The Tie, part 6: Michael/Jan, (Jim/Pam), ensemble, pg/pg-13
Title: The Tie (part 6)
Author: J.L.
Rated: PG-13. ish.
Category: Michael/Jan (MJR?), Jim, ensemble, some Jim/Pam
Disclaimer: All WIP rules apply for now. Also, I don't own them. I wish I did. I would make them do naughty things.
Spoilers: Up to season 4. Cocktails, and The Deposition, perhaps, depending on your point of view.
The Tie: Catch-Up Fights (And Picket Fences):
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
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The Tie
By J.L
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Part Six
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"Woof woof woof.
Woof woof woof.
Woof woof woof
woof woof.
Woof woof woof
woof woof woof
woof
woof woof woof
woof woof woof
woof."
--- Barking Dogs Sing Jingle Bells
"Michael, it has nothing to do with your looks--it's your personality. You're obnoxious, and rude, and--and stupid..."
- Jan Levinson
Untitled Dunder Mifflin Documentary
Raw footage, 10.22.05
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5:50pm
Jan folds her arms across her chest and glares at Paul; Paul clears his throat and gazes expectantly at Jan. Paul and Jan sit across the kitchen table from one another and the little red camera light is still blinking. At most, this will afford Jan with very little time to keep Dwight and Andy from destroying her entire house. What is with the timing of these stupid personal interviews?
“If I go back in there and Dwight has murdered, beaten, or shot someone with a bowstaff, I’m suing your camera crew,” says Jan.
Paul grins and nods. He stuffs a hand into his pocket and pulls the lining inside-out, and then shrugs at her. Jan sighs. “Fine,” she says. “This is part of the agreement, so...let's do this.” She takes a deep breath. "You want to know why I'm with Michael?"
Jan shrugs, not quite understanding how to answer that.
"Well, I..."
She thinks back to a game of scrabble they'd played last weekend, the way their tiles crisscrossed over the little squares. Lascivious intersecting with clown. Clown intersecting with Judicious. Judicious intersecting with JLo. Michael had offered her half his chocolate milkshake, and they'd sat together playing scrabble for hours, arguing and looking up bizarre words Michael had claimed were foreign but were really suffixes and prefixes shoved together. Afterwards, they'd watched Beaches. Jan showed him how to play Sudoku, which, as it turns out, he was much better at than she was. Jan looks down at her fingers, fixes her nails. God, these fucking cameras, she thinks.
"We have nothing in common," she starts, "Nothing.” She waves her hands, continues, “Why does he wake up early on Sundays to watch Fraggle Rock? Why does he insist that Jim and Pam are secretly planning a surprise conference call with Jessica Alba? Why does he cry at the end of Mandy Moore Movies? Why have I seen Airplane with him six times in both English and Spanish? I don't..." She shakes her head. "I don't have these answers, okay?"
Jan taps her foot against the floor, the leg of the table, and finally, some package that's been stuffed under her chair. Her head feels full, almost painfully so.
“He pretends to get stressed out with me so I’ll share my ice cream with him," she says. "He never buys his own, he always has to have mine, and only when I’m eating it, so it’s like--like living with a five year old. He goes through this whole, this melodramatic thing where he moans about how he needs a pick-me-up, how being a manager is like Mickey Mouse running The Magic Kingdom, or a game show with too many contestants, or--once he said it was like ruling ancient Sparta.” She touches a finger to her lips and chuckles. “I don’t know where these things materialize in his head. I just know it ends with him stealing my ice cream.”
Why does she feel as if she’s been caught half-naked or something?
“Uh, he's good at games," she says. “So I guess, that's...something. Right?" She nods to herself, not sure if that really is. "Last month he taught me this silly handgame where, it's-- you hold out your palms, like this--" She holds out her hands, palms facing up, "And you have to try to slap the other person's hand?" She waves that hand around, continues, "Apparently, lots of people know this game? I’ve never--uh, anyway, in Michael's version, there's whipped cream and marshmallow fluff--" She smiles, seeing in her mind’s eye, a vision of Michael with the spoon and the fluff jar, chasing her around the kitchen island. They’re laughing until they start gasping, and when Michael finally grabs her, they knock over a tower of Tupperware containers. Jan steels herself, and adds, "The rest is private."
The camera's still rolling and Paul is gazing at her curiously. As if she's just glued reindeer horns to her head or something. Jan doesn't quite know what to make of that expression. Her stomach is fluttery and she shifts uncomfortably.
"I don't--what else do you want me to say, here?’”
Paul holds up an index card and gestures at it.
Jan frowns. “Am I in love with Michael?” She looks to the ceiling, the walls, the floor, and the camera, although none will answer that publically for her.
“That’s a highly personal question." She takes a deep breath. “Look, it’s all very--it’s a very complicated situation, and I don't know how comfortable I am discussing it on camera." She scratches the back of her neck, lets her hand rest there.
Paul says nothing. The camera rolls and rolls and rolls.
Jan gazes at a random point above Paul's head, a place where, in her mind, she and Michael are eating dinner together and he wordlessly passes her his extra garlic knots. Sometimes, he plays footsie with her under the table or they share a glass of chocolate milk with two straws and she feels very young again.
"Fine," says Jan. She looks back into the camera. ”Michael fascinates me, okay? His brain, it's like a game of MouseTrap. Have you ever played that game? There are all these annoying little pieces and doohickies and I never know where the hell they go, but somehow Michael can assemble it in five minutes." She shakes her head. "He really gets to me, you know? He frustrates me, he infuriates me, he--" She cocks her head to one side. "He completes me?"
She pauses.
"Oh, god."
She closes her eyes.
"He completes me."
She looks up, half-expecting a piano to fall on her. "Michael completes me." She keeps repeating it, half-expecting a better answer.
Through her fingers, she manages, "No more questions." She looks at Paul. "Did you hear me? We're done. Turn the camera off."
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6:07pm
When Jan returns to the living room, the arguing has escalated to fighting, and even The Three Barking Dogs Sing Jingle Bells--on its fifth go-round in the CD Changer (Michael’s favorite, Jan's least favorite) doesn’t seem to be helping the overall mood.
"Why don't you truth or dare for it," says Andy.
"How do you Truth or Dare for a tie?" asks Michael. He looks Andy up and down and adds, "Weirdo."
"Oh, come on, you know," says Andy. "Like in college?"
Michael shakes his head.
Jan feels a sinus headache coming on. She imagines violent bank robberies with better endings.
Andy sighs as if speaking to several small children. "It's how we Ivy Leaguers make tough decisions," He says, and clears his throat. "You play Truth or Dare, go around the circle however long it takes, first to chicken out and call 'dare' loses the bet and has to walk around the quad totally naked." Andy grins, adding, "The most fun was the girl’s chemistry honors quad. Those chubby academic chicks were fierce."
Michael nods. “Rock on.” He touches his knuckles to Andy’s and makes a sound like an explosion of spittle.
Jan looks at Andy and shakes her head. "No," she says, “Absolutely not-“
Just as Michael chimes in with, "What an excellent idea.”
Jan grits her teeth.
She glances at the Christmas tree, still blinking its schizophrenic prism of color; the living room fills with short pulses of light. In and out. In and out. In and out. The whole effect is actually quite nauseating, and Jan finally has to look away. Her gaze flits across her watch: six o'clock.
Seriously?
Why does she feel as if this is a cruel cosmic joke, the fact that her evening has really only just begun?
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6:08pm
Jim cranes his neck to see around the corner; Pam had mentioned she'd be at the front of the bar with some menus, a couple of coronas, and a list of at least four possible names for the undercover tie. (So far, Jim has come up with The Christmas Alpha One-Sixty and The Annihilator, both of which Pam has objected to on the grounds that she feels a Death Tie should have at least four hyphenated suffixes, a series of random numbers, and either the yiddish or German word for "danger."
At the sound of someone's throat clearing, Jim swivels back around on his stool. "Uh, just a little distracted," he explains, laughing. "All afternoon I've been trying to find the perfect symbol of Christmas diversity." He holds up his Corona. "Unfortunately, all I have at the moment is this Christmas Diversity beer." He glances at his beer. "However, the bartender did assure me that this is a very rare Asian beer, and it does say Happy Kwanzaa in six languages, so..."
Greg motions at an index card he's holding over the camera's red light. Jim frowns, squints, and laughs again. "Oh," he says, "Okay." He clears his throat, and reads, "Why does noone want to go to Jan and Michael's party?" Jim shakes his head. "Sorry, I thought that was a joke the first time."
Greg has no reply to that, which is totally normal, alhough Jim has to wonder if these awkward stretches of silence are why Michael continues to downspiral into the Abyss of Retardation.
The camera continues rolling.
Jim purses his lips, nodding to himself. "Okay then," he says, "For one thing, it's Michael and Jan... at the house of Michael and Jan." Jim gazes around thoughtfully, and finally, he shrugs. "Yeah, didn't think I'd need to prepare other reasons."
---------------------------
6:08pm
Michael has come to one conclusion and one conclusion only: Dwight cannot have his tie. Period. End of sentence. Beginning of explanation: For one thing, foreign languages are completely wasted on Dwight. Like French, for instance. French does not look good on Dwight at all. However, French does look great on Michael--Jan even said so once when she tried to teach him the French translation for “That's What She Said."
Second on the list; Dwight is sad and pathetic.
Third? He is a weirdo.
Fourth? If Dwight wanders around the condo interrogating guests and muttering about ties and explosions, he will eventually drive Jan crazy. And Michael has seen Jan crazy. It's most definitely a mountain he doesn't want to climb if his name is still not Mohammed.
Michael turns to Jan. "What?" he says, "I don't see you suggesting anything."
"Michael," suggests Jan, "why don't you just let Dwight have the tie?"
Michael takes a long, deep breath. "No," he says. "That would be stupid."
Jan reaches a hand to the back of her neck and twists from side to side until something in her collar makes a gross crunching sound. She's mumbling something about "kill Dwight" under her breath but Michael can't really make it out.
Whatever.
"Okay," says Michael. He nods first at Andy, and then at Paul, who's setting up his tripod. Finally, Michael turns to Dwight. "Dwight, we're going to Truth or Dare for the tie," he says, "You, me, and Jan--"
"No." Jan shakes her head. "No Jan. Leave Jan out of it."
