Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own anything you recognize. Which includes characters from The Office and Inception.
Note: Back in 2010, the Inception fandom was just starting out. And people were writing a lot of crack. The Inception characters encountered all sorts of wacky things, from Rick Astley to the Old Spice Guy. And in the midst of this glorious crackfest, I started writing bits and pieces of an Inception/Office crossover. Sadly, I didn't finish it and let it sit around gathering dust for years. But after watching both Inception and The Office for the first time in ages, I felt compelled to dig this thing out and finally complete it.
Sooo… I'm posting this several years too late. I'm not sure if anyone will ever read it, but if anybody does, I hope you enjoy! (Also, the story isn't meant to take place during any particular season of The Office, though it's definitely based more on the early seasons.)
Work a Little Harder, Darling
Arthur faced the camera in his three-piece suit, a slight frown lurking around his eyes. "I've officially been working at Dunder Mifflin for one week, three hours, and—" He checked his watch, "thirty-nine minutes." His frown deepened into a scowl. "It has been the longest week of my life."
. . .
By the end of Arthur's third week in the office, he was opening up a Word document and jotting down all the reasons why his new job had significantly raised his blood pressure.
1. Michael.
2. MICHAEL.
3. Eames, one of the sales representatives, was constantly lurking around the accounting side of the room, trying to get a rise out of him.
4. Meredith had introduced herself by handing out a photo of her boobs. He still had nightmares about it.
5. Nobody else seemed to take their job seriou—
"What are you doing?" Dwight demanded, raising Arthur's blood pressure another level. He was standing behind Arthur's desk, arms folded across his chest as he glared at Arthur's computer. Angela, who sat across from Arthur, sat up a little straighter at Dwight's approach.
"I'm working," Arthur informed Dwight, hastily minimizing the Word document. "Shouldn't you be at your desk?"
"Wouldn't you like to know, Mr. Fancy Suit? Don't kid yourself into thinking your plans have gone undetected. You have my word that not a single one of this company's secrets will ever leave this office under my watch."
And Reason #6: Dwight seemed to think that Arthur was a spy working undercover at the office. Arthur could not imagine why any spy would be interested in paper sales, but he quickly learned that Dwight's enthusiasm for Dunder Mifflin could possibly be classified as a mental disorder.
Arthur hated to admit it, but now would be a good time for Eames to stroll by and annoy him, like he usually did, because at least it would interrupt Dwight creepily glaring at him. "Look, Dwight, I'm trying to do my work. And I don't think our clients would appreciate you loitering around like this."
"Our clients, Arthur?" said Dwight, with an unsettling gleam in his eyes. "Or yours? Who do you work for, really?"
Just as Arthur was ready to remove his tie and strangle Dwight with it, Eames appeared with a smirk on his face. He had brought his infuriating habit of buying vendor machine snacks for Arthur, despite all the times Arthur had protested against it.
It seemed the more Arthur protested, the more Eames wanted to bother him. The art of playing hard to get, according to Kelly and her stack of Cosmopolitan.
"I know you hate soda," said Eames, setting a bottle of water on Arthur's desk. "Such a health-conscious fellow you are."
"Thank you," Arthur muttered.
"So the two of you are allies," Dwight observed, eyeing the bottled water. "I knew it was suspicious when you got hired within weeks of each other. What is in this bottle?" he demanded, snatching it from Arthur's desk.
Arthur made no move to get it back.
"Please hand that over to Arthur," said Eames. "It wasn't bought for you."
"I'm taking this to Michael," Dwight announced. "Who knows what information is being passed inside this seemingly harmless beverage? Michael!"
"Crazy bugger," said Eames, shaking his head in disbelief.
. . .
"Secret agents are a very serious matter," said Dwight. "As a loyal member of this company, I would gladly become a secret agent in order to protect Dunder Mifflin. But an outsider?" He narrowed his eyes at the camera. "An outsider is not to be trusted."
. . .
Even worse, possibly, than Dwight's constant suspicion, was the trophy that showed up on Arthur's desk one morning. It featured a little golden man carrying a briefcase, with the words HOTTEST IN THE OFFICE engraved below it. For a moment, Arthur stared. Then he snatched up the trophy and stormed over to Eames' desk, where he found Eames engrossed in a game of online poker.
"Eames," Arthur grated out. "Is this your idea of a joke?"
Eames took one look at the trophy and burst into laughter. Arthur swore he could feel Angela scowling at them from across the room.
"Clever," said Eames, once he had stopped laughing. "And very, very accurate. But it's not my handiwork, unfortunately."
Arthur inspected the trophy again. "I guess you're right. Everything's spelled correctly."
