Fic: From Tonight Until the End of Time (The Office, Oscar/Andy)
Title: From Tonight Until the End of Time
Fandom: The Office
Pairing/Characters: Oscar/Andy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,500+
Spoilers: Through season 5
Summary: I asked for prompts one lazy day at work. kopernik offered "Making Gil jealous (Oscar says that's definitely not HIS idea)?" The temporarily outta-LJ anxietygrrl e-mailed me a link to what is quite possibly the greatest resort in Pennsylvania and specifically pitched the clearly amazing Chicago cover band as a focal point. I have to admit I became a little obsessed with the Harbour Towers suite, with its romantical balcony, mirrored ceiling, and see-through shower conveniently located between the bedroom and the whirlpool.
At any rate, this is what happened...
The invitation was addressed to Oscar and Guest. Of course it was.
And they were really Gil’s friends. He didn’t want to go, but Alex had called, and Oscar had found it impossible to say no.
Mostly because Alex had mentioned that Gil was bringing his new boyfriend, an installation artist from Pittsburgh. They’d met online.
This is what Oscar was thinking about in the breakroom while reading the same three words over and over again: wedding and Poconos resort.
Andy burst through the door.
Great. Oscar tried to make his sigh sound like regular breathing, but Andy wasn’t easily fooled.
“What’s up, my man? What’s the bummer?”
Oscar began to put together a stern address about private matters, but the memory of Andy’s good-naturedness in Canada and the misery of knowing that Gil would be sitting next to some black-haired, ripped-tee-and-polished-Army-boot-wearing pendejo…
He sighed again. “Nothing. Just… there’s this wedding in a few weeks and my ex is going to be there with… it doesn’t matter.”
Andy looked thoughtful and empathetic for a moment. “Sure it matters. It matters. None of us want to think about the love of our life spending time with some bifocals-wearing idiot who owns every season of effing Smallville on DVD. For example.”
Oscar smiled reluctantly at his hands.
Andy pounded his fists on the table between them. Oscar didn’t flinch. Really, he’d come to expect that sort of thing from Andy. “Here’s what we’ll do, my frère-migo: I will attend as your date.”
Oscar hesitated and thought to himself, “Okay, be tactful but firm.”
“That…no. That’s…not necessary. A very kind offer but…”
“Just hear me out, Osc: I am a Cornell graduate, born and raised in the fine state of Connecticut, which, as you know, was one of the original 13 colonies. I am an excellent singer, currently single, look very dapper in an expensive suit-of which I own several, by the way…”
After getting over the abbreviate of his name, Oscar began to think. It was a plan right out of I Love Lucy or Friends-both of which were entirely overrated as comedies-but on the other hand…
Andy was taller than Gil. Much taller, actually. And Gil had always been sensitive about his height. Andy was in good shape, relatively speaking…or at least more athletically built than Gil. And Andy was at least five years younger than Gil.
Against his better judgment, Oscar continued to listen to Andy’s myriad reasons. And when Andy finished, Oscar said. “The wedding is at a resort in the Poconos. It’s a theme resort. Vulgar and awful and just...awful.”
Andy watched him, nodding in a kind of aggressive agreement. “Yes! Here Comes Treble had its five-year reunion in the Poconos! We saw Rockapella and Howie Mandel in the same theater and played miniature golf. Those places are great-tastic!”
“No, Andy, I don’t think you’re…” How to express the website of this place in words, he thought to himself.
But Andy was on a roll. “Say no more, O-Bro. It’s going to be great. I’ll press the ol’ Brooks Brothers, shine the ol’ Prada patents, locate the cufflinks, which I think I put in my lefthand drawer…or maybe in the bathroom? I’ll find them. Anywho…”
Oscar reviewed Andy’s confused but sincere face and said, “Let me think about it.”
When they arrived at the resort, Oscar had begun to have second thoughts.
He’d been having them since Andy arrived at his townhouse dressed like a youthful Thurston Howell, hollering “Road trip” like some demented frat boy on spring break.
“Could you not do that?”
Andy continued to smile, though he appeared slightly consternated by Oscar’s annoyed tone.
And now they were here, facing a gargantuan and hideous resort, facing a manmade lake (naturally).
Andy Bernard looked like he was on a field trip. “Whoa! Awesome!”
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Oscar said dourly, handing his bags to the gawking teenage bellhop.
It was Andy’s rightful turn to look irritated. “Martinez, you have got to mellow out a little. Enjoy Pennsylvania’s majesty! You’re on a vacay! Tennis! Hot tubs! Boozin’! You’ll forget all about what’s-his-name and whoever he’s bringing.”
“And the wedding we have to attend. And the awful room we have to stay in all weekend.”
“The room can’t be that bad. I bet it has a minibar. And a TV.”
Oscar paused as they entered the lobby. “Andy, did you look at that link I sent you?”
Andy put his hands in his pockets and locked eyes with Oscar for a moment before reluctantly sing-songing “Not ex-actly…”
Oscar continued on to the front desk, muttering, “You’ll see. You see.”
“There are mirrors everywhere.” Andy wandered from one end of the suite to the other.
Oscar looked above the bed, then put his hand over his face. God.
“Have you seen the whirlpool?” Andy’s voice echoed off the tiles, incredulous awe in every syllable. “It’s heart-shaped.” A moment of silence. “Dude.”
“I told you,” Oscar said dully through the fingers clasped over his entire face. “I told you it was horrible, Andy. It’s Pennsylvania’s most-“ he inserted heavily sarcastic air quotes-“romantic resort. Gil’s friends have no taste. It’s repugnant.”
Andy came around the corner, looked at the see-through shower, then to Oscar. “It’s okay. You know, there’s the view…”
Andy looked at the bed, which was round and covered in what appeared to be a satin comforter, and nearly walked into the closed patio doors.
Appearing to give up on a positive outlook, Andy leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms tightly against his chest, and said, “It’s open bar tonight, right?”
Oscar nodded.
“Well, at least we can get whee-asted. I think that’ll make things a little better.” Then he shook his head in wonder. “Everywhere.”
Oscar pointed at the ceiling above the bed.
Andy repeated, ”Dude.”
Seeing Gil for the first time since the break-up was bad enough.
Seeing the emaciated 28-year-old glue-huffing Robert Smith from The Cure clone standing next to Gil was even worse.
