"True," Ned concedes, with good humor, "I guess it depends on how much credit you're willing to give the people this imagined spy is trying to evade. Most people are pretty sadly content not to think things through even as much as you just did. They judge based on appearances without stopping to wonder if their preconceived notions are true. I don't think I have to tell you that."
Certainly not based on some of the stories that Ginsberg has told him about moronic clients, anyway.
"And as for evading people who are smart enough to think that a man seems too average, well, wouldn't those people be smart enough to have other methods of detecting our spy than on how shifty he looks? A disguise shouldn't be enough to fool someone as clever as that, so why bother? A real spy would have to have other methods at the ready to get around the smart people, and would have to put on a show of conformity for the average observer."
"Okay, okay, you win. Maybe I'm giving the people the spy's trying to evade too much credit. If they're the US government, I'm definitely giving them too much credit."
He looks around himself dramatically, like he's afraid the US government is listening to what he just said, and then laughs. "You'd probably make a pretty good spy," he says, dodging out of the way as a little kid bundled up in what looks like about three coats runs past, nearly running into him. "Nobody would suspect you. Who'd think that the guy serving them pie was really trying to get all their secrets out of them?"
He turns to Ned with a faux-suspicious look on his face, slowly raising an eyebrow. "Maybe you are a spy! You work for a rival ad agency, right, and you're trying to steal all of our ideas. And to think, I've fallen for it. I told you all about my stupid ads for ketchup and cars. Now I'll know who to blame if I see those on TV before we release ours."
He's pretty terrible at maintaining the faux-suspicious look for long, though, so he's laughing by the time he finishes saying it. "No, you'd never be a spy for an ad agency. You'd hate it."
Ginsberg's joking accusation, and the corresponding implication that he is hiding some huge secret, some separate identity that Ginsberg has no knowledge about, catches him off guard, despite the topic of the conversation. He wasn't quite expecting it, so his initial reaction is one of stunned, and guilty, surprise. His expression is, in fact, so transparently shocked that it is quite possible Ginsberg will mistake it for hyperbolic acting.
Because the truth is, despite never questioning if he is making the right decision, Ned feels guilty about keeping secrets from Ginsberg. That's a new thing, for him. He's never really let himself get close enough to someone that he felt bad about shutting them out from that whole part of his life. Now, however, it's been starting to eat at him, more and more. If he can't trust Ginsberg, well, who can he trust? The answer is, of course, no one. Does he really want to be a man who faces the prospect of a life of lies, in which he cannot bring himself to trust a single other person?
"That's me," he admits, a beat too late for it to be quite funny, with a reluctant smile, "You caught me. I'm working for, uh, the agency of... for your rival agency. Deep cover. Can't see how you found me out."
Enough with the spy stuff, Ned decides. He turns back towards the crowd of people on the street, points at an older man on the other side of the road, asks, "What about that guy? What's his story?"
He does, indeed, take the look on Ned's face as being one of over the top acting, and grins at him, assuming that he's just playing along. If Ned does have any deep, dark secrets, Ginsberg isn't thinking about them right now, and besides, who doesn't have secrets? Grinning at Ned, shaking his head, he says, "Y'know, you'd be a better spy if you didn't admit your allegiances as soon as I figured you out!"
When Ned calls his attention to the guy across the street, he's all smiles and amusement, already trying to decide what kind of story he can come up with for this guy, what'll amuse Ned the most. He finds that he likes making Ned laugh, and that it's nice, because Ned isn't laughing at him, like so many people are. That Ned really seems to appreciate his somewhat odd sense of humor is a relief. "That guy," he says, beginning his story with a dramatic tone, one that promises ridiculous things to come, "is..."
And then the amusement completely slides off of his face. Something very like abject fear seems to replace it, instead. "Shit, shit," he mumbles, and within several seconds, he's practically running into the nearest store, nearly physically dragging Ned with him as he does so, not explaining himself, not giving Ned the chance to ask questions, not until they're safely inside the little store and he can hide behind a shelf, looking completely mortified.
Ned is so preoccupied with Ginsberg's alarm that he doesn't get a good look at what kind of shop it is that they duck into. All he knows is that when Ginsberg saw the man he'd pointed to, his face went white and he acted as if he'd seen some kind of ghost. Ned doesn't question him, yet, lets himself be dragged into the nearest convenient store. In his worry, he forgets his usual decorum and sets a steadying hand on Ginsberg's shoulder, a furrow forming between his brows.
"What is it, who was that?"
He tears his eyes away from the store window and turns to see what sort of place it is they've ended up in. When he turns, however, he finds himself face to face with the mounted head of a stag. There is, perhaps, a inch of space between their noses. Ned lets out a yelp, reeling back in horror. That was a close call. Much, much, much too close for his comfort. A glance around the shop reveals that it is stuffed full (pun intended) of taxidermy animals. There are dogs, cats, falcons, bears, stoats, and even a very dusty-looking tiger. It's a small shop, with far too many items in it, so that there's hardly adequate room to stand between the displays. Heart racing, Ned shoves his hands into his pockets and stands very, very still.
Now that they're inside and away from immediate 'danger' (such as it is) he relaxes slightly, and of course Ned's hand on his shoulder helps a bit. Turning around to look at the store, he thinks he can see why Ned's startled (although of course, he couldn't know the full extent of it, not really) because, wow, that's a whole lot of dead animals in one place. His eyes widen slightly, taking in the cluttered displays, and he shakes his head in disbelief at just how ridiculous this had all suddenly become.
"That," he says, going back to the dramatic voice, although slightly more subdued and quiet now that they're in a store, and the proprietor is behind the counter, staring at the both of them, obviously hoping they'll buy something. "That was a man I don't need to make up a story for. That was Morris Ginsberg. Last name not a coincidence. That," he continues, perhaps unnecessarily, "was my father."
He says it like it's the most horrifying person he can possibly imagine running into on the street, and to be fair, at the moment, it really is.
"Ohhh," Ned says, drawing out the syllable in sudden and complete understanding. Of course. He ought to have guessed. Who else would provoke such an immediate, such an intense reaction from Ginsberg? It had to have been his father. Just running into his father on the street wouldn't be a problem, of course. Running into his father on the street with Ned, right now, when he had likely told his father he was doing something else, was a very very big problem.
It's all somewhat foreign to him; he's not had any parents to hide things from. Not since he was a little kid, and his lies were much smaller, much less potentially disastrous. He'd had his share of little romantic deceptions in his later years at boarding school, but again, that was a different affair.
