At Ned's comment, he glances over his shoulder and laughs, abandoning his attempts to squeeze around the family and joining Ned in the far more deserted corner. "You know, if I didn't think people would look at us like we were crazy, I'd take you up on that offer."
Frankly, he wouldn't mind being looked at like he was crazy -- he's pretty sure people're looking at him like he's crazy all the time anyway -- but he's also pretty certain that Ned isn't actually going to pick him up in public, as amusing as it would be. He peers into the display case, nodding a little. "I don't like this stuff as much as I like the animals," he admits, "This just reminds me how messed up people are."
It's probably a cynical viewpoint, but somehow, he doesn't think Ned'll disagree. There's a moment of silence, and then the large family is walking in their direction, talking about the exhibits. Ginsberg tries to ignore them, but he's perpetually inclined to listen in to other peoples' conversations, and his attention is immediately caught by something the father of the family is saying, something lazy and insulting about 'inter-tribal conflict.'
Ginsberg turns his gaze on Ned, shaking his head, not bothering to keep his voice down when he responds, assuming Ned's overheard what he's overheard. "Can you believe the shit some people say?" he demands, knowing, and not caring, that the tourist family will know he's talking about them.
Ned makes a nonverbal noise of agreement to Ginsberg's comparative dislike of the human exhibits. Good that it's not just him, then. He's generally the same outside museums, too. Animals are so much easier to understand than humans. They follow rules that make sense; there's nothing unwritten. Animals have all the empathy of humans and only a tiny percent of the malice.
He does overhear, and goes a little stiff in the shoulders when he does. But when Ginsberg makes his indiscreetly loud comment, Ned positively freezes in place. It's too much to hope he wasn't noticed; Ned sees the man turning towards them with purpose and swallows convulsively. There's going to be trouble. He can feel it. He's gotten good at seeing these things coming, reading the signs in body language and tone, and he wants out of there. Ned doesn't think Ginsberg seems like the type to apologize, but maybe if they leave right now.
With that purpose in mind he tugs at Ginsberg's sleeve, a tiny jerk, a kind of warning.
He feels Ned's hand there, but he shakes it off of his sleeve, and he doesn't mean to be rude about it, but his attention is elsewhere, staring down the man that's now turning towards them. He can sense trouble coming, too, but he's not like Ned -- he doesn't exactly embrace trouble, but he doesn't reject it, either, not when it comes his way.
"You got a problem?" the man asks, and that's one of those questions Ginsberg hates, because nobody ever asks it unless they know there's a problem, and want to be dismissive about it. This isn't the kind of thing to be dismissive about, in his opinion. This is the kind of thing to get mad about.
So instead of letting Ned tug him away, he stands his ground, and nods sharply, twice. "What makes you think you can say things like that?" he asks the man, tone of voice a little louder than he'd intended for it to be. "You say that shit in front of your kids, you share those ignorant, fascist views, and you wonder why they'll all turn out to be just as hateful as you? Who the fuck do you think you are? As long as there're people like you in the world, nobody's ever gonna be truly happy. You're poison, you know that? Poison!"
Oh yes, his voice is way louder than it should be in any kind of company, much less in a museum, but he can't stop himself. It's like his mouth is working three steps ahead of his brain.
Ned actually has one hand clapped over his own mouth at this point, out of shock and intense discomfort. This has all escalated so quickly - much quicker than he would have thought was probable. He hadn't gotten any glimpse of this fierce temper of Ginsberg's, on their first date, and he has to admit that it is alarming.
He'd been bothered by what the man said, too. Ned thinks his mind would have come back to it, would have been troubled by it, if not sure why he was, would have felt a gnawing sense of unhappiness at that off note in an otherwise happy outing. But this all seems to be spiraling out of control rather quickly, and there are strong conflicting impulses in his mind. One impulse is to stay silent, stay back, don't complicate things by getting himself involved. And the other impulse, the one that wins out for now, is to intervene apologetically.
"Ginsberg? Gins- hey, let's just-, there's no need to shout, let's go somewhere else, okay?" Looking up at the father (whose face has gone red with anger and whose wife is looking just as fearful as Ned feels), Ned opens his mouth to apologize, but he can't quite find the words, so he settles for a pleading look, a hasty and stammered, "We d-don't want any t-t-trouble."
Is that true, though? He doesn't want any trouble. Ginsberg seems rather keen on the prospect.
He glances at Ned, recognizes that he's uncomfortable, but doesn't know what to do about it at this point. He's not going to back down, because backing down would be allowing the man to believe that he's right, that there's something Ginsberg needs to apologize for, and as far as he's concerned, all he's done is speak the truth, unpleasant as it may be to hear.
"I can't just let people get away with saying shit like that," he says to Ned, practically pleadingly, trying to explain why he's prolonging this when really every sign Ned is giving indicates that they should be leaving, and fast. The anger on the other man's face should make him worried or scared, he thinks, but it doesn't, because he's still seeing red, and he's not going anywhere until he tells this guy exactly what he thinks of him.
"And there's every reason to shout. People like this, people like him, they don't listen unless you make them listen. This is why there're problems with the world. This is why people're dying in the goddamned war, because of guys like him." He turns back to the man again, shaking his head. "I feel bad for your family, that they have to deal with your ignorance," he finally says, "And I pity you, too, you son of a bitch."
That, it seems, is the straw that finally breaks the camel's back, so to speak. The angry man lunges at him, and he doesn't have time -- or, perhaps, the inclination -- to get out of the way. This isn't, to put it mildly, exactly how this date was supposed to turn out.
He can't really stop to wonder whether Ginsberg is right, whether he's doing the right thing in sticking to his guns and refusing to apologize for calling this man out. Ned wonders, with a kind of frantic irritation, how Ginsberg could be so stupid as to think it's as easy as that. Just making people listen. Ned knows that doesn't work, and he knows how this is going to turn out.