Gil put his drink down, flushing from the chin up. “Oscar. I didn’t expect to…”
Then Gil took in Andy. Oscar was momentarily gratified when Gil looked down at Andy’s shoes, most likely hoping that Andy was wearing heeled boots.
“Andrew Baines Bernard. I’m Oscar’s boyfriend, natch,” Andy said by way of introduction. “And you must be Gilbert. And you, fine sir, are…” Andy reluctantly held out his hand to the young man with the semblance of a sneer on his face.
Moving a swatch of bangs out of his narrow face, the drawn Crispin Glover-a-like said, “Stefan.”
“Right. Great. Oscar and I would’ve been here sooner, but we had book club today. Isn’t that right, Big Poppa?” Andy slung his arm around Oscar’s shoulders so casually that it was difficult to mask his surprise. Oscar focused on Gil’s face, which was slowly forming a mask of pretentious disapproval.
“Andy Bernard? Don’t you work with Oscar? At the paper company,” Gil said the last part pointedly to Stefan.
Shortly after that, the happy couple, Alex and Tenille, entered the room to applause. Oscar took the moment of distraction to slip away from Andy’s embrace and head for the bar.
Andy met up with him a moment later, his face clouded with anger.
Oscar didn’t know what else to say, so he said “Sorry.” Then he ordered a gin and tonic.
“What are you sorry about? Your ex-boyfriend is an idiot. Going out with someone who is way less handsome than you and who had B.O.? Gross.” Andy looked at Oscar’s glass, then asked the bartender to beer him what his b-friend was having.
For a moment, Oscar took Andy’s righteous indignation in, admiring the way his eyes shined with barely concealed fury as he stared across the room.
Then Andy was holding his hand.
That was a little unexpected.
Andy continued, “No offense, but Gil isn’t that great either. He has a pointy ferret face.”
The last sentence was punctuated by Andy squeezing his hand.
Oscar looked to his fake boyfriend, who was now drinking his gin and tonic enthusiastically, and said, “Thanks.”
“No problemo.”
After dinner and drinks, the night’s entertainment took the stage.
A cover band. A Chicago cover band.
Of course it was.
And Andy was enraptured. He’d had several more gin and tonics and was barely containing his desire to knock the lead singer off the stage and perform all of Chicago XVII.
Oscar was impressed with his restraint, frankly. It wasn’t something he ever showed at work.
Gil and Stefan left about two songs into the set, far too good for such low-brow entertainment. For a moment, Oscar envied them both.
The keyboardist hammered out the opening chords of “You’re the Inspiration,” and Andy very nearly burst out of his blazer.
“Let’s dance.”
“Andy…”
“Come on, this is my favorite non-‘Hard to Say I’m Sorry’ song!”
“Gil isn’t even here to see.”
Andy crinkled his nose. “So?” Then he thought a moment. “Oh! Well…so?”
Oscar usually tried to avoid the term “cute,” even in his innermost thoughts, but sometimes you had to call a spade a spade.
“Fine: one dance. One.”
“You can even lead.”
“Fantastic.”
After several slow dances-the band really wasn’t that bad, and Andy did keep the singing to a minimum and mostly under his breath-the band moved into the non-Cetera era of Chicago, a concept to which Andy seemed almost violently opposed “except for ‘Look Away’…and maybe ‘What Kind of Man Would I Be?’”
“It’s oppressive in here!” Andy said, shedding his blazer and tossing it over his shoulder with the carefree-yet-snappy grace of a Hugo Boss model. Then he leaned in, giving Oscar the faintest hint of lime and some sort of cinnamony aftershave. “And still sort of ugly. Check out the chandelier.”
Oscar looked up; it was very, very horrible. It looked like someone swept up the remainders at the Swarovski factory, glued them to some chicken wire, and then included electricity as an afterthought.
“Let’s go for a walk. I’ve heard Lake Wallenpaupack is beautiful.”
Somewhere, Oscar thought, Thoreau is rolling over in his grave.
But it was a beautiful night, and it was the perfect time in May when it wasn’t too cool or too humid. He and Andy walked along the shoreline of the gargantuan symbol of man’s dominion over the Earth silently for some time before Andy said, “Oscar?”
Andy sounded tipsy yet serious, which had the potential to be dangerous. Oscar hesitantly responded, “Yes?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Angela and Dwight?”
Oscar stopped walking.
“Well…it wasn’t my place to tell you. It was Angela’s.”
“But you know what she’s like. You knew she wouldn’t tell me. Right?”
Hesitantly, Oscar considered Andy’s point. “I’m not sure that I knew that. I hoped she would. It was the right thing to do.”
Andy scoffed. “The right thing. Yeah. Like consorting with that sci-fi nerd farmer.” Then he sighed. “If we’d ever gone to Disneyland, she would’ve caused the It’s a Small World ride to burst into flames.”
The mental image of such an event caught Oscar by surprise, and he laughed out loud.
Eventually, Andy did too, though it had a jaded quality that made Oscar a little sad. He touched Andy’s arm quickly and gently. “I’m sorry, Andy. If it makes any difference, I told her how wrong it was many, many times.”
“Thanks. I’m glad Big Tuna wasn’t the only one looking out for me.” Andy punctuated his gratitude by punching Oscar on the shoulder lightly.
It wasn’t as aggravating a gesture as Oscar it should be.
They continued their walk.
After a minute or so, Oscar said, “I think Gil and I were too much alike.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. He was sort of…and I realize how this is going to sound…uptight. And prissy. And not very fun.”
Andy was conspicuously silent. Oscar stopped again.
Andy burst out laughing.
“Oh, that’s…nice.”
“Well, come on, bro.”
Oscar tried to smother a smile. “Just because I say I know how it’s going to sound…”
Andy threw his arm around Oscar’s shoulders. Oscar nearly raised his arm to reciprocate but then thought better of it. “Well, if it matters at all, I think you are hella fun. And Gil does seem very, very lame. You could do wa-a-ay better.”
Andy’s bicep pressed against his neck, and all Oscar could think about was the warmed-over lite FM strains leaking from the resort:
Times when it was pointless for me to try/
I was more than a desperate man/
What seemed like forever was gone with one touch of your hand.
Oscar found himself pondering that for far longer than he should before rightfully thinking “Ugh.”
When they returned to the suite, Andy shed his tie and shoes in rapid succession, then flung himself onto the semi-respectable couch (if Oscar didn’t think about it too long). “Well, good evening to you, sir, until tomorrow.”
“What are…you’re not going to sleep there?” Oscar wasn’t sure what he meant when he said it; it seemed like the right thing to say.
