A/N: Thank you to all the wonderful reviews! As I've said, this is my first "Office" fanfic and I'm having a blast writing it! This next chapter might be a little far-fetched, but . . . hey, it's fanfiction, right? Thanks again!
"I have a special assignment for you," Michael whispered on the phone. He stood by the living room window of his condo, the blinds drawn halfway closed and carefully peeking through the cracks.
"Who's the target?" Dwight asked eagerly on the other line.
"Jim Halpert."
"Yes!" Dwight exclaimed. "Finally!"
"Calm down, you sound like an idiot." Michael said, his voice soft yet stern as he stared out at the darkened street of his quiet neighborhood.
"What's my mission?"
Michael glanced over his shoulder at the camera watching him and turned, cupping a hand over the receiver to block out his voice. "I need you to spy on Jim tonight."
"Why? What's he stolen?" Dwight asked.
"He's not . . . just—"
"Fire him," Dwight said, "fire him immediately. Possession is nine-tenths of the law."
"I need you to find out who Jim's date is tonight," Michael said, ignoring Dwight and watching the camera out of the corner of his eye. "Karen is out of the picture and I need to know who he's rebounding with."
"Why don't you just ask him on Monday?"
"Because," Michael said, raising his voice, "then I'll have to wait a whole weekend to find out, and I can't handle that kind of suspense. If it's not Karen, then who is it?"
000
Michael to camera:
"I am . . . a matchmaker. People say that whenever I'm around, romance just blossoms out of nowhere, ya know? It's at those moments when everyone around me finds love . . . except for me. But hey, that's part of the job description—Cupid never had a love interest. If he did, he'd be out of a job. He'd be too busy shagging his own little Mrs. Cupid to get any work done." Michael paused, lacing his fingers together in his lap. "And that's just poor management."
000
"What about Pam?" Dwight asked.
Michael paced the length of his window "Naw, she's still recovering from that embarrassing confession on the beach. Jim wouldn't want to date her, guys don't like that kind of honesty."
"You're so wise, Michael," Dwight breathed.
"I know."
"What should I do?" Dwight asked. "Should I go over to his house?"
"Yeah, that might be your safest bet. But don't let him get on to you, we don't want our cover blown." Michale laughed. "That's what she said."
"Can I bring my ninja gear?"
Dwight's boss put a hand to his forehead. "I don't care—"
"You're right, too suspicious. Hey, can we have code names?"
"No."
"Please?"
Michael sighed. "Fine, just—go over and find out who it is."
"You can count on me, boss." Dwight held up his hand in a salute as if Michael could see him and smiled. "I won't let you down."
Michael looked back at the camera again. "Yeah, well, we'll see about that."
0000000000
Jim to camera
"So for tonight, I got Pam and I reservations at Corbin's, which I know she hasn't been to yet and has been dying to try out." Jim stood in a corner of his kitchen between the stove and counter top, his hands gripping the edges so tightly that his knuckles became bone-white. "And I know it's kind of stupid," he continued, pointing to the sink, "but I got her flowers, too."
A bouquet of a dozen lilies sat in the dripping sink, white and glistening with water in a green plastic covering.
"I guess I'm kind of old-fashioned when it comes to dating," Jim went on with a laugh. "But, uh . . . it's been a long time coming and I don't want to blow this. Again." He chuckled and looked at the camera, holding up his palms. "I'm sorry, but my hands are killing me right now."
Jim cleared his throat and pulled at the collar on his shirt. "Is it hot in here?"
0000000000
As Pam inspected herself in the mirror of her bathroom, she tossed her hair and smoothed her skirt, sighing deeply and holding her head high with a strained smile. She was confident of her choice of dress—the black, square-cut number was as good as she was going to get. Pam wrestled with the dilemma of wearing something too colorful or revealing on the first date, deciding to take it slow and dress like—
"I look like a nun," she said to herself in the mirror. Pam turned to the camera. "Do I look like a nun?" After waiting a beat, she put her hands up and walked out of the room, brushing past the camera crew. "Don't answer that, please."
Pam to camera:
"Okay, so I'm a little nervous." Pam stood in her living room by the couch. "I mean, Jim and I are great friends, but I have the right to be a little jittery . . . right? A first date is always stressful, even if you know the person well."
