Disclaimer: I don't own 30 Rock.
She comes through the doors of his office in a dark red a-line dress and black high heels and her hair is done. She's holding champagne and the sound system in his office has switched from scatting Sinatra to crooning Crosby. Singing about merry little Christmases, and hearts being light. Forgetting troubles, and keeping those you love by your side. It's as though the gods of Christmas are all conspiring to make him forget himself tonight.
It's almost like when he had a heart attack, except he thinks that cardiovascular issues are much more manageable than being in love with a co-worker.
Especially a co-worker who happens to be your best friend.
But it's really not his fault that she's so beautiful tonight. Not to say that she's not beautiful all the time, it's just that tonight she's happy.
And more than the dress and jewelry, and the hairdo and shoes and makeup and perfume, the happiness is radiating off of her like rays off the sun.
She crosses the room in a second-she's floating, practically-and fills the flutes. They clink; they drink. Soon the bottle is gone and her shoes are off, and they're dancing gently to "As Time Goes By." She's Else Lazlo and he's Rick Blane, and outside the snow is coming down in flakes the size of golf balls.
It's kind of like he's in some kind of movie-only the song would end with Else and Rick kissing, and then he'd pull his fedora down over his eyes and she'd get on the plane and fly into the wild blue yonder. He's mixing his movies, but it doesn't matter. When he spins her for the final time, as Dooley's voice fades into the next song-Dean Martin, the least romantic of all Italians, is back-he turns and finds her stock still, just staring at him and breathing.
She's breathing rather hard actually. Only because she's been dancing though, not because of who she's been dancing with.
Because that would be absurd.
She's very drunk; he can tell. Her cheeks are flushed.
"Come here, Lemon." his voice is all gravel. She walks, but slower this time. Measuring every step because he's either calling her over to kiss her or tell her to never, ever assume things about their friendship again. She isn't sure which she's more afraid of. She stops two feet away from him, hands balled in fists at her sides. Her nails are making half-moons in her palms. She swallows hard-or tries to, because suddenly her mouth dry.
"Yes, Jack?" She croaks. She's five feet away. Now three.
"You look lovely." he says. Two feet. Barely. One and a half.
"Thanks." she replies. His hand his on her shoulder. Slipping down to her wrist that's so thin it's almost not there. Half a foot away. A quarter of a foot. They're breathing the same air, in the same space. Jack's eyes are lingering on her lips; the lower one is caught in her teeth.
"You should dress like this more often." he says.
"It'd be too much effort."
"It'd be worth it."
"Would it be?"
She's too close; it's too much. She's just Lemon, he's just Jack. There's nothing in it that's more than a boss and his employee. Whose lips are so close to touching he can feel electricity in the air. Her hand is on the counter that he's leaning on. His hand is on hers.
He's going to do it. He's going to kiss her. He's going to be able to-
"Jack, please just kiss me." His lips twitched into a smile, but he kissed her. Her lower lip first, gently, then harder. More. Trying to piece it together because this is really weird, right? It's not right.
This isn't weird. It's warm and soft and pleasant and exactly what he wants. He wants her, dammit. He just wants her. Is that so wrong?
When they part, she licks her lower lip and closes her eyes.
"Okay, I'm going to walk away now. Goodnight." she says. He keeps his hand closed around her wrist.
"Stay."
"I don't really think I should."
"Stay, please."
"Jack, I-"
"Liz," he pulls her close to him. His hand rests at the small of her back, and it's sending shivers up and down her spine. "Just...stay."
She kisses him this time, for a long time.
"Okay. For a little while. Put Dooley back on."
He complies.