, that warmth is very much the same.

Thank you for letting me relive it, he thinks, unable to articulate his gratitude aloud.

She loosens herself from his hold just enough to look up at him. Her focus flickers to his lips, and his usually slow heartbeat quickens in response.

She presses onto her tiptoes to brush her nose against his. “Happy Birthday, Xavier,” she finishes, barely above a whisper.

Allowing his eyelids to flutter shut, he relishes in the splendor of the next few seconds. Her closeness and the brush of her fingers against the nape of his neck leave him chasing his next breath.

But before Xavier can close the meer centimeters left, the saccharine scent around them turns acrid.

His eyes snap open to meet MC’s own stunned expression.

“The candle!” she gasps as they both whirl towards the forgotten cake. A pool of wax bubbles at the center and only a small stub of wick remains lit.

MC shoves him haphazardly back into his seat, tapping his shoulder wildly. “Just hurry and make a wish!”

Xavier’s mind draws a blank as he finds himself facing the cake once more. With all the years he’d lived, he should have a long list of desires, and yet in this very moment, his heart is full.

Still, he squeezes his eyes shut and blows out sharply. The weak flame vanishes into a thin trail of smoke.

MC softly claps her hands together before coming around the table. Xavier leans forward to observe the details of the cake now that tears weren’t obscuring his vision. Purple streaks swirl through the white cream, and the delicate gold dust scattered throughout reflects the glittering constellations overhead.

“Did you make it yourself?” he asks, though the answer is obvious by the half-squished fondant star in the corner.

MC nods proudly. Her confidence only wanes when her eyes fall on the puddle of half-dried wax cratering the icing in the center. A defeated sigh drifts from her lips. “Xavier, I think baked goods tremble when they see you—and you didn’t even make this one.”

“Maybe I’m a legendary monster in their world,” he says seriously, pleased by the soft chuckle he elicits from the girl. His attention flicks to her briefly before returning to her diligent fingers extracting the wax. “It’s pretty either way.”

MC hums in disagreement. “The icing on top made it prettier.”

With a small spoon, she swipes a lump of sugary fluff from one of the corners and pops it in her mouth. “It still tastes good though—so that’s all that matters.”

A remnant of the white icing is smudged against the edge of her mouth, but Xavier says nothing, electing to commit the image to memory instead.

Still oblivious to her appearance, she collects another scoop from a different side and extends it out to him. “Want to taste it?”

Xavier’s lips lift in a small smile as his gaze trails from her hand up to her face. Those tendrils of affection are winding inside of his chest again, only tightening their hold at the brilliant luster reflected in her eyes.

She was looking at him like that again, her entire countenance brightening as she waited expectantly. He was accustomed to being a loner—a shadow passing through the crowd before disappearing into a flash of light.

But now, she was aware of him. More than that, she was anticipating his reaction, his thoughts, his feelings—and not just because it was his birthday.

It was…overwhelming.

Unable to stop himself, Xavier rises to his feet, not quite sure what he wants to do or say. However, when he peers down at her again, his body acts before his mind can catch up.

Swooping forward, he catches her mouth with his own.

Immediately, he is bombarded with her intense sweetness.

She tastes like sugar and stars and lavender—as if all the promises she’d adorned on him that day lingered on her lips, reaffirming her vows even as she melts into him.

At her returned fervor, his smile unfurls the kiss, a result of his physical inability to contain his bliss any longer.

“It’s very sweet,” he murmurs into the meager space between them. His thumb traces the outline of her jaw and brushes away the little bit of icing he hadn’t caught.

When he meets her gaze again, her countenance is radiating with fondness just as it had at the fountain.

“Do you want to know what I wished before?” he says, suddenly feeling flustered by her rapt attention.

Her expression contorts into stern frown. She steps back, though she can’t go far with his hands greedily holding their grip at her waist. “No! If you tell me, it won’t come true.”

Xavier hums thoughtfully, bumping her nose with his own. “Then can I tell you what I didn’t wish for?”

She falters a moment before pursing her lips. It’s obvious her curiosity is winning over her superstition. “I guess that’s alright.”

A chuckle scrapes past Xavier’s throat, but he schools his giddiness, clasping his hands together over the small of her back.

“I didn’t wish not to revisit the sea of flowers with you next year,” he says. “And I didnt wish not to watch a real meteor shower with you. And I desperately did not wish not to spend every birthday I have left in time with you.”

A soft pink dusts her cheeks, growing deeper with every “not wish”. Her hands cup his face and she gives him several tight squishes—as she tends to do often.

“Don’t tell me you wasted your wish on that,” she says, her voice noticeably strained. “I promised you those things, so I’ll make sure it happens.”

“A wish on you is never wasted,” Xavier returns, pulling from her hold lest she assault him further. “Besides, those are my true feelings, and really…it’s all I want.”

MC releases his face to wrap her arms around his neck once more. “That’s all you want?” She raises a brow. “Even more than those ugly pictures of me back?”

He rolls his eyes.

“They’re not ugly,” he insists, though he grows solemn at the smirk that pulls at her mouth. “But I do want those back.”

“It would be a shame if they got lost.”

“I won’t let you borrow anything again,” he threatens knowing full well he’d lend her his very life source if she asked.

Her shoulders shake in a fit of giggles before she rests her head against his chest. Though there’s no music, they begin to sway to a melody only their tied souls seem to hear.

“Fine. Think of it as your second to last birthday gift,” she murmurs after awhile.

“I think you’ve showered me with enough today,” he says. “Though…why second to last?”

MC lifts her head as they slow to a stop, her expression more somber and sincere. “I’m cashing in my wish early,” she explains, her fingers fiddling with the lapel of his blazer. “For the meteor shower we’ll see in the future.”

“And what’s that?” Xavier pauses. “I mean…what’s your not-wish?”

Her lips quirk upwards at the joke before she lets out an unsteady breath. Her eyes lift to his, drenching him with her fierce conviction. “I wish you all the happiness in the world, Xavier. And not just in this one. Every world out there…every planet, every universe—I wish you happiness in each one.”

His throat is constricting again, and maybe a few more tears leak from his barely dried eyes, but it’s okay. With all the smiling and laughter throughout the day, a few bouts of crying was justified.

However, it seemed that MC’s wish would be granted early.

Because as they sit under the stars and eat sugary cake—and even as they pull pieces of wax from their mouths with heady laughter—Xavier feels his chest fill with the warmth of the sun.

Whether this would be his last birthday or the first of many more celebrations, he would hold fast to this memory with everything inside of him.

Because in this exact moment in time and space, he was blissfully happy.

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