Pushing Daisies Fic: in between our white fences
in between our white fences
For sudden declarations, Chuck thinks, Olive’s got some sort of predisposition to loud, crashing uses of the obvious. It’s almost amusing and endearing, if it can be amusing and endearing, but Chuck’s not appreciative of the amusing or the endearing at this particular moment, on the roof.
pushing daisies. chuck. olive. (ned/chuck).
pigeon; 1183 words, g.
for oregonblondie.
“You’re hiding!”
For sudden declarations, Chuck thinks, Olive’s got some sort of predisposition to loud, crashing uses of the obvious. It’s almost amusing and endearing, if it can be amusing and endearing, but Chuck’s not appreciative of the amusing or the endearing at this particular moment, on the roof, with her bees and the familiarity of something rather than nothing at all.
Still the same, she tilts her head to the side and fingers the netting of her mask as she watches the smaller woman shift foot to foot, frown, and then foot to foot again. The bees are spinning lazily, disinterest floating outside the bounds of their corner. Chuck smiles softly, shaking her head.
“Why are you smiling?”
She shrugs. “In plain sight. As an oversight?”
Olive frowns, stomps her foot, and steps further into the space, without the proper gear; Chuck considers a warning, but the words sort of work themselves away and out of her thoughts. She’s distracted, the pang of knowing that her aunts were there, right there is almost a weight she doesn’t understand; yet, it’s here, the understanding and believing in second chances - did Vivian see her, did she let her? It’s turning in her head again.
Ned says not to worry and maybe, yeah, it is what makes her smile again. Because, in part, it makes her smile just a little bit.
“What?” The other woman is forward again, circling her as she stands and brushes around a hive. She ducks, like a game.
“You said I was hiding, I was answering your question. Or declaration. Or assumption,” she says, stopping. She turns, biting her lip, “Although, you did phrase it as a declaration, exclamation really, but I could see it as a question.”
There is some foot stomping, of the petulant child and candy variety, and Chuck turns, just to watch with a strange, almost affectionate amusement. She thinks she’s got it or perhaps, she doesn’t but she understands the connection and displacement caused by her arrival. If it’s about turf, she’d like to talk about it because it doesn’t have to be about turf; they can happily coexist. The right words will come.
Olive presses her lips tightly as if she thinks passive is the route to go; she doesn’t understand why Olive doesn’t just come out and say something because she’ll answer, maybe not as well, but answer nonetheless.
And here: “You have an ulterior motive.”
But Chuck barely blinks, “a deep, dark secret or a deep-seeded secret,” she says back, shrugging and wrinkling her nose - she wrinkles a lot, “I don’t know what sounds better, if anything can sound better. But I wouldn’t call it a secret. A secret would, in fact, imply intention, which, in fact, you’re accusing me of.”
And Chuck would like to still hope that there was a chance for her to have a girlfriend because, the reality was, confined to her, to the home that she grew up in, after her dad died, it was just her aunts. And she loved, loves her aunts, her beautiful aunts Vivian and Lily, but the house was only as big as you could make it, proper corners and spaces; there’s no resentment, no love lost like the page turners of picket fences and semi-social idealism - Chuck could tell you where each book still is, in that small nook of her world - but there’s nothing wrong with wanting something new.
She feels guilty, though.
Olive is ranting, something about Chuck mocking her, and her mouth twists and turns, widens and falls close. She stomps her feet, only stopping when a strand of hair shifts and shapes into her face. Her hands tremble and Chuck stops to watch, watch curiously as the other woman fixes and puts things into place.
“You don’t like me,” she guesses.
“Do I have to?” Olive snaps.
No, she doesn’t - it’s an unsettling fact, of course, and she’s always driven by the idea that people should be comfortable around her, not necessary like her, but she likes having comfortable people with lovely stories, stories are always great to hear and you could argue, in fact, she has, that Ned suffers from slight discomfort. But that’s not her fault.
Chuck shrugs. “No.”
And Olive is quiet, pensive, and stops. Bees rise and fall and swing around the hives again, busy, always busy, and Chuck finds herself smiling, just a little, at something old that she can have. If that makes her selfish, so it makes her selfish.
