Ned doesn't question Peggy or even give a second thought to her forcefulness. Even if she hadn't told him to come in, it would be his first impulse. Not because he cares about the meeting tomorrow, and not because Ginsberg's coworkers seem alarmed by his behavior. He would want to come in because if Ginsberg has been locked up in a closet, alone, for five hours before they thought to call. Something, Ned assumes, must have happened. Something awful. Something that clearly Ginsberg didn't feel like he could tell the people he works with. He needs help, and Ned would go a lot further and do a lot more to help Ginsberg.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," he responds, and hangs up on Peggy without so much as a thank you for letting me know or even a goodbye. Manners be damned. In his frenzy to get out the door he grabs a box with half a pie in it from the fridge (he'd been keeping it there for when Ginsberg comes over) but forgets his coat. He doesn't turn back, even though the wind is biting and cold. He keeps warm enough by running to the nearest subway station.
Five hours - how could they leave him in there for five hours? Ned knows they are busy, but it seems so callous to him, so indicative of how wrapped up they all are in their own private concerns.
On the subway he's restless and can't stop tapping his foot, rubbing his hands together in his lap nervously. He nearly gets off a stop too early, wondering if he could cover the distance quicker on foot, but he forces himself to stop and think about it. When he does show up to the austere, impressive-looking high-rise he's out of breath and red-cheeked from the cold. He gets off the elevator at the floor Peggy told him, not thinking in the least about what a first impression he will give them.
"I'm here to see Peggy," he tells the secretary, "Um, I mean, Ms. Olsen. She should be expecting me- she called me."
The secretary stares at him wordlessly for a moment, then picks up her
phone. "Ms. Olson? There's a man here to see you. He says you're expecting
him." Then, setting down the phone and continuing to stare, she says,
"She'll be right out," almost skeptically, as though Ned is somehow deeply
suspicious.
And, indeed, she is right out, hurrying into the lobby, bundle of
papers in her arms, looking flustered. She's closely trailed by a man with
a far too pleasant smile. "You must be Ned," she says, approaching him,
shifting her bundle of papers to one arm -- and brushing aside the smiling
man's offer to hold them for her -- and extending her hand to give Ned a
firm handshake. "I'm Peggy. This is Bob. I'm glad you came. We've been
trying for hours, but he's stubborn."
To her credit, her irritation is clearly tinged by concern, and she begins
leading them towards the back of the office, through several sets of doors
until they reach a hallway. She gestures at the closet, ready to say
something, but it's Bob that speaks up first. "I think he just needs a good
pep talk," he says, "and you can't imagine how glad I am that you're here
to give it to him. If there's anything at all we can do to help..."
Peggy cuts him off with a look, and then a nod. "Thank you, Bob, I
think Ned can take it from here. He's in there." She gestures to the supply
closet at the end of the hall, then sighs deeply, shifting her papers to
the other arm.
Ned performs a similar move of shifting the pie box into one hand so that he can return the handshake before following her and the man who must be Bob back into the bustle of the office. It's likely he stands out, what with the fact that, in a t-shirt and sneakers, he's conspicuously underdressed, not to mention the fact that he's clutching a pie box and looking far too concerned. But from the stories he's heard, stranger things than this happen on a regular basis here.
Bob's rather extravagant thanks are peculiar, but Ned doesn't really have the time to respond to them before Peggy is pointing the way to him and he's breaking away from the two strangers with a quick, "Don't worry, I'll take care of it." He tries to sound more confident than he feels, but is glad the two of them leave (Bob more slowly, with more reluctance) to let him try his best without observation.
The door to the closet is thankfully out of the way, not too near to any office doors or secretary's desks. Ned comes up to it, knocks softly and says, "Hey, it's me. I mean, Ned. It's Ned. Peggy called me. Do you think you could let me in so we could talk? I... she said you'd been in there for a while so I brought pie because I thought you might be hungry, so even if you're not ready to talk yet you can open the door and I can come sit with you a bit-"
He cuts himself off, knows that it's only his worry and nervousness that's making him rattle on without pause for breath.
For a moment, he's completely silent, because how could Ned be here, in his office? Those worlds don't intersect, even if he talks about Ned to his coworkers and talks about his coworkers to Ned. But then, some form of logic takes over, and he manages to listen to what Ned's explaining to him. Peggy had called him. Of course she had. It stood to reason that she'd be the one who was concerned about him, if only for the sheer and logical reasoning that he'd endanger their deadlines if he didn't come out soon.
"I..." It's a tough decision. Should he let Ned in when he's in this state? He knows for certain that he's not coming out, but Ned doesn't want him to come out. Ned wants to come in. That's different. Everyone who'd talked to him through the door for the last few hours had been trying to convince him to come out. Ned was, as always, just a little different.
So he reaches up and unlocks the door with an audible click, but he doesn't open it. It seems to take too much effort. He knows his hands are shaking, and there's a pretty big part of him that hopes Ned doesn't open the door at all to see him in this state. He tries to think of something else to say, but doesn't manage.
Ned hears that click and lets out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Tucking the pie box under one arm, he opens the door and slips in quickly. It would never have occurred to him to try to talk Ginsberg into coming out, just like it doesn't occur to him to leave the door unlocked. Once he's inside he closes it again, locks the door behind him. No chance of intrusion, no change to the situation - except that Ned is here, now.
The supply closet appears pitch black to him after the bright lights of the office, and Ned blinks against the complete darkness, standing utterly still for the moment. He doesn't like being in unfamiliar spaces where he can't see what's around him, what he might run into. So he doesn't make any kind of move, waiting for his wide-open eyes to adjust.
"Thanks," he says, and means it. Letting him in was a measure of trust. He doesn't want to rush Ginsberg into talking, so he doesn't start off with questions. "I hope you're not mad I came. It seemed like the best thing to do. Because I want to help, if I can." A pause, there. He can hear Ginsberg breathing (altogether too fast) and the outlines of things are beginning to stand out from the blackness. "Even if it's just by bringing pie."
"I'm not mad. I just... You can turn on the lights if you want. It's kinda dark in here, I know. I just didn't feel like having the lights on. I was... Thinking."
'Thinking' sounds a lot better than 'panicking,' although the latter is more true than the former. He doesn't know whether he hopes Ned will turn on the lights or not. It's up to him, he decides, he'll let Ned do whatever he wants. The fact that he'd shown up is enough to let him know that Ned cares, probably cares a lot more than his coworkers, even though they'd talked a good game about how concerned they were and urged him to come out. All they cared about was their deadline.
"I know I should come out of here eventually. I'm making everyone worry, blah blah, I've heard it before. This isn't the first time I've locked myself in this closet and it's definitely not gonna be the last, in case you were hoping that this was a one time thing. I'm okay, though." A long pause, and then... "No, I'm not okay. I'm a mess."
If Ginsberg didn't feel like having the lights on, Ned isn't going to switch them on just for his own comfort. Besides, now that he can see well enough to avoid touching anything unexpected, he doesn't mind the dimness. In a way, it's easier for him, too. Serious conversations somehow seem suited to the dark. and he doesn't want to set up a pattern where Ginsberg feels he needs to compromise his comfort for Ned's sake at a time like this.
He sets aside the question of when Ginsberg will come out, of what his coworkers are thinking, sets aside the revelation that it's not the first time he's done this. The script that Ginsberg seems to anticipate he'll follow is not the one he has in mind.
"It's not the first time I've locked myself in a closet, either." It is, he thinks, the first time he's done so for this particular reason, though. He is seized with a fleeting but intense feeling of inadequacy and unpreparedness. What if he does the wrong thing and makes matters worse? What if he only causes Ginsberg more pain?
