A 30 Rock Fanfiction
Title: The Kiss
Characters: Liz Lemon, head of the writers of the show “TGS with Tracy Jordan”, Jack Donaghy her boss and Jonathan the assistant.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: It’s not mine.
Spoilers: Takes place sometime during the end of season 2.
Summary: Liz wants to talk, Jack doesn’t.
Notes: This is more like a scene that came up to me fully developed and all finished. I have only seen the show up to the second season and Jack and Liz are still platonic and I’m still hoping that changes soon… Still, no spoilers please.
“Jack!” She managed to slid past the door Neo style just before he shut it and told Jonathan to inform her that he was not in his office.
It was so close.
As it was, he had no other choice but to talk to her. She would insist on talking, of that he was fairly certain. Even now, she was trampling into his office, all too eager to talk.
As Jack Donaghy lamented over this unfortunate turn of events, a plan suddenly hatched in his head. He lit up. The United States was, in a relative sense, a free country still, therefore he was not legally bound to listen to her talking about “the incident” (he was still contemplating on whether it was big enough an issue to warrant capitals and at the moment quotation marks seemed to suffice).
Rather than trying to do the impossible by avoiding her for the rest of his hopefully long and successful life, he would let her have a chance to talk and in return, he, to not hear a word of it. In fact, Liz Lemon could talk and talk and talk and well, whatever she would do next; Jack, on the other hand, would find himself suddenly liberated for a couple of hours that he could use to review the new promotional ads for Scheindhart. And before he even knew it - choosing a campaign strategy to stop people from remembering Scheindhart as the product that turned people orange and start implanting the “USED TO BUT NOT ANYMORE” persuasion on millions of people, all in a fifteen seconds ad, was no simple feat - Lemon would have left his office, all would be well and he would have a good night’s sleep again.
The plan seemed so highly operable that Jack wanted to applaud himself, and he turned to face her with this new spirit only to have it crushed down to pieces.
What was it with these independent, career-oriented women these days, wearing ill-fitting clothes to work but with such low cuts, as if making a stance against sexual harassment at workplace but all the while, reminding every one with perfect sight that they were still there? It was all very disorienting for poor Jack. Two weeks ago, Lemon hadn’t got boob. Today, he noticed she had a pair. He needed to sit down.
Liz Lemon adjusted her prim glasses, saying gravely, “Jack, we have to talk… about what happened last night.”
Jack smoothly proceeded with his plan. Or so he thought. He could find neither the Scheindhart folder nor a notepad (damn Jonathan and his odd obsession to play hide and seek with his office stationery), and after a futile moment in search of an alternative plan, went on to scribble thoughtfully on the wooden desk. Before there were papers, cavemen had been using rocks to write on for centuries. He related to their anxious desperation now.
“Jack.”
The woman was so mighty annoying and persistent.
“I said, about last night-” She stopped right then, perhaps as it dawned to her what he was trying to pull, the first flaw in the plan he had not fully thought out. “What, so you’re ignoring me now?”
“No.” He said without thinking and quickly cursed his superb innate reflexes. “Damnit.”
Hands on hips and eyes calculative as ever, Lemon sauntered the desk in circle. He followed her as far as his peripheral vision would allow, which was not very far as somehow during their conversation, the air conditioner had seemingly failed to work and trickle of sweats was beginning their journey down the side of his face, blurring the lazy motion of his predator. The alarm in his head started chanting: Abort plan, abort plan.
Giving himself a mental slap, Jack steadied himself back to his usual Vice President of East Coast Television and Microwave Oven Programming composure, and said in a formal, more delighted tone, “Lemon, I was just going to call you up. We need to talk.” From extensive professional experience, Jack knew that a few of his trademarked Donaghy smiles here and there could go a long way, and this was precisely that; a business discussion. “Have a seat.”
Of course, he should know that going all business would never work on the Lemons.
“Why are you smiling with all your teeth? It’s creeping me out.”
Better focus on his ad-lib speech.
