"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.
"I didn't sign up for anything," he replies, surprised at the vehemence in his own voice, "It's not like you're a... a magazine subscription or a newsletter or a book group or something you sign up for. It's not like people come with some set of expectations and a little checklist that has to be filled out perfectly or you get a refund. You are a cute guy who makes pies. Just because there're other things about you doesn't make you, y'know, not a cute guy who makes pies. You're still that. You just have other facets."
Maybe he's so vehement because he has no idea why Ned would immediately assume that he didn't want to see him after this. It's a surprising revelation, completely unexpected, out of nowhere, not something he'd've believed in before, if someone had told him that he'd meet someone who could raise the dead. But why should it make him not want to see Ned? He's sure it goes back to that concern Ned has about being a freak, a monster.
"And yeah, it's surprising, and weird, and it'd be stupid of me to deny that, but..." He squeezes Ned's shoulder, just a little, in an attempt to be reassuring. He doesn't know whether it'll work or not, but it's worthy of a try. "There're a lot of surprising and weird things about everyone. I like you. That's not gonna change."
That vehemence startles Ned, too. At first he flinches, finally looks up at Ginsberg, but the emphasis doesn't seem to quite be anger, and it doesn't seem to be directed at him so much as at the idea he'd leave, which Ned had thought was so obvious. Because yes, fine, when Ginsberg draws the metaphor out like that, he's not a magazine or newsletter, and the suggestion that he might be is absurd.
But in his experience, his (comparatively minor) imperfections have been the excuse people use to leave him behind. Not just once, not just his father, but time and time again: Eugene, too, and the various men and women whose interest in him had waned slowly or vanished abruptly. He's gotten to think that's normal, that's how everyone treats one another. Gotten used to being a cancelled subscription
Which is why he looks at Ginsberg with naked surprise and confusion on his face. Ginsberg's not just saying it for the sake of saying it; he seems to really mean it. It's his turn to be the speechless one, trying to reconcile the fact that Ginsberg found out this horrible secret and isn't interested in leaving. He doesn't know how to react; he isn't even happy, yet. Just shocked.
"Oh." His eyes go to where Ginsberg's hand is, resolutely on his shoulder, and back to his face. "I thought..." He doesn't know how to phrase it, so he lets the sentence trail off unfinished. Instead, he explains, "The only other time someone saw it was only a pile of dead leaves and he ran away in terror. Literally ran. And after that, we never... so I thought..." Ned trails off once more, gives a very tiny shrug of his shoulders.
"I get why it'd scare someone. It's not the kind of thing you see every day. And I'm not saying I'm not scared, but what scared me isn't that you can... do magic..." He says it with a little shake of his head, like he's still having a hard time believing it, and in some ways, if he really tries to think about it logically, he can't reconcile it with what he knows about the world.
But the world is a big place, and there're a lot of things he doesn't know, things that would probably seem just as strange and unbelievable as this at first. He likes to consider himself to be an open minded person, willing to see things differently and consider new points of view. The idea that he wouldn't be able to come to terms with this is inconceivable.
"What scared me was... I mean... Seeing a dead person. And I know, I know, we see them on television all the time and that's real too but somehow it's different when you see it in person. And I don't know why I'm telling you that because obviously you know that, you've seen dead people before and you know it's disturbing, but I'm... It's not you that scares me. It's the idea that there's someone out there -- probably still someone out there -- that could just cut someone's throat like that and leave them in the bushes. That's scary. You may be able to raise the dead and... Make them dead again, but you'd never hurt someone like that."
Ned's heart sinks in his chest, because of course, Ginsberg finding out about his power isn't the same as finding out what he's done with it. Unintentionally, but that's a rather fine distinction to make. He wonders if he should come clean, should rip the bandaid off now while Ginsberg is being so accepting. But he's so relieved, so thrilled that Ginsberg still wants to be a part of his life, that he doesn't want to screw that up. So he opts for (as he thinks of it) the cowardly route.
"I would never hurt someone on purpose," he says in a very quiet voice. And that is no new information, after all. He'd told Ginsberg already that he'd hurt people, in his past. Best for him to know that it was in the very least unintentional, without malice or cruelty. Unlike what he's talking about.
"There's no comparison," Ned agrees, wondering if this is the first time Ginsberg's seen a dead body. But that's not the sort of thing he knows how to ask. He knows that his own track record of stumbling across corpses is very out of the norm. And given how shaken-up Ginsberg seems by the mere thought of that kind of violence, Ned doesn't want to potentially provoke any more distress.
