My thanks to Dennis and Morgan for their help. This is for the lovely and generous mingsmommy for the Queensland Flood Relief auction.
Of course he tries to alleviate the density, the tenseness of the moment with a crack about her sexual orientation. She-in fact-had quite expected it. And so when it landed, heavy and solid in her ears, Liz Lemon went with what she knew.
She too cracked very wise.
"Your fly is down."
Now, the sheer fact that she had even bothered to glance in the vicinity of his fly should have been a red flag to her brain anyway. 'Steer clear, Liz. Butts, totally okay. Penises, off limits." There's a judicial nod of her head as she once again reiterates this to herself.
Penises. Or is it peni? Peni off limits?
Wangs. Wangs works.
Off. Limits.
He's following close behind her, she knows because she can hear his expensive pants making expensive swishing noises. His footfalls are distinct and so totally his, she almost wishes they'd stop. Because they're so loud in her head.
It feels really heavy, everything that had been said in the room, everything running through her head, wondering what he's thinking. What on earth can he be thinking, she wonders, because this isn't your typical, everyday, co-worker situation. This is a lot more. This is a close to the surface, thing. A so-close-to-the-surface thing that if she scratched at it, it would be a real, out-in-the-open, honest-to-goodness mess.
Jack's pants, they're swish-swish-swishing three steps behind her and it resonates like the beating of a tympani.
"Hey, can you stop for a minute?" she asks, once they reach the elevator. It's a long way from Weinerslav's office on five back up to her own on twenty-three and his on fifty-five. As Jack brushes his hand over his fly, she looks away and up at the ceiling at oh, just about anything else.
It shocks her, when instead of asking "Stop what?" he just nods and presses his lips together. Jack stuffs his hands in his pockets and they listen to the mechanisms ascending their elevator. Even with the clamor all around them, the people whizzing by and the sounds of work taking place, they can only each hear one thing repeating in their respective heads.
"Is this the longest and perhaps the most meaningful relationship in your life?"
The hollow ding of their lift arriving slices through their introspection and he moves a palm to her lower back, a phantom of pressure and they both take a step in; something he does all the time, but something that bears so much more now. The doors slide closed with a fluid swish and they're vaulted up. Liz wants so badly to say something off-color, something that will make him roll his eyes and make her want desperately to go in for a high five.
Something that will cut through the pregnant silence they're both standing in.
Nothing comes, nothing, and she's never felt like this and she wishes she knew some other word to describe it rather than 'weird.' Because it's weird, just weird and uncomfortable.
Three floors settle between them before she manages a brave, "Well, is it?"
He doesn't return with "That's neither here nor there," or "Don't be foolish, Lemon." Instead he turns and faces her head on and claims, "This isn't the place." The timber of his voice holds a seriousness, a solemnity that is rarely heard coming from him and she feels her mind shiver to a startling halt.
Liz cannot think, cannot feel, and the light she feels at the corner of her eyes begin to dim, threatening to become a pinpoint of sight.
"Okay," and she nods again, out of a sense of necessity and finds it necessary to rock on her heels to gain her footing.
He rubs his hands together and steps towards the open doors and once over the threshold, he turns back. Palms down, towards the floor, pushing the world away. He's exasperated and overwhelmed and perhaps this is more difficult for him than for her. "Later, Lemon."
"Mrs. Donaghy," she reminds as the doors close in front of both of them, reveling in the fact that she's regained at least a portion of what she might consider steady footing.
She's three hours in to an ice cream eating binge in her office, with the door closed so as not to provoke snarky comments. She can eat as much ice cream as she wants, thankyouverymuch, she went to the gym yesterday. Anyway, she's three hours in to the latest Ben and Jerry flavor when her phone rings.
Liz's tongue is slightly numb because, well, three hours of ice cream is a lot of cold to be putting in one's mouth, so her tongue is slightly numb and when she answers, it comes out more like, "Hurro?" Her eyes roll involuntarily because really, how unprofessional is that? Hurro?
"Liz, Mr. Donaghy would like to see you in his office," Jonathan demands, already exasperated that he's had to make a call to her in the first place.
Glancing down at the spoon that is sliding slowly down the side of the carton into the pool of rapidly melting dairy, Liz swallows hard. "Uh, when?"
"Uh, now," Jonathan squeaks, and doesn't even both to sign off with a pleasantry. He just hangs up.
