and I can't breathe with the dust of retreat
I'm choking on the fumes of my wayward back
- Margot and the Nuclear So and So's, "A Sea Chanty of Sorts"


i.


A sob surges up her throat like bile, a dizzying tidal wave of emotion threatening to overtake the desire she’s felt since their kiss underneath the neon lights in the Chili’s parking lot. She swallows, resolute, and tries to refocus her attention on lips, hands. But the scratchy sound of fabric against fabric is maddening, and blood courses through her veins like fire. Urgently, she peels off his jacket, then her own, before stepping closer, forcing him backwards. They soon topple onto the bed, and her eyes fall shut when his hands stroke her lower back. She presses her lips harder against his.


Another surge, this time her heart and stomach lurching painfully in response, and Jan pulls her mouth away from Michael’s. Her right hand stills his from moving further underneath her blouse, where his fingers lightly graze the lining of her bra. She glances at his face as he opens his eyes lazily, mouth parted, his tongue darting out to swipe across his bottom lip. She didn’t bother to turn on the light when they came in earlier, but he still catches her staring and grins.


She’s suddenly irritated. This is a mistake, she thinks. She’s not ready for this, especially not with him, the most insufferable man she’s ever met who wasn’t already her husband - ex-husband. She meets his eyes, opens her mouth to say some version of this, but the naked desire, amazement she sees stop her. The sob she’s tried desperately to keep at bay finally breaks triumphantly from her mouth, reverberating loudly in the small room.


His smile fades. "Jan? I’m sorry, I thought - "


"No, it’s not..." and before she can brush it off and explain her eyes well up, forcing her into action. She covers her face with her hands as she rapidly shifts away from him and sits up, the alcohol she drank earlier making her head spin. She will not cry in front of him. She just needs a moment to breathe, deeply and calmly, to think of a way to get Michael out of her room. The bed creaks and dips as she feels him rise to sit next to her. When he places a hand on her shoulder, she can no longer hold back the tears or the wracking sobs that assault her body.


He says nothing for several moments, or maybe minutes or even hours; she can’t tell how much time has passed when the tears subside. Finally, with a shaky breath, she turns her head to look at him, takes in his ruffled hair and partially unbuttoned shirt before noticing his concerned expression. Feels a pang in her heart.


"Why didn’t he love me?" she chokes out, simultaneously furious at herself for being vulnerable and no longer caring.


Michael looks away from her then, and she follows his gaze across the darkened hotel room to where a mirror had been placed on the wall in front of the bed. She looks at her reflection but sees only shadows and a haze of pain surrounding her, suffocating the air. Her head is beginning to throb. She silently begs him to say something, anything, even if it is that sophomoric joke about the proctologist and the brown Probe. Anything to distract her from the self-loathing lodged in her, a parasite slowly devouring its host. What was she thinking, suggesting they go to her hotel? She wasn’t, and that’s the problem.


"It’s not your fault, Jan."


She quickly looks away from the mirror and glances in his direction. "Yes, it is. I’m the one who wanted - "


He cuts her off forcefully. "No. Listen to me. Gould is an idiot. He’s probably the worst kind of idiot, actually." He pauses, frowning, and looks thoughtful for a moment before continuing, his voice softer again, kind. "You know in Titanic when the old lady drops that huge diamond in the ocean, after like a hundred years of holding onto it? Gould’s that old lady. And you, Jan…you are the diamond."


Jan’s mouth falls open and she stares at him, processing his words. The movie? That doesn’t even make any sense - and then she remembers the ending. A sort of hysteria bubbles in her throat and before she can stop herself she’s laughing uncontrollably, falling back onto the bed and curling up on her side, gasping for air in between fits. She doesn’t remember the last time she’s laughed and it’s a welcome reprieve.


He sounds confused and a little annoyed when he asks her what’s so funny, but it only makes her laugh harder, and then he’s laughing with her, at her, unable to resist. He stretches out next to her and together they giggle like schoolchildren for so long that when they’ve finally calmed down, Michael is wiping tears from his eyes. Jan pretends not to notice, but it makes her feel better to know that technically she’s not the only person who has cried tonight. If nothing else, at least there’s that.


"Jan," he begins, his tone now serious. He reaches a hand to her face, brushes a tear away with his thumb. She holds her breath, worried he’s going to ruin the moment, bring her crashing back down to reality, where she’s just a recently divorced woman making out with, essentially, her employee - one she doesn’t even genuinely like. No matter that he is a great kisser or that, away from the cameras, he can be very sweet. She waits, her brow furrowed.


"I didn’t just spoil Titanic for you, did I?"


Jan exhales a laugh, shaking her head no. She leans over to kiss him gladly, relieved, and after a moment he rolls flat on his back, one arm behind his head. His other reaches around her to stroke her side, and she gently rests her head on his shoulder. She doesn’t want to fall asleep just yet, she decides; she wants to talk about her divorce, needs to.


She’ll deal with the consequences of spending the night with Michael Scott in the morning.