"Yeah, but I wanna make it special. Anyone can buy someone a new tie or a... Christ, I don't even know what people buy each other for their birthdays. Anyway, I'm not gonna get you anything like that."
He turns to look at the clock, and sighs, taking another, larger sip of his coffee. "I've probably said this a million times before, but I wonder if they'd notice if I didn't show up at work. I probably wouldn't even need a plausible excuse."
And then a shrug. "I should go anyway, though. Go and work on your birthday present." He grins at Ned, liking that Ned seems pleased by the idea. He's suddenly full of energy, wanting to really impress him, especially if he hasn't had a present since he was nine.
Ned laughs, because by now he knows enough about Ginsberg's workplace to wonder along the same lines. "Bob would notice," he mutters, with a touch of humor. It's probably mean, he knows, to make fun of someone he'd only met so briefly. Probably uncalled-for. But at the same time, he can't quite help himself.
Under the warmth of that grin Ned can only smile back, feeling his face redden and little and looking down at his coffee as he sips it. Ginsberg seems so excited by the whole idea - maybe he really ought to have told him earlier.
"I can close up a bit early today." No bosses for him to explain to, after all.
And so, he did. The two of them finished their coffee and he, feeling happy and self-conscious all at once, wished Ginsberg a good day at work as the two of them parted ways. As Ned walked back towards the Pie Hole he felt unaccountably light, as if someone had turned gravity down a few notches. He was happy. There was a sliver of his mind that distrusted that happiness, but he was getting better and better at refusing to listen to it. The day passed in a delightful haze; it was a good thing Ned could make pie practically in his sleep, because he didn't pay almost any attention to what he was doing. His thoughts kept drifting (as they were wont to do) to Ginsberg, and their coffee that morning, and all the coffees and dinners and talks before. Sometime around three or four in the afternoon, it occurred to him that he was infatuated.
Evening rolled around and Ned shooed away the last of the customers early, shut up shop and waited. He was excited, kept himself occupied by cleaning the ovens and sweeping the floor of imaginary dust.
"Bob notices everything," he says, laughing a little, because he's glad he's not the only one that's noticed what a strange guy Bob is. As far as he's concerned, making fun of him is a completely valid choice -- it's better than being vaguely suspicious of him, which Ginsberg always has been.
As soon as they part ways, his mind is whirring, trying to come up with something he can make for Ned that will be both impressive and that he can finish by the time he meets up with him again. Just as he'd predicted, the only coworker of his that even notices that something different is happening and he's not focused on his work is Stan, and that's only because Stan comes up behind him while he's working on the present and loudly asks him what he's doing, then wanders off to finish smoking before Ginsberg can answer him.
By the end of the day, when he returns to the Pie Hole, he has a gift, but he doesn't know how it'll go over. There're two gifts, really, both of which are inexpertly wrapped, and which he had tucked under his arm when he shows up, looking inordinately nervous. It had occurred to him over the course of the day, too, that how much he cares about what Ned thinks about the gift must mean that his feelings for Ned are deeper than he'd realized. For someone whose feelings are usually completely obvious, that's an odd realization. Maybe that's why he looks so tentative when he arrives.
That hesitancy isn't lost on Ned, but there is no trace of it on his part. When Ginsberg lets himself in, Ned darts out from the kitchen, beaming all over his face. He sets aside the dishrag he was using to clean, wipes his hands on his apron, jittery and already flushed in the cheeks.
"You're here," he says, with his usual tendency towards stating the obvious when he is very happy. It would be hard not to spot those packages under Ginsberg's arm, and Ned feels a thrill of curiosity. Even, he thinks, if they were the dullest of items, it's an exciting moment.
"There's, uh... there's a couple things here, and I don't actually know if you'll like either of them, but I... Okay, never mind, starting over with no disclaimers. That's a shitty way to give a birthday present."
He holds out the presents, both of which are square and fairly flat. "I guess you should probably open the bigger one first. I mean, normally you open the card first, but the card is kinda a present in it of itself." It's hard not to be nervous about Ned unwrapping the presents -- although really, getting rid of the terrible wrapping job'll be a relief, because they hadn't had wrapping paper in the office, and he'd been stuck using newspaper, which, in his opinion, looks terrible.
When Ned unwraps the bigger present, he'll find that it's a full color ad for the Pie Hole, all bright colors and eye-catching images. Immediately, he feels the need to explain himself, so he does. "I just noticed that you didn't have a whole lot of advertising for the place, and maybe it's kind of stupid to just give you a present of something that I'm pretty good at doing, but I thought that maybe if you liked it, the ad could get displayed somewhere, and there'd be more business, and that'd probably be pretty good, right?"