"Oh, come on!" Michael smacks Jan playfully on the arm. Jan does not look amused. "Please don't be this way, Chickenwing."
"Michael," says Jan, "please don't call me Chickenwing."
"Fine," says Michael, "But you are completely harshing the mellow of this party."
Jan folds her arms across her chest. "Somehow, I find that incredibly hard to believe."
Michael pokes her in the shoulder. "I'm being serious, Jan."
Jan pokes him back. "So am I," she says.
"Yeah, well," retorts Michael, "I'm serious as a collar."
"A what?" Jan shakes her head. "Whose collar?"
Michael frowns. "Huh?"
"You said collar," offers Andy. "What do you mean, like a dog collar?"
"I think he meant Chloroform," says Dwight. "Chloroform is deadly serious."
"I had a dog with a pretty serious collar once," says Andy. "Cost me eighty bucks with all the rhinestones."
"The disease," says Michael impatiently. He shakes his head; why do people always pretend to not understand him? "God," he continues, "It's like I'm surrounded by assholes." He pauses and adds, "Spaceballs. Great movie."
"You mean Cholera?" says Jan. She shakes her head. "Michael, nobody gets Cholera anymore."
"You know what, Jan?" says Michael, "Unless you've suffered from it, maybe you shouldn't be correcting me or throwing stones at my glass house. Okay? I'll have you know, Cholera is the most amount of serious a person can be, according to the Discovery Channel. Also, it's the number one killer of people on the Oregon Trail, and Facebook doesn't lie about that stuff." He jabs Jan in the sternum with his index finger. "So, suck...on...that."
Jan's mouth opens as if to make an argument she can't quite force back up her throat.
"Okay," continues Michael, turning towards Dwight. "So, Dwight, if Jan or I calls a dare, you win the tie--"
"And something else?" asks Dwight. "Uh, just to make it--as they say--a little more interesting?" he pauses. "You could bet the PT Cruiser." He touches his index finger and thumb to his chin and scratches. "Yes, I do think that would be appropriate under such dire circumstances." He nods to himself. "Michael, I dare you to bet me the tie and the PT Cruiser. For a week." He pauses. "Is this acceptable?"
"Ooh, slam!" says Andy. He nods and turns towards Michael. "Dude, be a badass. Bet the car. I totally double dare you."
Michael catches Jan’s arm just as she lunges forward at Andy (he doesn't even want to know what's in her head--he's guessing 'strangle,' since she once mentioned during a game of CSI Special Victims Murder Boggle that it was her homicide word of choice.)
Andy glances quickly from Dwight to Michael and Jan. He looks like a kid on his birthday without the cake or the presents or like, the actual birthday. He picks up a candy cane from the mantle. "But you should make it even sweeter," he says. He taps the candy cane against his chin, and adds, "Dwight would like to bet your regional manager's parking spot. For a week."
Dwight's eyes widen. He looks quickly at Andy, who can't seem to get the plastic wrapper off his candy cane. Andy slaps Dwight roughly on the back. "You don't have to thank me," he says.
"ANDY," says Jan.
"Let's do it," says Michael, too excited about the prospect of a party game--any party game-- to care that his arm is a Disney barricade across Jan's chest. Dwight, on the other hand, is lit up like the star on their Christmas tree, and it is, in a word, Crazy. Ass. Frightening.
"Michael," says Jan. "Listen to me." She turns him by his shoulders until they are eye-to-eye. "There will be no truth or dare in this living room. There will be no betting of cars. Do you understand? If Dwight wants the tie, just give it to him."
Michael frowns at Jan. He remembers this one time, when he was eleven, and his Mom was playing Go Fish in the living room with the old ladies from the group home across the street. This one old lady (Michael used to call her Smells Like Farts) had ten cards left, and his Mom had like, four. Which is when Smells Like Farts dared his Mom to run outside and flash the neighborhood if she lost to anyone at the table. And his Mom, being his Mom, and incredibly masterful at Go Fish (and a number of other card games, including Uno, Solitaire, and War) hesitated for only a second before--as they say-- "going all in." It was just so awesome to witness, especially that young--how nobody at the table had as much confidence as his own Mother. And why? Because she was that good at Go Fish.
So it actually came as kind of a shock when his Mom lost to Smells Like Farts. Also, it meant Michael had to see his Mom's boobs. (Along with the rest of the neighborhood. At four o'clock in the afternoon. On a Friday. During Fourth of July Weekend. Right before a block party.) Actually, it kind of ruined his summer, too. The kids down the street changed his name to "Michael Slut." (Which, Michael supposes, was at least better than when they called him "Michelle.")
In any case, if Michael has learned anything from that experience, it's that bets can't be won with old ladies, although they can probably be won with idiots. Or...just the one idiot. If there were two idiots, probably no one would win.
Michael shakes his head. "No way," he says. "That tie speaks six languages and you cannot buy that kind of verbal power. What if one day we decide to spend a holiday in Portugese?"
"Portugal," says Jan.
"Or some other French country,” adds Michael. "We'd still need Christmas translations---even if the Japanese are liars."
Jan stares at him curiously. "Michael, what do the Japanese have to do with Portugal?"
Michael waves a dismissive hand. "Look, Jan, the only other suggestion you've had so far is killing him. And we can't do that. For one thing, we don't have any wet cement or really heavy boulders. Also, he weighs too much. Like, a lot. Have you ever tried to give him a piggy-back? Totally dead weight."
"Michael," interrupts Jan. She waves a hand in Dwight's direction. "He's standing right there."
Dwight sets his elf-gloved hands on his hips. "And I'm listening to every single word you're saying, too."
Michael feels a tension headache creeping up from his feet into his brain, and he pinches the skin around his eyes. Why does everyone have to make this so hard (that's what she said) when the solution is so simple? Finally, he waves his hands over his head. "Okay," he says, "Everyone, listen up! Executive decision!"
Jan's other eyebrow goes up.
"We're doing Truth or Dare," he states. He pauses and glances at Jan, who looks at him with eyes that would probably shoot him in the face if eyes could hold a gun. Feeling slightly nervous, he finishes, "If you lose, Dwight, you have to...uh...shut your annoying mouth. Just not speak for the rest of the night. No--the rest of the week. To anyone." He pauses. "And you have to do my laundry. Again. For a month." He chances a second glance at Jan. "With fabric softener, like you used to. Jan doesn't really know how to use---"
"MICHAEL." Jan is glaring at him still.
"What?" says Michael. "You NEVER use fabric softener." He thinks back to last month's kneesock, underwear, and Tide fiasco, and how his skin dried up like a steel magnolia. His knees haven't been as soft since. "Those chemicals are really harsh, Jan."
Jan shakes her head. "I should just lobotomize myself," she mumbles. She takes a deep breath, walks in front of Michael, and turns her attention to Dwight.
"Okay, if I agree to this," she says, "There will be groundrules." Her eyes are clouded with something dark and scary; it's not unlike the time when she suggested some weird Chinese sex game and tried to convince Michael that if Asians could let strangers stick them with tiny, freaky needles and call it a 'massage,' so could she.
"Dwight," says Jan, "If we lose, you get..." She makes a face, "The PT cruiser and Michael's parking spot--for a week." Her right eyebrow jerks upward. "However, if you lose, you will not venture from this living room and you will not speak to anyone about anything for the rest of the night--"
"Or into next week," adds Andy.
"And he'll do our laundry," finishes Michael.
Dwight blinks. "I do not plan on losing," he says, "but I agree to your terms."
Jan takes several deep breaths. "I cannot believe I'm doing this," she mumbles. Then, much louder: "Listen up." Her jaw squares and her shoulders straighten. “My house, my rules. Got it?"
Michael frowns. "Uh, technically it's my--"
"All questions must have no more than two parts. No leading, no passing, no second chances, each defendant has forty-five seconds-“
“Defendant?" Michael frowns. "Wait, who is the--"
“What did I tell you about interrupting me?” snaps Jan.
Michael stares into her glittery blue eyes and shudders. He recalls this one time, at a meeting, when Craig from the Albany branch suggested that paycuts were tyrannical, bitchy, and the result of some crazy PMS, and Jan got that exact same look on her face. She yanked Craig's numbers immediately from his hands, crossed out several items and then scribbled something else that Michael couldn't see, and announced to the table that she'd just chopped five percent off Craig's salary (as well as the salary of seven warehouse employees) and would also take away his parking space and gas card. Then she smiled sweetly, turned to the rest of the table, and said, "Well, that wasn't so hard, was it? Who wants to break for lunch?"
When she'd finally adjourned the meeting and whistled her way out of the conference room, she cornered Michael like a trapped ferret in the hallway, and dragged him out to her car. "Take your clothes off," she had ordered, as she ran her mouth furiously down his neck. "I need to fuck something."
Michael Scott went back to Scranton with six bruises and a frightened penis that day.
"Forty-five seconds for answers and no longer," continues Jan. “We’re going forward with the honor system--no cheating, no lying, no asking things we don’t know the answers to--“
Dwight opens his mouth to speak, and Jan finishes, “If I get just one question about the circumference of a beet or how many pretend units of measure it is from Narnia to the wardrobe, this game is over and you will lose, Dwight. Do you get me?”
Dwight opens his mouth.
"No Battlestar Gallactica," she snaps.
Dwight narrows his eyes. “Stargate SG1?”
Michael snorts. “You are such a loser, Dwight.”
“No television shows,” says Jan.
“But what about-“
“Do NOT test me, Dwight.”
Dwight looks Jan up and down like she's an automatic weapon. “Fine,” he says. "I accept your conditions.” He pauses, and adds, "It'll be like taking candy from a young person. No--from a blind young person. No--from a stupid blind young person...with no motor skills...in the desert."
"Are you done?" asks Jan.
Dwight glares at her.
“Finally,” finishes Jan, “I will sit-in for Michael.”
Michael’s mouth drops open. His heart feels suddenly very insulted. “Hey--Jan? That’s not part of the deal."
Jan settles into the armchair across from Dwight. "You just bet our car, Michael,” she says. "Our car." She taps her fingernails against the armrest. Her eyes darken with that weird intensity, and if Michael didn't know any better, he'd assume she was about to drag something out to the car to fuck it. “Either I win this for us or you and Dwight can share the car and sleep in it."
