Title: Firmly Rooted Seemingly
Mar. 13th, 2011 04:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cosmic_tuesdaysTitle: Firmly Rooted Seemingly
Author: Hannah Orlove
Fandom: Pushing Daisies
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Notes: Thanks toserrico for encouragement, hand-holding and beta-reading.
It has been exactly twenty-two minutes and fourteen seconds since Ned sat down in the good room.
It is not a big room. It is not a small room. It is a room that is exactly as big as it needs to be. It is not a nice room, or a kind one, but it is a good room, precisely because it is exactly the size it needs to be. Right now, Ned would prefer that the chair he sits in be slightly larger, or perhaps that the light bulb would light up a bit brighter, but he is not in a position to make requests of that sort. He knows that well now, and has known it for the past eleven days, four hours, fifty-one minutes, and six seconds.
He is sitting quietly. He does not think to do anything else.
The second door in the room opens. Ned does not know the man who steps through it. “Hello, mister –”
“Ned,” Ned says, too fast, but this is all he has of his own here. “Call me Ned. That’s my father’s name, what you want to call me. And I’m not him, so please just call me Ned.”
“All right, Ned,” he says. He sits down across from him, introduces himself.
“It’s good to meet you,” Ned says, because that is what you are supposed to say when you meet someone new, even if you do not want to say it.
“It’s good to meet you too.”
“If I may ask, and I know I’m not always allowed to know but I know there’s no harm in asking, what happened to –”
“And how are you sleeping?”
The silence lasts for twenty-one seconds. “Better.” This is not, technically, a lie. Ned is sleeping more. The sleep Ned has had has not been of the finest quality – the sort he had holding Charlotte Charles through a careful layer of plastic protection or listening to her breathe from across the room – but there is more of it now than there was the first night he woke up here, still cold from the shower three hours, forty-one minutes, and twelve seconds after the fact. He is glad for that. Ned has not dreamed about the good room yet, and he is glad for that as well.
“I’m glad to hear that.” He looks down at his papers. Ned knows not to try to look at the papers anymore. That must be why the last man he spoke to is not here anymore. “And your food? Everything’s fine with it now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We didn’t mean for that to happen, you know.”
“I’m sure there are a lot of things that happened that you didn’t mean to happen.”
“I’m sure you know all about that.”
Ned does not answer. Eleven days ago he asked to see Chuck. He has not asked to see his father since his first visit to the good room.
This is Ned’s eleventh visit to the good room.
--
It has been precisely fifteen minutes and thirty seconds since Ned sat down in the good room.
He knows there are a lot of questions the other man wants to ask him. He has been in rooms like this before, prior to leaving the Longborough School for Boys and before becoming the piemaker, a waiting period that lasted fourteen years, eight months, three weeks, four days, and fifty-six seconds, and he remembers from those other rooms that there are certain questions that cannot be answered in rooms such as this, questions where the one questioning wants the one answering to provide a specific answer.
The other man looks back up at Ned. This is Ned’s twenty-second visit to the good room, and he knows he will never appreciate the way the other men look at him.
“And how is your therapy coming?”
“It’s getting better.” This is an answer that does not mean much, and says exactly what Ned thinks about it, and that it is not, precisely, the best therapy that it could be.
“Is there anything we can do to improve it for you?”
Ned enjoys being touched when he does not have to worry about it, enjoys it very much, and would like it to happen more, but says, “Not that I can think of,” and leaves off the polite thank-you.
The other man nods, writes, and asks, “Is there anything on your mind today?”
“No.” Except for Chuck and Digby and Olive and Emerson and what is happening to the Pie Hole without him there and if they found his –
“Would you like to talk about your mother?”
This is his twenty-second visit to the good room and that question has been asked almost every time. He still cannot figure out why, if he says no every time. “I’d rather not, please.”
“All right.”
