Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dwight held the phone to his ear with his shoulder, so he could type in the customer’s order at the same time.

“And you said that was the double-bond cream white printer paper?” he asked. His mouse hovered over the box that would check the order type. The customer repeated their selection and he nodded, checking the boxes as necessary. “So, that’ll be sent out to you around the 15th. Right now we have a backorder for this product so--”

Suddenly, his computer dinged. It was the sound of his email going off. No issue. He switched the phone to his other ear and quickly clicked the order to complete it, and then switched tabs to his email without skipping a beat. “That sounds great. I’ll be contacting you soon to confirm.” He refreshed the page to see an email from his mother sitting at the top of his inbox.

At this, his brows furrowed. “O-okay, will do,” he muttered to the customer. He hung up and clicked the email. An email from his mother. That was strange. Last time he checked, his mother didn’t have access to email, much less a computer. Where did she go to get access to the internet, anyway? He clicked the email.

Dearest Dwight,

I hope you know trying to send this to you has been no easy feat. I had to go into town and stay at the library for over two hours trying to figure out how to get this to you. The air in here is stale, and someone with a nose ring tried to help me. It’s horrible here. What is “Gmail” anyway? I thought this was called E-mail. Are they different?

Anyway, I am sending this to you since your cousin has told me it’s pretty much all you will answer. I tried calling your phone, but you’ve stopped answering my calls. Mose tells me your phone got trampled by one of your mules, but somehow I think this is a story. I know you are close, I wouldn’t put it past him covering for you.

Still, I thought I would send this to you anyway hoping you would answer. I wanted to have dinner with you and your new girlfriend. New by my standards, anyway. Your uncle sent you your wild oats months ago, and you barely said thank you. As you should know, the sending of wild oats should be followed by your new girlfriend meeting your parents, also known as me.

I demand that you follow Schrute tradition in letting your girlfriend become acquainted with me. If not, I’ll be forced to take the oats back--if you have already used them, then you should have to pay me back with another batch of oats. Though I don’t want it to come to this, since no oats have been returned in our entire Schrute family tree--except for Cousin Bruce. But you know what happened to him.

I wish to hear from you soon. Now that you have my “email” you can ‘gmail’ me with ease.

Best regards,
Mother.

Dwight stared at the screen for what felt like eternity. He could feel blood rushing to his face, and the last thing he would want to do is looked flushed in front of the likes of Jim--he might interpret it as embarrassment. Even if it was. He stood up suddenly, his computer rattling ever so slightly.

“Anyone want coffee? Okay good I’ll get some,” he said, rushing into the kitchen. He passed accounting on the way, and spotted Angela as she sat in her chair, wearing a ruffled gray blouse. One of his favorites. She clocked him staring and raised an eyebrow, her pen hovering over the document she was writing on.

He made a face at her, and nodded his head towards the kitchen. She must have seen how flustered he looked, so she put her pen down--that was enough of an indication to him that she would follow.

Dwight pushed the door to the kitchen open and stood at the counter, leaning against it with his palms down. Though, he pulled them back up when he noticed there was something sticky on it. His hand came up with white sauce on it. He sniffed it. Tzatziki. Kevin. If you’re going to have Greek food, can you at least clean up after yourself? He washed his hands at the sink as Angela walked in.

She didn’t look at him, and instead walked straight to the fridge, opening it and peering inside. “What is it?” she asked, seeming to talk to the salad sitting on the top shelf.

Dwight continued to keep the water running, using washing his hands as a cover. “My mother just emailed me.”

“I thought she didn’t have access to the internet.”

“She doesn’t. She had to go to the library. She asked me about…” he hesitated, though he didn’t know why. “About meeting you.”

Angela stuck her hand in the fridge, pretending to be looking for something. “Meeting me? Why?”

Dwight turned off the water and grabbed a paper towel. “She thinks we’re still dating.”

“She thinks we’re--” she looked at him briefly, then averted her gaze towards the fridge once more. “I’m engaged.”

“I know that, don’t you think I know that? I just didn’t tell her that.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t understand.” He tossed the paper towel in the garbage and stood at the coffee maker, pressing buttons. “I’d have to return my wild oats. That hasn’t happened in the Schrute family for over 100 years. I would be humiliated--my father’s brother could take back the farm. It would be a disaster.”

“I thought you were allowed to sell them.”

“Not if the reason for the breakup involves the death of an animal.” He focused especially hard on the coffee pot as he said this, feeling a hot sting in his chest. Angela exhaled sharply, no doubt reminded of her long lost Sprinkles.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you.” Angela’s voice had gone firm. She grabbed a sauce packet out of the fridge, fiddled with it, and then put it back. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I thought maybe we could--” the words were caught in his mouth. He forced them out. “I thought you could just go with me to dinner with my mother--”

“Dwight!”

“--just for a night! It would just be pleasantries, I would make a delicious beet salad for you.”

“I don’t want your beet salad, Dwight. I am not going to pretend to be dating you knowing what you did to Sprinkles.”

“Angela, you don’t understand what it would mean.”

Angela shut the fridge with a hard thud. The cereal boxes on top teetered. “I don’t care, Dwight. You should have told her when it happened. I am not going to lie to your family just so you can save face.” She started walking out of the kitchen. Dwight grabbed her arm.

“What if I gave you some goat’s milk? Huh?” Dwight offered. “I know it’s your favorite.”

Angela tugged her arm away and walked out of the kitchen with a scoff. He was left inside, staring at her as she walked back to her desk.

Dwight looked out into the bullpen, watching all of his subordinates go about their drudgery. If they thought they knew what Dwight’s wrath was, they had no idea what would happen should his mother descend on this office.

He loved his mother. He did. She was a strong, wide shouldered, large handed farm worker, and she helped the farm stay afloat when father got kicked in the back by one of their horses. And he would love to have dinner with her.

Just not with her knowing that the person he said he’d bring dinner to was someone he broke up with over six months ago.

He poured a cup of coffee, even though he had one at his desk. Just to give his hands something to do as he thought. There was no way he could face his mother with no partner around his arm. And cancelling dinner didn’t seem like an option either, since now that his mother knows his email, she knows his signoff, which gave the address of Dunder Mifflin’s office. If she wanted to, she could march right up and drag him out by his tie.

What could he do? He held the coffee in his hands and let the heat tingle his fingertips. Hm.

He would have to find a replacement.

Not permanently. He could find a proper partner for good after whenever he pleased, but all he really needed was to charm someone into coming to dinner with him, just for one night. Someone to impress mother and convince her that he was with someone. Then he could tell her they broke up amicably and he could keep his oats. There, name saved. Legacy maintained. Farm kept.

But to do this, he needed to get someone to agree to it. And he didn’t want to go through strangers--there was only so much goat milk he could use as a bribe. Preferably, it would be someone he knows. But who..?

He eyed those in the office, seeing if anyone would be worthy enough. Pretty much none of them would be, but he would just have to get them through one evening. Even one of them could manage an evening, right?

Dwight looked at Angela, but she was out of the equation. She pointedly ignored him, answering a nonexistent call. He looked at Oscar. Hm. Possible. But it was unlikely he’d agree, seeing as his farm was, as Oscar quoted, “the most foul smelling place he’d ever encountered.” Kevin was a definite no.

Meredith was a viable option. She was tall, strong, brash, and could hold her liquor. She could pass as appropriate. Though, she had a mouth on her that was not easily contained. And if she made one of her inane sex jokes in front of his mother, he’d run her over himself. So he dismissed her as an option too.

His eyes swept over reception. Erin wasn’t a good idea either. She was so obnoxious--if he brought her in front of his mother, she’d take the farm back oats or not. Andy was a no too, since he was “engaged” just like Angela. Or, engaged to Angela. Whatever. Stanley was a no. Phyllis was a no. Creed? Don’t make him laugh.

He glanced over his shoulder towards the annex. Kelly was an absolute no. And there’s no way she’d let him take the temp for a night. Toby was too meek, a mere child when compared to the height of himself and his mother. He needed someone who was at least near his own height. It had to be believable.

Dwight looked forward again, and his eyes landed on Pam. She was typing away at her computer, eyes narrowed and focused. He swallowed, and opened the kitchen door, coffee in hand. He didn’t want it--it was made as a cover. As he passed accounting, he set it on Oscar’s desk. Oscar looked up at him, annoyed, but didn’t say anything. He just pushed it to the side.

Dwight made slow steps towards Pam’s desk, thinking through her merits. She was small, birdlike, and would make a lowly farmhand in the eyes of his mother. Though, that night on his farm proved that she was capable of at least holding a manure shovel. She was strong, given her minute frame. Very short, though. Very. He was double her size.

And she was quite meek, too. Rarely spoke her mind. He could only imagine what she would be like in front of his mother, who would likely grill her on her experiences with Dwight. She would ask rather personal questions regarding her relationship with Dwight, and he wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep it together, especially considering it took her about 4 years to admit that she liked Jim. God, what childish behavior.

By the time he made it all the way to her desk, he’d already cleared his mind of her as a possibility. He sat down, deflated, as he looked at the email from his mother. That was everyone, wasn’t it? What would he do now?

Briefly, he put his head in his hands, taking a deep breath. Something had to work. Maybe Michael would--no he wouldn’t. God, he should have never reduced himself to this position. He was a Schrute! Schrutes didn’t beg people, they didn’t try to find work arounds to save face.

Yet here he was.

“Actually, there’s a discount going on for that, so lemme get that set up for you right now.”

Dwight looked over to see Jim on the phone with someone. Jim glanced over, and gave a small smile of greeting. Dwight looked back down at his desk.

His head snapped back up.

Before he even knew what he was doing, he was typing a reply to his mother.

Mother,

The mule had taken out my phone, as Mose told you. I’m sorry for not getting back to you sooner. I’d love to have dinner with you--but you must forgive me, I made a mistake when telling you who I was with. In fact, I am not with a girlfriend, but with a boyfriend. He waits anxiously to meet you.

How’s next week sound?

Dwight

Dwight pressed send before even processing what he had typed. After that, he reached over and pressed the button on Jim’s phone, hanging up the call. Jim looked at him, letting the phone fall into his hand.

“I was kind of on a call there, Dwight,” he said.

“I have something more important than any call would ever be. Follow me.” Dwight stood up from his desk and started walking towards the front door of the office.

Jim looked at Pam, who gave him a look back. He looked up at Dwight. “Are we going to chucky cheese?”

“Just come on idiot. I need to ask you a question.”

Chapter Text

“Absolutely not.”

Jim stood with his hands in his pockets at the bottom of the stairwell. He was leaning against the wall, and Dwight was pacing wildly in front of him.

“Jim--”

“Dwight, I’m not going to pretend to date you.”

“It’s just dinner, Jim. You’d be so lucky to have dinner at my farm, anyway. I make an amazing curried goat stew, it’s really good for circulation and- that’s not the point. Listen, I need you to help me with this Jim. Just a night. Huh?”

Jim took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms. He looked to be in deep thought. “Gimme a second to think about it,” he said. He put a hand on his chin, stroking his non-existent beard. Then he snapped his fingers like he’d gotten an idea. “Got it!”

“You’ll do it?!”

“No I mean I was thinking about an excuse as to why I couldn’t. Turns out I have a monster truck rally to host this Saturday so I guess I’ll have to--”

“Jim.” He’d started to turn back up the stairs, but Dwight grabbed his hand and pulled him back. He was reveling in this, wasn’t he? “Do you want me to beg? Is that what you want?”

Jim paused for a second, then turned back to Dwight. “Yes.”

“I’m not gonna beg you, Jim.”

“Okay then, see you later.” He turned away again.

“Wait!” Dwight dropped to one knee and put his hands together into the air like he was praying. “Can you do this with me Jim? Come on, I’m begging now. See? Now I’m ruining my pants for you. Will you help me?”

Jim stared down at him, and he suddenly felt...small. A rare occurrence. His life was literally riding on Jim’s shoulders, and he could feel the pressure weighing down on him. If he lost his farm, what would he do? Start selling celery? He’d rather throw himself into Lake Scranton. How foolish of him to put himself in this position, but he couldn’t get around it now. The only person left to help him was Jim.

Jim was smirking in that annoying, smug way he usually did. Like he was holding one over on Dwight. But in a way, he was. Saying no meant everything to Dwight, and Jim knew it. “Say please,” he said.

Dwight felt his face go red. He had to keep himself from gritting his teeth. “Come on Jim.”

“Just say please, it’ll only take a second.”

Dwight looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Then he looked back up at Jim, who was loving every bit of this. He pondered refusing, but his knee was starting to go stiff, and he knew he had no other options. Just swallow your pride for a second, he told himself. You’ll get back at him later. It’s just one night.

He took a deep breath in and let it out in a hiss. “Please Jim. Please help me.”

Jim looked to be pondering for a while. He looked up at the ceiling, down the stairs, around the room. Then back at Dwight. He sighed, like it was a great burden to be so annoying. “Okay, fine.”

Dwight jumped up. “Really?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Dwight pumped his fists in the air, whooping. He almost jumped to hug Jim, but he didn’t. He’d save that for dinner with his mother. “Thank you Jim! Thank you,” he said, not realizing how strained his voice had become.

Jim leaned forward and tapped his cheek with his finger. “Now plant one right here.” Dwight scoffed and walked back up the stairs, leaving Jim smiling up after him, satisfied.

Only then did it dawn on him what exactly he’d just agreed to.

_____

"You did what?"

Pam was sitting on their bed in Jim's apartment. It was nearing 9 o'clock at this point, but Jim had such a hard time processing what he did with Dwight that he had to call Pam and tell her. Trooper that she was, she was over in an instant, and listened all the way up until she heard him tell her that he said 'yes'.

"He looked so pathetic Pam, what was I supposed to do?" Jim was slowly pacing around his room, door closed. God forbid he let his roommate hear. "And I'm not going to do anything. It’s just dinner, and I'm sorry I didn't ask first but--"

Pam chuckled. "No, it's okay. It's not like it's real but--that's kind of crazy." Jim looked at her as she continued, "I mean, you've seen Dwight. And now you’re agreeing to meet the thing that made Dwight?"

Jim paused for a second, looking around his room. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a noise between a laugh and a groan. “Oh man.”

He wasn’t sure what went through him today. It was just so sudden, with Dwight basically dragging him into the hallway and down the stairs. And during his explanation, he was sputtering and pacing and scratching the back of his neck, looking at anything else but Jim--it was a part of Dwight he'd never seen before. Dwight was always so annoyingly self assured, that seeing anything less than that just threw him off guard. He looked so…

Pathetic wasn't the word now that he thought about it. Desperate. He looked desperate, like Jim was his only hope. He had to say yes.

Jim sat on his bed next to Pam, who leaned into him. He snaked a shoulder around her and they both stared at his Rush poster on the other side of his room. "Well," he said, "I can't really back out now."

"I'm sure you'll be fine. It's just one night, right?"

"Yeah. Just gotta fake my way through it."

There was a pause between them, then Pam grinned. "You know what I think this means?"

"What?"

She pulled away from him so she could see his face as she said, "I think it means you like Dwight."

"What? No," Jim said indignantly, standing up from his bed. Pam was nodding, satisfied with herself.

"Yes, I think it means you secretly want him to be happy--"

"Pam, come on that's not--"

"Admit it!"

"He makes my life miserable--"

"Admit it Jim!"

“Pam--”

“Jim.” Pam stood up from the bed and grabbed his hands. She looked very amused, but also very stern, like she meant what she was saying. Her mouth was still drawn in a smile, but her eyes were narrow and earnest. “Why else would you have said yes?”

Jim stammered. “B-because I made him get on his knees and beg me.”

“That’s just you messing with him,” Pam said with a wave of her hand. “You could’ve said no afterwards, but you didn’t.” Jim started to say something, but Pam put her hand up. “You said yes because you care about him, and you want him to be happy, and--!” She pointed at him-- “Because you’re his friend.”

“His friend? Pam, come on. He’s not my friend. I’m just doing this to- to get him- uh..” Jim tried to come up with a non serious, inconsequential reason that he agreed. That he agreed to pretend to be dating Dwight. That he agreed to pretend to be dating Dwight so he could go in front of Dwight’s mother and talk about how much they love each other and eat his weird beet based dinner and probably stay the night at his farm--

“Your face is telling me that you realize I’m right,” said Pam.

Jim didn’t realize how long he’d been standing there in a spiral until he felt Pam’s arms around his shoulders. “I’m still not gonna say it out loud,” Jim said, halfway staring into space.

Pam kissed his cheek. “That’s fine, as long as we all know it’s true.” She turned around and started to make her way out of Jim’s room.

“Hey, Pam?” Jim reached up and grabbed her hand. “Could you stay? I don’t know if--” he laughed-- “if I can go into work tomorrow if you don’t. I will definitely chicken out.”

“I packed a bag, don’t worry.” Pam stepped out of his doorway and grabbed something from the floor. It was a duffle bag. Part of her heart dotted pajama pants were hanging out of the opening. “Always come prepared.”

Jim smiled. “You’re the best.”

“I know.”

Chapter Text

Jim came into work that next morning with a puzzled look. As soon as he walked in, he noticed a large, dusty, red book taking up much of the space in front of his computer. It looked like it was 800 pages long. And made in the prehistoric era.

He dropped his satchel next to his desk and shot a look at Pam. She shrugged.

When he looked back, he saw Dwight coming out of the kitchen, two cups in hand, both steaming. “Oh, good, you’re finally here,” he said, walking over. Then he muttered, “Took you long enough.” He set one cup of steaming liquid on his own desk, then one on Jim’s.

Jim stared at the cup. It was the one he always used--how did Dwight know that? “Uh, thanks, I guess.” He sat down, and looked at the book. “What is this?”

“If you’re going to dinner with Hedda Schrute, then you need to know the Schrute history, and that’s the complete set.” Dwight took a long hard swig of his coffee, making an annoyingly loud sound of satisfaction.

Jim blew the cover of the book, and a nice plume of dust hit the screen of his computer. He coughed, waving it away. “I didn’t know there were sets of Schrute history.”

