love is a burnin' thing (Michael/Jan)
Title: love is a burnin' thing
Pairing: Michael/Jan
Spoilers: through "The Job"
Word Count: 832
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s Thanksgiving, and when Jan tries to cook, the situation heats up. On account of the flames. Lucky Michael.
Author's Note: Man, this is the first time I've written these two crazy kids in ages. See, I came up with this really ingenious plan earlier to shuffle through my iTunes, get the first ten song titles that came up, and write drabbles based on each song title. However, because I am me, I managed one reasonably-sized fic instead. So, thanks for that, 'Sweet Potato' by Sia!
--
So, guess how Michael spends his Thanksgiving? Not chowing down on delicious turkey, or stuffing, or cranberry sauce. Hell, no. That’s the kind of stuff that people with non-crazy girlfriends get to do on Thanksgiving. But Michael does have a crazy girlfriend, which means that he gets to spend Thanksgiving standing outside while frickin’ firefighters put out his kitchen.
He really misses spending all his nights home alone with the TV.
“Fucking sweet potatoes,” Jan mutters viciously, standing next to him. Her hair’s pulled back into a sloppy bun, there’s a streak of flour across her cheek, and she’s wearing sweats, a sports bra, and his Kiss the Cook (With Tongue!) apron. She digs a cigarette and a lighter out of one of the pockets, which, wow, awesome thing to do right after you started a damn kitchen fire. She should just go hook up with Ryan. Michael’d have to watch, though. He’s not letting his girlfriend out of his sight with Ryan McDreamy Boss Man Howard around. That would not be a smart move. No, sir.
He’s so distracted by the really dumb smoking and the f-bomb and Ryan and Jan theoretically doin’ the nasty-nasty that it takes him a second to realize what she said. “You made sweet potatoes?”
“No, Michael,” she snaps, in that same old voice she used to use when she was lecturing him on productivity in the workplace. It gets him nostalgic, a little. “I did not make sweet potatoes; I tried to make sweet potatoes, and I burned your house down.”
“Well, yeah,” Michael says, shrugging it off. Like he wants to dwell on that on the holidays. “But before then. You were making sweet potatoes?”
“You said you liked them,” she responds dismissively, and flicks ash onto the pavement.
He blinks. “You were listening?”
“I do listen when you talk, Michael,” Jan says, all impatient.
“Since when?” Michael asks suspiciously.
She looks super-offended for like three seconds and then totally caves.
“Recently,” she admits, and takes another drag on her cigarette. “Dr. Perry said it might be a good idea.”
Michael doesn’t usually like Jan’s shrink - hello, was he not supposed to notice that Jan only got crazy after she started talking to this guy? - but this sounds like a surprisingly wise move on Dr. Fairy’s part. Listening to each other is one of those things that actual happy couples do. Or so he’s heard.
“Whoa,” he says, and grins at her. “Okay, well - that’s . . . really really cool.” He suddenly feels a lot better about his house being on fire, and everything. “Hey, listen, tell you what: you give Dr. F- Dr. Perry a high five for me the next time you see him.”
He lifts his right hand expectantly.
Jan stares at him. “I am not going to high five my therapist, Michael.”
“No, no,” Michael insists, hand hovering. “Seriously. Give him one of these. Up high.”
Jan stares at him for a second before dropping her cigarette, crushing it with her heel, and slapping her palm reluctantly against his. When she tries to pull her hand back, Michael doesn’t let her, twining his fingers with hers instead. After a second, she surrenders to his irresistible charm and smiles a little bit.
“I’m sorry,” she says sort of quietly after awhile, and looks at their fingers all entwined. “I wanted today to be nice.”
“It is nice,” Michael says, because it is his responsibility as her hot manly hunk of burning love to lie to her. “Real nice.”
“No it’s not,” she protests with a dark laugh.
“No,” Michael agrees, frowning. “It’s not. You’re right. It sucks some serious balls.” He glances in the direction of the kitchen window. There’s smoke pouring out of it, and he can hear the firemen snapping at each other inside. He’s pretty sure this kind of thing wouldn’t have happened if he’d stuck with Carol.
But then he looks back at Jan, and she’s so - well, okay, a big sweaty mess. Point is, though, she’s his big sweaty mess.
“This part’s good, though,” he says, and drums his fingertips against her knuckles.
“Yeah,” she agrees with a slow smile. “Yeah, it is.”
He thinks he likes moments like these with Jan the best. Sure, they aren’t naked and sexy, but it’s like he remembers why he loves her in the first place.
“And as the kitchen burns,” he says grandly, figuring the occasion calls for a little lovespeak, “so do our hearts.”
Jan sighs. She sounds more annoyed than smitten. Weirdo. “Michael-”
“Si, mi armoire?” he asks, massaging his thumb against hers.
For a second, she just looks at him. He smiles back at her.
“Nothing,” she decides, and reaches for his collar to pull him close. “C’mere, you.”
“Yes ma’am,” he obeys, and doesn’t even feel weird or violated a little bit.
Maybe things are looking up.
(Turns out, they aren’t so much. Kitchen repair costs a lot. A lot, a lot.)