Pam smiled and held up a hand. "I'm sorry, I'm blabbing. It's going to be fine. Everything is going to be great—"
000
A knock at the door wiped the smile from Pam's lips. She looked at the camera with a face frozen in fear, quickly going to the door as her bare feet skidding on the wood floor. She fixed her hair and dress before opening the door to—
"Kelly?"
Kelly Kapoor, dressed in a fluffy pink sweater and heels, stood on the other end of Pam's apartment door, mascara running down her face like some sad, washed-up clown. She sniffled, her lip stuck out as if she were a child in a toy store having a fit.
"Ryan . . . broke up . . . with . . . me!"
Pam slowly turned her face to the camera.
Pam to camera:
"You know that feeling you get when you're outside on a nice, sunny day, and you see a large wall of clouds heading your way? It's like—you know the storm's coming, but you're still worried about it and you wonder if it's going to ruin your nice day." Pam paused, looking at her lap and back up at the camera. "Storm's coming."
000
"I'm so so so sorry, Pam, but I could totally use a friend right now." Kelly's face was scrunched in pain and sadness; a helpless, yet manipulative look Pam just couldn't relate to.
"I'm sorry, Kelly, but—"
"Please, Pam, please!"
"Don't you have other friends, like . . . outside of the office? I think they'd be more of a help than me."
"I hate them, Pam, they'd only laugh at me—they never said Ryan and I would last—could you please just give me some company right now?"
Pam hesitated, looking at the camera again as if it would help. "Um . . ."
"Pam," Kelly said seriously, staring at her coworker with gobs of makeup running down her cheeks. "I feel like I might die. Please."
Pam pursed her lips and nodded. "Okay, come in."
"Thank you so much!" Kelly breathed, pushing past Pam and entering her living room.
Pam closed the door and turned to the camera, giving it a look before moving towards Kelly.
"Oh my God, is this where you live?" Kelly asked.
Pam lowered her eyes.
"I mean it's cute, it's adorable," Kelly backtracked. "It reminds me of those sweaters you always wear to work."
"Thanks." Pam said.
Kelly suddenly put her hand on the arm of the couch and lowered her head, breaking down into a fit sobs and touching her chest. "I'm going to die, Pam! I mean, why would Ryan do that?"
"Oh, um . . ." Pam put her hands up as though she could heal her coworker through the air. "Do you want a drink or something?"
Kelly sniffed and raised her head. "Martini with a twist," she squeaked.
Pam frowned. "Beer it is."
0000000000
"Okay," Jim said to himself, pacing the kitchen. "Got the flowers, got the reservation . . . what am I missing?" He looked at the kitchen clock, seeing the green digital lights read 6:30. "Okay, I've still got an hour—"
Jim stood frozen in his tracks as a knock came at the door. He looked at the camera and back at the front entrance, too afraid to move for fear it was something horrible about to ruin his night. What if it was some kind of terrible nightmare where every bad thing was embodied in one singular person or thing to destroy his evening? Or worse . . . what if it was Michael? Jim walked to the door and put his hand on the knob, letting it warm in his grip before asking who it was.
"It's Dwight."
He unlocked the door and slowly opened it, seeing his annoying desk neighbor smiling deviously on the other end. "Dwight." Jim said.
"Surprised to see me?"
"Relieved, actually."
"Can I come in?"
"No," Jim said quickly.
"What's a matter?" Dwight sang, craning his neck to peek into Jim's house. "Got company right now?"
Jim sighed and shrugged. "Uh, actually, I'm heading out in a little bit." He paused, staring at his coworker, who continued to smile like the mastermind he thought he was. "Something I can help you with, Dwight?"
"Not really," he said, swaying from side to side. "I just wanted to know what our numbers were for the mid-season quarterly?"
"Can it wait 'til Monday?" Jim asked anxiously.
"Sure thing," Dwight grinned, giving the camera a more-than-conspicuous nod. Jim jumped as the phone rang in the living room. "Oops," Dwight said, "expecting a call?"
"Can you just . . . hang on?" Jim made the mistake of leaving his door open with Dwight Schrute on the other side, giving the man full access to not only his home, but his phone conversation as well.
000
Dwight to camera:
"He might as well have given me his Social Security Number. Not only does Jim Halpert hide his spare key in the most obvious of places—a hide-a-key rock in the garden—but he deliberately opens his door to anyone without first asking for proper identification." Dwight paused and stared at the camera as if his reasoning was the most obvious thing in the world. "I could have been an ax murderer . . . or a Jehovah's Witness." Dwight scoffed and looked away. "Good thing I'm only spying on him."