“Three sets, four volumes, and one translation into German.” Dwight took the book and flipped through it until he landed on a page. Then he dumped it back on Jim’s desk, pointing a finger at the title near the top. “You need to memorize this book from front to back starting here. If my mother is going to like you, then you need to impress her with your knowledge of Schrute Farms and the Schrute name.”

Jim read the title of the page Dwight had pointed out. It read “The Battle of Schrute Farms--1800s to 1960s”. The type looked like it was handwritten--smudges, misspelled words, with the lines crunched together and barely any spaces between the words. Some of the lines even ended in scribbles that were impossible to read. “Dwight there’s no way I’ll be able to memorize all this. Or--read it.”

Dwight rolled his eyes. “If you put as much time into reading as you do flirting with Pam, then you should be able to get it done fairly quickly.”

Jim bit his tongue and glanced over at Pam, who gave him a look that said to drop it. He tried to read a couple paragraphs, but he was already getting a headache. He decided he would read it later. “I’ll look at it tonight,” he said, closing the book after marking a page with a blank piece of copier paper. He picked the book up (that felt like it weighed as much as a small bear) and kicked it under his desk.

“You have a week to memorize it. The dinner will be next Saturday at 7, at my farm.” Dwight took another long drink from his coffee, and he started to type on his computer. “Although tomorrow you’ll have to stop by after work for some lessons.”

“Lessons?”

Dwight looked at him like he was stupid. “You want to pretend to be a Schrute? You have to know how to act like one. And dress like one.” He eyed Jim up and down. “You look like an English teacher that just got laid off.”

“Aw, thanks man.” Jim shook it off, concluding that he would just keep his head down and get it over with. One week was short. He could make it. He’d made it through worse. And most of that ‘worse’ was at the hands of Dwight anyway. So this shouldn’t be too hard.

He opened his spreadsheet for the day and started to get to work, reaching for his cup of coffee. Jim blew on it slightly and took a sip. Immediately, his mouth was filled with something bitter, grainy, and earthy. He spit it back into the cup and coughed. “What the hell is that?”

When he looked over, Dwight was finishing his own cup, and set it down on the desk with a defined thud. “Beetroot coffee Jim. A common drink in the Schrute household. Some use beetroot powder to make it, but those people are frauds. Real beet farmers make it with freshly ground beetroot.”

“Jesus, that’s revolting.” He pushed the cup away from him. “You don’t put anything in it?”

“Real Schrutes take it black, Halpert. Our taste buds don’t need to be coddled like yours. What a baby.”

Jim coughed again. He thought some of the beetroot grains made it down his windpipe. “You could have told me at least.”

Dwight pointed at the coffee. “You going to finish that?” Jim shook his head no, and Dwight gladly took it, chugging it down swiftly. He wiped a dribble of red-brown coffee off his chin. “Delicious.”

Jim stood from his desk. “I’ll go make my own coffee, but thanks.”

“Wait,” said Dwight. He put his hand on Jim’s shoulder and eased him back into his seat. “I’ll go make it, all right?” His tone firmed. “Since your baby taste buds can’t handle real coffee, I’ll make your little girl version.”

Jim looked up at him, halfway amused. “You don’t know how I like my baby coffee though.”

Dwight scoffed and turned to the kitchen, muttering on his way. When he was out of earshot, he turned to Pam, who was clearly trying to hold back laughter. "Pam, what the hell did I sign up for?"

"I don't know, but this is all rather cute."

"Cute?"

"Has Dwight ever offered to make you coffee?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "A small gesture compared to me having to read an entire odyssey about Dwight's ancient family."

"Still nice though."

"I guess." Jim looked at the empty cup. There were still reddish grains around the rim. "For all I know he just tried to poison me."

"But he drank it right after you."

Jim paused. "That's true."

Pam snorted, and typed a little on her keyboard before saying lowly, "I know he's intense, but it seems like he's trying to be nice about it. You are doing him a favor, after all."

"I guess."

Jim quieted and did a little bit of work for a few moments before Dwight came back from the kitchen holding a new mug. It was a mug that had Stanley's face on it--the one Kelly gave him, no doubt. When Jim looked over at Stanley's desk, he saw that Stanley was drinking out of a dark grey mug. A free mug's a free mug, Jim guessed.

"Here, baby." Dwight set the cup down so aggressively that the liquid almost spilled out.

Jim took it, holding the cup with both hands. "What did you put in it this time? Ground cricket?" He took a sip of the coffee, fully expecting it to taste just as disgusting as the first cup. But actually, it was pleasant. With just enough cream and sugar that it tasted...normal.

He looked at Dwight, hesitant. "How do you know how I take my coffee?"

Dwight didn't even look in his direction as he spoke. "Two creams, two sugars--like it's so hard to remember."

Jim looked at Pam, then back at Dwight. "Yeah but I've never...told you that."

Dwight rolled his eyes so hard he ended up staring at the ceiling. "I have the eyes of a hawk Jim, it's not exactly hard to spot."

“Hm.” Jim took another long sip of his coffee. It went down warm and smooth, and the edge of the cold that lingered from him being outside in the morning air started to fade. He smiled. “So what I’m hearing,” he said, “Is that you did something nice for me without being asked to.”

Dwight side eyed him, grumbling, “Yeah right.”

“Does that make us friends, Dwight?” Jim tried to hide his grin under the brim of his coffee mug. Pam covered her snickering with a cough.

“We are not friends, we are a subordinate and a superior. And if you continue interrupting me I will be writing you up and reporting you to my superior.”

“Which is me.”

Dwight faltered. “Y- we-- just zip it.” He turned to his work and continued to type.

Jim went to say something again, but he heard Michael’s office door open, so he quieted. “Jim-balaya, I need you for a second.”

“For sure.” Jim stood up, and looked at Dwight again, maybe for a second too long, before turning around and walking into Michael’s office.

Chapter Text

The next day, work crawled by. Jim did his work and kept his head down, and just tried to anticipate what exactly he’d be in for when the clock hit five. He had lunch with Pam, and they talked about it, but neither of them could accurately guess what exactly would happen.

“So he’s going to drop you off after?” asked Pam. She took a sip of her coke.

Jim nodded. “Yeah, so you can just take the car home. I’m going to ride with him to his farm. According to him, I’d get lost and, quote, get ‘eaten’ trying to find it, so.”

Today was the day Jim was supposed to have ‘lessons’ with Dwight on how to properly act in front of his mother. From the way Dwight described it, he’d be turned into a male version of Angela, so he wasn’t exactly hopping for joy at the prospect of spending his evening after work there. But he figured he’d get it over with.

The clock hit five and Jim could feel a palpable tension release from his shoulders. It then quickly returned when Dwight jumped up from his chair and twirled his keys in his hands. “Let’s go, Halpert.”

Jim stood from his desk and swung his suit jacket over his shoulder, holding it there with a finger. He shot Pam a look and silently crossed his fingers. Pam nodded, trying to hide a very amused smile. They all three walked out together, taking the elevator down. None of them said anything as they went, but Pam and Jim kept exchanging looks--Pam seemed rather delighted by the whole ordeal, what with Jim and Dwight having to not only pretend to like each other, but love each other for a whole night. She made him promise that he’d regale her with the details when he got home.

Jim was still nervous. Well, not nervous so much as preparing to be annoyed. Pre-annoyed. Yeah, that’s it.

Once outside though, Pam gave Jim a final kiss on the cheek, then started to walk to the car. “Good luck you two,” she said.

“I don’t need luck,” said Dwight, steering Jim towards his car, “although casanova over here might need all he can get.”

Jim just rolled his eyes and opened the passenger door to Dwight’s car, which opened with a creak. Jim got in and tried to settle on seats that were so cracked and dry from that aged faux leather, it seemed to tear through his pants. He worked on trying to pull the seat belt from the latch, and he had to pull it more than once to get it to cross over his lap. Once he closed the door and prepared to leave, he was suddenly overwhelmed with the smell of...god, what was that?

Jim sniffed again, and felt the need to cover his nose instead. It was raw and coppery, and smelled...stale somehow.

Dwight got in the driver’s seat, and must have seen Jim’s face, because he said, “I took the liberty of getting the meat for dinner this weekend. I’m going to marinate it for a couple days, then steam it.”

Jim put his sleeve up to his nose. “You mean, you bought meat from the store, right?” He looked in the back seat. Sitting there was a crossbow and a half-muddy cardboard box overflowing with crossbow arrows, rope, and cloth covered in dark brown stains. He looked forward. “Oh god.”

“Meat from the store,” Dwight repeated sarcastically. He started the car, and it nearly growled to life. Or sputtered. “Do I look like someone who needs to waste money buying meat from a store?”

“I’m not helping you cook that,” said Jim, trying to wave the smell away as Dwight turned out onto the road. He rolled down a window and faced it so the fresh air would hit his face.

“I don’t want you to help me cook, as if you knew how to cook anyway.”

“I do know how to cook.”

Dwight snorted. “I’d love to see what you’re able to cook. What--cinnamon oatmeal?”

“Blueberry, actually.”

“Whatever.”

Jim brought his head back into the car, better able to breathe without being overwhelmed with...animal blood, or whatever the hell that was. At least it was airing out of the car with the window open. He opened the back window too, just to be sure. “I can prove it if you want me to. I cook for Pam all the time.”

“I bet.”

Jim paused. “Wait, I’m serious.” Dwight was still looking unconvinced. “How about this--I’ll cook something for the dinner.” He could see Dwight was about to protest, so he put his hand up to keep him quiet. “I’ll bring something over, for an appetizer or something. I’ll make sure it’s up to whatever your standard is.” Then Jim muttered, “Or down to your standards.”

Dwight paused, staring out at the road. His instinct was to say no, of course not. What could Jim possibly cook--pigs in blankets? Bagel bites? Then he side eyed Jim, who was looking at him with a facial expression that halfway convinced him he wasn’t joking. He hummed, pondering the risk.

“Okay,” said Dwight, taking a turn down a dirt road. The tires started to kick up gravel--they’d be at his farm soon. “Just make sure it’s nothing too…”

“Modern.”

“Childish,” he corrected. “I expect more than parmesan and potato wedges.”

“Well now I’m out of options,” Jim said with a shrug. After a moment though, he said, “I’ll bring something good.”

They were quiet the rest of the way to the farm. Dwight leaned over and turned on the radio, and they listened to the mediocre sounds of rock 107 on the way. Of course, it cut out about 10 minutes before hitting the farm, seeing as his land was outside the range of most radio towers. Same reason why phone service had been cut.

--

“Okay, so here’s the basics.”

Dwight and Jim were standing in a barn. Jim wasn’t sure what was supposed to be in here, since most of the animals had been cleared out, except for one goat who Jim was convinced was at least 50 years old and probably dying. It was curled up in the corner of the barn next to a few bales of hay, and there was a cloud of flies buzzing around its head. Its ear flicked every now and then, but it was otherwise unmoving.

“He’s fine,” Dwight said. “We pull cheese from him all the time.”

“Good thing I’m bringing my own cheese.”

Dwight snapped his fingers and brought Jim to attention. “Okay, we need to focus here. We need to plan out what we are going to do when you get here. My mother will be here before you are, so you need to be prepared as soon as you walk through the door.”

Jim put his hands in his pockets. “Got it.”

"First rule--" Dwight reached out and dramatically ripped Jim's arms out of his pockets. "Nix the hands in the pants. It makes you look slouchy and arrogant. Stand like this." He spread his feet apart and puffed out his chest, almost as if he were posing for a movie. "As soon as you walk in the door. And then, go to shake her hand."

Jim half heartedly tried to mimic how Dwight was standing. He felt stupid. "So is she going to be at the door?"

"Right as it opens," said Dwight, nodding. "She'll be inspecting you from the moment you enter the farm's grounds."

"How?"

"Powerful nose." Jim made a face, but Dwight seemed sincere. "No really. She can smell like a bloodhound, my mother." He sighed contentedly. "I love her. But, if you smell like a coward, that's all she'll see you as. So, second rule."

Dwight walked over to a corner of the barn and reached into a wooden box, almost a chest of sorts. What he pulled out of it was a gigantic squarish bottle. Almost like a jug of moonshine. In it sloshed a thick, cloudy, brown liquid. Dwight walked it over to Jim and put it on the ground in front of them. "Open it," he said.

Jim looked down at the bottle. It only had a cork, so with a swift pop, the jug was open. And a slow, dense smell started to fill the air. "What is this?"

"Moose grease," said Dwight. He leaned down and tilted the jug until a bit fell into his hand. It was shiny, like oil. Dwight rubbed his hands with it. "If you put just a rub of this on your neck, you'll be fine." He reached forward to put it on Jim, who stepped back.

"Okay, so many questions--" said Jim. "First of all, 'moose grease?' Second, why do I have to mask my scent?"

"If you make your own scent, you make your own impressions. She can't judge you before you come into the house. I'm trying to make this as easy as possible for you Jim."

"By making me rub grease on myself."

"Would you rather have Garth lick you?" Dwight gestured to the goat who was sleeping (or...dead?) in the corner.

Jim looked back at the goat. "I'm good."

Dwight shrugged. "Fine, but you'll have to figure something out yourself then, because first impressions are everything."

"I'll smell fine, I promise." Jim began a mental checklist as he stood there, watching Dwight close the jar of grease, getting way too much on his hands. Make a killer appetizer. No hands in the pockets. Shake his mom's hand. Smell good. What a list. He feared what else would be added to it as he watched Dwight wipe the excess grease on his neck. Gross.

"Next lesson. You need to know how to kiss."

Jim scoffed. "I know how to kiss, and I'm not going to kiss you, Dwight."

"Oh yeah, right." Dwight turned to put the jug back in the box. "I've seen you kiss Pam."

"When?"

"My mother is going to expect to see you kissing me, Jim. If we're dating--"

"We're not dating."

"But mother thinks we are. So if she sees that my boyfriend doesn't want to kiss me, she'll know we're not actually together."

Jim opened his mouth for a retort, but didn't. He could see that, he supposed. If they had supposedly been together for months and months, but didn't show the slightest bit of affection in front of Dwight's family, that could raise some alarms. He clearly didn't think of that when he signed up for this. Jim ran a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling a bit nauseous.

"Okay. So. I--" Jim faltered, not knowing what to say. "Fine. I'll kiss you at the door, okay? Just--a quick one."

Dwight shook his head. "No, that won't be enough, you can't just 'plant a quick one' on me Jim. I'm not a floozy. And you don't even know how to do it. Let me show you." Dwight started to reach out to Jim, lips already puckered.

"Okay, no--" Jim backed away. "How many times do you expect me to kiss you, exactly?"

Dwight paused in thought. "Hm. Four. Once at the door, once before dinner, once after, and once as you leave. That should be plenty for mother to believe us."

"Okay, I guess. But I'm not gonna kiss you right now."

Dwight crossed his arms. "You're not being very cooperative here, Jim. I'm trying to help you."

"Yeah, and I'm trying to help you. So what if your mom doesn't like me? Aren't you gonna tell her we broke up anyway?"

"Well, yes, Jim. But I need her to like you, even if just for the one night."

"But why?"

Dwight groaned. "You wouldn't get it."

"Humor me."

Dwight opened his mouth, but didn't say more. He was quiet for a moment. Was it any of Jim's business? Likely not, but maybe he should know. It may make a lot of this rigorous 'training' make a little more sense. Though, Jim was the last person on earth Dwight would consider a confidant. Was it really worth it to tell his mortal enemy his biggest secrets? Well, he was already this far in. Would it even matter?

The back and forth made his head light, and he sat on the hay bale next to Garth. Jim followed behind him, opting to stand next to him instead of sitting. He was still in his work pants after all.

Jim looked down at Dwight. "This is more than the oats," he said. Not even really as a question. It was probing, but stated matter of factly.

Dwight felt exposed even though the barn door was closed. He didn't want to say it out loud, but deep down he knew Jim would never understand enough without him spilling the beans. What a fool he was to let himself dig the hole this deep. Now here he was, telling his drama to the one person in the world he hated the most, just so he could properly lie to his mother. He felt low.

"I want to impress her," said Dwight, finally. "The way my siblings do."

Jim faltered, not prepared for Dwight to sound so...small. "What do you mean?"

"I just--" Dwight looked up. "My brother is married, and he's younger than me. My sister is married. She has a child, and she's younger than me. And I'm here." He gestured to the empty barn. "Alone. I'm the oldest. I'm the one with the family farm. And no family to speak of."

Jim frowned at Dwight, surprised at his sincerity. "Well…" He looked for something to say. "There's nothing wrong with that, Dwight. You're not even that old, it's not like you'll never find someone."

"Yeah, tell that to mother." Dwight stood up and kicked a pile of stray hay. "I know she's convinced that I'll never marry. I know she's a hair away from taking the farm back oats or not. What good is a farm with no farm hands to work it? I thought, maybe with Angela…" He trailed off, sighing. "But this night is all I have to convince her I'm not a basket case. So it has to be perfect. Otherwise...?"

Dwight didn't finish. Jim looked around the barn. He looked at the doors, knowing the land that lays beyond. It was clear Dwight loved having the farm. But Jim knew 60 acres was probably a lot for one person. Especially forever.

Neither of them said anything for a while. As if they were both trying to figure out what to say. The only sound was the gross, sand papery sound of Garth licking the dead flies off of his fur.

"Okay," Jim finally said. Dwight looked up at him.

"'Okay' what?" asked Dwight.

"Okay," he repeated. "I'll do whatever." Jim stuck his hands in his pockets, trying not to sound too earnest. "I'll do the cooking, and the--" he glanced behind him at the jug. "--the grease thing. And the kissing, or...whatever you need me to do."

Dwight furrowed his brows. "You will." He sounded incredulous.

Jim nodded. "Yeah. I mean, it'll be fine. It's just one night, right?" He was halfway talking to himself.

Dwight rose from the hay bale, eyes level on Jim, searching in his face for some evidence of smugness. Of that classic Jim-sarcasm he had when he was messing around with Dwight. But surprisingly, there was nothing there. He looked...serious. Like he meant what he said. Jim met his eyes, and they didn't falter. He did mean it.