But he has practice at shoving aside such thoughts, and does so with alacrity. Ginsberg's standing a fair distance away from him (or at least, as much as the cramped closet will allow). Ned, cautiously, takes a step closer. He's still getting his bearings, trying to suss out what might upset Ginsberg further.
Because the more he can see, the more Ned can tell that he's not doing alright at all. He's never seen Ginsberg like this, never heard him like this. It actually, physically hurts, but for once Ned is successful at masking what he feels on his face. He's got to keep a lid on it, for fear of making Ginsberg even more of a mess.
"Nothing really happened. We're just working on this ad. A ketchup thing. It's stupid. Ketchup shouldn't upset anyone. Everyone was pitching ideas, and you know how ketchup is, it's one of those things where people want the ads to be happy. Summertime, kids at camp, family vacations, that kind of bullshit. Which I'm not actually sure anyone does, but that's what the ketchup guys want in their ads. Happiness. Family values. Nothing dark. I kind of like the dark ads, but I can do the light ones, too. It shouldn't have been a problem."
Except, from the way he stares at the ceiling and then suddenly slumps down into a cross legged, slouchy position on the floor, something obviously had gone wrong. He's talking fast, aware of how ridiculous he sounds, wanting to get all of this out before Ned has the regelation that he's crazy and leaves the closet, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
"But then we started talking about what the ad should be, and people started talking about their first memories, and they all have something, even if the memories aren't that detailed. Something from when they're two or three, something they can spin out into a good story about fucking ketchup. And then they wanted me to talk about mine, because I'm supposed to be the genius, or whatever, but I couldn't think of anything. Nothing at all. Big blank spot."
He has to reorient his mind to the kind of situation he's dealing with, rewrite his half-formulated strategy on the ground. He wouldn't classify what Ginsberg's talking about as nothing happening - clearly it was something, and a big something - but what he'd been expecting had been a bit more tangible. An unusually-hurtful insult from a boss, a botched meeting with a client, a fight with his father, that kind of thing. This is both bigger and more difficult to know how to handle.
"That sounds pretty terrifying."
Ned hates towering when Ginsberg is sitting on the floor like that, looking so fragile and so far away. He sits down, too, setting the pie box between them and wrapping his arms around his knees, not near enough to Ginsberg to be threatening.
"They might have been making theirs up?" But Ned knows that suggestion will solve little to nothing, mentally pinches himself for being inept at this. This isn't about his coworkers and their ability to paste themselves into that picture of happiness, family values, and ketchup. It seems to be about the fact that Ginsberg can't. He recovers as best as he can, "Did they bug you about it?"
"No. I just ended up making something up. It sounded plausible, I guess. And only Peggy knew it was total bullshit. It'll probably be in the ad. My completely fake story about my completely fake childhood. And that isn't usually enough to bother me, but I got to thinking, and you know how dangerous thinking is... Everything just starts to unravel, and soon enough, you're a complete mess, because you realize that you don't actually know anything. Anything about yourself, anything about anyone else. And then you start wondering whether you exist at all."
At least, that's the route his downward spirals tend to take. He doesn't scoot closer to Ned when he joins him on the floor, but he also doesn't scoot away, and in this mood, that's as much of a tacit sign that someone's welcome as saying it out loud.
"I know it sounds crazy to you. It sounds crazy to me, too. Usually I'm a different person when I'm working on an ad. A confident guy. You probably wouldn't recognize me. By the time I was done telling my bullshit story, though, I could hardly breathe. I had to come in here."
He files away the fact about Peggy being the one who could tell he was inventing, though whether it's through knowledge about Ginsberg's past or an ability to tell when he's lying, Ned doesn't know.
That downward spiral sounds eerily, even unsettlingly familiar to Ned. He wouldn't have thought, for any problems he might have, that Ginsberg would have felt that kind of radical, fundamental self-doubt. He's never met anyone who has before, or who has admitted to it. Oh, there were plenty of folks with their identity crises, not wanting to be who their parents wanted them to be, feeling lost in an indifferent world that had no place for their unique selves. But they took for granted certain assumptions about themselves that Ned couldn't. He wonders what it is about Ginsberg that makes him different from the rest. But he's not here to solve the other man, like some kind of puzzle. He's here to help him out of the dark, to re-ravel him.
"It sounds a lot less crazy than you'd think." He pauses, choosing his words with care, "I can see why you'd want to come here, and why you wouldn't want to leave. There are no distractions in here, and no one watching you, which is good when you feel like you don't even know which way is up or down, right?"
Ned might have shared a similar doubt, but that doesn't mean he has a solution at hand, some method of dealing with it to recommend. He wishes he did. Truth is, when he started to think too much about his life or his identity or the impossibility of it all, he made pies until he ran out of ingredients. That's not gonna work, for Ginsberg. But neither is just sitting here in the dark, letting that momentum carry him further down the spiral.
"Is it any help if I tell you I'm pretty sure you exist?" He holds out his hand in offer, to reinforce that solidity, to give Ginsberg something to hold onto. "Even if everything else is a bit undecided, that's somewhere to start, isn't it?"
"It helps a little. Unless you don't exist, either. If you're just a figment of my imagination, you'd probably want to tell me I existed, so I wouldn't decide neither of existed and will both of us away entirely. But I'm pretty sure you exist, too, so maybe we're okay."
That said, and apparently decided, he takes Ned's hand firmly, squeezing it a little, as though all the answers he's looking for can be found just from holding onto Ned's hand tightly and trying to concentrate on the fact that Ned's here to help him, that Ned cared enough to come here to try to talk him through this. It's only partially effective; his breathing is still quick, and even in the dimly lit closet, it's probably obvious to Ned that his face is white with stress.
"I feel sick," he mutters, and that's really no surprise, if he's been locked in a dark closet for five hours, worrying and obsessing and spending all of his time inside his own mind. "I keep thinking... I just keep thinking about what I said, that I don't know who anyone is, that I don't know who I am, and then I think about how much you wouldn't like me if you knew who I am, either. Do you ever think about that? How you're the pie guy and I'm the ad guy and we have these roles we fulfill and maybe we're a little weird but that stops people from asking the really serious questions, because you can just chalk it all up to weirdness, but then if you dig deep, at least for me, there're all kinds of messy things in there and I don't think the pie guy would really like the ad guy if he knew him all that well. So maybe you shouldn't be here, either, because I really want you to like me."
Ned squeezes Ginsberg's hand back, doesn't intend to let go for anything. He can feel how clammy and shaky that hand is, hear in Ginsberg's voice the tightly-controlled panic. Though Ned knows the basic stuff - not to tell him to just calm down, or to just not think about it - he's not sure what else to do. But then Ginsberg keeps talking, and he can definitely listen. He's good at listening.
The doubts and insecurities that Ginsberg explains could have been taken from his own brain on certain sleepless nights. It would be remarkable, maybe even funny, if everything didn't feel so deathly serious.
"I do like you. A lot. Probably too much, actually. When Peggy called I ran the whole way to the subway station, and then the whole way here. It's true that I don't know everything about you yet, but I like every single thing I have learned so far. I like that you love your job despite everything. I like that peach pie is your favorite, and I like that you're terrible at dates. I like that you speak your mind even if it means getting hit. I like that you're so much sweeter than you seem to realize and that you've never made me feel like a freak."