The click is loud in her ear.
Her spoon falls and is sucked into the gooey mess, down, down until she can't see it anymore.
If she didn't know better, she might think it an omen, and why not? She's put more faith in many other things that would hold less water than ice cream omens.
Oh, this is going to be awkward; this is going to suck.
It's an abnormally long walk out to the elevator and even longer while waiting for the car to arrive. Liz mutters under her breath, please, please don't let her run into to anyone who might ask her where she's going. Because she might spill the beans, she might need someone else to rationalize this entire situation.
Her head is held down as she steps onto the elevator and for the first time in her life she finds herself fiddling with her thumbs, back and forth, back and forth. A new nervous tick, oh how fun. She watches as her shiny nails circle around one another. Circle, circle, circle.
Thing is-and here's the thing-thing is that she knows what she wants to say when they talk about this. But she's not ready to say it and he's not ready to hear it and there's a very decent chance that neither one of them will ever be ready for the words that she's been running over and over in her head.
That it's pained her to watch him prepare his wedding with Avery; that it's pained her to stand in as best man (but how could she not); that yeah, he's the longest relationship she's had with a man and she's okay with that.
'Penises are off limits,' she feels the need to remind herself again and wonders why, honestly, she isn't doing more introspection right at this moment. Her stomach is fine, only one or two butterflies trying to fight their way up her throat, and her mind isn't swimming and her knees don't feel like buckling, so really, Liz is fine. Conventionally, fine.
"Liz, Liz!" Jonathan breaks her out of her reverie, and her head snaps up to him. Hands crossed tight over his chest, foot tapping as though she's been waiting there years to step off of the elevator when really, she's perhaps only been there six months or so.
She stops twiddling her fingers.
She grins facetiously at him, "Unclench, Jonathan," she huffs and deliberately knocked her shoulder into his. And he, for good measure, stumbled back a few feet with an indignant shriek.
Her heels clump on the floor as she makes her way across the large lobby and to his door. In the split-second before she puts hand to knob, she reminds herself, 'Chill,' and rotates her wrist.
"Jack!" come the exclamation before her eyes even find him in the dim room. "Buddy, what is... shaking." As she steps forward, her eyes search the room for him to no avail. Not behind his desk, not at his stocked liquor cabinet and not-after a knock or two proves-in his hidden-in-the-wall bathroom.
"Out here Lemon," comes the call from her left and she's torn between being confused as to why he's on the balcony in twenty degree weather and relieved that he's no longer calling her 'Liz'.
It's subdued, the way she saunters over to the balcony door and peers out; the evening air is remarkably crisp and though it's terrifically cold, Fahrenheit -wise, it's not chapping. It takes her a moment to find a place to lean (as to appear nonchalant) that is shielded from the sporadic wind. "What's up?"
"It would be imprudent to put this discussion off until the morning, Lemon, and so I've made the executive decision to have it, with you," he turned to look at her, the tip of his nose a brilliant red and cheeks chapped from the air. "Right now."
"How good of you Jack, to decide that for the both of us," she took two giant steps back into the room as she moved out of the way for him. "That would be... imprudent," she agreed.
Jack did not face her, instead walking over to his liquor cabinet. His hand takes up a decanter of scotch and pours two fingers for himself and doles a finger into a second glass. When he turns, he's already managed to swallow half of his while his right hand held out to her what she imagined would taste almost exactly like a very stiff drink.
Liz eyed the amber liquid and though she would normally decline an offer of such a drink, it feels apropos at the moment. As the glass slides between her fingers she ponders the heavy crystal, wonders how much it costs, wonders what he'd do if she tossed it over the balcony, let it shatter on MSNBC's balcony terrace below.
Instead, she downs the smooth alcohol in one gulp, proud of herself for not sputtering or cringing. It's like a, "Look mom, no hands!" sort of moment for her but she doesn't relish in it. Liz remains quiet as her lungs burn and her nostrils flare.
It's her hands of their own volition that holds the tulip-shaped crystal out, asking for more. Jack's brow perks on his forehead but he obliges, pours them both a few fingers and rests the decanter back on the tray.
"Soooo..." fingers tap against the glass impatiently and she can't help that her feet shuffle back and forth on the carpet. In moments like this, heavy moments, it's hard for her to stay still. Movement breaks up some of the tension so that it can't manifest itself squarely on her shoulders.