Something overcame Dwight, and he pulled Jim into a...rather aggressive and crude hug. Jim was bewilderingly reminded of the time Dwight hugged him the day he quit Dunder Mifflin, way back when he and Angela were dating. Jim's arms were kind of pinned to his side, so he just stood there and waited for Dwight to have his moment.

When Dwight pulled away, the air felt a little lighter. Like, maybe this was actually going to work.

"You good?" asked Jim.

Dwight looked out into the empty barn, hands on his hips, feeling powerful once again. "I am good."

Jim smiled despite himself. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Chapter Text

The time for Dwight's dinner was starting to loom ever closer, and Jim was doing his best to be prepared.

He and Dwight went shopping for clothes after their little heart to heart at the barn. Despite their supposed friendly moment, Dwight had no qualms about telling Jim that there was no earthly way he'd be walking into the same house as his mother looking the way he usually does at work. Apparently he wasn't into that "just fired english teacher" vibe. It was about a two hour trip from clothing store to clothing store, testing different outfits and seeing if they worked.

Some highlights were trying to fit Jim into a pair of overalls, and then finding that he was so pale in the shoulders that no one in their right mind would believe he had ever stepped foot on a farm. Or outside, for that matter. Another consideration was a suit, but that would be too formal for a dinner at the farm--it was likely they’d be in ‘normal’ wear for socializing. For a moment, Dwight tried to get Jim to wear a similar wolf shirt to one he owned, but Jim blankly refused.

Eventually they settled on a sort of beige long sleeve thermal, and a sort of black felt-y vest jacket. Jim looked in the mirror at the store and felt like he was staring at something entirely unlike himself. But Dwight seemed to think it was perfect, so he held his tongue. If he hated it, and Dwight loved it, then that probably meant it was good for his mom.

“Those jeans will do,” said Dwight as they left the store. “Just dirt them up when you get to the farm.”

Jim looked down at his jeans. He nodded. “Oookay.”

When he got home wearing the garb, Pam promptly laughed herself to bed.

----

The next day, Jim came into work looking bleary-eyed, walking slowly and without much care to how he shifted his weight. He nearly fell into his desk chair, and squinted at the computer light flickering on as he tried to start work. A hefty yawn escaped him as he logged in and went to check his messages.

Pam sat down while giving him a pat on the shoulder. Dwight walked in from the kitchen holding two cups of coffee, as he had been for the third day in a row now. He took one for himself, and then set another on the corner of Jim’s desk. He plopped into his chair and started to get to work, not an ounce of fatigue in him.

“Please no beet coffee,” Jim managed, sliding his cup over and inspecting it, to see if it looked suspiciously grainy. Yesterday Dwight had tried again to get him to taste ground beetroot coffee. But Jim could not bring himself to do it. He figured if he had to drink it at the farm, he'd just pretend.

Dwight glanced over dismissively. “No, it’s regular. I'm done wasting my fresh ingredients on you. Wait--” He focused more on Jim, now noticing how horrible he looked. “Are you suffering some kind of disease?”

“If being tired is a disease.” Jim sipped a bit of the coffee to see if it was too hot. It wasn’t. He downed it in a few gulps.

Dwight scoffed, taking smaller drinks of his own cup. "What were you doing last night? You better not look like this on Saturday."

Jim leaned back in his chair and stretched. "I won't, I just--" He yawned again, hoping soon to feel more awake with caffeine in him. Nevermind the cup he drank at home before leaving for work. "Hey, I have a question."

Dwight turned to him. "What?"

"Okay, so." Jim shook his head, trying to bring himself into this dimension. "So, there's this gap between uh...between when your great granddad took over Schrute farms. It was like. Late 1890s? I don't know if there's a page missing but, it skips to 1903. When your- when Dwighd Schrude or however you pronounce it, took over."

Dwight furrowed his brows at Jim, feeling something inside him stir. "You...read the book?"

Jim nodded, and so did Pam.

"He was up all night," she said. "He has this notebook all sticky noted. It's very official."

"I just wrote some stuff down. I'm not carrying that thing with me, all right?" Jim tried to sound casual. "I just didn't know if that's something your mom would ask me about. I figured you'd know."

"Well--" Dwight had to clear his throat for some reason. "Well, that's- it's a blank period for Schrute history, really. It's rumored he lost the farm briefly in a game of Schokoladenessen as a young man. But then won it back later that year, and it took some time for the paperwork to catch up. But nothing's confirmed." He paused, not sure if he should continue. Jim seemed to be listening, so he did. "She probably won't ask about that, though, so. Don't dwell on it."

Jim nodded, satisfied, and turned to his work. He picked up the phone and started to dial a number. Pam studied her work as well. Dwight's gaze lingered on the both of them for a moment before he returned to his computer.

After a minute or two, he heard someone across the room sneeze. But it sounded fake, high pitched, and feminine. Dwight didn't have to look to know it was Angela. He turned his head to see her looking at him.

"I think I will grab a tissue," she said to no one, and turned to walk to the kitchen.

Dwight looked back at the computer, then at Jim, who didn't seem to notice. It still seemed he was trying to recover from his all nighter. Slowly, Dwight stood up from his desk and walked towards Michael's office.

"Want anything from the kitchen, Michael?" he asked.

Michael tapped his desk for a second before saying, "Hm...Perhaps a cake pop. Cake pop for the cake Papa, Dwight. I'll take that." He smiled like he'd told a fantastic joke, and Dwight nodded, turning and walking towards the kitchen.

The cake pops were leftover from Kelly's birthday, and were likely stale, but it didn't matter. He saw Angela opening and closing cabinets, pretending to look for something.

Dwight closed the door behind them and shut the blinds. "What is it?" he asked.

Angela didn't look at him, and instead fiddled with a tissue while sitting down at the table. "I'd like to know exactly what it is you think you're doing."

"I'm not sure what you mean Angela," he said slowly. Part of him knew where this was going.

"I'm not stupid. With your--" she gestured to the coffee maker. "With your coffee buddy, and your little plans you're making with Jim, and walking out of work with him. I just…" she trailed off, meeting his eyes with that same old ferocity. "Want to know what you're up to."

Dwight wondered what he should say. Should he tell her the truth? That since she refused, he had to recruit Jim as his pretend date for the dinner? Should he tell her that they were less than a week away, and that things were starting to come together? Should he tell her that part of him was enjoying the time he's spending with Jim, because they're focusing on something other than fighting at work?

He paused. He didnt want to say any of this. But he still didn't want to lie. After all, it was lying that got him into this in the first place. Dwight swallowed, and turned toward the coffee maker, hoping no one would see them talking. He took a cake pop and twirled it in his hands.

"Well, because you refused to see mother, I had to find someone else. And--" he could see Angela's face twist in disgust. Still, he pressed on. "Jim was willing, and he's doing me a favor so. I can bring him coffee sometimes. Is that such a crime?"

Angela's mouth hung open, eyes agape. "I cannot believe you," she said. "I thought you hated him."

"Well, I don't really have a lot of options." Dwight turned to her. "I refuse to lose the farm. And Jim isn't…" that bad, he almost said. Quickly, he corrected himself. "...isn't resistant like you were. So I can use him for one night."

Angela stood from the table so quickly the chair rattled. "Well, I hope your dinner goes fine. Just fine." Her words hit like salt in a wound. She started to leave, but Dwight stopped her.

"I don't understand why you're so upset about this. You didn't want to come. What else was I supposed to do?"

Angela refused to look at him, and crossed her arms tight over her chest, tapping her foot. She didn't say much for a second. But when she did, her voice was low and malicious. "Dwight Schrute, you will regret ever killing Sprinkles. Just you wait. Just. You. Wait."

With that, she stormed out. The blinds rattled when she shut the door behind her, and Dwight was left standing there, wondering what the hell he did wrong.

She said she didn't want to come. That's what she said! So why is this such an issue? Dwight could see Jim peering at him through the door. He looked at where Angela sat, then back at Dwight, giving him a questioning look. Dwight shrugged. Jim shrugged back, then went back to work.

Dwight shook himself back into reality and out of his thoughts, and he decided to put Angela out of his mind. He had work to do.

Chapter Text

Jim and Pam were sitting at the dinner table, eating. Well, it was more of a fold out plastic card game table--the only type of proper dining table Jim could fit in his apartment since having a dining room table would block the entrance to the kitchen. It was one of those gray, weirdly textured tables with those annoying folding metal legs. Nevertheless, he and Pam were pleasantly eating some dry steak they ordered from the bar down the street.

During this, Jim brought up the things Dwight had said to him about Angela. He'd noticed their little tiff in the kitchen and dared to ask Dwight about it on his break. Despite trying to be nonchalant about it, Jim could tell that he was a little shaken. Maybe he'd had more experience with Angela's wrath than Jim ever did, but Jim couldn't really wrap his head around the threat.

"I wonder what she could even do though," Pam said. She stabbed her fork into the piece of steak and cut a strip off for herself. It was very chewy. "Like- what does she have the power to do?"

Jim shrugged. "I dunno. Does she still have Dwight's key? Maybe she'll sneak in and plant something."

Pam chuckled. "Like what?"

Jim thought for a moment. "Probably just a bunch of cats."

The two shared a laugh, and continued to pretend to enjoy their dinner. How could the steak be dry and the fries be soggy? Jim vowed to never order from there again.

At least they were with each other, which made it tolerable. In passing, Jim wished Dwight was here. But he quickly dismissed the thought.

"It's just weird, this whole thing." Jim looked down at his plate, feeling his ears go hot, though he didn't know why. "Like, I'm actually trying to make the dinner go well? It feels weird."

"Why does it feel weird?" Pam asked.

Jim scoffed, trying to come up with a reason. "Maybe cuz like-- this is the first time since...ever that we've been on the same page. It feels like the balance of the universe has been tilted."

Jim laughed off the last part of what he said, but he had to admit that it was at least half true. There was something different about the office when he came in now, just within the last week; though it's felt like so much longer than that. Even the air seemed less stale in there now. He and Dwight would actually...smile at each other. He wasn't spending his time trying to ward off Dwight's annoyances, and Dwight wasn't doing his best to make Jim's life a living Hell.

They even went on a sales call together the other day. Totally nailed it. It felt good. So why does this feel bad?

"God forbid you get along with one of your coworkers," Pam teased. "The universe isn't unbalanced because you don't hate Dwight anymore, Jim."

"No, I know that Pam, I just…" Jim trailed off, not really sure what to say. He shoved some of the soggy fries into his mouth while he thought about it. They'd become soaked with the steak sauce, and he grimaced at the taste, pushing his takeout box away from him. "Like, it's not that I just don't hate him anymore, because once this whole thing is over I'm sure he'll go right back to hating me. i'm just like--I don't even know."

And he didn't. Knowing that once Dwight had sufficiently impressed his mother, he was sure to make Jim his mortal enemy again. And for some reason, the thought sent a sting through Jim, like he almost didn't want that to happen. But why wouldn't he? Dwight was very strange, and it didn't really hurt that they never got along. Dwight was annoying, sure, but Jim always made the best of it. He could have fun while avoiding work, which was the perfect combination. And Dwight- well, Dwight had his unwavering confidence and moral superiority, so he figured it wouldn't hurt Dwight too much for things to go back to normal.

Though, even rationalizing it like that still felt wrong. Jim frowned at the table.

"What, it's not like you like him, right?" Pam asked. She was mid-chew, and asked the question lightheartedly. Though there was a curiosity in her voice.

Jim snorted. "No," he said quickly. Then he paused. "Wait like. What do you mean?"

Pam looked at him with an expression he couldn't decipher. "Like…" She gestured vaguely with her hand. "You know…"

"What like, do I have a crush on him?"

Pam didn't reply, just looked down at her French fries, half smirking.

"Pam," Jim said. He felt something hot drop in his stomach at this realization. Was that
embarrassment? "Do you even realize what you're saying?"

"I didn't say anything," Pam said, putting her hands up in mock surrender. "You said it."

"No I didn't, I don't--" Jim swallowed hard, like there was a lump in his throat. "I don't like Dwight, okay?"

Jim felt his chest tighten, and he started coming up with an entire speil, ready to strike down any potential argument she had. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to defend himself, but he was still ready to do so with such 'articulate' quips like: Oh how dare you think such a thing, I ought to leave this dinner right here and now, and don't you know he's been making our lives miserable for as long as I can remember, and I cannot even believe you'd THINK of something so WEIRD--

But Pam interrupted his thoughts. "Because I don't care if you do."

Jim stopped, glass of water hovering at his lips. He set it down. "What?"

"I don't care," she repeated, tone soft. "Listen. I love you, right? And you love me, right?"

"Yeah?"

She shrugged. "Then that's all that matters. I just don't want that to change. Whether you love somebody else doesn't matter to me, as long as you're honest about it."

Jim looked at Pam for a few moments. He wasn't sure what to say, and Pam seemed expectant. He tried to think of something. "I don't love him," he mumbled, pulling his food back towards him to have something to do. He toyed around the steak with his fork. A piece that was stuck to one of the prongs fell off and splooshed in the puddle of steak juice.

"I'm not saying you love him," said Pam. "I'm just saying if you like him, and you're thinking that I'll go all Angela on you, you don't have to worry. I don't care." She took one last bite of her sodden fries. "As long as you're honest."

Jim looked down at his food, feeling weirdly deflated. Like he was preparing for something and it didn't happen the way he thought. It was less...tense. And when all of that tension left him he suddenly felt hollow. But...not in a bad way? He couldn't make sense of it.

Slowly though, as the night progressed, he started to feel better. They talked through dessert about work, and shows, and normal life things. They watched a movie, got ready for bed, and laid down together, covered up with Jim's gigantic comforter his mom gave him last year for Christmas, and settled down for sleep.

Before he laid on his side, he tapped Pam, who turned to him sleepily.

"Hey Pam. Thanks," he said. "For before."

Pam nodded, smiling. She knew what he meant. "Goodnight," she said, reaching up and kissing him. He kissed her back, on the forehead, and they both turned to go to sleep.

However, Jim found himself unable to fall asleep. It was Thursday tomorrow. Two days before the dinner. And for some reason, it was all he could think about.

--

Dwight looked out the window, onto his land. The stalks of his crop swayed in the night wind, and he was idly thinking to himself that come summer, he should yield a decent profit. Maybe even get back into those farmer's markets again. He heard they started to travel to different cities.

He closed the screen though, turning away from the cold, and looking into his empty room. Few knickknacks decorated it, since it was mostly just wooden beams, a bed, and a closet. The only thing he knew was here was that cherub figurine, but he had put it in a drawer a couple days ago.

He sighed, looking at the time on his watch. Only 6 hours before work began. Oh well.

Dwight was just about to climb into bed--really, he didn't feel very tired, so he figured he would just be staring at the ceiling for another hour--when he heard his phone ringing. In the silence of the farm, it cut through the air sharply, and he answered it fast. "Who is this?" he snapped, now not realizing he didn't bother to check the caller ID.

There was a pause on the other line. "Hey, it's Jim."

"Jim?" Dwight asked. He looked around the room, halfway confused, as if Jim was about to suddenly appear from within the woodwork. "What are you calling for?"

"Uhh…" Jim didn't seem to know what to say. "I couldn't really sleep. You said you're not usually in bed until this time. I figured I'd...call." Jim was sitting on the couch, head resting on his hand, suddenly feeling stupid. He tried to explain. "I don't know, Pam's asleep, so I didn't want-- I'll just hang up."

"No, it's fine." Dwight sat back down on his bed, feeling his guard drop. "I'm not tired anyway."

There was a hanging pause. It felt like neither of them knew what to talk about. Dwight heard crickets chirping outside his window.

"Dinner's soon," said Jim in a low voice.

Dwight took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. "Right."

"Think everything's in order?"

"Hm." Dwight thought about it. They had Jim's outfit. They planned their PDA throughout the night to be thoroughly convincing, they planned out the menu, and Dwight already had the deer meat marinating in the crate in his kitchen. Jim even bothered to read up on his Schrute history. He nodded. "I think so. Unless there's something we forgot."

"I don't think so? I think everything will be fine. And then...you know. Back to normal."

There was another silence between the two of them. Dwight tapped his finger against his leg. "Right. Back to normal," he repeated.

For some reason, saying that felt weird, like he didn't like the idea. Dwight shook his head, and tried to change the subject. "So then...anything you planned on actually talking about?"

Jim tried to say something, but stuttered over his words. "Uh.." he scrambled for a reason to stay on the phone, so he brought up the first thing that came to mind. "You like...um. S...sports?"

Dwight scoffed. Riveting. But he decided to humor Jim. "I follow table tennis; does that count?"

Jim was thinking more like baseball or football. But he guessed this worked too. "Sure. So uh...what's…anything going on in the tennis world?"

"Table tennis," Dwight corrected. "But yes. There was actually a game happening recently in Tokyo." He paused, suspicious. "Unless you don't want to hear about it?"

"I do." Jim tried to cover a yawn. "What was the game?"

Dwight was still incredulous to Jim's actual interest in this table tennis game. But it wasn't like he was going to bed any time soon. And Mose, ever the talented player, cared little about televised sports. He figured he'd at least take the opportunity to talk about it. "Well," he started. "It was Kanz Gruben v. Hiyosho Ito. National championship. They played until 40 40, and neither of them were budging…"

----

Jim was pacing around his living room, eyes wide and alert as he spoke. "And then he takes it, and like it's a football so it hits him like ugh you know?"

"Yeah?"

"He catches it no problem, and then he's like at the 50 yard line, but still he just--" Jim makes a football throwing motion with his arm, even though Dwight can't see-- "like launches it all the way over, Brady catches it, and he books it to the end zone, and the touchdown hits right as the clock goes off."

"Wow," said Dwight.

"It was crazy. You've really never been to a football game?"

Dwight shook his head. "No, but it sounds like a spectacle."

"Yeah, I mean, like, crowd erupts. Everyone's cheering, clapping, Brady is doing a victory dance it's--" Jim sat down on his couch, thinking fondly of that memory. "It's great."