Michael glares at Jan but has nothing to say. He entertains a vision of Jan's Dunder Pong flying viciously across the room and landing in the sink, where it is swallowed by the garbage disposal. His gaze passes from her to Dwight. His stomach goes fluttery. He's so unsure of this whole idea now, and he hates that Jan always manages to be just mean enough to have him second-guess everything he does. God, how he longs for his Dunder Pongs who never argue with him and never make him feel stupid.
"Good," says Jan. She leans back in her chair. With a deep breath, she says, "Bring it." Her eyes are clear blue and unblinking.
Just terrific, thinks Michael. She is going to eat Dwight.
"If by that you mean I can and will beat you at this superficial and ridiculous child's game, then yes, I will bring it," says Dwight. "Are you ready to lose?"
Jan says nothing.
The Christmas tree in the corner winks and winks at them.
The CD changer finally flips to a new song: Alvin and the Chipmunks.
"Excellent," says Dwight. "We shall engage." He takes a deep breath.
"Jan," says Dwight, "I challenge you with Truth."
Jan stares at Dwight coldly, gives a short nod. "Go.”
“Approximately what time last night did you and Michael appear on the building’s security camera, in the hallway between the warehouse and the office?”
Michael chokes on his own spit, recalling their little game of The Holiday Security Guard and The Confused Australian Bodybuilder. He glances over at Jan, who has seemingly no reaction.
"Nine-pm," she says, as if asking for a glass of milk.
"Dwight," she says, "Approximately how many inches is it from your desk to Michael's office?"
Michael frowns and looks at Dwight. Dwight's face turns a faint shade of scarlet. "Precisely seventy-seven inches," Dwight says.
Michael grins. "That's what she said!" He holds up his palm to Jan, who finishes the high-five without even looking. Sometimes, Jan makes Michael feel all tingly and eerie inside.
Dwight shifts uncomfortably on the couch while Jan smirks a very becoming little smirk.
"Jan," says Dwight. "I challenge you with Truth." He leans forward on his elbows and looks sideways at Michael before asking, “How many times a day does Michael play with his dolls?”
Jan says nothing, merely raises an eyebrow.
Michael glances at Jan and bites his lower lip. Suddenly, weird things in his chest are kicking at other weird things in his chest; his whole face throbs like a pulse. He opens his mouth just as Jan replies, “Which dolls? The action figures or the Super-Bratz?”
“Hey!” Michael waves a finger, feeling slightly nauseated. “Those are not dolls, okay? Those are motivational speaking tools.”
“The Ninja turtles,” answers Dwight.
Michael feels his throat going dry.
Jan shrugs. “Leonardo and Donatello, about three times a day--Michaelangelo, maybe twice. He doesn't own Rafael." She pauses. “He likes them to act out Meryl Streep movies." She shoots him a sideways glance. "Well, the ones he knows, anyway."
Michael sighs. "Sophie's Choice is boring, Jan."
"Whatever," says Jan. She takes a deep breath and mutters something to herself about a backbone and being able to open herself up, which sounds kind of dirty and cool.
Her back straightens and she nods her chin at Dwight. "Dwight," she says, "Please tell me what Star Wars The Musical is."
Dwight chokes on his candy cane and spits several gross little pieces across the room. He touches the tip of his elf hat. "How do you know about that?" he asks. "Was it Jim? Did he tell you? Did he steal my musical?"
Jan stares at Dwight the way she stares at Michael when he's just tracked mud into the house. She glances at her watch. "Thirty-five seconds," she says.
Michael can't help but laugh. "A musical, Dwight?" He snorts. "How gay are you?"
Something twitches in Dwight's cheek, and he answers, "The project I am working on is confidential, brilliant, NOT GAY, and completely ahead of its time. My trombone composition of The Deathstar Love Ballad has gotten more hits on YouTube than Retarded Man Eats Carrots, and when it is eventually sung by Bernadette Peters and Christopher Plummer as Princess Leia and the Dark Lord, it will beat Skateboarding Albino Rat." Dwight looks from Michael to Jan. "Only three-thousand more hits," he says.
"Wow." Michael shakes his head. "You are retarded."
This time Jan holds up a palm to Michael, and Michael smacks it. He's still not pleased with this arrangement, but at least if he can't be a player, he can be a cheerleader. Like, a Laker Girl or something.
"Jan," says Dwight, his eyes darting quickly at Michael, "At last year's convention, how many times did you try to initiate romantic overtures with Josh from Stanford, and did he accept said overtures?"
Michael's eyes go wide. Wait--hold--wait a second. Is Dwight kidding? Josh from Stanford? That ass basket who tried to steal all of his bestest best friends away?
"You--" Michael isn't sure what to say to her. "You hit on Josh?"
A mysterious vein throbs in Jan's forehead. "Once," she answers, curtly, staring at a point someplace above Michael's head. "And he did not...accept any overtures." She pauses. "I'm pretty sure he's not into women at all." She juts her chin. "Dwight!"
Dwight sits up straight.
"Exactly how many times have you slept in your underwear in Michael's office?"
Michael looks from Jan to Dwight and is suddenly so dizzy he needs to sit.
"Twice," says Dwight, "However--both times, exterminators had been spraying poisonous gas in Michael's office after hours. I had to make sure they posed no danger to Michael. It's part of my job. So I slept in his office. So what? It's not a crime, and in fact, had I woken up dead, I'd be a hero, wouldn't I?"
Jan shakes her head. Michael looks at Dwight and blinks. His brain really, really hurts now. "Obsessed," he murmurs.
"Michael," says Dwight. "I must ask you not to distract me with compliments." He turns to Jan. "Jan," he says. "Did you or did you not viciously remove the 'Dunder Mifflin Employee Parking Only' sign from the side of the building?"
"Viciously?" scoffs Jan. "No. I did not 'viciously' remove any sign. It was old and faded and it looked ridiculous, so I threw it." She coughs. "Away." She glances quickly at Michael. "I threw it away."
She clears her throat. "Dwight," she says, "What medical ailment is listed on the second page of your health insurance application but crossed out?"
Dwight cracks his neck and answers, "Anal Retention." He pauses. "Last time I ever take medical advice from Jim Halpert." He nods coldly at Jan. "Jan," he says, "Why did you throw Michael's Dundie at Ryan?"
Flabbergasted, Michael turns to Jan and asks, "You did what?"
Jan opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again. The skin by her hairline turns pink. Her left eye twitches uncontrollably. Michael puts a palm to his forehead and starts rubbing in circles. His head is quickly filling with way too much bad information.
"Twenty-seven seconds," warns Dwight.
"We got into an argument," says Jan quickly, and her leg starts to shake. "Ryan accused me of... running the company into the ground. Needless to say, I...disagreed."
Michael stares at her wordlessly. He thinks of Ryan's Dunder Pong locked so sadly in his desk. He thinks of how he didn't even invite Ryan to his party because he was mad at Ryan. He thinks of Ryan's sweet little face asking about the Branch's latest sales numbers, and suddenly he feels very bad for his best friend Ryan who was apparently beaten up by his girlfriend.
"Don't look at me like that," mutters Jan. "I didn't injure the obnoxious zygote." She takes a deep breath and clears her throat. "Dwight," she barks, "According to, ah...Toby's records..." She leans forward, "Where is the clitoris?"
Michael frowns, confused. "The what?" He leans closer to Andy. "What the hell is a clitoris?"
Andy shrugs. "I think it's a soft drink."
Dwight clenches his fists. His face is completely red. Like a button. "The clitoris..." He takes a slow, deep breath. "The clitoris is located at the tip of the labia," he answers. And after a pause, murmurs, "And those HR files should have been sealed."
Dwight folds his arms across his chest. "Jan," he spits, "What is Michael's favorite word for the act of sexual intercourse and why did he choose it?"
Michael can't even think anymore. In his mind is a vision of his Mom running up and down the street without a shirt on. Definitely not good for when he has sex with Jan later, that's for sure. All in all, this is just not what he'd had in mind. He waves his hands wildly at Jan, hoping she'll see him and not answer.
"The Sexual Samba in D-Minor," Jan answers.
Michael's hands ball into fists. He stares hard at Jan. How the hell does she always manage to take a perfectly fun idea and turn it into something horrifying and awful, like a book without pictures?
"Jan!" Michael lowers his voice and turns to her. "That is totally private."
"You owe me half an answer," insists Dwight. "Elaborate in the next fifteen seconds or give me the tie."
"Dwight," repeats Michael. His head is spinning. "Shut--just shut it."
Jan sits perfectly straight. "Michael says it's the hardest note to bang," she says. "He was first-chair tambourine in high school." She leans forward, her eyes darker and darker with each question.
"Dwight," she says, "Where does Michael keep his diary?"
Michael's eyes go wide. "Wait--what?"
He is absolutely sure he must have water in his ear or something. Did Jan really just ask about his diary? And what is that freaky throbbing in his ears? That can't be normal, he thinks--hearing clock sounds in his head. Unless... he's turning into a clock. Or a clock-maker. (Okay, maybe Jan is right; he really needs to stop watching the Twilight Zone on his computer at work.)
Dwight's eyes dart back and forth. He takes his elf hat off, wipes a hand across his brow. "That's classified," he says.
"Oh?" Jan cocks her head to one side. She leans forward. "If that's true, you forfeit."
Michael turns to Dwight. "Did you go snooping around my office, Dwight?" He lowers his voice. "Did you purposely go looking for Elsie?"
"I, uh--" Dwight blinks, his breathing short and quick. "I was getting a file," he explains. "It was awhile ago, and... And I may or may not have seen a book. There might have been fuzzy stickers on it. It might have been locked. There might have been Chinese jump-rope wrapped around it. I don't know. I didn't really look."
Michael's brain reels. He recalls keeping Elsie first in his car, (never write in a diary while also driving and eating--apparently cops don't like that), and then in his office, where he could write in it whenever he wanted with his new florescent gel pens. But then, when he'd caught an old episode of Full House where DJ said she kept her diary under the bed, which sounded way better, because it was like, the last place anyone would ever look for a diary, Michael had moved it out of the office. He's pretty sure nobody's figured it out yet.
"Fine," snaps Jan. She folds her arms across her chest. "I'll accept that answer."
Michael breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay," he says, "So that was fun." He smiles and claps his hands together. "Why don't we just call it a tie and eat some candy from the elephant?"
