Title: Let's Pretend This Bed is An Island
Author: Mindy
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Blah-di-blah…
Spoilers: "Flu-shot".
Summary: Jack/Liz. Post-"Flu Shot". Jack and Liz and a bed. Nope, it's not what you're thinking…
-x-x-x-
The reason they both end up at Jack's apartment is that Liz's place was due to be fumigated during her vacation. Also her toilet is still not working properly – it never has since Dennis tampered with it. Also, Jack has a fully stocked kitchen (as opposed to a few frozen dinners and packets of cheese curls) and a manservant to fluff their pillows and bring them plain crackers and lemonade. Newman's, of course – even with her head hanging over the toilet bowl, Lemon could specify that.
-x-
The reason his mother clears out and leaves them alone is because the older she gets the more paranoid she is about being around any sort of illness. Also, whenever she sees Liz, her sweeter side tends to come out. Which is odd because Jack wasn't aware, prior to her meeting Lemon, that his mother had a sweet side. He's never seen her smile so wide though as she waves goodbye to them from a safe distance.
"Well, look at you two…" she murmurs, putting on her gloves. Her sharp eyes track Liz as she comes back into the room in her cupcake pajamas, climbs under a blanket and onto the couch with him. "Like two contagious peas in an infected pod."
"Mother--" Jack warns.
Colleen seems suspiciously delighted. "How cozy," she beams.
"Bye, Mrs Donaghy." Liz gives a cheery wave, despite her red nose and obvious pallor: "Enjoy the Ritz."
"Uh huh." She casts a look at Jack as she turns to leave, her parting shot not heard by Liz, who is trying to figure out his remote. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Jackie."
Jack sighs and calls after her: "That doesn't leave an awful lot out, Mother."
-x-
The reason they end up in Jack's bed is simply that its proximity to the bathroom is more advantageous considering how frequently they are both making frantic dashes in that direction. Neither of them feels up to sitting upright on the couch for long. Nor was there room for them both to be comfortable. Jack's bed is huge, soft and warm. The better TV is in the bedroom anyway, and since there could not be a less romantic situation than constantly racing one another for the toilet and propagating an enormous pile of tissues between them, neither of them grumbles about sleeping arrangements. They have other things to grumble about. Like who's hogging the blankets (Jack) and who's drinking all the lemonade (Liz).
-x-
The reason Jack does not grumble about watching all three of the classic "Star Wars" films in one sitting is probably because he's drowsy with drugs from Dr Spaceman. Also, he's aware that Lemon seems to have come down with a much worse case of their mutual flu and he feels a little responsible for her being so sick. Not entirely – her own headstrong naivete is partly to blame – but he should've known better than to let her try and take care of herself. It never ends well, in his experience. He always does a much better job of it -- even when she is not aware of him doing so.
Another part of his reasoning is that he is not above searching for some insight into why the cult classic appeals to Liz so much (is it the dry humor, the cheap effects or something unconsciously phallic with the light-sabres?). On a similar note, Jack is aware of the lasting and fervid fascination women in general, not just Lemon, hold for Harrison Ford, and he's always curious to study the masters.
After a while, though, he is somewhat at a loss as to the wide-ranging appeal of the character.
"Is this what you're actually looking for, Lemon?" He turns to the neighboring pillow to see her dreamy expression: "Some hairy lothario who's going to boss you about and constantly put you down?"
Liz turns her head to look at him, brow scrunched. "You do that everyday."
He smiles slyly: "Are you saying that I'm Han Solo to your Princess Leia?"
"Hm..." Lemon looks doubtful. She turns back to the TV for a moment, then has a flash of inspiration: "Maybe you're Han and I'm Chewie."
His smile grows at her disturbingly gleeful expression. He looks back at the screen, watching Harrison Ford stride heroically down a futuristic corridor with a furry creature loping at his side. He notes their mismatched but easy camaraderie and comments: "Sadly, Lemon, that is actually a fairly accurate analogy."
Liz attempts to growl at him like a wookiee but ends up instigating a coughing fit instead. "I have…less fur," she croaks between coughs.
"You do," he agrees, patting her on the back: "And much better teeth."
She nods, eyes watering: "Thankyou."
-x-
The reason Liz ends up wearing his Princeton t-shirt is because, when he laughs at the Ewoks dancing round their forest habitat, he inadvertently jostles the bedding and she spills her soup on her pajama top. She responds by throwing crackers at him and calling him a jag. He's still not sure what that means.
Earlier, Jack had sent Paulo, his manservant, to retrieve her dvds and pyjamas and humidifiers (all three of them) and anything else she might need. When Lemon thanked him, calling him Banyani more than once, Jack feared she had become a little delirious. And when she began to refer to Jack as Oscar, he took away the pills Spaceman had prescribed for her.