"That's a hell of a coincidence," Ned says, with alarm and a little indignation at the gall of fate, tossing the three of them within proximity of one another. That's not to mention the gall of fate in having this store be full of dead things, teetering near the edges of their shelves, looming over him, well poised for a disastrous accident.
He turns to the owner of the store, shoulders hunched as if he's afraid one of the stuffed creatures will fly at him to attack, explains apologetically, "It's a- we'll only be here a moment. It's a long story." Ned makes a mental note to send a pie here sometime in apology, only he's certainly not going to be the one to deliver it.
Even though they have only been in there for a minute or two, he feels agitated, suffocated, ready to be out in the open air and away from the faint smell of chemicals he thinks he can detect.
"Is he gone," he asks Ginsberg in a whisper, low enough that the store owner won't hear him, "This place is kinda freaking me out."
That much, at least, is obvious. Ned's face is white as chalk, and he's breathing so quickly that it must seem like they ran a great deal further than the few steps that took them in here. His mind is racing with all the possibilities for how this could go wrong, and the sooner he is out of here, the better.
Edited (done now promise >>) 2013-11-04 01:20 (UTC)
"I know. It's a huge damn coincidence. He never leaves Brooklyn, except when he comes to visit me at the office -- and believe me, that's a whole other discussion entirely -- and the one day he decides to go somewhere else, we're there too? Ridiculous."
He peers around the edge of the shelf, looking out the window, eyes scanning the street to make sure his father isn't still out there, lurking, as though he could somehow detect the presence of his son and would be waiting to spring an attack on them the moment they stepped out of the store. It's not like he thinks his father would disapprove of him spending time with Ned, so long as his father didn't realize the intimacy of their relationship. On the contrary, he'd probably be glad that his son had some friends. On the other hand, he'd told his dad he was going on a date -- and he was, just not the kind his father likely imagined -- so there'd be a lot to explain if he saw the two of them together. His father already had suspicions about his sexuality. Better not to add to them.
"Yeah, he's gone," he says, turning back to Ned, looking worried now, because it's obvious that this place really is freaking Ned out, and not just in the colloquial sense. Dead animals don't exactly make Ginsberg feel warm and fuzzy inside, but they don't freak him out in the way they seem to freak Ned out. "We can get out of here. We'll just walk the opposite direction, okay?"
Because no way is he going to risk running into him again. He eyes the proprietor of the shop, offers him an apologetic little smile, and pushes open the door very cautiously, halfway expecting his dad to be standing outside, standing at the ready with big hugs and big questions. "Okay. C'mon. Coast's clear."
He follows Ginsberg out of the store, letting out an all-too-transparent huge sigh of relief when the door swings shut behind him. At least it's something he doesn't need to make excuses for; Ginsberg isn't the sort of person to poke fun at his masculinity because he isn't comfortable being around dead animals. Of course, the amusing part of it is that, if it weren't for the chance of his secret being exposed, Ned wouldn't be all that bothered. He's used to death, has lost the ability to be shocked or nauseated by things that would alarm strong-stomached men.
"Well... that was eventful," he comments, with a little, relieved laugh. Ned allows himself one last shiver, jittery and tense after that close call, before he joins Ginsberg in walking the opposite direction from the way his dad had been going. "Not to pressure you at all or imply anything but I'm just curious, does your father even know I exist? Not... obviously, you haven't told him about... but I didn't know if you'd mentioned me."
Out of the frying pan and into the fire of awkwardness.
"Yeah, he knows you exist," he says, like it'd be completely laughable that he wouldn't know. He doesn't share everything with his father -- not even close, when it comes right down to it -- but he does tend to tell him about his friends, what few friends he has. His dad knows about the people from the office, like Stan, and Peggy (who he'd met firsthand) and Don, and he also knows about the precious few friends Ginsberg has from elsewhere (which really just boils down to Ned, if he thinks about it.)
"He knows we're friends. He knows we met because I went to your pie shop and you saved me from disaster. I didn't tell him what kind of disaster, but he's eternally grateful to you for helping me out of a bad situation, which is about the way I put it, so he likes you. From what he's heard of you. I mean, I haven't told him everything about you. That'd be weird."
He doesn't necessarily think the question is awkward, although he's worried, for a moment, that Ned will think that this means he's told his father details that shouldn't be revealed to anyone. Then he dismisses the fear. He wouldn't have dragged Ned into that horrible little store and hidden the both of them if his father knew about it. He shoves his hands back into his pockets.
"Now that we're done hiding, I could use some coffee. Or some hot chocolate. Or some tea. Or something to warm myself up. You want something? There're about a million places around here, and we don't have to stay there, we can get something to go and keep walking. I guarantee my dad won't be in any of them. He hates spending money if he doesn't have to."
Ned smiles his lopsided smile, surprised by how glad he is that Ginsberg has told his father he exists. He'd been prepared for a negative - an offended one, at that. He's used to overestimating his importance in the lives of those around him, merely because there aren't a lot of people in his. But apparently, Ginsberg has told his father about him, and it warms Ned's heart somehow. The pool of people in the world who know that he exists, who remember him, in any capacity other than as a piemaker of some quality, is very limited.
If he could, he would respond with a story of his own - that he'd told his family or friends about Ginsberg, too. But the truth is, he doesn't have anyone to tell. Anyone other than Digby, or perhaps the waitress at the Pie Hole, who has seen Ginsberg come by often enough that she recognizes him.
"Hot chocolate sounds perfect, walking or sitting down."
He smiles back, glad that Ned hasn't taken offense somehow in knowing that his father knows about him. Some people might not like that, he realizes, might feel uncomfortable that they'd been talked about, but how could he avoid talking about Ned, when Ned had suddenly become so important to his life? All he can do is try not to gush unnecessarily about him, try not to arouse his father's suspicions any further than they already have been.
"Okay, there's a place right around here that I like, around the corner, I think. And I think I'd like to keep walking, if you don't mind. Sometimes I get too antsy when I sit around somewhere, and then I worry that I'm not being interesting enough, and if we're walking you have other things to look at, anyway, so you won't be as bored if I'm not entertaining you. Not that I think you need constant entertainment, but you know what I mean."
Will he ever be able to stem this tide of verbal anxiety? Probably not. He feels relatively comfortable around Ned, now, and yet, it all still comes out in a rush like that, whenever he's unsure of himself. They walk a little further, and come to the coffee shop he'd pointed out. Holding open the door for Ned, he ushers him inside, wishing, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that he could put an arm around him, or something.