It's why he reacts so quickly, after the man launches himself at Ginsberg. Ned abhors confrontation, but once the punches start to fly, his hesitation vanishes in an instant. The man just has the chance to land one blow on Ginsberg's face (and Ned thinks, from the angle and amount of force, that's probably going to give him a nasty black eye).
Once that punch is thrown, but before there's time for any more, Ned interposes himself between the two of them. First, he simultaneously steadies and pushes back Ginsberg with a hand on his shoulder. Then, turning to face the stranger, he brandishes a warning finger, glad for once of the height that will let him tower a good half a foot over the other man.
"BACK off!" Odd to hear his voice raised and rough like that. He's unused to the sound. "Settle down, both of you, you're acting like children-" Which is as far as he gets before the man decides to punch at him, too. He's a quick puncher- Ned suspects somehow he's had a bit of practice at it- and the next thing he knows his face is throbbing with pain and there's blood pouring from his nose.
It is Ned's usual strategy not to fight back. To avoid conflict, and keep himself safe that way, keep the peace. But that is clearly not going to work in this situation, and he's had to fight too hard to get by on his own all these years not to know when to drop a failed strategy and move on to something that has a chance of working. He grabs a fistful of the man's shirt and spins, pins him against the glass display with an ominous crack. Unfortunately for Ned, this tableau is the one that greets the security guards who come rushing in at just that moment, so that he looks, by and large, to be the biggest threat of the three of them.
Ginsberg's never been good at fighting, but he's always been good at starting arguments, which means he's pretty used to getting punched in the face. It hurts like hell when the guy hits him, and he's trying to decide whether to fight back, trying to decide whether to just start throwing wild punches and seeing if he can get a few hits off before the guy knocks him unconscious, when Ned steps in between the two of them and raises his voice like that. For a moment, the instructions to settle down are effective, but they cease being so the minute the guy raises his fist again and hits Ned.
There's a moment where he's prepared to rush the guy, to try to tackle him the floor because it's one thing to hit Ginsberg in the face, he'd basically been asking for it, but it's quite another thing to hit Ned in the face, Ned, who'd just been trying to get the two of them to stop fighting. He doesn't have the chance, though, because Ned's already shoving the guy up against the display case, and the security guards are rushing towards them, ready and willing to break all of this up.
"He started--" the man who Ned has pinned to the glass begins to yell, jerking his head towards Ginsberg angrily, but the security guards obviously don't care who started it. What they want is for all of them to get out of the museum and stop disturbing the other patrons, who're now outright gawking at the altercation. "You and you," one of the security guards says, gesturing to Ned and Ginsberg, assuming -- correctly, of course -- that the two of them are there together, "Get the hell out of here. Right now."
Ginsberg's going to argue, for a second, but then he looks at Ned, and at the blood coming from his nose, and he knows better. Even he's capable of restraining himself occasionally. Staring around himself defiantly, meeting the eyes of all the onlookers, he finally looks back to the guy Ned's let go of by now, under the watchful eyes of the security guards, and sneers at him. "And you can go fuck yourself," he says, not able to resist one last retort before turning back to Ned. "C'mon, let's get out of here."
Like it was his choice all along, and like they weren't forced out.
Ned is more than happy to comply. The main challenge is to walk out of the museum, rather than run out full-tilt like a criminal fleeing the scene of the crime. He pinches his nose very gingerly as they walk, because the blood is still coming fast. Ned doesn't say anything to Ginsberg, doesn't look from side to side though he can feel the eyes of everyone fixing on them as they make their way through the various rooms and out into the cold October sunlight.
Once they are outside he takes a deep breath, hadn't realized he'd barely been breathing when they were making their way out. But even that gasp doesn't seem to get enough oxygen into him, so he takes another. Again, insufficient. Ned knows this feeling, the creeping tightness in his chest, the spinning in his head. Now that they're out in the open and, he thinks, safe now, his whole body starts to shake. There's a wooden bench nearby, unoccupied, and he makes a beeline for it, getting there just as his knees give out.
"You shouldn't have d-done that," Ned says, and it's unusually frank and confrontational, for him, but there's still too much adrenaline in his blood and he feels sick to his stomach.
"What was I supposed to do? Just let him say things like that? I can't sit there and listen to people say shit like that, it turns my stomach, it sickens me. It makes me physically ill. And people sitting by and listening to that kind of thing and not saying anything about it never helps. Those kind of people think they can get away with anything, anything at all."
He can't sit down, as much as he'd like to sit beside Ned and maybe apologize to him and get him a napkin or a handkerchief or something to staunch the bleeding from his nose, but he's still antsy and practically shaking as he paces back and forth in front of the bench, barely even noticing how badly his eye is throbbing. His shaking, though, is different from Ned's. It's pure adrenaline and fury that's coursing through him, self-righteous anger, the kind that fuels him to confront people like that, and what Ned's feeling seems to be much more like panic.
It's realization that that finally makes him stop pacing, makes him sit down next to Ned -- not too close, in case Ned's angry at him -- and take a deep breath, too. "I'm sorry."
Ned thinks, without saying so, that he is exactly the kind of person who sits by and listens, who doesn't say anything and doesn't help. He'd never been under the impression that silence did help, but helping to fix things had never been high on his agenda. Not in that way, not in those kinds of situations. The priority is, simply put, to save as much of his skin as possible.
Holding his nose, he watches Ginsberg pacing back and forth, half expecting him to turn at any second and redirect all that rage at him: for questioning his judgement, for interfering, for who knows what. Ned's not always been the best at distinguishing generalized anger and anger that might be redeployed in his direction at any second.
Ned's not angry, though he is glad that Ginsberg let him have his space; he isn't sure he could have stopped himself from flinching, otherwise, and that might give the wrong impression. When Ginsberg apologizes, though, it starts an instant process of self-doubt in Ned. Ginsberg is probably right about this. It might have gotten them thrown out of the museum, but what he did was probably right, and what Ned did was merely cowardly.
"You did what you thought was right," Ned concedes, softly. He lifts a badly shaking hand (the one that's not bloody) to touch the already-swelling area around Ginsberg's eye, very softly. "We should get you some ice."