Ned doesn't worry, in this moment, about laying it on too thick. If their roles were reversed, he knows he'd be only too happy (secretly, desperately) to hear these sorts of things. He wraps a second hand around Ginsberg's, for emphasis, holding it tightly. "I like that you worry about the sorts of things I worry about. I'm not afraid to learn the not-so-nice things I don't know yet. I'd be a lot more afraid if I found out it was all neat and tidy memories of family values and ketchup, because how could a guy like that possibly understand a guy like me?"
He scoots a little closer, cautiously, keeping watch for any sign that he's crossed some imaginary line and should move back once more. "I can't make promises for anyone else, but I'm pretty sure I can handle the mess. Takes one to know one, and all of that. So I think you're wrong. I think the pie guy will still like the ad guy, even if he finds out bad things have happened to him, or that he's done things he regrets."
For a moment, he just listens to what Ned says, clinging tightly to his hand like it's a life-preserver and he's drowning. And it might as well be, because right now he's in one of those states where he's not sure what's real and what's not. He feels fairly certain that he and Ned are real, but beyond that, the thoughts that run through his mind and make him feel like this are hard to pin down and very, very messy.
It's obvious from the way he's staring at Ned, eyes wide, that nobody's ever quite said things like that to him during a time he feels like this. Sure, people have told him the usual stuff: calm down, you're okay, even little pep talks that had momentarily buoyed his spirits, about how he wasn't a terrible person, about how everything would work out. Those never solved any problems, but sometimes they got him to think about something other than the darkness in his own mind. But what Ned's saying is bigger than that; it's about him, and it's specific, and it's all about how Ned likes him. Likes what he knows, at least. Wants to know more. Doesn't seem afraid of the things he might learn, if it all comes spilling out, which seems more and more likely.
"Do you ever..." he begins, wondering why it's always so much easier to begin his sentences as a question to Ned, or to someone else, as a desperate way to make sure that he's not the only one that thinks about these kinds of things. Unfortunately, the response to his do you ever questions is all too often 'no,' with the accompanying blank stare that lets him know just how crazy the recipient of the question thinks he is. Somehow, though, he doesn't think Ned will respond that way. Somehow, he thinks, even if Ned hasn't experienced the things he's asking, he'll phrase it in a way that doesn't alienate Ginsberg further.
"Do you ever think that... I mean, you said I was sweet, but I don't think I'm sweet at all. I think I can be sweet on the outside, but I don't think that's who I am on the inside. Are you ever afraid of who you are on the inside? Sometimes I can't stop thinking about that, about how there're these... it's like there're voices inside my head, all the time, telling me what terrible things I'm capable of, and they're not things I want to do, but I'm scared of doing them. You like that I speak my mind even if it means getting hit, but I don't hit back because what if I really, really hurt someone? What if I killed someone? And I know I could. I know this all sounds crazy, like I'm some kind of lunatic, and you probably wanted to run out of here the minute I said there were voices in my head, but sometimes I think we all have voices like that, the ones that tell us how awful we are. And sure, you'd like me if you found out bad things had happened to me, but would you like me if you knew that I was probably just a terrible, harmful person waiting to explode?"
Ned doesn't reply for a few seconds, not because Ginsberg has frightened him, but because it's yet again eerie how well acquainted he is with that particular kind of worry. There's so much he wants to say, so many reassurances to give and questions to answer. But he approaches it in a slow way, because Ginsberg's racing at a mile a minute, and Ned senses the delicacy of this moment for the two of them. He doesn't want to fumble his words out of haste.
"I didn't tell you I went back to the museum, after our date. The day after. No one recognized me or anything. That... that display case I pushed that guy into? There was a crack in the glass. That's how hard I slammed him into it." He'd intended on never telling Ginsberg that, hadn't wanted to. But now he thinks, it might provide a certain solidarity. "I was so angry at him for hitting you - for hitting me, too - that I could have really hurt him. I... I might have, if things had gone differently."
He scoots closer still, so that their knees are touching, and he can look Ginsberg in the eyes as he says, "I don't think you're crazy, and I'm not going anywhere." Carefully, he reaches a hand across the distance and cups Ginsberg's cheek. Sure, Ned might not necessarily phrase it as voices in his head telling him he's awful, but for all he knows Ginsberg is talking about the exact same thing he's felt, and just describing it in different terms.
"Being afraid of what I'm capable of is kind of my default state of being. I wake up every day terrified that someone will get hurt and it'll be my fault, so I know that it's an awful thing to worry about. But that doesn't make you a lunatic, and it doesn't make you a terrible person. If you ask me, it makes you a good person. Good people aren't good because they can't do any harm, or because they don't ever want to. They're good because they decide to be good, every single day. If you ask me, it's what you do that decides who you are, so acting sweet on the outside is exactly the same as being sweet."
Ned runs his thumb along Ginsberg's cheekbone, heart breaking at the thought of him tangled up in all that worry and fear when he's been kinder to Ned than anyone he's known for a long, long time. "And everyone slips up now and then, even good people, and that's okay. You just have to live with it as best as you can, and start over trying to be good the next day."
It's amazing how well Ned seems to understand all of this, like Ned's had these thoughts, too, and from the sound of it, he has. The fact that he'd slammed the guy into the glass so hard that it had cracked doesn't necessarily surprise him, nor does it scare him; on the contrary, he's almost glad to hear it, because that means that Ned really can relate, isn't just saying empty things because that's what's expected of him.
"I can try to be good all I want," he finally says, reassured by Ned's continued physical contact, by the fact that it's dark and quiet in the closet. He knows that his coworkers are likely wondering what they're doing in here, what they're talking about, but he's glad they're leaving them alone to talk. Peggy's doing, most likely. If it were up to Bob, he doesn't doubt the closet door would have been broken down by now. "But no matter how hard I try to be good, to be kind, I'm still part of something awful. I can't sleep at night sometimes because I start thinking about all the terrible things I do, even though I don't do them directly."
He knows that requires more explanation, but thinking about it makes his head hurt, so he has to take a pause and take a big breath, trying to steady himself. The things Ned's saying make sense, are reasonable, are even soothing, but it's hard to accept all of those things when his mind is racing a mile a minute. "I think about you slamming that guy into the display case and there's something about it that makes me happy. And that shouldn't ever make me happy. I should be glad you defended me, but feel bad for the guy, or worried that he got hurt. You were obviously worried that you'd hurt him, when it happened."
Turning his face away from Ned now, he seems to be addressing the shelves full of paper and pencils and cleaning supplies. "I talk about hating the war. Hating the companies that use their money or their products to support the war. But then we do ads for them, and I take the paycheck even though I know it's dirty money, and I tell myself 'it's just a job, I'm not a bad person, I'm not hurting anyone,' but that's what everyone says, that's what anyone who allows bad things to happen says. That's how the Nazis tried to defend themselves, too. 'Just a job.' So how does that make me any better, when I know I help companies hurt people? You don't do that. You make pie. Pie doesn't hurt people."
It actually, physically hurts when Ginsberg turns away like that. Ned knows what it is, to hate yourself so much you can't look another person in the face. But Ginsberg doesn't deserve to hate himself so much for so little.
"Not necessarily," Ned knows it's a stretch, but he isn't sure how else to comfort Ginsberg, how else to make him feel better, "The companies I buy fruit from probably cheat and exploit their workers, only I haven't had the courage to look them up and check, because even if they do, I have to buy fruit from someone. Just like you have to make ads for someone. That doesn't make you a- a Nazi. You have to see that. You're not writing propaganda for the war, and you're not working for the government, and you're not hurting people directly, so there is a difference. There's a big one."
There's something so daunting about all this, and Ned has a moment of self-doubt. Is this really the right route to take, or will it sound like he's just invalidating Ginsberg's feelings? But he doesn't know what else to do.