-x-
The reason Liz wins at Monopoly three times in a row is probably because they're playing by Lemon family rules. Which are ambiguous to say the least. And which apparently include her providing him with cash and a roof over his head after she completely cleans him out.
"There ya go," she soothes, patting his hand as she stuffs a big wad of fake hundreds into it: "Go buy yourself sumpin' purdy."
The hundreds give Jack a new start and he ends up whipping her ass in the fourth game.
There's probably also a reason for why he doesn't really mind loosing three games to one to Lemon. Perhaps, it's simply because Lemon family rules make the game much more entertaining (there's a fair amount of singing involved, as well as some occasional thumb-wrestling). Perhaps, it's that Lemon achieves his annihilation so cheerfully and effortlessly. Or perhaps, it's the fact that he's never played Monopoly in bed before. It's still somewhat of a mystery to him though.
"Lemon," he asks, as he watches her lean forward and add another hotel (or condo, in Lemon lingo) to her name: "Have you ever played strip Monopoly?"
She slumps back against the pillows at the foot of the bed, legs splayed out inelegantly. "I've played Star Wars Monopoly," she tells him, her voice clogged and sluggish.
"It's really not the same thing," he tells her after a moment.
She simpers with geek pride: "I was Princess Leia."
"Of course you were." He bobs his head and adds thoughtfully: "That could work for both." He hasn't ever seen her in costume but he's heard about it and, after seeing the movies, he can't say he's not slightly curious.
"I think…I'm gonna hurl," Lemon says suddenly. A hand flies to her mouth and her eyes go wide. A moment later she scrambles over him, scattering his new row of condos on Boardwalk and nearly kneeing him in the groin on her way to the bathroom.
Jack winces as he hears the meagre contents of her stomach hit ceramic. "Want me to hold back your hair?" he calls from his position on the bed.
Lemon groans miserably: "I think it's too late for that."
Jack neatens his little piles of phony cash, as he waits for her to return, then opens the drawer next to his bed. Lemon appears in the doorway, brushing her teeth for the fifth time that day, the ends of her hair on one side wet, presumably from being sponged off. When he pulls his glasses out of the drawer and puts them on, Lemon stops and tilts her head at him.
"Dude," she mutters, toothbrush hanging out of her mouth: "am I hallucinating or are those for real?"
At least, he thinks that's what she says. He blinks at her through the chunky frames: "I need them to read the cards," he admits, after squinting his way through four rounds.
Her mouth twitches up at the edges. "Seriously?"
"Yes," he answers.
Her smile increases wickedly, toothpaste dripping from one corner of her mouth. She rolls her lips inward, pressing them together to curb her amusement.
"What?" he demands, adjusting the covers over his lap.
"Nothing," she shrugs, continuing brushing and continuing smiling. She shakes her head, still examining his eyewear with a schadenfreude-ish twinkle in her eye: "Ooo boy…This…makes it aaaaall worth it."
He takes off the glasses, throws them on the bedside table. "Makes what worth what?"
"Gimme a look at 'em…"
She steps over to the table, steals the frames before he can stop her and disappears back into the bathroom with them. He hears her spit into the sink and then an enormous laugh echo out of his bathroom. She appears once more in the doorway, wearing his glasses and wiping her mouth on her sleeve. "Okay. This," she announces, holding her hands up: "might be my best vacation, like, ever."
Jack eyes her blankly: "I think you just used my toothbrush, by the way."
Her face falls slightly: "Oh gross, why didn't you say something?"
"I didn't want to distract you from your mockery."
"Hey. I mock because I care."
She walks back over to the bed, pausing to put his glasses back on him and give his cheek a little pat. Then she crawls back up onto the bed and collapses against her pillow. "You know what," she muses, gazing up at the ceiling: "….I'm hungry again now."
Jack reaches for the bell to summon Paolo. "More lemonade, Lemon?"
"And more soup. And crackers, please." She burrows into her pillow and sighs blissfully: "Best vacation ever..."
-x-
The reason Jack stays in bed long after he's feeling better has nothing to do with Lemon. Any more than it has to do with Carrie Fischer.
It has nothing to do with the fact that when Liz falls asleep she curls up on her side towards him. Not anywhere near him, but her face and body turned into him. It has nothing to do with the little sleep noises she makes while he's watching the financial report with the volume down or the fact that she mutters his name, along with some ambiguous German, in a fever dream. It has nothing to do with the fact that when she gets over-heated, one leg slips out from under the covers and hugs the duvet. Or that when it does, her pajama pant rides up and her sock slips down and he can see a decent expanse of Lemon leg.
The reason he stays has nothing to do with any of that.