The other rooms where Ned was interviewed had large one-way mirrors, and he knew there were more people on the other side that could hear what he had to say when he chose to speak. There are no mirrors of any kind in the good room, and this is a good thing for Ned, because he does not like the idea of being watched by more than one person when he is in the good room.
“Your brothers –”
“Half. We share a father, even though we didn’t really get to have him to share, what about them?”
“I wanted to know that if we did get in touch with them, whether you’d like to see them.”
Ned knows that was not exactly a leading question. The way the other man says it makes it sound more like a suggestion, and Ned does not like the sound of that. “No, thank you. It’s all right, I’m sure they’re busy with their touring.”
“All right.” He writes something down again. “You’re sure there’s nothing you want to ask us for?”
“If I can think of it I’ll ask you next time.”
“All right.”
--
It has been only ten minutes and two seconds since Ned sat down in the good room.
The other man has written very little and spoken very much. “I’m glad to hear you’re more comfortable.”
“Thank you for letting me use the kitchen.”
“You’re quite welcome. It was delicious, what you made – what was it called again?”
“A clafouti.” The facts are these: a clafouti is, while baked within the same sort of dish, very far removed from traditional piemaking. A French hybrid of pancakes and fruit custard, a clafouti typically consists of cherries baked into a spongy batter, with purists of the dish maintaining that only cherries, and unpitted cherries at that, may be allowed in the baking for the dish to claim its name. The Pie Hole typically featured them as an uncommon weekly special, with the piemaker’s reservations about the lack of commonalities between pies and clafoutis outweighed by his enjoyment of the Pie Hole’s patrons’ enjoyment of their unusual treat.
Ned’s explanation of the dish he had made the previous afternoon to the delight of all the facility – those of its members that got the chance to taste some – makes up more words in his thirty-third visit than he has used in any of his previous visits to the good room.
The other man has written down more than he has in the rest of this visit. Ned knows full well that he is not taking notes to make a clafouti himself. “I’m very glad to see you so happy.”
“I wouldn’t call myself happy, exactly. More like calmer, or more comfortable.”
“Enthusiastic, certainly.” There is a tone in the other man’s voice that says he, too, is enthusiastic. “Everyone’s happy to see you finally adjusting.”
Ned does not know what to say to that. Fortunately for him, the other man continues. “I was hoping you could do a small favor for me.” Ned stays silent as the other man stands up and leaves the good room. The other man’s standing up at the end of Ned’s visits to the good room is something Ned knows well, but his leaving through the second door is not something he has ever seen before. He comes back one minute, seven seconds later, with a small box, which he puts down on the table between himself and Ned.
“Letting you use the kitchen was a favor – we don’t normally let people do that. I was hoping you’d return the favor.” Inside the box is a dead mouse, which the other man takes out and puts on the table. “Would you touch this for me, please?”
Ned does not say anything, and stares at the mouse.
“I would appreciate it very much if you did.”
For the first time in a long time, there are more than two people in the good room. Ned does not appreciate this; the four men who came in had to hold him carefully and take him out when he could not leave by himself.
--
It has been approximately thirty minutes since Ned sat down in the good room.
“You’re very quiet today.”
Ned does not say anything and keeps staring at the table.
“If you’re uncomfortable, we can stop early.”
“No,” Ned says softly.
“You want to stay for the rest of our meeting?”
Ned very much does not want to; what Ned wants very much is to walk out of the good room and the building the good room is in, go back to the Pie Hole, and set about getting ready for customers the following morning, but he knows very much he cannot do this. And he also very much does not want to do anything. So he says, “Yes,” very softly.
“Ned, I’ve already apologized. If you don’t want to accept it, that’s your business, but we do have matters to attend to in these visits.”
Ned turns his head and looks the other way.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?”
He shakes his head.
“Would you like to talk about your mother?”
“Why do you want me to talk about my mother?” For the first time in his forty-forth visit to the good room, Ned looks at the other man.
“She was obviously very important to you. You spoke about her when you came in –”
“She was, and that’s why I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Why is that?”