If he were any more nervous, he'd probably be comically wringing his hands together. He's especially nervous about the 'card,' which, when Ned unwraps it, will be revealed to not really be a card at all, but rather a little book. If Ned flips through the pages, he'll realize that there're little drawings on the corners of each pages -- it's meant to be a flip book, and for someone who says he can't particularly draw, the cartoons he's doodled there aren't half bad. The pictures depict Ned baking a pie, looking delighted, with Digby frolicking in the background. At the very end, there's a little doodle of Ginsberg himself, with little hearts for eyes, looking enamored at the cartoon version of Ned, and thinking "Happy birthday to the sexiest piemaker ever."
Sure, it's a little cheesy, but he'd had fun making it. In fact, he'd had fun making both of Ned's presents.
Ned unwraps the present slowly and with care. He's probably doing it wrong, he knows, should tear through the newspaper and leave it in tattered crumpled shreds, but it's just not in his nature. Doing it this way also gives him time to savor the moment, though he can tell from the way Ginsberg's shifting his weight from foot to foot that he's closer to anxious than enthusiastic. He peels the tape away in the places where it's fastened and sets the paper aside whole.
Immediately, he covers his mouth with his hand, but it's not enough to hide the shocked smile on his face. To him, it's not stupid at all that Ginsberg made him something. In fact, it's quite the opposite. He could have just stopped at some shop, bought him a watch or a tie or something similarly nice but cold, impersonal. This, though, is different. It's a combination of, in some ways, the best of both of them: Ginsberg putting his advertising vision to work to come up with an ad for Ned's pie, which is likewise his passion.
"I love it," he says, right away and without reservation. He doesn't turn to the card right away, wants to take in every detail of the ad first. But then he does set it aside to pick up the booklet, figuring out to flip through and doing so with a bright, broad grin. The ending of the little visual story makes him laugh aloud, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. It's as if there is a balloon of happiness swelling in his chest, wonderful and full and just a touch painful.
"These are so-" he stops, admits, "I don't know what to say." In lieu of speaking, he closes the distance between them and kisses Ginsberg, eager and playful and still smiling. Once he's done that for a little way his mind finds its way to, "Thank you."
Watching Ned open the presents has him tangled up with anxiety, concerned that they won't be enough, that somehow they'll disappoint Ned in an awful way, and Ned will have to pretend to like them. But his concerns are assuaged as soon as he sees Ned's response. He can honestly think of nothing better than the smile that crosses Ned's face when he looks at the presents. It's surprised and genuinely happy, and he can tell that Ned actually likes these things, isn't just saying he does simply to spare Ginsberg's feelings or because thanking someone is what you do, whether you like their gifts or not.
"I'm glad you like them," he says, in response to Ned's admission that he has no idea how to respond to this. "I tried to, um, well, I just thought you probably wouldn't mind if I gave you something kind of dorky."
And, indeed, Ned doesn't seem to mind at all, not from the way he's kissing him. Of course he kisses back, all smiles and relief that Ned's happy. As soon as Ned thanks him, though, he somehow feels it necessary to go back to his disclaimers, to make it sound as though he hadn't really put much effort into it at all, even though he'd been working hard on it all day. "Well, the ad could be a lot more polished," he says. "I'm not an art director, so the art is kinda..."
He waves his hand in the classic so-so motions. "I would've written you something, if I'd've had more time. Maybe for your next birthday."
Is it presumptuous to imagine that he'll be around for Ned's next birthday? Probably. And he doesn't care if it is.
"I like dorky," Ned murmurs against Ginsberg's lips, by which he means, of course, I like you. "And I like the art. It's a lot better than I could do." Though he has a rather distinct aesthetic sense of his own, Ned's never been good at drawing things. Ginsberg's self-criticism falls on willfully deaf ears.
As for what he says next, Ned certainly doesn't seem to think it's presumptuous, at least, not in the way that Ginsberg is afraid of. It's not even a question for him that he wants there to be a next year, and one after that, and on. But wanting something doesn't mean it's going to happen. More often, in his own life, it means exactly the opposite. So when Ginsberg tosses out that little, careless suggestion of a future together, it sticks in Ned's chest, jaggedly. It doesn't diminish his elation, but it adds an edge of apprehension. Because Ned knows all too well what a dangerous thing it is, letting himself be happy. Letting himself get attached.
Too late now, anyway.