"Walking's good," Ned says, simply. He doesn't know what it is about Ginsberg's nervous loquaciousness that makes him more sparing of words; perhaps, unconsciously, he does it as a sign that he isn't put off by the chatter, that he's happy to listen, that in cases like this Ginsberg's nervousness is not infectious. After all, he's found that he can temporarily quell those moments of anxiety with a short answer and a smile. So that's what he does - agrees and smiles, bright and wide. It's a different smile that the one he uses for customers, or acquaintances.
The little coffee shop is busy enough, but in a few moments Ned's bought them two hot chocolates and they are out on the street once more, clutching the warm styrofoam in their hands, sipping as they stroll. It's nice, to be able to walk slowly and look at the various sights. To hold back a laugh when Ginsberg gets foam in his mustache.
"You don't have to be interesting every second," he says, after a few minutes, his mind circling back to what Ginsberg had said, "Just spending time with you is nice enough. So please don't worry so much about trying to dazzle me every second, alright?" He knows it might come off sounding critical, so he says it as gently as he can, as warmly. Of course, he knows just telling Ginsberg not to be antsy isn't really helpful, but he wants him to know he's not some client or imagined audience with a two-second attention span, who he needs to thrill or else he'll move on to something better.
"I know I don't. I mean, I'd like to be interesting all the time, but that's never going to happen. It's just that I want to impress you. To dazzle you. And not in the stupid, facile, completely meaningless way I dazzle clients. Because they're easy to dazzle. You tell them something that sounds smart and artistic and they decide you're an advertising genius. I try not to use the word genius in reference to myself, but I can't help it if other people use it in reference to me."
It's amazing, for someone so perpetually fighting his own low self-esteem, how very cocky he can sound. The thing is, advertising's the one thing he knows he's good at, and there's no sense in pretending he's not. It'd be like Ned pretending to be bad about making pie. False modesty, and completely obviously unnecessary. That's why, when he's talking about his job, or anything related to it, his loquaciousness isn't nervous so much as energized and bright.
"I'll try not to worry so much about it. I always want to make a good impression on you, though." He shifts his cup of hot chocolate to his other hand and shrugs. "I like to spend time with you, too." It's an honest, straightforward sentiment, one that other people might find difficult to say, but those kind of statements are probably what Ned's come to expect from him.
They walk on for a little bit, wandering into a park, and he likes that they're not hurrying, that they don't have anywhere to go, that they're just strolling. When they walk under an underpass linking one side of the park to the other, he seizes the moment of privacy to put a hand on Ned's shoulder lean up and kiss Ned on the cheek, very quickly, knowing that it's still an almost dangerously daring thing to do, considering that they're outside and someone could walk by at any moment.
It is a rather daring thing, and not one that Ned was expecting. It's over in a moment and he brings a hand up to his cheek in surprise, laughing suddenly, head falling forward. He's smiling so hard his cheeks hurt and he is utterly, completely happy.
With a quick little glance around to make sure they are still alone, he returns the kiss, just at the corner of Ginsberg's mouth. It leaves him feeling bold and radiant. Like he's invincible. Even if they can't be too openly affectionate in public, they can snatch moments like this, defiantly.
Buoyed by that kiss, Ned finds himself blurting, in a thoroughly embarrassing manner, "I'm, I genuinely- you and I-" Oh god, he's messing it all up. In a rush, he finishes, "I really like you."
At least their grins match each other for how big and delighted they are, and he doesn't, for a moment, find any of what Ned's saying embarrassing. Quite the contrary, really. He's surprised he'd had the courage to kiss Ned out here in the first place, and he's even more surprised that Ned had returned the kiss, but what he's not surprised by is how happy it makes him.
"I really like you, too. I guess that was probably obvious. I wish I could kiss you again. Really kiss you, I mean. In front of other people."
And now he's just going to hide any of his own embarrassment by taking a long sip of his hot chocolate. He's always known that he has a tendency to get attached to people quickly, but the intensity of the attachment he feels to Ned is something he's never experienced before. It has him confused, certainly, but pleased, too.
Obvious as it might seem to Ginsberg, Ned loves hearing it out loud. Thinks that he could stand to hear it a couple times more, just like he could stand to kiss Ginsberg a great deal more. But there's no rush. They have all day together, a long and wonderful stretch of hours. It's strange, but he hadn't realized just how little he looked forward to every day, until he started having something to really, truly look forward to. Ned has Ginsberg all to himself today, and he intends to savor it.
So the two of them keep walking, sipping at their hot chocolates, talking about little nothings. Underneath that chatter, though, is a warmth, a strong current of affection and enjoyment of one another's company. Ginsberg tells him stories about coming to this park when he was growing up, and Ned tells him about how to make the absolute best hot chocolate.
In a fit of particular carelessness and fun, Ned climbs up to walk on the top of one of the low stone walls bordering the path. It's a silly thing that prompts it, really. Some small remark about his height and how he towers over everything. He's laughing, putting one foot in front of one another, feeling weightless and wonderful. The next moment, though, his ankle decides it doesn't appreciate the angle at which he's put down his foot, and with a sickening lurch he goes toppling off the wall and into a cluster of bushes.
Bad enough, yes, just to fall in front of Ginsberg and make an utter idiot of himself; Ginsberg is looking right at him as he does it. That would be galling, but something he could laugh about later. Immeasurably worse, though, is the fact that his hand, flying out automatically to break his fall, lands on something that is not the ground. Ned looks a second too late, spots the dim outline of bloody face that's half-hidden by the shadows of the bushes.
He reels away by instinct, letting out an aborted yell, but it's too late. He can feel that it is too late. There is blood smeared across his palm and the woman in the bushes sits up with a startled gasp of her own. Ned could swear he feels his heart stop, then. She's in a real state, blood all over her face and neck, her pale blue eyes wide, a lurid gash spanning her throat. She tries to speak, but the cut is too deep, so her vocal cords don't work.
Panic seizes Ned and for a few seconds he is utterly paralyzed. Then he remembers what will happen if he leaves her like this, that Ginsberg might die, and he is able to move. He lunges forward, claps a hand to the side of her face and is relieved to see that familiar unearthly flash of blue over her skin. She falls back into the bushes and he's left there, on his knees, gasping for breath.
He's laughing at Ned's antics, feeling delighted and amused and altogether more happy than he has in quite some time, but as soon as Ned topples off the wall, he's rushing to the low wall to look over the edge of it. "Are you okay?" he asks, and he's not laughing anymore, he's genuinely worried that Ned might have twisted his ankle or landed in some way that had seriously hurt him. That strange yell Ned had let out didn't sound good.