"I did what I thought was right, looked like an idiot, and got us kicked out of the museum. And got you punched in the face. I told you, I have no idea how to do this dating thing. None at all. It'd be laughable, except it's just pathetic. What does it matter if I'm willing to tell someone that what they said is ignorant and idiotic if it gets someone like you hurt, too? No matter what I do, I can't avoid causing harm."
He knows that he's impulsive, knows that he blurts things out without thinking about the consequences, but that's always been okay before, because it's always been simply himself that he's been endangering. In this case, though, he'd dragged Ned into the middle of something that had gotten him hurt. Doesn't that make him just as bad as anyone else? Worse, maybe, because he hadn't even been thinking about what might happen to Ned when he threw himself into the confrontation headfirst. He hadn't been thinking about anything except his own righteous anger.
"You need ice, too. We both need ice."
And he doesn't possibly feel like he can apologize enough, which is probably evident from the abashed look on his face. He doesn't think that what he said to that guy was wrong, believes his opinion is still the right one, the only one, but he feels now, especially seeing the blood on Ned's hand, that he could have approached it a different way.
"I didn't have to step in. It's my fault I got punched in the face, not yours." Logic which, to Ned, is perfectly reasonable. He thinks of it as taking responsibility for his own actions, like men are supposed to do. (There is, of course, very little that he can't reason out to be his fault, in the end).
Ginsberg is right about the ice, though. Ned gets to his feet, legs still shaking, but now steady enough to keep him upright. He saw a corner shop on the way here that will probably do; he is worried about Ginsberg's eye (and his own nose is none too comfortable). He's also worried about that shamefaced expression on Ginsberg's face, especially since he brought up his own rather bad track record with dates. It helps to shake Ned out of the bad moment, remind him why they'd been in the museum in the first place, why he'd woken up this morning so happy he could hardly get out of bed.
"Okay, maybe not the best date ever so far, but it's only," he checks his watch, "a quarter past eleven. I think we have time to save it, don't you?" He smiles, and it's a little dimmer than usual, but genuine.
But he can't shake off the whole thing that quickly, and the smile slips from him a few seconds later. There's something digging at his thoughts, like a thorn, and he asks abruptly, "Do you think I hurt him?"
At Ned's question, he shakes his head emphatically. "I think he hurt both of us a lot worse than you hurt him. You might have startled him a little. He'll be fine, he'll just keep being pissed off at the two of us for the rest of the day. He's probably talking about us right now, about kids these days, that kind of thing. He didn't seem hurt."
And he's not just saying that because he doesn't want Ned to worry about it. He, too, is loathe to cause injury to anyone, and that's part of the reason he's never been good at fighting, because the very idea of hurting someone is almost alien to him. He likes that Ned's concerned about it, that even after being punched in the face he can worry about whether he'd hurt someone else.
Maybe that's part of the reason he offers Ned a smile, and it's a broad smile, and not at all a phony one. "The next thing we do, I promise I won't get us kicked out of anywhere. You can choose what we do, and I can try to salvage the mess I've made of this." He wants to put his arm around Ned, partially to steady him, because he can see that he's still shaky, partially for the sake of feeling comforted by his presence, but they're outside, and he doesn't like the idea of people watching them, so he keeps his hands to himself.
That answer reassures Ned; he doesn't think Ginsberg would lie to him, and the thought that he might have hurt the man - however belligerent and ignorant he was - in front of his wife and kids was making Ned's stomach churn. He's starting to calm down: the walking helps, as does Ginsberg's smile.
"The museum was fun while it lasted," Ned points out, with the air of helping him salvage what he can, "I mean, I was never under the impression that dinosaurs were small, but actually seeing the bones up close is kind of extraordinary." He doesn't know why, in his years of living in New York, he hasn't just gone and seen some of these wonderful things on his own. "Maybe... a different museum? There's more than one of them, right?"
They've reached the corner store now. When she sees Ned with his bloody face and hands, the young woman behind the counter points in the direction of the small bathroom in the back without needing to be asked. Ned says he'll be right back, disappears for a minute or two to clean himself up. When he emerges he's washed off most of the blood (though there are a couple flecks on the white cuff of his sleeve that he'll deal with later) and looks not all that much worse for wear.
"You're going to have a real shiner," Ned points out to Ginsberg, as he goes in search of frozen peas.
"Sure, there're a lot of museums," he replies, "and with any luck, I won't get us kicked out of them. When I was a little kid, my dad used to take me to the museums, to try to give me some kind of cultural education. I never really understood the art, especially the modern art, but I liked it. The dinosaurs were my favorite, though. I used to pretend that I could go back and time and really see them in person, even though they'd eat me. I'm pretty sure one of my first words in English was 'dinosaur,' come to think of it. Museums were always more fun than going to school, so sometimes my dad let me do that instead."
Having chattered on for probably far too long, he's almost surprised when they arrive at the corner store, but glad that Ned's able to go get cleaned up. While Ned's in the bathroom, he wanders around the place, wondering if the woman at the cash register is assuming that he's the one that had given Ned a bloody nose, and trying not to look suspicious or harmful in any way.
When Ned comes back, he nods, walking towards the frozen food, half of him not wanting to bother to ice his eye, but knowing it'll be better in the long run if he does. "I know," he says, shrugging, smiling, not looking bothered. "I'll just pretend I got in a fight I actually won."
Ned likes listening to Ginsberg telling stories about himself as a kid. It's a way to get to know more about him and, quite frankly, they're heartwarming. He has a half-formed picture of it in his mind, even though he hasn't any idea what Ginsberg's father looks like - the two of them staring at baffling works of non-representational art, going to see the dinosaurs afterwards. Ginsberg as a small child, with his overactive imagination, daydreaming of pteranodons.
(It hasn't escaped Ned's notice that Ginsberg's never mentions having a mother, but he's hardly the person to ask about that. The absence of mention tells him plenty, if not the exact details.)
"You can regale your coworkers with tales of valor," Ned suggests, bringing two bags of the peas to the counter and paying for them while the young woman gives the two of them a knowing look.