Ryan happened to walk by and halted, eyes glued on the trophy. He stared like a deer caught in a pair of headlights he hoped to never see again. "I thought I threw that out."
. . .
"Ryan has many excellent qualities," Michael said, seated behind his desk. "But he is very careless—as well as hot. Can you believe he accidentally left his trophy behind at the Dundie Awards? I had to rescue it from the dumpster at Chili's and give it back to him—the big dork!" He chuckled to himself over his coffee cup. "And then somebody stole it. But that's what you get when you don't lock your desk. It's common sense, right? So I ordered another trophy, exactly like the original, and was all prepared to give it to Ryan, but… well…" He shrugged. "Somebody hotter walked in."
. . .
"You know that song by ZZ Top? Sharp Dressed Man?" Arthur gazed at the camera with a haunted look in his eyes. "Michael sings it every time I arrive at work."
. . .
Arthur started filing complaints to Toby.
He had a lot to complain about. Between Dwight's interrogations, Michael's harassment, and Eames' constant flirting—or whatever it was he was doing—he had to endure a whole series of incidents that distracted him from his work, which were not limited to:
1. Jim triggering his OCD with a prank that involved rearranging every single item on his desk. It had taken Arthur an entire day to get his pens and calculators situated just right again.
2. Meredith flashing him when he walked into the break room. He was now suffering from nightmares within nightmares.
3. Angela constantly warning him that Oscar was headed "straight to hell"—and giving Arthur significant looks whenever Eames strolled by, which surely meant that she would be praying for the both of them.
4. Kelly talking his ear off in the elevator on how it was "soooo awesome" that Eames paid so much attention to him, when all Arthur wanted to do was take her and Eames and throw them both off the roof.
When he wasn't filing complaints and trying to be a good accountant, Arthur spent much of his time dreaming up ways that Eames could get fired. To his annoyance, Eames was turning out to be a surprisingly successful employee, despite spending half his day trying to catch Arthur's attention. It was his stupid accent that made him such a good sales rep. Female clients couldn't resist him.
Arthur was in the middle of an elaborate daydream that involved stealing Kevin's lunch and framing Eames for the crime—which would surely get him fired for theft, since Kevin took his lunch very seriously—when he was summoned to Michael's office. This could not be good.
It wasn't.
"Come on in, Arthur—come in!" Michael said, beckoning from behind his desk. "No, not you, Toby. Do you think I want to have my office fumigated again? It's expensive! Now go—just go—wait out there, all right? Jeez. Take your awfulness germs elsewhere."
Toby gazed hopelessly at the cameras as he backed away from Michael's office. Arthur stepped inside, feeling as if he had been summoned to a torture chamber, and found Michael spraying the place with Lysol. He chose not to remark upon it and took a seat.
"Well, well—Hottest in the Office 2.0!" Michael announced once he had stopped spraying. "How's our sharp dressed man today? Wait a minute—not so good! You know why, Arthur? I've got this stack of complaints here that Toby says you filed against me."
"Every complaint is valid," Arthur began, trying not to gag on all the Lysol in the air.
"You know what's truly valid, Arthur? The pain that grips me when I read these complaints. Like every neat, precisely penned word is a punch to the face. These are serious accusations. So serious, in fact, that I believe you're not really complaining about me at all, Arthur. You're sending out a distress signal here. A plea for attention! S.O.S., Michael, we've got an employee here with low self-esteem!"
Arthur tried to argue further, but Michael was picking up the phone, pretending to dial a number. Making little beeping sound effects with his mouth.
"Helloooo, 9–1–1? My name is Arthur and I've got an emergency here. My boss is being a pain. I can't get any work done!" Grinning like a comedian who thought he had delivered a successful punchline, Michael set down the phone and said, "You see, Arthur, how silly that sounds? You can't go around making false alarms like that. Remember the boy who cried wolf? If you say there's harassment when there's actually no harassment, nobody is going to believe anything you say. What if there's a fire? You're going to yell FIRE! and no one will believe you and we'll all be barbecued."
"But, Michael," Arthur tried again, "you have to admit that most of your behavior is detrimental to productivity—"
"Blah, blah, now he's throwing big words around. Mr. Big Shot Ivy League in his corporate suit."
"See, this is exactly what I'm—"
Michael made a buzzer sound with his mouth. "Baaaack to work, buddy! What do you think I'm paying you for? Go out and earn that thousand dollar suit. 'Cause Dunder Mifflin's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man!"