And it isn't good. It's a lot worse than he could have possibly imagined. At first, he doesn't quite know what he's looking at, because his brain refuses to process it. There's Ned, on the ground, having landed near some bushes, and there's... a woman, a woman who looks very much dead, except she's sitting up, and she's covered in blood, and it's like she's trying to say something. It should be enough to make him back away, to make him start screaming, because she's obviously dead, nobody could survive having their throat cut like that, and if she's dead, how can she be moving, how can she be trying to speak.
But he can't seem to look away, and he can't seem to say anything, and it's exactly as he's always feared it would be if he were confronted with something horrible: he just shuts down, staring, mouth wide open, forgetting to breathe, forgetting how to say anything coherent. And then Ned touches her, and there's a strange blue light, and then she's collapsing back into the bushes again, still obviously dead, but this time, as unmoving as she should have been all along.
It's then that he remembers his words. They're jumbled, and they don't come out right, and his voice is unnaturally high pitched, even for him, and frantic. "She... Jesus fucking Christ, she was dead, wasn't she? That was a dead body. Did she... did you... how did..."
He's gaping, probably looking ridiculous, still staring at the bushes that the dead woman had collapsed back into, then letting his gaze flick back to Ned, shaking his head slowly. "Dead people can't... I mean, I believe in some pretty weird shit, but that's not... but you... and then you touched her, and she... what the fuck just happened?"
He can hear what Ginsberg is saying, but the words sink in slowly. Time seems to be moving around him strangely, stopping and then rushing, and he can't seem to breathe. But he can't afford to panic. Not here, not now, in the middle of a waking nightmare.
Ned clambers to his feet, wiping the blood of his hand and onto his pants with frantic, jerky movements, eventually settles for shoving his hands into his pockets. Ginsberg wants answers, saw the whole thing. Ned's going to have to tell him. Not just some bullshit story, but everything. And that will be the end of it. Everything. Not just their relationship, but life as he knows it.
But his first instinct, borne of experience, is to get away from the body as fast as he can. "We n-need to get out of h-here before someone sees us." The voice barely sounds like his own, a terrified rasp. Ned looks around wildly, but there's no one in sight, no one else who saw. He climbs over the stone wall and starts walking away from the body, quickly. Too quickly. It's as slow as he can go. Ginsberg doesn't follow at first, but Ned looks back and sees him rushing after, soon enough. His mind is a storm of chaotic half-formed thoughts, and he knows he ought to be planning, coming up with some likely lie, or a strategy, but nothing makes sense.
Ned doesn't even know where he is headed, just follows his instinct to put distance between himself and that body. When they have come some distance in the park he spots a deserted bench, sinks into it gratefully. His whole body is shaking so badly he's surprised his legs supported him all the way here. Ginsberg follows after him, looking just as horrified and disturbed as Ned could have feared.
"F-fuck," Ned gasps. He doesn't often swear outside the bedroom, and it's a sign of how beyond caring he is that he doesn't even hesitate to says it, "Fuck fuck fuck!" He looks Ginsberg in the eyes for one brief second before leaning forward, head in his hands. He knows he's going to have to say something, but right now he thinks if he tries he's going to throw up. So he gives himself a minute to just sit there and gulp at the air like a drowning man.
"This wasn't supposed to happen." There are tears pressing at the backs of his eyes, hot and insistent.
At first, he's far too shaken and upset to follow after Ned, but after a few moments, he hurries after him, going wherever Ned leads him, not questioning Ned's desire to get away. He wants to get away, too, doesn't want to be anywhere near that body, whether it's alive or dead or the living dead or any combination thereof. He's seen pictures of dead bodies, too many pictures, but he can't recall ever seeing one in real life. If he had, it had been a long, long time ago.
There's an instinct to get to a phone as quickly as he can, to call the police, to call an ambulance, to do something, but he could tell just from looking at the woman that she was long beyond any help an ambulance could provide, and the police can wait for a little while longer, until he fully comprehends just what's happened, and just what Ned's done.
None of it makes sense. He can't add it all up in his head, and while he normally embraces things that are illogical, he's completely incapable of doing so right now. So he sits down on the bench next to Ned, once he reaches it, and he puts a very tentative hand on his shoulder. No hugs, not yet, because he doesn't think Ned can take it, not from the expression on his face, not from the way he's shaking. It's obvious that Ned is fighting disgust and fear and panic, and he doesn't want to demand answers, doesn't want to push him, but at the same time, he needs someone to explain what he'd just seen.
"That wasn't supposed to happen," he repeats, because that sentence doesn't make any sense to him, either. "Okay, that wasn't supposed to happen, but what was that? I mean, it looked like... I mean, you know what it looked like. You obviously understand something I don't, and I'm starting to think maybe I'm crazy, because it looked to me like a dead person just became undead and then dead again and I don't know how that happens."
Ned laughs, then, but there's no humor in it. It's a hysterical sound, brief and unhinged. "I don't know how it happens, either," he says. He can feel Ginsberg's hand on his shoulder, shrinks away from it. For Ginsberg's own sake, he thinks. Once he knows the truth, he won't want to touch Ned ever again, won't want to come near him.
The worst part of it is that he'd been so happy. He'd been careless because he'd let himself slip into a mindset in which he didn't think anything could go wrong. He ought not to have gotten up on that wall, should have known that he could trip and fall and ruin everything.
But Ginsberg is waiting, staring at him, and Ned is going to have to say something sooner or later. The words are jumbled and rushed as he says, "You're not crazy. That's what happened. She was dead, and I touched her, and she came back to life. Then I touched her again and she went back to being dead. Because that's what always happens. Because I'm a f-freak of nature. I'm cursed, or magic, or an alien, or a monster, or something. I don't know. I just know how it works."
Now that he's started talking, Ned finds that he can't stop. It's all pouring out of him, like water from a broken dam. "Ever since I was a kid, I've had this- this thing. I can't control it, or make it go away. And it's always been a secret. T-til now. And you saw the whole thing."
That's not a particularly good response at all, can't possibly sum up everything he's thinking at the moment, but it's all he has as he lets it process through his mind, all of the things Ned's saying. He knows he should be immediately arguing that it's impossible, but he'd seen it, and he's never had a hard time believing impossible things, anyway. He doesn't draw his hand back from Ned's shoulder, even when he feels Ned shrink away. Maybe he should. Maybe Ned would prefer it. Selfishly, though, he doesn't pull away.
"You never told anybody? After all these years, I mean, if you've been able to do that for so long, and you've never told anyone..."