"The war's too big for you, Ginsberg. You're not going to be able to stop it single-handed by quitting your job, or keep it going by writing a great ad for a horrible company. You're not that important. That doesn't mean you're just allowing bad things to happen."
He hesitates, weighing the options before him. Will baring his own burdens really help to Ginsberg to bear his? Or will he merely worsen the other man's conviction that everyone is rotten on the inside, in one way or another? In the end, Ned decides to risk it.
"And even if pie doesn't hurt people... I have. So I know what I'm talking about."
He could be saying I know to anything, but what he's really agreeing to is that he knows that he's not that important, that nothing he does really has an impact in the big scheme of things. It's logical, and it makes sense to him, and it's the kind of thing he'd tell someone else and really mean it, but it's amazing how logical things can be so difficult to comprehend when applied to oneself. All the rules he has for other people, all the ideas he has about them, those all go out the door when they're applying to him.
"You've hurt people?"
He doesn't necessarily know what Ned means by that, and that's why he turns his head back to look at him curiously. Maybe Ned means physically, like the guy he'd slammed into the display case. Maybe he means emotionally, because it's pretty damn hard to go through life without hurting at least one or two people emotionally, no matter how hard you try. Maybe he means something else entirely. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want. Maybe it's enough just to know that I'm not the only one. Not the only terrible person. Not that you're terrible, I don't mean that at all, but not the only one who worries about this kind of thing."
And there he goes again, fumbling his way through sentences he's not sure how to articulate, making it all sound worse than it really is. He knows that he has a flair for the dramatic, that he's likely panicking about something that nobody else would even give a second's thought to, but he doesn't think he can help it. For better or for worse, this is how his brain works. It's exhausting.
He's startled to find that tears have sprung to his eyes, and he swipes at his eyes angrily with the sleeve of his sweater. The last thing he needs is to cry in front of Ned. This is already bad enough, and although he's generally more comfortable being emotional than most people, crying is another level of unpleasantness. Surely, even if Ned hasn't judged him so far, he'd judge him for that.
"I just hate knowing..." He hesitates, and then spills it all out in a long stream of words that practically run together. "I hate knowing that if I hadn't been born, my mother, whoever the hell she was, would probably still be alive. I mean, I don't know that for sure, because how could I, but she'd've had a better chance. I hate knowing that my existence hurt someone. Just existing. Not even doing anything. Not even consciously. Just the act of being here."
When Ginsberg asks that question and looks back at him, Ned only nods. He never intended on going into the matter much more than that simple declaration that he had hurt people before. Just that is a large enough step, for him. Just that is enough to have him nervous. Besides, he didn't come here to talk about himself.
His chest aches when he sees Ginsberg wiping away tears. Ned's never been much good at seeing other people in pain or distress, even if they were strangers. To see Ginsberg fighting back tears like that is so much worse than he would have imagined, and that's before he says what he does about his mother.
They've finally coming to it, to the thing at the roof of all these different strands: Ginsberg's response in the meeting, his feeling of dread and unreality, his fear that he's a bad person, his horror of hurting others. But it turns out that at this most crucial of moments, words absolutely fail Ned. He's accustomed enough to speaking with people about their mothers, even their dead mothers, and doing so with the emotional distance necessary to keep himself safe. He wasn't expecting this, however, and it cuts into him deep, from out of nowhere. Ginsberg blames himself for his mother's death. Well. That's something Ned can relate to, too.
Only he can't seem to find his voice to say that. And besides, what would he even say? What words could possibly be enough? He can't tell Ginsberg it isn't his fault, though he doesn't think it is, because that strikes Ned as not his right (besides which, he wouldn't trust his voice). So he does something that's out of character for him and gathers Ginsberg into an embrace, sudden and fierce, holds him as if he could banish everything bad in just that one act. Ned knows that he's shaking, now, but he doesn't care Ginsberg if notices. He'll say something, something reassuring, something wise and logical, when he can.
When Ned doesn't respond, his immediate response is a sinking feeling, a completely hopeless one, like now he's gone and said all the things he shouldn't have and Ned will get up and leave because how could he possibly deal with someone so pathetic, someone so incapable of simply going on with their lives like a normal human being? If he were normal, he wouldn't worry about things like this. He doesn't think his coworkers do, although of course they all have problems of their own. They don't lock themselves in closets and cry about it, or, if they do, they do so in private.
The hug, then, takes him almost completely by surprise, and he startles a little before letting himself sink into it, letting Ned hold him tightly, burying his face in Ned's shoulder. He's not crying, he's not going to let himself, but those tears are still there, lurking somewhere, and he knows they could burst out at any minute. If he does cry, he thinks, he'll do it once Ned is gone. Because Ned's going to leave eventually, isn't he? Most people do.
"I shouldn't have said any of that," he says, because this is usually the kind of thing he ends up having to apologize for. True, Ned's response is far different than other responses have been -- those responses have been mostly dismissive, with a helping of discomfort and irritation -- but that doesn't mean Ned has endless patience. "And I'm saying that to you, and I know you don't have a mother either, and it's selfish of me to bring any of it up, because I'm making you waste your time in a closet because I freaked out during a meeting about ketchup. I mean, out of everything to have a breakdown about. Maybe I'll pitch an ad like that. Ketchup: It's great, except when you get a mentally unstable ad guy working on it, and then it makes you cry! But it sure tastes delicious.."
He laughs, even though he's not amused, because laughing is a lot better of an option than the alternative.
He recognizes the attempt at humor to lighten the mood, to pretend that what they're talking about isn't devastating. Ned's gone that route enough times himself to know the motives behind it, but he can't even crack a smile. His mouth simply won't obey. Because it's not about ketchup. Not really. That was just the catalyst.
"You're the furthest thing from a waste of time that I can imagine," he says, fervently, not loosening his grip on Ginsberg one iota. His voice is hoarse with emotion, but relatively steady, at least. If Ginsberg meant that as an apology, Ned isn't accepting it. "It isn't selfish to talk about it. I want you to know you can tell me things. I just-" Here, against his will, his voice breaks. He tries to cover it up by clearing his throat, but it's a pretty flimsy ruse. "-I'm not sure what to say. Because. I think. I kind of know... how you feel." The words are coming jerkily, in starts and fits, but he presses on, "And I can't imagine anything anyone could say... making it hurt any less."
Ned runs a hand through Ginsberg's hair, pushing it back from his ears and forehead. "I guess... the only thing I do want to say is, it's okay for it to hurt. That doesn't make you weak, or weird, or crazy."
He's still got his face pressed against Ned's shoulder, but at least he's not close to tears anymore. That's a step in the right direction. That's something he can consider to be a positive thing about this whole incident, right? Ned's here, and talking to him, and it's actually working. There's no way he's pulling away from Ned's embrace yet, not until he feels even better still. It's clingy, and he knows it, but he doesn't much care.
What Ned says, though, has him frowning, because although it can be a good thing, sometimes, to know that someone else out there feels the same way as you do, understands and can comprehend it, he doesn't want Ned to feel that way. He's already seen, of course, that Ned has a great deal of hurt and pain surrounding his childhood, but the fact that Ned recognizes how much this hurts, from a personal level, makes him feel very, very sad.
