holding hands at midnight
title: nice work if you can get it (and you can get it if you try)
fandom: The Office
summary: Dwight. Angela. Ballroom dancing lessons.
word count: 1400
a/n: please note that I take my crack way to seriously. Also, this is belated fic for
arabella_hope cause it was her birthday and she's special and stuff and she wrote me fantastic Dwangela on my birthday and I'm terribly unoriginal, though very recipricol even though I've been too scared to post this up until now. Also I blame both Dancing With the Stars and this one infomercial with a personal ballet bar...
Angela arrives before Dwight. She hears the hollow echo of her footsteps on the hardwood floor and feels a rush of excitement she doesn’t even try to quell.
*
Dwight had sprung the idea of ballroom dancing lessons on her at the end of a particularly trying week, the highlight of which had been Michael’s learning of a new phrase: by virtue of. In true Michael fashion, he had overused it to the point of driving everyone mad, usually in the wrong context. Finally, after Michael actually shouted the sentence, “It is by virtue of the conference room!” Angela had snapped.
“By virtue of the conference room what, Michael? By virtue of the conference room’s existence, we will be subjected, once again, to all inanities that pass through your tiny pea brain?”
She had gone too far. She knew it by the shocked look on the faces of her co-workers whose defense of Michael always had a tendency to kick in a little earlier than her own did. All of those quietly hurt faces she could have handled, but then she had to go and meet Dwight’s eye. It was his crushed expression that had forced her hasty apology. This, of course, ended in a discussion in the conference room with everyone present to witness the most awkward hug of her professional life. Most awkward hug period, really, which is saying something as most of the hugs she has had the bad luck of experiencing are usually awkward.
At any rate, all was forgiven, and later Dwight had mentioned the lessons over dinner. He said he was saving it for a birthday gift, but given the day’s heavy circumstances, he felt they deserved a little something to acknowledge the rough patch they had overcome. They didn’t quite see eye to eye about rough patches like they did ball room dancing, but Angela was willing to overlook it, so excited was she by the prospect of the lessons.
They lived up to her expectations in every way. There were difficulties of course, but she has always been a fast learner and her partner is the same. Today, her only regret is that this is their final lesson.
*
Angela is aware that she looks nice in yellow. Particularly, she looks quite pleasant in the dress she has chosen to wear tonight. It is a dark enough shade and it contrasts nicely with her hair. Too light and she runs the risk of appearing all the same color. As a child, her mother made her aware of this on a regular basis. However, regardless of her mother and any lingering presence she may have, Angela knows that buttercup is her exact favorite kind of yellow and it just so happens that it is the yellow most complimentary to her skin tone.
She has been saving this dress for a special occasion, and this seems just the one.
She waits for Dwight in front of the mirror against the back wall of the wide room. Her fingers encircle the bar that runs the length of it. She remembers how it felt their first lesson. Familiar and not at the same time. It still reminds her of plies and releves and being small, riding in the back of a station wagon with tulle scratching at the skin of her legs and her yellow hair spilling out of a once tight bun. But now there are new connotations too, like Dwight’s strong hands and surprisingly graceful body.
It is in front of this mirror that she thinks about yellow and scrutinizes her appearance. She will never see her face as more than serviceable, though she finds it attractive enough in certain light from certain angles. She admires her narrow waist though her shoulders could be a little broader and she would prefer it if she were taller. And never before did she give much thought to her ankles, but Dwight pays them special attention so her glance naturally goes there next. They are quite shapely as far as ankles go.
Ordinarily, Angela has a low opinion of white shoes (as she should), but this particular pair is the exception to the rule. The heel is sturdy, yet delicate, perfect for dancing, and there’s something undeniably charming about the thin straps that that arc over her foot but seem to have no real job other than decoration. They’re like Mary Janes, only she didn’t have to buy them in the children’s department and she quietly thrills at that notion. They shine like something from another era, the 40’s maybe, possibly the 50’s. Angela thinks she might have liked living back then, at the very least the wardrobe would have better suited her, and her sense of propriety might have been better acknowledged. Appreciated by those around her in a way that it isn’t now, at least.
She’s thinking these thoughts with her head slightly tilted and her mouth a firm line of concentration when Dwight comes up behind her and places a hand at her shoulder. Strange how she can see her face soften. It’s gentle, his touch, but also weighty in a way that pleases her. She looks at his hand before she looks at him, and it’s a good thing too, for when her eyes meet his she very nearly looses her breath entirely, so warm and good a man is he.
