Pushing Daisies pep rally! (with bonus questionably non-peppy fic!)
I have been so stupidly bored today. Which means procrastinating, really. On everything from cleaning to memes to anything creative. Well, that's not true, I made a random banner that I'm not going to use, and I successfully scheduled a UPS pickup. Today is so LAME, y'all. :P
Anyway, let's change all that, shall we?
Isn't Pushing Daisies ADORABLE?
Here, go plant a daisy! I mean, really. Could this show get ANY sweeter? Nope. I'm going to pretend I haven't seen this week's episode yet, and experience it anew tomorrow! Really, it's wiped from my mind!
And I think we should have a little festival of Pushing Daisies love until then. Pictures! Prompts! Picture prompts! Five things! Ficlets! Drabbles! Icons! Leave them in the comments!
arabella_hope was nice enough to provide an almost instantaneous prompt so I could get started:
Five Pies the Piemaker Bakes for Chuck
Pushing Daisies, Ned/Chuck, G, 971 words.
1. Apple-Pear.
Chuck talks with her mouth full. It's one of his favourite things, one of the little ways she hasn't changed in two decades, along with her preference for going barefoot, her love of all things fun-fur and her tendency to pout when she doesn't get her way. Like now.
“I've never seen a single person eat so much pie,” Ned says, crooking a finger into the tin and sliding it away from her. “How does it all fit in you?”
“Magic,” Chuck says. Shrugs, fork chasing the pie tin across the counter.
“My pies are intended to be savoured and relished,” Ned says, trying to be firm. “Not wolfed down with gluttonous zeal.”
“I savour!” Chuck cries, offended. “I relish!”
Her fingers close around the rim of the still-warm pie tin, thumb piercing the crust, and Ned relents, his heartbeat quickening at the closeness.
She digs in, sighing her pleasure as the hot filling touches her tongue.
“Tastes like the first day of school,” she mumbles, still chewing.
Sometimes, it's like the last twenty years never happened.
2. Pumpkin.
She goes as a ghost. She thinks it's hilarious - white sheet, two awkward, uneven holes for the eyes. He only finds out later that her aunts host a yearly mascarade for their carnival buddies. That she expects him to take her as his mystery date. And that she expects him to dress as Anne Bancroft.
“What? It's appropriate. She was the miracle worker.”
“I think you and I have different definitions of the word appropriate,” Ned says, and Chuck laughs and places the little round sunglasses on the end of her nose.
“John Lennon, then.”
He buys an embroidered shirt.
They fuel up on pumpkin pie before the long drive, Chuck's sheet draped over her shoulders, her tongue poking out to lick at a smear of whipped cream on her lip. She doesn't finish, too eager, and soon she's on her feet and pulling the sheet back over her head.
“All done?” Olive says sweetly.
“Hope you don't mind locking up,” Ned says.
Chuck's got the door half-open, sheet billowing around her legs.
“Boo,” she says.
Olive just stares.
3. Mincemeat.
"Is there rum in these? There is, isn't there?”
Chuck giggles, tucking her bare feet under her, then reaching unsteadily for the tarts on the coffee table.
“Careful,” Ned says, trying not to think about her falling and splitting her head open. It's hard. He's seen three head-split-open cadavers this month alone, so it's not like the image is difficult to access. He holds his breath until she sits back and starts munching on another tart.
“What?” she says when she catches him looking.
“Nothing. The alcohol vaporizes during baking.”
“Why do I feel drunk, then?” She tilts her head his way, smiles slow and seductive. “Must be your intoxicating presence.”
“Or the eggnog,” Ned says tightly.
He thinks he's blushing. He's probably blushing.
“Open your present,” she says, tossing a small package into his lap. He squirms. Unfortunate landing.
“Hm. A pony?”
“Open!”
Ned can't quite look at her as he tears through the colourful paper. The gift is a small, homemade book bound with ribbon. When he flips through it, finds the blank pages smeared and stained, he can't help but grin.
“A hundred kisses?”