Also, he…wasn’t sure why he thought sharing the round king-sized bed would be a problem. Two grown men, one straight, one gay...
“Well, you need to be rested tomorrow. Look your best so that all Gil’s friends tell him what a mistake he made, et-cet-era and, as the King of Siam would say, so forth.”
“Okay.”
“Besides, being engaged to Angela has trained me for many a night spent unsatisfied while resting on a tiny couch.”
“Yikes.”
Andy shrugged, then rose to gather the extra blankets and pillows from the closet, singing strains of “Stay the Night.”
Oscar found himself wondering if Andy intended the subtext or just really, really loved Peter Cetera-era Chicago.
Then he found himself wondering if he wanted Andy to intend…
Then he went around the corner to brush his teeth, trying to ignore that the mirrors made privacy of any kind in the suite a moot point.
By the time he returned to the bedroom side of the suite, Andy was covered up on the couch, one bare leg dangling off the side, another propped on the couch’s arm.
Oscar switched off the light, ignored his first instinct to kick the satin comforter to the floor out of disgust, and heard Andy sleepily purr, “G’night, Oscar.”
Oscar said nothing, but went to sleep thinking of Andy’s singing. It really wasn’t so annoying.
Oscar awoke to the dulcet, falsetto strains of Tori Amos’ “Cornflake Girl” first, the sound of the shower second. After several repetitions of “You bet your life it is,” Oscar rolled over, gathered up the comforter, and stood so he could muster all available energy and tell Andy that it was 7:30 a.m. and could there be one moment of the trip that…
Oh.
The shower.
The shower in the middle of the suite. With clear glass doors.
Oscar didn’t watch long, because it would’ve been wrong to watch Andy enthusiastically shampooing his hair while belting Tori Amos. He didn’t know why he was transfixed for as long as he was. He’d seen Andy’s bare arms before at the Fun Run. So the rest of him hadn’t been bare as well…so what? It wasn’t like he was all that great to look at. There was the belly and the unlandscaped chest hair and the surprisingly strong thighs and…
Maybe it wasn’t Andy’s tall, wet, naked form. Or maybe it wasn’t just that. Maybe it was the stifling yet exciting humidity in the air, the smell of condensed water and soap.
It wasn’t the incomprehensible lyrics about raisin girls. That much was certain.
Oscar returned to bed and put a pillow over his head, thinking of Michael’s conference room meetings, of the film adaptation of The Hours, of Michael kissing him in the conference room in front of all his coworkers…
He began to feel a little more centered, a little less--Santa María, Madre de Dios, look at this room, how tacky and gauche, there is a mirror above the bed, and think of how many people have had sex on all the available surfaces of the room, and now the sound of lathering, skin-on-skin, was seeping in, ¡basta ya!...
The shower stopped. Eventually. There was a moment or two of humming and free-form scatting. The door of the shower swung open, releasing a burst of scent and steam into the bedroom area.
Then the sound of toweling and a brisk, shivering noise. Then Andy rounding the corner in a towel, his hair damp and spiky, transforming his face in a way that was puzzling and endearing and the water still clinging to the hairs on his legs...
Oscar wasn’t enough of an actor that he could pretend to be asleep.
Andy saw his bedmate, smiled broadly, and broke into “Good Morning” from Singin’ in the Rain.
It was then that Oscar knew he was doomed.
Even at this horrid resort, in this kitschy room, he wanted to have sex with his coworker.
Who had been engaged to and had sex with Angela Martin, no less.
“Dude, a buck fifty for your thoughts. Adjusted for inflation.”
Oscar had been pointedly staring at his plate while Andy buttered his pancakes with a dedicated and thorough dairy-per-square-inch determination, trying to think of how ridiculous the piped-in Muzak was, how the other couples reminded him of Jim and Pam’s cutesy, intrusive Eskimo-kisses style of affection, trying desperately to ignore how many times Andy’s knee had touched his knee under the table (five…no, there was six).
Oscar brusquely managed, “I don’t know. I’m tired.”
“And hung ohhh-ver, right? I didn’t expect to tie one on so soon after we got here. That mixer was radical. Radical like…a hippie? Like…Che Guava.”
“Guevera.”
“Right.”
“Like a free radical.”
“Nice!”
Oscar continued looking at his plate. “Thanks.” Seven. Seven times their knees had touched.
Instead of the early morning guys’ only golf outing-Oscar didn’t know how to play, and Andy glowered furiously when the subject initially came up-they had decided to play a little tennis, which was beneficial, in that Oscar learned what a poor sport Andy was while getting to occasionally stare at Andy’s legs. With a little space and fresh air and Andy’s shouted, furious half-profanities, he almost began to feel as though the post-shower thoughts were a fluke.
Especially when Andy threw his racquet into the net. Quit, then restarted the match twice.
Oscar smiled and breathed a sigh of relief as Andy served angrily.
Yes. Just a fluke.
Then he checked Andy’s legs out. As a result, he missed Andy’s serve, which kicked off a jubilant string of “Yes!”’s and an impromptu celebratory dance.
On their way back to their room, they ran into Gil and Stefan, who were clearly less enthusiastic about golf than he and Andy had been, seeing as they were still in their pajamas.
Gil said, “Good morning.” Oscar knew by the tone what he meant was, “I hope you conveniently die in a fire.”
Andy put his hand on Oscar’s head, spread his fingers deep into Oscar’s hair.
Oscar was sure the brief moment of weakness in his legs was because he hadn’t played tennis in nearly a year.
“See you two at the wedding,” Andy tossed cheerily over his shoulder. “Bee-you-tiful day for it.” Then he looked at Oscar and said, “Seriously, that guy?” under his breath.
Oscar tried and mostly succeeded at sounding detached and measured when he replied, “I’m really glad you came along, Andy.”
“I think you’re the only person I know who can tie a Windsor knot.”
Andy’s tie was the color of Kelly Kapoor’s dreams, some sort of hot-light pink, and flawlessly knotted in a fat, noble bundle at his throat.
“Do you want one?”
The question was innocent enough; Oscar’s “Yes” sounded guilty to his own ears.
Andy quickly undid Oscar’s tie; Oscar attempted to fix his eyes on something in the room besides Andy, settling on a painting of two cherubs next to the TV cabinet… which was hard to focus on as Andy tugged and shimmied Oscar’s tie into place.