He's still collating all of his thoughts, not sure how he wants to respond, not sure how to tackle the how or the why of this, but knowing very much that he wants to tackle the fact that Ned thinks he's a freak of nature. A monster. An alien. Those thoughts are all too familiar to him, although he doesn't have this thing that Ned has, doesn't have anything like it.
"You must be scared about it all the time. I mean, that sounds really..." He tries to think of a way to phrase it inoffensively, but completely fails. Then a thought occurs to him. "Is that why you were so scared in the store? Because the animals were dead? And you knew that if you touched one of them then... then that would happen? How do you... aren't you lonely, if you never tell anyone? That's a big secret. I mean, I know you probably couldn't tell anyone, because if you said it they'd probably think you were crazy, but I mean, it's obviously real."
He shouldn't be surprised, that Ginsberg is so quick to tie the two incidents together, to see in hindsight why Ned had been so alarmed by the presence of so many dead things. To see, too, how isolating, how terrifying it has always been, carrying this thing inside of him, dreading the day when it would be revealed against his will.
"Who would I tell?" Ned asks, but the question is rhetorical and he doesn't wait for a response. Because Ginsberg's questions provide an excellent transition towards what he needs to say, what he needs to impart. Even if Ginsberg leaves, even if they never see one another again, Ned has to get across to him the seriousness of the secret. "Besides it's not a question of someone not believing me or saying I was crazy. It's easy enough to prove it. Too easy. Do you have any idea the kinds of things I have to do, to make sure no one finds out? Because I can't trust anyone. Because what if... what if the secret gets out? What if people find out? Not just one person, but lots of people. What do you think would happen to me?"
He pauses to shudder, hands clenching into tight fists. It's not something that's easy for him to talk about, but then, none of this is, "If it wasn't mobs with torches and pitchforks it'd be people wanting to... to use me, or do tests on me or dissect me like a frog to find out h-how it works. So you can't, you can't tell anyone Ginsberg, please. It's life or d-death for me."
Even as he's saying this, there's a part of Ned that's surprised that Ginsberg hasn't pulled away, hasn't turned on him. Those questions about how lonely it must be, that persistent hand on his shoulder. Doesn't he understand what he's dealing with?
He's quick to say it, but that doesn't make it any less true. He can't imagine who he'd tell, and he can't imagine why he'd want to. Because the scenario Ned describes is all too easy for him to imagine, people coming after Ned, wanting to use him for their own bizarre purposes, wanting to take him apart to figure out how how he works.
"I know I can't... I mean, I have no idea of possibly imagining how you have to live your life so nobody finds out. I can't imagine that. I'm an imaginative guy but my imagination fails me there because even though I have a lot of secrets they're not like that. But I know how people can be. I know what they..."
He swallows hard, because all of a sudden all kinds of thoughts are occurring to him, unpleasant ones, springing into his head completely unbidden and unwanted. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. "I know what people are capable of. Believe me, and I can't necessarily tell you why right now, because this isn't about me, but I know. And I know that you're right, that they might do that to you. So I'm not telling anyone. Not ever."
He's surprised, how reassured he is by that promise. In the various ways he'd played out this scenario, with different people, different disasters that ended up in the secret being spilled, he would never have imagined he could put his faith in a promise like that. But... this is Ginsberg. And Ned has gotten to know him, gotten to value him for his good heart. There's that honesty of his, which is a worry, but Ned knows it is not entire. He has secrets, too.
"Thank you," he whispers, hoarsely. That should be enough. Should be as much as he requires. But he's shaking even worse, now, can't make himself look at Ginsberg or even sit up properly. It's all happening so fast, not following the script he'd expected, and Ned doesn't know what to do, what to say.
"I understand," Ned says, voice cracking around the word, "if you d-don't want to see me again after this. It's not like I can blame you, I mean, this isn't what you signed up for, is it? You thought I was some cute guy who made pies and I'm this- I'm this freak. So if you wanna go, it's okay. I get it. I won't be mad."
There's a resignation to his voice, an absolute certainty that Ginsberg will take him up on his offer. Because why wouldn't he? There's no way he could want anything else.
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Certainly not based on some of the stories that Ginsberg has told him about moronic clients, anyway.
"And as for evading people who are smart enough to think that a man seems too average, well, wouldn't those people be smart enough to have other methods of detecting our spy than on how shifty he looks? A disguise shouldn't be enough to fool someone as clever as that, so why bother? A real spy would have to have other methods at the ready to get around the smart people, and would have to put on a show of conformity for the average observer."
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He looks around himself dramatically, like he's afraid the US government is listening to what he just said, and then laughs. "You'd probably make a pretty good spy," he says, dodging out of the way as a little kid bundled up in what looks like about three coats runs past, nearly running into him. "Nobody would suspect you. Who'd think that the guy serving them pie was really trying to get all their secrets out of them?"
He turns to Ned with a faux-suspicious look on his face, slowly raising an eyebrow. "Maybe you are a spy! You work for a rival ad agency, right, and you're trying to steal all of our ideas. And to think, I've fallen for it. I told you all about my stupid ads for ketchup and cars. Now I'll know who to blame if I see those on TV before we release ours."
He's pretty terrible at maintaining the faux-suspicious look for long, though, so he's laughing by the time he finishes saying it. "No, you'd never be a spy for an ad agency. You'd hate it."
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Because the truth is, despite never questioning if he is making the right decision, Ned feels guilty about keeping secrets from Ginsberg. That's a new thing, for him. He's never really let himself get close enough to someone that he felt bad about shutting them out from that whole part of his life. Now, however, it's been starting to eat at him, more and more. If he can't trust Ginsberg, well, who can he trust? The answer is, of course, no one. Does he really want to be a man who faces the prospect of a life of lies, in which he cannot bring himself to trust a single other person?
"That's me," he admits, a beat too late for it to be quite funny, with a reluctant smile, "You caught me. I'm working for, uh, the agency of... for your rival agency. Deep cover. Can't see how you found me out."
Enough with the spy stuff, Ned decides. He turns back towards the crowd of people on the street, points at an older man on the other side of the road, asks, "What about that guy? What's his story?"
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When Ned calls his attention to the guy across the street, he's all smiles and amusement, already trying to decide what kind of story he can come up with for this guy, what'll amuse Ned the most. He finds that he likes making Ned laugh, and that it's nice, because Ned isn't laughing at him, like so many people are. That Ned really seems to appreciate his somewhat odd sense of humor is a relief. "That guy," he says, beginning his story with a dramatic tone, one that promises ridiculous things to come, "is..."