Dwight hummed. "It sounds like the monster truck rallies Mose and I used to go to. Though watching them was always more fun than being in them."

Jim stopped. "Wait, what? Have you been in a monster truck rally?"

"Well." Dwight stood up and quietly made his way to the kitchen. "Let me explain."

---

Dwight was sipping coffee, leaning against his countertop, phone propped between his chin and shoulder. Jim was excitedly asking him questions.

"So did anyone ever get hurt?" he asked.

"Well of course," replied Dwight. "We were smashing cars, what do you expect? That's actually what made us stop."

"Did you get hurt or something?"

"Mose suffered a minor concussion at one of the rallies. One of the tires of the other car came up hard and it hit a weak area of our truck, and it collapsed. Had to stop after that."

Jim scoffed. "That would explain a lot about Mose."

"Excuse me?"

---

Jim sat at his dining room table, half eaten sandwich going stale on his plate. He made it the hour before when he realized he wasn't going to bed. "So, wait. I thought that was in 1943."

"No," Dwight corrected. "That was when my grandfather loaned out a bank and started keeping all Schrute finances in one place. 1943 was when one of my cousins started an apple grove."

"Okay." Jim scribbled the correction down in his notepad he pulled from the bedroom. "And then your dad inherited the farm in…." He hesitated, trying to think.

"You know this."

Jim tapped the side of his head with his pen. "In... gahh what year was it?"

"I know that you know this." Dwight waited, arms crossed, empty coffee cup next to him on the counter. Jim was silent on the other line for a few seconds.

"1952!" Jim shouted.

Dwight smiled, mock clapping. "Yes."

---

"You play too?"

Jim nodded, looking out his window and seeing the sunrise starting to peek over the horizon. He chuckled at himself. Had they really talked all night? "I can play pretty good, I think."

"Prove it."

He faltered slightly, suddenly questioning his guitar prowess. "P...Pam's asleep," Jim offered as an excuse.

"Oh please, it's, what--" Dwight checked his watch. It was 5:57 in the morning. Oof. "Well, play quietly," he said.

Jim clicked his tongue, and looked over at his guitar. It was resting against the wall next to their living room TV. Eventually, Jim shrugged, and figured it wouldn't be too bad as long as he didn't play too loud. Pam was getting up soon anyway. He walked over to the guitar, slinging the strap over his shoulder. "What do you want to hear?"

Dwight paused. "Do a riff."

"A riff?" Jim scoffed. He sat at the couch and propped the phone on the arm of it, turning it on speaker. "A riff," he repeated, trying to think of a good one.

Eventually he thought of one that wouldn't be too loud, and played it swiftly, in a way that he hoped Dwight would think sounded good. Then he wondered idly why he was worried about whether or not Dwight would think it sounded good. Regardless, he played. After he finished it, he waited for a response on the other line. But got none. "Did you hear that?" he asked.

"Was that 'Jolene'?" Dwight finally asked.

"You know that song?"

---

Dwight, Jim, and Pam all walked into the office, but Pam was much more alert than the two of them. She moved ahead of them, and they trailed doggedly behind.

"You two alive back there?" she asked, taking a seat at her desk, dropping her purse down next to her on the floor.

Dwight grunted and plopped into his seat. Jim tried to be a little more elegant, but he too couldn't manage more than a vague noise. At home, he and Dwight got off the phone right as he heard his alarm clock go off for the day. He had stayed up all night, and right as he remembered he actually had to go to work, all the energy left him.

He looked over at Dwight. There were dark circles under his eyes. His hair was messy, and his tie was a little rough looking. From the way it looked, Dwight probably felt the same way Jim did. Dwight looked at him for a moment.

"Coffee?" Jim suggested.

Dwight nodded, looking like his head was too heavy to hold up. "Coffee." He went to stand, but Jim bid him to sit down.

"I got it," said Jim.

"You don't know how I take my coffee," Dwight said.

Jim walked past him without looking. "We'll see."

He made his way to the kitchen, passing the accounting cubicles on the way. He dared a glance in that direction, and almost immediately wished he hadn't. He came face to face with Angela's death glare. That purse lipped, eyes narrowed, fists clenched glare. Jim swallowed, and tried to ignore it.

He checked his watch. The dinner was officially two days from now. Soon enough, he reminded himself. Soon enough.

Somehow, he thought it was too soon.

Chapter Text

Jim was frantically shaking around the garlic in the pan. He could feel the knot of the apron loosen at the back of his neck, and he paused for just a second to adjust it back, and in that time he could see steam rising from the cloves. He used the spatula to move them around again, hoping that he didn’t just mess up the entire dish. Thankfully, they didn’t stick, but he put some more butter in the pan just to be sure. That piece of goat meat in the pan looked awfully suspicious. He tilted his head at it.

“Pam!” he said, face dotted with sweat. He leaned away from the steaming pan to wipe some off his forehead. “I need the hot pepper, please!”

Pam walked back into the kitchen with her hand to her nose, pinching it shut. “I really don’t think you need it–that thing stinks.”

Jim shook his head. “No, no that’s the ginger, but I need the pepper. Come on Pam, I’m dying here, please cut the pepper for it.”

Pam rolled her eyes, and reached into the pantry to pull out the hot pepper. She cut it quickly and handed Jim the cutting board of sliced peppers. He gratefully took it, and dumped the entire thing into the pan. It sizzled as it hit, and Jim stirred it into the measly sauce as fast as he could, hoping that adding the pepper in late would still give it enough spice. Well, he figured, it was like Kevin always said about his chili: everyone can get to know each other in the pot.

Jim took the tongs and flipped a few chunks of goat, seeing if they were cooked. He thought they were, but he never cooked goat before, so he was truly just taking an educated guess. Pam slid up next to him, looking down at his concoction.

"Are you sure this is what it's supposed to look like?" she asked.

Jim turned the heat off and stirred the sauce once again. "I hope so. Otherwise his mom will hate me."

It was two and a half hours until the dinner. Dwight had been in contact with Jim since the sun rose this morning, and they had essentially been talking the entire day. Dwight asking Jim if he still had his clothes, Jim asking Dwight if he was allowed to use hair gel, Dwight telling him no, Jim secretly using some anyway--it felt like he was getting ready to go to prom.

Now here he was, sweating in Pam's old apron she bought one day while watching Rachel Ray reruns, staring down at a sorry excuse for curried goat stew. He felt proud and ashamed. He knew that this was the best dish he’d ever cooked entirely on his own. But he also knew that no matter what dish was, or how good it was, it was possible that it would not be good enough for Dwight’s mom. He sighed, now hating the fact that he promised to bring an appetizer.

Pam put an arm around his shoulder, seeing the look on his face. She pat him, and handed him the fancy glass tupperware bowl he bought the day before. It was this rustic, brown glass–he hoped it would be good enough. He managed a smile, and started to transfer the food from the pan to the bowl, careful not to spill it. Still steaming, he secured the rubber lid over the whole thing, hoping for it to stay hot on the way to the farm.

“Okay,” he said, taking off the apron, “I’m gonna go get ready, because I need to leave early.”

“Leave early? It only takes like an hour to get there from here."

“I’m planning for the time it takes to get to Dwight’s, and also the time it'll take for me to figure out my way of being lost while trying to find his house.”

Pam chuckled, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve got your outfit set out for you already.”

Jim smiled, relieved. “You’re the best.” He kissed her back, and headed upstairs.

***

Dwight stared at himself in the mirror for another few seconds, making sure there wasn't a single crease in his clothes. They weren't black tie or anything, but they did need to look brand new. He shrugged, nervous, and rushed down to the kitchen where Mose was already hard at work, setting the table.

"Where's the entree?" he asked.

Mose didn't say anything, but instead pointed towards the oven.

"And the first course?"

Mose pointed outside, where they kept their wooden cooler. Dwight nodded, thinking.

"Dessert?"

Mose pointed at the fridge.

Dwight took a deep breath and looked around the kitchen and adjoining living room. He and Mose had been furiously cleaning most of the day--scrubbing wood, lighting candles, wiping windows, then cleaning up glass from a window that Mose broke from wiping it too hard (thankfully it was a window upstairs, where his mother would likely not see). He looked at the chair where his mother would sit, and felt satisfied that it was a pristine oak chair he cut and carved himself. It was very clean.

Dwight swallowed, frowning. Was it too clean?

Mose seemed to notice that Dwight was starting to lose it, so he tapped his shoulder and gestured to the table, which he'd finished setting.

Dwight scoffed, rubbing the sweat of his palms on his jeans. "Thanks," he said. "Go get dressed. Let's…" He looked around, wondering what else to do. He checked his watch. Mother would be here soon. "Let me call Jim."

He started to walk off to go upstairs and get his phone. He had opted out of his belt clips in exchange for an old, handsome leather belt–one that his father had given him as a teenager. This relic would be sure to strike a kind chord in Mother. Hopefully it would give her a subliminal prime to be more…accepting of any mistakes with Jim.

Before he made it up the stairs though, he was stopped. Mose pointed at the table again, then turned to Dwight, looking expectant. Dwight shrugged. "What?" he asked. "It looks fine."

Mose shook his head. "Appetizer," he said.

A rock dropped in Dwight's stomach. Appetizer. No, that couldn't be. Of course he'd remembered the appetizer. Of course he did--he'd been cooking since before dawn. There was no way.

"Well, of course we have an appetizer," he said--the confidence in his voice did not match the furrow browed look on his face. "It- we have an appetizer, didn't we make the...the uh…"

Dwight stepped outside and looked in the cooler. It wasn't in there. He then came inside and opened the oven, hoping for two dishes instead of one. Alas, only the entree was in there, currently warming.

He rushed to the fridge and flung the door open, inspecting its contents. He saw the dessert: three fourths of a baked Alaska, currently unassembled. He knew the ice cream was in the freezer. He saw glass jars full of goat milk, some butter containers, various meats and cheese, some vegetables in the back, and…

And no appetizer. "No," he whispered through gritted teeth. Dwight shut the fridge and stood in the middle of the kitchen, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in aggravation. What was he going to do? It was a four course meal, just like he promised Mother two days before. And he only had three courses. What if he had to break that news to her? If she was off kilter in her mood in any way, this entire operation could be blown.

Dwight took a deep breath and held it for a second, wondering what to do. He tapped his foot, checked his watch. There was no time to make something. What could he do?

After a second, he turned on his heel and started upstairs. A faint memory of last week lingered in his mind--something about Jim promising to cook something for dinner. Hopefully he felt like keeping that promise.

***

“Okay, no–yes, yes Dwight. I have it. I'm putting it in the car right now."

“Are you sure?”

Jim scoffed. “What do you mean am I sure? Do you want me to send you a picture of the thing?”

Dwight paused on his end of the phone. “If you could.”

“Dwight!”

“Okay! Okay, fine. Fine. Just…make sure it’s good.”

Jim slid into the driver’s seat, shutting the door with his phone pressed against his ear. He looked in the back seat to make sure nothing had happened to the stew. It was sitting safely buckled in the back, sitting atop a towel and wrapped in aluminum foil to keep it hot. He could even still see steam rising from the side where the aluminum didn't cover all the way. “I did the best I could do, all right? Just relax.”

“Relax? How can I relax? My mother is coming to my house in under two hours, and I will be sitting down having dinner with her for the first time in years, to introduce her to you, my boyfriend, which–by the way, isn’t actually the truth! So. Please tell me how I am supposed to relax!”

Jim stopped for a second, trying to think of what to say. For some reason, he felt a sting at the bottom of his stomach when Dwight said that it wasn’t true. Which, it wasn't, but it still felt like he was about to lose something at the thought of tomorrow, after the dinner. He sighed. "I get it," he said. "I'll be there soon, all right?"

"All right."

They hung up, and Jim put both hands on the wheel, staring forward for a few seconds, trying to sort himself out. He took a deep breath and glanced at the stew once more, forcing himself to be calm.

As he looked, he noticed the small jar of moose grease nestled in his back seat. He closed his eyes. Oh god. He still had to put that on, didn't he?

"Goddamnit," he whispered, reaching in his console to pull out a stray glove. He unbuckled and grabbed the jar, twisting it open ever so slightly. Its dense smell already started to leak out, and he tried not to inhale through his nose.

He shook his head staring down at the viscous sludge before him. Ugh. If you'd have asked him two weeks ago to rub this stiff on himself, for Dwight no less--he'd have laughed. But now it wasn't so funny. Because here he was.

He hoped the invitation to dinner included a decent shower.

***

Dwight took a deep breath and surveyed the living room and kitchen one more time. Everything seemed in place. He checked his watch. Any minute now.

He didn't feel calm enough to sit down, but didn't feel steady enough to stand. After a few moments of debating what he should do, he settled for intermittent pacing and awkwardly sitting on a kitchen stool every two minutes. It wasn't really helping him feel better, but he needed to be doing something before….

He heard a knock.

...before Mother got here.

He glanced in the kitchen and saw Mose, who stared back with fear in his eyes. He looked at the table, clearly not wanting to answer the door. Dwight pursed his lips and straightened his clothes. Now or never.

He walked to the door and opened it, plastering on his best sun-like smile. "Mother," he said, voice chipper. "So good to see you."

Chapter Text

Hetta Schrute was short, stout, and built like a wardrobe. She stood largely rectangular, with wide, squared off shoulders, and arms down at her sides like they were glued there. Her large floral dress draped over her like it was a sheet covering a basement arm chair–misshapen, not fitting correctly, yet still with an arrogance to it.

She reached up and wiped a baby hair out of her forehead, adjusting and pressing down strays. Her long gray hair was braided, then tied up into a tight, no nonsense bun. Her wood rimmed glasses slid down her nose ever so slightly, and she pushed them back up with indignance.

Upon seeing her son, she barely managed a smile, and simply grunted in greeting before making her way inside. Dwight stepped aside and let her in, observing her as she inspected the living room. He opted for putting his hands behind his back so she couldn't see him wringing them together.

Hetta Schrute took a long, meandering examination of the living room and kitchen. "Needs to be steamed," she said of the blanket that was draped over Dwight's father's old rocking chair. She then walked over and ran her finger along one of the plates that had been set up for dinner, inspecting any dust that had made its way onto the dishes between 5 minutes ago when Dwight scrubbed them down and now. Thankfully, she didn't seem to find anything, and nodded, absent-minded.

Finally, she looked up at Dwight. "Looks good," she said.

Dwight sighed with relief, but tried to cover it up with a cough. "Uh, why don't you sit? I can help you with your shoes."

Hetta waddled over to Dwight's sofa, and plopped on it with a disregarding force, letting her feet rest on the wooden coffee table long enough for Dwight to take off her slippers. He swiftly handed her a blanket, then turned to place her shoes by the door as she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl. Again, she looked around. After a moment, she took a long, hefty sniff.

"So," she said, "Don’t smell nothing. Where is he? John?"

Dwight shot a glance at Mose, who ducked back into the hallway. Of course he'd be of no help. Turning around, Dwight managed a smile. "Jim," he corrected. "He should be here soon."

"Jim." Hetta held the word in her mouth, face scrunched up into a grimace. Or a smile? Dwight couldn't tell. "You haven't told me much about him."

Dwight wanted to settle onto the rocking chair, but didn't know if he should sit to placate his mother, or stand to wait for Jim to knock on the door. Again, he opted for an awkward half standing and sitting on the arm of the armchair sitting next to the couch. "Well," he said, fiddling with the buckle on his belt. "He's uh…you have to meet him, I mean. He's someone you really have to meet to understand. That's just how…" his mother looked unimpressed, so he stopped short. "...how he is," he finished.

Hetta humphed. She didn't say anything for a moment, then looked down at the floor, seemingly in thought. "Reminds me of your father," she said. And was that a smile pulling at her frown lines?

Dwight's chest swelled, and he tried to tame his hopes. Hopes that things would be perfect. That Jim would bring a wonderful appetizer, that he would woo Hetta, that he could keep his oats–and by extension, his farm. That all of this would simply go away.

Not that he didn’t love his mother. And not that he didn’t love Schrute traditions. To be fair, those traditions and his mother are the two reasons that Dwight has this farm to begin with, and this farm has yielded so much more than crops. Thanks to those traditions, Dwight lived comfortably, and he wouldn’t trade that for the world. But having to lie like this just to keep it all had left him awake for more than one night.

Part of him wished it wasn’t really a lie. Wait, what?

Dwight shook his head, and offered his mother a drink. Before she even answered, he made his way into the kitchen and started to pour a glass of water. He turned to the bowl on his counter and took a lemon, cutting up a piece and squeezing a bit into the glass, just so he’d have something to do with his hands, and he looked out the kitchen window hoping to see Jim’s car finally make its way up the road. He checked his watch. Almost time.

Just as he brought the water into the living room and set the glass down on the coffee table in front of Hetta, Dwight heard it. That telltale crunch of gravel underneath a car tire. His breath caught, and he had to quickly excuse himself back into the kitchen to hide the grin that jumped onto his face. Finally, he thought. Finally he wouldn't be alone in this onslaught of awkwardness, with Mose cowering behind stairwells and his mother looking on in that judgemental, albeit absent glare. Finally they could get this dinner started and ended, and they could rush in a few kisses here and there to really sell it, then wave old Hetta Schrute out the door, and Dwight could feel secure in the ownership of his farm once again.

He heard a car door slam. When he turned to look at his mother, she was already looking at him. Before she could say anything, Dwight blurted, "That should be him. I'll get the door."

Dwight rushed over to the front door, trying to tame the swirling he felt in his stomach. His mother was still watching, no doubt ready to evaluate he and Jim's supposed relationship as soon as the door swung open. With a fleeting thought, he'd hoped Jim remembered the moose grease.

He heard footsteps walking up the porch. Approaching. A pause. Knocking. He was finally here.

Dwight dared a look at his mother, who was still watching, face indecipherable. Moment of truth.

Plastering on a smile, and preparing himself for his first of three dinner sanctioned kisses, Dwight opened the door. "Jim!" he started, "how wonderful it–"

He stopped dead. When staring eye level, Dwight saw no one. It was only when he looked ever so slightly down that he came, with horror, face to face with someone who was most definitely not Jim. "No," he whispered.