“Why was she important or why don’t I want to talk about her?”
“The second one.”
“Because it was a mistake and I’m sorry for what I did every day of my life and thinking about it makes me even more upset than I already am. Why do you keep asking me about her?” That the other man is only writing and not responding to Ned makes Ned think that the other man just wants to see Ned act emotionally, so Ned takes a few breaths and tries to relax himself.
“Would you rather we talked about your dog?”
“No.” Olive had promised years ago she’d look after Digby in case something happened to Ned, but that had been in case of accidents involving enthusiastic yeast or runaway perambulators or similar unforeseeable incidents. Not this.
“We could talk about your brothers.”
“No, thank you.”
“You’ve never been interested in talking about them.”
“I never really got the chance to get to know them enough to be able to talk about them.”
“Does that ever bother you?”
“Sometimes.” The other man writes something down. Ned does not spend time thinking about what it might be.
“Do you miss them?”
“Not as much – yes, I do.” A moment too late, he realizes the path he left out for the other man to travel upon, but thankfully, he passes it by, overlooking it to look over Ned.
“Do you want to see your father again?”
“No!” Ned surprises himself with the force of his protest, and does his best to calm himself down, repeating in a more subdued tone, “No.”
--
It has been roughly forty-five minutes since Ned sat down in the good room.
“Are you ready to try again?”
Ned does not say anything or look at the other man.
“The last time we met you said you’d be all right with trying this again.” Ned nods, but does not say anything. “Would you like to wait a little while longer?”
“Yes, please.”
“All right.”
There are two small boxes on the table. Ned knows exactly what is in the boxes, and what is in what is in the boxes. He knows what the other man wants him to do with what is in what is in the boxes. What Ned does not know is who wants the other man to want him to do what he can do to what is in what is in the boxes.
Inside the boxes are two good cages. The cages are not large, and they are not small; they are good because they are exactly the size that they need to be. Inside the cages are two small birds. One is alive and the other is not.
The other man takes the cages out of the boxes and places them in front of Ned. The live bird looks at him carefully, cocking its head to one side and then the other. The dead one does nothing.
“This is why I’m here.” Ned does not say it as a question.
“That’s correct.”
The other man opens the dead bird’s cage. Ned watches his hands and the way they play over the latch, how they open it.
“Would you touch this for me, please?”
“Sure,” Ned says. He reaches in, and with one touch, the dead bird comes back to life. The other man tries to hide his shock, but Ned has been in the good room fifty-five times, forty-four of them with this other man, and knows him well. The other man has never seen him do this; it is only sensible he be shocked.
To his credit, he says nothing blasphemous or obscene, but takes a deep breath before speaking. “Ned, is there –”
“Shh,” Ned says. “Shh. Wait.” He closes the door of the cage. The newly-living bird looks at the already-living bird, and they start to talk to each other. “Shh,” Ned repeats for the good of the other man, who looked about to talk again.
The newly-living bird stops when the already-living bird stops; one out of surprise, and the other because a minute had passed.
The other man does nothing when Ned reaches inside the cage of the already-living now-dead bird and, with one touch, brings it back to life again.
He looks curiously at Ned when he reaches for the newly-living bird’s cage, opens it, and touches the bird again. “What are –”
“Shh.” Ned reaches inside the now-living-again bird’s cage and touches the bird a second time, putting both back to death. The other man looks at Ned, who looks back.
“There,” Ned says. “All done.”
--
Ned does not know how long he has been sitting in the good room.
Plans involving his future and potential well-being have been made behind both doors leading out of the good room, and it is only a matter of time before one of them finally blossoms and comes to fruition.
Ned is sitting quietly even though he can hear many sounds from both sides. He is waiting for the other man, but who finally comes through the door is not who he expected.
“Hello, Ned.”
“Hi, Chuck.”
“Come on.” She smiles at him gently, reaches out a gloved hand. “Our ride’s waiting.” He takes her hand, holds it tightly in his own, and leaves the good room for the last time, following her out.