As they walk back out to the street Ned admits, with more than a touch of reluctance and embarrassment, "You know, you're going to think I'm a complete philistine, but I'm not sure I've ever been to an actual art museum." He probably would be blushing now, were it not for the bag of frozen peas that he's pressing to the center of his face. "I've seen famous paintings in books and all that, but never..." he trails off, with a shrug.
"You're right, I think you're an absolute philistine. I have no idea how I
can even be seen in public with someone so uncultured."
He really tries to keep a straight face as he says it, but the bag of
frozen peas he's pressing against his eye makes it a little difficult to
take anything particularly seriously, and before the sentence is even out,
he's laughing, shaking his head.
"Do you want to go to an actual art museum? You're in the right place if
you do. Seriously, pick any building around here, and there's at least a
sixty percent chance that it's some kind of museum. Do you like classical
or modern art? Or both? Or neither? Because no matter what you like, I'm
pretty sure we can find a place that'll educate you all about art you won't
really understand, but will probably like looking at."
He gestures expansively to the street around them, and then to Central
Park, one of the entrances to which is close by. "If we cut through the
park, we can go to the Met. Classical sculptures, a bunch of portraits, and
the best part is that I've never once been punched or even threatened
there."
That surprises a laugh out of Ned and he readily agrees, "Excellent. Let's go to that one." As for being seen in public with one another, he's sure that two grown men wandering the streets of New York with bags of frozen peas pressed to their faces are bound to look disreputable. They only draw a few glances, however. That's something Ned's noticed, in his time living in the city. People have so much to do, so many ways to occupy themselves, that they don't have the energy to be too nosy about complete strangers.
Though part of him wants to forget all about the fight (as much as he can, bloodied nose aside), but at the same time, he feels compelled to ask, "You do that a lot? Get threatened and punched?"
On the one hand, Ned can't imagine how he could not, if he's always that primed for confrontation. Violence seems inevitable. But Ned also can't imagine how Ginsberg could continue to be so brash and so outspoken, if he had been punched often enough. In his experience, the more someone got bullied, the better they got at learning to avoid situations where it might happen.
He knows the park well enough that he hardly has to pay attention as they wander through it. As a kid, he'd gotten lost in Central Park several times, but somehow, he'd always enjoyed it. Those twisting, turning paths, and the sense that you could come across something new and unusual every time you explored, that had always appealed to him. As an adult, it's much more difficult to get lost, and he doesn't want to try to get lost now -- that's probably another thing you're not supposed to do on a date -- but he still appreciates the park, nevertheless.
At Ned's question, he nods slightly, taking the bag of peas off of his eye for a moment, finding that it's become uncomfortably cold if he holds it there too long. "I get threatened a lot. I get ignored a lot. I get punched less than you'd think, but that's because when it comes right down to it, most people aren't actually willing to get into fistfights about that kind of thing. But yeah, this isn't exactly my first black eye, and it's not going to be my last, either."
He's sure Ned has noticed, by now, that he has a terrible inability to keep his mouth shut. He'd never exactly been bullied as a child, but he'd also never developed the desire to avoid confrontational situations, despite the fact that he was a terrible fighter, when it came right down to it.
Ned may not have been in any of the fine museums that New York has to offer, but he's certainly familiar with Central Park. Digby has adjusted to the city, but Ned knows how unhappy he would be if they didn't make it to the park at least once a week, so he could run and roll in the grass and greet the various other dogs of the city.
Ginsberg is just so blase about getting hit in the face that he makes Ned feel a bit ashamed of himself for making such a big deal of it. Perhaps he really is too paranoid, should grow up and accept that altercations - occasional ones - are just a part of life. He doesn't think he could ever manage Ginsberg's level of bravery (and foolishness), though. Ned doesn't have it in him.
"So there's at least a chance your father won't automatically assume that I'm a terrible influence?"
He shakes his head, pressing the bag of frozen peas back to his face. "He won't assume you're a terrible influence. He'll assume that I've been getting myself into trouble, as usual, which is why he needs to keep such a close eye on me, because if he doesn't know what I'm doing or where I am every hour of every day, I'll get seriously injured or die. He's convinced that I'm going to wander out into traffic and get hit by a bus because I'm too absentminded, or get murdered by someone who decides they've had enough of my contradictoriness and resorts to violence beyond just punching me. And I think he can imagine that because I was a pain in the ass as a kid -- still am, I guess, just a little less juvenile about it -- and I'm sure he imagined murdering me more than once. Not literally. Figuratively. He's a weird guy, but he's not actually a murderer."
Just in case that needed to be clarified, apparently. Speaking of being absentminded, he's so busy looking at Ned as he walks and talks that he nearly runs into a bench. Walking with a bag of peas over your eye and not looking where you're going apparently isn't a great combination in terms of depth perception, especially for someone like Ginsberg who's already more than a little clumsy.
"But I'd be okay with you being a bad influence. In other ways, I mean. That was meant to be flirtatious but I don't think it worked."
At least he had the good sense to say that a little more quietly than his normal speaking voice, but he's just come to accept that all his attempts at flirtation are, by and large, failures.
That level of paternal overprotectiveness is completely unfamiliar to Ned, and yet he thinks he can understand it, as someone who constantly plays out worst case scenarios in his own head. True, his worst-case scenarios never result in him being quite so controlling over another person's life, but if he had a kid (and that's a terrifying thought in its own way), he has the sneaking suspicion that if he didn't watch himself, he might end up that exact same kind of a father. And there's something to be said for imagining a smaller, brattier version of Ginsberg. If this is the toned-down version, well...
Ned only just sees Ginsberg swerving to avoid the bench at the last possible moment, grins at it. He doesn't think of it as absent-minded so much as impassioned. Ginsberg just gets to caught up in the things he's saying that his surroundings seem less important.