And then the amusement completely slides off of his face. Something very like abject fear seems to replace it, instead. "Shit, shit," he mumbles, and within several seconds, he's practically running into the nearest store, nearly physically dragging Ned with him as he does so, not explaining himself, not giving Ned the chance to ask questions, not until they're safely inside the little store and he can hide behind a shelf, looking completely mortified.
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"What is it, who was that?"
He tears his eyes away from the store window and turns to see what sort of place it is they've ended up in. When he turns, however, he finds himself face to face with the mounted head of a stag. There is, perhaps, a inch of space between their noses. Ned lets out a yelp, reeling back in horror. That was a close call. Much, much, much too close for his comfort. A glance around the shop reveals that it is stuffed full (pun intended) of taxidermy animals. There are dogs, cats, falcons, bears, stoats, and even a very dusty-looking tiger. It's a small shop, with far too many items in it, so that there's hardly adequate room to stand between the displays. Heart racing, Ned shoves his hands into his pockets and stands very, very still.
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"That," he says, going back to the dramatic voice, although slightly more subdued and quiet now that they're in a store, and the proprietor is behind the counter, staring at the both of them, obviously hoping they'll buy something. "That was a man I don't need to make up a story for. That was Morris Ginsberg. Last name not a coincidence. That," he continues, perhaps unnecessarily, "was my father."
He says it like it's the most horrifying person he can possibly imagine running into on the street, and to be fair, at the moment, it really is.
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It's all somewhat foreign to him; he's not had any parents to hide things from. Not since he was a little kid, and his lies were much smaller, much less potentially disastrous. He'd had his share of little romantic deceptions in his later years at boarding school, but again, that was a different affair.
"That's a hell of a coincidence," Ned says, with alarm and a little indignation at the gall of fate, tossing the three of them within proximity of one another. That's not to mention the gall of fate in having this store be full of dead things, teetering near the edges of their shelves, looming over him, well poised for a disastrous accident.
He turns to the owner of the store, shoulders hunched as if he's afraid one of the stuffed creatures will fly at him to attack, explains apologetically, "It's a- we'll only be here a moment. It's a long story." Ned makes a mental note to send a pie here sometime in apology, only he's certainly not going to be the one to deliver it.
Even though they have only been in there for a minute or two, he feels agitated, suffocated, ready to be out in the open air and away from the faint smell of chemicals he thinks he can detect.
"Is he gone," he asks Ginsberg in a whisper, low enough that the store owner won't hear him, "This place is kinda freaking me out."
That much, at least, is obvious. Ned's face is white as chalk, and he's breathing so quickly that it must seem like they ran a great deal further than the few steps that took them in here. His mind is racing with all the possibilities for how this could go wrong, and the sooner he is out of here, the better.
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He peers around the edge of the shelf, looking out the window, eyes scanning the street to make sure his father isn't still out there, lurking, as though he could somehow detect the presence of his son and would be waiting to spring an attack on them the moment they stepped out of the store. It's not like he thinks his father would disapprove of him spending time with Ned, so long as his father didn't realize the intimacy of their relationship. On the contrary, he'd probably be glad that his son had some friends. On the other hand, he'd told his dad he was going on a date -- and he was, just not the kind his father likely imagined -- so there'd be a lot to explain if he saw the two of them together. His father already had suspicions about his sexuality. Better not to add to them.
"Yeah, he's gone," he says, turning back to Ned, looking worried now, because it's obvious that this place really is freaking Ned out, and not just in the colloquial sense. Dead animals don't exactly make Ginsberg feel warm and fuzzy inside, but they don't freak him out in the way they seem to freak Ned out. "We can get out of here. We'll just walk the opposite direction, okay?"
Because no way is he going to risk running into him again. He eyes the proprietor of the shop, offers him an apologetic little smile, and pushes open the door very cautiously, halfway expecting his dad to be standing outside, standing at the ready with big hugs and big questions. "Okay. C'mon. Coast's clear."
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"Well... that was eventful," he comments, with a little, relieved laugh. Ned allows himself one last shiver, jittery and tense after that close call, before he joins Ginsberg in walking the opposite direction from the way his dad had been going. "Not to pressure you at all or imply anything but I'm just curious, does your father even know I exist? Not... obviously, you haven't told him about... but I didn't know if you'd mentioned me."
Out of the frying pan and into the fire of awkwardness.
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"He knows we're friends. He knows we met because I went to your pie shop and you saved me from disaster. I didn't tell him what kind of disaster, but he's eternally grateful to you for helping me out of a bad situation, which is about the way I put it, so he likes you. From what he's heard of you. I mean, I haven't told him everything about you. That'd be weird."
He doesn't necessarily think the question is awkward, although he's worried, for a moment, that Ned will think that this means he's told his father details that shouldn't be revealed to anyone. Then he dismisses the fear. He wouldn't have dragged Ned into that horrible little store and hidden the both of them if his father knew about it. He shoves his hands back into his pockets.
"Now that we're done hiding, I could use some coffee. Or some hot chocolate. Or some tea. Or something to warm myself up. You want something? There're about a million places around here, and we don't have to stay there, we can get something to go and keep walking. I guarantee my dad won't be in any of them. He hates spending money if he doesn't have to."
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If he could, he would respond with a story of his own - that he'd told his family or friends about Ginsberg, too. But the truth is, he doesn't have anyone to tell. Anyone other than Digby, or perhaps the waitress at the Pie Hole, who has seen Ginsberg come by often enough that she recognizes him.
"Hot chocolate sounds perfect, walking or sitting down."
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"Okay, there's a place right around here that I like, around the corner, I think. And I think I'd like to keep walking, if you don't mind. Sometimes I get too antsy when I sit around somewhere, and then I worry that I'm not being interesting enough, and if we're walking you have other things to look at, anyway, so you won't be as bored if I'm not entertaining you. Not that I think you need constant entertainment, but you know what I mean."
Will he ever be able to stem this tide of verbal anxiety? Probably not. He feels relatively comfortable around Ned, now, and yet, it all still comes out in a rush like that, whenever he's unsure of himself. They walk a little further, and come to the coffee shop he'd pointed out. Holding open the door for Ned, he ushers him inside, wishing, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that he could put an arm around him, or something.
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The little coffee shop is busy enough, but in a few moments Ned's bought them two hot chocolates and they are out on the street once more, clutching the warm styrofoam in their hands, sipping as they stroll. It's nice, to be able to walk slowly and look at the various sights. To hold back a laugh when Ginsberg gets foam in his mustache.
