January 2nd, 2009
|05:14 pm - A Few Introductions, Mr. Schrute (Dwight/Angela) PG|
Title: A Few Introductions, Mr. Schrute
Summary: Angela introduced Dwight to so many things. Based on a line from Crime Aid but set during Season 2.
Word Count: 1592
Disclaimer: I don't own The Office or the characters, no copyright infringement is intended.
It's the first time Angela's stayed the night and at 8:11 am, it's going horribly.
"No. Absolutely not."
The force with which her words pierce the thin morning air makes the glass bottle in his hands feel ten times heavier. "It's milk," he tries, not knowing why he's so hurt by the fact that she's refusing a glass, like it means something more than what it is.
"It's raw milk, Dwight. It's disgusting."
It's offensive, is what it actually is. He's angry and she's angry and they both must've forgotten waking up with tangled legs because they feel like nothing more than enemies. He scowls and pours himself a glass filled with more than he'll be able to drink because it's just one of those things that he has to do to uphold the honor of his farm or maybe his virility or something, anything to get back at her eyebrow arched so sharply.
"Then I hope you don't like drinking anything with breakfast," he spits and crunches on bacon loudly.
Angela rolls her eyes and picks up a fork and well, she's not storming out and she's still sitting there and maybe that means something more than unpasteurized milk at the breakfast table. He swallows and looks at her starting on the pancakes and he realizes that it's 8:13 am and it's the first time she's stayed the night and she really does look lovely this early in the morning.
"Mose has always liked orange juice."
Dwight's humbled but he doesn't care because she's smiling.
Jim's party was fantastic, despite the fact that it had been Jim's party. The food was terrible, the karaoke was horrific (he'll have to talk to Phyllis about proper voice technique on Monday), and that idiot Mark had been asking him too many questions about beet farming. Still, it was a great party.
They make it back to Angela's house without anyone noticing them leaving together and before he knows it, Dwight is in her bedroom, cold hands beneath her shirt. She throws the blankets back and hums into his lips before taking off his glasses and pulling them both down onto the bed.
"What're these?" he asks curiously and out of breath as his fingers leave to graze the coverings on her mattress.
Her answer is impatient and hushed. "Sheets."
It's a simple miscommunication but she slaps him for it anyway. "Shits?" he repeats, and the room is quiet except for the sharp echo of skin on skin as she swings an offended hand across his cheek.
Dwight is shocked, not because of the stinging of his face, but because of the wild excitement he sees in her eyes and then like magnets they're kissing again and everything about them might explode as Dwight decides he might try and get slapped more often.
"What are you reading him?" Dwight asks from the doorway, sandwich in one hand.
He realizes the severity of his tone when Angela refuses to answer and instead throws him a dark look and continues reading. Mose glances over quickly and smiles tight-lipped but doesn't get up from the spot on the couch where he sits quietly on his hands.
Dwight cocks his head and leans down to see the cover; it's a book of children's Bible stories and the illustration on the front looks all cute and stupid made out of cut-out construction paper shapes. He almost scoffs and comments on the inanities of organized religion but he looks to his cousin who is so enthralled with the lilt of Angela's voice as she prattles on about Noah and his animals and there's really nothing Dwight can do but go and sit beside him.
The little, almost imperceptible creases that appear around the corners of Angela's eyes are silent signals that Dwight understands well enough to know that the moment she notices him join their tiny Sunday school is a very, very happy moment for her.
That evening, Dwight picks up the book Angela had carefully left in Mose's bedroom and it is the first night since Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince was released that they read a different bedtime story.
Presents on your birthday
There's a certain regality in the way she cuts the mint chocolate chip birthday cake, like she's the queen of something or maybe even a starship captain, and while everyone else eyes that first slice, he eyes her.
She hands him a plate and it's in moments like these that he wants to forget formality and reason and kiss her right there, maybe knock the party hat off of her head first and then kiss her right there, but Dwight Schrute is civilized and Angela would probably kill him if he did anything like that so instead he forces all of those tumbling urges into the words, "Thank you very much, Angela."
"Well, on behalf of the party planning committee, happy birthday." She only looks up on the last two words and Dwight can immediately feel his heart pumping faster, like John Bonham is in his chest, pounding out a drum solo.
"Well, thank you very much, Angela."