"You're the last person I'd ever want to feel that way," he says, voice very determined, and a little too loud, although he'd meant it to come out sounding a bit softer, a bit more sensitive. "I mean, I don't think anyone should have to feel that way, but you, especially, you should be happy. And me, y'know, I go from overjoyed to miserable to gleeful to despairing and back again in the space of about an hour, which you've probably noticed, so I'm not sure happy is my goal so much as just... normal. Normal would be a good start. I appreciate you trying to tell me I'm not a waste of time, because that's sweet of you, because you're a sweet guy, but if you feel that way too, if you know how I feel, how do you deal with it? I mean, how do you walk around every day, looking at people and talking to people and pretending that everything's... normal? I keep feeling like one of these days someone is going to find out everything about me and it'll be like they're gleefully tearing open the package on a present to reveal what's inside of me, except the present is a huge disappointment and terrifying. And people do find things out. They just do. Or I tell them. Like I told you."
He's never been good at seeming normal. Not even as a kid. Even less so now.
Ned considers that question, resting his cheek against the top of Ginsberg's head, trying to think how he'll answer. Eventually, he settles on the truth, "I have no idea. I wish I could tell you how I do it, but I don't know. Because I have to. Because I've had a lot of practice." But that doesn't really solve anything. Presumably, Ginsberg would like to be able to appear normal just as badly, and has had just as long to try. Then again, that fear of discovery is something he lives with, too. Though, he thinks, his fear of discovery is a shade different than Ginsberg's. Similar as their emotional troubles may be, Ned's never questioned his assumption that Ginsberg is, after all, a normal human being, without any inexplicable powers to hide.
He keeps holding Ginsberg, muses, "I've had a lot more practice seeming normal and happy than being either of them, if I'm honest. I always knew... being normal was never really an option, for me. And I was always pretty skeptical about being happy, too. So I guess I learned to fake it pretty well."
"Me too. More practice pretending than actually being those things, I mean. My whole life, I've known I wasn't normal. Maybe I'm a different kind of abnormal than you are. See, you seem pretty normal to me. But I know that that's just appearances, and that in reality, you're probably just as abnormal as I am, but in different ways. That's why I like you. I mean, that's not the only reason I like you. There're a lot of reasons to like you."
As evidenced by his continued clinging, apparently. Ned doesn't seem to mind the continued closeness, especially not with the way Ned's resting his cheek on top of his head like that. He doesn't know exactly what Ned has to hide, other than the things that Ned had already divulged to him on Halloween, but whatever they are, he supposes they're probably different than his own. No two people are exactly the same, after all, even when it comes to deep, dark secrets.
"I fake it pretty well, too. I think. Most people think I'm pretty cheerful, or if not cheerful, just kind of weird and offbeat. And I am all of those things, I guess, but obviously I'm a whole lot of other things, too. I don't really talk about this with anyone else. I talked about it with Peggy a little, but I'm not sure if she understood it all. It's hard to try to explain your childhood in a way that won't make people pity you. Pity's such a waste of time. I tried to explain to her how I didn't feel real, how I didn't feel like I fit, but I think all she got out of it was quintessential orphaned kid sob story."
Privately, Ned is certain that his abnormality is of a different sort than Ginsberg's, that if Ginsberg ever found out what he can actually do, he would do something far more drastic than hide in a closet. He has much more than what Ned's come to think of as the average allowance for peculiarity, for vulnerability, for strangeness. But all that he's shared with Ginsberg thus far has been within the bounds of physics and the accepted scientific way of looking at the world. What would he do if he knew the rest?
Ginsberg is right about one thing though - that the demarcation between feigning cheer and actually being cheerful isn't always so easy to locate. Habitual acts can become realities, or something very similar. There have been days, weeks, when Ned has almost convinced himself that he is the person he pretends to be, inside and out. But something always came along to remind him, before too long, of the fragility of that act.
"You already know more about my past than anyone else in the world," Ned says, as a kind of proof that he understands why Ginsberg doesn't talk about this kind of thing so often. There is, however, one detail that is eluding his comprehension. Which is why he asks in a gentle, quiet voice, "Most of what you're saying is so like my own thoughts that I could swear you were some kind of mind-reader. But... I'm not sure I know what you mean when you say you don't feel real."
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"I'll be there as soon as I can," he responds, and hangs up on Peggy without so much as a thank you for letting me know or even a goodbye. Manners be damned. In his frenzy to get out the door he grabs a box with half a pie in it from the fridge (he'd been keeping it there for when Ginsberg comes over) but forgets his coat. He doesn't turn back, even though the wind is biting and cold. He keeps warm enough by running to the nearest subway station.
Five hours - how could they leave him in there for five hours? Ned knows they are busy, but it seems so callous to him, so indicative of how wrapped up they all are in their own private concerns.
On the subway he's restless and can't stop tapping his foot, rubbing his hands together in his lap nervously. He nearly gets off a stop too early, wondering if he could cover the distance quicker on foot, but he forces himself to stop and think about it. When he does show up to the austere, impressive-looking high-rise he's out of breath and red-cheeked from the cold. He gets off the elevator at the floor Peggy told him, not thinking in the least about what a first impression he will give them.
"I'm here to see Peggy," he tells the secretary, "Um, I mean, Ms. Olsen. She should be expecting me- she called me."
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The secretary stares at him wordlessly for a moment, then picks up her phone. "Ms. Olson? There's a man here to see you. He says you're expecting him." Then, setting down the phone and continuing to stare, she says, "She'll be right out," almost skeptically, as though Ned is somehow deeply suspicious.
And, indeed, she is right out, hurrying into the lobby, bundle of papers in her arms, looking flustered. She's closely trailed by a man with a far too pleasant smile. "You must be Ned," she says, approaching him, shifting her bundle of papers to one arm -- and brushing aside the smiling man's offer to hold them for her -- and extending her hand to give Ned a firm handshake. "I'm Peggy. This is Bob. I'm glad you came. We've been trying for hours, but he's stubborn."
To her credit, her irritation is clearly tinged by concern, and she begins leading them towards the back of the office, through several sets of doors until they reach a hallway. She gestures at the closet, ready to say something, but it's Bob that speaks up first. "I think he just needs a good pep talk," he says, "and you can't imagine how glad I am that you're here to give it to him. If there's anything at all we can do to help..."
Peggy cuts him off with a look, and then a nod. "Thank you, Bob, I think Ned can take it from here. He's in there." She gestures to the supply closet at the end of the hall, then sighs deeply, shifting her papers to the other arm.
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Bob's rather extravagant thanks are peculiar, but Ned doesn't really have the time to respond to them before Peggy is pointing the way to him and he's breaking away from the two strangers with a quick, "Don't worry, I'll take care of it." He tries to sound more confident than he feels, but is glad the two of them leave (Bob more slowly, with more reluctance) to let him try his best without observation.
The door to the closet is thankfully out of the way, not too near to any office doors or secretary's desks. Ned comes up to it, knocks softly and says, "Hey, it's me. I mean, Ned. It's Ned. Peggy called me. Do you think you could let me in so we could talk? I... she said you'd been in there for a while so I brought pie because I thought you might be hungry, so even if you're not ready to talk yet you can open the door and I can come sit with you a bit-"
He cuts himself off, knows that it's only his worry and nervousness that's making him rattle on without pause for breath.
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"I..." It's a tough decision. Should he let Ned in when he's in this state? He knows for certain that he's not coming out, but Ned doesn't want him to come out. Ned wants to come in. That's different. Everyone who'd talked to him through the door for the last few hours had been trying to convince him to come out. Ned was, as always, just a little different.
So he reaches up and unlocks the door with an audible click, but he doesn't open it. It seems to take too much effort. He knows his hands are shaking, and there's a pretty big part of him that hopes Ned doesn't open the door at all to see him in this state. He tries to think of something else to say, but doesn't manage.