"Sexiest ever?" he asks, partly to cover up, for himself, that moment of terror that went along with realizing just how much he likes Ginsberg, "That seems like an exaggeration."
He nods, content to stay near Ned, not wanting to pull away. It's the fact that he likes physical contact in general, sure, but it's also the fact that he likes to be close to Ned specifically, selfishly wants to be touching him whenever he can. At least Ned hasn't started complaining about that. He's sure it'll happen sooner or later -- it always does, when people start to realize how needy and clingy he really is, how very insecure and fucked up he is. Ned's been more understanding than most people, but still... can it possibly last?
"Yeah, ever. Do I seem like the type of guy to... okay, well, I was gonna ask if I seem like the type of guy to exaggerate, but I'm aware that I definitely do, and egregiously so, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Sexiest ever. I mean, I'd've thought that whether or not you'd ever asked me out on a date, and I'd've probably come back here and awkwardly stared at you and tried to pretend I wasn't staring. So thanks for asking me out on a date, because you saved me from making a fool of myself. In that way. I'm sure I've made a fool of myself in plenty of other ways."
And yet, Ned's stuck around through all of those foolish moments. In fact, he's even seemed to appreciate some of those foolish moments, ridiculous and awkward as they've been. If Ned could weather one of Ginsberg's panic attacks in a closet, Ned can probably handle most of the stupid awkward shit he does on a daily basis.
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He turns to look at the clock, and sighs, taking another, larger sip of his coffee. "I've probably said this a million times before, but I wonder if they'd notice if I didn't show up at work. I probably wouldn't even need a plausible excuse."
And then a shrug. "I should go anyway, though. Go and work on your birthday present." He grins at Ned, liking that Ned seems pleased by the idea. He's suddenly full of energy, wanting to really impress him, especially if he hasn't had a present since he was nine.
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Under the warmth of that grin Ned can only smile back, feeling his face redden and little and looking down at his coffee as he sips it. Ginsberg seems so excited by the whole idea - maybe he really ought to have told him earlier.
"I can close up a bit early today." No bosses for him to explain to, after all.
And so, he did. The two of them finished their coffee and he, feeling happy and self-conscious all at once, wished Ginsberg a good day at work as the two of them parted ways. As Ned walked back towards the Pie Hole he felt unaccountably light, as if someone had turned gravity down a few notches. He was happy. There was a sliver of his mind that distrusted that happiness, but he was getting better and better at refusing to listen to it. The day passed in a delightful haze; it was a good thing Ned could make pie practically in his sleep, because he didn't pay almost any attention to what he was doing. His thoughts kept drifting (as they were wont to do) to Ginsberg, and their coffee that morning, and all the coffees and dinners and talks before. Sometime around three or four in the afternoon, it occurred to him that he was infatuated.
Evening rolled around and Ned shooed away the last of the customers early, shut up shop and waited. He was excited, kept himself occupied by cleaning the ovens and sweeping the floor of imaginary dust.
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As soon as they part ways, his mind is whirring, trying to come up with something he can make for Ned that will be both impressive and that he can finish by the time he meets up with him again. Just as he'd predicted, the only coworker of his that even notices that something different is happening and he's not focused on his work is Stan, and that's only because Stan comes up behind him while he's working on the present and loudly asks him what he's doing, then wanders off to finish smoking before Ginsberg can answer him.
By the end of the day, when he returns to the Pie Hole, he has a gift, but he doesn't know how it'll go over. There're two gifts, really, both of which are inexpertly wrapped, and which he had tucked under his arm when he shows up, looking inordinately nervous. It had occurred to him over the course of the day, too, that how much he cares about what Ned thinks about the gift must mean that his feelings for Ned are deeper than he'd realized. For someone whose feelings are usually completely obvious, that's an odd realization. Maybe that's why he looks so tentative when he arrives.
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"You're here," he says, with his usual tendency towards stating the obvious when he is very happy. It would be hard not to spot those packages under Ginsberg's arm, and Ned feels a thrill of curiosity. Even, he thinks, if they were the dullest of items, it's an exciting moment.
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He holds out the presents, both of which are square and fairly flat. "I guess you should probably open the bigger one first. I mean, normally you open the card first, but the card is kinda a present in it of itself." It's hard not to be nervous about Ned unwrapping the presents -- although really, getting rid of the terrible wrapping job'll be a relief, because they hadn't had wrapping paper in the office, and he'd been stuck using newspaper, which, in his opinion, looks terrible.