Dwight shakes his head shortly and glares at Jan.
Jan shakes her head and glares at Dwight.
They're kind of like enemy countries now, just...with legs. And arms. And faces. And okay, Jan's country has a killer rack. And Dwight's country is pretty lame. But both are getting on his nerves, now, and he's not sure how much longer he can take it. Michael rubs his hand miserably across his face. "Please?" he asks.
"Jan," barks Dwight, "How much do breasts cost?"
"Dwight, what the hell?" Michael's hands thrust into the air. "That's my girlfriend, okay? She's not going to tell you how much her breasts cost."
"Seven thousand six hundred dollars," says Jan. "Insurance covered one-fourth."
Her eyes flash dangerously.
"Dwight," she growls, "What were you arguing with Jim about in the break-room this afternoon, and why did you storm out?"
Michael turns nervously to Jan. Something weird is happening in her face. Her eyes are almost a different color--a bluish, hard, slate gray. It's times like this--like during a serious game of Sorry, or in a board room, maybe-- when Michael wonders where his awesome, funny Jan goes. Somehow, she always disappears and gets replaced with...Gargamel Jan. Maybe that means Gargamel Jan keeps Awesome Jan in a cage over a cauldron somewhere? Michael really has no idea. He just keeps hoping that Gargamel Jan wont eat Awesome Jan.
Dwight sits up. "That's your comeback?" He snorts at Jan as if she's grown a second, stupider brain. "Jim was making plans to have everyone to meet up at Poor Richard's tonight, and--"
Michael's eyes widen, and suddenly, he feels like a beach ball that's been kicked and punched into deflating. "What?" he asks.
Dwight's face turns red. He turns to Michael. "Uh, that is, I mean..." When he turns back to Gargamel Jan, the lights from the Christmas tree are dancing a crazy dance across her face. She looks completely satisfied and folds her arms across her chest.
Michael feels something ugly happening in his body, like all of his bones and muscles punching his vital organs in order to save his girlfriend the trouble.
Dwight turns from Jan to Michael and back to Jan.
"Twenty-eight seconds," says Jan.
"Uh," says Dwight nervously. "Can I rephrase?"
"Twenty-two seconds," says Jan.
Dwight begins to sweat. "Uh," he tries, "That's not really what--Jim never---nobody is at Poor Richard's, that was--they're all at, uh, I, uh...Pass!" He shakes his head and punches the air with his fist. "Damn it."
Gargamel Jan grins victoriously. "Hah," she says, and leans back into the chair. Finally, she turns to Michael as if she wants to share her horrible horrible victory with him. "That was actually kind of--" Her smile fades. "Michael? What's wrong?"
"Hey guys?" says Andy. "What's this?" Andy leans against the wall by the mantel, pulling out DVDs from a nearby shelf. In one hand, he holds Michael's copy of Harry Potter and The Sorcerers Stone, and in the other, a blank DVD case. "Anyone want to watch one of these? Because this game is boo-ring." He frowns and reads, "The Christmas Bush." He looks up at Michael. "What's this about?"
"Oh, Jesus." Jan is up and across the room. "Give that to me." She yanks the DVD out of Andy's hands. "Michael," she says, "Please put this upstairs."
Michael, however, has already snatched his big pink elephant off the floor and is backing out of the room. He stuffs a Mini Reeses cup into his mouth, feeling a lot like that guy on Survivor who cried when they voted him off.
"Michael?" asks Jan. She's following him out of the living room and into the kitchen. "Michael," she repeats, "Where are you going?"
Michael walks faster.
Jan's still following him-- although if she keeps going out the door, into the cold, into her car, onto the highway, and back to her deluxe apartment in the sky-y-y, Michael won't be sorry at all. In fact, he'll be the opposite of sorry. He'll be ambivalent. (Scrabble. One of Jan's words. He can even spell it now.)
Jan finally corners him by the kitchen table. "Michael, what's the problem?"
"Where do you want me to start?" He says, and slams the big pink elephant down on the table between them.
Jan narrows her eyes. "What does that mean?"
Michael takes a deep breath. He remembers how he and Jan played Scrabble last weekend, and Jan kept beating him. Every single time. She just... she kept beating him. And she seemed to like beating him, too. As if she got off on it or something. And while she made a good cuddler when they watched Beaches, and while she sings very pretty and knows a lot of Streisand, Michael is...just so sick of Jan beating him at things.
"Jan," asks Michael, "Do you care about me at all?"
Jan physically stops short until she's actually taken a step backwards. "What--" She sputters, "What kind of question is that?" She glances behind her, at the entrance to the kitchen, where Paul has set up his camera. "Of course I care about you."
Michael shakes his head. He reaches into the elephant and pulls out a pixie stick. "You don't love me," he says. He sighs and sinks down into one of the kitchen chairs, ripping off the top of the pixie stick. "You could just admit it, you know. You don't have to--"
"This is about the game." Jan takes a deep breath. "Michael," she says, "Look, I...I didn't mean to hurt you. Okay? It was just...it was strategy. Do you understand? It was what I had to do to win." She shakes her head and sinks down into the chair across from him. She reaches into the elephant and pulls out a Ring Pop. "I mean, for crying out loud, you bet the car." She yanks at the plastic and adds, "We only have the one. What did you expect me to do?"
"The car thing was just for a week," Michael mumbles. He tilts his head back and dumps the pixie dust into his mouth. "And you didn't have to tell Dwight our sex word."
Jan tosses the plastic from her Ring Pop onto the floor and licks at the candy. "He already knew," she says, and touches a palm to his knee. "You told him after you had your wisdom teeth out. Do you remember? We couldn't get him to leave. He kept--" She waves the hand with the Ring Pop, "Bringing you his grandmother's weird soup in pickle jars."
Michael looks up at her. "Still." He shifts so that her hand falls off his lap. "That was humiliating, Jan."
Jan's looking at him strangely now, as if she's never seen him before. Her eyes are their normal blue again, but now they look tremendously sad. Michael never understands what he's supposed to do when her eyes are like that. Is he supposed to comfort her? Hug her? Give her a bowl of Fruity Pebbles? (That always works for him.)
Although...now that he's thinking of it, the problem is mainly that Jan won't even eat his Fruity Pebbles. Or his Cookie Crisp. Or his Kix. And she never lets him help, either. She never lets him fix anything, and sometimes, she barely lets him talk to her.
"I give up," says Michael, at a loss for what to do or say. He reaches under the table and pulls out a red-and-green wrapped package the size of a textbook. On the front is an envelope. He hands it to Jan. "You might as well have this now," he says, thinking of last weekend, when they played Slap Away with a jar of Marshmallow Fluff and a wooden spoon. (Most amazing sex ever--that's what he said.)
But where does that Awesome Jan go? wonders Michael. Where does she hide when Gargamel Jan takes over?
He shrugs. "Since..." He stares at his hands. "Since the party's bust anyway." He feels suddenly very old and tired and not like Santa Claus at all. "I think I might go upstairs after this and take a nap."
Jan is still staring at him, although her eyebrows have gathered in the center of her forehead like a really ugly bird about to go straight up. She says nothing, but takes the package from him and opens the envelope. She pauses for a moment to look at him, and her eyes are so light, almost the color of Lake Scranton--it's almost as if she's about to cry. (Oh, Michael sincerely hopes she doesn't cry. Crying Jan is the scariest Jan he knows. Even Gargamel Jan isn't as scary as Crying Jan.)
"Dear Jan," Jan reads out loud. "Sorry this gift isn't as awesome as I wanted it to be. I took lessons with Pam and everything--she's a really good artist. I'm getting better, though. Anyway, did you know that stars are the same no matter where you go? I read that on wikipedia. So that's why there are stars. This way the Michael star and the Jan star aren't just in Jamaica. They're in the sky over our house, too. I hope that sounds cool and not creepy. At first, I thought it was probably kind of creepy. But I don't anymore. Merry Christmas, Love, Michael."
Jan sucks in a deep breath and tears open the package. Inside is the framed drawing Michael had worked on with Pam. It's a pencil drawing of the condo with two squiggly stars overhead. Next to one star is an arrow with the name "Michael." Next to the other is an arrow with the name "Jan." Real Jan runs her fingers slowly over the glass frame where the stars are and bites her lower lip. She glances over her shoulder, past Michael, where Paul is standing with the camera. She looks kind of the way she does when Michael tells her she'll like mushrooms on her baked potato because she liked them on her hamburger, and she says 'no that's different,' and he says 'no it's totally the same,' and she says 'Michael, step away from me,' and he says, 'What if I named this one George? Will you eat it then? George says he wants you to eat him,' and Jan laughs, and says, 'That's not what she said,' and they argue a lot, and Jan finally eats the mushrooms and likes it.
"This is..." Her eyes are still so sad. "This is lovely, Michael."
Michael shrugs.
"No--" Jan takes his hand. "Really." She smiles. She glances over her shoulder at the camera again, and then at the gift, and then at the camera, and then at Michael. Her face looks thoughtful. "I love you," she says, in a weird, loud voice.
Michael picks sullenly at his fingernails. "Whatever," he says. "I've heard it before."
"No," says Jan louder--almost unnaturally loud. "Michael, look at me."
Michael looks at her.
"Uh..." Jan looks back at him with a lopsided half-smile. "You complete me?" she tries.
Michael's left eyebrow goes up. He has no idea which Jan this is, and it's a little frightening.
"I'm, ah...in love with you, and I want to--" Jan looks to the ceiling, the walls, and then back at him. "Yeah, I can't--this isn't how I do this."
Michael stares at her strangely. What is she talking about?
Suddenly, Jan rises from the table. "I'll be right back," she says, grabbing her keys up off the counter.
Michael frowns. He picks his elephant up off the table, clutching it to his chest, and glares at her. "You're leaving," he says.
Jan sighs. She leans forward and touches his cheek. "Give me twenty minutes," she says.
"To do what?" asks Michael. He shrugs away from her, not really wanting her touching him right now.
Jan eyeballs Paul, and then looks back at Michael. "I'm getting more hot dogs," she says, and turns towards the door. She pauses in the doorway with her coat halfway on. She really does look so pretty with her dress and her coat and her Ring Pop, and Michael isn't sure what to make of that feeling.
"Hey," she says, "Remember what I just said."
And then she's out the door before Michael can figure out whether or not he even wants to stop her.