"Oh. Well, I'm happy to be that kind of a bad influence," he answers, voice also dipping in volume, and there's a sparkle to his eyes when he smiles that's decidedly unwholesome. Ned wishes, wishes that he could stop in his tracks right there, grab Ginsberg and kiss him hard, dip him backwards like some kind of debonair man from a movie. But of course, that's not the way things work. Even if they weren't in public, would he have the courage for that kind of suave move? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe.
He grins at Ned's comment, and it'd be hard to blame the way his cheeks
turn a little pinker entirely on the cold October air, even if it is pretty
chilly out. "Maybe you can influence me in that way after the museum. Maybe
you'll be inspired by the art."
Inspired by the art to do unwholesome things? It's entirely possible.
They're almost across the park by now, and Ginsberg is glad for it, because
from the way he shoves his free hand into the pocket of his voluminous
plaid jacket, he's getting cold, and the bag of frozen peas isn't helping
matters much. He's sure there's already a visible swelling around his eye,
and that the bruise will be showing up within the next couple of hours. He
kicks a pile of leaves, just for the hell of it, liking the way they
flutter back to the ground after he disrupts them -- there has to be an
idea for an ad in that image, doesn't there?
Finally, when they reach the museum, he cuts in front of Ned none too
gracefully, but since he's doing it for the sake of paying for both of
their admission to the museum, he hopes Ned doesn't find him too
unbearably awkward. Grabbing a museum map and stuffing the bag of peas into
his pocket after he notices the man at the admissions booth raising his
eyebrow, he unfolds the map and holds it out to Ned questioningly.
"Okay. What do you wanna see first? I have personal favorites, but I'm
gonna let you choose, because everything's good, and you haven't seen any
of it."
Inspired by the art, well, that's at least a line Ned's never heard before. He doesn't say anything in response to that proposal, but he does meet Ginsberg's eyes (is that a blush he spots>), grinning and raising his eyebrows in a way that makes his enthusiastic agreement clear enough.
He's glad that Ginsberg seems quite wrapped up in the movements of the leaves that he sends scattering in all directions and through the air. It means he's less likely to notice the way Ned dodges to the side, away from the flurry of dead leaves, as if he were allergic to them. Which, in a way, he is. For certain definitions of 'allergic'. He's not having a repeat of the Eugene incident, thanks very much. There are many reasons why autumn is Ned's least favourite season, and this is definitely one of them.
Ned almost objects to Ginsberg paying for both the tickets, but in the end he lets him do it, tells himself that he'll pay for the next date. Then he thinks that it's probably a bad sign he's also thinking of a next date as a certainty. Not bad because he doesn't want it to happen, but bad because he does. Badly. What happened to his strategy of not getting his hopes up so no one could possibly let him down?
He follows Ginsberg's example and stuffs the peas into his jacket pocket, hoping they don't get it too soaked as they continue to melt. When Ginsberg tells him to choose where they are going first he finds himself oddly shy. Why if he suggests something that Ginsberg thinks is too plebian, or too unimportant, or...
But he screws up his courage, points to a particular room on the map.
"I always liked Tolouse-Lautrec," he admits, since it is one of the names listed for that particular section of the museum.
Even if Ginsberg were to take notice of Ned's avoidance of the leaves, he wouldn't think anything of it. Not everyone likes having leaves kicked at them, after all, and some people are allergic. He's too busy watching the patterns they make to notice the way Ned shies away from them, though, and once they're in the museum, he's not thinking about leaves at all, because, in his characteristic exuberance, he's already thinking about all the art he wants to see.
At Ned's selection, he nods eagerly, and starts off in that direction quickly. He knows the museum fairly well, although it changes from year to year, depending on the exhibits. "Good choice," he says, "That's not something I can get punched about. I don't think. Maybe I shouldn't underestimate my ability to get punched for just about anything."
And art can be a controversial subject, he knows. On the way to the room of Ned's choosing, he slows down to look at the Greek and Roman statues that are on display in some of the hallways. Gesturing at them, he smiles. "My problem with sculpture is that I always want to touch it," he admits, although he's obviously capable of restraining himself from doing so. "It just seems like I'd get a better understanding of what the artist was going for if it were all interactive like that."
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Frankly, he wouldn't mind being looked at like he was crazy -- he's pretty sure people're looking at him like he's crazy all the time anyway -- but he's also pretty certain that Ned isn't actually going to pick him up in public, as amusing as it would be. He peers into the display case, nodding a little. "I don't like this stuff as much as I like the animals," he admits, "This just reminds me how messed up people are."
It's probably a cynical viewpoint, but somehow, he doesn't think Ned'll disagree. There's a moment of silence, and then the large family is walking in their direction, talking about the exhibits. Ginsberg tries to ignore them, but he's perpetually inclined to listen in to other peoples' conversations, and his attention is immediately caught by something the father of the family is saying, something lazy and insulting about 'inter-tribal conflict.'
Ginsberg turns his gaze on Ned, shaking his head, not bothering to keep his voice down when he responds, assuming Ned's overheard what he's overheard. "Can you believe the shit some people say?" he demands, knowing, and not caring, that the tourist family will know he's talking about them.
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He does overhear, and goes a little stiff in the shoulders when he does. But when Ginsberg makes his indiscreetly loud comment, Ned positively freezes in place. It's too much to hope he wasn't noticed; Ned sees the man turning towards them with purpose and swallows convulsively. There's going to be trouble. He can feel it. He's gotten good at seeing these things coming, reading the signs in body language and tone, and he wants out of there. Ned doesn't think Ginsberg seems like the type to apologize, but maybe if they leave right now.
With that purpose in mind he tugs at Ginsberg's sleeve, a tiny jerk, a kind of warning.
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"You got a problem?" the man asks, and that's one of those questions Ginsberg hates, because nobody ever asks it unless they know there's a problem, and want to be dismissive about it. This isn't the kind of thing to be dismissive about, in his opinion. This is the kind of thing to get mad about.