“They’re very sweet.” Olive is drawling, swinging her hips from side to side, just like the movies, just like the other pretty woman. It’s easy to put together, one plus one and then two, and Chuck sort of thinks oh and exactly like that.
But her aunts -
“Lively. I prefer lively.”
So she’s a bit defensive, rightfully so, and the other woman is minimizing opinions on her story instead allowing some, just a little room, for more. Not that Chuck would tell Olive - Ned’s secret is her secret is their secret and it should stay like that, with the exception of Emerson, but he really doesn’t count.
Olive ignores her. “Super sweet.”
She sort of rolls her eyes then, taking off and then donning her bee mask to go back to her bees, to add a little something to Ned’s business, the real business, and return to a catalogue of memories that could’ve led to daydreams and knights and knights with bees, maybe even in Tahiti. Or just honey.
“I know,” she says quietly, fingering the fringe of her sleeves, being extra careful because bees are bees and they can be mean. She wants to tell Olive that it doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss her aunts; this is too awkward, too turning, and she’d rather not, in the end, there are other things weighing around.
But she looks at Olive and Olive looks back, something passing, something uncertain and maybe, the uncertainty opens something else - it’s a lot somethings, but better than nothing, Chuck likes to think.
Olive sighs, her eyes narrowed. “Another pie?”
This doesn’t mean anything and it certainly doesn’t mean that Chuck is looking for that particular ally, but she nods, biting her lip. Olive backs away, framing the door and then nods back, almost sourly, at her.
“I don’t like this.”
Chuck’s lips turn slightly. There’s an edge of something, a vicious curiosity, and she thinks, well, bring on; it would be something else to do.
“I know,” she says, but the woman turns and - “Olive!”
There’s a spin and a curse, the really short dress that Chuck admires - oh, she wants to wear the really short dress too, in patterns, of all things - sliding up a little more than just modestly.
She ducks her head, tapping her mask. For her, on her part, on her own accord, there’s a smile and a rather nice smile, something from her. Because she does appreciate this.
“Thanks.”
Chuck knows she doesn’t, but she’d like to think that Olive smiled back.
-
For sudden declarations, Chuck thinks, Olive’s got some sort of predisposition to loud, crashing uses of the obvious. It’s almost amusing and endearing, if it can be amusing and endearing, but Chuck’s not appreciative of the amusing or the endearing at this particular moment, on the roof.
pushing daisies. chuck. olive. (ned/chuck).
pigeon; 1183 words, g.
for oregonblondie.
“You’re hiding!”
For sudden declarations, Chuck thinks, Olive’s got some sort of predisposition to loud, crashing uses of the obvious. It’s almost amusing and endearing, if it can be amusing and endearing, but Chuck’s not appreciative of the amusing or the endearing at this particular moment, on the roof, with her bees and the familiarity of something rather than nothing at all.
Still the same, she tilts her head to the side and fingers the netting of her mask as she watches the smaller woman shift foot to foot, frown, and then foot to foot again. The bees are spinning lazily, disinterest floating outside the bounds of their corner. Chuck smiles softly, shaking her head.
“Why are you smiling?”
She shrugs. “In plain sight. As an oversight?”
Olive frowns, stomps her foot, and steps further into the space, without the proper gear; Chuck considers a warning, but the words sort of work themselves away and out of her thoughts. She’s distracted, the pang of knowing that her aunts were there, right there is almost a weight she doesn’t understand; yet, it’s here, the understanding and believing in second chances - did Vivian see her, did she let her? It’s turning in her head again.
Ned says not to worry and maybe, yeah, it is what makes her smile again. Because, in part, it makes her smile just a little bit.
“What?” The other woman is forward again, circling her as she stands and brushes around a hive. She ducks, like a game.
“You said I was hiding, I was answering your question. Or declaration. Or assumption,” she says, stopping. She turns, biting her lip, “Although, you did phrase it as a declaration, exclamation really, but I could see it as a question.”
There is some foot stomping, of the petulant child and candy variety, and Chuck turns, just to watch with a strange, almost affectionate amusement. She thinks she’s got it or perhaps, she doesn’t but she understands the connection and displacement caused by her arrival. If it’s about turf, she’d like to talk about it because it doesn’t have to be about turf; they can happily coexist. The right words will come.