As Arthur stepped out of Michael's office, he strongly considered going home sick. It wouldn't be much of a lie. Ryan happened to be loitering around—since nobody at Dunder Mifflin ever seemed to actually work—and gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder. "You'll get used to it."
. . .
"Am I sorry to see Arthur getting bothered by Michael?" said Ryan. "Sure. Am I sorry that he's taken my place? Not at all."
. . .
Arthur took solace in the kitchen. And by solace, he was actually taking a massive cup of coffee in the hope that all the caffeine would shock his body into oblivion. Surely it was better than sitting at his desk, where he was well within earshot of Michael's singing. And well within range of Dwight, who had lately started using binoculars to spy on his computer from across the room. Arthur was careful not to write any more lists.
Kelly and Eames were seated together at a table, engaged in conversation about reality TV—if you could classify Kelly jabbering a mile a minute in Eames' face as conversation. Eames didn't seem to mind. He caught Arthur's eye and winked, then snickered when Arthur spilled coffee on the counter.
Oh, well. It wasn't like his day wasn't ruined already.
Kelly suddenly jumped out of her seat, looking like a traffic cone in her bright orange dress, and let something drop to the floor. It rolled across the kitchen tiles and halted near the counter, about a foot from where Arthur was standing.
"Oh my god, I dropped my pen," Kelly gasped. "Arthur, can you get it for me?"
. . .
"It was my idea," Eames said five minutes earlier, looking smugly into the camera. "Yes, it's cliche and a bit juvenile, but it's bloody amusing. Also, he's got a very nice arse. Be sure to zoom in on it, will you?"
. . .
Arthur ignored the pen on the floor. It was pink and sparkly.
At the same exact moment, Phyllis entered the kitchen and spotted the fallen object. "Kelly, you dropped your pen."
Eames began violently shaking his head. "Wait—no, Phyllis—that's quite all right—"
Too late. Phyllis was bending over to pick it up, pointing her considerable backside right into the air.
"Bugger."
It was worth it to see the horror on Eames' face.
. . .
"I've thought about quitting. But usually when you apply for a new job, they want to know why you left your old one. What would I say, if I'm being honest? Insane coworkers? A boss who wants the entire office to know I'm hot? A work environment that thrives on making me miserable?" Arthur forced out a derisive laugh. "Yeah. I'd have a pretty slim shot at getting hired."
. . .
A week later, Arthur arrived at the office in his usual three-piece suit, wearing the usual set of earplugs he had wisely decided to buy. Pam sat behind the reception desk, ready to give him a thumbs-up if the coast was clear and Michael was occupied. This morning she shook her head at him, indicating that the ear plugs were definitely a necessity.
Predictably, Michael came springing out of his office right when Arthur walked past, serenading him with the one ZZ Top song that Arthur never wanted to hear again. Thanks to the earplugs, Michael's singing was only a muffled annoyance, and Arthur brushed it aside the way Angela brushed the cat hair off her sweaters. He found a piece of paper taped to his moniter—a printout with the words BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU splashed across it—which could only be a gift from Dwight. Wearily, he tossed it in the trash and woke up his computer.
Whistling tunelessly to himself, Eames strolled by on cue and dropped off a granola bar from the vending machine. It had a Post-It note attached, which said: Meet me in the brake room.
Sighing, Arthur crossed out "brake" and wrote BREAK above it to console himself.
He straightened the contents of his desk drawer.
And listened to Kevin crunching on M&Ms for about five minutes before curiosity finally got the better of him.
It wasn't because he actually wanted to talk with Eames. Alone.
He swore the cameramen were chuckling when he tried to explain this on his way to the break room. He found Eames sitting slumped in a plastic chair with his feet propped up on a table, fiddling around with his cell phone. He looked entirely too happy to see Arthur.
"Make it fast," said Arthur, forcing a glare onto his face. Trying to sound stern and completely disinterested.
"I'll have no choice but to make it fast, considering how long it took for you to come," said Eames.
Arthur could hear Michael in his head, gleefully declaring, That's what she said! He desperately pushed the voice away.
"So what is it, Eames?" he demanded.
Eames took his feet off the table and fished around in his briefcase. He produced a sheet of paper, which he slid across the table toward Arthur. "You probably don't know this, since we don't spend nearly enough time together, but I have a particular talent for forgery. And after getting a hold of some documents signed by the lovely boss-lady Jan, I can do a pretty passable signature. That paper right there has got Jan's signature on it, demanding that Dwight be fired immediately."
Arthur snatched up the paper to read it. "You spelled Dwight wrong."
"Did I?" said Eames, frowning.
"It's supposed to be spelled D-W-I-G-H-T."
"Damn. I could have sworn there was an 'A' in there."