"Jesus, that poor girl." Ned puts a hand (the one not still streaked with blood) over his mouth, remembering just what she'd looked like. He may not have the same visceral reaction as Ginsberg, but he's capable of being horrified. "I should've- if I'd been thinking clearer I would have asked her who'd done it. Stupid of me not to." But he adds, a moment later, "I guess she wouldn't have been able to tell me, regardless."
He's getting a better handle on himself, now, able to think his way through the situation. "We should find a phone and call the police. Tell them where to look."
He nods, very slowly, because what Ned's saying isn't really any great
revelation -- of course he'd never purposefully hurt someone. He may be
capable of as yet completely unknown things, with those powers that
Ginsberg still doesn't quite feel he understands, but he can't imagine Ned
ever maliciously and gleefully hurting someone. It simply isn't something
he can see in Ned, regardless of what he's now learned.
"We gotta call the cops," he agrees, glad that there's something to be
done, because doing something is so much better than the
alternative, feeling helpless and confused, and they're both doing plenty
of that as it is. "Maybe we should call them anonymously, though, and not
stick around for them to ask questions, because if they think we... I
mean... there's blood on your hands, they might think..."
He trails off, looking queasy again, because thinking about the blood on
Ned's hands reminds him of the blood on the woman, and that leads his brain
down a path he doesn't want it to go down. "She looked so... I mean, it
must've hurt a lot, what happened to her. Or maybe it didn't. Maybe it was
so fast she didn't know what was happening. I... I don't understand how
people can be so cruel."
And that's not just a lamentation about the nature of humanity. He
literally doesn't understand it. For all the times he's been angry,
all the times he's feared hurting someone else, he's never considered
himself capable of that kind of violence. Is he? Is Ned? He doesn't
think so.
"Probably a good idea," Ned agrees, very grateful that he doesn't have to be the one to suggest that they not give their names or hang around too long after. He's been in this situation before, and it hadn't gone well. If the police had suspected him of murder when he was a scrawny, soft-spoken ten-year-old, what would be their reaction when he was a grown man?
He hates seeing Ginsberg's so visibly distraught, and while he's glad that he isn't the cause of it, he still doesn't like it. "She's not in pain now," Ned says, and that's the best he can really offer. He's not going to say she's in a better place, because neither of them really believe that. But she's not suffering, and that is important. As for the question of humanity's cruelty, he doesn't have a solution. Doesn't have a single thing to say, apart from a quiet, "I don't understand it either." Ned doesn't get that kind of sadism. He can wrap his head around circumstances in which he would let one person die, to save another, but that's different than slashing some poor woman's throat in a park. Miles and miles different.
"Ginsberg, are you gonna be okay?" he asks, as gently as he knows how to.
"I'm gonna be fine," he says, instinctively, because that's how you respond to a question like that, it's how he's always been taught to respond, and it's what's expected of him, in general. But then he remembers that usually, when Ned asks questions like that, he genuinely wants the answer, so he takes a deep breath and shrugs.
"I'm probably gonna be fine," he amends, "but I don't feel fine right now. I feel sick. I feel like I'm gonna cry. I can't just pretend I didn't see that. But you know I'm not... I mean, I'm fine with you. It's just the rest of it I'm not fine with."
He realizes he's still holding his cup of hot chocolate, which is nearly empty and no longer hot at all, and it strikes him as somehow ridiculous that he's managed to hold onto it for that long, throughout all of this chaos. After a few seconds, he stands up, shoving the styrofoam cup into the closest trashcan, and nodding in the general direction of a payphone.
"Over there, I think. We can call someone. And then we can get out of here," he says, rubbing his hands together, trying to keep them warm. He can't tell whether it's the cold air or the anxiety making him so chilly, but it doesn't really matter, the result's the same.
It's so not what Ned had expected, that Ginsberg would be upset the one thing rather than the other. In his worldview, it doesn't make much sense. Murder is something that happens. Maybe not where people can see it, but it's always happening. It's accounted for in the accepted order. But the dead returning to life? People - or at least, person - having otherworldly abilities that can undermine a natural law so fundamental?
He's not complaining, though. Ned shoves his hands into his pockets, follows Ginsberg to the phone, standing close to him, watching him for any sign that he's going to cry or throw up or generally lose his composure. But he doesn't. Ginsberg offers to make the call, and Ned lets him. Probably a good idea. He doesn't sound like he's doing so great, which is more congruent with their story of stumbling across the body in the park. Then he hangs up and Ned suggests they go back to his place. For privacy. So that they can talk more, so that he can clean himself up, so that he can help Ginsberg make his way towards fine, again.
The trip seems to take ages, to Ned. So different from the happy blur of wandering together aimlessly, talking about spies and just relishing one another's company. He feels a strange pang of guilt, as if he's ruined this date. Of course, logically, the body would have been there whether or not they walked by it, and whether or not he was with Ginsberg. But at the same time, he seems to somehow attract these sorts of disasters, by a kind of magnetism. And what does he know? Maybe that's part of his powers. It's not the kind of thing he could test, so it's not something he can confirm for sure.