"How. Is..." she treads precariously, because that would be best. Seems the most fitting. "Avery?"
In that icy moment, she hears nothing. Not Jonathan listening outside, no sounds from the street, no phones, no pipes clanking. They're in a building of god-knows how many floors and for three seconds she heads nothing. It's eerie.
But then Jack talks, he speaks, in the rapid-fire, no nonsense way he has. "Avery is how you would expect, Lemon. She's livid. It's not every day that your fiance accidentally marries someone else," and he looks at her as though she's had everything to do with this, like it's her fault.
"Hey, wait a minute-"
"That coupled with her ever-present insecurities of our friendship has brought this situation to its boiling point. The less-than-desirable wedding photos of her six months pregnant aren't... helping."
"She's uhm, getting big," Liz tosses in; what the heck else is she going to say? The woman is getting big though, very large indeed and she can't imagine that image-conscious Avery Jessop is taking this well at all.
"Beached whale is the term she continues to use, Lemon, and whenever I assure her that she looks nothing of the sort-"
"Yeah, there's no pleasant way out of that situation." She digs her heel into the carpet as hard she can.
"And this recent... situation... has her very wound up." He takes a quick pull at his drink and glances up at her. There's something in his gaze, something whisper-thin and unspeakable and her words pause in her throat for a moment.
"I'd be wound up too," Liz agrees, but her voice is quieter than she would have expected. Damn, just adding to the tension. "I... guess."
Jack nods.
"She is, talking, still. To.. you, though. And good, that is, I mean, right? That's good?" For a moment, she's Yoda-esque and that's par for the course, really. She's not terribly eloquent when she isn't under this much stress, when she has all of her faculties, when her throat hasn't gone suspiciously dry.
Jack gestures, as he's wont to do, and a bit of the scotch sloshes over the rim of his glass. It drips onto his fingers and she watches, watches. "I wouldn't count that as a good sign."
"I think it's not a good sign that I can't speak in complete sentences." God, all she wants right now is a wedge of cheese and a bottle of Diet Doctor Pepper and a very, very deep hole to swallow her up. Instead she has scotch and a dimly lit office and lots of feelings going on.
Jack smiles at her, tenderly. "No, not a good sign, either," he agrees and paces to an adjacent window.
There's the possibility that she's never been this mortified, this uncomfortable, this sad before. Liz wants so badly for him to speak, know the right words to sort through this mess. But he doesn't, he's introspective, he's pacing, he too is unsure.
Her hands cup the glass and she takes another swallow, feeling a tad of liquid courage zip to her head, making things just a tad foggy. "You think this is fate? This is fate, right? One of those cruel twist things?"
"Why cruel?" he asks. She wants to see his eyes but his back is to her and there's something in his voice that makes her think there's something more here. 'Cruel for so many reasons,' she wants to say. 'Cruel because this wasn't supposed to happen. Cruel because falling for your boss is so cliche. Cruel because you're almost married to someone else and you're married to me and of course I've imagined this before and yes, with you, so yeah it's cruel.'
Liz wants to say all of this, but she doesn't. This is already backwards enough, no sense making matters worse. It's like a game of chicken, who's going to be the first to crack and own up to what's going on here.
"Cruel because, you know, of... you don't know, nevermind. It's just, you know, cruel."
Jack considers what she's said, considers the silence, turns to face her. They regard one another furtively, her eyes flit from here to there, back to him while he just stares. "Hm, yes. Cruel," he agrees and tries for a smile.
"Look, Jack," she's emboldened by the scotch, by the pain she hadn't expected to radiate through her soul. Perhaps, she thinks, it would have been wiser to acknowledge her feelings rather than remain unacknowledged, morphing, growing. "We should just forget this ever happened, right? I mean, it was an honest misunderstanding and Avery can't hold this against you forever." Chick-chick-chick-chicken, she thinks; could she be any more passive aggressive at this point?
Jack says nothing.
Liz swishes the amber liquid in her glass, bites her lip and tries again. "I mean, a year or ten, tops, right?" Her attempt at humor lands flat, even after she adds a mirthless laugh for effect. Liz sniffs at her drink and accepts the acrid scent, takes a long sip.