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The supply closet appears pitch black to him after the bright lights of the office, and Ned blinks against the complete darkness, standing utterly still for the moment. He doesn't like being in unfamiliar spaces where he can't see what's around him, what he might run into. So he doesn't make any kind of move, waiting for his wide-open eyes to adjust.
"Thanks," he says, and means it. Letting him in was a measure of trust. He doesn't want to rush Ginsberg into talking, so he doesn't start off with questions. "I hope you're not mad I came. It seemed like the best thing to do. Because I want to help, if I can." A pause, there. He can hear Ginsberg breathing (altogether too fast) and the outlines of things are beginning to stand out from the blackness. "Even if it's just by bringing pie."
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'Thinking' sounds a lot better than 'panicking,' although the latter is more true than the former. He doesn't know whether he hopes Ned will turn on the lights or not. It's up to him, he decides, he'll let Ned do whatever he wants. The fact that he'd shown up is enough to let him know that Ned cares, probably cares a lot more than his coworkers, even though they'd talked a good game about how concerned they were and urged him to come out. All they cared about was their deadline.
"I know I should come out of here eventually. I'm making everyone worry, blah blah, I've heard it before. This isn't the first time I've locked myself in this closet and it's definitely not gonna be the last, in case you were hoping that this was a one time thing. I'm okay, though." A long pause, and then... "No, I'm not okay. I'm a mess."
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He sets aside the question of when Ginsberg will come out, of what his coworkers are thinking, sets aside the revelation that it's not the first time he's done this. The script that Ginsberg seems to anticipate he'll follow is not the one he has in mind.
"It's not the first time I've locked myself in a closet, either." It is, he thinks, the first time he's done so for this particular reason, though. He is seized with a fleeting but intense feeling of inadequacy and unpreparedness. What if he does the wrong thing and makes matters worse? What if he only causes Ginsberg more pain?
But he has practice at shoving aside such thoughts, and does so with alacrity. Ginsberg's standing a fair distance away from him (or at least, as much as the cramped closet will allow). Ned, cautiously, takes a step closer. He's still getting his bearings, trying to suss out what might upset Ginsberg further.
Because the more he can see, the more Ned can tell that he's not doing alright at all. He's never seen Ginsberg like this, never heard him like this. It actually, physically hurts, but for once Ned is successful at masking what he feels on his face. He's got to keep a lid on it, for fear of making Ginsberg even more of a mess.
"Did something happen?"
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Except, from the way he stares at the ceiling and then suddenly slumps down into a cross legged, slouchy position on the floor, something obviously had gone wrong. He's talking fast, aware of how ridiculous he sounds, wanting to get all of this out before Ned has the regelation that he's crazy and leaves the closet, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
"But then we started talking about what the ad should be, and people started talking about their first memories, and they all have something, even if the memories aren't that detailed. Something from when they're two or three, something they can spin out into a good story about fucking ketchup. And then they wanted me to talk about mine, because I'm supposed to be the genius, or whatever, but I couldn't think of anything. Nothing at all. Big blank spot."
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He has to reorient his mind to the kind of situation he's dealing with, rewrite his half-formulated strategy on the ground. He wouldn't classify what Ginsberg's talking about as nothing happening - clearly it was something, and a big something - but what he'd been expecting had been a bit more tangible. An unusually-hurtful insult from a boss, a botched meeting with a client, a fight with his father, that kind of thing. This is both bigger and more difficult to know how to handle.
"That sounds pretty terrifying."
Ned hates towering when Ginsberg is sitting on the floor like that, looking so fragile and so far away. He sits down, too, setting the pie box between them and wrapping his arms around his knees, not near enough to Ginsberg to be threatening.
"They might have been making theirs up?" But Ned knows that suggestion will solve little to nothing, mentally pinches himself for being inept at this. This isn't about his coworkers and their ability to paste themselves into that picture of happiness, family values, and ketchup. It seems to be about the fact that Ginsberg can't. He recovers as best as he can, "Did they bug you about it?"
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At least, that's the route his downward spirals tend to take. He doesn't scoot closer to Ned when he joins him on the floor, but he also doesn't scoot away, and in this mood, that's as much of a tacit sign that someone's welcome as saying it out loud.
"I know it sounds crazy to you. It sounds crazy to me, too. Usually I'm a different person when I'm working on an ad. A confident guy. You probably wouldn't recognize me. By the time I was done telling my bullshit story, though, I could hardly breathe. I had to come in here."
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That downward spiral sounds eerily, even unsettlingly familiar to Ned. He wouldn't have thought, for any problems he might have, that Ginsberg would have felt that kind of radical, fundamental self-doubt. He's never met anyone who has before, or who has admitted to it. Oh, there were plenty of folks with their identity crises, not wanting to be who their parents wanted them to be, feeling lost in an indifferent world that had no place for their unique selves. But they took for granted certain assumptions about themselves that Ned couldn't. He wonders what it is about Ginsberg that makes him different from the rest. But he's not here to solve the other man, like some kind of puzzle. He's here to help him out of the dark, to re-ravel him.
"It sounds a lot less crazy than you'd think." He pauses, choosing his words with care, "I can see why you'd want to come here, and why you wouldn't want to leave. There are no distractions in here, and no one watching you, which is good when you feel like you don't even know which way is up or down, right?"
Ned might have shared a similar doubt, but that doesn't mean he has a solution at hand, some method of dealing with it to recommend. He wishes he did. Truth is, when he started to think too much about his life or his identity or the impossibility of it all, he made pies until he ran out of ingredients. That's not gonna work, for Ginsberg. But neither is just sitting here in the dark, letting that momentum carry him further down the spiral.
"Is it any help if I tell you I'm pretty sure you exist?" He holds out his hand in offer, to reinforce that solidity, to give Ginsberg something to hold onto. "Even if everything else is a bit undecided, that's somewhere to start, isn't it?"
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That said, and apparently decided, he takes Ned's hand firmly, squeezing it a little, as though all the answers he's looking for can be found just from holding onto Ned's hand tightly and trying to concentrate on the fact that Ned's here to help him, that Ned cared enough to come here to try to talk him through this. It's only partially effective; his breathing is still quick, and even in the dimly lit closet, it's probably obvious to Ned that his face is white with stress.
"I feel sick," he mutters, and that's really no surprise, if he's been locked in a dark closet for five hours, worrying and obsessing and spending all of his time inside his own mind. "I keep thinking... I just keep thinking about what I said, that I don't know who anyone is, that I don't know who I am, and then I think about how much you wouldn't like me if you knew who I am, either. Do you ever think about that? How you're the pie guy and I'm the ad guy and we have these roles we fulfill and maybe we're a little weird but that stops people from asking the really serious questions, because you can just chalk it all up to weirdness, but then if you dig deep, at least for me, there're all kinds of messy things in there and I don't think the pie guy would really like the ad guy if he knew him all that well. So maybe you shouldn't be here, either, because I really want you to like me."
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The doubts and insecurities that Ginsberg explains could have been taken from his own brain on certain sleepless nights. It would be remarkable, maybe even funny, if everything didn't feel so deathly serious.
"I do like you. A lot. Probably too much, actually. When Peggy called I ran the whole way to the subway station, and then the whole way here. It's true that I don't know everything about you yet, but I like every single thing I have learned so far. I like that you love your job despite everything. I like that peach pie is your favorite, and I like that you're terrible at dates. I like that you speak your mind even if it means getting hit. I like that you're so much sweeter than you seem to realize and that you've never made me feel like a freak."