-----
CONTINUED....
Author: J.L.
Rated: PG-13. ish.
Category: Michael/Jan (MJR?), Jim, ensemble, some Jim/Pam
Disclaimer: All WIP rules apply for now. Also, I don't own them. I wish I did. I would make them do naughty things.
Spoilers: Up to season 4. Cocktails, and The Deposition, perhaps, depending on your point of view.
The Tie: Catch-Up Fights (And Picket Fences):
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
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The Tie
By J.L
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--------
Part Six
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"Woof woof woof.
Woof woof woof.
Woof woof woof
woof woof.
Woof woof woof
woof woof woof
woof
woof woof woof
woof woof woof
woof."
--- Barking Dogs Sing Jingle Bells
"Michael, it has nothing to do with your looks--it's your personality. You're obnoxious, and rude, and--and stupid..."
- Jan Levinson
Untitled Dunder Mifflin Documentary
Raw footage, 10.22.05
------
5:50pm
Jan folds her arms across her chest and glares at Paul; Paul clears his throat and gazes expectantly at Jan. Paul and Jan sit across the kitchen table from one another and the little red camera light is still blinking. At most, this will afford Jan with very little time to keep Dwight and Andy from destroying her entire house. What is with the timing of these stupid personal interviews?
“If I go back in there and Dwight has murdered, beaten, or shot someone with a bowstaff, I’m suing your camera crew,” says Jan.
Paul grins and nods. He stuffs a hand into his pocket and pulls the lining inside-out, and then shrugs at her. Jan sighs. “Fine,” she says. “This is part of the agreement, so...let's do this.” She takes a deep breath. "You want to know why I'm with Michael?"
Jan shrugs, not quite understanding how to answer that.
"Well, I..."
She thinks back to a game of scrabble they'd played last weekend, the way their tiles crisscrossed over the little squares. Lascivious intersecting with clown. Clown intersecting with Judicious. Judicious intersecting with JLo. Michael had offered her half his chocolate milkshake, and they'd sat together playing scrabble for hours, arguing and looking up bizarre words Michael had claimed were foreign but were really suffixes and prefixes shoved together. Afterwards, they'd watched Beaches. Jan showed him how to play Sudoku, which, as it turns out, he was much better at than she was. Jan looks down at her fingers, fixes her nails. God, these fucking cameras, she thinks.
"We have nothing in common," she starts, "Nothing.” She waves her hands, continues, “Why does he wake up early on Sundays to watch Fraggle Rock? Why does he insist that Jim and Pam are secretly planning a surprise conference call with Jessica Alba? Why does he cry at the end of Mandy Moore Movies? Why have I seen Airplane with him six times in both English and Spanish? I don't..." She shakes her head. "I don't have these answers, okay?"
Jan taps her foot against the floor, the leg of the table, and finally, some package that's been stuffed under her chair. Her head feels full, almost painfully so.
“He pretends to get stressed out with me so I’ll share my ice cream with him," she says. "He never buys his own, he always has to have mine, and only when I’m eating it, so it’s like--like living with a five year old. He goes through this whole, this melodramatic thing where he moans about how he needs a pick-me-up, how being a manager is like Mickey Mouse running The Magic Kingdom, or a game show with too many contestants, or--once he said it was like ruling ancient Sparta.” She touches a finger to her lips and chuckles. “I don’t know where these things materialize in his head. I just know it ends with him stealing my ice cream.”
Why does she feel as if she’s been caught half-naked or something?
“Uh, he's good at games," she says. “So I guess, that's...something. Right?" She nods to herself, not sure if that really is. "Last month he taught me this silly handgame where, it's-- you hold out your palms, like this--" She holds out her hands, palms facing up, "And you have to try to slap the other person's hand?" She waves that hand around, continues, "Apparently, lots of people know this game? I’ve never--uh, anyway, in Michael's version, there's whipped cream and marshmallow fluff--" She smiles, seeing in her mind’s eye, a vision of Michael with the spoon and the fluff jar, chasing her around the kitchen island. They’re laughing until they start gasping, and when Michael finally grabs her, they knock over a tower of Tupperware containers. Jan steels herself, and adds, "The rest is private."
The camera's still rolling and Paul is gazing at her curiously. As if she's just glued reindeer horns to her head or something. Jan doesn't quite know what to make of that expression. Her stomach is fluttery and she shifts uncomfortably.
"I don't--what else do you want me to say, here?’”
Paul holds up an index card and gestures at it.
Jan frowns. “Am I in love with Michael?” She looks to the ceiling, the walls, the floor, and the camera, although none will answer that publically for her.
“That’s a highly personal question." She takes a deep breath. “Look, it’s all very--it’s a very complicated situation, and I don't know how comfortable I am discussing it on camera." She scratches the back of her neck, lets her hand rest there.
Paul says nothing. The camera rolls and rolls and rolls.
Jan gazes at a random point above Paul's head, a place where, in her mind, she and Michael are eating dinner together and he wordlessly passes her his extra garlic knots. Sometimes, he plays footsie with her under the table or they share a glass of chocolate milk with two straws and she feels very young again.
"Fine," says Jan. She looks back into the camera. ”Michael fascinates me, okay? His brain, it's like a game of MouseTrap. Have you ever played that game? There are all these annoying little pieces and doohickies and I never know where the hell they go, but somehow Michael can assemble it in five minutes." She shakes her head. "He really gets to me, you know? He frustrates me, he infuriates me, he--" She cocks her head to one side. "He completes me?"
She pauses.
"Oh, god."
She closes her eyes.
"He completes me."
She looks up, half-expecting a piano to fall on her. "Michael completes me." She keeps repeating it, half-expecting a better answer.
Through her fingers, she manages, "No more questions." She looks at Paul. "Did you hear me? We're done. Turn the camera off."
---------------
6:07pm
When Jan returns to the living room, the arguing has escalated to fighting, and even The Three Barking Dogs Sing Jingle Bells--on its fifth go-round in the CD Changer (Michael’s favorite, Jan's least favorite) doesn’t seem to be helping the overall mood.
"Why don't you truth or dare for it," says Andy.
"How do you Truth or Dare for a tie?" asks Michael. He looks Andy up and down and adds, "Weirdo."
"Oh, come on, you know," says Andy. "Like in college?"
Michael shakes his head.
Jan feels a sinus headache coming on. She imagines violent bank robberies with better endings.
Andy sighs as if speaking to several small children. "It's how we Ivy Leaguers make tough decisions," He says, and clears his throat. "You play Truth or Dare, go around the circle however long it takes, first to chicken out and call 'dare' loses the bet and has to walk around the quad totally naked." Andy grins, adding, "The most fun was the girl’s chemistry honors quad. Those chubby academic chicks were fierce."
Michael nods. “Rock on.” He touches his knuckles to Andy’s and makes a sound like an explosion of spittle.
Jan looks at Andy and shakes her head. "No," she says, “Absolutely not-“
Just as Michael chimes in with, "What an excellent idea.”
Jan grits her teeth.
She glances at the Christmas tree, still blinking its schizophrenic prism of color; the living room fills with short pulses of light. In and out. In and out. In and out. The whole effect is actually quite nauseating, and Jan finally has to look away. Her gaze flits across her watch: six o'clock.
Seriously?
Why does she feel as if this is a cruel cosmic joke, the fact that her evening has really only just begun?
--------------------------
6:08pm
Jim cranes his neck to see around the corner; Pam had mentioned she'd be at the front of the bar with some menus, a couple of coronas, and a list of at least four possible names for the undercover tie. (So far, Jim has come up with The Christmas Alpha One-Sixty and The Annihilator, both of which Pam has objected to on the grounds that she feels a Death Tie should have at least four hyphenated suffixes, a series of random numbers, and either the yiddish or German word for "danger."
At the sound of someone's throat clearing, Jim swivels back around on his stool. "Uh, just a little distracted," he explains, laughing. "All afternoon I've been trying to find the perfect symbol of Christmas diversity." He holds up his Corona. "Unfortunately, all I have at the moment is this Christmas Diversity beer." He glances at his beer. "However, the bartender did assure me that this is a very rare Asian beer, and it does say Happy Kwanzaa in six languages, so..."
Greg motions at an index card he's holding over the camera's red light. Jim frowns, squints, and laughs again. "Oh," he says, "Okay." He clears his throat, and reads, "Why does noone want to go to Jan and Michael's party?" Jim shakes his head. "Sorry, I thought that was a joke the first time."
Greg has no reply to that, which is totally normal, alhough Jim has to wonder if these awkward stretches of silence are why Michael continues to downspiral into the Abyss of Retardation.
The camera continues rolling.
Jim purses his lips, nodding to himself. "Okay then," he says, "For one thing, it's Michael and Jan... at the house of Michael and Jan." Jim gazes around thoughtfully, and finally, he shrugs. "Yeah, didn't think I'd need to prepare other reasons."
---------------------------
6:08pm
Michael has come to one conclusion and one conclusion only: Dwight cannot have his tie. Period. End of sentence. Beginning of explanation: For one thing, foreign languages are completely wasted on Dwight. Like French, for instance. French does not look good on Dwight at all. However, French does look great on Michael--Jan even said so once when she tried to teach him the French translation for “That's What She Said."
Second on the list; Dwight is sad and pathetic.
Third? He is a weirdo.
Fourth? If Dwight wanders around the condo interrogating guests and muttering about ties and explosions, he will eventually drive Jan crazy. And Michael has seen Jan crazy. It's most definitely a mountain he doesn't want to climb if his name is still not Mohammed.
Michael turns to Jan. "What?" he says, "I don't see you suggesting anything."
"Michael," suggests Jan, "why don't you just let Dwight have the tie?"
Michael takes a long, deep breath. "No," he says. "That would be stupid."
Jan reaches a hand to the back of her neck and twists from side to side until something in her collar makes a gross crunching sound. She's mumbling something about "kill Dwight" under her breath but Michael can't really make it out.
Whatever.
"Okay," says Michael. He nods first at Andy, and then at Paul, who's setting up his tripod. Finally, Michael turns to Dwight. "Dwight, we're going to Truth or Dare for the tie," he says, "You, me, and Jan--"
"No." Jan shakes her head. "No Jan. Leave Jan out of it."