Author: Hannah Orlove
Fandom: Pushing Daisies
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Notes: Thanks to
serrico for encouragement, hand-holding and beta-reading.It has been exactly twenty-two minutes and fourteen seconds since Ned sat down in the good room.
It is not a big room. It is not a small room. It is a room that is exactly as big as it needs to be. It is not a nice room, or a kind one, but it is a good room, precisely because it is exactly the size it needs to be. Right now, Ned would prefer that the chair he sits in be slightly larger, or perhaps that the light bulb would light up a bit brighter, but he is not in a position to make requests of that sort. He knows that well now, and has known it for the past eleven days, four hours, fifty-one minutes, and six seconds.
He is sitting quietly. He does not think to do anything else.
The second door in the room opens. Ned does not know the man who steps through it. “Hello, mister –”
“Ned,” Ned says, too fast, but this is all he has of his own here. “Call me Ned. That’s my father’s name, what you want to call me. And I’m not him, so please just call me Ned.”
“All right, Ned,” he says. He sits down across from him, introduces himself.
“It’s good to meet you,” Ned says, because that is what you are supposed to say when you meet someone new, even if you do not want to say it.
“It’s good to meet you too.”
“If I may ask, and I know I’m not always allowed to know but I know there’s no harm in asking, what happened to –”
“And how are you sleeping?”
The silence lasts for twenty-one seconds. “Better.” This is not, technically, a lie. Ned is sleeping more. The sleep Ned has had has not been of the finest quality – the sort he had holding Charlotte Charles through a careful layer of plastic protection or listening to her breathe from across the room – but there is more of it now than there was the first night he woke up here, still cold from the shower three hours, forty-one minutes, and twelve seconds after the fact. He is glad for that. Ned has not dreamed about the good room yet, and he is glad for that as well.
“I’m glad to hear that.” He looks down at his papers. Ned knows not to try to look at the papers anymore. That must be why the last man he spoke to is not here anymore. “And your food? Everything’s fine with it now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We didn’t mean for that to happen, you know.”
“I’m sure there are a lot of things that happened that you didn’t mean to happen.”
“I’m sure you know all about that.”
Ned does not answer. Eleven days ago he asked to see Chuck. He has not asked to see his father since his first visit to the good room.
This is Ned’s eleventh visit to the good room.
--
It has been precisely fifteen minutes and thirty seconds since Ned sat down in the good room.
He knows there are a lot of questions the other man wants to ask him. He has been in rooms like this before, prior to leaving the Longborough School for Boys and before becoming the piemaker, a waiting period that lasted fourteen years, eight months, three weeks, four days, and fifty-six seconds, and he remembers from those other rooms that there are certain questions that cannot be answered in rooms such as this, questions where the one questioning wants the one answering to provide a specific answer.
The other man looks back up at Ned. This is Ned’s twenty-second visit to the good room, and he knows he will never appreciate the way the other men look at him.
“And how is your therapy coming?”
“It’s getting better.” This is an answer that does not mean much, and says exactly what Ned thinks about it, and that it is not, precisely, the best therapy that it could be.
“Is there anything we can do to improve it for you?”
Ned enjoys being touched when he does not have to worry about it, enjoys it very much, and would like it to happen more, but says, “Not that I can think of,” and leaves off the polite thank-you.
The other man nods, writes, and asks, “Is there anything on your mind today?”
“No.” Except for Chuck and Digby and Olive and Emerson and what is happening to the Pie Hole without him there and if they found his –
“Would you like to talk about your mother?”
This is his twenty-second visit to the good room and that question has been asked almost every time. He still cannot figure out why, if he says no every time. “I’d rather not, please.”
“All right.”
The other rooms where Ned was interviewed had large one-way mirrors, and he knew there were more people on the other side that could hear what he had to say when he chose to speak. There are no mirrors of any kind in the good room, and this is a good thing for Ned, because he does not like the idea of being watched by more than one person when he is in the good room.