So instead of letting Ned tug him away, he stands his ground, and nods sharply, twice. "What makes you think you can say things like that?" he asks the man, tone of voice a little louder than he'd intended for it to be. "You say that shit in front of your kids, you share those ignorant, fascist views, and you wonder why they'll all turn out to be just as hateful as you? Who the fuck do you think you are? As long as there're people like you in the world, nobody's ever gonna be truly happy. You're poison, you know that? Poison!"
Oh yes, his voice is way louder than it should be in any kind of company, much less in a museum, but he can't stop himself. It's like his mouth is working three steps ahead of his brain.
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He'd been bothered by what the man said, too. Ned thinks his mind would have come back to it, would have been troubled by it, if not sure why he was, would have felt a gnawing sense of unhappiness at that off note in an otherwise happy outing. But this all seems to be spiraling out of control rather quickly, and there are strong conflicting impulses in his mind. One impulse is to stay silent, stay back, don't complicate things by getting himself involved. And the other impulse, the one that wins out for now, is to intervene apologetically.
"Ginsberg? Gins- hey, let's just-, there's no need to shout, let's go somewhere else, okay?" Looking up at the father (whose face has gone red with anger and whose wife is looking just as fearful as Ned feels), Ned opens his mouth to apologize, but he can't quite find the words, so he settles for a pleading look, a hasty and stammered, "We d-don't want any t-t-trouble."
Is that true, though? He doesn't want any trouble. Ginsberg seems rather keen on the prospect.
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"I can't just let people get away with saying shit like that," he says to Ned, practically pleadingly, trying to explain why he's prolonging this when really every sign Ned is giving indicates that they should be leaving, and fast. The anger on the other man's face should make him worried or scared, he thinks, but it doesn't, because he's still seeing red, and he's not going anywhere until he tells this guy exactly what he thinks of him.
"And there's every reason to shout. People like this, people like him, they don't listen unless you make them listen. This is why there're problems with the world. This is why people're dying in the goddamned war, because of guys like him." He turns back to the man again, shaking his head. "I feel bad for your family, that they have to deal with your ignorance," he finally says, "And I pity you, too, you son of a bitch."
That, it seems, is the straw that finally breaks the camel's back, so to speak. The angry man lunges at him, and he doesn't have time -- or, perhaps, the inclination -- to get out of the way. This isn't, to put it mildly, exactly how this date was supposed to turn out.
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It's why he reacts so quickly, after the man launches himself at Ginsberg. Ned abhors confrontation, but once the punches start to fly, his hesitation vanishes in an instant. The man just has the chance to land one blow on Ginsberg's face (and Ned thinks, from the angle and amount of force, that's probably going to give him a nasty black eye).
Once that punch is thrown, but before there's time for any more, Ned interposes himself between the two of them. First, he simultaneously steadies and pushes back Ginsberg with a hand on his shoulder. Then, turning to face the stranger, he brandishes a warning finger, glad for once of the height that will let him tower a good half a foot over the other man.
"BACK off!" Odd to hear his voice raised and rough like that. He's unused to the sound. "Settle down, both of you, you're acting like children-" Which is as far as he gets before the man decides to punch at him, too. He's a quick puncher- Ned suspects somehow he's had a bit of practice at it- and the next thing he knows his face is throbbing with pain and there's blood pouring from his nose.
It is Ned's usual strategy not to fight back. To avoid conflict, and keep himself safe that way, keep the peace. But that is clearly not going to work in this situation, and he's had to fight too hard to get by on his own all these years not to know when to drop a failed strategy and move on to something that has a chance of working. He grabs a fistful of the man's shirt and spins, pins him against the glass display with an ominous crack. Unfortunately for Ned, this tableau is the one that greets the security guards who come rushing in at just that moment, so that he looks, by and large, to be the biggest threat of the three of them.
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There's a moment where he's prepared to rush the guy, to try to tackle him the floor because it's one thing to hit Ginsberg in the face, he'd basically been asking for it, but it's quite another thing to hit Ned in the face, Ned, who'd just been trying to get the two of them to stop fighting. He doesn't have the chance, though, because Ned's already shoving the guy up against the display case, and the security guards are rushing towards them, ready and willing to break all of this up.
"He started--" the man who Ned has pinned to the glass begins to yell, jerking his head towards Ginsberg angrily, but the security guards obviously don't care who started it. What they want is for all of them to get out of the museum and stop disturbing the other patrons, who're now outright gawking at the altercation. "You and you," one of the security guards says, gesturing to Ned and Ginsberg, assuming -- correctly, of course -- that the two of them are there together, "Get the hell out of here. Right now."
Ginsberg's going to argue, for a second, but then he looks at Ned, and at the blood coming from his nose, and he knows better. Even he's capable of restraining himself occasionally. Staring around himself defiantly, meeting the eyes of all the onlookers, he finally looks back to the guy Ned's let go of by now, under the watchful eyes of the security guards, and sneers at him. "And you can go fuck yourself," he says, not able to resist one last retort before turning back to Ned. "C'mon, let's get out of here."
Like it was his choice all along, and like they weren't forced out.
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Once they are outside he takes a deep breath, hadn't realized he'd barely been breathing when they were making their way out. But even that gasp doesn't seem to get enough oxygen into him, so he takes another. Again, insufficient. Ned knows this feeling, the creeping tightness in his chest, the spinning in his head. Now that they're out in the open and, he thinks, safe now, his whole body starts to shake. There's a wooden bench nearby, unoccupied, and he makes a beeline for it, getting there just as his knees give out.
"You shouldn't have d-done that," Ned says, and it's unusually frank and confrontational, for him, but there's still too much adrenaline in his blood and he feels sick to his stomach.
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He can't sit down, as much as he'd like to sit beside Ned and maybe apologize to him and get him a napkin or a handkerchief or something to staunch the bleeding from his nose, but he's still antsy and practically shaking as he paces back and forth in front of the bench, barely even noticing how badly his eye is throbbing. His shaking, though, is different from Ned's. It's pure adrenaline and fury that's coursing through him, self-righteous anger, the kind that fuels him to confront people like that, and what Ned's feeling seems to be much more like panic.