"Oh, come on!" Michael smacks Jan playfully on the arm. Jan does not look amused. "Please don't be this way, Chickenwing."
"Michael," says Jan, "please don't call me Chickenwing."
"Fine," says Michael, "But you are completely harshing the mellow of this party."
Jan folds her arms across her chest. "Somehow, I find that incredibly hard to believe."
Michael pokes her in the shoulder. "I'm being serious, Jan."
Jan pokes him back. "So am I," she says.
"Yeah, well," retorts Michael, "I'm serious as a collar."
"A what?" Jan shakes her head. "Whose collar?"
Michael frowns. "Huh?"
"You said collar," offers Andy. "What do you mean, like a dog collar?"
"I think he meant Chloroform," says Dwight. "Chloroform is deadly serious."
"I had a dog with a pretty serious collar once," says Andy. "Cost me eighty bucks with all the rhinestones."
"The disease," says Michael impatiently. He shakes his head; why do people always pretend to not understand him? "God," he continues, "It's like I'm surrounded by assholes." He pauses and adds, "Spaceballs. Great movie."
"You mean Cholera?" says Jan. She shakes her head. "Michael, nobody gets Cholera anymore."
"You know what, Jan?" says Michael, "Unless you've suffered from it, maybe you shouldn't be correcting me or throwing stones at my glass house. Okay? I'll have you know, Cholera is the most amount of serious a person can be, according to the Discovery Channel. Also, it's the number one killer of people on the Oregon Trail, and Facebook doesn't lie about that stuff." He jabs Jan in the sternum with his index finger. "So, suck...on...that."
Jan's mouth opens as if to make an argument she can't quite force back up her throat.
"Okay," continues Michael, turning towards Dwight. "So, Dwight, if Jan or I calls a dare, you win the tie--"
"And something else?" asks Dwight. "Uh, just to make it--as they say--a little more interesting?" he pauses. "You could bet the PT Cruiser." He touches his index finger and thumb to his chin and scratches. "Yes, I do think that would be appropriate under such dire circumstances." He nods to himself. "Michael, I dare you to bet me the tie and the PT Cruiser. For a week." He pauses. "Is this acceptable?"
"Ooh, slam!" says Andy. He nods and turns towards Michael. "Dude, be a badass. Bet the car. I totally double dare you."
Michael catches Jan’s arm just as she lunges forward at Andy (he doesn't even want to know what's in her head--he's guessing 'strangle,' since she once mentioned during a game of CSI Special Victims Murder Boggle that it was her homicide word of choice.)
Andy glances quickly from Dwight to Michael and Jan. He looks like a kid on his birthday without the cake or the presents or like, the actual birthday. He picks up a candy cane from the mantle. "But you should make it even sweeter," he says. He taps the candy cane against his chin, and adds, "Dwight would like to bet your regional manager's parking spot. For a week."
Dwight's eyes widen. He looks quickly at Andy, who can't seem to get the plastic wrapper off his candy cane. Andy slaps Dwight roughly on the back. "You don't have to thank me," he says.
"ANDY," says Jan.
"Let's do it," says Michael, too excited about the prospect of a party game--any party game-- to care that his arm is a Disney barricade across Jan's chest. Dwight, on the other hand, is lit up like the star on their Christmas tree, and it is, in a word, Crazy. Ass. Frightening.
"Michael," says Jan. "Listen to me." She turns him by his shoulders until they are eye-to-eye. "There will be no truth or dare in this living room. There will be no betting of cars. Do you understand? If Dwight wants the tie, just give it to him."
Michael frowns at Jan. He remembers this one time, when he was eleven, and his Mom was playing Go Fish in the living room with the old ladies from the group home across the street. This one old lady (Michael used to call her Smells Like Farts) had ten cards left, and his Mom had like, four. Which is when Smells Like Farts dared his Mom to run outside and flash the neighborhood if she lost to anyone at the table. And his Mom, being his Mom, and incredibly masterful at Go Fish (and a number of other card games, including Uno, Solitaire, and War) hesitated for only a second before--as they say-- "going all in." It was just so awesome to witness, especially that young--how nobody at the table had as much confidence as his own Mother. And why? Because she was that good at Go Fish.
So it actually came as kind of a shock when his Mom lost to Smells Like Farts. Also, it meant Michael had to see his Mom's boobs. (Along with the rest of the neighborhood. At four o'clock in the afternoon. On a Friday. During Fourth of July Weekend. Right before a block party.) Actually, it kind of ruined his summer, too. The kids down the street changed his name to "Michael Slut." (Which, Michael supposes, was at least better than when they called him "Michelle.")
In any case, if Michael has learned anything from that experience, it's that bets can't be won with old ladies, although they can probably be won with idiots. Or...just the one idiot. If there were two idiots, probably no one would win.
Michael shakes his head. "No way," he says. "That tie speaks six languages and you cannot buy that kind of verbal power. What if one day we decide to spend a holiday in Portugese?"
"Portugal," says Jan.
"Or some other French country,” adds Michael. "We'd still need Christmas translations---even if the Japanese are liars."
Jan stares at him curiously. "Michael, what do the Japanese have to do with Portugal?"
Michael waves a dismissive hand. "Look, Jan, the only other suggestion you've had so far is killing him. And we can't do that. For one thing, we don't have any wet cement or really heavy boulders. Also, he weighs too much. Like, a lot. Have you ever tried to give him a piggy-back? Totally dead weight."
"Michael," interrupts Jan. She waves a hand in Dwight's direction. "He's standing right there."
Dwight sets his elf-gloved hands on his hips. "And I'm listening to every single word you're saying, too."
Michael feels a tension headache creeping up from his feet into his brain, and he pinches the skin around his eyes. Why does everyone have to make this so hard (that's what she said) when the solution is so simple? Finally, he waves his hands over his head. "Okay," he says, "Everyone, listen up! Executive decision!"
Jan's other eyebrow goes up.
"We're doing Truth or Dare," he states. He pauses and glances at Jan, who looks at him with eyes that would probably shoot him in the face if eyes could hold a gun. Feeling slightly nervous, he finishes, "If you lose, Dwight, you have to...uh...shut your annoying mouth. Just not speak for the rest of the night. No--the rest of the week. To anyone." He pauses. "And you have to do my laundry. Again. For a month." He chances a second glance at Jan. "With fabric softener, like you used to. Jan doesn't really know how to use---"
"MICHAEL." Jan is glaring at him still.
"What?" says Michael. "You NEVER use fabric softener." He thinks back to last month's kneesock, underwear, and Tide fiasco, and how his skin dried up like a steel magnolia. His knees haven't been as soft since. "Those chemicals are really harsh, Jan."
Jan shakes her head. "I should just lobotomize myself," she mumbles. She takes a deep breath, walks in front of Michael, and turns her attention to Dwight.
"Okay, if I agree to this," she says, "There will be groundrules." Her eyes are clouded with something dark and scary; it's not unlike the time when she suggested some weird Chinese sex game and tried to convince Michael that if Asians could let strangers stick them with tiny, freaky needles and call it a 'massage,' so could she.
"Dwight," says Jan, "If we lose, you get..." She makes a face, "The PT cruiser and Michael's parking spot--for a week." Her right eyebrow jerks upward. "However, if you lose, you will not venture from this living room and you will not speak to anyone about anything for the rest of the night--"
"Or into next week," adds Andy.
"And he'll do our laundry," finishes Michael.
Dwight blinks. "I do not plan on losing," he says, "but I agree to your terms."
Jan takes several deep breaths. "I cannot believe I'm doing this," she mumbles. Then, much louder: "Listen up." Her jaw squares and her shoulders straighten. “My house, my rules. Got it?"
Michael frowns. "Uh, technically it's my--"
"All questions must have no more than two parts. No leading, no passing, no second chances, each defendant has forty-five seconds-“
“Defendant?" Michael frowns. "Wait, who is the--"
“What did I tell you about interrupting me?” snaps Jan.
Michael stares into her glittery blue eyes and shudders. He recalls this one time, at a meeting, when Craig from the Albany branch suggested that paycuts were tyrannical, bitchy, and the result of some crazy PMS, and Jan got that exact same look on her face. She yanked Craig's numbers immediately from his hands, crossed out several items and then scribbled something else that Michael couldn't see, and announced to the table that she'd just chopped five percent off Craig's salary (as well as the salary of seven warehouse employees) and would also take away his parking space and gas card. Then she smiled sweetly, turned to the rest of the table, and said, "Well, that wasn't so hard, was it? Who wants to break for lunch?"
When she'd finally adjourned the meeting and whistled her way out of the conference room, she cornered Michael like a trapped ferret in the hallway, and dragged him out to her car. "Take your clothes off," she had ordered, as she ran her mouth furiously down his neck. "I need to fuck something."
Michael Scott went back to Scranton with six bruises and a frightened penis that day.
"Forty-five seconds for answers and no longer," continues Jan. “We’re going forward with the honor system--no cheating, no lying, no asking things we don’t know the answers to--“
Dwight opens his mouth to speak, and Jan finishes, “If I get just one question about the circumference of a beet or how many pretend units of measure it is from Narnia to the wardrobe, this game is over and you will lose, Dwight. Do you get me?”
Dwight opens his mouth.
"No Battlestar Gallactica," she snaps.
Dwight narrows his eyes. “Stargate SG1?”
Michael snorts. “You are such a loser, Dwight.”
“No television shows,” says Jan.
“But what about-“
“Do NOT test me, Dwight.”
Dwight looks Jan up and down like she's an automatic weapon. “Fine,” he says. "I accept your conditions.” He pauses, and adds, "It'll be like taking candy from a young person. No--from a blind young person. No--from a stupid blind young person...with no motor skills...in the desert."
"Are you done?" asks Jan.
Dwight glares at her.
“Finally,” finishes Jan, “I will sit-in for Michael.”
Michael’s mouth drops open. His heart feels suddenly very insulted. “Hey--Jan? That’s not part of the deal."
Jan settles into the armchair across from Dwight. "You just bet our car, Michael,” she says. "Our car." She taps her fingernails against the armrest. Her eyes darken with that weird intensity, and if Michael didn't know any better, he'd assume she was about to drag something out to the car to fuck it. “Either I win this for us or you and Dwight can share the car and sleep in it."
