Pushing Daisies Fic: you the queen of this strange city
you the queen of this strange city
pushing daisies. chuck; chuck/ned. pilot spoilers. 1114 words. g.
it’s almost breaking news again, the sudden repertoire of her cheerful oh, no I’m like you because, really, being dead shouldn’t have to be that bad.
-
Carnival arms have
A medical wonder
Who would of guessed that
It was not a real body part.
(cat power) peking saint
It’s almost breaking news again, the sudden repertoire of her cheerful oh, no I’m like you because, really, being dead shouldn’t have to be that bad.
Chuck is in love with life, still and sudden, all for the second chances perched on a stool and surrounded by pies, cherries and apples, blueberries that ache for sunny skies, the sudden charm of Ned and his world adding that dimension of ample fascination to this thing. Thing? Thing.
But pardon her, it takes a bit to getting used to this; new chance imposes over things like common sense and the irresistible pull of longing, which, she might add, was what got her into trouble in the first place - or monkeys, she’s not picky, you know, she’s your girl, Chuck.
Ned’s out of the kitchen though, careful because they have to be careful, but that’s okay because she’s already convinced herself that’s hysterically romantic in the line and scheme of things.
“In thought,” he asks, “deep, deep thought?”
She bites a grin, the press of her teeth into her lip still causing a rising flush, a pink or red depending on how fluid her embarrassment of being caught is. It’s not that she cares, oh no, she doesn’t, but Chuck’s still a girl, a woman, and that whole rationality behind girls and boys, the bees, and life in general kinda, sorta sticks with you into the imposing realties of adulthood.
And, well, Ned’s sorta more than cute.
“Uh-huh.”
She shrugs, spinning in her seat and looking up into the ceiling, an open, wide, space. It’s something that she’s never asked about, but sort of grasps the psychology of it all, she supposes. The wider things are, the more comfortable he’ll be. Or something. She still doesn’t mind, it makes him endearing, Ned, and she likes an endearing Ned, an endearing Ned makes coping not seem like coping and she keeps to relishing her creativity instead.
“Done?”
His mouth turns and his hips press against the counter, close but far enough, as he props his chin in his hand. She blushes again, never shying, but rolling her stool back and forth, her fingers curling around the ends of her dress. She cocks her head to the side, shaking her head in amusement.
“What?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
There’s an mmhmm that stills as a hum, on tune and coursing through the air. She does a full spin and laughs, delighted as she turns her head up, neck back and gaze to the ceiling.
“You should paint it,” she says idly.
“Paint what?”
She laughs louder this time, silly boy, and sways from side to side, her gaze resting back on his. She’s thinking color again, apples and oranges, peaches and raspberries, the range of color that she’s surround by. She leans forward, a little, watching him dart back - still, it’s going to take some time, but if she’s going to get proper time, then who is she to complain?
“The ceiling,” her lips curl, “it’s boring.”
He snorts. “I like boring.”
But she’s already imagining things, reds and pinks, but the blue seems to hold her captivated - corny, sure, but really when you’re kinda dead, you sort of gain perspective, big perspective, on these sorts of things.
“Oh, Ned, just paint it.”
She cocks an eyebrow at him, watching as he flushes; she remembers, two kids, the wide city and crush, crush, crush with a giggle. He was like that too, when they were a street apart, a door and a flight of stairs. Imposing is nothing for a child and, she thinks, it sort of feels like that again. She kind of likes it; she keeps to herself, and wonders if she could convince him so.
“What color?”
He’s watching her curiously and she’s got to smile because she likes when he watches her, almost as if it were for the years, to make up or something. She doesn’t mind it all; she agrees, time lost is time gained and they’ve got years upon years upon more years to do it.
Or so she hopes.
She’s got to worry about slipping now. But she can do that.
“Chuck?” His voice is husky with amusement, a bit of confusion winding over their conversation. Poor Ned, always a boy, like the rest of them - she tends to think - but that’s okay because Ned is still her Ned, in a grown up and rather large adult overcoat. Oh, that was yesterday. The overcoat - that’s next on her list, she thinks.