Angela smiled. "Dwight," she said. "How wonderful it is to see you."

Chapter Text

Well, this was it. His hopes of impressing his mother: gone. His hope of keeping the farm: gone. His plan with Jim: gone. His sanity: long gone.

While the harbinger of doom, mistress of madness, angel of death herself was standing in front of him, smiling. Very much not gone. Very much right here, ready to ensue chaos.

Angela pushed her way into the Schrute household, and came up to greet Hetta, hand already outstretched, a maniacal grin plastered across her face. "Mrs. Schrute," she said, voice uncharacteristically chipper, "so glad to finally meet you!"

Hetta was standing by this point, no doubt ready to start evaluating Jim the second he walked through the door, but was struck silent and shocked at the sight of Angela paddling towards her. Her gaze went from scrutinizing to suspicious, and she did not shake Angela's hand. Instead, she looked over her shoulder and looked at Dwight, who was practically melting into a puddle of his own sweat. "This isn't Jim," she said. Yeah, Dwight thought with horror, no kidding.

Angela spoke before Dwight could recover enough to figure out what to say. She waved a dismissive hand. "Jim?" she said, and chuckled. "No no, you must have been mislead. Dwight's not dating Jim."

Hetta tripped over her words, seemingly not knowing how to reply. "Then..you?"

"Angela," Dwight said testily. "Don't."

Angela shook her head at Hetta, ignoring Dwight, still smiling. "No, not me either. You see, Dwight isn't dating anybody." She did a big flourish with her hands on the word anybody, as if she were presenting an award for best accountant and not, instead, actively ruining Dwight's foreseeable future. "Unfortunately, Mrs. Schrute, you've been lied to."

Hetta's brows furrowed at this, chest puffing out. "Now what do you mean by that?" She crossed her arms–the action resulted in enough joints cracking that it sounded like a popcorn machine. She snapped her stare back at Dwight. "What's this girl talking about? Who is she?"

Dwight was frozen. He couldn't move. He couldn't even speak. He could feel the heat rising from his feet up into his head–the tingle all over him. He wanted to tell Angela to quit; he wanted to tell his mother that this was simply some large child who had wandered into the farm, or perhaps a beggar, or even that she was simply a coworker gone mad with envy. But he couldn't spit anything out. All he could do was watch as his entire plan, his farm, his future, all of it– unraveled before him.

Angela eased Hetta back down into her chair. She sat as well, straightening her skirt and setting her hands, crossed, on her lap, doing her best to look as prim and proper as she could. "Well, the thing is," she said, glancing at Dwight with a devilish smirk, "your son and I did used to date. It was actually our relationship in which he had been given those wild oats. And things were going quite well I'd say. Until, uh.." she looked down at the ground, calculated. "Let me explain.”

–

Jim drove slowly up the dirt path, trying to quadruple check that he was in the right place. Thankfully he had managed to snag the address off the front of Dwight's house the first time he came over for 'lessons', since when Jim tried to ask in passing where his house was, Dwight gave him a long rambling list of instructions that made absolutely zero sense.

"Walk until you hear the beehive," said Jim. Dwight had crossed his arms indignantly, as if it made perfect logical sense to him. "Dude."

But now, here he was, house in the distance, cars in the driveway. Dwight's mom must already be here. Jim swallowed hard, throat feeling strangely dry as he eased up the gravel path. When he glanced down, his knuckles were white against the steering wheel, he was gripping it so hard.

When Jim finally stopped, he turned his car off and took a deep breath, opening and closing his hands to get the blood back flowing in them. He looked up at the house. Then he looked over at that old, chipping red paint that decorated the outside of Dwight's car. Then at the impeccably filthy pickup truck with a doily seat cover that must have been Hetta Schrutes. Then over at the impeccably clean gray Ford Focus with a cat shaped air freshener dangling off the rear view mirror.

Jim looked back at the house with a seed of nervousness flipping around in his chest. With hesitancy, he unbuckled himself and–

Wait. An impeccably clean gray Ford Focus with a cat shaped air freshener dangling off the rear view mirror?

He got out of his car and inspected it closer, balancing his brown dish of curried beet stew on one arm as he looked. Could this be…

Jim spotted a familiar cardigan in the back seat–one that he'd seen on a particular blonde headed coworker more often than not. "Shit," he whispered.

Just as he was about to take out his phone and call Dwight, he heard the storm door open. When he looked, there Dwight was, standing in the doorway, talking to someone over his shoulder. He very cordially waved at Jim, smiling. But something about it seemed fake, plastic–even from here, Jim could see the sheen of sweat on Dwight's forehead.

He watched as Dwight laughed and said something to the person inside that Jim couldn't see. Then he watched as Dwight shut the front door behind him as quietly and gently and politely as he could, before then rushing down the porch, to the driveway, and up to Jim, almost running into him hard enough to drop the dish in his hands.

"Dwight, what the hell is happening?" asked Jim. He nodded his head towards Angela's car. "Is she inside?"

Dwight didn't respond, just said frantically, "Nix the kisses, nix the appetizer, nix the dinner, nix everything! Angela has ruined everything! We've lost Jim, we've lost." He was fidgety--shifting his weight back and forth on his feet and wringing his hands, altogether looking like he was about to cry. "We've lost," he repeated. "We just, just–"

"Hold on." Jim set the dish on the roof of his car and held Dwight's shoulders, trying to steady him. "What is she saying in there?"

Dwight swallowed. He couldn't seem to find his words. "She's telling the truth."

"The truth?"

"Yes, everything. About her and I's relationship, Sparkles–"

"Sprinkles."

"--and the email, the lie, the you, the everything! She's telling her everything, Jim. We lost." Dwight paused, face falling into a deep frown. "I- I lost."

Jim didn't know how to respond. How could he even begin to understand the complexity of feelings that come with the notion that you're about to lose your home? Your farm? Your livelihood? Sure, he always had Dunder Mifflin. But even Jim understood that Dwight was a farmer at heart. You never exactly hear about the longstanding families with generations' worth of stories about northeastern Pennsylvania based mid size paper company regional salesmen.

Instead, you hear about Dwight's family: years of rich, albeit questionable history, full of interesting people and places, amazing stories, and weird traditions. All of which taking place right here, at the farm that Dwight was about to lose forever.

Suddenly, Jim didn't care so much that his dish was getting cold on the roof of his car, and all he could think to do was pull Dwight in for a hug. Dwight didn't protest, and allowed himself to be embraced, putting his head on Jim's shoulder, and Jim on his. He let a long breath out, sounding defeated.

"I'm sorry," said Jim. It was all he could muster. He thought of doing the whole pat pat motion on Dwight's back, but somehow it felt very 'there there', which Jim didn't exactly want to joke about right now. Instead, he just stood there and let Dwight decide when to pull away. After a few moments, he thought he heard Dwight sniffle.

It was at this moment that Jim, facing the front of the house, caught a face peeking through the window of the front door. With a start, he saw that it was Angela. She was standing there, watching, smiling. From the hike in her shoulders, Jim just knew that she was crossing her arms in satisfaction. Probably humming contentedly.

Jim started to feel hot, brows furrowed, biting his lip, trying to figure out his next move. "No," he said.

Dwight pulled away from their hug. He was fixing his glasses as Jim said this. "What?"

Jim was shaking his head. "No," he repeated. "I'm not gonna let her do this to you." His eyes hadn't left Angela's as he spoke. When she finally ducked away from the door, Jim turned and grabbed the dish off the top of his car. "I'm going in there and I'm gonna fix this. Throw some dirt on my pants. Make me look farmy." Flittingly, he remembered that was something Dwight wanted him to do.

Dwight just stood there. "I don't– there's nothing to fix," he said. "She's here. She said it. It's over."

Jim balanced the dish on one hand and threw some dirt on his pants himself as he said, "Now I know that Dwight Schrute is not telling me to give up."

"Jim-"

"The Dwight Schrute I know," he interrupted, "would never give up so easily."

Dwight sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Jim, you don't know how to fix this. Come on, she's already in there schmoozing my mother right now."

Jim was shaking his head, already turning and making his way up the porch, with Dwight trailing behind him in protest. "After reading an entire Bible of Schrute history, learning how to slice up raw goat, and rubbing moose grease all over myself, there is no way that I'm leaving it like this and having wasted my time." Once at the front door, he turned to Dwight. "And there should be no world," he said, "where Dwight Schrute gives up on something before Jim Halpert does."

Dwight stared at him for a moment. He wanted to retort, but couldn't find anything to say. Instead, he swallowed hard, nodded, and turned to open the front door despite the swirling in his stomach.

Jim grinned at him, and he stepped inside, presenting the dish with both hands as some sort of offering to an ancient God's shrine. Angela looked shocked. Hetta looked confused. Mose, ever the opportunist, rushed over to Jim and snatched up the dish, scuttling into the kitchen and away from the drama.

"Now who is this?" Hetta asked, exasperated and on the verse of anger.

Angela chimed in. "That would be Jim, Dwight's coworker. The person he's been lying to you about." She smirked again, satisfied that she had achieved victory. But she faltered when she noticed that Jim didn't seem as if he'd lost any confidence.

Jim cleared his throat and stepped further into the living room, grabbing Dwight's hand and pulling him in with him. "Correction," he said. "I'm Dwight's boyfriend."

With that, Jim turned around. He pulled both he and Dwight even further into the living room, within spitting distance of Hetta Schrute. He then yanked Dwight closer, grabbed both sides of his face, smiled, closed his eyes, and planted a kiss right on Dwight's shocked and surprised lips.

Chapter Text

Safe to say Dwight wasn't expecting it.

Before he even knew what was happening, much less protest to it, he felt Jim grab his face and pull him in. In less than a second, Dwight went from standing in front of his mother, his ex, and his coworker while witnessing the demise of his farm, to then standing in front of his mother, his ex, witnessing the demise of his farm, while now kissing that coworker.

The kiss in itself was honestly a little longer than he anticipated. Though, Dwight wasn't sure if he minded. Because, for a moment, everything seemed to fade away. For a moment, he became unaware of his mother, of Angela, of Mose, of the oats, of…everything. For a moment, it was just him and Jim, holding each other in his living room. It was Jim wrapping his arms around Dwight's waist. It was Dwight feeling his glasses pressing against their faces, and then just taking them off entirely. It was Dwight then wrapping his arms around Jim's shoulders, reveling in the fact that he was just slightly taller. It was feeling Jim leaning forward into it more, almost to the point that Dwight started to teeter backwards. It was Jim putting his palm flat against Dwight's back to steady him.

And it wasn't like anything he'd experienced with Angela. It was…

When they pulled away, inches from each other, Dwight felt out of breath. He breathed deep, trying not to meet Jim's eyes. Despite himself, he chuckled, winded. He could see Jim smiling.

It was wonderful.

Suddenly Dwight snapped back into reality, and noticed his mother gaping at the both of them over Jim's shoulder. He yanked himself away from Jim and tried to straighten his clothes, feeling hot at the thought of being caught like this. Then he remembered that he was supposed to have been caught like this, so he haphazardly reached down and grabbed Jim’s hand, trying to find his words.

Jim found them before Dwight did. "I'm sorry Mrs. Schrute, for that crass-ness. I just wanted to make it as clear as possible what the truth is."

Hetta Schrute stuttered and stumbled out her next sentence. "I- I'd like to know what- what the truth is myself."

Dwight looked at Angela, who refused to look at him. She was pale. Clearly, she wasn't expecting this level of commitment on Jim's end. Still, she tried to recover, straightening her skirt and wringing her hands together. "Quite a show you've put on," she said, voice strained. She cleared her throat, turning more towards Hetta. "But that doesn't change the fact that they're lying. Jim and Dwight are not dating. That's why I'm here."

Before anyone else could butt in, Jim stepped forward. Though he pointedly did not let go of Dwight's hand until almost halfway through his spiel.

"Actually," he started, "You're here, Angela, because…well." Jim chuckled, talking towards Hetta the whole time. "I hate to air out personal business, Mrs. Schrute, but given the current circumstances, I think it's warranted–Dwight and I have been together for quite some time now. And Angela, well…she's been interested in Dwight for quite some time now too. In fact, almost as soon as we started dating, Angela started showing her jealousy."

At this point, he turned to Angela, that same Jim-brand smirk ever so clear across his face. "I thought we'd squashed the issue about this, since Dwight made it clear he and I are together, and will continue to be." He turned and shot a wink in Dwight's direction. "But clearly," he said, turning back, "there's still some boundaries we need to set."

He noticed Angela's hands balling into fists. It was like he could see the red rising from her toes all the way up to her ears. He half expected steam to start coming out. "Of all the lies," Angela mumbled. She grit her teeth and tried again to force a smile. "Mrs. Schrute, this is simply ridiculous. Jim and Dwight hate each other. They always have! Jim, he–" she pointed– "plays these horrible pranks on him all the time."

Dwight finally caught himself enough to butt in. As well as Jim seemed to be faring, there was no mistaking the stark sheen of sweat beneath the brim of his cap. He hoped his mother would think it was from working fields. "Those?" Dwight said. "Why else would he prank me if not because I know him enough to know that he's just teasing?" He even decided to add on his own little embellishment. "Now, try a harmless joke on Angela well…not pretty."

Angela scoffed. It was clear she was hiding her anger. "Mrs. Schrute, I hope you don't fall for this. They hate each other. And they always have. I'm just…" she threw her arms up in mock disbelief. "...in shock here, that they'd try this considering the fact that they don't even like each other. That they have been lying this entire time, just so Dwight can–it's absolutely ridiculous that they're doing this to me–you. Doing this to you, and…they, they're…" she gestured vaguely in their direction, losing steam. In a final attempt to finish her statement, she mumbled out, once again, "...they don't even like each other."

"Oh really?" Jim challenged.

"Yes, really," returned Angela, with venom. She paused for a moment, trying to find something to say. Then her eyes lit up, and she did her best to hide a growing smile as she said, "You can honestly look me in the eye and tell me that you've liked Dwight, you always have?"

Jim went to say something, but stopped. Dwight watched him try and come up with something to say, but fell short. For some reason, it sent a sting at the bottom of Dwight's stomach.

"You can honestly say," she continued, "that you haven't spent years trying to make his life miserable, and he yours? That you've tried to get him to quit, rejoiced when you thought he'd be gone forever?"

Again, Dwight watched to see if Jim would say something. Anything. But he didn't. He looked like he was thinking about something. With a rising panic, all he could do was watch as Angela went on and on.

"Is this really what you want?" She said, gesturing around the room. "Even if you are together, even if you do like each other. Even-" she scoffed– "-Even if you propose to each other right here, right now, do you really want it built on a lie like this?" She stood, taking slow, deliberate steps toward Jim, eyes trained and steady. "Relationships built on lies rarely work out. And this? This whole thing? One pretty massive lie if I do say so."

Again, Jim tried with all of him to think of a retort, a quip, some witty, well worded remark that somehow even roped in some Schrute history just to make it more impressive. But for the life of him, he couldn’t think of anything. He just stood there, looking at Angela, then at Dwight, then at Hetta. Just stood there with this sinking feeling, like all the blood was draining from his head to his toes and he was about to fall over. Once Angela was feet from him, looking up at him and he down at her, he still somehow felt…so small. Because in his head, everything else faded away. The history, the lessons, the past week, everything went blank but one thing, swirling around in his head over and over again–impossible to ignore.

Angela put her hands on her hips, staring daggers. “Is that really what you want?” she repeated, articulating each word crisply and pointedly.

—
"Because I don't care if you do."

"What?"

"I don't care," Pam repeated, tone soft. "Listen. I love you, right? And you love me, right?"

"Yeah?"

She shrugged. "Then that's all that matters. I just don't want that to change. Whether you love somebody else doesn't matter to me, as long as you're honest about it."

Jim looked at Pam for a few moments. He wasn't sure what to say, and Pam seemed expectant. He tried to think of something. "I don't LOVE him," he mumbled.

"I'm not saying you love him," said Pam. "I'm just saying if you like him, and you're thinking that I'll go all Angela on you, you don't have to worry. I don't care." She took one last bite of her fries. "As long as you're honest.”
—
He again looked at Hetta Schrute: sitting on the edge of her seat, expectant, waiting, suspicious. He looked down at Angela, standing in front of him: confident, smug, victorious. He looked over at Dwight: confused, desperate, nervous. He thought of how he must look right now. Dressed in clothes that don’t feel right. Having learnt to cook a dish he’d never even tasted before. Reading up on the history of a family he had never cared about before. Standing in front of Dwight’s mother, who he had never even thought about meeting before, much less under these circumstances. He was standing in a total fake.

Jim thought about all he had to do to get here. With the moose grease, the cooking, the clothes, the ‘lessons’, the this, the that…it was mostly all boring, tedious, annoying, and stupid. In fact, the only good part about any of it was…

The coffee. And…the talking. Joking around. Laughing. Having fun. Actually getting to know Dwight. The only good part about all this was…

Was this what he really wanted?

Jim looked at Angela, square in the eye. And he said, with all the conviction he could muster, “No.”

She seemed taken aback. “What?”

“No,” he repeated. He said it again, looking up at Hetta. “No, this isn’t what I want.”

Quickly, he turned back to Dwight, grabbing his arms and pulling him close. Dwight looked frantic. “Jim,” he said, “What are you doing? What are you doing?”

“Just trust me.” He pulled Dwight in, kissing him a second time. Pulling away, he said again, “Trust me.”

Turning back around, Jim addressed the room–Mose, Mother, Angela, Dwight, even Garth the cheese-pulling goat who was probably vibing with flies in the barn. “What I want,” he said, “is the truth. And this isn’t it.” He took off his hat, tossing it to the floor. “We lied.”

Chapter Text

Hetta Schrute expanded. It was as if she were a sleeper agent finally coming to life after years of never hearing her own personal trigger word. The shawl she had around her shoulders all but shivered off under the sheer intimidation that inflated her expression–eyebrows taught, eyes squinted, mouth wide open with a retort. Rising from the couch, she seemed to gain about 3 more feet in height, and it seemed as if, this whole time, she had been shrinking herself on purpose, rather than simply appearing a dense creature.