Ned doesn't worry, in this moment, about laying it on too thick. If their roles were reversed, he knows he'd be only too happy (secretly, desperately) to hear these sorts of things. He wraps a second hand around Ginsberg's, for emphasis, holding it tightly. "I like that you worry about the sorts of things I worry about. I'm not afraid to learn the not-so-nice things I don't know yet. I'd be a lot more afraid if I found out it was all neat and tidy memories of family values and ketchup, because how could a guy like that possibly understand a guy like me?"
He scoots a little closer, cautiously, keeping watch for any sign that he's crossed some imaginary line and should move back once more. "I can't make promises for anyone else, but I'm pretty sure I can handle the mess. Takes one to know one, and all of that. So I think you're wrong. I think the pie guy will still like the ad guy, even if he finds out bad things have happened to him, or that he's done things he regrets."
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It's obvious from the way he's staring at Ned, eyes wide, that nobody's ever quite said things like that to him during a time he feels like this. Sure, people have told him the usual stuff: calm down, you're okay, even little pep talks that had momentarily buoyed his spirits, about how he wasn't a terrible person, about how everything would work out. Those never solved any problems, but sometimes they got him to think about something other than the darkness in his own mind. But what Ned's saying is bigger than that; it's about him, and it's specific, and it's all about how Ned likes him. Likes what he knows, at least. Wants to know more. Doesn't seem afraid of the things he might learn, if it all comes spilling out, which seems more and more likely.
"Do you ever..." he begins, wondering why it's always so much easier to begin his sentences as a question to Ned, or to someone else, as a desperate way to make sure that he's not the only one that thinks about these kinds of things. Unfortunately, the response to his do you ever questions is all too often 'no,' with the accompanying blank stare that lets him know just how crazy the recipient of the question thinks he is. Somehow, though, he doesn't think Ned will respond that way. Somehow, he thinks, even if Ned hasn't experienced the things he's asking, he'll phrase it in a way that doesn't alienate Ginsberg further.
"Do you ever think that... I mean, you said I was sweet, but I don't think I'm sweet at all. I think I can be sweet on the outside, but I don't think that's who I am on the inside. Are you ever afraid of who you are on the inside? Sometimes I can't stop thinking about that, about how there're these... it's like there're voices inside my head, all the time, telling me what terrible things I'm capable of, and they're not things I want to do, but I'm scared of doing them. You like that I speak my mind even if it means getting hit, but I don't hit back because what if I really, really hurt someone? What if I killed someone? And I know I could. I know this all sounds crazy, like I'm some kind of lunatic, and you probably wanted to run out of here the minute I said there were voices in my head, but sometimes I think we all have voices like that, the ones that tell us how awful we are. And sure, you'd like me if you found out bad things had happened to me, but would you like me if you knew that I was probably just a terrible, harmful person waiting to explode?"
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"I didn't tell you I went back to the museum, after our date. The day after. No one recognized me or anything. That... that display case I pushed that guy into? There was a crack in the glass. That's how hard I slammed him into it." He'd intended on never telling Ginsberg that, hadn't wanted to. But now he thinks, it might provide a certain solidarity. "I was so angry at him for hitting you - for hitting me, too - that I could have really hurt him. I... I might have, if things had gone differently."
He scoots closer still, so that their knees are touching, and he can look Ginsberg in the eyes as he says, "I don't think you're crazy, and I'm not going anywhere." Carefully, he reaches a hand across the distance and cups Ginsberg's cheek. Sure, Ned might not necessarily phrase it as voices in his head telling him he's awful, but for all he knows Ginsberg is talking about the exact same thing he's felt, and just describing it in different terms.
"Being afraid of what I'm capable of is kind of my default state of being. I wake up every day terrified that someone will get hurt and it'll be my fault, so I know that it's an awful thing to worry about. But that doesn't make you a lunatic, and it doesn't make you a terrible person. If you ask me, it makes you a good person. Good people aren't good because they can't do any harm, or because they don't ever want to. They're good because they decide to be good, every single day. If you ask me, it's what you do that decides who you are, so acting sweet on the outside is exactly the same as being sweet."
Ned runs his thumb along Ginsberg's cheekbone, heart breaking at the thought of him tangled up in all that worry and fear when he's been kinder to Ned than anyone he's known for a long, long time. "And everyone slips up now and then, even good people, and that's okay. You just have to live with it as best as you can, and start over trying to be good the next day."
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"I can try to be good all I want," he finally says, reassured by Ned's continued physical contact, by the fact that it's dark and quiet in the closet. He knows that his coworkers are likely wondering what they're doing in here, what they're talking about, but he's glad they're leaving them alone to talk. Peggy's doing, most likely. If it were up to Bob, he doesn't doubt the closet door would have been broken down by now. "But no matter how hard I try to be good, to be kind, I'm still part of something awful. I can't sleep at night sometimes because I start thinking about all the terrible things I do, even though I don't do them directly."
He knows that requires more explanation, but thinking about it makes his head hurt, so he has to take a pause and take a big breath, trying to steady himself. The things Ned's saying make sense, are reasonable, are even soothing, but it's hard to accept all of those things when his mind is racing a mile a minute. "I think about you slamming that guy into the display case and there's something about it that makes me happy. And that shouldn't ever make me happy. I should be glad you defended me, but feel bad for the guy, or worried that he got hurt. You were obviously worried that you'd hurt him, when it happened."
Turning his face away from Ned now, he seems to be addressing the shelves full of paper and pencils and cleaning supplies. "I talk about hating the war. Hating the companies that use their money or their products to support the war. But then we do ads for them, and I take the paycheck even though I know it's dirty money, and I tell myself 'it's just a job, I'm not a bad person, I'm not hurting anyone,' but that's what everyone says, that's what anyone who allows bad things to happen says. That's how the Nazis tried to defend themselves, too. 'Just a job.' So how does that make me any better, when I know I help companies hurt people? You don't do that. You make pie. Pie doesn't hurt people."
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"Not necessarily," Ned knows it's a stretch, but he isn't sure how else to comfort Ginsberg, how else to make him feel better, "The companies I buy fruit from probably cheat and exploit their workers, only I haven't had the courage to look them up and check, because even if they do, I have to buy fruit from someone. Just like you have to make ads for someone. That doesn't make you a- a Nazi. You have to see that. You're not writing propaganda for the war, and you're not working for the government, and you're not hurting people directly, so there is a difference. There's a big one."
There's something so daunting about all this, and Ned has a moment of self-doubt. Is this really the right route to take, or will it sound like he's just invalidating Ginsberg's feelings? But he doesn't know what else to do.
"The war's too big for you, Ginsberg. You're not going to be able to stop it single-handed by quitting your job, or keep it going by writing a great ad for a horrible company. You're not that important. That doesn't mean you're just allowing bad things to happen."
He hesitates, weighing the options before him. Will baring his own burdens really help to Ginsberg to bear his? Or will he merely worsen the other man's conviction that everyone is rotten on the inside, in one way or another? In the end, Ned decides to risk it.
"And even if pie doesn't hurt people... I have. So I know what I'm talking about."
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He could be saying I know to anything, but what he's really agreeing to is that he knows that he's not that important, that nothing he does really has an impact in the big scheme of things. It's logical, and it makes sense to him, and it's the kind of thing he'd tell someone else and really mean it, but it's amazing how logical things can be so difficult to comprehend when applied to oneself. All the rules he has for other people, all the ideas he has about them, those all go out the door when they're applying to him.
"You've hurt people?"
He doesn't necessarily know what Ned means by that, and that's why he turns his head back to look at him curiously. Maybe Ned means physically, like the guy he'd slammed into the display case. Maybe he means emotionally, because it's pretty damn hard to go through life without hurting at least one or two people emotionally, no matter how hard you try. Maybe he means something else entirely. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want. Maybe it's enough just to know that I'm not the only one. Not the only terrible person. Not that you're terrible, I don't mean that at all, but not the only one who worries about this kind of thing."