It's realization that that finally makes him stop pacing, makes him sit down next to Ned -- not too close, in case Ned's angry at him -- and take a deep breath, too. "I'm sorry."
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Holding his nose, he watches Ginsberg pacing back and forth, half expecting him to turn at any second and redirect all that rage at him: for questioning his judgement, for interfering, for who knows what. Ned's not always been the best at distinguishing generalized anger and anger that might be redeployed in his direction at any second.
Ned's not angry, though he is glad that Ginsberg let him have his space; he isn't sure he could have stopped himself from flinching, otherwise, and that might give the wrong impression. When Ginsberg apologizes, though, it starts an instant process of self-doubt in Ned. Ginsberg is probably right about this. It might have gotten them thrown out of the museum, but what he did was probably right, and what Ned did was merely cowardly.
"You did what you thought was right," Ned concedes, softly. He lifts a badly shaking hand (the one that's not bloody) to touch the already-swelling area around Ginsberg's eye, very softly. "We should get you some ice."
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He knows that he's impulsive, knows that he blurts things out without thinking about the consequences, but that's always been okay before, because it's always been simply himself that he's been endangering. In this case, though, he'd dragged Ned into the middle of something that had gotten him hurt. Doesn't that make him just as bad as anyone else? Worse, maybe, because he hadn't even been thinking about what might happen to Ned when he threw himself into the confrontation headfirst. He hadn't been thinking about anything except his own righteous anger.
"You need ice, too. We both need ice."
And he doesn't possibly feel like he can apologize enough, which is probably evident from the abashed look on his face. He doesn't think that what he said to that guy was wrong, believes his opinion is still the right one, the only one, but he feels now, especially seeing the blood on Ned's hand, that he could have approached it a different way.
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Ginsberg is right about the ice, though. Ned gets to his feet, legs still shaking, but now steady enough to keep him upright. He saw a corner shop on the way here that will probably do; he is worried about Ginsberg's eye (and his own nose is none too comfortable). He's also worried about that shamefaced expression on Ginsberg's face, especially since he brought up his own rather bad track record with dates. It helps to shake Ned out of the bad moment, remind him why they'd been in the museum in the first place, why he'd woken up this morning so happy he could hardly get out of bed.
"Okay, maybe not the best date ever so far, but it's only," he checks his watch, "a quarter past eleven. I think we have time to save it, don't you?" He smiles, and it's a little dimmer than usual, but genuine.
But he can't shake off the whole thing that quickly, and the smile slips from him a few seconds later. There's something digging at his thoughts, like a thorn, and he asks abruptly, "Do you think I hurt him?"
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And he's not just saying that because he doesn't want Ned to worry about it. He, too, is loathe to cause injury to anyone, and that's part of the reason he's never been good at fighting, because the very idea of hurting someone is almost alien to him. He likes that Ned's concerned about it, that even after being punched in the face he can worry about whether he'd hurt someone else.
Maybe that's part of the reason he offers Ned a smile, and it's a broad smile, and not at all a phony one. "The next thing we do, I promise I won't get us kicked out of anywhere. You can choose what we do, and I can try to salvage the mess I've made of this." He wants to put his arm around Ned, partially to steady him, because he can see that he's still shaky, partially for the sake of feeling comforted by his presence, but they're outside, and he doesn't like the idea of people watching them, so he keeps his hands to himself.
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"The museum was fun while it lasted," Ned points out, with the air of helping him salvage what he can, "I mean, I was never under the impression that dinosaurs were small, but actually seeing the bones up close is kind of extraordinary." He doesn't know why, in his years of living in New York, he hasn't just gone and seen some of these wonderful things on his own. "Maybe... a different museum? There's more than one of them, right?"
They've reached the corner store now. When she sees Ned with his bloody face and hands, the young woman behind the counter points in the direction of the small bathroom in the back without needing to be asked. Ned says he'll be right back, disappears for a minute or two to clean himself up. When he emerges he's washed off most of the blood (though there are a couple flecks on the white cuff of his sleeve that he'll deal with later) and looks not all that much worse for wear.
"You're going to have a real shiner," Ned points out to Ginsberg, as he goes in search of frozen peas.
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Having chattered on for probably far too long, he's almost surprised when they arrive at the corner store, but glad that Ned's able to go get cleaned up. While Ned's in the bathroom, he wanders around the place, wondering if the woman at the cash register is assuming that he's the one that had given Ned a bloody nose, and trying not to look suspicious or harmful in any way.
When Ned comes back, he nods, walking towards the frozen food, half of him not wanting to bother to ice his eye, but knowing it'll be better in the long run if he does. "I know," he says, shrugging, smiling, not looking bothered. "I'll just pretend I got in a fight I actually won."
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(It hasn't escaped Ned's notice that Ginsberg's never mentions having a mother, but he's hardly the person to ask about that. The absence of mention tells him plenty, if not the exact details.)
"You can regale your coworkers with tales of valor," Ned suggests, bringing two bags of the peas to the counter and paying for them while the young woman gives the two of them a knowing look.
As they walk back out to the street Ned admits, with more than a touch of reluctance and embarrassment, "You know, you're going to think I'm a complete philistine, but I'm not sure I've ever been to an actual art museum." He probably would be blushing now, were it not for the bag of frozen peas that he's pressing to the center of his face. "I've seen famous paintings in books and all that, but never..." he trails off, with a shrug.
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"You're right, I think you're an absolute philistine. I have no idea how I can even be seen in public with someone so uncultured."
He really tries to keep a straight face as he says it, but the bag of frozen peas he's pressing against his eye makes it a little difficult to take anything particularly seriously, and before the sentence is even out, he's laughing, shaking his head.
"Do you want to go to an actual art museum? You're in the right place if you do. Seriously, pick any building around here, and there's at least a sixty percent chance that it's some kind of museum. Do you like classical or modern art? Or both? Or neither? Because no matter what you like, I'm pretty sure we can find a place that'll educate you all about art you won't really understand, but will probably like looking at."
