[ Ned talks to strangers for a living but the beauty of the morbidity is that these conversations never last more than a crucial minute. At his beloved Pie Hole, he has for the longest time kept himself to his specialty of being the pie maker, and so his interactions were as follows: Digby, Olive, and eventually Emerson.
And then Chuck. Again.
It must be silly, a grown man feeling his heart rate go willynilly on him like a boy, like a child, but Chuck is -- will always be -- his fondest memory and his most precious present. Even here where she is nowhere in sight. He supposes that may be a good thing; he does not even know where 'here' is. His gaze traveling back the way he came, he narrowly misses running right into the stranger -- alerted first by the smoke and second by the voice, his nose twitching.
As he turns, his eyes fall to the pipe, offered as it is. Then they follow the hand holding it, up the extended arm and finally to the face there, half-shadowed thanks to the angles of the corridor. The hair stands out regardless. Absurdly, Ned is reminded of a cherry only half way restored.
He blinks, looks back down at the pipe then back at the holder. An anxious sweat at the back of his neck despite the cooler air here tells him something to soothe the nerves isn't a bad idea. However, even Ned has a few hesitations about accepting pipes from strangers in dark hallways.
Mostly he thinks he'd just choke on it though.
Well, knows. His smile is half: the upward turn of his mouth even as the other side still seems fraught with those self same nerves. (Because he is.) At least his voice comes out normal.
"Normal". ]
Oh, no thanks. But thanks. Uh.
[ A third thanks is overkill right? ]
That's...nice of you though.
[ Way to be lame. But it's honest, which is a quickly endangering quality in his life -- for his ability, for what he did, for what he didn't do -- so it's something even as the most truly strange part of this whole interaction occurs to him at last: he's looking up.
It's so unusual that his mouth leaps away with his words before he can stomp it out: ]
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And then Chuck. Again.
It must be silly, a grown man feeling his heart rate go willynilly on him like a boy, like a child, but Chuck is -- will always be -- his fondest memory and his most precious present. Even here where she is nowhere in sight. He supposes that may be a good thing; he does not even know where 'here' is. His gaze traveling back the way he came, he narrowly misses running right into the stranger -- alerted first by the smoke and second by the voice, his nose twitching.
As he turns, his eyes fall to the pipe, offered as it is. Then they follow the hand holding it, up the extended arm and finally to the face there, half-shadowed thanks to the angles of the corridor. The hair stands out regardless. Absurdly, Ned is reminded of a cherry only half way restored.
He blinks, looks back down at the pipe then back at the holder. An anxious sweat at the back of his neck despite the cooler air here tells him something to soothe the nerves isn't a bad idea. However, even Ned has a few hesitations about accepting pipes from strangers in dark hallways.
Mostly he thinks he'd just choke on it though.
Well, knows. His smile is half: the upward turn of his mouth even as the other side still seems fraught with those self same nerves. (Because he is.) At least his voice comes out normal.
"Normal". ]
Oh, no thanks. But thanks. Uh.
[ A third thanks is overkill right? ]
That's...nice of you though.
[ Way to be lame. But it's honest, which is a quickly endangering quality in his life -- for his ability, for what he did, for what he didn't do -- so it's something even as the most truly strange part of this whole interaction occurs to him at last: he's looking up.
It's so unusual that his mouth leaps away with his words before he can stomp it out: ]
Wow you're really tall.
[ Ned. Get your life together. Seriously. ]