Their silence, the motion, the way that Andy accidentally and full-frontally bumped against him at one point… Oscar couldn’t help but glance at Andy’s face.
Andy appeared to be lost in serious thought. Though Oscar couldn’t be certain, it seemed as though Andy was looking not at the tie-which was beautifully knotted-but at Oscar’s face. Or maybe his lips.
Andy spoke, which startled him; the fact that Andy spoke in a Bert the Chimneysweep Cockney accent did not. “There, just like one o’ the House o’ Windsor.”
Oscar took four steps backwards and checked himself in one of the available mirrors, continuing to watch Andy watch him.
Touching his tie, Oscar said, “Thanks.”
“No problemo.”
Oscar wasn’t sure if he was projecting, but the silence that followed seemed charged. Then he asked, “Time to go?”
Andy checked his pocketwatch. “Yeppers.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
The ceremony was nearly as garish as the resort, and while he suspected Andy thought the same, Andy’s romantic proclivities also appeared to be getting the better of him, eyes welling with tears as the vows were exchanged.
Oscar briefly caught Gil’s eye, but found the triumph of Gil looking mildly wounded to be a hollow one.
They had barely finished dinner when Andy leaned over to whisper, “Boooooo-ring.”
Oscar whispered back, “The dance hasn’t even started.”
Andy sighed dramatically. “There’s no way this will be better than Beginnings.”
“What?”
“The band last night! All the Chicago songs?”
Oscar was fairly certain both forms of entertainment were equally unsatisfying (if he continued ignoring the memory of slow-dancing with Andy… and he was not having much success in that vein). Nevertheless, he acquiesced. “What else is there to do?”
Andy feigned innocence but had clearly been thinking about his answer for the last 20 minutes. “I don’t know. Maybe…go back to the room, watch HBO, order some not-sucky cake from room service?”
Almost certain he would regret his decision, Oscar said, “Fine.”
The not-sucky cake order from room service was a ridiculous oversized brownie with two scoops of low-grade vanilla ice cream with two dozen maraschino cherries, canned whipped topping, and sputtering sparklers.
“Cool,” Andy breathed in a manner reminiscent of Kevin.
Oscar let Andy eat most of the monstrosity while they reclined on the bed in matching robes and watched Gwenyth Paltrow’s Emma on HBO Signature, then the beginnings of Original Sin on TNT. Drowsy and comforted by Andy’s recounting of the first and second times he saw Evita in the theater, Oscar closed his eyes…
And awoke to the sound of the pay-per-view guide enthusiastically pitching the very latest in box office smashes. He stirred against something fuzzy and warm.
Andy’s robe. Andy’s robe wrapped against Andy’s chest.
How long had the two of them been asleep like this, shin-to-shin, Oscar’s hand casually pressed into Andy’s? Oscar tried to look for a clock, but after looking into the TV screen in the dark, his eyes stung.
The subsequent flinch caused Andy to stir drowsily, running his hand over Oscar’s forearm in a sort of exploratory return to wakefulness, and Oscar found himself once again immobile, fearing that the slightest movement would be the end of self-containment forever.
Unfortunately, Andy said, “Hey” in a voice cloudy with sleep and intimacy.
Startled and confused, Oscar blinked with surprise and caught himself leaning forward. Then he sat up and slid away from Andy (a motion made easier by the satin comforter).
“I’m going…for a walk.”
“What? Where?”
“I…out. Outside.” Oscar did not turn, grabbing his key card as he exited around the corner and out the door.
He heard Andy call his name once before the door clicked shut.
In keeping with the romantic theme, the moon was full and lovely over the lake, and there were hardly any mosquitoes. Oscar briefly considered admiring them before returning to brooding. He was particularly disappointed that he’d agreed to a scheme that was bound to end in something ridiculous like this.
He almost had himself convinced he should rent a separate suite when he heard footsteps approaching.
“It smells like swamp,” Andy said by way of greeting.
He was right, but Oscar was afraid to open the door to discussion.
That did not stop Andy from continuing. “Why are you out here?”
“I don’t know,” Oscar lied.
“Well, then… come back to the room?”
Rousing enough courage for evasion, Oscar said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Exasperated, Oscar said, “I don’t think I’m in…a very good place…or something. And you’re…I don’t know. I think you’re having some kind of PTSD reaction to the wedding.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Lake Wallenpaupack rocked against the light breeze for a few moments. Then Andy took a step closer to Oscar.
“I really think you should come back inside.” His tone was quiet but insistent.
Oscar finally turned to meet Andy’s eyes.
“Why?”
“Mm-I don’t know.” Andy’s shrug was noncommittal, but something about his expression suggested to Oscar that Andy was about the furthest place from noncommittal one person could reach.
This will be a terrible mistake, Oscar thought to himself.
Which hadn’t stopped him from going on this trip in the first place, he reminded himself.
“Let’s go inside,” he said as he started back.
They had almost reached the suite door when Oscar began to gain some bearings and self-control. “Andy, I…”
He found himself pinned against the wall opposite the door, the key card still in his right hand. Andy had one hand deep inside the breast of his robe, his mouth cutting off all Oscar’s attempts to finish the sentence with a considered and responsible statement.
Andy seemed to make a good point.
Eventually, with a little teamwork, they managed to get the door open.
“Even when it’s dark, it’s spooky just knowing all the mirrors are there.”
“I know.” Winded, Oscar nodded at the ceiling.
“What were you saying?”
“When?”
”Just a few minutes ago. In Spanish.”
Oscar glanced over, then directed his words back to the ceiling. “No se detenga.”
“What does that mean?”
Caught between frankness and embarrassment, Oscar replied: “Don’t stop.”
Andy smiled with what appeared no small degree of self-satisfaction. “That makes sense…in context.”
“No one likes a showoff, Andy.”
“I can think of one person in this room who thinks showoffs are great. I can think of one person here who thinks showoffs are the bee’s knees.”
“Really? Bee’s knees?” He’d just had sex with Nick Carraway.
Andy touched Oscar’s wrist. “Now say ‘no se detango’ it in your Regular Crabby Office Oscar voice.”
It wasn’t much of a stretch. “No se detenga.”
Stroking Oscar’s wrist with his thumb, Andy asked, “What’s going to happen on Monday?”
It was easy enough to be honest about that: “I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“Want to do something again before checkout? Just in case you decide we were tricked by the heart-shaped whirlpool and the weirdo painting of the cherubs?”
Oscar tried not to smile, but the mirror on the ceiling betrayed his reaction.