She shrugs. “Blue.”
“Blue?”
Her mouth turns. “Blue like the sky,” she tells him, “keepin’ with the themes and all. Pie and life and fruits and life - oh, shut up. I had it.”
He laughs.
She brightens. Call her whatever you want, but him laughing is about the signs, the good signs, and she thinks that she likes things looking up instead. The two of them, like this, it has to be something good, right? Right? Oh, sure, she’s got her strange moments of doubts; she’s human, okay, still. That hasn’t changed just because some moron strangled her for gold monkeys. Still embarrassing, jeez.
“Blue, huh?” He dips his neck back, his gaze to the ceiling. A nice little place, Ned, she wants to say, and something along the lines of proud of you, but isn’t that a little too intimate, for the years between them?
She nods. “Blue.”
Ned laughs softly. She watches his fingers press against the counter, then just his knuckles. There’s no particular rhythm, of course, just Ned and his hands, relaxed as he nods slowly.
“Sure,” he says, “I guess. Since there’s suddenly a motif - but what do I know, I hang out with dead people and make pies.”
She laughs, her lips curling. “You like making pies.”
“I do.”
They grin at each other for private jokes, although still stumbling over this relationship thing, if it can be called that yet. Yet, she thinks, promising, she still thinks, almost. But she does laugh again, her fingers sliding over the counter, the same space his hands occupied, almost - they’re working on this.
“Emerson’s going to hate it,” she murmurs, stretching forward. Her grins widens in amusement, teasing him, “And the motif.”
He moves back a little, a soft good, at the charm of her here and of him, having a habit with her here. At least, she’d like to think so.
So him, again: “Sure,” softer because he’s watching her and she’s blushing deeply because he’s watching again, a sure stupid grin on her face because Ned and Chuck are still at the stupid grin level of their thing.
“Good.”
Oh, she likes this, you know.
-
pushing daisies. chuck; chuck/ned. pilot spoilers. 1114 words. g.
it’s almost breaking news again, the sudden repertoire of her cheerful oh, no I’m like you because, really, being dead shouldn’t have to be that bad.
-
Carnival arms have
A medical wonder
Who would of guessed that
It was not a real body part.
(cat power) peking saint
It’s almost breaking news again, the sudden repertoire of her cheerful oh, no I’m like you because, really, being dead shouldn’t have to be that bad.
Chuck is in love with life, still and sudden, all for the second chances perched on a stool and surrounded by pies, cherries and apples, blueberries that ache for sunny skies, the sudden charm of Ned and his world adding that dimension of ample fascination to this thing. Thing? Thing.
But pardon her, it takes a bit to getting used to this; new chance imposes over things like common sense and the irresistible pull of longing, which, she might add, was what got her into trouble in the first place - or monkeys, she’s not picky, you know, she’s your girl, Chuck.
Ned’s out of the kitchen though, careful because they have to be careful, but that’s okay because she’s already convinced herself that’s hysterically romantic in the line and scheme of things.
“In thought,” he asks, “deep, deep thought?”
She bites a grin, the press of her teeth into her lip still causing a rising flush, a pink or red depending on how fluid her embarrassment of being caught is. It’s not that she cares, oh no, she doesn’t, but Chuck’s still a girl, a woman, and that whole rationality behind girls and boys, the bees, and life in general kinda, sorta sticks with you into the imposing realties of adulthood.
And, well, Ned’s sorta more than cute.
“Uh-huh.”
She shrugs, spinning in her seat and looking up into the ceiling, an open, wide, space. It’s something that she’s never asked about, but sort of grasps the psychology of it all, she supposes. The wider things are, the more comfortable he’ll be. Or something. She still doesn’t mind, it makes him endearing, Ned, and she likes an endearing Ned, an endearing Ned makes coping not seem like coping and she keeps to relishing her creativity instead.
