fic: UPFRONTS
UPFRONTS
30 rock x studio 60, jordan mcdeere/jack donaghy, r.
tricks like that don’t work on me, donaghy.
nb; set reasonably early in the run of both shows. I can’t be arsed to work out the timelines so just idk..suspend your disbelief IT’S THE MAGIC OF TELEVISION OK. also, the chances of this having a sequel are almost embarrassingly high.
I wish that you were here with me to pass the dull weekend
I know it wouldn’t come to love my heroine pretend
BELLE & SEBASTIAN
Which came first, NBC or NBS?
It’s the chicken and the egg, only with more lawyers and less omelettes. C’est la vie, the saying goes.
She sends him an email: I got your post again.
Her phone rings twice. “When is that fine ass of yours next in New York, McDeere?”
She grins, settles the receiver into the crook of her shoulder. “How’s your mother?”
“Annoyingly healthy. How’s Jack?”
“Rudolph?”
It’s the old joke, and one he stopped finding amusing when Jack Rudolph got a seat on the board and Jack Donaghy did not. She still likes it, though, and he’s too much of a gentleman to do anything but play along. “No, Donaghy.” He says, a trace of weariness behind the punchline.
The corners of her mouth twitch. “I’ll be in New York some time next month.”
It’s beginning to snow when she lands, and she’s already pining for Los Angeles . He insists on getting Jonathan to take her bags, “They’re very heavy,” she says, hides her grin when the assistants shoulders sag. She turns to Jack, “He’s eager to please.”
“It’s the peacock way.” He says, deadpan, offers her his arm. “Just wait until you meet Kenneth.”
“Kenneth?”
Jack smiles, more to himself than at her. “Our newest page.”
“Oh,” she says, a flicker of recognition, “Sorry, I forgot that you lot still use slave labour.”
His laugh is throaty, a gentle and dry rasp that catches her where she’s not expecting. She ducks her head forward, laughs too.
“It’s your round,” she says when they reach their favourite bar, a smile that flashes teeth.
“How does the reindeer put up with you?” He says, tosses his card across the bar.
“Don’t call him that.” She says, but does a bad job at hiding her giggle. “And he’s my boss. It’s always his round.”
“You’ve got it made, McDeere.”
Her fingers curl around her scotch, and she cocks her head. It’s not as endearing as it used to be. “Oh, Jack.” She says, thinks idly that they really need to stop serving alcohol on aeroplanes, “If only you knew.”
It is fair to say: they are drunk.
She leans forward, steadies herself on his arm. “So,” she starts, “What do I have to do to get Liz Lemon over to Studio 60?”
“Never gonna happen, McDeere.”
She drains her drink, scoffs. “We get double TGS’ ratings. On a bad night.”
A shake of the head. “When was the last time you got any action?” He says, voice softly slurred.
She settles a hand on her hip, glares at him. “Don’t change the subject. And that is none of your goddamn business.”
“So it was the last time you were here.” He smirks, tips his drink down his neck, “Interesting.”
Her knees slip on the sheets, pushing her further onto him and she gasps, pulls her lower lip through her teeth. Her catches her, settling his hands on the curve between her waist and hips, lifting her a fraction.
“I understand. I am a lot to handle.”
“That’s a good line,” she says, ponders for a moment while he finds his rhythm. “My point still stands, you know: Studio 60 is fucking TGS up the ass in the ratings.”
“That may be so,” he says, broken by ragged breaths, “but I’m fucking you right now and that’s what really counts.”
Her laugh comes husky. “You are never fucking me up the ass Jack.”
“Not even if I say please?” He says, and her laugh turns into a gasp when he shifts just so and slides a hand around her pelvis.
When she catches her breath she grins down at him. “Tricks like that don’t work on me, Donaghy.” He ought to know that by now.
She stays for a week. They have fun. “You should come to LA sometime,” she says, standing at the departure gate. Jonathan stands redundant by the vending machine, trying hard not to look like he’s eavesdropping. It amuses her more than it should, or maybe that’s just what sketch comedy does to a person. She’s too far gone to tell.
“Some time,” he agrees, a sincere smile, for once. “Say hello to the reindeer from me.”
A laugh rises in her chest, and a familiar ache with it. “I’ll forward your post.”
They never do say goodbye. Life’s too circular for that kind of shit.
end.