Fandom: The Office
Pairing/Characters: Oscar/Andy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,500+
Spoilers: Through season 5
Summary: I asked for prompts one lazy day at work. kopernik offered "Making Gil jealous (Oscar says that's definitely not HIS idea)?" The temporarily outta-LJ anxietygrrl e-mailed me a link to what is quite possibly the greatest resort in Pennsylvania and specifically pitched the clearly amazing Chicago cover band as a focal point. I have to admit I became a little obsessed with the Harbour Towers suite, with its romantical balcony, mirrored ceiling, and see-through shower conveniently located between the bedroom and the whirlpool.
At any rate, this is what happened...
The invitation was addressed to Oscar and Guest. Of course it was.
And they were really Gil’s friends. He didn’t want to go, but Alex had called, and Oscar had found it impossible to say no.
Mostly because Alex had mentioned that Gil was bringing his new boyfriend, an installation artist from Pittsburgh. They’d met online.
This is what Oscar was thinking about in the breakroom while reading the same three words over and over again: wedding and Poconos resort.
Andy burst through the door.
Great. Oscar tried to make his sigh sound like regular breathing, but Andy wasn’t easily fooled.
“What’s up, my man? What’s the bummer?”
Oscar began to put together a stern address about private matters, but the memory of Andy’s good-naturedness in Canada and the misery of knowing that Gil would be sitting next to some black-haired, ripped-tee-and-polished-Army-boot-wearing pendejo…
He sighed again. “Nothing. Just… there’s this wedding in a few weeks and my ex is going to be there with… it doesn’t matter.”
Andy looked thoughtful and empathetic for a moment. “Sure it matters. It matters. None of us want to think about the love of our life spending time with some bifocals-wearing idiot who owns every season of effing Smallville on DVD. For example.”
Oscar smiled reluctantly at his hands.
Andy pounded his fists on the table between them. Oscar didn’t flinch. Really, he’d come to expect that sort of thing from Andy. “Here’s what we’ll do, my frère-migo: I will attend as your date.”
Oscar hesitated and thought to himself, “Okay, be tactful but firm.”
“That…no. That’s…not necessary. A very kind offer but…”
“Just hear me out, Osc: I am a Cornell graduate, born and raised in the fine state of Connecticut, which, as you know, was one of the original 13 colonies. I am an excellent singer, currently single, look very dapper in an expensive suit-of which I own several, by the way…”
After getting over the abbreviate of his name, Oscar began to think. It was a plan right out of I Love Lucy or Friends-both of which were entirely overrated as comedies-but on the other hand…
Andy was taller than Gil. Much taller, actually. And Gil had always been sensitive about his height. Andy was in good shape, relatively speaking…or at least more athletically built than Gil. And Andy was at least five years younger than Gil.
Against his better judgment, Oscar continued to listen to Andy’s myriad reasons. And when Andy finished, Oscar said. “The wedding is at a resort in the Poconos. It’s a theme resort. Vulgar and awful and just...awful.”
Andy watched him, nodding in a kind of aggressive agreement. “Yes! Here Comes Treble had its five-year reunion in the Poconos! We saw Rockapella and Howie Mandel in the same theater and played miniature golf. Those places are great-tastic!”
“No, Andy, I don’t think you’re…” How to express the website of this place in words, he thought to himself.
But Andy was on a roll. “Say no more, O-Bro. It’s going to be great. I’ll press the ol’ Brooks Brothers, shine the ol’ Prada patents, locate the cufflinks, which I think I put in my lefthand drawer…or maybe in the bathroom? I’ll find them. Anywho…”
Oscar reviewed Andy’s confused but sincere face and said, “Let me think about it.”
When they arrived at the resort, Oscar had begun to have second thoughts.
He’d been having them since Andy arrived at his townhouse dressed like a youthful Thurston Howell, hollering “Road trip” like some demented frat boy on spring break.
“Could you not do that?”
Andy continued to smile, though he appeared slightly consternated by Oscar’s annoyed tone.
And now they were here, facing a gargantuan and hideous resort, facing a manmade lake (naturally).
Andy Bernard looked like he was on a field trip. “Whoa! Awesome!”
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Oscar said dourly, handing his bags to the gawking teenage bellhop.
It was Andy’s rightful turn to look irritated. “Martinez, you have got to mellow out a little. Enjoy Pennsylvania’s majesty! You’re on a vacay! Tennis! Hot tubs! Boozin’! You’ll forget all about what’s-his-name and whoever he’s bringing.”
“And the wedding we have to attend. And the awful room we have to stay in all weekend.”
“The room can’t be that bad. I bet it has a minibar. And a TV.”
Oscar paused as they entered the lobby. “Andy, did you look at that link I sent you?”
Andy put his hands in his pockets and locked eyes with Oscar for a moment before reluctantly sing-songing “Not ex-actly…”
Oscar continued on to the front desk, muttering, “You’ll see. You see.”
“There are mirrors everywhere.” Andy wandered from one end of the suite to the other.
Oscar looked above the bed, then put his hand over his face. God.
“Have you seen the whirlpool?” Andy’s voice echoed off the tiles, incredulous awe in every syllable. “It’s heart-shaped.” A moment of silence. “Dude.”
“I told you,” Oscar said dully through the fingers clasped over his entire face. “I told you it was horrible, Andy. It’s Pennsylvania’s most-“ he inserted heavily sarcastic air quotes-“romantic resort. Gil’s friends have no taste. It’s repugnant.”
Andy came around the corner, looked at the see-through shower, then to Oscar. “It’s okay. You know, there’s the view…”
Andy looked at the bed, which was round and covered in what appeared to be a satin comforter, and nearly walked into the closed patio doors.
Appearing to give up on a positive outlook, Andy leaned back against the wall, crossed his arms tightly against his chest, and said, “It’s open bar tonight, right?”
Oscar nodded.
“Well, at least we can get whee-asted. I think that’ll make things a little better.” Then he shook his head in wonder. “Everywhere.”
Oscar pointed at the ceiling above the bed.
Andy repeated, ”Dude.”
Seeing Gil for the first time since the break-up was bad enough.
Seeing the emaciated 28-year-old glue-huffing Robert Smith from The Cure clone standing next to Gil was even worse.
Gil put his drink down, flushing from the chin up. “Oscar. I didn’t expect to…”
Then Gil took in Andy. Oscar was momentarily gratified when Gil looked down at Andy’s shoes, most likely hoping that Andy was wearing heeled boots.