He watches her glance around the conference room nervously before a very final, "You're welcome," and then she's focused on the cake again and he's back in Dunder Mifflin Scranton. He can feel the blood in his hands, heavy and hot, so he sits down before Kevin comes over and hits him with the blow-up doll, retribution for his birthday two months ago.
"The best part of this cake," Michael broadcasts as he gets up for his third slice, "Is the frosting. Because you can't have all cake and no frosting. That would just be -- it would be the worst. Sometimes you just need to have your cake and eat the frosting too, am I right?"
"Yes, Michael," Dwight nods vehemently.
"I like the ice cream," Kevin declares and the party hat is attached to his head all crooked and sloppy.
Jim is an idiot so the two fist bump. "Nice, man."
"I like the cookie crumbles," Dwight says to his plate at first but then gazes up to meet the eyes of everyone in the room except a certain accountant because sometimes this is even better than kissing her out in the open; it's theirs and it's secret and there is a predatory satisfaction in knowing she's been caught. "Because cookie on your birthday is the best."
Jim cocks his head from his place against the wall, like a puppy or something equally as dumb, and challenges, "Better than beets, Dwight?"
"Better than beets." It's a strong statement but he is a strong man so he finally leers at her and smirks the way he does when he finds an animal in one of his traps.
Except, he's been learning, Angela's different in a way that makes his stomach sing with reverence because she just sits there without a trace of recognition, refusing to break her austere jurisdiction. She's brilliant, really, and Dwight decides that secret romance is maybe the best romance because somehow, the simple act of her scratching the side of her face and re-crossing her legs before finally meeting his gaze has become the best birthday present ever.
There's split-second tug at the corner of her mouth and Dwight melts.
She's a decent enough driver for a woman, he'll give her that, but he's too tall for her car and his knees press up against the glove compartment. "I should be driving," he mumbles into the passenger side window and his breath on the glass makes it fog up.
"You don't know where we're going," she frowns, and turns on her left blinker, the clicking making his eyes narrow.
"Exactly. I should know so I can prepare for every possible disaster. What if we drive over a mine? What then?" He checks his seat belt.
She's silent and chews the inside of her cheek, eyes on the road, before she answers, "Junior high school."
It takes a moment but the realization hits and all of a sudden Dwight's voice hitches in defense. "Pull over. Pull over right now."
"Fine," she concedes, pulling into a parking spot right by the front entrance of the school.
"I'm not getting a flu shot."
"This isn't up for discussion," Angela counters and rips the keys from the ignition.
"Fact: if the Pilgrims hadn't carried their diseases over on the Mayflower then the Native Americans would have never been wiped out and this country would be all casinos."
The stare she gives him then feels like swear words and arm twisting and he would marvel over this power she possesses if only it was directed at anyone else. "You are not a pilgrim."
Right at the worst of it, when he thinks he might just dump her that moment and be done with this woman, her face softens like butter churning backwards into cream and there are almost tears in her eyes. "You got a concussion, Dwight. You were in the hospital. I don't want that to happen again."
Dwight's not weak. A germ is tiny, he could take it, but there's something that twists and punches his insides when he sees Angela look at him like she's going to just be nothing in a second if he doesn't kiss her then, so he does and they're both still there when he pulls back. "Fine, but you're going to laser tag with me next weekend."
Women are so simple.
Fantastic story! I really loved the way you captured Angela, especially her silent moments with Dwight.
Completely perfect, please write more Dwangela fics soon because there never can be enough and you write them perfectly!
|Date:||January 5th, 2009 12:40 am (UTC)|| |
Oh, I love this! Such a good idea, the series of vignettes from that line - when Dwight spouted that list in Crime Aid, I must admit I was curious as to the stories behind them and this is just perfect. Your characterisations are fantastic and your Dwight voice is just amaaaazing - the last couple of lines made me laugh out loud with Dwight's 'fair enough' followed by Women are so simple. Awesome awesome work.
|Date:||August 16th, 2009 05:37 am (UTC)|| |
You have a beautiful writing style. Absolutely beautiful. I can't get over it. And at required parts, when you wish, it becomes tantalizingly erotic. Sensuous. But your writing style - beautiful. One of a kind. I adore it.
You write Angela and Dwight wonderfully. And their irresistible electric pull they have toward one another, articulately expressed - in a manner I have not before seen.