The Pie Maker (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wordvomit) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2014-06-27 06:51 pm
wordvomit) wrote in entrancelogs2014-06-27 06:51 pm
[OPEN] your very own mental breakdown
Who: Ned the Pie Maker and YOU
Where: first-floor kitchen
When: FIRST DAY OF THE EVENT; June 27th
Rating: PG to PG-13
Summary: kjsbdjLKADHJFKMWHY
The Story:
Why?
[Ned awoke to the event feeling the same way he does every other day when he wakes up: normal, slightly sluggish, and needing a quiet jolt of caffeine to his system. The abnormality in the early morning rise came in the form of a bona-fide swarm of diminutive dogs - puppies, to be exact - all of whom looked exactly like miniature versions of Digby.
But it isn't the frequent in-kitchen canine collisions that have him so bent out of shape, like a pipe cleaner twisted too far to be returned to its original perfectly pointy and straight form. No, it is that Ned has retrieved his usual assortment of rotten fruit from a special cooler in the back, intending to bake them into today's batch of pies, and that his first touch to a particularly moldy strawberry has yielded...
...nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The power that has plagued him, consumed his life and dictated his actions for so long, is simply...gone. That cannot be, he thinks, reaching for a handful of blueberries and, for his troubles, receives nothing more than mildew and mush.]
No.
[The kiwis, the bananas, the cherries and apples. All of them, the same result. All of them varying unappetizing shades of brown, gray, and green.
Ned is not yet certain what frustrates him more, the fact that his terrifying Gift refuses to work in a place where no one knows him, or the fact that his terrifying Gift refuses to work and he isn't at home in The Pie Hole, with Chuck, pulling her into a kiss to celebrate his ability to touch her the way he never could.]
No, no no no...no, not here. Why- ...why?! Why now? Why not- wh-why not...
[Why not at home, where it really matters most?]
Where: first-floor kitchen
When: FIRST DAY OF THE EVENT; June 27th
Rating: PG to PG-13
Summary: kjsbdjLKADHJFKMWHY
The Story:
Why?
[Ned awoke to the event feeling the same way he does every other day when he wakes up: normal, slightly sluggish, and needing a quiet jolt of caffeine to his system. The abnormality in the early morning rise came in the form of a bona-fide swarm of diminutive dogs - puppies, to be exact - all of whom looked exactly like miniature versions of Digby.
But it isn't the frequent in-kitchen canine collisions that have him so bent out of shape, like a pipe cleaner twisted too far to be returned to its original perfectly pointy and straight form. No, it is that Ned has retrieved his usual assortment of rotten fruit from a special cooler in the back, intending to bake them into today's batch of pies, and that his first touch to a particularly moldy strawberry has yielded...
...nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
The power that has plagued him, consumed his life and dictated his actions for so long, is simply...gone. That cannot be, he thinks, reaching for a handful of blueberries and, for his troubles, receives nothing more than mildew and mush.]
No.
[The kiwis, the bananas, the cherries and apples. All of them, the same result. All of them varying unappetizing shades of brown, gray, and green.
Ned is not yet certain what frustrates him more, the fact that his terrifying Gift refuses to work in a place where no one knows him, or the fact that his terrifying Gift refuses to work and he isn't at home in The Pie Hole, with Chuck, pulling her into a kiss to celebrate his ability to touch her the way he never could.]
No, no no no...no, not here. Why- ...why?! Why now? Why not- wh-why not...
[Why not at home, where it really matters most?]
no subject
[Immediately on the defensive, much like a schoolboy accused of breaking the neighbor's window with a lousy baseball throw, Ned folds his arms over his chest.]
It's a sentient kitchen in a sentient house.
[As if that explains anything at all.]
It's not like I purposefully asked for- for rotting fruit.
no subject
Did you ask for rotting fruit, Ned? Have you been making pies with rotting fruit? That's absolutely evil.
The staring continues, and Hannibal is unmoved. His only physical response is a millimeter quirk of his head to the side, in doubt. ]
Of course not.
no subject
The Pie Maker does not make his pies with anything but the freshest ingredients, because the peak time in a fruit's life is not when it fully ripens, but when he enhances it by allowing it the chance to be alive-again.
At least, that's what Ned tells himself.]
I don't- I don't make anything with ingredients that look like that.
[There, see? That was the truth this time around.]
no subject
I never said that you did. Curious, though, that you should assume that was what I meant.
[ Ned makes rotten fruit pies. He'll be sure to let everybody know, and to never eat one himself. ]
no subject
Oh, no no no no no.
He's reading too quickly and using Ned's anxiety as the springboard for his supposition. Curious. Isn't that a funny word, one that implies he is teasing apart every single one of Ned's moves as though he was picking a chicken for a pot pie.]
I- I didn't- I don't-
[The Pie Maker tries not to make assumptions, but he has thus far gathered that he is in a very unpredictable and tenuous situation, and he would like out.]
You- You implied it.
[Clearing his throat, Ned accepts that his comeback was about a strong as wet tissue paper. He dampens a rag and starts mopping up the countertop.]
That's just...ridiculous...
no subject
To be entirely honest, though, neurotic idiot seems far more likely. Who in their right mind would make pies out of rotten fruit?]
I implied nothing. All I asked was why there are rotten fruit in the communal and frequently scrubbed kitchen. The downward spiral was entirely your own prerogative.
Raising the question now, why have you not thrown the fruit out instead of getting it continue to degrade on the counter?
1/2
Ned is no idiot, although neurotic certainly fits the bill. Said neurosis is something developed over the course of years, a deeply-ingrained psychological problem that stemmed from his power, a dislike of touching, a wariness of strangers, constant worry and a fear of venturing into the unknown because he might get lost in it.
He can identify with the horror that someone who often cooks might experience upon witnessing such fruity carnage in the midst of what should be a spic-and-span working area, but even if Ned wanted to explain himself, he certainly couldn't provide the visuals for Show-and-Tell.
The dishrag meets the countertop again and Ned looks across the kitchen island with something akin to ferocity. Not now. Not today, of all days.]
2/2
[He gestures inarticulately at the moldy strawberry residue.]
-will be gone.
no subject
He expected Ned to continue to skitter. To watch him logically take a left turn and stop, that's impressive. Unlike Hannibal, Ned wears his thought processes on his face and it's like watching neurons firing.
He nods, the smallest hint of a smile curling up onto his lips. ]
I think I would rather watch, just to be entirely sure that you've cleaned up properly.
[ You're interesting now, Ned, at least somewhat. ]
no subject
Even if said solace has apparently abandoned him today, along with his gift. Ironic that it manages to bring him a fraction of peace in Wonderland.
Understandably tense, Ned clears his throat and locates a cabinet with cleaning supplies, grateful that there is enough Clorox to appease Darth Inquisitive over there. He sprays down the counter and begins to clean.]
So. Is there anything else you do besides cook and ask a lot of questions?
no subject
[ He considers, in his absolute lack of concern for Ned's opinion or Ned's interest, leaving it at that. He could stand there watching and waiting in complete silence if he chose to, and in his mind he flipped a coin. ]
I happen to be a psychiatrist.
1/2
2/2
[The Pie Maker begins wiping his counter again, suddenly hyper-aware of his movements.]
...sure is a profession.
[Cough.]
no subject
Do you have a problem with Psychiatrists?
no subject
There's a good chance that Hannibal Lecter, psychiatrist, has been analyzing him from the start, so any attempts at pathetically covering up his neurosis now will work poorly, if at all.]
N-Yes.
[Nice save. This far into his own grave, it's better to be honest. Ned clears his throat and uses a dry towel to wipe up the excess bleach.]
I'm just not a fan of...doctors.
no subject
[ Analysis as an active action that one does implies that there are moments when analysis is not in action. That form of analysis is for people without the capability to keep their eyes observing and their mind sharp every minute of the day. He hasn't been analyzing Ned from the start, no, merely observing. He doesn't analyse, he observes. His observations are always analytic.
But anyway. ]
Do you know why?
no subject
[Ned's monosyllabic reply is accompanied by faster scrubbing, because he doesn't like where this conversation is going, and he doesn't want a how do you feel about that conversation on today of all days.]
Sure do.
[But the 'why' is not public information, and something like that has to be dragged from him, kicking and screaming and bloody.
Probably.]
no subject
You should really see a Doctor about that.
[ He's so funny, isn't he Ned? So funny. ]
no subject
Probably,
[he admits, using a dry hand towel to wipe up the last of the bleach.]
But I can think of about twenty-three different reasons why I'd rather not.
[Stepping back and replacing the Clorox in its cupboard, Ned clears his throat to wordlessly announce that he is through. It takes all of his willpower not to bolt then and there, slowly replacing his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.]
no subject
[ Honestly though, even with your ability to stand up to him in spite of your very obvious terror, it takes more than sheer courage to keep him interested. Stick your feet to the floor for too long and he will just move on to the next installation of human failing. ]
Should you change your mind, my office door is always open on appointment.
no subject
I'll...think about it,
[he lies semi-convincingly, edging around the counter toward the exit. Now standing in the doorway, feeling himself collapse like a dwarf white star, Ned gratefully embraces the freedom curling in past the threshold.]
Enjoy...your...kitchen time, [comes the wary offer from the wary baker, who then decides to retreat without another word, leaving the psychiatrist to his own devices.]