“Lemon, I have to apologize for my brash action last night. No matter how many shots of Hardy Boy I had, it’s still not an excuse. What I did was reprehensible. If it’s any consolation, I assure you that Donaghy does not kiss a Lemon… For that matter, us Donaghys never even engage the Lemons, that includes your father, mother and brother, in any scenario of our fantasies, romantically speaking.” He looked at her, or rather the junction where the vee of her blouse met, and carried on,”…Never. So, you have my word that it will never happen again. You can go back to work.” He finished with a genuine smile this time. “Ha. That’s actually kind of relieving.”
“I knew this would happen.” Lemon rolled her eyes and huffed. “Quick fretting like a baby and making a bigger deal out of it than it actually was. What are you, young?! It was just a kiss!”
It was his turn to be surprised. “Pardon me?”
“Yeah, the night was partly to blame, if not wholly. There were champagne and music, people dancing, you looked good, I was wearing the $200 dress Jenna forced me to buy. With moments like that, it would be a huge crime if we didn’t kiss. And if nothing else, the kiss was nice.” she gave a ‘har,har,har’ laugh that was set one octave too high,”I mean, it wasn’t downright terrible, was it?” Her voice sounded just a little bit shrill then, lacking in conviction. Every one wanted to be assured of how they were good kissers; that much was human nature and Jack was the master in analysing human nature. But Liz Lemon wasn’t just every one, so what was she doing being unsure?
Nevertheless, the brutal psychoanalysis had to wait until later as the situation at hand called for a verbal respond, any respond that would avoid making him look like, God forbid, an intellectually challenged person.
He did not recall standing up until he found himself staring down at her and for a brief moment, was lost in the memory of their kiss. The kiss wasn’t bad, he conceded. Nah, it was almost good. Almost mind-boggling. Forget-the-whole-world’s-existence kind of good. As in, with any other woman, he would have proposed to skip work today even if that meant potentially missing Don Geiss’ long awaited call appointing him as his successor. Almost, but still, not quite enough for Jack to repeat last night’s folly. This was graver than dating Condoleeza; at least, with Condoleeza, he could put aside their more impressive political differences… Was he actually thinking about ‘dating’? How the heck did that come from one kiss and several fantasies?
God, he should stop the 24/7 fantasizing. She’s Lemon and it would never work out, just because. It was one of those things people are told not to do and nobody asked why because they are obvious. Don’t cross the streets without checking both sides of the road. Don’t drink loads of water before going to bed. Don’t screw with the nice old church lady who gives every one candy at Sunday classes. Lemon was the church lady and you couldn’t screw with the church lady. It was that simple… though granted the metaphor was somewhat messed up.
Too busy was he in his reverie that he failed to notice her: Liz Lemon, all of a sudden in a distance that was too close for comfort, slightly dreamy eyed and unless she was spending her time staring at his chin, it seemed that he had not been the only one reliving their kiss.
As he discerned this piece of observation, for the second time that day, Jack found the air supply in the room deflating exponentially. He fought the overwhelming urge to clear his throat. ”Yeah, yeah, it was.” He answered finally, no longer sure what he was agreeing to.
They stayed like that for several muted moments, neither wanted to be the one making the first step that would irrevocably change everything, both stubbornly believing that mind kissing…? So did not count. And then she broke the contact. Sending a cursory glance at her watch, Lemon backed away quickly. “Shit. I’ve got to go down there. The show’s about to start and I need to make sure Tracy doesn’t trip over his metal dancing shoes again.”
The next five seconds were filled with familiar, comfortable silence - Lemon bent to gather her sweater on the chair while Jack internally cursed her choice of outfit - until she looked up, “So, you and me, we’re good, right?”
“We are good.” They were more than good, but he did not say that.
Just as she reached for the door handle, he called again, “Lemon?”
She turned back. “Yeah?”
He smiled. “Break a leg.”
It wasn’t until half an hour later that Jonathan told Jack that Tracy Jordan had broken his legs while dancing to Alien version of ”These boots are made for walkin’”. Jack responded with a monosyllable Ha!
Today was just like any other day, after all.