“Done?”
His mouth turns and his hips press against the counter, close but far enough, as he props his chin in his hand. She blushes again, never shying, but rolling her stool back and forth, her fingers curling around the ends of her dress. She cocks her head to the side, shaking her head in amusement.
“What?”
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
There’s an mmhmm that stills as a hum, on tune and coursing through the air. She does a full spin and laughs, delighted as she turns her head up, neck back and gaze to the ceiling.
“You should paint it,” she says idly.
“Paint what?”
She laughs louder this time, silly boy, and sways from side to side, her gaze resting back on his. She’s thinking color again, apples and oranges, peaches and raspberries, the range of color that she’s surround by. She leans forward, a little, watching him dart back - still, it’s going to take some time, but if she’s going to get proper time, then who is she to complain?
“The ceiling,” her lips curl, “it’s boring.”
He snorts. “I like boring.”
But she’s already imagining things, reds and pinks, but the blue seems to hold her captivated - corny, sure, but really when you’re kinda dead, you sort of gain perspective, big perspective, on these sorts of things.
“Oh, Ned, just paint it.”
She cocks an eyebrow at him, watching as he flushes; she remembers, two kids, the wide city and crush, crush, crush with a giggle. He was like that too, when they were a street apart, a door and a flight of stairs. Imposing is nothing for a child and, she thinks, it sort of feels like that again. She kind of likes it; she keeps to herself, and wonders if she could convince him so.
“What color?”
He’s watching her curiously and she’s got to smile because she likes when he watches her, almost as if it were for the years, to make up or something. She doesn’t mind it all; she agrees, time lost is time gained and they’ve got years upon years upon more years to do it.
Or so she hopes.
She’s got to worry about slipping now. But she can do that.
“Chuck?” His voice is husky with amusement, a bit of confusion winding over their conversation. Poor Ned, always a boy, like the rest of them - she tends to think - but that’s okay because Ned is still her Ned, in a grown up and rather large adult overcoat. Oh, that was yesterday. The overcoat - that’s next on her list, she thinks.
She shrugs. “Blue.”
“Blue?”
Her mouth turns. “Blue like the sky,” she tells him, “keepin’ with the themes and all. Pie and life and fruits and life - oh, shut up. I had it.”
He laughs.
She brightens. Call her whatever you want, but him laughing is about the signs, the good signs, and she thinks that she likes things looking up instead. The two of them, like this, it has to be something good, right? Right? Oh, sure, she’s got her strange moments of doubts; she’s human, okay, still. That hasn’t changed just because some moron strangled her for gold monkeys. Still embarrassing, jeez.
“Blue, huh?” He dips his neck back, his gaze to the ceiling. A nice little place, Ned, she wants to say, and something along the lines of proud of you, but isn’t that a little too intimate, for the years between them?
She nods. “Blue.”
Ned laughs softly. She watches his fingers press against the counter, then just his knuckles. There’s no particular rhythm, of course, just Ned and his hands, relaxed as he nods slowly.
“Sure,” he says, “I guess. Since there’s suddenly a motif - but what do I know, I hang out with dead people and make pies.”
She laughs, her lips curling. “You like making pies.”
“I do.”
They grin at each other for private jokes, although still stumbling over this relationship thing, if it can be called that yet. Yet, she thinks, promising, she still thinks, almost. But she does laugh again, her fingers sliding over the counter, the same space his hands occupied, almost - they’re working on this.
“Emerson’s going to hate it,” she murmurs, stretching forward. Her grins widens in amusement, teasing him, “And the motif.”
He moves back a little, a soft good, at the charm of her here and of him, having a habit with her here. At least, she’d like to think so.
So him, again: “Sure,” softer because he’s watching her and she’s blushing deeply because he’s watching again, a sure stupid grin on her face because Ned and Chuck are still at the stupid grin level of their thing.
“Good.”
Oh, she likes this, you know.
-