He gestures expansively to the street around them, and then to Central Park, one of the entrances to which is close by. "If we cut through the park, we can go to the Met. Classical sculptures, a bunch of portraits, and the best part is that I've never once been punched or even threatened there."
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Though part of him wants to forget all about the fight (as much as he can, bloodied nose aside), but at the same time, he feels compelled to ask, "You do that a lot? Get threatened and punched?"
On the one hand, Ned can't imagine how he could not, if he's always that primed for confrontation. Violence seems inevitable. But Ned also can't imagine how Ginsberg could continue to be so brash and so outspoken, if he had been punched often enough. In his experience, the more someone got bullied, the better they got at learning to avoid situations where it might happen.
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At Ned's question, he nods slightly, taking the bag of peas off of his eye for a moment, finding that it's become uncomfortably cold if he holds it there too long. "I get threatened a lot. I get ignored a lot. I get punched less than you'd think, but that's because when it comes right down to it, most people aren't actually willing to get into fistfights about that kind of thing. But yeah, this isn't exactly my first black eye, and it's not going to be my last, either."
He's sure Ned has noticed, by now, that he has a terrible inability to keep his mouth shut. He'd never exactly been bullied as a child, but he'd also never developed the desire to avoid confrontational situations, despite the fact that he was a terrible fighter, when it came right down to it.
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Ginsberg is just so blase about getting hit in the face that he makes Ned feel a bit ashamed of himself for making such a big deal of it. Perhaps he really is too paranoid, should grow up and accept that altercations - occasional ones - are just a part of life. He doesn't think he could ever manage Ginsberg's level of bravery (and foolishness), though. Ned doesn't have it in him.
"So there's at least a chance your father won't automatically assume that I'm a terrible influence?"
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Just in case that needed to be clarified, apparently. Speaking of being absentminded, he's so busy looking at Ned as he walks and talks that he nearly runs into a bench. Walking with a bag of peas over your eye and not looking where you're going apparently isn't a great combination in terms of depth perception, especially for someone like Ginsberg who's already more than a little clumsy.
"But I'd be okay with you being a bad influence. In other ways, I mean. That was meant to be flirtatious but I don't think it worked."
At least he had the good sense to say that a little more quietly than his normal speaking voice, but he's just come to accept that all his attempts at flirtation are, by and large, failures.
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Ned only just sees Ginsberg swerving to avoid the bench at the last possible moment, grins at it. He doesn't think of it as absent-minded so much as impassioned. Ginsberg just gets to caught up in the things he's saying that his surroundings seem less important.
"Oh. Well, I'm happy to be that kind of a bad influence," he answers, voice also dipping in volume, and there's a sparkle to his eyes when he smiles that's decidedly unwholesome. Ned wishes, wishes that he could stop in his tracks right there, grab Ginsberg and kiss him hard, dip him backwards like some kind of debonair man from a movie. But of course, that's not the way things work. Even if they weren't in public, would he have the courage for that kind of suave move? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe.
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He grins at Ned's comment, and it'd be hard to blame the way his cheeks turn a little pinker entirely on the cold October air, even if it is pretty chilly out. "Maybe you can influence me in that way after the museum. Maybe you'll be inspired by the art."
Inspired by the art to do unwholesome things? It's entirely possible. They're almost across the park by now, and Ginsberg is glad for it, because from the way he shoves his free hand into the pocket of his voluminous plaid jacket, he's getting cold, and the bag of frozen peas isn't helping matters much. He's sure there's already a visible swelling around his eye, and that the bruise will be showing up within the next couple of hours. He kicks a pile of leaves, just for the hell of it, liking the way they flutter back to the ground after he disrupts them -- there has to be an idea for an ad in that image, doesn't there?
Finally, when they reach the museum, he cuts in front of Ned none too gracefully, but since he's doing it for the sake of paying for both of their admission to the museum, he hopes Ned doesn't find him too unbearably awkward. Grabbing a museum map and stuffing the bag of peas into his pocket after he notices the man at the admissions booth raising his eyebrow, he unfolds the map and holds it out to Ned questioningly.
"Okay. What do you wanna see first? I have personal favorites, but I'm gonna let you choose, because everything's good, and you haven't seen any of it."
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He's glad that Ginsberg seems quite wrapped up in the movements of the leaves that he sends scattering in all directions and through the air. It means he's less likely to notice the way Ned dodges to the side, away from the flurry of dead leaves, as if he were allergic to them. Which, in a way, he is. For certain definitions of 'allergic'. He's not having a repeat of the Eugene incident, thanks very much. There are many reasons why autumn is Ned's least favourite season, and this is definitely one of them.
Ned almost objects to Ginsberg paying for both the tickets, but in the end he lets him do it, tells himself that he'll pay for the next date. Then he thinks that it's probably a bad sign he's also thinking of a next date as a certainty. Not bad because he doesn't want it to happen, but bad because he does. Badly. What happened to his strategy of not getting his hopes up so no one could possibly let him down?
He follows Ginsberg's example and stuffs the peas into his jacket pocket, hoping they don't get it too soaked as they continue to melt. When Ginsberg tells him to choose where they are going first he finds himself oddly shy. Why if he suggests something that Ginsberg thinks is too plebian, or too unimportant, or...
But he screws up his courage, points to a particular room on the map.
"I always liked Tolouse-Lautrec," he admits, since it is one of the names listed for that particular section of the museum.
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At Ned's selection, he nods eagerly, and starts off in that direction quickly. He knows the museum fairly well, although it changes from year to year, depending on the exhibits. "Good choice," he says, "That's not something I can get punched about. I don't think. Maybe I shouldn't underestimate my ability to get punched for just about anything."
And art can be a controversial subject, he knows. On the way to the room of Ned's choosing, he slows down to look at the Greek and Roman statues that are on display in some of the hallways. Gesturing at them, he smiles. "My problem with sculpture is that I always want to touch it," he admits, although he's obviously capable of restraining himself from doing so. "It just seems like I'd get a better understanding of what the artist was going for if it were all interactive like that."
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Shall we call this a wrap, then~