DISCLAIMER: 30 Rock and its characters are the propert of NBC. No infringement intended.
CHALLENGE: Written for the 'Overblown Drabble Challenge'.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

The Science of Baseball (Thrown for a Curve)
By Amatia


"I don't suppose you want to come over?" Liz asks, holding the phone a little tighter than she wants to admit she's holding it, and hoping Gretchen won't remember that it's been months since they've seen each other.

"Liz, it's been months," Gretchen replies, and Liz mouths damn and sighs, then regrets sighing right into the mouthpiece. "But sure," Gretchen continues (maybe she hadn't heard the sigh), "I'll bring Chinese or something."

She brings egg rolls and beef with broccoli and Singapore noodles, and the crispy fried pieces of chicken with shockingly pink sauce that aren't actually what sweet and sour chicken is supposed to be, but confesses it's her guilty pleasure so she was getting it anyway. Liz asks, "Isn't there supposed to be pineapple?"

"And peppers," Gretchen says, nodding. Her ribbon scarf falls over her shoulder and Liz sweeps it back up before it can get in the noodles. Gretchen smiles and Liz remembers all the reasons why she'd been having a good time hanging out with her, and all the reasons why Gretchen had decided they should stop. "So, uhm, how's the show?" Gretchen asks as Liz gets paper plates and plastic silverware from the cupboard (washing dishes is for losers, she's decided).


"Oh, right, reruns." She spears an egg roll with her fork.

Liz rolls her eyes and spoons rice onto her three-plates-in-one. "The last two weeks there's been sports," she replies, still grumpy about it. "But we're working on material for next season. Taking advantage of Tracy being on his comedy tour thing," she admits. "Not that he'll like any of it anyway."

Gretchen hums noncommittally and they sit on the couch with their food, watching the Colbert Report and drinking Liz's last bottle of wine. It's a little warm in the apartment, despite the air conditioning, and between the alcohol, the temperature and a belly full of decent Chinese, Liz feels a little sleepy. She leans against Gretchen's shoulder.

Gretchen tips back the last of the wine in her glass, turns her head, and kisses her. It lasts long enough that Liz can picture the last five guys she's kissed, feel a little disgusted that she'd kissed most of them, and bring herself back around to consciously kissing back. Gretchen kisses well: not too wetly, not too open, precise but a little reckless at the same time. Liz finds herself enjoying it, and is confused. "I like the way you kiss," she says when it ends, and frowns. That wasn't what she meant to say. "I mean, I thought we weren't going to do this."

"You decided you didn't want to do this, so I said we couldn't hang out," Gretchen corrects, and that makes much more sense. Her hair is brushing against Liz's cheek. "When you called, part of me was hoping you'd changed your mind."

"I'm kind of confused," she says, all in a rush.

The corner of Gretchen's mouth quirks. "I figured."

"Help me to be un-confused," she says, and damnit, Lemon, that's not a word, but then she stops caring because Gretchen is kissing her again, and maybe she's not in such disarray after all.

The End

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