“Andrew Baines Bernard. I’m Oscar’s boyfriend, natch,” Andy said by way of introduction. “And you must be Gilbert. And you, fine sir, are…” Andy reluctantly held out his hand to the young man with the semblance of a sneer on his face.
Moving a swatch of bangs out of his narrow face, the drawn Crispin Glover-a-like said, “Stefan.”
“Right. Great. Oscar and I would’ve been here sooner, but we had book club today. Isn’t that right, Big Poppa?” Andy slung his arm around Oscar’s shoulders so casually that it was difficult to mask his surprise. Oscar focused on Gil’s face, which was slowly forming a mask of pretentious disapproval.
“Andy Bernard? Don’t you work with Oscar? At the paper company,” Gil said the last part pointedly to Stefan.
Shortly after that, the happy couple, Alex and Tenille, entered the room to applause. Oscar took the moment of distraction to slip away from Andy’s embrace and head for the bar.
Andy met up with him a moment later, his face clouded with anger.
Oscar didn’t know what else to say, so he said “Sorry.” Then he ordered a gin and tonic.
“What are you sorry about? Your ex-boyfriend is an idiot. Going out with someone who is way less handsome than you and who had B.O.? Gross.” Andy looked at Oscar’s glass, then asked the bartender to beer him what his b-friend was having.
For a moment, Oscar took Andy’s righteous indignation in, admiring the way his eyes shined with barely concealed fury as he stared across the room.
Then Andy was holding his hand.
That was a little unexpected.
Andy continued, “No offense, but Gil isn’t that great either. He has a pointy ferret face.”
The last sentence was punctuated by Andy squeezing his hand.
Oscar looked to his fake boyfriend, who was now drinking his gin and tonic enthusiastically, and said, “Thanks.”
“No problemo.”
After dinner and drinks, the night’s entertainment took the stage.
A cover band. A Chicago cover band.
Of course it was.
And Andy was enraptured. He’d had several more gin and tonics and was barely containing his desire to knock the lead singer off the stage and perform all of Chicago XVII.
Oscar was impressed with his restraint, frankly. It wasn’t something he ever showed at work.
Gil and Stefan left about two songs into the set, far too good for such low-brow entertainment. For a moment, Oscar envied them both.
The keyboardist hammered out the opening chords of “You’re the Inspiration,” and Andy very nearly burst out of his blazer.
“Let’s dance.”
“Andy…”
“Come on, this is my favorite non-‘Hard to Say I’m Sorry’ song!”
“Gil isn’t even here to see.”
Andy crinkled his nose. “So?” Then he thought a moment. “Oh! Well…so?”
Oscar usually tried to avoid the term “cute,” even in his innermost thoughts, but sometimes you had to call a spade a spade.
“Fine: one dance. One.”
“You can even lead.”
“Fantastic.”
After several slow dances-the band really wasn’t that bad, and Andy did keep the singing to a minimum and mostly under his breath-the band moved into the non-Cetera era of Chicago, a concept to which Andy seemed almost violently opposed “except for ‘Look Away’…and maybe ‘What Kind of Man Would I Be?’”
“It’s oppressive in here!” Andy said, shedding his blazer and tossing it over his shoulder with the carefree-yet-snappy grace of a Hugo Boss model. Then he leaned in, giving Oscar the faintest hint of lime and some sort of cinnamony aftershave. “And still sort of ugly. Check out the chandelier.”
Oscar looked up; it was very, very horrible. It looked like someone swept up the remainders at the Swarovski factory, glued them to some chicken wire, and then included electricity as an afterthought.
“Let’s go for a walk. I’ve heard Lake Wallenpaupack is beautiful.”
Somewhere, Oscar thought, Thoreau is rolling over in his grave.
But it was a beautiful night, and it was the perfect time in May when it wasn’t too cool or too humid. He and Andy walked along the shoreline of the gargantuan symbol of man’s dominion over the Earth silently for some time before Andy said, “Oscar?”
Andy sounded tipsy yet serious, which had the potential to be dangerous. Oscar hesitantly responded, “Yes?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Angela and Dwight?”
Oscar stopped walking.
“Well…it wasn’t my place to tell you. It was Angela’s.”
“But you know what she’s like. You knew she wouldn’t tell me. Right?”
Hesitantly, Oscar considered Andy’s point. “I’m not sure that I knew that. I hoped she would. It was the right thing to do.”
Andy scoffed. “The right thing. Yeah. Like consorting with that sci-fi nerd farmer.” Then he sighed. “If we’d ever gone to Disneyland, she would’ve caused the It’s a Small World ride to burst into flames.”
The mental image of such an event caught Oscar by surprise, and he laughed out loud.
Eventually, Andy did too, though it had a jaded quality that made Oscar a little sad. He touched Andy’s arm quickly and gently. “I’m sorry, Andy. If it makes any difference, I told her how wrong it was many, many times.”
“Thanks. I’m glad Big Tuna wasn’t the only one looking out for me.” Andy punctuated his gratitude by punching Oscar on the shoulder lightly.
It wasn’t as aggravating a gesture as Oscar it should be.
They continued their walk.
After a minute or so, Oscar said, “I think Gil and I were too much alike.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. He was sort of…and I realize how this is going to sound…uptight. And prissy. And not very fun.”
Andy was conspicuously silent. Oscar stopped again.
Andy burst out laughing.
“Oh, that’s…nice.”
“Well, come on, bro.”
Oscar tried to smother a smile. “Just because I say I know how it’s going to sound…”
Andy threw his arm around Oscar’s shoulders. Oscar nearly raised his arm to reciprocate but then thought better of it. “Well, if it matters at all, I think you are hella fun. And Gil does seem very, very lame. You could do wa-a-ay better.”
Andy’s bicep pressed against his neck, and all Oscar could think about was the warmed-over lite FM strains leaking from the resort:
Times when it was pointless for me to try/
I was more than a desperate man/
What seemed like forever was gone with one touch of your hand.
Oscar found himself pondering that for far longer than he should before rightfully thinking “Ugh.”
When they returned to the suite, Andy shed his tie and shoes in rapid succession, then flung himself onto the semi-respectable couch (if Oscar didn’t think about it too long). “Well, good evening to you, sir, until tomorrow.”
“What are…you’re not going to sleep there?” Oscar wasn’t sure what he meant when he said it; it seemed like the right thing to say.
