fic: black sedans (studio 60)
black sedans (slow down, turn around)
fandom: studio 60
disclaimer: not mine
rating: pg-13
word count: 602
characters/pairings: jordan; jack/jordan, danny/jordan
summary: it's hollywood, baby. we're swapping lives at the speed of sound.
notes: for
zauberer_sirin. vaguely AU-ish.
-
your mouth should be working for me, for free -
i would love to pay for you
(the maid needs a maid, emily haines and the soft skeleton)
-
Lights, camera -
They only ever breathe the word action.
-
Jack curls his fingers around the steering wheel, ten o’clock, two o’clock, and her back curves against the leather of the seat.
He clucks his tongue and floors it; the light turns red.
You see: they’re always in a hurry.
(She comes once before the sun sets and his teeth trace the column of her throat).
-
“What our network needs is an Oprah,” she announces, sans preamble, and Jack? His eyebrows dance along his forehead, first up and then down, and the frown lines etch deep and dip.
“You want to hire a Rent-an-Oprah? Maybe a Maury? I can see if Montel is on the market.”
She holds up a finger, she cocks her head. “Restrain the sarcasm for just a moment, if you can, Jack - ” for the record, she says his name as though she is trying to clench her teeth around the four letters and bite down, hard - “there is a huge untapped market who we only try and appease and court with lame soap operas and the occasional movie-of-the-week.”
“You talking housewives, McDeere?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
-
Her kitchen is painted yellow.
For the record, Jack will never know this.
-
She is handed the morning’s memos and a latte on the side.
“Her tits are totally fake, you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“Her tits,” her secretary says. “They’re fake. Like, Playboy bunny fake.”
“Who’s tits are we talking about?” Jordan wrinkles a stack of paper, fist at her hip.
“Jack’s wife.”
“Oh.”
-
Altogether now:
Jack sounds out words like separation and alimony while Jordan waves a wand in the air.
She tells Danny yes.
-
You see, it’s really rather simple. She’s become that old cliché:
The boss dating her subordinate.
(No. Not just that one).
The girl - the woman - that makes a bad decision one night and - condom rips, 1% chance, you don’t have anything on you? - she’s knocked up with a baby she never wanted and is now dating a man out of something like convenience.
(It doesn’t get more textbook than that).
-
Danny reads pregnancy magazines and lectures her about things like folic acid intake and vitamin C and fruits and vegetables and pilates, and it’s supposed to be sweet - sure, she imagines - but he’ll walk into her office, magazine rolled up in his fist and he’ll say the baby and use impractical words like we.
(She’ll want to cry, or worse, she’ll want to vomit and she’ll find herself stammering out some lame excuse and walking towards the ladies room, head cast down).
She can’t see her fucking toes anymore.
-
“I’ve made a huge mistake,” Jordan mutters.
“If this is about next fall’s line-up, I don’t even want to fucking hear it, McDeere…”
She thinks she might just cry.
His fingers are bare.
-
Her idea of lullabies are broken chords to Nico’s songs, sung low without the accent.
When he (read: Danny) catches her singing “Eulogy to Lenny Bruce,” he snorts and asks what happened to “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.”
Jordan answers in song: did you leave your life to your mother?
-
In the office, Jack asks, tall: how’s the baby?
She holds her chin high (yes, she is too proud to beg) -
“Perfect.”
-
fin.