-x-
The reason Jack reaches out to stroke Lemon's forehead is simply, obviously, to check her temperature. It's the third night they've spent in his bed and she doesn't seem to be getting any better. That one leg is flopped on top of the covers, the hair around her face looks soaked and he's been watching her cheeks grow redder by the hour. When her eyes flutter open, out of their light slumber, they look distinctly feverish in the low light from the television screen. It seems to take her a moment to focus on him.
"You feel hot," he whispers, not removing his hand.
"I'm sweating like a pig under here," she mutters, kicking feebly at the heavy covers then flopping onto her back.
He watches her chest rise and fall beneath his shirt for a moment. "Want me to call Dr Spaceman?"
"No…" she sighs: "God, no."
"What about a bath?" he asks: "You should cool off."
Lemon's eyes slip shut, she doesn't answer.
Jack has Paolo run a cool bath in the adjoining bathroom. A few minutes later when it's ready, she is still half-asleep. The reason Lemon doesn't resist him slipping one arm under her body and one arm under her knees is probably a fair indication of just how ill she's feeling.
"Oh boy…" she slurs as he lifts her from the bed. One arm flops about his shoulder as he carries her into the bathroom. He feels her shiver as he sets her on her feet on the fluffy bathmat.
"Think you can take it from here?" he asks, looking down at her dishevelled, sweaty hair.
"Yeah, I got it," she murmurs, her head lolling against his chest for a moment: "No sweat." She lifts her head and nods it with what seems like maximum effort.
"Good," he smiles, making sure she's steady on her feet before he lets go.
"I'm good," she assures him as he backs away: "…totally fine."
Her back is to him, her hands reaching for the hem of his shirt when he ducks out the door, shutting it behind him. Paolo changes the sheets while Lemon is soaking in the bath. And Jack is buttoning up a fresh pair of pajamas for himself when she emerges from the bathroom in his robe, her hair towel-dried and her dark eyes clear and awake.
Lemon holds her hands out at her sides as she stands in the bright light from the bathroom. "Well," she announces tiredly: "I haven't puked in three hours. So that's gotta be good. How 'bout you?"
"No," he answers: "not for a while."
"Great."
He looks at her from the other side of the room, over the big expanse of bed. "The sheets have been changed for you," he tells her, for the first time feeling awkward with the situation: "I will sleep in the spare room so as not to disturb you."
"Oh." She pads around to her side of the bed: "Jack, I don't wanna kick you out of your own bed."
"I insist, Lemon," he replies swiftly. He moves closer, picks up a fresh set of boxers and a Sheinhardt t-shirt that sit on the end of the bed and hands them to her. "These are for you and I will be just next door if you need anything else."
"Okay," she nods, hoists herself up onto the big bed then draws her knees up and hugs them.
Jack knows it's his cue to leave but instead he sits down too. "Feeling a bit better?"
"Yeah," she says, running a hand through her wet hair: "Your bath is bigger than the pool at my gym."
He smiles slightly. "You aren't a member of a gym, Lemon."
"That's why I did some laps while I was in there." She rolls her eyes half-heartedly then adds: "Jeez, Jack. How long have you known me and you still can't tell when I'm making a crack?"
"That was a crack?" he murmurs, eyebrows raised.
Lemon pouts in a way she probably doesn't realize is adorable. "Don't disparage me when I'm sick, it's not nice."
"Alright then."
He looks down to see her naked foot next to his pajama-ed thigh. Briefly, he wonders whether he is the only man in New York City to have actually seen Lemon's feet. As they are perfectly normal feet with no detectable scaring or cankers, he covers one foot with his hand. Her skin still feels warm. She doesn't seem to mind the casual touch so he gives her foot a light pat before getting up and heading for the door.
With his back to her and without understanding why exactly, he says a low: "Goodnight pussycat." He doesn't need to see her face to know she's pulling it.
"Goodnight, um…"
He turns at the threshold, hand on the door, watching her struggle to come up with a half decent rejoinder. "Just….say goodnight, Lizzie," he says with a deliberate touch of George Burns.
For a moment her expression can't seem to settle on being surprised or impressed by his vintage reference. "Goodnight, Lizzie," she answers dutifully then gives him a little wave.
Jack smiles as he shuts the door.
-x-
The reason Jack can't seem to get comfortable or fall asleep is because the spare room feels like a spare room. The mattress is harder and narrower, the air is stale and cold, the bedside light is too far away and there is no TV. He kicks at the covers to loosen them and punches the pillow a few times. He mutters to himself that he should've asked Lemon to lend him one of her humidifiers.
-x-
The reason Liz looks so happy to see him the next morning probably is mostly to do with the breakfast tray he's carrying. There's only toast and tea on it – but it's good toast and specially-brewed tea. He'd sent Paolo to her favorite bakery for some fresh bread and asked him to make up one of his mother's herbal remedies for the tea. Still, he supposes, to Lemon, food is food and the fact her appetite seems to have returned must be a good sign.
