Disclaimer: Not mine
A/N: I miss this show ;_;
Cowboy
Ned preferred his pie sweet, almost textural.
He liked the seediness of certain fruits, like raspberries and strawberries (it was as if he could taste the warmth of summer on a cool September morning) even blackberries.
There was something about the graininess against the dulcet smoothness of the filing, like fine chiffon that would tickle his tongue.
It was the over browned finger crinkled edges and the caramelized filing that he would scrape (still warm) off the bottom of the dish (pale green and ceramic, his mother said it had belonged to his grandmother) with a large wooden spoon.
It was comfort in a smell.
It was working with his hands.
Ned found something soothing in the process, whether it was kneading dough or just the weight of the rolling pin in his hands, or the simple focus of good will (even if it sounds cheesy) because pie must always be made with good will, if not love.
He had always been able to taste the difference.
It was touching something he cared about.
Even when the dough was tacky and would cling beneath his nails and flour would dust more than just the marble, sometimes it was dust him (usually always himself) and Digby too.
The door chime sounds, and for a brief fleeting moment he could taste fall in the air that curls into the room.
Olive fluffs Digbys fur, the jingle of her keys still in one hand as she starts to frown (as she always did) at the mess Ned has made before the shop has even opened, before she clucks her tongue and goes to pull out her broom with its wide flat bristles.
She sweeps around his feet and he lifts one shoe compliantly, then another, pressing dough into a glass pie dish with the tips of his fingers.
Olive disrupts his early solitude with chatter (sometimes he thinks that she's just talking to the dog) not that Ned ever really minded.
She helped him tip a bowl of over ripened blackberries into the dish (combined with sugar and flour and a touch of nutmeg) using a plastic spatula to draw out the juices, sticky sweet and (oh so damn good) tart, staining the tips of both their fingers.
The pie bakes for nearly an hour, and the shop is still closed (because that's where Ned goes when he is unable to sleep) and Olive preps the coffee as Ned preps other pies.
When the buzzer sounds Ned wipes his hands on the skirt of his apron (plain and white and simple) and Olive sets down the rag she had been using to dust out mugs, gathering two plates and two forks and two napkins.
Ned leaves the lights off, all but one in the kitchen when Olive slips onto a stool next to him at the bar.
They spoon piping hot pie onto plates (and the room smells succulent and pure and it makes his mouth salivate) and Ned doesn't mind that the filing is a little bit runny (not enough flour) and Olive ignores him when he uses his fingers to lap up the filing, because she does the same.
They bump elbows, and Ned tries to focus on the texture, the seediness of the blackberries luxuriated in sugar and nutmeg, and the way it heats his chest and that notion of comfort that has been hard wired into his brain since he was young.
Olive passes him a tall glass of cold milk, and lets her fingers brush his.
"That was seriously good pie cowboy." Olive sighs; she looks dreamy, eyes half shuttered as she cups her glass with both hands.
Ned dips his smile into his milk and hums in agreement.
He thinks that they are both content (for the time being, it was still early after all).
The End