Chapter 2 — The Morning After
Liz awoke on her side feeling her glasses digging uncomfortably into her face. She started to reach up to adjust, but her arm was trapped. She raised her head and squinted to evaluate the situation in the gray morning light. She saw her blanket pulled over her body and realized she must have fallen asleep while the game was on. Nice of Jack to make sure she was covered before he left. She started to roll over to settle in for the last hours of sleep, but something solid and warm stopped her.
Jack was lying along the inside of the couch, spooning her body against his and pinning her arm to her side with his arm draped over her waist.
Liz froze. Sleeping with Jack, even fully clothed on the couch — not good. But they'd just fallen asleep watching TV. Whatever. This had happened with Floyd and Pete when they'd watched TV too late. But she'd never woken spooning with them. But she was still so sleepy, and she couldn't get up without waking Jack, making everything awkward and then forgetting any chance of sleep after that. She pulled her arm free and took her glasses off, tossing them on the coffee table with a clatter. Jack stirred slightly, but she felt his body relax again immediately. Still asleep. She wriggled back carefully so she wouldn't roll off the couch and began to breathe deeply and evenly again.
Jack began to awaken in lazy Saturday morning style, slowly becoming conscious before he opened his eyes. The body stretched along the front of his was warm and soft, an entirely pleasant sensation that he'd be happy to snuggle even closer toward. Avery usually didn't like to touch in bed after sex. Jack's eyes snapped open. He recognized the dark head in front of his face and the apartment beyond. The tension drained away. Not Avery. No strange one-night stand to drown his sorrows. Just pancakes, wine, and TV at Lemon's. Good God. He must still be a little drunk and very emotionally needy to be enjoying the feeling of her body against his this much.
He felt that body stretch gently.
"Sorry I kept you from your bed last night, Lemon," he said with an early morning rasp.
"'S'all righ', Jack. I actually slept pretty good," she said, ending on a wide yawn. It was warm and comfortable to wake up this way, even if it was Jack's voice vibrating through her body. Not awkward like she'd feared.
Muted morning show hosts nodded on the TV screen in front of them.
"The wine, the baseball game, the stress… I didn't mean to let them keep me from showing myself out."
Liz managed to roll onto her back as Jack pushed up on one elbow behind her.
"Let it go. It's what friends' couches are for during life crises," she said, becoming aware of the way his arm still draped over her waist, ending in a hand splayed across her stomach where her T-shirt had ridden up slightly. Seeing how close his blue eyes hovered as she spoke to him.
And there it was. The warm sleepy looseness had drained away and the awkwardness of sleeping — even platonically, to use his word — with her boss wrapped around her body had arrived full force.
"After one of the clowns told me he was gay, I went to Jenna's and we drank ourselves into a stupor," she said, sitting up swiftly. "I woke up with my head on the floor, my feet hanging over the back of the couch, and one sock and my shirt missing."
Oh, not making things better.
"Then I'm doing extremely well to be sleeping in a normal position fully clothed," he said as she shuffled toward the bathroom.
Jack sat up slowly and ambled toward the kitchen. Liz came out of the bathroom, calling, "Where are my glasses?"
She saw them on the coffee table but realized that when she'd tossed them off in the early morning hours, they had landed in the syrupy pool left on Jack's plate from the night before.
"Ah, blerg," she said as she picked up the plate to go wash her glasses, grumbling all the way to the kitchen.
She stopped cold in the doorway at the sight of Jack Donaghy barefoot in her kitchen, wearing his rumpled clothes and hair matted down on one side.
"I think the least I can do is make you breakfast before I leave," he said, voice echoing from the back of the refrigerator. "I know that you'll accept food as a true token of thanks."
"Oh, Jack, you don't have to —" she said as she held her glasses under running water.
"Nonsense. We've both got to eat."
"OK. Well, the Cheerios are in the cabinet behind you," she told him.
"Good Lord, Lemon, it's like you live in a college dorm. I'm talking about real food," he said as he pawed through the sparse contents of the refrigerator.
"I focus on keeping snacks in stock," she said, shooting him a dirty look as he continued to dig around.
"Ah," he said, straightening. "Even you have ingredients for omelets, Lemon."
"Omelets!" Her voice shimmered with excitement just shy of Sandwich Day.
Jack pulled a carton of eggs, quart of milk, leftover takeout box of ham, and a block of cheese from the refrigerator.
"How old is this?" he asked as he picked up a lone onion pushed into a corner of the counter.
"Oh, I just bought that… well, three weeks ago," her voice trailed off, embarrassed about how long perishables could sit around her apartment. "I was going to make soup."
"Well, that soup was never going to happen, anyway. And now this sad onion will make a fine omelet instead," he said as he rummaged around for a bowl, fork, and knives.
She wiped the last of the syrup from her glasses and put them on to see Jack deftly whisking the egg and chopping the onion.
"Wow, I didn't expect you to be putting on a Top Chef show in my kitchen," she said with surprise.
"Every man must have one culinary strength, Lemon," he said. "How else would I have survived the times when Colleen left the four of us to fend for ourselves over the one can of chicken noodle soup?"
"Aw," she said, charmed by the thought of a tiny Jack at the stove.
"And how else would I satisfy all of my lady friends after a night of passion?" he said.
