AN: Um, this is my first attempt at writing 30 Rock stuff, so I'm not sure if I got the tone down right...Sorry if it sounds really weird. I did had fun writing it, though, it kind of jumps around, like my thoughts. Turtles!

30 Rock is not mine, etc. Enjoy.

She's not exactly sure how it happened.

Well, okay, she knows the logistics of it; you enter the phone number into your phone, and you go to settings, and then...well. Pete's kid did it for her, actually. If she's being honest.

Yeah. But nobody ever asked Liz Lemon to be tech savvy, so there.

Anyways, she at least understands the concept behind physically entering contacts into a phone, and she sat there, as Kyle (the scary one, which is so true; his eyes look through you, like he's judging you, and it's creepy) asks her, the boredom evident in his prepubescent voice:

"Who do you want to be your number one on speed dial?"

This got Liz thinking. It wasn't as if she was taking real stock in the significance of being the top person on speed dial (who would do that? Not Liz Lemon). Who really thought that was such a big deal? Right?

Who was the person she called the most, or received the most calls from? This is what she's confused about.

Because her first thought, even before asking herself that, it's: Jack Donaghy.

And something about that, the instantaneous leap from "number one speed dial" to "Jack", that's kind of freaking her out. Does it mean she considers Jack before everyone else (even her mom, even the pizza guy), and that this is some sort of weird, underlying hint her brain is trying to send her that there's something fishy between her and her boss? Maybe it's okay, maybe it's just strictly based on the fact that work requires communication between boss and worker, which often means communication with him, since he's her boss and all that. Somehow, she can't convince herself to pass it off as "just a work related deal", because really, most of her calls end up with them in some weird discussion about pop culture, or her love life, or the best kind of candy to eat at 3am after a ten hour marathon of Battlestar Galactica. Not that she (or Jack) watches Battlestar Galactica.

The saddest thing is that the first thing she does after Kyle hands her the phone, sighing in that condescending way that only small children can, she calls Jack.

"How high up am I on your speed dial?" she asks him through a mouthful of bagel the next morning on her way to work.

"Are you on the street right now?" Jack asks her, incredulous. "Are you walking, talking to me, and eating?! What kind of shoes are you wearing?"

"Um," she replies. "Sneakers?"

He sounds disappointed, just a little, as he says, "Ah. Well. I was hoping for heels, but..." And here, he pauses, and she can almost see his face, struggling to come up with a compliment. "Lemon, shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars."

"Thanks, Jack. You always know how to motivate me," she quips, but the sarcasm is lost on him, and he continues talking:

"Anyways, you are my number two speed dial. And before you ask, I cannot tell you the first. It's classified information. I'm sure I'll regret asking you to bring me into your latest neurotic dilemma, but why are you asking me this?"

"Um," she says again, because it's difficult to get through a revolving door with a bagel and your purse and a phone on your shoulder. Jack's patient on the other end, listening to her grunts and muttered curses, until finally she breaks free of the door and turns about to give it a little glare before continuing to the elevators. She's briefly concerned; what's the downside to telling him this?

The worst, she thinks, is that he'll poke fun at her. He'll say something like, "Lemon, you're worrying over buttons on your phone?" or whatever, and she'll feel suddenly incredibly small, and sort of protest, but end up sweeping it under her proverbial "Jack's weird and this whole mentor thing is weird too" carpet. Anyway, her calculations indicate that it's relatively harmless to tell him, so she just tells him:

"Well, I just got that new cell phone, and I had Pete's son program it for me, and I have you as my number one on speed dial. So...congratulations? I don't know if that's an honor for you, anyways, since you're, you know, rich and affluent and probably are on a lot of people's speed dials..."

Jack's quiet as she continues, and it's only when she's basically choking on her food, trying to cough and talk to him about how the phone guys probably ripped her off, when he tells her:

"I am honored, Lemon."

He always does this, letting her prattle on and on and on about whatever it is, and even if he's not really listening, he's does a damned good job of faking it, because even though the loss of oxygen makes her a little woozy, she's convinced he hangs on each word. So she just keeps going, like a lemming or another suicidally inclined cute animal, until he cuts her off, essentially rescuing her from talking to death by suffocation. Or maybe it's her lungs that would collapse, or her brain would crash from lack of oxygen. Liz doesn't watch CSI very often.

What he says to stop her isn't helpful this time, it's the opposite; she sputters a little more violently, wheezing before hacking up a huge biteful of bagel onto the NBC elevator carpet.

"Ew," she whispers, sort of awed, because, jeez, she really took a big bite, huh? "I mean, not you, Jack. The bagel I kind of just threw up."

"I reiterate your statement, Lemon. Ew."

"Yeah..."

There's a silence; the whoosh of the elevator going up, the sound of stale air flowing through air ducts, the far-away typing of Jonathan from the other line. Liz eyes the blob of food with a growing disgust. Jack speaks.

"I'm honored, Lemon, because while I personally feel little or no emotional importance lies within the contact numbers of people represented by buttons on my cell phone, I understand that you of all people would think of it as some inane gesture indicating the significance of our friendship. So, I suppose I'm honored because while I think it's unimportant, you think it is, and the consideration that went into this decision (that is meaningless) is appreciated. I am flattered you'd choose me, out of all the people. Even before the pizza guy," he drawls, doing that thing again, where they have this moment and then he just continues, like nothing happened at all, like his train of thought hadn't been hurled off track by a colossal earthquake, or by King Kong, or something. And now she's thinking about how crappy Peter Jackson's remake was; really, Adrien Brody? Could they not hire someone even a little more heroic? Like Harrison Ford.

And, wow, how does he do that other thing, where he knows stuff like her first-name basis with Waylon at Round Table?

"No, that wouldn't be right," he tells her, snapping her out of her reverie. "Ford doesn't have the looks to pull off the whole 'sensitive writer' idea. Then again, if Jackson had wanted to be realistic, you need only look to your own writer's to see why Brody was not so much of a stretch."

"Yeah, Frank isn't exactly the kind of guy I'd want to have around when I'm being kidnapped by giant apes."

"Hardly, Lemon. I've got to go, I've dealt with your little issue, and now I'm onto bigger things. Microwave things." He says this like he's speaking of something heavenly, like one of the archangels, or Oprah. "Button classic, Lemon. I think it's coming back. I've got a deep, deep feeling in my gut."

"That's what she said!" Liz tells him, and she hangs up as the elevator dings for her level, exiting while sidestepping the regurgitated bagel.

Kenneth would clean it up anyways.