Olive presses her lips tightly as if she thinks passive is the route to go; she doesn’t understand why Olive doesn’t just come out and say something because she’ll answer, maybe not as well, but answer nonetheless.
And here: “You have an ulterior motive.”
But Chuck barely blinks, “a deep, dark secret or a deep-seeded secret,” she says back, shrugging and wrinkling her nose - she wrinkles a lot, “I don’t know what sounds better, if anything can sound better. But I wouldn’t call it a secret. A secret would, in fact, imply intention, which, in fact, you’re accusing me of.”
And Chuck would like to still hope that there was a chance for her to have a girlfriend because, the reality was, confined to her, to the home that she grew up in, after her dad died, it was just her aunts. And she loved, loves her aunts, her beautiful aunts Vivian and Lily, but the house was only as big as you could make it, proper corners and spaces; there’s no resentment, no love lost like the page turners of picket fences and semi-social idealism - Chuck could tell you where each book still is, in that small nook of her world - but there’s nothing wrong with wanting something new.
She feels guilty, though.
Olive is ranting, something about Chuck mocking her, and her mouth twists and turns, widens and falls close. She stomps her feet, only stopping when a strand of hair shifts and shapes into her face. Her hands tremble and Chuck stops to watch, watch curiously as the other woman fixes and puts things into place.
“You don’t like me,” she guesses.
“Do I have to?” Olive snaps.
No, she doesn’t - it’s an unsettling fact, of course, and she’s always driven by the idea that people should be comfortable around her, not necessary like her, but she likes having comfortable people with lovely stories, stories are always great to hear and you could argue, in fact, she has, that Ned suffers from slight discomfort. But that’s not her fault.
Chuck shrugs. “No.”
And Olive is quiet, pensive, and stops. Bees rise and fall and swing around the hives again, busy, always busy, and Chuck finds herself smiling, just a little, at something old that she can have. If that makes her selfish, so it makes her selfish.
“They’re very sweet.” Olive is drawling, swinging her hips from side to side, just like the movies, just like the other pretty woman. It’s easy to put together, one plus one and then two, and Chuck sort of thinks oh and exactly like that.
But her aunts -
“Lively. I prefer lively.”
So she’s a bit defensive, rightfully so, and the other woman is minimizing opinions on her story instead allowing some, just a little room, for more. Not that Chuck would tell Olive - Ned’s secret is her secret is their secret and it should stay like that, with the exception of Emerson, but he really doesn’t count.
Olive ignores her. “Super sweet.”
She sort of rolls her eyes then, taking off and then donning her bee mask to go back to her bees, to add a little something to Ned’s business, the real business, and return to a catalogue of memories that could’ve led to daydreams and knights and knights with bees, maybe even in Tahiti. Or just honey.
“I know,” she says quietly, fingering the fringe of her sleeves, being extra careful because bees are bees and they can be mean. She wants to tell Olive that it doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss her aunts; this is too awkward, too turning, and she’d rather not, in the end, there are other things weighing around.
But she looks at Olive and Olive looks back, something passing, something uncertain and maybe, the uncertainty opens something else - it’s a lot somethings, but better than nothing, Chuck likes to think.
Olive sighs, her eyes narrowed. “Another pie?”
This doesn’t mean anything and it certainly doesn’t mean that Chuck is looking for that particular ally, but she nods, biting her lip. Olive backs away, framing the door and then nods back, almost sourly, at her.
“I don’t like this.”
Chuck’s lips turn slightly. There’s an edge of something, a vicious curiosity, and she thinks, well, bring on; it would be something else to do.
“I know,” she says, but the woman turns and - “Olive!”
There’s a spin and a curse, the really short dress that Chuck admires - oh, she wants to wear the really short dress too, in patterns, of all things - sliding up a little more than just modestly.
She ducks her head, tapping her mask. For her, on her part, on her own accord, there’s a smile and a rather nice smile, something from her. Because she does appreciate this.
“Thanks.”
Chuck knows she doesn’t, but she’d like to think that Olive smiled back.
-