Michael glares at Jan but has nothing to say. He entertains a vision of Jan's Dunder Pong flying viciously across the room and landing in the sink, where it is swallowed by the garbage disposal. His gaze passes from her to Dwight. His stomach goes fluttery. He's so unsure of this whole idea now, and he hates that Jan always manages to be just mean enough to have him second-guess everything he does. God, how he longs for his Dunder Pongs who never argue with him and never make him feel stupid.
"Good," says Jan. She leans back in her chair. With a deep breath, she says, "Bring it." Her eyes are clear blue and unblinking.
Just terrific, thinks Michael. She is going to eat Dwight.
"If by that you mean I can and will beat you at this superficial and ridiculous child's game, then yes, I will bring it," says Dwight. "Are you ready to lose?"
Jan says nothing.
The Christmas tree in the corner winks and winks at them.
The CD changer finally flips to a new song: Alvin and the Chipmunks.
"Excellent," says Dwight. "We shall engage." He takes a deep breath.
"Jan," says Dwight, "I challenge you with Truth."
Jan stares at Dwight coldly, gives a short nod. "Go.”
“Approximately what time last night did you and Michael appear on the building’s security camera, in the hallway between the warehouse and the office?”
Michael chokes on his own spit, recalling their little game of The Holiday Security Guard and The Confused Australian Bodybuilder. He glances over at Jan, who has seemingly no reaction.
"Nine-pm," she says, as if asking for a glass of milk.
"Dwight," she says, "Approximately how many inches is it from your desk to Michael's office?"
Michael frowns and looks at Dwight. Dwight's face turns a faint shade of scarlet. "Precisely seventy-seven inches," Dwight says.
Michael grins. "That's what she said!" He holds up his palm to Jan, who finishes the high-five without even looking. Sometimes, Jan makes Michael feel all tingly and eerie inside.
Dwight shifts uncomfortably on the couch while Jan smirks a very becoming little smirk.
"Jan," says Dwight. "I challenge you with Truth." He leans forward on his elbows and looks sideways at Michael before asking, “How many times a day does Michael play with his dolls?”
Jan says nothing, merely raises an eyebrow.
Michael glances at Jan and bites his lower lip. Suddenly, weird things in his chest are kicking at other weird things in his chest; his whole face throbs like a pulse. He opens his mouth just as Jan replies, “Which dolls? The action figures or the Super-Bratz?”
“Hey!” Michael waves a finger, feeling slightly nauseated. “Those are not dolls, okay? Those are motivational speaking tools.”
“The Ninja turtles,” answers Dwight.
Michael feels his throat going dry.
Jan shrugs. “Leonardo and Donatello, about three times a day--Michaelangelo, maybe twice. He doesn't own Rafael." She pauses. “He likes them to act out Meryl Streep movies." She shoots him a sideways glance. "Well, the ones he knows, anyway."
Michael sighs. "Sophie's Choice is boring, Jan."
"Whatever," says Jan. She takes a deep breath and mutters something to herself about a backbone and being able to open herself up, which sounds kind of dirty and cool.
Her back straightens and she nods her chin at Dwight. "Dwight," she says, "Please tell me what Star Wars The Musical is."
Dwight chokes on his candy cane and spits several gross little pieces across the room. He touches the tip of his elf hat. "How do you know about that?" he asks. "Was it Jim? Did he tell you? Did he steal my musical?"
Jan stares at Dwight the way she stares at Michael when he's just tracked mud into the house. She glances at her watch. "Thirty-five seconds," she says.
Michael can't help but laugh. "A musical, Dwight?" He snorts. "How gay are you?"
Something twitches in Dwight's cheek, and he answers, "The project I am working on is confidential, brilliant, NOT GAY, and completely ahead of its time. My trombone composition of The Deathstar Love Ballad has gotten more hits on YouTube than Retarded Man Eats Carrots, and when it is eventually sung by Bernadette Peters and Christopher Plummer as Princess Leia and the Dark Lord, it will beat Skateboarding Albino Rat." Dwight looks from Michael to Jan. "Only three-thousand more hits," he says.
"Wow." Michael shakes his head. "You are retarded."
This time Jan holds up a palm to Michael, and Michael smacks it. He's still not pleased with this arrangement, but at least if he can't be a player, he can be a cheerleader. Like, a Laker Girl or something.
"Jan," says Dwight, his eyes darting quickly at Michael, "At last year's convention, how many times did you try to initiate romantic overtures with Josh from Stanford, and did he accept said overtures?"
Michael's eyes go wide. Wait--hold--wait a second. Is Dwight kidding? Josh from Stanford? That ass basket who tried to steal all of his bestest best friends away?
"You--" Michael isn't sure what to say to her. "You hit on Josh?"
A mysterious vein throbs in Jan's forehead. "Once," she answers, curtly, staring at a point someplace above Michael's head. "And he did not...accept any overtures." She pauses. "I'm pretty sure he's not into women at all." She juts her chin. "Dwight!"
Dwight sits up straight.
"Exactly how many times have you slept in your underwear in Michael's office?"
Michael looks from Jan to Dwight and is suddenly so dizzy he needs to sit.
"Twice," says Dwight, "However--both times, exterminators had been spraying poisonous gas in Michael's office after hours. I had to make sure they posed no danger to Michael. It's part of my job. So I slept in his office. So what? It's not a crime, and in fact, had I woken up dead, I'd be a hero, wouldn't I?"
Jan shakes her head. Michael looks at Dwight and blinks. His brain really, really hurts now. "Obsessed," he murmurs.
"Michael," says Dwight. "I must ask you not to distract me with compliments." He turns to Jan. "Jan," he says. "Did you or did you not viciously remove the 'Dunder Mifflin Employee Parking Only' sign from the side of the building?"
"Viciously?" scoffs Jan. "No. I did not 'viciously' remove any sign. It was old and faded and it looked ridiculous, so I threw it." She coughs. "Away." She glances quickly at Michael. "I threw it away."
She clears her throat. "Dwight," she says, "What medical ailment is listed on the second page of your health insurance application but crossed out?"
Dwight cracks his neck and answers, "Anal Retention." He pauses. "Last time I ever take medical advice from Jim Halpert." He nods coldly at Jan. "Jan," he says, "Why did you throw Michael's Dundie at Ryan?"
Flabbergasted, Michael turns to Jan and asks, "You did what?"
Jan opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again. The skin by her hairline turns pink. Her left eye twitches uncontrollably. Michael puts a palm to his forehead and starts rubbing in circles. His head is quickly filling with way too much bad information.
"Twenty-seven seconds," warns Dwight.
"We got into an argument," says Jan quickly, and her leg starts to shake. "Ryan accused me of... running the company into the ground. Needless to say, I...disagreed."
Michael stares at her wordlessly. He thinks of Ryan's Dunder Pong locked so sadly in his desk. He thinks of how he didn't even invite Ryan to his party because he was mad at Ryan. He thinks of Ryan's sweet little face asking about the Branch's latest sales numbers, and suddenly he feels very bad for his best friend Ryan who was apparently beaten up by his girlfriend.
"Don't look at me like that," mutters Jan. "I didn't injure the obnoxious zygote." She takes a deep breath and clears her throat. "Dwight," she barks, "According to, ah...Toby's records..." She leans forward, "Where is the clitoris?"
Michael frowns, confused. "The what?" He leans closer to Andy. "What the hell is a clitoris?"
Andy shrugs. "I think it's a soft drink."
Dwight clenches his fists. His face is completely red. Like a button. "The clitoris..." He takes a slow, deep breath. "The clitoris is located at the tip of the labia," he answers. And after a pause, murmurs, "And those HR files should have been sealed."
Dwight folds his arms across his chest. "Jan," he spits, "What is Michael's favorite word for the act of sexual intercourse and why did he choose it?"
Michael can't even think anymore. In his mind is a vision of his Mom running up and down the street without a shirt on. Definitely not good for when he has sex with Jan later, that's for sure. All in all, this is just not what he'd had in mind. He waves his hands wildly at Jan, hoping she'll see him and not answer.
"The Sexual Samba in D-Minor," Jan answers.
Michael's hands ball into fists. He stares hard at Jan. How the hell does she always manage to take a perfectly fun idea and turn it into something horrifying and awful, like a book without pictures?
"Jan!" Michael lowers his voice and turns to her. "That is totally private."
"You owe me half an answer," insists Dwight. "Elaborate in the next fifteen seconds or give me the tie."
"Dwight," repeats Michael. His head is spinning. "Shut--just shut it."
Jan sits perfectly straight. "Michael says it's the hardest note to bang," she says. "He was first-chair tambourine in high school." She leans forward, her eyes darker and darker with each question.
"Dwight," she says, "Where does Michael keep his diary?"
Michael's eyes go wide. "Wait--what?"
He is absolutely sure he must have water in his ear or something. Did Jan really just ask about his diary? And what is that freaky throbbing in his ears? That can't be normal, he thinks--hearing clock sounds in his head. Unless... he's turning into a clock. Or a clock-maker. (Okay, maybe Jan is right; he really needs to stop watching the Twilight Zone on his computer at work.)
Dwight's eyes dart back and forth. He takes his elf hat off, wipes a hand across his brow. "That's classified," he says.
"Oh?" Jan cocks her head to one side. She leans forward. "If that's true, you forfeit."
Michael turns to Dwight. "Did you go snooping around my office, Dwight?" He lowers his voice. "Did you purposely go looking for Elsie?"
"I, uh--" Dwight blinks, his breathing short and quick. "I was getting a file," he explains. "It was awhile ago, and... And I may or may not have seen a book. There might have been fuzzy stickers on it. It might have been locked. There might have been Chinese jump-rope wrapped around it. I don't know. I didn't really look."
Michael's brain reels. He recalls keeping Elsie first in his car, (never write in a diary while also driving and eating--apparently cops don't like that), and then in his office, where he could write in it whenever he wanted with his new florescent gel pens. But then, when he'd caught an old episode of Full House where DJ said she kept her diary under the bed, which sounded way better, because it was like, the last place anyone would ever look for a diary, Michael had moved it out of the office. He's pretty sure nobody's figured it out yet.
"Fine," snaps Jan. She folds her arms across her chest. "I'll accept that answer."
Michael breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay," he says, "So that was fun." He smiles and claps his hands together. "Why don't we just call it a tie and eat some candy from the elephant?"
Dwight shakes his head shortly and glares at Jan.