000
"Wait, wait, wait," Jim said into the phone as Dwight slipped into the front entrance. "What do you mean the table's already been booked?"
Dwight tip-toed into the living room, scanning the area with his eyes and stretching his neck out to get a better look at things. He brushed a hand along the glass coffee table and rubbed his fingers together. "Just as I thought," he murmured.
"I just called two hours ago, and you said you had space for me." Jim said quietly on the phone, his voice getting tense and frustrated.
"This carpet needs to be re-stretched," Dwight said, running the toe of his shoe along the floor.
"No, I—Dwight, knock it off," Jim whispered to his annoying coworker.
Dwight raised his eyebrows and slowly walked to the kitchen, rapping on the entrance frame before stepping in and zeroing in on the sink. "What have we here?" he asked himself, peering at the bouquet of flowers. Dwight grinned, his mouth flying open as he slowly looked up at the camera. "Busted."
000
Dwight to camera:
"I have a very good idea of who Jim's going out with. Being a retired volunteer sheriff's deputy, I've developed a sixth-sense for these kinds of things. All logical signs point to Jim's lover being Meredith." Dwight paused. "Or maybe Kelly." He paused again, bringing his hands together in front of his lips as though he were praying. "Or even Phyllis, she could be having an affair." Dwight reached in his back pocket and pulled out a notepad and pencil. "I should be writing this down for Michael . . . is 'skank' spelled with a 'c'?"
000
"That's ridiculous!" Jim called into the phone. "Who could you have possibly given my table away to?" Dwight poked his head out from the kitchen and listened in on Jim's call. "I see. Well, that's great, thanks . . . yeah, you have a great night, too."
Jim set his phone down and buried his face in his hands, groaning.
"What seems to be the trouble, Jim?" Dwight asked, entering the room.
"They gave away my table at the restaurant," Jim said.
"I see," Dwight said, his mischievous smile returning. "Dinner for two?"
"Yeah, well, not anymore."
"And who might the lucky lady be?"
"Just a friend, Dwight," Jim said.
"Right . . ." Dwight sang, circling around Jim. "A 'friend'."
Jim sighed, an unmistakable annoyed look stuck on his face. "Is there anything else you need, Dwight? I'm kind of having a crisis at the moment."
"Does this lady friend have a name?" Dwight asked, breaking Jim's personal bubble and leaning directly into his face.
000
Jim to camera:
"Of course I know Dwight is spying on me. I'm sure Michael had something to do with it. The question is . . . how do I get him to leave me alone? Which is like asking 'how do I get a cancerous growth to leave me alone?'"
000
"Come on Jim, you can tell me," Dwight said, staring him down as though digging the secret out with his eyes. "This is just between you and me, old pal."
Jim smiled, delighting in this opportunity. "Alright, it's Angela."
Dwight's smile left him as though someone had slapped it away. "Impossible." he said.
"No, it's true," Jim said, "we've been talking around the office and . . . one thing lead to another—"
"False! Angela doesn't even like lilies—"
Jim looked at Dwight with mock curiosity, a frown creasing lower and lower on his coworker's lips. "I have to make a call," Dwight said, turning for the door.
"Nice seeing you, Dwight," Jim called out.
Dwight slammed the door to Jim's house, sprinting to his car across the street and scrambling into the driver's seat. He slouched in his seat and kept his eyes on Jim's house, dialing a number on his cell and pressing the phone tightly to his ear.
"Angela?" he asked. "Answer me one question: are you or are you not seeing Jim Halpert tonight on a romantic outing?" After a beat, Dwight's face softened and he sighed. "Good. Don't ask questions, it's too sensitive. I'm on a mission, I'll call you back."
Dwight ended his call with Angela and immediately dialed another number, tearing his eyes away from Jim's house and staring at the other side of his car where the camera was.
"M-dawg, it's Captain Kurt." he said into the phone. Dwight paused as Michale spoke. "No, it's—it's the code we were talking about, you're M-dawg, I'm—" Silence again as Michale chewed him out. Dwight sighed and looked into the camera, shaking his head like a soldier in the trenches.
"We're in way over our heads."
TBC