Jack's voice is strong and sure when he takes a step towards her and speaks. "This isn't how I anticipated things, Lemon. Certainly, I'd entertained the notion-"
And he's off, speaking fast, there's no room to stop and question 'entertained what?' because they both know what he means. And it's groundbreaking that they've both acknowledged it, at least to themselves. It's a revelation, it's so much and the sheer fact that he's thought about this at all, well.
It's a little overwhelming.
So she takes another liberal swallow, enough so that it screams it's way down her esophagus. Oh god, how can he drink this all the-
"-But never like this. Never a twist of... something like this, giving me the out-"
That gets her, the glass slips down to rest between the tips of her fingers. "The out? The 'out' of what?"
Jack's jaw sets and he takes a few steps back to lean his rear at the edge of his desk. "The 'out', Lemon. That out that a man always has when he's about to commit to a woman. That one moment that is make or break. This is my moment with Avery, this is you."
Liz gets it... but then, she really doesn't.
"If it had been anyone else, any other woman, I would have thought of it as mere happenstance, but it's you. The only person in the world..."
He's searching for words and so she waits, her heart beating a thousand miles a minute, her head swimming, her mouth dry. Liz takes another swallow and waits for him.
"Liz," no longer Lemon, her brain races to keep up. "There are certain people in every one's lives that understand them better than others. There are technical terms, of course, but to put it in secular terms, you "get me, you understand?"
She understands; she understands him. "You know me too," and she laughs, shakes out one of her hands. "We're buddies. Work husband and wife, right?" she's never used this to refer to them before, so why is she looking for him to affirm this for her?
"No," he says, definitely. "Not work husband and wife."
Liz blinks and reaches behind her, something to steady herself on, anything. She'd take to leaning on Jonathan right now. "I just, let me sit down." Her feet drag as she makes her way to his couch.
She finds her way to the couch and sits heavily, shaking her head as she does so, shaking the insanity from her brain. Well, trying, at least. "Okay, so wait, what?"
He sighs, heavily, sucks in a heavy breath, trying to unburden himself and embolden himself at the same time. "This is all wrong, the way we've been handling this situation. Previously, I would have abided by my Catholic upbringing and relegated most of these feelings," he nearly sneers the word. "To the most far off recesses of my brain, though that doesn't seem to be the healthiest thing..."
"Well, you and healthy, me and healthy, don't exactly mesh, we don't match up," and so she's rambling now, but he stops her with a quick-
"I have feelings for you, Elizabeth." Her whole name this time, incredibly. "Ones that are not so easily ignored. And this has been, yes, perhaps it has been rather cruel, to thrust us into situation. Fate is..."
"You believe in fate?" she chimes in, quickly though thoughtlessly. Because that's not what she wants to say, she wants to say something about these "feelings." She wants to know more about these "feelings."
"This isn't a situation that is easily resolved, is what I'm saying, Lemon. Years of conflict resolution has taught me nothing about how to rectify this situation. I cannot simply ship you to Connecticut or the office in Chicago or Los Angeles because that wouldn't do anything to aid the matter in the slightest."
Liz blinks. Blinks again, blinks a third time, but her vision still swims a bit. "You could," she whispers, biting her lip after her voice echoes in the room. "Ship me off, I mean." No she doesn't mean it, but if this means the awkwardness would cease, if she didn't to keep having to glance up into his piercing, confusing gaze.
She follows up slowly with, "But that's not what I want you to do, you know. And that's not something you will do because we're... bud...dies."
"You know I hate that word," he barks, and spins once more, so that he's no longer facing her.
"Okay, okay, I just mean..." Liz swears she might cry, she swears it, and oh that would be the worst. But instead she bites her lip and holds it in, "Things have changed Jack, they've changed. How am I supposed to look you in the eye, you know?"
"Blah," she says, allowing her face to drop into her open palms. "How am I supposed to look Avery in the eye," she moans. Because really, the notion of having to confront his supposed wife isn't appealing in any way, shape or form. And, truth be told, she's not sure that Jack is going to handle this with as much care and caution as he should.
Because he's Jack, and well, he's Jack.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Jack supposes with a light voice, finally tearing himself away from the window, placing himself on the plush love seat across the coffee table from her.
"No, no crossing bridges, no... no bridge crossing, she shouldn't, you're not going to tell her." Liz's hands wave frantically. No, no, no. "Ignorance, I've heard, it's bliss. So let's let her stay, blissful, or something!"