Jan shakes her head and glares at Dwight.
They're kind of like enemy countries now, just...with legs. And arms. And faces. And okay, Jan's country has a killer rack. And Dwight's country is pretty lame. But both are getting on his nerves, now, and he's not sure how much longer he can take it. Michael rubs his hand miserably across his face. "Please?" he asks.
"Jan," barks Dwight, "How much do breasts cost?"
"Dwight, what the hell?" Michael's hands thrust into the air. "That's my girlfriend, okay? She's not going to tell you how much her breasts cost."
"Seven thousand six hundred dollars," says Jan. "Insurance covered one-fourth."
Her eyes flash dangerously.
"Dwight," she growls, "What were you arguing with Jim about in the break-room this afternoon, and why did you storm out?"
Michael turns nervously to Jan. Something weird is happening in her face. Her eyes are almost a different color--a bluish, hard, slate gray. It's times like this--like during a serious game of Sorry, or in a board room, maybe-- when Michael wonders where his awesome, funny Jan goes. Somehow, she always disappears and gets replaced with...Gargamel Jan. Maybe that means Gargamel Jan keeps Awesome Jan in a cage over a cauldron somewhere? Michael really has no idea. He just keeps hoping that Gargamel Jan wont eat Awesome Jan.
Dwight sits up. "That's your comeback?" He snorts at Jan as if she's grown a second, stupider brain. "Jim was making plans to have everyone to meet up at Poor Richard's tonight, and--"
Michael's eyes widen, and suddenly, he feels like a beach ball that's been kicked and punched into deflating. "What?" he asks.
Dwight's face turns red. He turns to Michael. "Uh, that is, I mean..." When he turns back to Gargamel Jan, the lights from the Christmas tree are dancing a crazy dance across her face. She looks completely satisfied and folds her arms across her chest.
Michael feels something ugly happening in his body, like all of his bones and muscles punching his vital organs in order to save his girlfriend the trouble.
Dwight turns from Jan to Michael and back to Jan.
"Twenty-eight seconds," says Jan.
"Uh," says Dwight nervously. "Can I rephrase?"
"Twenty-two seconds," says Jan.
Dwight begins to sweat. "Uh," he tries, "That's not really what--Jim never---nobody is at Poor Richard's, that was--they're all at, uh, I, uh...Pass!" He shakes his head and punches the air with his fist. "Damn it."
Gargamel Jan grins victoriously. "Hah," she says, and leans back into the chair. Finally, she turns to Michael as if she wants to share her horrible horrible victory with him. "That was actually kind of--" Her smile fades. "Michael? What's wrong?"
"Hey guys?" says Andy. "What's this?" Andy leans against the wall by the mantel, pulling out DVDs from a nearby shelf. In one hand, he holds Michael's copy of Harry Potter and The Sorcerers Stone, and in the other, a blank DVD case. "Anyone want to watch one of these? Because this game is boo-ring." He frowns and reads, "The Christmas Bush." He looks up at Michael. "What's this about?"
"Oh, Jesus." Jan is up and across the room. "Give that to me." She yanks the DVD out of Andy's hands. "Michael," she says, "Please put this upstairs."
Michael, however, has already snatched his big pink elephant off the floor and is backing out of the room. He stuffs a Mini Reeses cup into his mouth, feeling a lot like that guy on Survivor who cried when they voted him off.
"Michael?" asks Jan. She's following him out of the living room and into the kitchen. "Michael," she repeats, "Where are you going?"
Michael walks faster.
Jan's still following him-- although if she keeps going out the door, into the cold, into her car, onto the highway, and back to her deluxe apartment in the sky-y-y, Michael won't be sorry at all. In fact, he'll be the opposite of sorry. He'll be ambivalent. (Scrabble. One of Jan's words. He can even spell it now.)
Jan finally corners him by the kitchen table. "Michael, what's the problem?"
"Where do you want me to start?" He says, and slams the big pink elephant down on the table between them.
Jan narrows her eyes. "What does that mean?"
Michael takes a deep breath. He remembers how he and Jan played Scrabble last weekend, and Jan kept beating him. Every single time. She just... she kept beating him. And she seemed to like beating him, too. As if she got off on it or something. And while she made a good cuddler when they watched Beaches, and while she sings very pretty and knows a lot of Streisand, Michael is...just so sick of Jan beating him at things.
"Jan," asks Michael, "Do you care about me at all?"
Jan physically stops short until she's actually taken a step backwards. "What--" She sputters, "What kind of question is that?" She glances behind her, at the entrance to the kitchen, where Paul has set up his camera. "Of course I care about you."
Michael shakes his head. He reaches into the elephant and pulls out a pixie stick. "You don't love me," he says. He sighs and sinks down into one of the kitchen chairs, ripping off the top of the pixie stick. "You could just admit it, you know. You don't have to--"
"This is about the game." Jan takes a deep breath. "Michael," she says, "Look, I...I didn't mean to hurt you. Okay? It was just...it was strategy. Do you understand? It was what I had to do to win." She shakes her head and sinks down into the chair across from him. She reaches into the elephant and pulls out a Ring Pop. "I mean, for crying out loud, you bet the car." She yanks at the plastic and adds, "We only have the one. What did you expect me to do?"
"The car thing was just for a week," Michael mumbles. He tilts his head back and dumps the pixie dust into his mouth. "And you didn't have to tell Dwight our sex word."
Jan tosses the plastic from her Ring Pop onto the floor and licks at the candy. "He already knew," she says, and touches a palm to his knee. "You told him after you had your wisdom teeth out. Do you remember? We couldn't get him to leave. He kept--" She waves the hand with the Ring Pop, "Bringing you his grandmother's weird soup in pickle jars."
Michael looks up at her. "Still." He shifts so that her hand falls off his lap. "That was humiliating, Jan."
Jan's looking at him strangely now, as if she's never seen him before. Her eyes are their normal blue again, but now they look tremendously sad. Michael never understands what he's supposed to do when her eyes are like that. Is he supposed to comfort her? Hug her? Give her a bowl of Fruity Pebbles? (That always works for him.)
Although...now that he's thinking of it, the problem is mainly that Jan won't even eat his Fruity Pebbles. Or his Cookie Crisp. Or his Kix. And she never lets him help, either. She never lets him fix anything, and sometimes, she barely lets him talk to her.
"I give up," says Michael, at a loss for what to do or say. He reaches under the table and pulls out a red-and-green wrapped package the size of a textbook. On the front is an envelope. He hands it to Jan. "You might as well have this now," he says, thinking of last weekend, when they played Slap Away with a jar of Marshmallow Fluff and a wooden spoon. (Most amazing sex ever--that's what he said.)
But where does that Awesome Jan go? wonders Michael. Where does she hide when Gargamel Jan takes over?
He shrugs. "Since..." He stares at his hands. "Since the party's bust anyway." He feels suddenly very old and tired and not like Santa Claus at all. "I think I might go upstairs after this and take a nap."
Jan is still staring at him, although her eyebrows have gathered in the center of her forehead like a really ugly bird about to go straight up. She says nothing, but takes the package from him and opens the envelope. She pauses for a moment to look at him, and her eyes are so light, almost the color of Lake Scranton--it's almost as if she's about to cry. (Oh, Michael sincerely hopes she doesn't cry. Crying Jan is the scariest Jan he knows. Even Gargamel Jan isn't as scary as Crying Jan.)
"Dear Jan," Jan reads out loud. "Sorry this gift isn't as awesome as I wanted it to be. I took lessons with Pam and everything--she's a really good artist. I'm getting better, though. Anyway, did you know that stars are the same no matter where you go? I read that on wikipedia. So that's why there are stars. This way the Michael star and the Jan star aren't just in Jamaica. They're in the sky over our house, too. I hope that sounds cool and not creepy. At first, I thought it was probably kind of creepy. But I don't anymore. Merry Christmas, Love, Michael."
Jan sucks in a deep breath and tears open the package. Inside is the framed drawing Michael had worked on with Pam. It's a pencil drawing of the condo with two squiggly stars overhead. Next to one star is an arrow with the name "Michael." Next to the other is an arrow with the name "Jan." Real Jan runs her fingers slowly over the glass frame where the stars are and bites her lower lip. She glances over her shoulder, past Michael, where Paul is standing with the camera. She looks kind of the way she does when Michael tells her she'll like mushrooms on her baked potato because she liked them on her hamburger, and she says 'no that's different,' and he says 'no it's totally the same,' and she says 'Michael, step away from me,' and he says, 'What if I named this one George? Will you eat it then? George says he wants you to eat him,' and Jan laughs, and says, 'That's not what she said,' and they argue a lot, and Jan finally eats the mushrooms and likes it.
"This is..." Her eyes are still so sad. "This is lovely, Michael."
Michael shrugs.
"No--" Jan takes his hand. "Really." She smiles. She glances over her shoulder at the camera again, and then at the gift, and then at the camera, and then at Michael. Her face looks thoughtful. "I love you," she says, in a weird, loud voice.
Michael picks sullenly at his fingernails. "Whatever," he says. "I've heard it before."
"No," says Jan louder--almost unnaturally loud. "Michael, look at me."
Michael looks at her.
"Uh..." Jan looks back at him with a lopsided half-smile. "You complete me?" she tries.
Michael's left eyebrow goes up. He has no idea which Jan this is, and it's a little frightening.
"I'm, ah...in love with you, and I want to--" Jan looks to the ceiling, the walls, and then back at him. "Yeah, I can't--this isn't how I do this."
Michael stares at her strangely. What is she talking about?
Suddenly, Jan rises from the table. "I'll be right back," she says, grabbing her keys up off the counter.
Michael frowns. He picks his elephant up off the table, clutching it to his chest, and glares at her. "You're leaving," he says.
Jan sighs. She leans forward and touches his cheek. "Give me twenty minutes," she says.
"To do what?" asks Michael. He shrugs away from her, not really wanting her touching him right now.
Jan eyeballs Paul, and then looks back at Michael. "I'm getting more hot dogs," she says, and turns towards the door. She pauses in the doorway with her coat halfway on. She really does look so pretty with her dress and her coat and her Ring Pop, and Michael isn't sure what to make of that feeling.
"Hey," she says, "Remember what I just said."
And then she's out the door before Michael can figure out whether or not he even wants to stop her.
-----
CONTINUED....