Ned watched in frozen horror, hanging just behind Jack in his proper place. And the moment he'd turned away, down he went. Immediately, he reached out an arm to try and break the man's fall, but it was no use. Jack was out and out cold. Without wasting a beat, Ned plucked up the broom from the other side of the counter and tried to barricade himself behind it. If he was going out, too, he was going out swinging.

As much as he didn't care for and/or was apathetic to guns, he could see their appeal now, in this moment, as Pie Die's greasy visage bared down on him. What worse way to die than death by pie for a pie maker, he wondered. He raised his broom threateningly and called out to her, plotting out a way to gracefully hop on the counter if the need should arise. "Vane--Pie Die! You won't get away with this. And if I have to put myself in a coffin to-- wait, no."

He frowned his pie maker frown and bore his white pie maker teeth and waited for her attack. He knew if he rushed her he'd only wind up like his poor, and dear friend he was actively trying to distract her from remembering was there. Unconscious or otherwise.

"No one is being put in a coffin, Vanessa. And all you've proven is that pie really is superior to cake." Oh. Oh Ned. What have you done. Even he seems to know he's fucked up, no cake baker wants to hear that her cake will never be good enough on the basis of being, well, cake.

Even if it was true.