Arthur crumpled up the document and tossed it back on the table. "I don't like Dwight. But really, Eames, this is idiotic."
"Well, they say it's the thought that counts. And I was hoping the thought would please you."
"Get back to work, Eames."
Arthur stalked out of the break room, catching more snickers from the camera crew. He suppressed the urge to say some words that would undoubtedly have to be censored.
. . .
"I can't take it anymore," Angela announced that afternoon. Seated behind her computer looking more severe than usual. "I'm telling Michael to move my desk."
"I'm sorry, Angela," said Kevin. "I had burritos for lunch today. So sue me."
"It isn't that." Angela's steely gaze flicked over to Arthur. Lips pressed in a thin, firm line.
Which was nothing unusual, coming from her, but she seemed particularly annoyed. At Arthur, who had always treated her with respect. "Angela," Arthur said slowly, staring her down. "Have I done something to offend you?"
"As if you don't know."
"I don't. Enlighten me."
It was like pulling teeth. From a rabid wildebeest. Angela just looked at him, the way his grandmother used to look at him when he wanted cookies before dinner. Then she rolled her eyes a little and finally said, "You could at least keep your sins private. Like Oscar does."
Oscar, typing away at his computer, said, "Leave me out of this," without taking his eyes from the screen.
Arthur, who normally considered himself sharp and intelligent, was utterly confused. "Have you been talking to Dwight?" he asked Angela. "About the whole secret agent thing?"
She sat even more stiffly in her chair, if that was possible. "Why would I ever speak to Dwight? Though… if anyone in this office is capable of cracking down on your behavior, I'm sure it would be him. He seems like a natural disciplinarian."
"Oh." Kevin was suddenly smirking, like he had finally gotten the punchline to a joke he heard hours ago. "Are you guys talking about the graffiti in the men's room? Did you see it, Angela?"
"Why would I go in the men's room, Kevin?"
"What graffiti?" Arthur demanded.
Kevin glanced at him slyly. "It's good."
"If you disregard the spelling errors," muttered Oscar.
Angela sighed.
. . .
"I am seated right in the middle of Sodom and Gomorrah," said Angela. "What is this office coming to?"
. . .
Arthur hurried into the bathroom, hoping to catch sight of the graffiti, only to discover Dwight furiously scrubbing at the wall. "Disgraceful," Dwight scoffed. "This is a workplace, not a circus." Noticing Arthur, he glared behind his glasses. "Back for more, are you? This is considered vandalism, Arthur. It's a crime!"
"Dwight, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh, I bet. And you're just a simple accountant with absolutely no ties to secret operations, aren't you? False." Dwight took up his sopping wet sponge and pointed it toward the wall, which was blank aside from a few blurred, dripping letters left behind. The letter E stood out among them. "This is very clever, Arthur. Almost clever enough to fool even me. Which is also false. It will take much more than a cleverly disguised code to fool me."
Arthur watched in despair as Dwight wiped down the last of the graffiti. "I really don't know what you're talking about. What did that graffiti say?"
"Please, Arthur. I've had Jedi training. Your trick questions won't work on me. And when I prove that you've written coded messages on the very walls of this institution, I will expose you once and for all."
"You erased the evidence," Arthur pointed out.
"So you admit that it's evidence."
"It was only a stupid prank, Dwight, and I'm pretty sure I know who the culprit is—"
"Are either one of you going to move sometime today?" Stanley interrupted from behind Arthur. "Some of us actually need to use the bathroom."
Stanley must have been standing in the doorway for the last five minutes, crossword puzzle tucked into his jacket, while Arthur and Dwight blocked the entrance. Guiltily, Arthur stepped aside so that Stanley could pass him with a roll of his eyes.
"Don't think that this is over!" Dwight called out to Arthur's retreating back. "I will protect this company's secrets with every highly advanced fiber of my being!"
. . .
"All right, you caught me," said Eames. He was grinning. "I wrote the graffiti. And yes, it was about me and Arthur. But that's all I'm going to say on the matter.
. . .
Arthur was starting to sympathize with Angela. He had also had enough. When his next breaktime arrived, he ignored the hopeful stares that were coming from Eames' direction and stalked over to the annex, where Toby was seated alone at his desk.
"Toby, I need to talk to you," Arthur began.
Toby swiveled his chair around to face him, looking as bleak and boring as ever. "It's okay, Arthur. Eames already came to me and disclosed his relationship with you."
"Wait, he—he disclosed his what?"
Toby blinked back at him. "Is this a surprise to you?"
"Toby, I don't know what the hell he told you, but there is no relationship between me and Eames. At all."
