Title: Unhappily Ever After
Author: Mindy
Rating: K
Disclaimer: Tina's. And she doesn't want them to live happily ever after.
For: hamnapkin
Prompt: losing touch, separate ways, wasted years…
Spoilers: nope.
Pairing: apparently Jack/Liz is all a delusion.
Summary: They had what everyone searches for.
-x-
He can't actually remember the last time he spoke to her. Or saw her. And throughout the years, as the memories of his years at 30 Rock inevitably faded, he wondered whether that meant he might one day speak to her or see her again.
They never meant to lose touch. But it happened, in increments, over time. He does know what happened to her. Or at least, he knows the basic facts of her life after TGS finished and they were no longer in each other's daily lives. He knows them in the same way that he used to know the details of the life she led before he met her. In an abstract way, without being there at the time to hear her every thought and feeling.
Surprisingly perhaps, for two people who were so different and who wanted such different things, their respective lives turned out to be remarkably similar. They both married. Within a year of each other. Liz for the first time to a man named Ralph. Jack for the second to a woman named Miri. He and his wife tied the knot in Bora Bora, which was why Lemon was not present. Liz and her "One" got hitched in his native Canada, which was why Jack was not present.
They both also divorced. Jack after four years. Liz after nine, though he didn't know this until some time later. They both had sons too, after a few years of marriage. And he supposes it's somewhat ironic that it was his son who intrepidly took the creative route, becoming a well-known and much-adored soap star, while Liz's son slogged it out at Med School and became a highly respected doctor. The best cardiologist in New York City.
And Jack should know. Because he is in grave need of the best cardiologist in the city.
He didn't realize when he first went to see Dr Harry Hunt that he was Lemon's son. He knew only that she had one who was a doctor. It wasn't until the third visit that Jack witnessed the usually measured and collected doctor fumble and drop some papers his secretary handed him, muttering under his breath an annoyed: 'nerds'. It was then that he started looking closer, noting the frames that always sat on his nose or in his breast pocket, the brown, wavy hair, and the kind, thin-lipped smile he gave when he insisted Jack call him 'Harry'.
So on his fourth visit, as they are beginning their consultation, Jack asks curiously: "You don't, by any chance, have a background in comedy?"
Dr Hunt closes the door to his office, cocking his head and smiling. "It's funny you ask."
"Why?" Jack asks, easing his weary body into a chair.
"I thought I recognised your name," he answers: "the first time you came to see me." He smooths a hand over his tie as he takes a seat at his desk. "I think you knew my mother."
Dr Hunt turns a framed photo on the desk towards him. For a moment, the light catches on the glass and all Jack can see is his own reflection, the deep creases in his face, the sagging of his jowls, the bloating round his eyes, the white of his hair. But when he picks it up, it shows a typical though casual family portrait, taken on a sunny day, amongst green trees and grass. It includes Liz, a few years older than when he knew her, cuddled by and laughing with a man in a blue shirt and a little boy with no front teeth.
"Yes…" Jack muses, his voice fading as he examines the picture. "My, my, my…Liz Lemon." And it strikes him as odd how easily the name still spills off his tongue as if it had some unfinished business there. "I beg your pardon," he corrects himself after a moment: "it, ah-- it must be Liz Hunt. Elizabeth Hunt."
"No, no," her son smiles mildly: "She returned to her maiden name after the divorce. It's a long time since anyone's called her that."
"Ah. I see," Jack nods.
"She used to speak of you occasionally," he adds, his fondness for his mother palpable. "I remember her watching your shows. Even when she thought they sucked."
Jack looks up, smiling at the younger man's frankness. "How is she then, these days?"
"She's fine," Harry nods and Jack wonders whether it's his former knowledge of his mother that makes this response so transparently false. "She still teaches a little."
"Oh…" Jack nods again, not aware of this development. "What does she teach?"
"Playwriting," he answers: "At the Film Institute."
"Well…" Jack takes a last look at the photo clasped in his hands before replacing it on the desk and nudging it to face away from him. "She was always a clever woman, your mom."
"She still is," her son agrees.
"And--" Jack pauses, clears his throat, aware that he sounds like a sad, old man remembering a long lost love when he adds: "And…very beautiful."
The doctor looks at the picture of his younger mother. "I always thought so," he says quietly, then looks at Jack. "She never did though."
"No," Jack replies, feeling a stab of inner guilt. "I know…"
He's found it to be one of the uncomfortable ironies of growing old. The glaring and unforgiving perspective it afforded. And he can't fool himself any longer. He is old. And sick. His own personal countdown has begun. Bringing with it all sorts of devastating insights. And regrets, which for years he didn't know he'd harboured, like silent, cowering fugitives.
The most obvious of his copious regrets being why he'd been lucky enough to possess what everyone on the planet spent their entire lives searching for, hoping for, waiting for -- and he, in his egoistic wisdom, had simply ignored it. Why he'd had a wonderful woman who'd understood every single atom of him, who'd overlooked every single flaw, who'd stood at his side through everything. And he'd let her get away, let her believe what they shared didn't count, let her marry some other man. Why he'd found that special someone he could've shared every aspect of his life with -- but he hadn't.
Why he'd found someone beautiful and brilliant then called her the opposite. Why he'd found someone worthy then told her nearly everyday that she wasn't. Why he'd had something, and called it nothing. Why he'd had what was real and true, but pursued what was fake and momentary. Why he'd had a chance at a full life and instead chosen a half life. Why he'd come so close to having it all, but thrown it all away, for reasons now passing all understanding.
And why he'd looked everywhere for Love. Everywhere except where it was. Right in front of him, looking him unflinchingly in the eye. Right beside him, whispering gentle, eternal hints in his ear. And why, why he knew all this now, at the age of eighty-six when it was far, far too late. But not at the age of fifty-two, when he was faced with what he now knows was his very last opportunity to grab onto the happiness that both of them had deserved, that both had dreamed of separately, but never together.
As he looks up from the floor, Jack is aware that he's been silent for many minutes. That his back creaks audibly with the minuscule movement. And that, like the sad, old man he never planned on becoming, there are tears in his eyes. His hands shake in his lap because that's just what they do now. And his voice crackles with ancient, long buried affection as he asks:
"How is she, really, Harry?"
Lemon's son is already scribbling down a number on his prescription pad. He hands it across the desk to Jack with a sad smile. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"
END.