"You don't have to be interesting every second," he says, after a few minutes, his mind circling back to what Ginsberg had said, "Just spending time with you is nice enough. So please don't worry so much about trying to dazzle me every second, alright?" He knows it might come off sounding critical, so he says it as gently as he can, as warmly. Of course, he knows just telling Ginsberg not to be antsy isn't really helpful, but he wants him to know he's not some client or imagined audience with a two-second attention span, who he needs to thrill or else he'll move on to something better.
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It's amazing, for someone so perpetually fighting his own low self-esteem, how very cocky he can sound. The thing is, advertising's the one thing he knows he's good at, and there's no sense in pretending he's not. It'd be like Ned pretending to be bad about making pie. False modesty, and completely obviously unnecessary. That's why, when he's talking about his job, or anything related to it, his loquaciousness isn't nervous so much as energized and bright.
"I'll try not to worry so much about it. I always want to make a good impression on you, though." He shifts his cup of hot chocolate to his other hand and shrugs. "I like to spend time with you, too." It's an honest, straightforward sentiment, one that other people might find difficult to say, but those kind of statements are probably what Ned's come to expect from him.
They walk on for a little bit, wandering into a park, and he likes that they're not hurrying, that they don't have anywhere to go, that they're just strolling. When they walk under an underpass linking one side of the park to the other, he seizes the moment of privacy to put a hand on Ned's shoulder lean up and kiss Ned on the cheek, very quickly, knowing that it's still an almost dangerously daring thing to do, considering that they're outside and someone could walk by at any moment.
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With a quick little glance around to make sure they are still alone, he returns the kiss, just at the corner of Ginsberg's mouth. It leaves him feeling bold and radiant. Like he's invincible. Even if they can't be too openly affectionate in public, they can snatch moments like this, defiantly.
Buoyed by that kiss, Ned finds himself blurting, in a thoroughly embarrassing manner, "I'm, I genuinely- you and I-" Oh god, he's messing it all up. In a rush, he finishes, "I really like you."
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"I really like you, too. I guess that was probably obvious. I wish I could kiss you again. Really kiss you, I mean. In front of other people."
And now he's just going to hide any of his own embarrassment by taking a long sip of his hot chocolate. He's always known that he has a tendency to get attached to people quickly, but the intensity of the attachment he feels to Ned is something he's never experienced before. It has him confused, certainly, but pleased, too.
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So the two of them keep walking, sipping at their hot chocolates, talking about little nothings. Underneath that chatter, though, is a warmth, a strong current of affection and enjoyment of one another's company. Ginsberg tells him stories about coming to this park when he was growing up, and Ned tells him about how to make the absolute best hot chocolate.
In a fit of particular carelessness and fun, Ned climbs up to walk on the top of one of the low stone walls bordering the path. It's a silly thing that prompts it, really. Some small remark about his height and how he towers over everything. He's laughing, putting one foot in front of one another, feeling weightless and wonderful. The next moment, though, his ankle decides it doesn't appreciate the angle at which he's put down his foot, and with a sickening lurch he goes toppling off the wall and into a cluster of bushes.
Bad enough, yes, just to fall in front of Ginsberg and make an utter idiot of himself; Ginsberg is looking right at him as he does it. That would be galling, but something he could laugh about later. Immeasurably worse, though, is the fact that his hand, flying out automatically to break his fall, lands on something that is not the ground. Ned looks a second too late, spots the dim outline of bloody face that's half-hidden by the shadows of the bushes.
He reels away by instinct, letting out an aborted yell, but it's too late. He can feel that it is too late. There is blood smeared across his palm and the woman in the bushes sits up with a startled gasp of her own. Ned could swear he feels his heart stop, then. She's in a real state, blood all over her face and neck, her pale blue eyes wide, a lurid gash spanning her throat. She tries to speak, but the cut is too deep, so her vocal cords don't work.
Panic seizes Ned and for a few seconds he is utterly paralyzed. Then he remembers what will happen if he leaves her like this, that Ginsberg might die, and he is able to move. He lunges forward, claps a hand to the side of her face and is relieved to see that familiar unearthly flash of blue over her skin. She falls back into the bushes and he's left there, on his knees, gasping for breath.
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And it isn't good. It's a lot worse than he could have possibly imagined. At first, he doesn't quite know what he's looking at, because his brain refuses to process it. There's Ned, on the ground, having landed near some bushes, and there's... a woman, a woman who looks very much dead, except she's sitting up, and she's covered in blood, and it's like she's trying to say something. It should be enough to make him back away, to make him start screaming, because she's obviously dead, nobody could survive having their throat cut like that, and if she's dead, how can she be moving, how can she be trying to speak.
But he can't seem to look away, and he can't seem to say anything, and it's exactly as he's always feared it would be if he were confronted with something horrible: he just shuts down, staring, mouth wide open, forgetting to breathe, forgetting how to say anything coherent. And then Ned touches her, and there's a strange blue light, and then she's collapsing back into the bushes again, still obviously dead, but this time, as unmoving as she should have been all along.
It's then that he remembers his words. They're jumbled, and they don't come out right, and his voice is unnaturally high pitched, even for him, and frantic. "She... Jesus fucking Christ, she was dead, wasn't she? That was a dead body. Did she... did you... how did..."
He's gaping, probably looking ridiculous, still staring at the bushes that the dead woman had collapsed back into, then letting his gaze flick back to Ned, shaking his head slowly. "Dead people can't... I mean, I believe in some pretty weird shit, but that's not... but you... and then you touched her, and she... what the fuck just happened?"
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Ned clambers to his feet, wiping the blood of his hand and onto his pants with frantic, jerky movements, eventually settles for shoving his hands into his pockets. Ginsberg wants answers, saw the whole thing. Ned's going to have to tell him. Not just some bullshit story, but everything. And that will be the end of it. Everything. Not just their relationship, but life as he knows it.
But his first instinct, borne of experience, is to get away from the body as fast as he can. "We n-need to get out of h-here before someone sees us." The voice barely sounds like his own, a terrified rasp. Ned looks around wildly, but there's no one in sight, no one else who saw. He climbs over the stone wall and starts walking away from the body, quickly. Too quickly. It's as slow as he can go. Ginsberg doesn't follow at first, but Ned looks back and sees him rushing after, soon enough. His mind is a storm of chaotic half-formed thoughts, and he knows he ought to be planning, coming up with some likely lie, or a strategy, but nothing makes sense.
Ned doesn't even know where he is headed, just follows his instinct to put distance between himself and that body. When they have come some distance in the park he spots a deserted bench, sinks into it gratefully. His whole body is shaking so badly he's surprised his legs supported him all the way here. Ginsberg follows after him, looking just as horrified and disturbed as Ned could have feared.