When Ned unwraps the bigger present, he'll find that it's a full color ad for the Pie Hole, all bright colors and eye-catching images. Immediately, he feels the need to explain himself, so he does. "I just noticed that you didn't have a whole lot of advertising for the place, and maybe it's kind of stupid to just give you a present of something that I'm pretty good at doing, but I thought that maybe if you liked it, the ad could get displayed somewhere, and there'd be more business, and that'd probably be pretty good, right?"
If he were any more nervous, he'd probably be comically wringing his hands together. He's especially nervous about the 'card,' which, when Ned unwraps it, will be revealed to not really be a card at all, but rather a little book. If Ned flips through the pages, he'll realize that there're little drawings on the corners of each pages -- it's meant to be a flip book, and for someone who says he can't particularly draw, the cartoons he's doodled there aren't half bad. The pictures depict Ned baking a pie, looking delighted, with Digby frolicking in the background. At the very end, there's a little doodle of Ginsberg himself, with little hearts for eyes, looking enamored at the cartoon version of Ned, and thinking "Happy birthday to the sexiest piemaker ever."
Sure, it's a little cheesy, but he'd had fun making it. In fact, he'd had fun making both of Ned's presents.
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Immediately, he covers his mouth with his hand, but it's not enough to hide the shocked smile on his face. To him, it's not stupid at all that Ginsberg made him something. In fact, it's quite the opposite. He could have just stopped at some shop, bought him a watch or a tie or something similarly nice but cold, impersonal. This, though, is different. It's a combination of, in some ways, the best of both of them: Ginsberg putting his advertising vision to work to come up with an ad for Ned's pie, which is likewise his passion.
"I love it," he says, right away and without reservation. He doesn't turn to the card right away, wants to take in every detail of the ad first. But then he does set it aside to pick up the booklet, figuring out to flip through and doing so with a bright, broad grin. The ending of the little visual story makes him laugh aloud, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. It's as if there is a balloon of happiness swelling in his chest, wonderful and full and just a touch painful.
"These are so-" he stops, admits, "I don't know what to say." In lieu of speaking, he closes the distance between them and kisses Ginsberg, eager and playful and still smiling. Once he's done that for a little way his mind finds its way to, "Thank you."
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"I'm glad you like them," he says, in response to Ned's admission that he has no idea how to respond to this. "I tried to, um, well, I just thought you probably wouldn't mind if I gave you something kind of dorky."
And, indeed, Ned doesn't seem to mind at all, not from the way he's kissing him. Of course he kisses back, all smiles and relief that Ned's happy. As soon as Ned thanks him, though, he somehow feels it necessary to go back to his disclaimers, to make it sound as though he hadn't really put much effort into it at all, even though he'd been working hard on it all day. "Well, the ad could be a lot more polished," he says. "I'm not an art director, so the art is kinda..."
He waves his hand in the classic so-so motions. "I would've written you something, if I'd've had more time. Maybe for your next birthday."
Is it presumptuous to imagine that he'll be around for Ned's next birthday? Probably. And he doesn't care if it is.
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As for what he says next, Ned certainly doesn't seem to think it's presumptuous, at least, not in the way that Ginsberg is afraid of. It's not even a question for him that he wants there to be a next year, and one after that, and on. But wanting something doesn't mean it's going to happen. More often, in his own life, it means exactly the opposite. So when Ginsberg tosses out that little, careless suggestion of a future together, it sticks in Ned's chest, jaggedly. It doesn't diminish his elation, but it adds an edge of apprehension. Because Ned knows all too well what a dangerous thing it is, letting himself be happy. Letting himself get attached.
Too late now, anyway.
"Sexiest ever?" he asks, partly to cover up, for himself, that moment of terror that went along with realizing just how much he likes Ginsberg, "That seems like an exaggeration."
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"Yeah, ever. Do I seem like the type of guy to... okay, well, I was gonna ask if I seem like the type of guy to exaggerate, but I'm aware that I definitely do, and egregiously so, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Sexiest ever. I mean, I'd've thought that whether or not you'd ever asked me out on a date, and I'd've probably come back here and awkwardly stared at you and tried to pretend I wasn't staring. So thanks for asking me out on a date, because you saved me from making a fool of myself. In that way. I'm sure I've made a fool of myself in plenty of other ways."
And yet, Ned's stuck around through all of those foolish moments. In fact, he's even seemed to appreciate some of those foolish moments, ridiculous and awkward as they've been. If Ned could weather one of Ginsberg's panic attacks in a closet, Ned can probably handle most of the stupid awkward shit he does on a daily basis.