“Hundred and one,” she says, pointing at the book's back cover where the words goodnight kiss accompany the soft pink outline of Chuck's lips. “I ain't stingy.”
4. Banana Double Cream.
He thinks he might be feeding her to keep his own anxiety at bay. Her hips have certainly rounded out, her curves a bit curvier. Ned sees this. Then he feels guilty and feeds her more. He bakes richer pies, dabbles in meringue, custard.
It doesn't occur to him until he comes up with banana double cream that he might be working up to something.
Chuck moans around the first bite, eyes closed, face gone slack with pleasure.
Ned takes a seat three stools away. Just in case.
“There's something I haven't told you,” he says. Watches as the fork freezes halfway up from the plate.
5. Humble.
He looks for her at Emerson's, but finds her at Olive's, halfway through a pot of tea and looking just as miserable as her hostess. God knows what abridged version of the tale Olive got.
At the sight of Ned, Chuck says, “I knew he wanted to have half-secret, half-human babies. I knew it, didn't I?”
“Mhm,” Olive says, and takes a sip of tea. “If you ask me, I think he enjoys his privacy a little too much.”
“No,” Ned says. “Chuck. I.”
“Go away,” she says. “Go pet your dog.”
“I - oh, that's harsh.”
“I mean it.”
She glares at the cup in her hands, like she can make it shatter into shards if she thinks about it hard enough.
“I'm sorry,” Ned says. “I was just a kid, I had no...”
“You haven't been a kid for a long, long time, Ned,” she says. She looks up at him, angry and disappointed and just tired, and it hits him that he's apologizing for the wrong thing.
“No. No, I haven't.”
Her attention falls back to her teacup, and she swirls it around and gazes into the bottom like she's looking for her future.
“I'm sorry,” Ned tries again. “I was afraid, and I was weak, and I loved you, and. I am so, so sorry, Chuck.”
It's Olive who says, “I think you should go home now.”
She puts her arm around Chuck.
In his apartment, the fridge clicks on. The lightbulbs buzz. It's distracting. Digby sits just beyond the threshold of the kitchen and watches Ned knock over the spice rack, flinches at the sound of glass hitting tile.
-END-
Also, icons.
Ned:
Cheese box icon because arabella_hope was talking about wanting one:
Anyway, let's change all that, shall we?
Isn't Pushing Daisies ADORABLE?
Here, go plant a daisy! I mean, really. Could this show get ANY sweeter? Nope. I'm going to pretend I haven't seen this week's episode yet, and experience it anew tomorrow! Really, it's wiped from my mind!
And I think we should have a little festival of Pushing Daisies love until then. Pictures! Prompts! Picture prompts! Five things! Ficlets! Drabbles! Icons! Leave them in the comments!
arabella_hope was nice enough to provide an almost instantaneous prompt so I could get started:
Five Pies the Piemaker Bakes for Chuck
Pushing Daisies, Ned/Chuck, G, 971 words.
1. Apple-Pear.
Chuck talks with her mouth full. It's one of his favourite things, one of the little ways she hasn't changed in two decades, along with her preference for going barefoot, her love of all things fun-fur and her tendency to pout when she doesn't get her way. Like now.
“I've never seen a single person eat so much pie,” Ned says, crooking a finger into the tin and sliding it away from her. “How does it all fit in you?”
“Magic,” Chuck says. Shrugs, fork chasing the pie tin across the counter.
“My pies are intended to be savoured and relished,” Ned says, trying to be firm. “Not wolfed down with gluttonous zeal.”
“I savour!” Chuck cries, offended. “I relish!”
Her fingers close around the rim of the still-warm pie tin, thumb piercing the crust, and Ned relents, his heartbeat quickening at the closeness.
She digs in, sighing her pleasure as the hot filling touches her tongue.
“Tastes like the first day of school,” she mumbles, still chewing.
Sometimes, it's like the last twenty years never happened.
2. Pumpkin.
She goes as a ghost. She thinks it's hilarious - white sheet, two awkward, uneven holes for the eyes. He only finds out later that her aunts host a yearly mascarade for their carnival buddies. That she expects him to take her as his mystery date. And that she expects him to dress as Anne Bancroft.