When they get back to his apartment, the very first thing Ned does is go into the kitchen to wash the blood off his hands. Very, very thoroughly.
It's hard for him to think about anything else, on the way back to Ned's apartment, than the dead body. It's easy enough for him to set aside what he'd seen Ned do, what powers he now knows Ned has, in favor of obsessing about murder, violence, blood, everything he hates to think about but comes back to again and again. Without even meaning to, his mind always returns to those dark places, and now it has even more reason to.
When Ned goes to wash his hands, Ginsberg goes to take his coat and scarf off and hang them up methodically, as though the longer he takes and the more carefully he does it, the more everything will make sense. It doesn't seem to, but at least they're back at Ned's place, which is private, which is safe.
As soon as Ned comes out of the kitchen, he can't help himself: he's crossing the room to wrap his arms around Ned, pulling him close fiercely and affectionately, trying to give just as much comfort from the hug as he's trying to get from it. Maybe Ned doesn't want him to touch him right now, and he'll back away easily enough if the hug isn't readily accepted, but he feels like he needs physical contact right now, and with the blood rinsed away from Ned's hands, he has no qualms about initiating it.
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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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Maybe he's so vehement because he has no idea why Ned would immediately assume that he didn't want to see him after this. It's a surprising revelation, completely unexpected, out of nowhere, not something he'd've believed in before, if someone had told him that he'd meet someone who could raise the dead. But why should it make him not want to see Ned? He's sure it goes back to that concern Ned has about being a freak, a monster.
"And yeah, it's surprising, and weird, and it'd be stupid of me to deny that, but..." He squeezes Ned's shoulder, just a little, in an attempt to be reassuring. He doesn't know whether it'll work or not, but it's worthy of a try. "There're a lot of surprising and weird things about everyone. I like you. That's not gonna change."
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But in his experience, his (comparatively minor) imperfections have been the excuse people use to leave him behind. Not just once, not just his father, but time and time again: Eugene, too, and the various men and women whose interest in him had waned slowly or vanished abruptly. He's gotten to think that's normal, that's how everyone treats one another. Gotten used to being a cancelled subscription
Which is why he looks at Ginsberg with naked surprise and confusion on his face. Ginsberg's not just saying it for the sake of saying it; he seems to really mean it. It's his turn to be the speechless one, trying to reconcile the fact that Ginsberg found out this horrible secret and isn't interested in leaving. He doesn't know how to react; he isn't even happy, yet. Just shocked.
"Oh." His eyes go to where Ginsberg's hand is, resolutely on his shoulder, and back to his face. "I thought..." He doesn't know how to phrase it, so he lets the sentence trail off unfinished. Instead, he explains, "The only other time someone saw it was only a pile of dead leaves and he ran away in terror. Literally ran. And after that, we never... so I thought..." Ned trails off once more, gives a very tiny shrug of his shoulders.
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But the world is a big place, and there're a lot of things he doesn't know, things that would probably seem just as strange and unbelievable as this at first. He likes to consider himself to be an open minded person, willing to see things differently and consider new points of view. The idea that he wouldn't be able to come to terms with this is inconceivable.
"What scared me was... I mean... Seeing a dead person. And I know, I know, we see them on television all the time and that's real too but somehow it's different when you see it in person. And I don't know why I'm telling you that because obviously you know that, you've seen dead people before and you know it's disturbing, but I'm... It's not you that scares me. It's the idea that there's someone out there -- probably still someone out there -- that could just cut someone's throat like that and leave them in the bushes. That's scary. You may be able to raise the dead and... Make them dead again, but you'd never hurt someone like that."
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"I would never hurt someone on purpose," he says in a very quiet voice. And that is no new information, after all. He'd told Ginsberg already that he'd hurt people, in his past. Best for him to know that it was in the very least unintentional, without malice or cruelty. Unlike what he's talking about.
"There's no comparison," Ned agrees, wondering if this is the first time Ginsberg's seen a dead body. But that's not the sort of thing he knows how to ask. He knows that his own track record of stumbling across corpses is very out of the norm. And given how shaken-up Ginsberg seems by the mere thought of that kind of violence, Ned doesn't want to potentially provoke any more distress.
"Jesus, that poor girl." Ned puts a hand (the one not still streaked with blood) over his mouth, remembering just what she'd looked like. He may not have the same visceral reaction as Ginsberg, but he's capable of being horrified. "I should've- if I'd been thinking clearer I would have asked her who'd done it. Stupid of me not to." But he adds, a moment later, "I guess she wouldn't have been able to tell me, regardless."