Also, he…wasn’t sure why he thought sharing the round king-sized bed would be a problem. Two grown men, one straight, one gay...
“Well, you need to be rested tomorrow. Look your best so that all Gil’s friends tell him what a mistake he made, et-cet-era and, as the King of Siam would say, so forth.”
“Okay.”
“Besides, being engaged to Angela has trained me for many a night spent unsatisfied while resting on a tiny couch.”
“Yikes.”
Andy shrugged, then rose to gather the extra blankets and pillows from the closet, singing strains of “Stay the Night.”
Oscar found himself wondering if Andy intended the subtext or just really, really loved Peter Cetera-era Chicago.
Then he found himself wondering if he wanted Andy to intend…
Then he went around the corner to brush his teeth, trying to ignore that the mirrors made privacy of any kind in the suite a moot point.
By the time he returned to the bedroom side of the suite, Andy was covered up on the couch, one bare leg dangling off the side, another propped on the couch’s arm.
Oscar switched off the light, ignored his first instinct to kick the satin comforter to the floor out of disgust, and heard Andy sleepily purr, “G’night, Oscar.”
Oscar said nothing, but went to sleep thinking of Andy’s singing. It really wasn’t so annoying.
Oscar awoke to the dulcet, falsetto strains of Tori Amos’ “Cornflake Girl” first, the sound of the shower second. After several repetitions of “You bet your life it is,” Oscar rolled over, gathered up the comforter, and stood so he could muster all available energy and tell Andy that it was 7:30 a.m. and could there be one moment of the trip that…
Oh.
The shower.
The shower in the middle of the suite. With clear glass doors.
Oscar didn’t watch long, because it would’ve been wrong to watch Andy enthusiastically shampooing his hair while belting Tori Amos. He didn’t know why he was transfixed for as long as he was. He’d seen Andy’s bare arms before at the Fun Run. So the rest of him hadn’t been bare as well…so what? It wasn’t like he was all that great to look at. There was the belly and the unlandscaped chest hair and the surprisingly strong thighs and…
Maybe it wasn’t Andy’s tall, wet, naked form. Or maybe it wasn’t just that. Maybe it was the stifling yet exciting humidity in the air, the smell of condensed water and soap.
It wasn’t the incomprehensible lyrics about raisin girls. That much was certain.
Oscar returned to bed and put a pillow over his head, thinking of Michael’s conference room meetings, of the film adaptation of The Hours, of Michael kissing him in the conference room in front of all his coworkers…
He began to feel a little more centered, a little less--Santa María, Madre de Dios, look at this room, how tacky and gauche, there is a mirror above the bed, and think of how many people have had sex on all the available surfaces of the room, and now the sound of lathering, skin-on-skin, was seeping in, ¡basta ya!...
The shower stopped. Eventually. There was a moment or two of humming and free-form scatting. The door of the shower swung open, releasing a burst of scent and steam into the bedroom area.
Then the sound of toweling and a brisk, shivering noise. Then Andy rounding the corner in a towel, his hair damp and spiky, transforming his face in a way that was puzzling and endearing and the water still clinging to the hairs on his legs...
Oscar wasn’t enough of an actor that he could pretend to be asleep.
Andy saw his bedmate, smiled broadly, and broke into “Good Morning” from Singin’ in the Rain.
It was then that Oscar knew he was doomed.
Even at this horrid resort, in this kitschy room, he wanted to have sex with his coworker.
Who had been engaged to and had sex with Angela Martin, no less.
“Dude, a buck fifty for your thoughts. Adjusted for inflation.”
Oscar had been pointedly staring at his plate while Andy buttered his pancakes with a dedicated and thorough dairy-per-square-inch determination, trying to think of how ridiculous the piped-in Muzak was, how the other couples reminded him of Jim and Pam’s cutesy, intrusive Eskimo-kisses style of affection, trying desperately to ignore how many times Andy’s knee had touched his knee under the table (five…no, there was six).
Oscar brusquely managed, “I don’t know. I’m tired.”
“And hung ohhh-ver, right? I didn’t expect to tie one on so soon after we got here. That mixer was radical. Radical like…a hippie? Like…Che Guava.”
“Guevera.”
“Right.”
“Like a free radical.”
“Nice!”
Oscar continued looking at his plate. “Thanks.” Seven. Seven times their knees had touched.
Instead of the early morning guys’ only golf outing-Oscar didn’t know how to play, and Andy glowered furiously when the subject initially came up-they had decided to play a little tennis, which was beneficial, in that Oscar learned what a poor sport Andy was while getting to occasionally stare at Andy’s legs. With a little space and fresh air and Andy’s shouted, furious half-profanities, he almost began to feel as though the post-shower thoughts were a fluke.
Especially when Andy threw his racquet into the net. Quit, then restarted the match twice.
Oscar smiled and breathed a sigh of relief as Andy served angrily.
Yes. Just a fluke.
Then he checked Andy’s legs out. As a result, he missed Andy’s serve, which kicked off a jubilant string of “Yes!”’s and an impromptu celebratory dance.
On their way back to their room, they ran into Gil and Stefan, who were clearly less enthusiastic about golf than he and Andy had been, seeing as they were still in their pajamas.
Gil said, “Good morning.” Oscar knew by the tone what he meant was, “I hope you conveniently die in a fire.”
Andy put his hand on Oscar’s head, spread his fingers deep into Oscar’s hair.
Oscar was sure the brief moment of weakness in his legs was because he hadn’t played tennis in nearly a year.
“See you two at the wedding,” Andy tossed cheerily over his shoulder. “Bee-you-tiful day for it.” Then he looked at Oscar and said, “Seriously, that guy?” under his breath.
Oscar tried and mostly succeeded at sounding detached and measured when he replied, “I’m really glad you came along, Andy.”
“I think you’re the only person I know who can tie a Windsor knot.”
Andy’s tie was the color of Kelly Kapoor’s dreams, some sort of hot-light pink, and flawlessly knotted in a fat, noble bundle at his throat.
“Do you want one?”
The question was innocent enough; Oscar’s “Yes” sounded guilty to his own ears.
Andy quickly undid Oscar’s tie; Oscar attempted to fix his eyes on something in the room besides Andy, settling on a painting of two cherubs next to the TV cabinet… which was hard to focus on as Andy tugged and shimmied Oscar’s tie into place.
Their silence, the motion, the way that Andy accidentally and full-frontally bumped against him at one point… Oscar couldn’t help but glance at Andy’s face.