“What? It's appropriate. She was the miracle worker.”
“I think you and I have different definitions of the word appropriate,” Ned says, and Chuck laughs and places the little round sunglasses on the end of her nose.
“John Lennon, then.”
He buys an embroidered shirt.
They fuel up on pumpkin pie before the long drive, Chuck's sheet draped over her shoulders, her tongue poking out to lick at a smear of whipped cream on her lip. She doesn't finish, too eager, and soon she's on her feet and pulling the sheet back over her head.
“All done?” Olive says sweetly.
“Hope you don't mind locking up,” Ned says.
Chuck's got the door half-open, sheet billowing around her legs.
“Boo,” she says.
Olive just stares.
3. Mincemeat.
"Is there rum in these? There is, isn't there?”
Chuck giggles, tucking her bare feet under her, then reaching unsteadily for the tarts on the coffee table.
“Careful,” Ned says, trying not to think about her falling and splitting her head open. It's hard. He's seen three head-split-open cadavers this month alone, so it's not like the image is difficult to access. He holds his breath until she sits back and starts munching on another tart.
“What?” she says when she catches him looking.
“Nothing. The alcohol vaporizes during baking.”
“Why do I feel drunk, then?” She tilts her head his way, smiles slow and seductive. “Must be your intoxicating presence.”
“Or the eggnog,” Ned says tightly.
He thinks he's blushing. He's probably blushing.
“Open your present,” she says, tossing a small package into his lap. He squirms. Unfortunate landing.
“Hm. A pony?”
“Open!”
Ned can't quite look at her as he tears through the colourful paper. The gift is a small, homemade book bound with ribbon. When he flips through it, finds the blank pages smeared and stained, he can't help but grin.
“A hundred kisses?”
“Hundred and one,” she says, pointing at the book's back cover where the words goodnight kiss accompany the soft pink outline of Chuck's lips. “I ain't stingy.”
4. Banana Double Cream.
He thinks he might be feeding her to keep his own anxiety at bay. Her hips have certainly rounded out, her curves a bit curvier. Ned sees this. Then he feels guilty and feeds her more. He bakes richer pies, dabbles in meringue, custard.
It doesn't occur to him until he comes up with banana double cream that he might be working up to something.
Chuck moans around the first bite, eyes closed, face gone slack with pleasure.
Ned takes a seat three stools away. Just in case.
“There's something I haven't told you,” he says. Watches as the fork freezes halfway up from the plate.
5. Humble.
He looks for her at Emerson's, but finds her at Olive's, halfway through a pot of tea and looking just as miserable as her hostess. God knows what abridged version of the tale Olive got.
At the sight of Ned, Chuck says, “I knew he wanted to have half-secret, half-human babies. I knew it, didn't I?”
“Mhm,” Olive says, and takes a sip of tea. “If you ask me, I think he enjoys his privacy a little too much.”
“No,” Ned says. “Chuck. I.”
“Go away,” she says. “Go pet your dog.”
“I - oh, that's harsh.”
“I mean it.”
She glares at the cup in her hands, like she can make it shatter into shards if she thinks about it hard enough.
“I'm sorry,” Ned says. “I was just a kid, I had no...”
“You haven't been a kid for a long, long time, Ned,” she says. She looks up at him, angry and disappointed and just tired, and it hits him that he's apologizing for the wrong thing.
“No. No, I haven't.”
Her attention falls back to her teacup, and she swirls it around and gazes into the bottom like she's looking for her future.
“I'm sorry,” Ned tries again. “I was afraid, and I was weak, and I loved you, and. I am so, so sorry, Chuck.”
It's Olive who says, “I think you should go home now.”
She puts her arm around Chuck.
In his apartment, the fridge clicks on. The lightbulbs buzz. It's distracting. Digby sits just beyond the threshold of the kitchen and watches Ned knock over the spice rack, flinches at the sound of glass hitting tile.
-END-
Also, icons.
Ned:
Cheese box icon because arabella_hope was talking about wanting one: