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witticasterA Pushing Daisies AU that took up the bulk of my attention for the first three hours I was at work. There's a vignette or two I'd like to finish before I post this anywhere else--one regarding Emerson Cod (once I decide what I'm going to do with him and Olive), one about Chuck's education--but it's mostly complete. And I dunno, I might write more that goes beyond this (I want to deal with Olive like you wouldn't believe), but I'm not sure I should. This already feels like it's toeing the line in the way of characterization (hi, my name is AR, and I can't write Ned worth shit), so I might be better off letting it stand as it is. ^^;;
In any case, this story doesn't currently have a title (what a shocker). The point of the alternate univers grows obvious quickly, so forgive my neglecting to include a summary here. >>
When Charlotte Charles was nine years, seven months, three weeks, two days, and thirteen hours old, she shared her first kiss with a boy named Ned. Brought together as the sun set on their parents' lives--her father, his mother--they leaned into each other with a mix of caution and impulse that could only be brought on by a combination of grief and the very first stirrings of adolescent hormones. Neither had kissed before, though both knew something about the metaphorical fireworks that were meant to go along with especially good kisses, thanks to some well-placed scenes in the Hollywood blockbusters they both adored.
Despite their prior knowledge, however, neither Charlotte Charles nor the boy called Ned expected the slight electric shock that sent each jumping back slightly, just after their lips had touched for the first time. Before Charlotte could find a way to enunciate her feelings, static-induced and otherwise, aloud, the heavy hand of Ned's father descended onto the boy's shoulder and led him away. At the same time, Charlotte felt her beloved Aunt Lily's hand on her arm, and heard her Aunt Vivian tell her, “Come, Charlotte. It's time to go.”
What young Charlotte Charles was not aware of, as she was led from the non-denominational cemetery that evening, was that she had received a gift. Young Ned, her best friend and primary playmate, had given it to her without meaning to, or even noticing it had departed him. In fact, he left their neighborhood in the little town of Coeur d'Coeurs the next day without realizing that the girl who ran behind his car, shouting his name as tears ran down her cheeks--for neither had been afforded the luxury of a chance to say farewell--could now do what he had once done.
She could wake the dead.
It is twenty years, one month, one week, and one day later, and Charlotte Charles is now well aware of her curious ability. It first became apparent soon after her father's death; when her aunts surprised her with her very own hive and honeybees, Charlotte was not yet well-versed in the art of bee-keeping. Her very first bees perished within a day of arriving at their new home. Charlotte, whose natural impulses tended towards the impulsive, took off her beekeeper's glove and gingerly touched one of her honeybees; as her finger brushed against its furry body, she felt the same slight jolt of electricity, as though she had rubbed her socked feet against a carpet and then touched a metal doorknob. The formerly lifeless insect's wings began to beat once more
Unsure of what exactly had taken place, but suddenly certain that she was the cause of it, Charlotte took off her other glove, and woke her other bees from their eternal slumber, already beginning plans to improve their lives so that they would never need waking again. Her delight at the bees' return, however, was short-lived; the bees were as giddy as she, and one of them flew into her still-gloveless hand. The moment it touched her thumb, it fell lifeless once more, plummeting into the grass.
Charlotte gently picked it up, cradling it in the palm of one hand, and gave it a careful tap. Nothing happened. Her mouth growing dry, she touched another of the bees swirling around her. It, too, died on contact.
She declared herself a vegetarian that very night.
You can only touch a dead thing once became the first of Charlotte Charles' Rules In Regards To The Dead, printed carefully in the diary she hid between the mattress and the box-spring of her bed. (Of course, on the unlikely chance that her aunts discovered this cunning hiding place, Charlotte's rules were written in a letter-substitution code, making her first rule, in fact, Oek sqd edbo jeksx q tuqt jxydw edsu.)
Comfortable in the assumption that the rest of her bees would live, provided she remained completely covered in her beekeeping outfit when interacting with them at all times, Charlotte hurriedly returned her gloves to her hands and carefully dug a shallow grave for her two fallen honeybee comrades. She remained entirely comfortable with this conclusion until she looked at the sidewalk leading up to her home, as well as the grass around it and the sidewalk that ran parallel with the newly-constructed wrought-iron fence marking the end of the Charles' front yard. ("For privacy," Aunt Vivian said. "To keep those damn Jehovah's Witnesses from bothering us," suggested Aunt Lily.) It was dotted with innumerable dead houseflies.
Thus, the second of Charlotte Charles' Rules In Regards To The Dead became Yv oek rhydw iecujxydw rqsa je byvu, iecujxydw ubiu xqi je tyu, or If you bring something back to life, something else has to die. Her eventual third rule, established after some covert, morbid experimentation, was in fact a corollary of the second and stated that equivalent death was avoidable if you re-deaded a dead thing before a minute had passed.
Charlotte Charles stared at the man lying on the cold metal table in the city's morgue. Covered only by a thin green sheet from the neck down, he was otherwise naked. Despite the decade which separated this Ned from the Ned who had been spirited away from Coeur d'Coeurs, Chuck could see the resemblance between the two. His eyebrows had grown exponentially since the last time they had touched, but she imagined there was still something of her old friend left in his face. Lifting the green sheet just enough to reveal his right hand, Charlotte glanced at the pocket watch her father had left her, waiting for the smallest hand to tick the beginning of a new minute. She felt the familiar spark of life returning as she brushed the back of his hand with a fingertip.
"That was strange," he said, mostly to himself, as he sat up. "I was making a Dutch apple pie, but suddenly, it smelled like almonds--" His commentary on his last meal was halted by his sudden realization of his surroundings; he glanced at his bare chest, the drearily decorated room, and the woman standing before him in what was an almost blinding red dress when compared to the green and grey behind her. “Where am I? And...why am I naked?”
Charlotte couldn't help beaming at him--his voice, like his face, had grown up, but likewise still held traces of the boy she'd known. "Oh, it is you. It's been so long since I'd heard anything about you--but Ned, as good as it is to see you again, we don't have much time. You were killed with a poisonous gas, and it was probably Prussic acid if you smelled almonds. If you have any idea who might have wanted to murder you, we'll be able to avenge your death."
The boy called Ned didn't answer with the name of a killer. He didn't answer at all for several seconds. Instead, he stared at Charlotte's brown curls and the smile in her eyes that seemed to state how very much she had missed him, where her words had only hinted, and...he promptly frowned. "Do--do I know you?"
"Charlotte Charles," she replied, her entire face softening into the expression her eyes had held just a moment ago. "You were my best friend growing up, used to call me--"
"Chuck," he breathed. Recognition spread across his face, as he remembered hers--and then recognition a second time, as he realized exactly what she had just done. This second epiphany was accompanied by a sputter of words. "You--you woke me up, you--how could you do that--I thought I--"
"...I don't know how," she admitted. "It just...started to happen, back when I was nine. Oh, Ned, I've missed you." A glance at the pocket watch showed that thirty-five seconds had passed. "So you don't know who your killer was?"
"No," he answered, and after a half-second's pause (exactly, Charlotte knew, as she was watching the hand tick towards the top of the next minute at the time), "You know, you were my first kiss."
"Mine, too," Charlotte said back, looking up. She bit her lip. "This is the part where I ask if you have any final wishes I could help with and then re-dead you. If you have something I should tell your father, or--"
"Not my father." The words were more forceful than Charlotte would have expected. "Could--for the sake of symmetry, as a final wish, would you...would you be willing to be my last kiss, too?"
She smiled. "I would." Seven seconds left. He leaned towards her, eyes closing in expectation of her deadly kiss, and she towards him, until--five seconds left, she jumped back before electricity had the chance to spark between their lips once more. "What if--" Charlotte asked conspiratorially, clasping her hands behind her, "--you didn't have to be dead?"
In any case, this story doesn't currently have a title (what a shocker). The point of the alternate univers grows obvious quickly, so forgive my neglecting to include a summary here. >>
When Charlotte Charles was nine years, seven months, three weeks, two days, and thirteen hours old, she shared her first kiss with a boy named Ned. Brought together as the sun set on their parents' lives--her father, his mother--they leaned into each other with a mix of caution and impulse that could only be brought on by a combination of grief and the very first stirrings of adolescent hormones. Neither had kissed before, though both knew something about the metaphorical fireworks that were meant to go along with especially good kisses, thanks to some well-placed scenes in the Hollywood blockbusters they both adored.
Despite their prior knowledge, however, neither Charlotte Charles nor the boy called Ned expected the slight electric shock that sent each jumping back slightly, just after their lips had touched for the first time. Before Charlotte could find a way to enunciate her feelings, static-induced and otherwise, aloud, the heavy hand of Ned's father descended onto the boy's shoulder and led him away. At the same time, Charlotte felt her beloved Aunt Lily's hand on her arm, and heard her Aunt Vivian tell her, “Come, Charlotte. It's time to go.”
What young Charlotte Charles was not aware of, as she was led from the non-denominational cemetery that evening, was that she had received a gift. Young Ned, her best friend and primary playmate, had given it to her without meaning to, or even noticing it had departed him. In fact, he left their neighborhood in the little town of Coeur d'Coeurs the next day without realizing that the girl who ran behind his car, shouting his name as tears ran down her cheeks--for neither had been afforded the luxury of a chance to say farewell--could now do what he had once done.
She could wake the dead.
It is twenty years, one month, one week, and one day later, and Charlotte Charles is now well aware of her curious ability. It first became apparent soon after her father's death; when her aunts surprised her with her very own hive and honeybees, Charlotte was not yet well-versed in the art of bee-keeping. Her very first bees perished within a day of arriving at their new home. Charlotte, whose natural impulses tended towards the impulsive, took off her beekeeper's glove and gingerly touched one of her honeybees; as her finger brushed against its furry body, she felt the same slight jolt of electricity, as though she had rubbed her socked feet against a carpet and then touched a metal doorknob. The formerly lifeless insect's wings began to beat once more
Unsure of what exactly had taken place, but suddenly certain that she was the cause of it, Charlotte took off her other glove, and woke her other bees from their eternal slumber, already beginning plans to improve their lives so that they would never need waking again. Her delight at the bees' return, however, was short-lived; the bees were as giddy as she, and one of them flew into her still-gloveless hand. The moment it touched her thumb, it fell lifeless once more, plummeting into the grass.
Charlotte gently picked it up, cradling it in the palm of one hand, and gave it a careful tap. Nothing happened. Her mouth growing dry, she touched another of the bees swirling around her. It, too, died on contact.
She declared herself a vegetarian that very night.
You can only touch a dead thing once became the first of Charlotte Charles' Rules In Regards To The Dead, printed carefully in the diary she hid between the mattress and the box-spring of her bed. (Of course, on the unlikely chance that her aunts discovered this cunning hiding place, Charlotte's rules were written in a letter-substitution code, making her first rule, in fact, Oek sqd edbo jeksx q tuqt jxydw edsu.)
Comfortable in the assumption that the rest of her bees would live, provided she remained completely covered in her beekeeping outfit when interacting with them at all times, Charlotte hurriedly returned her gloves to her hands and carefully dug a shallow grave for her two fallen honeybee comrades. She remained entirely comfortable with this conclusion until she looked at the sidewalk leading up to her home, as well as the grass around it and the sidewalk that ran parallel with the newly-constructed wrought-iron fence marking the end of the Charles' front yard. ("For privacy," Aunt Vivian said. "To keep those damn Jehovah's Witnesses from bothering us," suggested Aunt Lily.) It was dotted with innumerable dead houseflies.
Thus, the second of Charlotte Charles' Rules In Regards To The Dead became Yv oek rhydw iecujxydw rqsa je byvu, iecujxydw ubiu xqi je tyu, or If you bring something back to life, something else has to die. Her eventual third rule, established after some covert, morbid experimentation, was in fact a corollary of the second and stated that equivalent death was avoidable if you re-deaded a dead thing before a minute had passed.
Charlotte Charles stared at the man lying on the cold metal table in the city's morgue. Covered only by a thin green sheet from the neck down, he was otherwise naked. Despite the decade which separated this Ned from the Ned who had been spirited away from Coeur d'Coeurs, Chuck could see the resemblance between the two. His eyebrows had grown exponentially since the last time they had touched, but she imagined there was still something of her old friend left in his face. Lifting the green sheet just enough to reveal his right hand, Charlotte glanced at the pocket watch her father had left her, waiting for the smallest hand to tick the beginning of a new minute. She felt the familiar spark of life returning as she brushed the back of his hand with a fingertip.
"That was strange," he said, mostly to himself, as he sat up. "I was making a Dutch apple pie, but suddenly, it smelled like almonds--" His commentary on his last meal was halted by his sudden realization of his surroundings; he glanced at his bare chest, the drearily decorated room, and the woman standing before him in what was an almost blinding red dress when compared to the green and grey behind her. “Where am I? And...why am I naked?”
Charlotte couldn't help beaming at him--his voice, like his face, had grown up, but likewise still held traces of the boy she'd known. "Oh, it is you. It's been so long since I'd heard anything about you--but Ned, as good as it is to see you again, we don't have much time. You were killed with a poisonous gas, and it was probably Prussic acid if you smelled almonds. If you have any idea who might have wanted to murder you, we'll be able to avenge your death."
The boy called Ned didn't answer with the name of a killer. He didn't answer at all for several seconds. Instead, he stared at Charlotte's brown curls and the smile in her eyes that seemed to state how very much she had missed him, where her words had only hinted, and...he promptly frowned. "Do--do I know you?"
"Charlotte Charles," she replied, her entire face softening into the expression her eyes had held just a moment ago. "You were my best friend growing up, used to call me--"
"Chuck," he breathed. Recognition spread across his face, as he remembered hers--and then recognition a second time, as he realized exactly what she had just done. This second epiphany was accompanied by a sputter of words. "You--you woke me up, you--how could you do that--I thought I--"
"...I don't know how," she admitted. "It just...started to happen, back when I was nine. Oh, Ned, I've missed you." A glance at the pocket watch showed that thirty-five seconds had passed. "So you don't know who your killer was?"
"No," he answered, and after a half-second's pause (exactly, Charlotte knew, as she was watching the hand tick towards the top of the next minute at the time), "You know, you were my first kiss."
"Mine, too," Charlotte said back, looking up. She bit her lip. "This is the part where I ask if you have any final wishes I could help with and then re-dead you. If you have something I should tell your father, or--"
"Not my father." The words were more forceful than Charlotte would have expected. "Could--for the sake of symmetry, as a final wish, would you...would you be willing to be my last kiss, too?"
She smiled. "I would." Seven seconds left. He leaned towards her, eyes closing in expectation of her deadly kiss, and she towards him, until--five seconds left, she jumped back before electricity had the chance to spark between their lips once more. "What if--" Charlotte asked conspiratorially, clasping her hands behind her, "--you didn't have to be dead?"