30 rock x studio 60, jordan mcdeere/jack donaghy, r.
tricks like that don’t work on me, donaghy.
nb; set reasonably early in the run of both shows. I can’t be arsed to work out the timelines so just idk..suspend your disbelief IT’S THE MAGIC OF TELEVISION OK. also, the chances of this having a sequel are almost embarrassingly high.
I wish that you were here with me to pass the dull weekend
I know it wouldn’t come to love my heroine pretend
BELLE & SEBASTIAN
Which came first, NBC or NBS?
It’s the chicken and the egg, only with more lawyers and less omelettes. C’est la vie, the saying goes.
She sends him an email: I got your post again.
Her phone rings twice. “When is that fine ass of yours next in New York, McDeere?”
She grins, settles the receiver into the crook of her shoulder. “How’s your mother?”
“Annoyingly healthy. How’s Jack?”
“Rudolph?”
It’s the old joke, and one he stopped finding amusing when Jack Rudolph got a seat on the board and Jack Donaghy did not. She still likes it, though, and he’s too much of a gentleman to do anything but play along. “No, Donaghy.” He says, a trace of weariness behind the punchline.
The corners of her mouth twitch. “I’ll be in New York some time next month.”
It’s beginning to snow when she lands, and she’s already pining for Los Angeles . He insists on getting Jonathan to take her bags, “They’re very heavy,” she says, hides her grin when the assistants shoulders sag. She turns to Jack, “He’s eager to please.”
“It’s the peacock way.” He says, deadpan, offers her his arm. “Just wait until you meet Kenneth.”
“Kenneth?”
Jack smiles, more to himself than at her. “Our newest page.”
“Oh,” she says, a flicker of recognition, “Sorry, I forgot that you lot still use slave labour.”
His laugh is throaty, a gentle and dry rasp that catches her where she’s not expecting. She ducks her head forward, laughs too.
“It’s your round,” she says when they reach their favourite bar, a smile that flashes teeth.
“How does the reindeer put up with you?” He says, tosses his card across the bar.
“Don’t call him that.” She says, but does a bad job at hiding her giggle. “And he’s my boss. It’s always his round.”
“You’ve got it made, McDeere.”
Her fingers curl around her scotch, and she cocks her head. It’s not as endearing as it used to be. “Oh, Jack.” She says, thinks idly that they really need to stop serving alcohol on aeroplanes, “If only you knew.”
It is fair to say: they are drunk.
She leans forward, steadies herself on his arm. “So,” she starts, “What do I have to do to get Liz Lemon over to Studio 60?”
“Never gonna happen, McDeere.”
She drains her drink, scoffs. “We get double TGS’ ratings. On a bad night.”
A shake of the head. “When was the last time you got any action?” He says, voice softly slurred.
She settles a hand on her hip, glares at him. “Don’t change the subject. And that is none of your goddamn business.”
“So it was the last time you were here.” He smirks, tips his drink down his neck, “Interesting.”
Her knees slip on the sheets, pushing her further onto him and she gasps, pulls her lower lip through her teeth. Her catches her, settling his hands on the curve between her waist and hips, lifting her a fraction.
“I understand. I am a lot to handle.”
“That’s a good line,” she says, ponders for a moment while he finds his rhythm. “My point still stands, you know: Studio 60 is fucking TGS up the ass in the ratings.”
“That may be so,” he says, broken by ragged breaths, “but I’m fucking you right now and that’s what really counts.”
Her laugh comes husky. “You are never fucking me up the ass Jack.”
“Not even if I say please?” He says, and her laugh turns into a gasp when he shifts just so and slides a hand around her pelvis.
When she catches her breath she grins down at him. “Tricks like that don’t work on me, Donaghy.” He ought to know that by now.
She stays for a week. They have fun. “You should come to LA sometime,” she says, standing at the departure gate. Jonathan stands redundant by the vending machine, trying hard not to look like he’s eavesdropping. It amuses her more than it should, or maybe that’s just what sketch comedy does to a person. She’s too far gone to tell.
“Some time,” he agrees, a sincere smile, for once. “Say hello to the reindeer from me.”
A laugh rises in her chest, and a familiar ache with it. “I’ll forward your post.”
They never do say goodbye. Life’s too circular for that kind of shit.
end.