She turns towards the mirror and so does he and they remain like that for a moment, taking in the pair they make.
It occurs to her that yellow is the very reason she was drawn to Dwight in the first place. Any man who could manage a mustard colored shirt in the dingy florescent lights of Dunder-Mifflin was one who immediately went up in Angela’s estimation.
After a light kiss at her temple, Dwight excuses himself and makes for a small stand near the doorway. She hears what he is doing rather than sees it and the pop-scratch of a record player sends her right back to her fantasy about the 1950’s.
He returns to her just as the music begins to play.
She would very much like to run her manicured fingers through his fine, soft hair, but he takes her hand first.
So they dance, and she delights in his large frame holding her small one and the tight, nearly perfect circles they create. She lets rigidity slip away. It’s replaced by a loose control she knows won’t last much longer.
There is a reason she does this. It is not because she likes keeping people at arm’s length, it is because she so enjoys the moment when she can’t any longer. The moment she’ll risk everything, from exposure to ridicule if only she can have his mouth on hers that very instant. The only thing more satisfying than that alone is driving Dwight to that point with her, and then tumbling together.
It is telling, she thinks, that they are able to achieve that same level of intensity whether or not the cameras are present. It is indicative of something in both of their personalities, or in their relationship in general. Something she likes, but would rather not think too much about. Thankfully, there are no cameras present tonight, nor have there been for any of their scheduled lessons.
Their instructor never shows, but it takes Angela a full forty-five minutes to notice. She smiles a wicked grin when Dwight tells her that he asked him not to come. They stop dancing in the middle of the floor and there’s nothing but their own audible breath and the heat between them. Just before Dwight kisses her, Angela’s last coherent thought is that she’d like to put her foot in her mouth more often if this is how she gets to amend it each time.
Later, after they’ve gone home and settled into Dwight’s bed, she thinks the stuff that followed the dancing, the touching and the panting and the tangled mess of limbs on that expansive wood floor, is nothing that would be considered decorous or respectable in the 40’s or 50’s. She is surprisingly okay with that.
fandom: The Office
summary: Dwight. Angela. Ballroom dancing lessons.
word count: 1400
a/n: please note that I take my crack way to seriously. Also, this is belated fic for
arabella_hope cause it was her birthday and she's special and stuff and she wrote me fantastic Dwangela on my birthday and I'm terribly unoriginal, though very recipricol even though I've been too scared to post this up until now. Also I blame both Dancing With the Stars and this one infomercial with a personal ballet bar...
Angela arrives before Dwight. She hears the hollow echo of her footsteps on the hardwood floor and feels a rush of excitement she doesn’t even try to quell.
*
Dwight had sprung the idea of ballroom dancing lessons on her at the end of a particularly trying week, the highlight of which had been Michael’s learning of a new phrase: by virtue of. In true Michael fashion, he had overused it to the point of driving everyone mad, usually in the wrong context. Finally, after Michael actually shouted the sentence, “It is by virtue of the conference room!” Angela had snapped.
“By virtue of the conference room what, Michael? By virtue of the conference room’s existence, we will be subjected, once again, to all inanities that pass through your tiny pea brain?”
She had gone too far. She knew it by the shocked look on the faces of her co-workers whose defense of Michael always had a tendency to kick in a little earlier than her own did. All of those quietly hurt faces she could have handled, but then she had to go and meet Dwight’s eye. It was his crushed expression that had forced her hasty apology. This, of course, ended in a discussion in the conference room with everyone present to witness the most awkward hug of her professional life. Most awkward hug period, really, which is saying something as most of the hugs she has had the bad luck of experiencing are usually awkward.
At any rate, all was forgiven, and later Dwight had mentioned the lessons over dinner. He said he was saving it for a birthday gift, but given the day’s heavy circumstances, he felt they deserved a little something to acknowledge the rough patch they had overcome. They didn’t quite see eye to eye about rough patches like they did ball room dancing, but Angela was willing to overlook it, so excited was she by the prospect of the lessons.
They lived up to her expectations in every way. There were difficulties of course, but she has always been a fast learner and her partner is the same. Today, her only regret is that this is their final lesson.