“Your brothers –”
“Half. We share a father, even though we didn’t really get to have him to share, what about them?”
“I wanted to know that if we did get in touch with them, whether you’d like to see them.”
Ned knows that was not exactly a leading question. The way the other man says it makes it sound more like a suggestion, and Ned does not like the sound of that. “No, thank you. It’s all right, I’m sure they’re busy with their touring.”
“All right.” He writes something down again. “You’re sure there’s nothing you want to ask us for?”
“If I can think of it I’ll ask you next time.”
“All right.”
--
It has been only ten minutes and two seconds since Ned sat down in the good room.
The other man has written very little and spoken very much. “I’m glad to hear you’re more comfortable.”
“Thank you for letting me use the kitchen.”
“You’re quite welcome. It was delicious, what you made – what was it called again?”
“A clafouti.” The facts are these: a clafouti is, while baked within the same sort of dish, very far removed from traditional piemaking. A French hybrid of pancakes and fruit custard, a clafouti typically consists of cherries baked into a spongy batter, with purists of the dish maintaining that only cherries, and unpitted cherries at that, may be allowed in the baking for the dish to claim its name. The Pie Hole typically featured them as an uncommon weekly special, with the piemaker’s reservations about the lack of commonalities between pies and clafoutis outweighed by his enjoyment of the Pie Hole’s patrons’ enjoyment of their unusual treat.
Ned’s explanation of the dish he had made the previous afternoon to the delight of all the facility – those of its members that got the chance to taste some – makes up more words in his thirty-third visit than he has used in any of his previous visits to the good room.
The other man has written down more than he has in the rest of this visit. Ned knows full well that he is not taking notes to make a clafouti himself. “I’m very glad to see you so happy.”
“I wouldn’t call myself happy, exactly. More like calmer, or more comfortable.”
“Enthusiastic, certainly.” There is a tone in the other man’s voice that says he, too, is enthusiastic. “Everyone’s happy to see you finally adjusting.”
Ned does not know what to say to that. Fortunately for him, the other man continues. “I was hoping you could do a small favor for me.” Ned stays silent as the other man stands up and leaves the good room. The other man’s standing up at the end of Ned’s visits to the good room is something Ned knows well, but his leaving through the second door is not something he has ever seen before. He comes back one minute, seven seconds later, with a small box, which he puts down on the table between himself and Ned.
“Letting you use the kitchen was a favor – we don’t normally let people do that. I was hoping you’d return the favor.” Inside the box is a dead mouse, which the other man takes out and puts on the table. “Would you touch this for me, please?”
Ned does not say anything, and stares at the mouse.
“I would appreciate it very much if you did.”
For the first time in a long time, there are more than two people in the good room. Ned does not appreciate this; the four men who came in had to hold him carefully and take him out when he could not leave by himself.
--
It has been approximately thirty minutes since Ned sat down in the good room.
“You’re very quiet today.”
Ned does not say anything and keeps staring at the table.
“If you’re uncomfortable, we can stop early.”
“No,” Ned says softly.
“You want to stay for the rest of our meeting?”
Ned very much does not want to; what Ned wants very much is to walk out of the good room and the building the good room is in, go back to the Pie Hole, and set about getting ready for customers the following morning, but he knows very much he cannot do this. And he also very much does not want to do anything. So he says, “Yes,” very softly.
“Ned, I’ve already apologized. If you don’t want to accept it, that’s your business, but we do have matters to attend to in these visits.”
Ned turns his head and looks the other way.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?”
He shakes his head.
“Would you like to talk about your mother?”
“Why do you want me to talk about my mother?” For the first time in his forty-forth visit to the good room, Ned looks at the other man.
“She was obviously very important to you. You spoke about her when you came in –”
“She was, and that’s why I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Why is that?”
“Why was she important or why don’t I want to talk about her?”