"He sounded sincere—"
Arthur sighed, cutting Toby off. "If he made you sign any—I don't know—paperwork, or something, then shred it. Please. Or burn it."
. . .
But the damage was already done.
Everyone in the office believed that he and Eames were dating.
. . .
Michael, when asked to comment on the matter, was trying his best to cope with it. Seated behind his desk, he addressed the camera as casually as he knew how.
"You have to fight for your right if you want to party. I think The Beatles said that. Some of us fight for our right to bear arms. Some of us fight for our right to have freedom of speech. And some of us, in this cruel, narrow-minded society of ours, fight for our right to be together. That's right. If Arthur and Eames want to play a game of Hide-the-Sausage with an extra, uh, sausage involved, who am I to judge? They want to throw some bacon and eggs in there, more power to them, right?" He laughed awkwardly. "I mean, discrimination in the workplace is so outdated. I respect my employees. And I would never, ever try to pry into the private lives of those who work here."
. . .
"Soooo—Mr. Office Hottie," said Michael, entering the kitchen while Arthur was making coffee. "I've got an important question for you." He leaned in close to Arthur and lowered his voice. "Who's the pitcher and who's the catcher?"
For the second time that week, Arthur spilled coffee on the counter. "I think you might have me confused with someone else, Michael. I don't play baseball."
"No, you weirdo. Not in a baseball way! I'm talking about you know."
"I don't. And I'm sure I don't want to know."
"Come on, Arthur, there's no way you don't—Oscar! Help me out here, buddy!"
Oscar had just entered the kitchen, took one look at Michael's frantic beckoning, and glanced at the camera with a doomed expression on his face.
"Since you're the office guru on all things homo, I'm hoping you can determine something for me," said Michael, whispering loudly as he huddled over to Oscar's side. "Arthur. Do you think he's a pitcher or a catcher?"
"I didn't know he played baseball," said Oscar, frowning.
Michael groaned in disbelief. "You know, Oscar, I think Kelly's right. You are just pretending to be gay."
"Why would I pretend to be gay?"
" 'Cause there's just no way you're the real deal! You're just so—blah. You know? All those plain, dull shirts you wear all the time. What is that? Where's your sense of color? Your flamboyance? If you and me were at a parade right now, waving our little rainbow flags around, they'd be pointing at you and saying, Where'd this guy come from? He's not queer enough to be here!"
Oscar held up his hand, grimacing like someone had poured poisoned coffee down his throat. "Michael, that—that's enough. Okay? Enough. I'm getting back to work now."
Sometime at the end of this conversation, Arthur had successfully made his escape. He was so relieved to get away from Michael, he wasn't even annoyed when he reached his desk and found a granola bar sitting on his keyboard. With a smiley face Post-It note sticking on top.
. . .
Oscar stared morosely at the camera. "All this time, I could have just stayed in the closet. Nobody would have ever guessed."
. . .
Arthur was trying not to eavesdrop while Eames strolled into Michael's office. The water cooler just happened to be right by Michael's office and Arthur just happened to be thirsty. For a very large cup of water.
He wasn't sure why he did this to himself. They were probably holed up in there, talking about him. The Sharp Dressed Man. Hottest in the Office. Object of Eames' ever-persistent affections. He supposed he should have brought his cell phone with him, if only to record their conversation and show it to Toby, since he was pretty sure any dialogue between Michael and Eames was bound to violate every HR policy that had ever been established.
Voices floated out from Michael's door, which Eames had left ajar. They seemed to be talking about business.
Strange.
"I just had a very interesting sales call," Eames was telling Michael. "One of our clients, Mr. Saito—"
And of course Michael interrupted by singing in a robot voice, "Domo arigato, Mr. Sai-bot-o!"
"Yes, Mr. Saito," said Eames, chuckling. "He has several offices in Japan, you know, and he's very interested in our paper. But he doesn't want to deal with the hassle of importing it. So he, uh, told me he would rather buy the entire company. He said—and I quote—that it seemed neater."
"Huh," said Michael. "How 'bout that? Probably a prank."
"You think so?"
"Yepppp. Get Dwight on it."
. . .
"Michael's not the worst bloke in the world," said Eames. "I laugh at him sometimes. But if some Japanese bigshot buys the company and Michael gets replaced, I'll probably be the last person to complain about it."
. . .
"For the last time," said Arthur, glaring irately at the camera. "Eames and I are not together."
Eames suddenly showed up and handed him a snack from the vending machine, then promptly disappeared.
"Thank you," muttered Arthur. He cleared his throat. "Anyway, as I was saying…"