*
Angela is aware that she looks nice in yellow. Particularly, she looks quite pleasant in the dress she has chosen to wear tonight. It is a dark enough shade and it contrasts nicely with her hair. Too light and she runs the risk of appearing all the same color. As a child, her mother made her aware of this on a regular basis. However, regardless of her mother and any lingering presence she may have, Angela knows that buttercup is her exact favorite kind of yellow and it just so happens that it is the yellow most complimentary to her skin tone.
She has been saving this dress for a special occasion, and this seems just the one.
She waits for Dwight in front of the mirror against the back wall of the wide room. Her fingers encircle the bar that runs the length of it. She remembers how it felt their first lesson. Familiar and not at the same time. It still reminds her of plies and releves and being small, riding in the back of a station wagon with tulle scratching at the skin of her legs and her yellow hair spilling out of a once tight bun. But now there are new connotations too, like Dwight’s strong hands and surprisingly graceful body.
It is in front of this mirror that she thinks about yellow and scrutinizes her appearance. She will never see her face as more than serviceable, though she finds it attractive enough in certain light from certain angles. She admires her narrow waist though her shoulders could be a little broader and she would prefer it if she were taller. And never before did she give much thought to her ankles, but Dwight pays them special attention so her glance naturally goes there next. They are quite shapely as far as ankles go.
Ordinarily, Angela has a low opinion of white shoes (as she should), but this particular pair is the exception to the rule. The heel is sturdy, yet delicate, perfect for dancing, and there’s something undeniably charming about the thin straps that that arc over her foot but seem to have no real job other than decoration. They’re like Mary Janes, only she didn’t have to buy them in the children’s department and she quietly thrills at that notion. They shine like something from another era, the 40’s maybe, possibly the 50’s. Angela thinks she might have liked living back then, at the very least the wardrobe would have better suited her, and her sense of propriety might have been better acknowledged. Appreciated by those around her in a way that it isn’t now, at least.
She’s thinking these thoughts with her head slightly tilted and her mouth a firm line of concentration when Dwight comes up behind her and places a hand at her shoulder. Strange how she can see her face soften. It’s gentle, his touch, but also weighty in a way that pleases her. She looks at his hand before she looks at him, and it’s a good thing too, for when her eyes meet his she very nearly looses her breath entirely, so warm and good a man is he.
She turns towards the mirror and so does he and they remain like that for a moment, taking in the pair they make.
It occurs to her that yellow is the very reason she was drawn to Dwight in the first place. Any man who could manage a mustard colored shirt in the dingy florescent lights of Dunder-Mifflin was one who immediately went up in Angela’s estimation.
After a light kiss at her temple, Dwight excuses himself and makes for a small stand near the doorway. She hears what he is doing rather than sees it and the pop-scratch of a record player sends her right back to her fantasy about the 1950’s.
He returns to her just as the music begins to play.
She would very much like to run her manicured fingers through his fine, soft hair, but he takes her hand first.
So they dance, and she delights in his large frame holding her small one and the tight, nearly perfect circles they create. She lets rigidity slip away. It’s replaced by a loose control she knows won’t last much longer.
There is a reason she does this. It is not because she likes keeping people at arm’s length, it is because she so enjoys the moment when she can’t any longer. The moment she’ll risk everything, from exposure to ridicule if only she can have his mouth on hers that very instant. The only thing more satisfying than that alone is driving Dwight to that point with her, and then tumbling together.
It is telling, she thinks, that they are able to achieve that same level of intensity whether or not the cameras are present. It is indicative of something in both of their personalities, or in their relationship in general. Something she likes, but would rather not think too much about. Thankfully, there are no cameras present tonight, nor have there been for any of their scheduled lessons.
Their instructor never shows, but it takes Angela a full forty-five minutes to notice. She smiles a wicked grin when Dwight tells her that he asked him not to come. They stop dancing in the middle of the floor and there’s nothing but their own audible breath and the heat between them. Just before Dwight kisses her, Angela’s last coherent thought is that she’d like to put her foot in her mouth more often if this is how she gets to amend it each time.
Later, after they’ve gone home and settled into Dwight’s bed, she thinks the stuff that followed the dancing, the touching and the panting and the tangled mess of limbs on that expansive wood floor, is nothing that would be considered decorous or respectable in the 40’s or 50’s. She is surprisingly okay with that.