He's getting a better handle on himself, now, able to think his way through the situation. "We should find a phone and call the police. Tell them where to look."
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He nods, very slowly, because what Ned's saying isn't really any great revelation -- of course he'd never purposefully hurt someone. He may be capable of as yet completely unknown things, with those powers that Ginsberg still doesn't quite feel he understands, but he can't imagine Ned ever maliciously and gleefully hurting someone. It simply isn't something he can see in Ned, regardless of what he's now learned.
"We gotta call the cops," he agrees, glad that there's something to be done, because doing something is so much better than the alternative, feeling helpless and confused, and they're both doing plenty of that as it is. "Maybe we should call them anonymously, though, and not stick around for them to ask questions, because if they think we... I mean... there's blood on your hands, they might think..."
He trails off, looking queasy again, because thinking about the blood on Ned's hands reminds him of the blood on the woman, and that leads his brain down a path he doesn't want it to go down. "She looked so... I mean, it must've hurt a lot, what happened to her. Or maybe it didn't. Maybe it was so fast she didn't know what was happening. I... I don't understand how people can be so cruel."
And that's not just a lamentation about the nature of humanity. He literally doesn't understand it. For all the times he's been angry, all the times he's feared hurting someone else, he's never considered himself capable of that kind of violence. Is he? Is Ned? He doesn't think so.
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He hates seeing Ginsberg's so visibly distraught, and while he's glad that he isn't the cause of it, he still doesn't like it. "She's not in pain now," Ned says, and that's the best he can really offer. He's not going to say she's in a better place, because neither of them really believe that. But she's not suffering, and that is important. As for the question of humanity's cruelty, he doesn't have a solution. Doesn't have a single thing to say, apart from a quiet, "I don't understand it either." Ned doesn't get that kind of sadism. He can wrap his head around circumstances in which he would let one person die, to save another, but that's different than slashing some poor woman's throat in a park. Miles and miles different.
"Ginsberg, are you gonna be okay?" he asks, as gently as he knows how to.
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"I'm probably gonna be fine," he amends, "but I don't feel fine right now. I feel sick. I feel like I'm gonna cry. I can't just pretend I didn't see that. But you know I'm not... I mean, I'm fine with you. It's just the rest of it I'm not fine with."
He realizes he's still holding his cup of hot chocolate, which is nearly empty and no longer hot at all, and it strikes him as somehow ridiculous that he's managed to hold onto it for that long, throughout all of this chaos. After a few seconds, he stands up, shoving the styrofoam cup into the closest trashcan, and nodding in the general direction of a payphone.
"Over there, I think. We can call someone. And then we can get out of here," he says, rubbing his hands together, trying to keep them warm. He can't tell whether it's the cold air or the anxiety making him so chilly, but it doesn't really matter, the result's the same.
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He's not complaining, though. Ned shoves his hands into his pockets, follows Ginsberg to the phone, standing close to him, watching him for any sign that he's going to cry or throw up or generally lose his composure. But he doesn't. Ginsberg offers to make the call, and Ned lets him. Probably a good idea. He doesn't sound like he's doing so great, which is more congruent with their story of stumbling across the body in the park. Then he hangs up and Ned suggests they go back to his place. For privacy. So that they can talk more, so that he can clean himself up, so that he can help Ginsberg make his way towards fine, again.
The trip seems to take ages, to Ned. So different from the happy blur of wandering together aimlessly, talking about spies and just relishing one another's company. He feels a strange pang of guilt, as if he's ruined this date. Of course, logically, the body would have been there whether or not they walked by it, and whether or not he was with Ginsberg. But at the same time, he seems to somehow attract these sorts of disasters, by a kind of magnetism. And what does he know? Maybe that's part of his powers. It's not the kind of thing he could test, so it's not something he can confirm for sure.
When they get back to his apartment, the very first thing Ned does is go into the kitchen to wash the blood off his hands. Very, very thoroughly.
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When Ned goes to wash his hands, Ginsberg goes to take his coat and scarf off and hang them up methodically, as though the longer he takes and the more carefully he does it, the more everything will make sense. It doesn't seem to, but at least they're back at Ned's place, which is private, which is safe.
As soon as Ned comes out of the kitchen, he can't help himself: he's crossing the room to wrap his arms around Ned, pulling him close fiercely and affectionately, trying to give just as much comfort from the hug as he's trying to get from it. Maybe Ned doesn't want him to touch him right now, and he'll back away easily enough if the hug isn't readily accepted, but he feels like he needs physical contact right now, and with the blood rinsed away from Ned's hands, he has no qualms about initiating it.
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