With her newfound ferocity, she pointed a stiff and angry finger at Jim, readying herself to drag him out onto the porch by his ear her damn self. “You,” she said, taking steps toward him, stomping so hard that it felt like the ground beneath her was shaking and cracking. She came within a foot of Jim’s face, and though she had to look up just to meet his eyes, Jim felt like cowering away. “You’re the one at the center of all this. You better tell me what the hell is going on here. If the next thing that comes out of your mouth ain’t the 100 percent, absolute truth–”

“Mother,” Dwight tried to interject.

Hetta temporality shifted the finger (that may as well have been a dagger) in Dwight’s direction, and he snapped his mouth shut. “Stay out of it,” she said. Turning her weapon back on Jim, she continued, “The 100 percent, absolute truth, then I will hog tie you and feed you to my damn goats. So.” She put her hands on her hips, arms stiffly bent like rusted joints struggling to stay in place. “Speak.”

Jim dared a look at Dwight, who was trying his best to remain emotionless in the wake of his mother’s wrath. He was staring out into nothing at all, seemingly shut down, unable to help. Jim hadn’t ever seen this side of Dwight, and it hit him at once that his expression wasn’t quite emotionless–his eyes were shining. He was scared. Jim swallowed, figuring that if she scared Dwight, then how should he be feeling? Still, Jim tried to stay calm, concluding that, if there was anyone who could save this dinner, it had to be him. “Okay, all right Mrs. Schrute, just let me explain.”

“The truth?”

“The truth.” Jim slid the puffy vest off of himself and draped it over the table near the front door. “I’m not a farmer. Dwight and I are just co-workers, and we never dated. Angela, she…” he gestured emptily in Angela’s direction, realizing that every word Jim said marched closer and closer to the declaration of bankruptcy that Dwight would ultimately need to make as the result of losing his farm. All because of Jim. “...they were the ones that dated. Angela’s cat died, and then they broke up, and…he just wanted to impress you. So he asked me to..to…” With this, his head fell into his hands and he tried to hide himself. Did he really have to say it out loud? “To pretend to date him.”

Hetta was quiet for a moment, and in that moment nobody breathed. Even Angela was waiting patiently, with awe, for her to say something. Anything.

“Pretend to date him…” Hetta repeated under her breath. She came down from her tip toes, fists still screwed into the tops of her hips. Her eyes dropped to the ground, and she seemed to be thinking. Slowly, she turned, taking deliberate steps back towards the couch, moving so slow it seemed that she wasn’t moving at all. “Pretend…”

Jim tried to save himself, and in doing so said something he probably should’ve saved for a more private conversation. Probably the last thing he should’ve said in front of Dwight’s mother, much less Angela, much less Mose. “At least it started out that way.”

All at once, Hetta Schrute was facing him again. She had spun around so quickly, he could see a stray hair on her head wave in the breeze. A pause hung in the air. “Keep talking,” she said, voice measured. Her lips were pressed together in a tight straight line, forbidding any reaction to show as he spoke.

Again, Jim looked at Dwight, and this time their eyes met. Dwight’s mouth hung slightly open, and his eyebrows were drawn up, looking…hopeful? Jim didn’t have time to linger on it, and he turned his head back, barreling on. “It started as me just…helping. Learning about your family. Learning about him. We–” he gestured to the two of them– “were just going to do this one night, for the- the farm, and then it would be over. We’d be…” Jim’s eyes fell to the floor. “We’d be the same…frenemy coworkers that we’d always been.”

He forced himself to stand up straighter as he talked, as he watched Hetta start to lower herself into the rocking chair, eyes never leaving Jim’s face, still staring with that same non-expression, waiting to hear more.

“Before this, I-” He hesitated. Then remembered he must tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him God (or Hetta, at this point). So he pushed it out, regardless of the sting of heat that started in his ears. “I didn’t like your son. I hated him. It’s embarrassing to admit that now, but that’s how it was.” He waited for a reaction, and didn’t get one. Looking, he saw that even Anglea was sitting there, waiting for him to continue. So he did. “I thought Dwight was…arrogant, and weird, and annoying. I messed with him all the time because I hated him so much. And when he came to me about this?” Jim gestured around the room. “I said yes so that I could mess with him. I thought it was the holy grail of pranks, you know? But, um, you know…”

Dwight seemed to come back to himself, and he watched Jim, trying to read his face. “Jim?”

“Things changed,” Jim said. “I don’t know exactly what, or when…maybe the first time you brought me that coffee. Maybe that call we had. Maybe…it was there before that–I don’t know. But all I know is that things changed. And…all of a sudden, I didn’t see arrogant, weird, annoying. I saw…you know, I saw...confidence. And individualistic. And Passionate. And…really intelligent, and loyal, and…” He stared at Dwight, trying to find his words. They were starting to evade him. “Just different.”

Again, Hetta did not reply. It seemed on her face as if she were deciphering a code, or solving a calculus problem. She was fully in the rocking chair now, pushing herself idly forward and back with one foot. The other was crossed stiffly over her knee. She was looking at nothing, clearly expecting more.

This time, it was Anglea who prodded more. Her voice came out small, curious, with much less venom than what Jim had expected. In fact, she sounded…sad. “What are you saying?” she asked, like she already knew.

Jim took a deep breath through his nose, and let it out, long and slow, through his mouth. “I’m saying,” he started, forcing his hands in his pockets so that he couldn’t wring them together, “that it started to feel… real. It didn’t feel like I was just doing this to fool you–” he gestured to Hetta– “or just to keep the farm, or anything like that. I’m saying it started to feel like Dwight and I were…were actually…” He stumbled, stopped. Tried again. “That Dwight and me were actually…” Once again, his mouth stuttered closed. “..That we were–”

“We were actually together?” Dwight finished for him.

Suddenly Jim felt the closeness of Dwight standing next to him, and he felt steadied. Despite the stakes, he started to smile. “Yeah,” he said, “That…we were actually together.”

The only semblance of reaction from Hetta Schrute was a single eyebrow quirking up ever so slightly. Whether this eyebrow portrayed anger, confusion, acceptance, or some other emotion–Jim didn’t know. But he took it as a form of grace.

After what felt like several long, painfully silent minutes (but was really only about 15 seconds), Hetta finally opened her mouth to speak. Everyone was silent, waiting with a quiet fervor. Eventually, she said, “So how long have you two actually been dating?”

It was a surprisingly tame question, Jim thought, considering her mood mere moments earlier.

He tried to gather his words as, once again, he found himself lost. But Dwight, thankfully, recovered first. “We never, uh, officially started dating, mother. It was, I mean– just…not officially.”

Hetta glared at the ground.

“But.” Jim took his hands out of his pockets and put them behind his back, once again trying to keep himself from appearing any more nervous than he already was. He turned stiffly towards Dwight. “If…uh…if it’s okay with you–”

Hetta’s head snapped back up.

“I don’t know if you felt the same way, Dwight. About this– about me, I mean. But–” For a second, Jim stopped, suddenly not wanting to finish his sentence, and suddenly wanting to just run out into his car and speed home. But then, again, Pam’s voice rang so clearly inside his head. As long as you’re honest. So he forced it out. “You don’t have to, but. I’d…like to… make it official. If you wanted to. Just–” he gestured vaguely around the room, not really knowing how to finish. “Yeah.”

Dwight looked at him, eyes wide. “Really?” He sounded like a child who’d just been handed the world’s rarest lollipop and was asking timidly if he was really allowed to keep it.

Jim nodded. “Really.”

It seemed for a moment in the way that his chest deflated that Dwight was going to say no, and Jim’s stomach fell. But after a moment, he seemed to light up. He opened his mouth to reply.

“No.”

The voice wasn’t Dwight’s. All three of them turned to see Angela boiling over in the corner. She was clutching her hands in fists so hard it looked like they were about to fly off her wrists. She stood up straight, like a 2 x 4, face red with anger. “No,” she repeated. “You can’t just talk your way out of this. You can’t just lie your way out of this.” She pleaded towards Hetta. “You think after all this, they’re deciding to tell the truth now? This is just another show!”

“Angela–” Jim started. He didn’t get far.

“The coffee, the call,” she cruelly repeated, spitting the words out like vile paste, letting them fall pathetically to the floor. “Learning about his family. Learning about him. I’m sure it all sounds pretty convincing, doesn’t it? So convenient. You know what?” She approached Jim, lips pulled taught and venomous. “I bet you don’t know the first thing about Dwight’s family. Hm? What about that? What about I call your bluff?” She turned around, gesturing dramatically. “What about we prove it, right here and now, that this whole thing is a farce? I dated Dwight for months, and he and Jim only lied about dating for a week. How much could he possibly know? Surely–” she turned back around towards him, smile growing and eyes narrowing– “not as much as I do.”

“Prove it?” Hetta asked.

“Prove it. Unless–” she flashed an arrogant smile at Jim– “You want to admit that you’re just lying. Again.”

Jim felt himself straighten, filled with something he couldn’t name at first. As he thought, he realized it was confidence. He thought of the ancient volume of Schrute history that still sits on the table next to his bed at home, and all the sticky notes and margin doodles that accompanied it. Slowly, he started to smile. “You’re saying you want to– what, quiz me?”

Angela crossed her arms. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

He had to keep himself from laughing. There was a familiar butterfly flapping around in his stomach–one that he felt right before a prank executed itself perfectly. But for some reason, it felt even better this time. Mostly because it wasn’t going to be at Dwight’s expense, but Angela’s. Oh, how the mighty fall. “Okay,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back, suddenly calm, turning to Hetta. “Ask me anything.”

Another quirked eyebrow. “Anything?” she asked. Jim nodded.

“Anything.”

There was a hanging pause as Angela and Jim stood face to face, one challenging the other. The air was dense and hot. Jim was waiting. Then, very casually, he turned to Hetta, smiling a very PR-like smile.

“Let’s start simple,” said Hetta, settling into her chair, looking for all the world like she had just come home from work and was sitting in front of the TV, watching her soap operas, letting her feet rest. She gestured around the room. “When was Schrute farms founded?”

Jim didn’t even have to think about it, and blurted out the answer before Angela could even open her mouth. “1734.” He could feel her glare, even though he wasn’t looking at her. He was stealing glances at Dwight though, who was looking back and forth from Hetta to Jim, over and over. He tried to smile at Dwight in a way that he hoped would tell him I’ve got this, don’t worry.

Hetta didn’t look impressed. Surely, to her, that question was child’s play. She thought for a mere moment more before asking, “Who was the person who turned us into a beet selling family?”

Jim paused ever so slightly, and in that pause Angela tried to answer. In his mind, he could see the both of them standing in front of podiums with big red buttons on them, a la Family Feud. He saw her raising her arm above her head and proudly slamming her palm on the button.

“That would be Denlin Schrute, in 1746,” she said, finishing off with an arrogant tilt of her head.

Jim felt a sting. She was right. He shook his head slightly, trying to ignore it.

Hetta scoffed under her breath, something of a smirk sneaking onto her face. “Okay,” she said. “And uh…when was the battle of schrute farms?”

Before Jim could answer, Angela cut in, saying, “1861.” She looked confident as ever, but faltered when Hetta’s head titled in such a way that let her know she was, in fact, not correct.

Jim knew this, and couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as he said, “That’s a trick question. The battle of schrute farms never happened.”

“What?” Angela said.

“The battle of schrute farms was a cover name for it. While it was in 1861, it wasn’t a battle. It was a cover for the farm being a safe haven for soldiers who abandoned the war in the North.”

They both looked at Hetta. She smirked in Jim’s direction. “Clever boy,” she said. “All right, no more messing around.” She leaned forward, eyes trained on him with a fierceness he hadn’t yet been familiar with. “When did my husband inherit the farm?”

Jim smiled. “1952.” Easy one.

Angela tried to interrupt. “Excuse me–”

Before she could get far, Hetta wielded her iron forefinger towards her, and, miraculously, she quieted. Hetta’s eyes never left Jim’s, and he found himself meeting her gaze with aject confidence. Hetta seemed to notice, and decided to take that arrogance and run. She said, smiling, “What does Schrute farms sell?”

“Beets, hemp, goat cheese, and goat meat.”

“How long was the Great Beet Depression?”

“3 years, from 1855 to 1858.”

“Who brought us out of that depression?”

“Dwight’s great grandfather.”

“Who’s name is?”

“Dwigd Schrood.”

“Who married?”

“Catherine Baker.”

“Who came from a family of?”

“Bakers.”

Hetta muttered, “Well, that one was pretty self explanatory.” She straightened. “What year did Dwight inherit this farm?”

Jim looked at him, face alight. “1994.”

“Do you really care about my son?”

He felt his breath catch in his throat, and he snapped his head towards Hetta, who was looking at him with intensity. There wasn’t so much as a half smile tugging at her lips. She was asking this question with absolute seriousness. She waited patiently, leaning back into the rocking chair, uncrossing her leg, folding her hands over her stomach. She watched his face, searching for an answer. For the truth.

And Jim, finally, was happy to be telling the truth. A small spot of hope started kicking around at the bottom of his stomach, and he tried to catch it, water it, let it blossom as he spoke. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I do.” He took a step backwards and grabbed Dwight’s hand, wishing silently that he wouldn’t notice the clamminess of his palms. Still, he meant every word. “I care about your son.”

Angela huffed. “You do?”

Hetta softened. “You do?”

Jim strengthened his grip on Dwight’s hand. They shared a long, searching look. He hoped that Dwight believed him when he said, with all the honesty in the world, “I do.”

Then he turned, grabbing his other hand, and he leaned in again. This time, their kiss felt better. It felt real. It felt like they both meant it. There was no panic, there was no anxiety, there was no I hope this is convincing behind it. It felt perfect.

Pulling away, and looking right into Dwight’s eyes, he said, one more time, quiet enough that only Dwight could hear: “I do.”

Chapter Text

September 16th, 2008.

The building stood square and short and gray, as it always had, blocking the view of the almost risen sun, as it always did. Dwight walked into work with purpose, his briefcase gripped in his hand deliberately as he stepped through the elevator doors, not letting it touch either side of the frame, lest he let it scuff. As he turned around and the doors started to creak and slide closed, he adjusted his tie with his free hand, and patted down some stray hairs just to be safe. He checked his watch. 2 minutes till 9. Perfect. He’d be exactly on time, as he always was. He hoped with a fleeting thought that this new recruit–what was his name again…Jim–was also just as punctual.

Suddenly, a hand came between the two sliding doors just as they were about to clamp shut. The hand wrapped its fingers around one of the doors and pushed a little until the sensor (thankfully) kicked in and the doors slid open. Into frame came someone Dwight had never seen before. They looked like they had rushed through the morning–tie loose around the neck, jacket haphazardly thrown on, crooked and wrinkled, a corner of paper sticking out of their satchel.

“Hey, sorry man,” the man said, “I just don’t want to be late.” They edged into the elevator and stood in the opposite corner to Dwight after pressing a button for the 3rd floor.

He examined the person up and down, not replying, just nodding in acknowledgement. For some reason, Dwight felt unable to speak. There was something in his throat as he looked at this man, feeling a hot sting at the bottom of his stomach.

The man was tall. Almost as tall as he was, but not quite. That was rare. Usually, Dwight towered over his coworkers by at least a couple inches, and in some cases, a couple feet. So it caught his eye, and he found himself unable to look away.

All in all, the man looked…dorky. His hair was chopped short, with gel in it like he was trying to style it but gave up halfway through and was left with no more time to wash the gel out. He had hazel eyes–a first for Dwight, who was suddenly embarrassed of his faded, almost gray blue, though, he wasn’t sure why. The man also had a very toothy smile, with a gap between the two front teeth in a way that made it seem like he had gone from 10 years old straight to 30 without any growing period–he had simply been shoved into an adult body. He had dimples. Dwight liked that.

There was something about this man that made Dwight want to get out of this elevator. Not for any threat—everything that this person was, he definitely was not intimidating. He was anything but. Really, it was the fear that, if Dwight were to say something, he would simply embarrass himself. He was for some reason extremely aware of how he appeared to this person, and wanted to make a good impression despite not really needing to. Dwight fixed wrinkles that weren’t there, shifted his briefcase from hand to hand, and tried to adjust his glasses; they seemed to keep sliding down his nose. Was he sweating? He wiped a hand across his forehead and looked at his palm. Dry. He felt like he was sweating, and stepped away, lest this person be able to smell it. Why didn’t he want this person to know he might be sweating? Why did he care?

After a moment, the elevator stuttered past the second floor, and Dwight noticed that the man was looking at him with a strange face, and he realized that he’d been staring at him the entire time. Dwight forced his gaze towards the ground, and shook himself back into reality. “Sorry,” he muttered before catching himself. He extended his hand, looking back up, “Dwight Schrute,” he said. “Dunder Mifflin, salesman.”

The man looked at his hand for a second, then shifted his satchel to his other shoulder before taking it. “Uh, Jim Halpert, also Dunder Mifflin, salesman. As of today.”

Dwight felt a twinge of…something when Jim took his hand, and he tried to pull away quickly. So this was the new one, huh? Of course, it had to be him. He took a deep breath and nodded, saying, “Nice to meet you. I heard you’d be joining us today.”

Jim smiled in that toothy way, and Dwight had to turn away again. Was this elevator broken? Hurry up! He needed out of here. There was a heat in here, and he pulled at his collar, not knowing if it was actually there or if it was just him.

Finally, the doors opened on their floor, and Dwight was the first out, silently leading Jim to the office, holding the door open for him once they arrived. When Jim said thank you, he all but melted, tightening his grip on his case until his knuckles were white. Once Jim was inside, he walked up to Pam and announced that he was here as ‘the newbie’ (exact quote). She smiled amicably, and paged Michael through the phone. Dwight watched him tapping the counter absentmindedly as he looked around, taking in the office in all its bland, stale glory. Dwight swallowed, idling by the counter next to him, not quite wanting to go to his desk yet.