Pairing: Michael/Jan
Spoilers: through "The Job"
Word Count: 832
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It’s Thanksgiving, and when Jan tries to cook, the situation heats up. On account of the flames. Lucky Michael.
Author's Note: Man, this is the first time I've written these two crazy kids in ages. See, I came up with this really ingenious plan earlier to shuffle through my iTunes, get the first ten song titles that came up, and write drabbles based on each song title. However, because I am me, I managed one reasonably-sized fic instead. So, thanks for that, 'Sweet Potato' by Sia!
--
So, guess how Michael spends his Thanksgiving? Not chowing down on delicious turkey, or stuffing, or cranberry sauce. Hell, no. That’s the kind of stuff that people with non-crazy girlfriends get to do on Thanksgiving. But Michael does have a crazy girlfriend, which means that he gets to spend Thanksgiving standing outside while frickin’ firefighters put out his kitchen.
He really misses spending all his nights home alone with the TV.
“Fucking sweet potatoes,” Jan mutters viciously, standing next to him. Her hair’s pulled back into a sloppy bun, there’s a streak of flour across her cheek, and she’s wearing sweats, a sports bra, and his Kiss the Cook (With Tongue!) apron. She digs a cigarette and a lighter out of one of the pockets, which, wow, awesome thing to do right after you started a damn kitchen fire. She should just go hook up with Ryan. Michael’d have to watch, though. He’s not letting his girlfriend out of his sight with Ryan McDreamy Boss Man Howard around. That would not be a smart move. No, sir.
He’s so distracted by the really dumb smoking and the f-bomb and Ryan and Jan theoretically doin’ the nasty-nasty that it takes him a second to realize what she said. “You made sweet potatoes?”
“No, Michael,” she snaps, in that same old voice she used to use when she was lecturing him on productivity in the workplace. It gets him nostalgic, a little. “I did not make sweet potatoes; I tried to make sweet potatoes, and I burned your house down.”
“Well, yeah,” Michael says, shrugging it off. Like he wants to dwell on that on the holidays. “But before then. You were making sweet potatoes?”
“You said you liked them,” she responds dismissively, and flicks ash onto the pavement.
He blinks. “You were listening?”
“I do listen when you talk, Michael,” Jan says, all impatient.
“Since when?” Michael asks suspiciously.
She looks super-offended for like three seconds and then totally caves.
“Recently,” she admits, and takes another drag on her cigarette. “Dr. Perry said it might be a good idea.”
Michael doesn’t usually like Jan’s shrink - hello, was he not supposed to notice that Jan only got crazy after she started talking to this guy? - but this sounds like a surprisingly wise move on Dr. Fairy’s part. Listening to each other is one of those things that actual happy couples do. Or so he’s heard.
“Whoa,” he says, and grins at her. “Okay, well - that’s . . . really really cool.” He suddenly feels a lot better about his house being on fire, and everything. “Hey, listen, tell you what: you give Dr. F- Dr. Perry a high five for me the next time you see him.”
He lifts his right hand expectantly.
Jan stares at him. “I am not going to high five my therapist, Michael.”
“No, no,” Michael insists, hand hovering. “Seriously. Give him one of these. Up high.”
Jan stares at him for a second before dropping her cigarette, crushing it with her heel, and slapping her palm reluctantly against his. When she tries to pull her hand back, Michael doesn’t let her, twining his fingers with hers instead. After a second, she surrenders to his irresistible charm and smiles a little bit.
“I’m sorry,” she says sort of quietly after awhile, and looks at their fingers all entwined. “I wanted today to be nice.”
“It is nice,” Michael says, because it is his responsibility as her hot manly hunk of burning love to lie to her. “Real nice.”
“No it’s not,” she protests with a dark laugh.
“No,” Michael agrees, frowning. “It’s not. You’re right. It sucks some serious balls.” He glances in the direction of the kitchen window. There’s smoke pouring out of it, and he can hear the firemen snapping at each other inside. He’s pretty sure this kind of thing wouldn’t have happened if he’d stuck with Carol.
But then he looks back at Jan, and she’s so - well, okay, a big sweaty mess. Point is, though, she’s his big sweaty mess.
“This part’s good, though,” he says, and drums his fingertips against her knuckles.
“Yeah,” she agrees with a slow smile. “Yeah, it is.”
He thinks he likes moments like these with Jan the best. Sure, they aren’t naked and sexy, but it’s like he remembers why he loves her in the first place.
“And as the kitchen burns,” he says grandly, figuring the occasion calls for a little lovespeak, “so do our hearts.”
Jan sighs. She sounds more annoyed than smitten. Weirdo. “Michael-”
“Si, mi armoire?” he asks, massaging his thumb against hers.
For a second, she just looks at him. He smiles back at her.
“Nothing,” she decides, and reaches for his collar to pull him close. “C’mere, you.”
“Yes ma’am,” he obeys, and doesn’t even feel weird or violated a little bit.
Maybe things are looking up.
(Turns out, they aren’t so much. Kitchen repair costs a lot. A lot, a lot.)