"I might not be as cute as Oscar, the sandwich-bearing turtle…" he muses as he carefully deposits the tray on her lap.
"I'm starved," she answers, rubbing her hands together eagerly: "and you're plenty cute."
"Is that so?"
She nods. "You heard it here first." She picks up a piece of toast, takes a bite then looks up at him: "When did I tell you about Oscar?"
"Oh-ho, I heard all about Oscar…" he murmurs with a little laugh: "in between "The Empire Strikes Back" and "Return of the Jedi", I believe it was." He takes a seat on the end of the bed: "You babbled quite a lot, Lemon."
"More than usual?"
"This was slightly less coherent."
She scrunches her nose. "Anything really embarrassing?"
He pauses, making her wait. "You may never know."
"Blerg. Must've been those yellow ones that did it." She sniffs warily at the tea, takes a sip, grimaces, then takes another sip. "That'll teach me to take medication from that quack Spaceman."
"Well," Jack sighs: "at least we're both feeling better now."
She runs her eyes over his suit and tie: "Are you going into work today?"
"Yes," he replies, feeling a faint stab of regret: "And seeing Elisa tonight."
"Oh," her eyes drop: "I should probably get outta here then."
"Stay as long as you need to, Lemon," he says, rising and adjusting his tie. "You're not due back at work for some time, you might as well rest."
"Well. Thanks for…" she shrugs, cradling her tea in both hands: "everything, I guess."
"That's what friends are for," he answers shortly.
"And misery loves company."
"And a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush."
"…What bird?"
"Never mind." He shakes his head: "I'm sorry you missed out on your vacation, Lemon. I do hope the Filipino gentleman wasn't too disappointed."
She lets out a huff: "Yeah, well. I doubt I would've had the guts to go for it anyway."
"That is a shame," he smiles: "but I suppose there's always next year."
"Right," she agrees, saluting him with her toast: "I'll only be thirty-eight. That's not too old to come-on to the cabana boy, is it?"
"That depends entirely on the cabana boy," he replies confidently: "And of course, what you're wearing."
"Of course."
"Well…" He stands awkwardly for a moment as Liz looks up at him and munches. He considers punching her arm lightly but instead finds himself leaning down and kissing her cheek. He does it just as she's taking a bite of her toast and she freezes, food in mouth.
"Feel better," he murmurs, then turns and leaves.
-x-
The reason Jack cuts his date with Elisa short has – again -- little to do with Lemon. The reason he feels hugely relieved when Elisa tells him she has a patient to check up on early in the morning and that she does not wish them to sleep together as yet has nothing to do with him wanting to get back to his apartment sooner rather than later. And the reason he heads straight for his bedroom when he gets in has nothing whatever to do with expecting or hoping to see Lemon still there.
His bed is neatly made, the humidifiers are all gone, as is the pile of dvds. And on the side table is a short note. Paolo appears at his side, takes his briefcase and tells him that Miss Lemon left shortly after he did that morning. He adds that he saw her into a cab himself and that the sheets have been changed again.
Jack nods then tells him that in the briefcase is a movie about Ewoks. "Please return it," he tells him: "I won't be needing it."
Paolo nods and shuffles away. Jack walks slowly over to his bed, sits down on what was for the last few days and nights, his side. After a moment of surveying the silence and order, he picks up the note from Lemon and reads it.
Miss me yet?
Jack smiles at the familiar scrawl followed by a big smiley face, then picks up the phone and presses speed dial number one.
"Like an Ewok misses his spear," he tells her as soon as she picks up. He hears her snort in amusement, and muffled voices in the background.
"That's beautiful, Jack," she replies, her mouth full of something: "but I thought I was your wookiee. In Star Wars metaphor. Not some symbolically phallic weapon."
He lowers his voice deliberately. "Do you want to be my wookiee, Lemon?"
"Yeesh," she groans: "how do you make that sound so dirty?"
"It's a talent."
"Sure, it is."
He smirks then adds in a deliberately velvety voice: "Would you prefer me to be your wookiee?"
"Aw, Jackie," she tells him with mock sweetness: "you already are," and he is sure if she were with him he'd receive an affectionate punch on the shoulder.
He chuckles: "Thankyou, Lemon. So…" he crosses his ankles, getting comfortable on his bed: "what're you watching?"
-x-
Liz glances at the TV, which was really only on for company, and takes another bite of her cookie. "Mmm, I dunno, nothing."
With a vague twinge of guilt, she directs her gaze downwards, brushing some crumbs off the oversized Princeton t-shirt she's wearing. It's difficult to explain how it found its way into her overnight bag or why exactly she's wearing it again (and without having washed it properly. She aired it out on her treadmill though, so she's not complete slob). Still, her wearing Jack's clothes is not the only thing about the past few days that defies good explanation. And anyway, there doesn't have to be a reason for everything.
END.