Micheal came bounding out of his office, beaming, arms open. He walked up to Jim and extended a firm hand. Jim took it, trying to play off the fervent handshake nonchalantly. “James. Halpert,” Michael said, over enunciating each word.

“Jim is fine,” Jim replied with a smile. “You must be Mr. Scott.”

“Jim,” repeated Michael. “Jimbo, Jimbob, Jimmy bob. Call me Micheal. Or Mike." He winked. "Welcome here to our little…” he gestured around the office. No one returned a smile. “Our little family here. We are glad to have you, aren’t we, everyone?”

The only person who even bothered to look up was Stanley, who gave a solemn nod before going back to his monitor, completely unbothered.

Michael turned. “I see you’ve met my little protege here,” he said of Dwight, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “My right hand man, Dwight Schrute.”

Jim nodded, a good natured smile across his face. “Yeah, we caught each other in the elevator.”

Michael then gestured to Pam, and she gave a small wave. “Our receptionist extraordinaire, Pam Beesly. And over here, we have Meridith, Supplier Relations expert.” Meridith smiled, eyeing Jim up and down. Micheal took Jim by the shoulder and led him around the office, introducing him to every single person, one by one. They all gave noncommittal, half hearted greetings, and slowly, Dwight made his way over to his desk. He stole a glance at Pam on the way, whose eyes were fixed on Jim the whole time. He wondered if she felt the same as he did right now. When he saw her start to try and fix her hair, which she never usually bothered to do at work, he figured (with a sadness) that she probably did.

Dwight set his case on his desk, easing down into his seat, trying to peek around the pillar to see if they were coming back. Once they turned around from the cluster of accountants in the corner, he tried to open his briefcase and look casual. Micheal led Jim back to Dwight’s desk.

“Aaaaand, right back where we started,” he said, looking between Jim and Dwight. “So–”

Michael started to say something, then stopped himself, eyes lighting up with delight. “We need a picture!” he said. He turned around and rushed back into his office, fiddling around in his desk for a few seconds before producing a gnarly looking digital camera. It was beaten up, but clearly still working, as Micheal pointed it at himself and tried to focus the lens, accidentally snapping a picture in the process. He seemed unphased, walking it back into the bullpen. “I’ve got pictures of all the new sales people when they show up. It’s a little tradition of mine. Dwight, stand up.”

“What, you want me in the picture?”

Micheal gestured with his free hand, aiming the camera with the other. “Get up, get up, come on, scooch in Jim.”

Jim looked like he didn't know what to do, but side stepped toward Dwight anyway, half chuckling. "This good?" he asked.

Michael hiked up his knee onto the desk–did Dwight hear his pants rip?--and he rested his arm on that propped knee, aiming the camera at the both of them. "My new unstoppable duo," he said, closing one eye as he aimed. "My new sales pitch team–you'll both be great together. Smile!"

Before Dwight could gather himself enough to smile, he was caught short at the word duo. So…they'd be working together? He was about to ask when the flash of the camera went off and Michael stood up straight, admiring the surely horrible picture. Dwight could see it now: he was probably looking dead faced at the camera, with Jim smiling dorkily next to him. But alas, Michael wanted only to capture 'the true feel of this exact moment' (exact quote…again). So there would be no do-overs. He stuffed the camera in his pants pocket before clapping again, looking at Jim, who was clearly flustered and ready to simply start the day without all this fanfare.

"Okay," said Michael, "where does Jimbob want to sit?"

Jim faltered for a few moments, tripping over his words before getting out, “Uh, I mean, I saw some..seats back there in the annex–” he pointed– “I could sit back there if there’s space.”

Michael looked where he pointed, grimace clear on his face. “Yeah, well, we have two folks back there. We have the devil–I mean, Toby, our HR…representative.” He shook his head, as if trying to shake off the disease that came with saying Toby’s name out loud. “And our lovely customer service representative, Miss Kelly Kapoor, so, if you wanted to sit back there, you could.”

Jim looked back towards the annex, then back at Dwight, flashing another good natured smile. He still seemed nervous, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. “Sure, yeah, I can sit back there.” He started to adjust his jacket and satchel, preparing to make his way back.

But it was then that Dwight felt a burst of courage, and he blurted out without thinking, “Why not sit here?” He was pointing to the empty desk sitting adjacent to his own. “It’s empty.”

“Well I just remembered you said you prefer to work alone, Dwight. Mr. Macho, Mr. Incredible, huh?” Michael nudged him and Dwight tried to play it off.

“Eh, well, that was when we didn’t have an extra salesman. He can–he can sit here.” Dwight turned to Jim. “You can sit here.”

Jim smiled. Dwight had to look away at that point.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “I don’t wanna, you know, intrude on your space.”

“It’s fine. You can– I- yes, it’s fine. I want you to sit here.”

Upon saying this, Dwight immediately wished to toss himself out of Michael’s office window. Not only did he actually think that, but he actually said that, out loud? He fought the instinct to let his head fall into his hands. He caught Michael giving him a strange, knowing look, smirk on his face.

“Oh yeah?” he said, nudging again. “You want him to sit here?”

Dwight looked back up at Jim, who was looking at him earnestly. It was clear he really didn’t want to be a bother, and was honest about sitting back in the annex if Dwight was serious about needing his own space to work. For a moment, just to avoid the embarrassment, he almost wanted to say nevermind, I do want to work alone, you can go sit next to Toby. But then he heard Michael’s voice saying duo, team echoing in his head.

Michael pulled out the chair of the desk that Dwight had pointed to and was gesturing for Jim to sit. “You want him to sit here Dwight?” he repeated. This was his last chance to say no--his tone was clear.

Dwight looked at Jim, then at Michael, then back at Jim. Despite himself, he managed a smile. Maybe this would work out. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

— — — — — — —

In the two seconds that passed between them, as they stood there, faces inches apart, Dwight remembered that first day in its entirety, as if he was experiencing it all over again in a single flash. All that time ago…he thought those feelings had long but faded.

But this week– no, this very moment confirmed that they had simply never gone away. They had always been there, even through Angela, even through the annoyance and the pranks and the hate and the everything else. Just waiting, dormant, to resurface. And resurface they had, stronger than ever.

Once again, he noticed that his mother and Angela were staring at him. This time, however, it did not feel like he'd been caught doing something wrong, and so he did not feel that same sting of shame he felt before. Instead, he felt a little more steadied, and this time reached down to grab Jim's hand out of pure want, not just necessity. Not out of some need to impress or fool. No, that ship had long sailed away. And he was, for once, glad he was no longer on it.

Dwight took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "Mother," he said, "I want to apologize for lying to you."

"So you admit it too," Angela interjected, crossing her arms in self satisfaction.

Dwight nodded, though not in her direction. "I do. And I'm sorry. Take the farm if you must. Take the oats, take it all." His grip on Jim's hand tightened. "I don't want to lie about it any more."

There was a thick, heavy silence in the air as Hetta and Dwight seemed to have some kind of eye contact showdown. He tried to keep his confidence, standing there as straight as he could, just hoping he actually believed her. Though, given the circumstances, he wasn’t entirely sure if she would. And he wasn’t entirely sure if he would blame her.

In that silence however, Hetta Schrute seemed to unravel. Not all at once. In slow, almost unnoticeable increments. Her head loosened its iron grip on her neck, and she tilted it, as if in thought. Then she settled back further into her chair, shoulders slouching forward ever so slightly, as if she were actually relaxing. That was the word–not unraveling. Relaxing. Her feet, hovering an inch or two off the ground as if she were waiting to pounce, settled and rested on the wood floor. He noticed a stray hair having come loose out of its tight braid and buns, and Hetta did not bother to fix it, despite it falling against her cheek in a way that she should have noticed. Her eyes were glossy–she really was deep in thought.

“Mrs. Schrute,” said Angela, nearing her, hands behind her back. “I truly hope that you can look in yourself and find resolve not to fall for this–”

Suddenly Hetta came back to herself, and her gaze snapped in Angela’s direction, who stumbled backwards at the suddenness of it. Her face was dark, and she raised that ever so dangerous finger. Instead of pointing it at Angela though, she pointed towards the door. “You can go,” she said, her words sludging through the silence and hanging heavy on Angela’s shoulders, pulling them down as her face fell.

“B-but, Mrs. Schrute–”

Calm and collected (and somehow more sinister), Hetta repeated again, “You can go.” Angela opened her mouth to retort, but she fell silent as Hetta shook her head, slow and deliberate. Again: “You can go.”

Angela started to turn and then stopped. Then tried to turn again, and again stopped. She did this a couple times. Hetta’s arm never dropped–her finger never wavered. She simply kept silent, her expression saying everything for her.

Eventually, Angela’s face fell neutral, and she turned around, grabbed her purse, and walked towards the door. She walked past Dwight. She walked past Jim. She walked past the kitchen where Mose was still hiding. Not a word. Not a face. She conveyed nothing, but the grip she had on her purse handle told Jim she’d probably have a lot to say at work this coming Monday. Well, that was Monday’s problem.

Angela opened the door, opened the screen door, and closed both behind her without so much as a sound. Dwight watched the front door click shut before turning back to his mother, whose arm finally fell back in her lap.

He dared to speak. “Mother?”

She shook her head at him in much the same way she just did. It was his cue to be quiet. Instead, he watched her gather herself up–she stiffened her joints again, adjusted the bolts, nailed in the nails, tightened the screws. She reached down with great effort and picked up the blanket Dwight had given her, folding it carefully, setting it on the arm of the chair. She gestured to her slippers by the door. Dwight wordlessly brought them to her and helped her put them on. His throat was burning–he was desperate to say something but forced his mouth shut. He kept it shut while she grabbed his arm and got herself to her feet. He kept it shut while she waddled over to the front door, grabbing her belongings that she had discarded there. He kept it shut while he opened the door for her, while Mose came over and held the screen, while she walked out onto the porch, while she paused and fiddled around in her clutch bag for her keys, while she found them, while she eased herself down the porch steps, while she got into her pickup truck, started the ignition, backed up, turned around, and drove off the premises of Dwight’s farm. Not once did he make a sound.

Dwight didn’t make a sound when he shut the front door either, locking both the twist lock and deadbolt. He also didn’t make a sound while walking past Jim and into the kitchen, towards the table, sitting down in the seat he would have had if this dinner had not completely fallen apart. In fact, the only sound Jim heard him make was a deep breath in, and a long, defeated exhale out as Dwight took off his glasses, set them on the table, and put his head in his hands.

Chapter Text

Neither Angela nor Dwight showed up for work that Monday.

Somehow, Angela not showing up for work made sense to Jim. For all the wrath that she had, all the anger that she carried–she was actually quite small. And not just in stature. When things were easy, success came quickly to Angela. She held it in her shoulders and when she walked about the office, in her puffy sleeves and wrinkleless skirts, she made sure they all saw it. But when things got hard, when you had to push, when everything was out on the table, Angela had a habit of…hiding. So when she failed to show up to work, Jim wasn’t surprised.

But Dwight?

________________________________________________________________

That night, Jim drove home in silence. He did not stay the night. He did not ask, and Dwight did not offer. Because as Jim stood there, watching Dwight try to control his breathing at the dinner table, he figured the offer was no longer extended. After a couple minutes, Mose emerged from his hiding places and gestured for Jim that it would be best to go. All the while, Dwight didn’t make a sound. Or a motion. It was like he’d been turned to stone. Jim watched his glasses slip down his ears, waiting for Dwight to adjust them. But he didn’t. He just sat there.

After turning out of Dwight’s driveway, watching the sun starting to disappear below the horizon the empty corn fields created, Jim felt his stomach grumble. He glanced at the dish sitting in his passenger seat, lilting back and forth with the shaking of the car on the gravel road. He heard the legs of lamb sloshing around in the sauce. He swallowed, looking at it.

Part of him was actually really excited to eat it.

____________________________________________________________________

At first, Pam was happy for Jim.

She smiled as he explained the way he admitted the lie, the truth, and his real feelings. She rubbed his shoulder and said, “That’s wonderful, Jim. I’m glad you’re being honest.”

Jim looked at her. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad? What did I say before?” She leaned her head against him, the both of them staring forward, idly watching another rerun of Friends as they talked. “I told you I wouldn’t care. I mean–” she stifled a laugh “--I personally, am prooobably not going to be dating Dwight. So, as long as this doesn’t turn into a love triangle, then it’s fine with me.”

Despite his exhaustion, even this managed to pull a smile from him. “No, no love triangles.” He paused. “Rectangle, maybe.” They chuckled. After a moment though, he could feel his smile falling. Something welled up in his chest, and he tried to push it down. “But,” he started. “That’s not, uh…the only thing that- that happened today.”

“Oh?”

__________________________________________________________________________

“Oh.”

Jim sat with his arms crossed, watching Pam pace up and down her living room floor. Her pajama pants swished with each step.

“Yeah,” Jim said. “Not pretty.”

Pam scoffed. “No kidding.”

____________________________________________________________________________

Jim spent most of that morning watching the door, waiting for Dwight to run in, say he had overslept, or his car broke down, or Mose got eaten by that goat in their barn. Some kind of reason, no matter how stupid it was–for him to end up showing to work. But he didn’t. Jim and Pam exchanged knowing, worried glances throughout the morning, and by the time the clock ticked past 1pm, and Jim stood up to go take his break, Dwight still wasn’t there.

He took a deep breath and let it out in one slow, defeated huff before turning and making his way towards the kitchen. Once inside, blinds shut, Jim slid out his phone and looked at Dwight’s contact. He went to press call more than once, but kept hesitating. Not only had Dwight not shown up today, he also hasn't called nor texted Jim over the weekend. Jim wanted to reach out, but he figured he should give Dwight his space.

Now though, he pushed through his hesitation and dialed Dwight’s number.

It rang a few times before it clicked and Dwight’s voice came through on the other line. Relief washed over Jim, and he couldn’t help a small smile. “Jim,” Dwight said. His voice was ragged. Like he hadn’t talked for days. Jim imagined that perhaps he had never left the dinner table, and had simply been sitting there with his head down all weekend. Maybe he had. “Hello.”

Jim cleared his throat. “Hey Dwight. Uh…” It occurred to him that he didn’t think of what to say should Dwight actually pick up. He scrambled for something. “Where are you?”

There was a moment of silence on the other line. Dwight replied flatly: “The farm.”

“Oh, you’re at home?”

“No,” Dwight replied. His voice shook. Had he been crying? “I’m at the farm.”

Jim’s brows furrowed. “Isn’t…that–”

“It’s not.” Dwight took a deep breath, and he let it out all at once, like saying the words caused him physical pain. “Not anymore. Mother’s selling the farm.”

Jim almost dropped the phone. “What?”

More silence. Perhaps Dwight had been crying. Though Jim had never actually seen him cry, he was pretty sure that, if anything could make him, it would be this. Maybe he’d cried himself out over the weekend, because Dwight replied, again quite flatly, “I broke tradition. It’s what has to happen.”

“Wh-- well--” Jim tried to find his words. “Well then who’s it going to go to?”

He could almost see Dwight shrugging on the other line. “Highest bidder.”

Jim tried to come up with something to say. Some kind of reply, consolation, words of comfort. As the pit fell in his stomach, he knew this was, in a roundabout way, his fault. And he came up speechless. Dwight waited on the other line, quiet, almost expectant. Waiting for Jim to admit it? An apology maybe? Some kind of acquiescence of guilt?

As he tried to form the words, Jim ended up spewing out a combination of the three. “Dwight, I– I’m so sorry. This is–this is all my fault, I- I don’t even know what to say, I’m– so sorry.”

Again, there was silence on the other line. Jim felt his heart rate quicken and his face go hot, and he suddenly hoped that Dwight wasn’t going to be mad at him. He’d never felt that kind of desperation towards him before—a please, please don’t tell me that you hate me now kind of desperation, a don't tell me that we can’t fix this, that we can’t….can’t…

Be together?

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose, a sigh escaping him. I’m just pathetic, aren’t I?

Finally, Dwight pushed out a response. “It's not your fault, Jim. I dragged you into it. I didn’t mean to..put so much on your shoulders.” A pause. “You did what you could do.” There was shifting on the other line. Jim got the image that Dwight was switching his phone from one ear to the other. “Mother’s thinking it will be sold by the end of the week,” Dwight continued. “My brother’s helped her put it on something called ‘Zillow’. So…there’s probably already bids on it.”

Again, Jim came up empty on what to say. He searched for a response, and he couldn't find one.

Dwight said, “I just wanted to say thank you, Jim. I appreciate your time, and your…” he hesitated. “Your…you. So. Yeah. I’ll uh…. I’ll be in tomorrow, so, let Michael know for me, if you could.”

Jim nodded. “For sure, man. Of- of course.”

“Thank you. I’ll– I’ll talk later.”

Without another word, Dwight hung up the phone, and Jim was left standing, quite pathetically, in the kitchen. Alone.

For a few seconds, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He looked around, hoping some type of answer would pop out of the walls and tell him what to do. Of course, nothing did. Just the same bland paint and bland pictures sitting in contrast against the bland fridge and bland table. He sighed again.

All this. All the sneaking, talking, lying, staging—all of it for nothing? Sure, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to lie to Dwight’s mother. Or at all, for that matter. And maybe it shouldn’t have taken an entire week of forced activities with just the two of them to realize that Jim might not only be not entirely straight (in fact, most definitely not), but that he liked both Pam and Dwight in the same exact way. And maybe Jim wasn’t the hugest fan of Dwight’s manure covered, limited electricity-having, beet infested farm. But that didn’t mean a part of him didn’t feel a sting at the thought of Dwight losing it forever. Over something that…wasn’t really his fault.

Okay, well, putting Angela’s cat in the freezer was most definitely his fault. But that stupid tradition wasn’t. It wasn’t like he asked to be subjected to 300 years of old, outdated, mostly German customs. And now, all that’s led to…this. Dwight and Jim making absolute fools of themselves while Dwight’s mother sells his most prized possession on Zillow–

Wait.

Zillow.