Andy appeared to be lost in serious thought. Though Oscar couldn’t be certain, it seemed as though Andy was looking not at the tie-which was beautifully knotted-but at Oscar’s face. Or maybe his lips.
Andy spoke, which startled him; the fact that Andy spoke in a Bert the Chimneysweep Cockney accent did not. “There, just like one o’ the House o’ Windsor.”
Oscar took four steps backwards and checked himself in one of the available mirrors, continuing to watch Andy watch him.
Touching his tie, Oscar said, “Thanks.”
“No problemo.”
Oscar wasn’t sure if he was projecting, but the silence that followed seemed charged. Then he asked, “Time to go?”
Andy checked his pocketwatch. “Yeppers.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
The ceremony was nearly as garish as the resort, and while he suspected Andy thought the same, Andy’s romantic proclivities also appeared to be getting the better of him, eyes welling with tears as the vows were exchanged.
Oscar briefly caught Gil’s eye, but found the triumph of Gil looking mildly wounded to be a hollow one.
They had barely finished dinner when Andy leaned over to whisper, “Boooooo-ring.”
Oscar whispered back, “The dance hasn’t even started.”
Andy sighed dramatically. “There’s no way this will be better than Beginnings.”
“What?”
“The band last night! All the Chicago songs?”
Oscar was fairly certain both forms of entertainment were equally unsatisfying (if he continued ignoring the memory of slow-dancing with Andy… and he was not having much success in that vein). Nevertheless, he acquiesced. “What else is there to do?”
Andy feigned innocence but had clearly been thinking about his answer for the last 20 minutes. “I don’t know. Maybe…go back to the room, watch HBO, order some not-sucky cake from room service?”
Almost certain he would regret his decision, Oscar said, “Fine.”
The not-sucky cake order from room service was a ridiculous oversized brownie with two scoops of low-grade vanilla ice cream with two dozen maraschino cherries, canned whipped topping, and sputtering sparklers.
“Cool,” Andy breathed in a manner reminiscent of Kevin.
Oscar let Andy eat most of the monstrosity while they reclined on the bed in matching robes and watched Gwenyth Paltrow’s Emma on HBO Signature, then the beginnings of Original Sin on TNT. Drowsy and comforted by Andy’s recounting of the first and second times he saw Evita in the theater, Oscar closed his eyes…
And awoke to the sound of the pay-per-view guide enthusiastically pitching the very latest in box office smashes. He stirred against something fuzzy and warm.
Andy’s robe. Andy’s robe wrapped against Andy’s chest.
How long had the two of them been asleep like this, shin-to-shin, Oscar’s hand casually pressed into Andy’s? Oscar tried to look for a clock, but after looking into the TV screen in the dark, his eyes stung.
The subsequent flinch caused Andy to stir drowsily, running his hand over Oscar’s forearm in a sort of exploratory return to wakefulness, and Oscar found himself once again immobile, fearing that the slightest movement would be the end of self-containment forever.
Unfortunately, Andy said, “Hey” in a voice cloudy with sleep and intimacy.
Startled and confused, Oscar blinked with surprise and caught himself leaning forward. Then he sat up and slid away from Andy (a motion made easier by the satin comforter).
“I’m going…for a walk.”
“What? Where?”
“I…out. Outside.” Oscar did not turn, grabbing his key card as he exited around the corner and out the door.
He heard Andy call his name once before the door clicked shut.
In keeping with the romantic theme, the moon was full and lovely over the lake, and there were hardly any mosquitoes. Oscar briefly considered admiring them before returning to brooding. He was particularly disappointed that he’d agreed to a scheme that was bound to end in something ridiculous like this.
He almost had himself convinced he should rent a separate suite when he heard footsteps approaching.
“It smells like swamp,” Andy said by way of greeting.
He was right, but Oscar was afraid to open the door to discussion.
That did not stop Andy from continuing. “Why are you out here?”
“I don’t know,” Oscar lied.
“Well, then… come back to the room?”
Rousing enough courage for evasion, Oscar said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Exasperated, Oscar said, “I don’t think I’m in…a very good place…or something. And you’re…I don’t know. I think you’re having some kind of PTSD reaction to the wedding.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Lake Wallenpaupack rocked against the light breeze for a few moments. Then Andy took a step closer to Oscar.
“I really think you should come back inside.” His tone was quiet but insistent.
Oscar finally turned to meet Andy’s eyes.
“Why?”
“Mm-I don’t know.” Andy’s shrug was noncommittal, but something about his expression suggested to Oscar that Andy was about the furthest place from noncommittal one person could reach.
This will be a terrible mistake, Oscar thought to himself.
Which hadn’t stopped him from going on this trip in the first place, he reminded himself.
“Let’s go inside,” he said as he started back.
They had almost reached the suite door when Oscar began to gain some bearings and self-control. “Andy, I…”
He found himself pinned against the wall opposite the door, the key card still in his right hand. Andy had one hand deep inside the breast of his robe, his mouth cutting off all Oscar’s attempts to finish the sentence with a considered and responsible statement.
Andy seemed to make a good point.
Eventually, with a little teamwork, they managed to get the door open.
“Even when it’s dark, it’s spooky just knowing all the mirrors are there.”
“I know.” Winded, Oscar nodded at the ceiling.
“What were you saying?”
“When?”
”Just a few minutes ago. In Spanish.”
Oscar glanced over, then directed his words back to the ceiling. “No se detenga.”
“What does that mean?”
Caught between frankness and embarrassment, Oscar replied: “Don’t stop.”
Andy smiled with what appeared no small degree of self-satisfaction. “That makes sense…in context.”
“No one likes a showoff, Andy.”
“I can think of one person in this room who thinks showoffs are great. I can think of one person here who thinks showoffs are the bee’s knees.”
“Really? Bee’s knees?” He’d just had sex with Nick Carraway.
Andy touched Oscar’s wrist. “Now say ‘no se detango’ it in your Regular Crabby Office Oscar voice.”
It wasn’t much of a stretch. “No se detenga.”
Stroking Oscar’s wrist with his thumb, Andy asked, “What’s going to happen on Monday?”
It was easy enough to be honest about that: “I don’t know. I really don’t.”
“Want to do something again before checkout? Just in case you decide we were tricked by the heart-shaped whirlpool and the weirdo painting of the cherubs?”
Oscar tried not to smile, but the mirror on the ceiling betrayed his reaction.