A/N: I've never written anything this short and stupid before, but it got into my head, so I thought I'd give it to you guys. Sorry for the dorky title.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I never do.


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Michael rocks a little on his shoes and leans up against the door with one hand, and the cool base of the champagne flute rests against his ear. He discovers it's considerably less effort to lean his whole body weight against the glass, with the open end against the wood of the door. He feels like a spy. He practically is.

He spots the camera and beams, raises his eyebrows suggestively and points up at the number on the door: 213.

"Room number two-thirteen," he whispers conspiratorially. "This would be the honeymoon suite. I am not a pervert." He waves his free hand around in the air and shakes his head, solidly. He's not a pervert. "No, I just gotta... Gotta keep an eye on m'boy. Makin' sure he's pleasing the --"

There's a cough and Michael spins, almost obviously dizzy, and faces the couple behind them.

Jim stares blankly at him, while Pam scrunches her nose in disgust. In Jim's hands are two bottles of water and in Pam's rest a couple of sandwiches from the hotel restaurant.

"Yikes," Michael breathes. "Oh, hey, hey you guys!" He feigns surprise. Smooth. "What are you guys up -- oh, oh! Don't tell me! Look at that." He looks at the camera with a knowing glance. "Pregnancy cravings. What did you send him down for, Pam? Pickles and... cheese or--"

"Turkey on white," Pam whimpers, almost a question as she looks up at Jim with a shadow of a smile on her face.

Michael scoffs and tries to figure out what Jim's trying to tell him, following the nod of his head. What? Oh. That.

"Sorry, didn't mean to intrude," Michael says, inching away from the door and bringing the glass to rest in both of his hands nervously. Play cool. "I was just... making sure of something. Structural, um. Well, structural business. This one's all yours."

He says the last part with some sort of twinkle in his eye, like he's touched by the idea that they are about to have sex because it's their honeymoon, and that he should know this, and that he should, for some reason, think he's a part of their marriage. Well, hold on. He is practically godfather, but he's not getting ahead of himself.

Still, he puts his palm up in a peace offering and strikes door 213 steadily twice, before motioning towards them.

Jim eyes him carefully before he nods and says genially, "Good night, Michael. Thanks for coming." He offers a smile, so that's good. Michael knows he's done good.

Pam whispers a good night, shares a look to Jim that says something funny, he's sure, but he doesn't really get it. Then they edge away to room 215, where Jim easily slides the key in, opens the door and lets them both in. He shuts the door and Michael stares up at room 213 awkwardly as it opens.

A middle-aged man in a ratty robe greets them.

"I didn't order anything," is all he says.

Michael holds the champagne flute, and his lips part as he looks at the camera, around the hallway, all over. He exhales.

"Oh, okay," he says carefully, not looking the man in the eye, but instead biting his lip and nodding. "I thought you did. Apologies."

The man is tiredly skeptical. "What did you think I ordered?"

"Nothing, nothing," Michael waves off with his hands. Well, this is awkward. "Just, that's enough," he whispers. He shrugs his shoulders as if he's offended. "People are trying to sleep around here--"

The man has already quietly clicked the door closed in his face and Michael is standing in the hallway between rooms 213 and 215 with a champagne flute in his left hand.

Room 215 opens, and it's seriously like a magic trick. Maybe this one will yield someone else. Nope, just Jim.

Jim leans against the doorway. "I'm just going to wait until I see you on the elevator."

Michael jumps. "Oh, oh! Okay, yeah, I..." He laughs outright, as if this was all a big play, and he's a doof they can make fun of together like the buddies they always have been. Should've been best man. It's a funny joke, somewhere in his head. "This thing has actually been full and then empty multiple times tonight."

Jim crosses his arms and smiles. "Yeah, don't drive."

"You got it, chief," Michael salutes, tipping the glass in his direction, before quickly making his way to the elevator in long strides. Each sweep across the carpet erases the embarrassment preceding; he knows, he's done it before, no big deal. It's a good day, I mean, seriously, it's like his son just got married. Practically.