"F-fuck," Ned gasps. He doesn't often swear outside the bedroom, and it's a sign of how beyond caring he is that he doesn't even hesitate to says it, "Fuck fuck fuck!" He looks Ginsberg in the eyes for one brief second before leaning forward, head in his hands. He knows he's going to have to say something, but right now he thinks if he tries he's going to throw up. So he gives himself a minute to just sit there and gulp at the air like a drowning man.
"This wasn't supposed to happen." There are tears pressing at the backs of his eyes, hot and insistent.
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There's an instinct to get to a phone as quickly as he can, to call the police, to call an ambulance, to do something, but he could tell just from looking at the woman that she was long beyond any help an ambulance could provide, and the police can wait for a little while longer, until he fully comprehends just what's happened, and just what Ned's done.
None of it makes sense. He can't add it all up in his head, and while he normally embraces things that are illogical, he's completely incapable of doing so right now. So he sits down on the bench next to Ned, once he reaches it, and he puts a very tentative hand on his shoulder. No hugs, not yet, because he doesn't think Ned can take it, not from the expression on his face, not from the way he's shaking. It's obvious that Ned is fighting disgust and fear and panic, and he doesn't want to demand answers, doesn't want to push him, but at the same time, he needs someone to explain what he'd just seen.
"That wasn't supposed to happen," he repeats, because that sentence doesn't make any sense to him, either. "Okay, that wasn't supposed to happen, but what was that? I mean, it looked like... I mean, you know what it looked like. You obviously understand something I don't, and I'm starting to think maybe I'm crazy, because it looked to me like a dead person just became undead and then dead again and I don't know how that happens."
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The worst part of it is that he'd been so happy. He'd been careless because he'd let himself slip into a mindset in which he didn't think anything could go wrong. He ought not to have gotten up on that wall, should have known that he could trip and fall and ruin everything.
But Ginsberg is waiting, staring at him, and Ned is going to have to say something sooner or later. The words are jumbled and rushed as he says, "You're not crazy. That's what happened. She was dead, and I touched her, and she came back to life. Then I touched her again and she went back to being dead. Because that's what always happens. Because I'm a f-freak of nature. I'm cursed, or magic, or an alien, or a monster, or something. I don't know. I just know how it works."
Now that he's started talking, Ned finds that he can't stop. It's all pouring out of him, like water from a broken dam. "Ever since I was a kid, I've had this- this thing. I can't control it, or make it go away. And it's always been a secret. T-til now. And you saw the whole thing."
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That's not a particularly good response at all, can't possibly sum up everything he's thinking at the moment, but it's all he has as he lets it process through his mind, all of the things Ned's saying. He knows he should be immediately arguing that it's impossible, but he'd seen it, and he's never had a hard time believing impossible things, anyway. He doesn't draw his hand back from Ned's shoulder, even when he feels Ned shrink away. Maybe he should. Maybe Ned would prefer it. Selfishly, though, he doesn't pull away.
"You never told anybody? After all these years, I mean, if you've been able to do that for so long, and you've never told anyone..."
He's still collating all of his thoughts, not sure how he wants to respond, not sure how to tackle the how or the why of this, but knowing very much that he wants to tackle the fact that Ned thinks he's a freak of nature. A monster. An alien. Those thoughts are all too familiar to him, although he doesn't have this thing that Ned has, doesn't have anything like it.
"You must be scared about it all the time. I mean, that sounds really..." He tries to think of a way to phrase it inoffensively, but completely fails. Then a thought occurs to him. "Is that why you were so scared in the store? Because the animals were dead? And you knew that if you touched one of them then... then that would happen? How do you... aren't you lonely, if you never tell anyone? That's a big secret. I mean, I know you probably couldn't tell anyone, because if you said it they'd probably think you were crazy, but I mean, it's obviously real."
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"Who would I tell?" Ned asks, but the question is rhetorical and he doesn't wait for a response. Because Ginsberg's questions provide an excellent transition towards what he needs to say, what he needs to impart. Even if Ginsberg leaves, even if they never see one another again, Ned has to get across to him the seriousness of the secret. "Besides it's not a question of someone not believing me or saying I was crazy. It's easy enough to prove it. Too easy. Do you have any idea the kinds of things I have to do, to make sure no one finds out? Because I can't trust anyone. Because what if... what if the secret gets out? What if people find out? Not just one person, but lots of people. What do you think would happen to me?"
He pauses to shudder, hands clenching into tight fists. It's not something that's easy for him to talk about, but then, none of this is, "If it wasn't mobs with torches and pitchforks it'd be people wanting to... to use me, or do tests on me or dissect me like a frog to find out h-how it works. So you can't, you can't tell anyone Ginsberg, please. It's life or d-death for me."
Even as he's saying this, there's a part of Ned that's surprised that Ginsberg hasn't pulled away, hasn't turned on him. Those questions about how lonely it must be, that persistent hand on his shoulder. Doesn't he understand what he's dealing with?
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He's quick to say it, but that doesn't make it any less true. He can't imagine who he'd tell, and he can't imagine why he'd want to. Because the scenario Ned describes is all too easy for him to imagine, people coming after Ned, wanting to use him for their own bizarre purposes, wanting to take him apart to figure out how how he works.
"I know I can't... I mean, I have no idea of possibly imagining how you have to live your life so nobody finds out. I can't imagine that. I'm an imaginative guy but my imagination fails me there because even though I have a lot of secrets they're not like that. But I know how people can be. I know what they..."
He swallows hard, because all of a sudden all kinds of thoughts are occurring to him, unpleasant ones, springing into his head completely unbidden and unwanted. He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. "I know what people are capable of. Believe me, and I can't necessarily tell you why right now, because this isn't about me, but I know. And I know that you're right, that they might do that to you. So I'm not telling anyone. Not ever."
And he's still not pulling away his hand, either.
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"Thank you," he whispers, hoarsely. That should be enough. Should be as much as he requires. But he's shaking even worse, now, can't make himself look at Ginsberg or even sit up properly. It's all happening so fast, not following the script he'd expected, and Ned doesn't know what to do, what to say.
"I understand," Ned says, voice cracking around the word, "if you d-don't want to see me again after this. It's not like I can blame you, I mean, this isn't what you signed up for, is it? You thought I was some cute guy who made pies and I'm this- I'm this freak. So if you wanna go, it's okay. I get it. I won't be mad."
There's a resignation to his voice, an absolute certainty that Ginsberg will take him up on his offer. Because why wouldn't he? There's no way he could want anything else.
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