"Ew," she said, crashing back to the present. "Gross, Jack."
"Never let it be said that Jack Donaghy loves 'em and leaves 'em," he said, pouring the eggs in the sizzling pan. "In fact, Lemon, I think you're the first to get the omelet without the passion."
She shuddered.
"As long as you give me extra cheese, I'll leave satisfied," she said.
Liz pulled down plates, forks, and cups. She started the coffeemaker and left it to gurgle while she went to watch the progress of her breakfast. Jack flipped it as the egg began to set around the edges of the ham.
"Damn. I tore the edge. Haven't been practicing enough lately," he said absently as he watched for the telltale bubbles warning him that the omelet was done.
Liz paused over his throwaway comment. Haven't practiced enough lately? For all of Jack's talk about his girls-of-the-week and even the recent talk of love, marriage, and babies, it was easy to forget how rapidly Jack jumped into relationships and how quickly they were over, leaving him with relatively few scars. He would be OK again.
"That's the closest I've ever heard you come to admitting a dry spell," Liz teased him.
"Hmmph." He ignored the implication and flipped the omelet onto one of the plates next to the stove. He divided the omelet and transferred half to the other plate while Liz filled their coffee cups. She took the first bite of her breakfast.
"Jack! This is really good!" she said as she dived back to the plate to continue.
"Thank you. It would be even better if you had proper ingredients. And since my technique failed so miserably this morning," he said, nudging the ragged split in the omelet, "I really need to practice. So come over for brunch tomorrow, and let's see what I can do now that I'm warmed up and have peppers and mushrooms and —"
"Yes! If you think you can improve on this, I'll be over tomorrow morning," she said eagerly.
They leaned into the counter and talked about an idea for a sketch for the week. Jack told Liz that it sounded totally implausible, so she told about her college experience she'd based the idea on. He laughed and told a story from the golf course when he was a junior executive trying to figure out GE's power players.
They talked until their plates and the coffeepot were empty. He asked about her plans for the day, and she shrugged, returning the question.
"Well, I'm meeting a decorator at my house at 11," he said, glancing at the microwave clock. "And — damn! When did it get so late? I can't meet with her like this. She works with three of the other vice presidents, and who knows what she'll say if I show up like this smelling like an all-night diner." Jack first gestured at his disheveled state and then at the crusty skillet where Liz had burned pancakes before he arrived the night before.
"Take a shower," she said, pushing him out of the kitchen. "Call her and tell her you're running a few minutes late, and she'll never know a thing. Give me your shirt, and I'll see what I can do with it while you clean up and deal with that situation," she said, waving at his messy hair.
He shucked the blue button-down into her hands and hurried toward the bathroom. She started rinsing a small blotch of wine on the front of the shirt, laughing that he'd been as clumsy as she was prone to be with food and clothing. The spot faded as she dabbed it, and she went to plug in the iron.
Women seemed to chase after Jack Donaghy, and she'd spent Friday night sleeping with him and Saturday morning tending his laundry. Since she was doing that, Liz allowed herself to reflect on the man himself. She could see the appeal to others. The arms that had held her, even accidentally in sleep, were confident and gentle. He could talk about his feelings, even if only briefly. He could cook, even if just an omelet. And, as she visualized him running shirtless to the shower, she thought that there was nothing wrong with his body. Broad shoulders and chest. Distinguished salt-and-pepper sideburns. And just enough of a gut to make him real.
Liz shook her head clear. Why was she thinking about Jack's body? Ick. Just finish with his shirt and send him on his way. The faint scent of his cologne rose as she pressed the iron against the fabric, and she sighed.
"You've got to get a man, Lemon," she muttered to herself.
Jack hung his trousers over the shower rod, hoping the steam would repair their wrinkles somewhat. Although the sink area of Lemon's bathroom was cluttered with hair products, and towels and underwear hung around the room haphazardly, the shower was clean and had only a few bottles on the shelf. He let the hot water soak him and reached for the shampoo with some trepidation.
He would have guessed she would pick a floral scent, but the shampoo and conditioner had an herbal, minty smell. Suprisingly nice. And he was glad to see that she was now using a gentle, oatmeal-based body wash because her complaints about her dry, itchy skin during the winter had been tedious. That didn't mean he wanted to wash with the stuff, but he was pleasantly surprised at its neutral scent. He felt lucky to find a clean towel on a shelf and dressed quickly. The pants did look better.
Jack ran Liz's round, vented brush through his hair, realizing that it hadn't been cut since Wednesday. He had to take better care of himself.
"Your shirt is OK. Just keep your jacket buttoned because that wine isn't going to come out without soap," Liz told him as he stepped into the living room again. He took the shirt and began buttoning it as she worked on the knot in his discarded tie.
"Don't worry, it's Saturday. I can skip the tie," he told her. She looked up to see him tucking the shirt into his pants and reaching for his jacket. She slipped the tie into the jacket pocket as he straightened his lapels.
He grasped her upper arms.
"Lemon, thank you," Jack said, his usual glibness gone as he searched for the right words. "There was no one else I wanted to talk to last night. Even if you fell asleep on me."
The usual smug superiority settled on the last few words, and Liz grinned at him in response.
"You're welcome. And you're going to be OK, Jack."
"I know," he said with a twinkle. "See you tomorrow for brunch."
TBC