“The second one.”
“Because it was a mistake and I’m sorry for what I did every day of my life and thinking about it makes me even more upset than I already am. Why do you keep asking me about her?” That the other man is only writing and not responding to Ned makes Ned think that the other man just wants to see Ned act emotionally, so Ned takes a few breaths and tries to relax himself.
“Would you rather we talked about your dog?”
“No.” Olive had promised years ago she’d look after Digby in case something happened to Ned, but that had been in case of accidents involving enthusiastic yeast or runaway perambulators or similar unforeseeable incidents. Not this.
“We could talk about your brothers.”
“No, thank you.”
“You’ve never been interested in talking about them.”
“I never really got the chance to get to know them enough to be able to talk about them.”
“Does that ever bother you?”
“Sometimes.” The other man writes something down. Ned does not spend time thinking about what it might be.
“Do you miss them?”
“Not as much – yes, I do.” A moment too late, he realizes the path he left out for the other man to travel upon, but thankfully, he passes it by, overlooking it to look over Ned.
“Do you want to see your father again?”
“No!” Ned surprises himself with the force of his protest, and does his best to calm himself down, repeating in a more subdued tone, “No.”
--
It has been roughly forty-five minutes since Ned sat down in the good room.
“Are you ready to try again?”
Ned does not say anything or look at the other man.
“The last time we met you said you’d be all right with trying this again.” Ned nods, but does not say anything. “Would you like to wait a little while longer?”
“Yes, please.”
“All right.”
There are two small boxes on the table. Ned knows exactly what is in the boxes, and what is in what is in the boxes. He knows what the other man wants him to do with what is in what is in the boxes. What Ned does not know is who wants the other man to want him to do what he can do to what is in what is in the boxes.
Inside the boxes are two good cages. The cages are not large, and they are not small; they are good because they are exactly the size that they need to be. Inside the cages are two small birds. One is alive and the other is not.
The other man takes the cages out of the boxes and places them in front of Ned. The live bird looks at him carefully, cocking its head to one side and then the other. The dead one does nothing.
“This is why I’m here.” Ned does not say it as a question.
“That’s correct.”
The other man opens the dead bird’s cage. Ned watches his hands and the way they play over the latch, how they open it.
“Would you touch this for me, please?”
“Sure,” Ned says. He reaches in, and with one touch, the dead bird comes back to life. The other man tries to hide his shock, but Ned has been in the good room fifty-five times, forty-four of them with this other man, and knows him well. The other man has never seen him do this; it is only sensible he be shocked.
To his credit, he says nothing blasphemous or obscene, but takes a deep breath before speaking. “Ned, is there –”
“Shh,” Ned says. “Shh. Wait.” He closes the door of the cage. The newly-living bird looks at the already-living bird, and they start to talk to each other. “Shh,” Ned repeats for the good of the other man, who looked about to talk again.
The newly-living bird stops when the already-living bird stops; one out of surprise, and the other because a minute had passed.
The other man does nothing when Ned reaches inside the cage of the already-living now-dead bird and, with one touch, brings it back to life again.
He looks curiously at Ned when he reaches for the newly-living bird’s cage, opens it, and touches the bird again. “What are –”
“Shh.” Ned reaches inside the now-living-again bird’s cage and touches the bird a second time, putting both back to death. The other man looks at Ned, who looks back.
“There,” Ned says. “All done.”
--
Ned does not know how long he has been sitting in the good room.
Plans involving his future and potential well-being have been made behind both doors leading out of the good room, and it is only a matter of time before one of them finally blossoms and comes to fruition.
Ned is sitting quietly even though he can hear many sounds from both sides. He is waiting for the other man, but who finally comes through the door is not who he expected.
“Hello, Ned.”
“Hi, Chuck.”
“Come on.” She smiles at him gently, reaches out a gloved hand. “Our ride’s waiting.” He takes her hand, holds it tightly in his own, and leaves the good room for the last time, following her out.
