burn, pine, perish (whatever) (30 rock, liz/wesley)
For a fortnight after he's been cast aside by his (ex) betrothed in favor of that damned sky pirate, Wesley pines. Eloquently. Exquisitely. There is some uniquely British brooding, the kind that involves striding across fields at sunrise in his shirtsleeves, and penning tormented letters in swoopy-yet-masculine handwriting and then tossing them into the fire. Once, he jumps into a lake. Not in a suicidal sense, necessarily. More so he can climb out of it again. All wet and white-shirted ...
Liz doesn't know if any of the above actually happened. But it's nice to think about. Sometimes. On the rare occasion when the thought crosses her mind. Here are some facts for you, world at large: she rejected the love of an Englishman! Yeah! That's right! Her standards are that high! She spurned the attentions of a man who pronounces 'schedule' with a 'shh', and can say the word 'knickers' without sounding weird. Well, without sounding that weird.
Her standards are that high!
Her standards are ... that ... high ...
In her memory, Wesley looks more and more like Colin Firth every time he crosses her mind. Which is not that often.
(She has a hard time watching Austen adaptations. And The King's Speech? Forget about it.)
She breaks up with Carol over gunpoint, you know, like some other couple might break up over coffee. She buys herself a cat named Emily Dickinson and she's done. Until she's not done anymore, because
So here she is, not-done and single and okay. She's okay. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, she decides she's going to be one of those cool spinsters. One of those awesome, prickly old ladies who are quite simply too awesome to have ever let their life be bogged down by those lame old men folk.
Like Dame Maggie Smith.
Liz doesn't know if Maggie Smith is a Dame, or if she's a spinster. But it seems close enough. Unfortunately, Maggie Smith gets her thinking about Colin Firth, because they have to have been in one movie together at some point, right? Right?
Sometimes when she's flipping through her mail she hopes she'll find a tormented love letter, written on paper yellowed with age (shut up. It makes sense. It takes a long time to mail stuff all the way from England) and full of O, Elizabeth!s. So she can laugh at it. Because it's so lame.
That would be nice.
There's this infomercial that always comes up on her TV menu, a little square jauntily proclaiming that "Wesley Snipes Uses TotalGym!", and every time she sees it she does this laugh-snort-sneer thing and mutters, "Yeah right."
So she hasn't totally lost contact with reality.
It always cheers her up when this happens, but only a little bit. She doesn't always recognize the feeling for what it is.
(A spoiler, courtesy of the universe: one day, in the distant-but-not-too-distant future, Liz Lemon will turn around and there Wesley Snipes will be, and he won't look that much like Colin Firth, and he will say something so perfectly and Britishly annoying she will want to rip his face off, but this time, she will never quite manage to shake him off, and she will never quite remember how to want to. He will be delighted.)
beauty and family (glee, brittany/santana)
the (far away but not that far away) future
"The cat's not speaking to me," Brittany says.
"Um," Santana says. "Brit-Brit?"
"Cats can't talk," Brittany recites, bored. "But she's not speaking to me. I gave her one scoop of food instead of two this morning because I got distracted by that thing on the blender--"
"Brittany. That's just the blender, okay? How many times do we have to do this?"
"--that thing on the blender, and now she hates me. I'm a bad cat-mom. So you have to be really, really nice to her so she doesn't act out in her teens. She's getting there. Is it just me or is it way easier to count in cat years?"
"What are cat years?" Santana can only remember dog years.
"I forgot," Brittany says. "That's probably why it's easy. It can just be whatever you want it to be."
"You know what I love?" Santana says.
Before she can say Not taking math, Brittany says, "Not taking math. And movies with explosions in them, because fire is sexy. And ducks. But that one is a secret."
"I don't love ducks," Santana says, trying to sound offended.
"Don't worry," Brittany says, snuggling against her shoulder, "I won't tell anyone."
Santana scoffs. Life isn't super great or anything, for the record. She doesn't spend all her time snuggling and having deep conversations about the cat's emotional health and loving ducks. She hates her job. She hates most of her classes. The shower in this shithole apartment has two settings: 'freezing' and 'brown.' She has no real idea what she's doing.
(But the thing is: Brittany, Brittany, Brittany, and it's not like it's new, SantanaandBrittany, they've been glued together since kindergarten, but now it's SantanaandBrittany for real. They picked out dish sets at Target and happy-fought over sheets; 1 bedroom 1 bath, home sweet home. They've got a cat. Her name is 'Sunshine' if you ask Brittany and 'hey, fuckhead' if you ask pre-coffee Santana and 'aw, you' if you ask post-coffee Santana.
They sing duets in the shower. They're good at keeping each other warm.)
"Damn it," Santana says, "they're so cute."
"Ducks love you too, sweetie," Brittany says sleepily. "It's okay."