Jim zoomed out of the kitchen and to his desk, flying into his chair so fast that it wheeled across the floor and bumped into reception. He had to scoot himself back to his computer. When he did, he felt his face go hot as he typed Zillow into google and clicked the first link, taking him to the homepage of a modern-ish looking housing website. His heart raced as he tried desperately to remember the crazy directions towards Dwight’s house, mumbling to himself, “Past the beehive, watch for bear tracks….leer right once you see the abandoned cornfield.”

Pam was watching him with a curious look, hands poised a few inches above her keyboard. “Hey there Jim,” she said, voice measured. “What’s going on there?”

Jim didn’t respond, just gave a mild grunt. It wasn’t like he could tell Pam what he was planning to do. The money he'd been saving for the house was something he'd kept secret from Pam for quite a while now. So spilling his plan to her wasn't much of an option.

"Jim?"

He looked at her, and she had an eyebrow raised. He realized that he was smiling, and he forced his face into a neutral frown. He shook his head, and put his hand over his face while he focused on his computer screen. "No, no," he said, performing a few superlative clicks with his mouse. "Just…got a good lead."

"Oh?" said Pam. She resumed typing, clearly trying to hide her suspicion. "For where?"

He tried to come up with something, and blurted out, "Uh. Zillow." He hadn't realized that he said that out loud until he saw that he'd typed Zillow in the search bar and clicked open the website. His eyes darted over at Pam. Did she catch that?

Pam paused for a second. She seemed to be searching in his face for the truth. Whether she couldn't find it, or she did and just didn't want to say anything, she hummed and turned back to her computer. "Good get," she said simply. She picked up her phone to make a call. "Good luck."

Jim offered a good natured smile. "Thanks," he said, clicking around on the site. He tried his best to remember Dwight's address, since Dwight was so insistent that his half baked directions would be sufficient enough to get there. He drove the roads in his mind, trying to keep track of this turn and that stop sign, this ditch and that wheat field. Eventually, he remembered the address and typed it in.

There it was. Dwight's farm, up for sale. A long, fanciful description of the property sat at the bottom, along with a price range for bids. It was…a lot, to say the least. But it was a farm after all, and a well maintained one. So the cost wasn't super surprising. Jim was almost sure he could match it, maybe even throw in some more on top just to be extra convincing. He hoped, at least.

Contact seller for bid. Cash only. Up front, the web page said, followed by a phone number. Huh. Jim guessed Hetta Schrute wasn't one for a ton of paperwork. Fine enough for his purposes.

Slowly, as inconspicuously as he could, he picked up his work phone and dialed the number. He watched Pam to make sure she wasn't paying attention. Thankfully, she seemed to be neck deep in a rowdy customer, so she was focused on her screen as she spoke. Jim dialed the number and waited as it rang. It rang one, two, three times before someone picked up. A gruff, no-nonsense voice he recognized. Only now it came through like it was under water and going through a thousand year old phone line.

"Hetta Schrute. Who is this?"

Jim took a deep breath, and assumed his best sales pitch voice. "Hey Mrs, Schrute, this is Jim. Listen." He cleared his throat. On a wing and a prayer. "I have a proposition for you."

Chapter Text

His bedroom was bigger than he thought.

To be fair, it had been a while since Dwight moved into this farm. Once you live someplace for some time, you start to forget just how much room a person can take up. How many things can occupy the nooks and crannies of a space. And being that this was a 300 year old farm that used to double as a hideaway for runaway soldiers (as much as that fact pained Dwight), it was safe to say that there was quite an abundance of nooks and crannies to occupy. And Dwight had occupied nearly every single one of them. So by the time he'd actually pulled himself together enough to start packing his things, it had taken him an entire afternoon just to pack his bedroom up. He had been moving as fast as he could, too–any time he stopped long enough to think about what he was actually doing, he couldn't be trusted not to throw himself out of the nearest window. So he stayed busy. That way, he didn't have to think of Mother, and the farm, and who would milk Garth during the winters, and–

Dwight shook his head clear. Stop thinking about it. He picked up another box.

Mose was currently downstairs, dutifully wrapping up their important German cutlery and dishes, which left Dwight upstairs and alone to try and conquer the never ending accumulation of stuff that seemed to materialize out of every crack in the wall.

He was kneeling down, one knee on the hardwood, leaning over and digging through an old milk crate. He sifted through old papers and small knick knacks he'd long since forgotten about: a few euros, some (used?) chewing tobacco he inherited from his great uncle, an unfinished miniature Battlestar Galactica spaceship model made out of clay, was that just….a handful of nails? And at the bottom, a stack of paperwork dated September, 2002. His onboarding paperwork for Dunder Mifflin.

He sighed, tossing the stapled bunch back into the crate. Passively, he thought of Jim. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

This is- this is all my fault.

Jim's words echoed inside Dwight's head, and he felt a pang of guilt poking around inside his stomach. Ugh. At the time, Dwight was just so exhausted from that weekend. The morose, saddened storing and refrigerating what they would have consumed at dinner. The awkward, quiet leftover eating the days after. The short, cold phone call with his mother. The somber trip to the store to get a metric ton of cardboard boxes to pack his things.

All this…and Jim felt like it was his fault? Had he really made Jim feel that way? Dwight leaned back and sat on the floor, one leg straight out as he became lost in thought.

If anything, this entire thing was Dwight's fault. As much as it stung, he knew it was true. It was him that pushed his mother's dinner offer off to begin with. It was his fault to pull a coworker into it. It was his fault to be foolish enough to think that his lie could be believed. That Angela wouldn't try to intervene. That he'd actually get away with it.

Not Sparkles though. Sprinkles? Sparkles. That, he still felt justified. Hm. Maybe that was the problem, he thought. Dwight groaned, and his head fell into his hands.

"'All my fault'," he repeated shrewdly. He sighed. "No Jim, it's all mine."

Time seemed to slip away from him again. It had made a habit of doing so this entire weekend. Things went too fast or too slow, days passing in a hazy fog as he tried uselessly to accept that he was losing his home. It felt so surreal. In the back (oh let's be real here, in the front) of his mind, he knew this was an inevitable possibility the entire time. But still. To be here, to actually be living it? It didn't feel real. He put his palms flat against the hardwood, trying to steady himself. He picked at the flaking splinter of wood that he knew was there without even looking, and when Dwight realized this, he cussed into the air. He had memorized every inch of this place. And now. What? He had to start all over?

He took off his glasses and rubbed his face.

Dwight wasn't sure how much time passed as he sat there, trying to gather himself, before he heard shuffling and creaking coming up the stairs. He put his glasses back on to see who it was.

Mose was standing there, half in the doorway of the bedroom and half out, hand wrapped around the doorframe. He was staring at Dwight.

Dwight waited for him to say something. When he didn't, he stood up and said, "What is it?"

Mose paused, looking at the ground. He then looked back up, turned his head to look at something behind him, and stepped away. Dwight tilted his head, confused, until Jim appeared and filled the space that Mose had previously been occupying. Dwight's heart skipped a beat despite himself.

"Jim," he said. For some reason he couldn't say much else.

Jim was standing there, hands behind his back, smiling. In that same mischievous, arrogant way he so often did. It annoyed Dwight and endeared him at the same time. He looked around his room, at the empty and full boxes, rolls of bubble wrap, and rubber banded posters. Then he looked back at Jim. “What are you doing here?” he finally asked.

Jim waited a moment before shrugging. He stepped forward into Dwight’s room and meandered through his piles of packed things, hands still behind his back. He neared Dwight’s bed and stood next to it, looking down at the bare mattress. Only a crumpled quilt and caseless pillow remained. “I figured you might need some help packing.”

Dwight looked around at his mostly packed room. A little late there, ey Jim? He didn't say this out loud though. He probably could use some help packing up the rest of the house. There were still the bathrooms, guest rooms, living room, outhouse, closets, hallways, storage sheds…basically the entire farm. He'd only started packing this morning. He probably should've started days ago, when he got the initial phone call from Mother, but he didn't have it in him.

"The rest of the house, probably," he said. "But I'm about done in here."

Jim nodded. "Ah." He took a few more wandering steps before looking at and leaning down towards a box. He read the label aloud: "Nightstand," he said. He nodded again, opening the flaps of the box and looking inside. He examined the contents the way one would puppies in a pet store–each with consideration, but all with an underlying twinge of amusement. "Nice stuff in here." He picked up one of Dwight's nightstand trinkets–a small figurine he'd commissioned years ago of an old DnD character of his–and turned it around in his hands. He held it up to the light for a few moments, before smiling and setting it on Dwight's empty nightstand.

Dwight furrowed his brows.

Jim reached into the box again and pulled out Dwight's nightstand lamp, which he'd wrapped up with bubble wrap only hours earlier. Dwight watched Jim unwrap it, all with that same smirk, and set it, too, on the nightstand. He reached down and plugged it in, clicking it on. When the dim light filled the room, Jim smiled, turning to Dwight. "Nice lamp," he said.

"Uhh…" Dwight walked over to Jim, who was again reaching into the box and pulling another one of his things out, setting on the nightstand. "Jim," Dwight said. "What are you doing?"

Jim looked at him. "Oh. Helping." He turned back to Dwight's nightstand box and continued unpacking things. Nonchalantly, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Dwight without looking. "Here," he said.

Dwight, now extremely confused, looked down at the envelope. It was brand new, un-stamped and unlabeled, only the slightest bit wrinkled after having been in Jim's pocket. He opened it and pulled out a yellowing, almost degenerating piece of paper. It looked familiar, though looked to be years old. He unfolded it and looked at it. And once he did, his heart basically stopped in his chest.

It was the deed to his farm.

Dwight's head snapped up to look at Jim, who was now standing straight up, arms crossed, smiling. He tilted his head. "Did I say pack?" He said. "I meant unpack."

Dwight felt like he could scarcely breathe. He gripped the edges of the deed, feeling it between his fingers, holding it like it was the edge of a cliff. "I don't understand." He felt his knees wobble a little, and he made his way towards the mattress, sitting down, looking up at him.

Jim put his hands in his pockets. He was ever so slightly rolling on the balls of his heels. Almost like he was nervous. "So you remember, way back when, uh, when Andy–" Jim's face twisted up in a grimace for a second as he recalled, "--told all you guys, yknow, Toby, Phyllis; about the money I was saving to buy a house for me and Pam?"

Slowly, Dwight remembered. Andy had been snooping on Jim's laptop. Even back then, he thought Andy was a dolt for that. He nodded. "Yes," he said.

"Well, I've been looking on Zillow, and I actually had uh, found the perfect spot. Rural, quiet, surrounded by around 60 acres of wheat. The works." Jim pretend-cleared his throat. "So I bought it."

Dwight looked down at the deed. It still had his name on it. He figured that, over the weekend, his brother had already made a blank copy already. Maybe they hadn't gotten to it in time.

"And then when I actually got here," Jim continued, "I noticed it was a beet farm. And I'm like, 'I thought you said this was surrounded by a wheat farm. Pam has specifically requested wheat.'"

Despite himself, Dwight chuckled before Jim continued.

"And the guy who sold it to me threw his hands up and said 'hey buddy, you bought it now. If you don't like it you better sell it to the next guy that likes beets'. And that got me thinking–"

"Jim."

"--well, I can't get my money back from that guy, but maybe I can sell it to someone that I know loves farming beets."

"Jim."

"And so I came here to ask if you happened to be in the market for a 60 acre beet farm."

Dwight pushed himself off the bed so fast he got dizzy. He grabbed either of Jim's shoulders, the deed still clutched in his right hand. "Jim!" He yelled. "You bought my farm? You b…" he was all at once breathless, feeling a grin spreading across his face. "How?"

Jim finally seemed to break character. His face noticeably softened, and he took his hands out of his pockets and started to fiddle with his thumbs. He breathed out a long breath. "I talked to your mom. I know that she's kind of…" he hesitated.

"Terrifying?"

"Your words. But she didn't want to break your family's tradition. But with me buying the farm, instead of her just letting you keep it? That keeps everything straight for the Beet Gods that granted your family its power."

"Jim," Dwight said sternly.

Jim put his hands up in surrender. "I'm just saying. It's a win-win all around."

Dwight looked at Jim for a second–studying his face for any tell that would giveaway this whole thing being one big bit. But he found nothing. Jim was telling the truth. Dwight looked at him, then around his bedroom and all of his life stuffed into cardboard boxes, for what he thought would be forever. He looked down at the deed, yellowing and old and frayed and smudged.

And his.

Without another word, Dwight threw his arms around Jim, now laughing–no, almost cackling–into his shoulder. In fact, he was sure he had tears forming, but he didn't care. For once this entire weekend, they were tears of joy. Jim hugged him back, and they stood there for a second, just holding each other in a calm, almost victorious silence.

"Jim," Dwight said, "how can I even repay you?"

Jim straightened, and they pulled away from each other. "Oh, yeah, with money." He pointed at the deed. "This place isn't cheap. My savings account is essentially zero."

"Oh my God, of course." Dwight started to fold up the deed and slide it into his pocket. "I'll pay whatever you paid. I wouldn't ever ask–and it's not like I didn't try to buy it from Mother already, I know I have the money–but thank you. So much."

Neither of them spoke for a second. For a second, it was just the two of them. In the bedroom, in the house, in the state, country, the entire world. Everything else faded. The trials of this week, Angela's sabotage, Mother's stern voice and temper and basically everything–none of it mattered. All that mattered was the two of them, standing here, right now. That after all this, all that, all everything, Dwight could keep his farm. He…won. He won.

They won.

After a moment, Dwight broke out into a grin, breathless. He threw his arms around Jim and held him as tight as he could. Jim hugged back, and suddenly everything about the two of them fell into place. Jim's head on Dwight's shoulder, his arms above Jim's shoulders, Jim's arms below, the way their heights made them scientifically, statistically perfect to hold one another. For the first time this entire week, both of them took one deep, simultaneous, free breath.

When they pulled away, Jim leaned back in, and they shared a kiss. No audience, no lying, no show. Just the two of them in Dwight's half packed bedroom. Simple. True. Soft.

"Thank you," Dwight said again when they finally pulled apart. "For everything."

Jim reached up and swiped a piece of fuzz off of Dwight's glasses with his thumb. "Don't mention it." He paused. "And thank Pam, too. She…" he trailed off. Truly, if it wasn't for her, Jim probably would never have said yes to this whole thing. Never would have admitted his feelings let alone label what they actually were. And he certainly wouldn't have shilled out thousands of dollars. His chest swelled at the thought of her. "She helped, too."

Dwight nodded, resolute. "Of course."

They sat on Dwight's bed for a couple minutes, just talking things over. Then slowly, they got up and Jim wordlessly started helping him unpack his things. Once they were finally done, they went downstairs and Dwight realized that Jim hadn't told Mose about the deed, so the entire kitchen was packed up, in which they also had to spend the evening unpacking in there too.

At the end of the night, the two of them cooked dinner. As it so happened, Dwight had a stash of goat meat, because of course he did–so Jim tried his best to recreate that curried beet stew. It was, in Dwight's words, satisfactory. And Jim took that as a compliment of the highest degree. Most made a peace cobbler because, to Jim's surprise, they actually kept a peach tree on the back end of the farm. It was delicious.

By the end of dinner, the two of them sat in the living room: Dwight on one end of the couch, and Jim next to him, sipping a glass of beetroot wine, which actually tasted pretty good. They toasted each other. It was nice. It was simple.

It was just dinner.

Chapter Text

"So let me get this straight," said Pam.

She and Jim were sitting in Pam's apartment, in the living room. The TV, running an air fryer infomercial, was on the lowest volume. Only every other word from the enthusiastic host could be heard. Apparently, this air fryer was top of the line because it came with its own removable (and washable, don't forget washable) silicone lining. Should the two of them only have been spending the evening together, it would be an infomercial Jim would probably be halfway interested in since he secretly kind of wanted one. Except now, the TV took a backseat to what was currently unfolding.

Jim had his arms crossed, looking squarely at the ground. "Okay," he said, voice surprisingly small.

"You've been saving money for months without telling me. For a house that you were going to buy–without telling me. And instead of doing that, you buy Dwight's farm in some grand gesture." Pam was counting each transgression on her fingers. "Which is great. But again, without telling me."

"Yeah," was all Jim could manage.

Pam stood from the couch, hands planted firmly on her hips. "And the only thing I've ever asked of you this entire time was honesty?"

Jim could not manage more than a simple head nod.

"I'm–" Pam threw her hands up, and they fell against her sides with a defined, annoyed clap. "I'm at a loss for words Jim, honestly."

"I know." Jim stood up too and walked close to her. She pointedly avoided his eyes, but nonetheless he tried to explain. "And I'm sorry Pam, really. I should've told you about Dwight's farm."

"That's a big purchase, Jim. Big."

"I know. I'm sorry. You have the right to be upset."

"Well I am!"

"And you should be!"

Pam finally turned to look at him. Jim seized the opportunity and put his hands on her shoulders. Immediately, he could feel some of her tension start to release. "You can be as mad as you need to be, for however long. I lied to you. I kept secrets from you. And the whole time, you were the only one there to help me. I shouldn't take that for granted."

He meant every word, and they poured from him before he could stop. By the time he was done, his hands had fallen down her shoulders and run down her arms, uncrossing them and gently grabbing her hands. She grabbed them back. "I'm sorry," he said again. "It will never happen again." His eyes did not leave hers as he said this.

Pam studied him for a minute. Scrutinizing him. Sizing him up. Jim caught on, and smiled. "Plus," he said, "I will do anything to make it up to you."

A half smirk tugged at Pam's lips. "Anything?"

Jim shrugged. "No biggie, but I just came into a bunch of money–I sold a property of mine."

"Oh did you?"

"Oh yeah, now I'm basically drowning in money."

"How much money?" asked Pam. She had reached her arms up around Jim's shoulders.

"Enough for…dinner?"

"Restaurant?"

"Five star."

"A new dress?"

"Boutique."

"A new car."

Jim hesitated. Pam laughed, and fell into him. "Kidding. Just dinner." She paused. "And a new dress."

Jim embraced her, his head on hers. "Done and done," he said.