Jack rubs his palms quickly over the knees of his slacks and Liz-for a moment-is scared that he'll make fire from the friction. All she wants to do is reach over and stop him; she doesn't wish to die having this situation unresolved, from a fire started from Jack's pants. How would that look, really?
He takes a breath, draws his attention to the windows, the coffee table, finally focuses on the ceiling, pondering. She watches and watches and hopes to spur him "I suppose... no, I suppose that wouldn't be the best avenue to go about this."
Liz peeks an eye from behind her hand and assesses him. He's unsettled, that much is clear but someone needs to take the lead on this and she's preeeeeeetty sure it shouldn't be her.
"Know what? Okay, so let's look at this like a business conflict that you have to solve, you're good at solving business conflicts. So I can be like... I'm GE and you're, you know, you, and you tell GE, your company that you have feelings for it, and you need to get out of the awkward situation without pretending that none of this happened."
There's a brief pause. Filled, just jam-packed with awkward silence.
"So, yeah you need to do that."
"You can't be GE Lemon," he adds half-heartedly, staving off the inevitable talk they really need to have. "You're not as efficient, you don't bring ideas to light."
"Right, well," she's not offended, because yeah, that's true. "But still, let's just pretend, okay?" Roleplaying, sure, this could work, or, you know, not.
He settles back into the couch, one arm slung over the back, the other resting on the armrest. "Well GE, you've been very good to me over the years, you've been more than just a corporation, you've been more than just another component in the business portfolio, you've been..."
"Okay," she interjects, shaking her head viciously. "This isn't really working either."
He agrees, "No, it isn't."
Thus they sit and avoid each others eyes and wait and wait until someone takes the lead to speak; she feels like she's back in high school, which is pretty bad because Liz hated high school. What's more is that it's painfully obvious that this has done more harm than good. There's something deeper here because they're friends, they're best friends, and one wrong word could send this thing into an infinite tailspin.
And that's something she doesn't want; she's not sure what she would do if he wasn't as prevalent in her life as he is now. That would just be strange, alternate dimension strange. Not a pleasant outcome at all. But this stasis that they're in, the running and hiding from feelings, being cowards is taking its toll, too.
They've done as well as possible, she figures. As awkward and disjointed this conversation has been, at least they've managed to form, whole, coherent sentences. As much as she's managed to get off of her chest and out of her mind, and as unresolved as the situation is, she feels the need to let it all out, open the floodgates so to speak on all of it. Right now. And why not? The damage really, has already been done...
"Well, Jack, listen, I-"
The words are in her throat, ready to be spoken, but she can't. She doesn't get the chance.
"Mr. Donaghy, you have Avery on line one," Jonathan's voice is over the intercom, loudly and whiny.
'You have Avery,' she thinks. 'On line one.' Yeah the damage has already been done and now that it's out there, it's just going to cause this to be even more awkward between them.
Jack glances at Liz for one. Long. Moment. "Tell her I'll call her back in about an hour, Jonathan."
She chuckles at the unequivocal perfection of the moment, slaps her palms on her knees. "Well, this has been the worst," she laughs and takes a quick glance at Jack. It hurts, the emotion she sees there, it stings.
"An hour," Jack repeats, gruffly, his gaze again not leaving her face. God, she can feel him there, looking at her, waiting, waiting for anything.
But instead, Liz stands, smoothes out the wrinkles in her pants and swallows the lump that has formed in her throat. "No, no, no. I've actually gotta go anyway."
Liz moves to the door quickly, her hand finding the knob. The revelation hits her hard, nearly knocks her off of her feet. Nothing has changed, nothing is really different. There are emotions that have been exposed to the light of day, raw nerves, and though it's there, and they have both acknowledged it, she's sure that this is going to change anything.
"Lemon," he pleads desperately, like he's lost.
"No, I've gotta..." Liz glances up at the ceiling and takes one, last steadying breath, motioning with her thumb towards the hallway beyond.
Liz opens the door quickly, steps into the hallway, Jonathan staring her down, as though he can somehow unravel what has been going on in the office. Maybe he can, because Liz feels like she's wearing it all on her sleeve.
With one more steadying breath, she steps over the threshold and out of his office.
"You have Avery on line one." And then she's gone.