And there he goes again, fumbling his way through sentences he's not sure how to articulate, making it all sound worse than it really is. He knows that he has a flair for the dramatic, that he's likely panicking about something that nobody else would even give a second's thought to, but he doesn't think he can help it. For better or for worse, this is how his brain works. It's exhausting.
He's startled to find that tears have sprung to his eyes, and he swipes at his eyes angrily with the sleeve of his sweater. The last thing he needs is to cry in front of Ned. This is already bad enough, and although he's generally more comfortable being emotional than most people, crying is another level of unpleasantness. Surely, even if Ned hasn't judged him so far, he'd judge him for that.
"I just hate knowing..." He hesitates, and then spills it all out in a long stream of words that practically run together. "I hate knowing that if I hadn't been born, my mother, whoever the hell she was, would probably still be alive. I mean, I don't know that for sure, because how could I, but she'd've had a better chance. I hate knowing that my existence hurt someone. Just existing. Not even doing anything. Not even consciously. Just the act of being here."
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His chest aches when he sees Ginsberg wiping away tears. Ned's never been much good at seeing other people in pain or distress, even if they were strangers. To see Ginsberg fighting back tears like that is so much worse than he would have imagined, and that's before he says what he does about his mother.
They've finally coming to it, to the thing at the roof of all these different strands: Ginsberg's response in the meeting, his feeling of dread and unreality, his fear that he's a bad person, his horror of hurting others. But it turns out that at this most crucial of moments, words absolutely fail Ned. He's accustomed enough to speaking with people about their mothers, even their dead mothers, and doing so with the emotional distance necessary to keep himself safe. He wasn't expecting this, however, and it cuts into him deep, from out of nowhere. Ginsberg blames himself for his mother's death. Well. That's something Ned can relate to, too.
Only he can't seem to find his voice to say that. And besides, what would he even say? What words could possibly be enough? He can't tell Ginsberg it isn't his fault, though he doesn't think it is, because that strikes Ned as not his right (besides which, he wouldn't trust his voice). So he does something that's out of character for him and gathers Ginsberg into an embrace, sudden and fierce, holds him as if he could banish everything bad in just that one act. Ned knows that he's shaking, now, but he doesn't care Ginsberg if notices. He'll say something, something reassuring, something wise and logical, when he can.
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The hug, then, takes him almost completely by surprise, and he startles a little before letting himself sink into it, letting Ned hold him tightly, burying his face in Ned's shoulder. He's not crying, he's not going to let himself, but those tears are still there, lurking somewhere, and he knows they could burst out at any minute. If he does cry, he thinks, he'll do it once Ned is gone. Because Ned's going to leave eventually, isn't he? Most people do.
"I shouldn't have said any of that," he says, because this is usually the kind of thing he ends up having to apologize for. True, Ned's response is far different than other responses have been -- those responses have been mostly dismissive, with a helping of discomfort and irritation -- but that doesn't mean Ned has endless patience. "And I'm saying that to you, and I know you don't have a mother either, and it's selfish of me to bring any of it up, because I'm making you waste your time in a closet because I freaked out during a meeting about ketchup. I mean, out of everything to have a breakdown about. Maybe I'll pitch an ad like that. Ketchup: It's great, except when you get a mentally unstable ad guy working on it, and then it makes you cry! But it sure tastes delicious.."
He laughs, even though he's not amused, because laughing is a lot better of an option than the alternative.
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"You're the furthest thing from a waste of time that I can imagine," he says, fervently, not loosening his grip on Ginsberg one iota. His voice is hoarse with emotion, but relatively steady, at least. If Ginsberg meant that as an apology, Ned isn't accepting it. "It isn't selfish to talk about it. I want you to know you can tell me things. I just-" Here, against his will, his voice breaks. He tries to cover it up by clearing his throat, but it's a pretty flimsy ruse. "-I'm not sure what to say. Because. I think. I kind of know... how you feel." The words are coming jerkily, in starts and fits, but he presses on, "And I can't imagine anything anyone could say... making it hurt any less."
Ned runs a hand through Ginsberg's hair, pushing it back from his ears and forehead. "I guess... the only thing I do want to say is, it's okay for it to hurt. That doesn't make you weak, or weird, or crazy."
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What Ned says, though, has him frowning, because although it can be a good thing, sometimes, to know that someone else out there feels the same way as you do, understands and can comprehend it, he doesn't want Ned to feel that way. He's already seen, of course, that Ned has a great deal of hurt and pain surrounding his childhood, but the fact that Ned recognizes how much this hurts, from a personal level, makes him feel very, very sad.
"You're the last person I'd ever want to feel that way," he says, voice very determined, and a little too loud, although he'd meant it to come out sounding a bit softer, a bit more sensitive. "I mean, I don't think anyone should have to feel that way, but you, especially, you should be happy. And me, y'know, I go from overjoyed to miserable to gleeful to despairing and back again in the space of about an hour, which you've probably noticed, so I'm not sure happy is my goal so much as just... normal. Normal would be a good start. I appreciate you trying to tell me I'm not a waste of time, because that's sweet of you, because you're a sweet guy, but if you feel that way too, if you know how I feel, how do you deal with it? I mean, how do you walk around every day, looking at people and talking to people and pretending that everything's... normal? I keep feeling like one of these days someone is going to find out everything about me and it'll be like they're gleefully tearing open the package on a present to reveal what's inside of me, except the present is a huge disappointment and terrifying. And people do find things out. They just do. Or I tell them. Like I told you."
He's never been good at seeming normal. Not even as a kid. Even less so now.
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He keeps holding Ginsberg, muses, "I've had a lot more practice seeming normal and happy than being either of them, if I'm honest. I always knew... being normal was never really an option, for me. And I was always pretty skeptical about being happy, too. So I guess I learned to fake it pretty well."
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As evidenced by his continued clinging, apparently. Ned doesn't seem to mind the continued closeness, especially not with the way Ned's resting his cheek on top of his head like that. He doesn't know exactly what Ned has to hide, other than the things that Ned had already divulged to him on Halloween, but whatever they are, he supposes they're probably different than his own. No two people are exactly the same, after all, even when it comes to deep, dark secrets.
"I fake it pretty well, too. I think. Most people think I'm pretty cheerful, or if not cheerful, just kind of weird and offbeat. And I am all of those things, I guess, but obviously I'm a whole lot of other things, too. I don't really talk about this with anyone else. I talked about it with Peggy a little, but I'm not sure if she understood it all. It's hard to try to explain your childhood in a way that won't make people pity you. Pity's such a waste of time. I tried to explain to her how I didn't feel real, how I didn't feel like I fit, but I think all she got out of it was quintessential orphaned kid sob story."
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Ginsberg is right about one thing though - that the demarcation between feigning cheer and actually being cheerful isn't always so easy to locate. Habitual acts can become realities, or something very similar. There have been days, weeks, when Ned has almost convinced himself that he is the person he pretends to be, inside and out. But something always came along to remind him, before too long, of the fragility of that act.
"You already know more about my past than anyone else in the world," Ned says, as a kind of proof that he understands why Ginsberg doesn't talk about this kind of thing so often. There is, however, one detail that is eluding his comprehension. Which is why he asks in a gentle, quiet voice, "Most of what you're saying is so like my own thoughts that I could swear you were some kind of mind-reader. But... I'm not sure I know what you mean when you say you don't feel real."
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