The Right Amount of DIHC (3/8)
Fandom: 30 Rock
Pairing: Jack Donaghy/Liz Lemon
3. Humility
The light in the ballroom is a warm sort of goldish-red, spilling out of sconces and gilt candelabra like gravity-defying waterfalls. It spreads gently, kissing the heads and hairlines of old, wealthy bastards and the bejeweled hands of their dutifully beautiful wives. Across the dance floor, a banquet table covered in hors d’oeuvres glows under the luminous attention of a crystal chandelier. The champagne flute in her pale hand glitters in a way that seems both magical and wholly inappropriate. She is, after all, a fake girlfriend in a borrowed dress.
Jack stands next to her, leaning casually against the bar with a scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. She has never seen him smoke before, didn’t take him for the type, but he comes by it as naturally as Humphrey Bogart or Orson Welles. The cigar’s paper is a dark, cool brown - almost black - and the small round label wrapped around its body is a pleasant green that complements his cufflinks, tiny silver replicas of the state seal of Massachusetts.
“You know,” he says, exhaling a lazy plume of smoke, “although this is hardly your natural habitat, you certainly seem comfortable in it.”
“Yeah, well, I Sparknoted Atlas Shrugged before you picked me up.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She frowns, “Age joke? ‘Cause I can’t use the wrinkle cream you sent down to my office - it smells like ass.”
“No, no jokes,” he chuckles, carefully placing his tumbler on the surface of the bar. “Just… you look incredible. That’s all.”
A strange, heavy silence settles between them, dulling the jovial noise of Prince Gerhardt’s birthday party. She shoots the rest of her champagne in an effort to suppress the profound sense of embarrassment she can feel at the edges of her skin.
Jack sighs.
"Good God, Lemon," He slips his cigar in between his teeth and reaches out, covering her cheeks with his large, warm hands. "It's called a compliment; the polite response is 'thank you.'"
Pairing: Jack Donaghy/Liz Lemon
3. Humility
The light in the ballroom is a warm sort of goldish-red, spilling out of sconces and gilt candelabra like gravity-defying waterfalls. It spreads gently, kissing the heads and hairlines of old, wealthy bastards and the bejeweled hands of their dutifully beautiful wives. Across the dance floor, a banquet table covered in hors d’oeuvres glows under the luminous attention of a crystal chandelier. The champagne flute in her pale hand glitters in a way that seems both magical and wholly inappropriate. She is, after all, a fake girlfriend in a borrowed dress.
Jack stands next to her, leaning casually against the bar with a scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. She has never seen him smoke before, didn’t take him for the type, but he comes by it as naturally as Humphrey Bogart or Orson Welles. The cigar’s paper is a dark, cool brown - almost black - and the small round label wrapped around its body is a pleasant green that complements his cufflinks, tiny silver replicas of the state seal of Massachusetts.
“You know,” he says, exhaling a lazy plume of smoke, “although this is hardly your natural habitat, you certainly seem comfortable in it.”
“Yeah, well, I Sparknoted Atlas Shrugged before you picked me up.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
She frowns, “Age joke? ‘Cause I can’t use the wrinkle cream you sent down to my office - it smells like ass.”
“No, no jokes,” he chuckles, carefully placing his tumbler on the surface of the bar. “Just… you look incredible. That’s all.”
A strange, heavy silence settles between them, dulling the jovial noise of Prince Gerhardt’s birthday party. She shoots the rest of her champagne in an effort to suppress the profound sense of embarrassment she can feel at the edges of her skin.
Jack sighs.
"Good God, Lemon," He slips his cigar in between his teeth and reaches out, covering her cheeks with his large, warm hands. "It's called a compliment; the polite response is 'thank you.'"