Dwight:

Michael:

***

“Isn’t it against some kind of health code?”

Jim followed Pam’s gaze and eyed Angela standing in the break room, her arms huddled close to her chest and almost completely shielding his view of a mid-sized, long-haired cat…which she seemed to be talking to and stroking lovingly. He rolled his eyes. This had been going on for about a week. Apparently the cat was sick or was getting sick or was recovering from some kind of sickness…Jim didn’t really care. The point was that Angela had this cat, and the cat had a leash that she dragged it around on, and so far nobody had complained and Toby had just looked at her, his shoulders slumping and his face drooping into a tired kind of frown. Jim thought he probably planned on using the ‘ignore it until it goes away’ tactic. Being HR in this office was difficult enough as it was.

“Actually,” Jim replied, leaning one elbow on Pam’s desk and pushing his other hand into his pocket, “it’s against my moral code, so I think I should file a formal complaint,” he confessed. Pam grinned up at him.

“Bringing a cat into work is against your moral code?” she repeated incredulously. He tipped his head to the side as if considering it and they both turned their stares back to Angela who was now shepherding the cat back to her desk by tugging on the leash delicately. The cat meowed and slinked along behind her.

“S&M is against my moral code,” he corrected, and she laughed at him with wide, surprised eyes, her mind probably already churning with the possible complaints they could file with Toby. He laughed with her and turned completely to face her, dipping his head low and trying to shield his amusement from Angela, who already claimed her cat felt the office was mocking it. He didn’t need another speech about the gentle, old souls of felines and how mistreating them would send him straight to hell. “I’m telling you that is not normal,” he promised Pam, but the rest of his joke was cut short when the door to the office swung open and the entrance way was filled with billowing trench coats, over-priced shoes, and charcoal gray business attire. Pam stared at Mulder and Scully as they pulled out their badges and then turned her wide eyes to Jim, who was watching her with smug satisfaction.

“I thought you were joking…” she whispered. He raised his eyebrows at her in victory. The entire office had gone eerily still, and the chances of one hearing a pin drop were much higher than usual, even Dwight going silent and slowly setting his phone back on its cradle, hanging up on a client mid sales call.

“I’m Special Agent Dana Scully with the FBI,” Scully began quietly, her cold blue gaze sweeping over Pam efficiently, “and this is my partner, Special Agent Mulder. We were wondering if it would be possible to talk to some of the employees here about the recent disappearances at Vance Refrigeration?” Her stare never wavered, and Jim thought Pam seemed just as nervous as he’d been downstairs, her face going pale and her knee starting to bob beneath her desk.

Mulder was surveying the entire room, taking in the lay out and the people like pieces of a puzzle. When his gaze met Jim’s he raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement. Jim decided these people were weird.

“Is there someone who’s in charge that we could talk to?” Scully wondered unenthusiastically. Pam looked to Jim in a bit of a panic and he knew exactly what she was thinking. Could they really send these two to Michael’s office to wait for him? He was in the bathroom at the moment and something just seemed wrong about letting the FBI know how completely ridiculous and inefficient their office really was. Pam swallowed.

“Uh…” she mumbled, but was saved from continuing by the approach of a very enthusiastic Dwight Shrute. He stuck his hand out toward Mulder with a stern arm.

“Dwight K. Shrute,” he announced. Mulder simply stared at him, keeping his hands in his pockets until Dwight dropped his arm in confused defeat. “I am a retired Sheriff’s Deputy and I know this office like the back of my hand, so if you are looking for the person who could most likely assist you…”

“You’re not a retired Sheriff’s Deputy,” Jim couldn’t help but interject, even with the stares of the federal government burning holes into his skull. Dwight huffed and spoke to him in blatant irritation.

“Yes. I am,” he corrected. Jim clicked his tongue and tilted his head to the side.

“No,” he responded, “You’re not. You are a volunteer rodeo clown who was fired.”

“Oh wait Jim I think you misspoke,” Pam stepped in as if they had rehearsed the conversation and Jim stifled a smile.

“I did?” he wondered, feigning confusion, and ignoring the way that the FBI was huffing out irritated and impatient sighs beside him.

“Yes, he is a volunteer sheriff’s deputy who was fired,” she told him, nodding to Dwight as if she had done him a great service. Jim hummed.

“What did I say?” he asked.

“Rodeo clown.”

“Really?” he jerked his head back in surprise and gazed down at her with a twinkle of merriment in his eye.

“Common mistake,” she told him conspiratorially. Dwight finally erupted, unable to accept the attack on his character any longer.

“Damn-it, Jim!” he exclaimed, and Scully took a step back from them, her hand lifting to scratch at her forehead in frustration. Mulder licked his lips to try to keep from smiling at the exchange and at Scully‘s reaction to it. “Do not undermine me in front of the Federal Bureau of Investigations,” he pleaded on a whisper. Jim opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by Mulder, who had received the glare of death from Scully and was moved suddenly to step in.

“Ok, who…is actually in charge, here?” he asked, tired and practiced impatience laced through his words.

“Actually?” Pam repeated, probably only to buy herself some time.

“Yes,” Mulder and Scully replied in unison. Pam glanced at Jim and sighed.

“You probably don’t want to know.”

***

***

This was the type of case that Scully labeled “Mulder’s idea of a good time.”

A semi-mysterious, borderline ridiculous, Podunk-confusion-laden mess of a case file that forced them to drive longer than she was comfortable with to a town that had less Starbucks than she usually preferred and whose patrons stared at them like they were the aliens. Yep. Definitely Mulder’s sick, twisted, masochistic idea of a good time.

If there was one thing that Scully hated more than her partner’s uncanny ability to put their lives in danger, it was small town ignorance, hysteria, and small-mindedness. And Mulder knew it. Six years of him accepting these cases despite her complaints was sort of leading her to believe that he enjoyed her irritation and impatience with the slack-jawed farmers and the overtly flirtatious farmer‘s daughters more than he let on.

Inductive reasoning, thy name is Scully.

She found herself standing stock still, her arms crossed in a purposeful show of unimpressed skepticism, her icy eyes watching with only a hint of surprise as someone named Michael Scott began a deluge of impersonations, the first being a very original take on President Richard Nixon. She felt Mulder shift uncomfortably beside her as Mr. Scott finished assuring them that he was not a crook and moved on to something that she guessed was supposed to be Will Smith’s theme song from Men In Black. He closed his routine by tossing her a crooked-mouthed order for a martini: “shaken, not stirred.” Her head turned toward Mulder subtly and she sighed, sure that if she took the effort to actually completely face him he would have a smile of ironic amusement plastered on his face.

“You’re good,” Mulder croaked to Michael, and that was all she needed to whip her head around completely. He was staring at her with twinkling eyes, full of mischief. She glared a warning in his direction, fighting the smile that was tugging at her lips.

Insufferable. That’s what he was.

“Thank you,” Michael offered, giving a little bow of appreciation, “I am a student of comedy, so…” There was a pause as he grinned at them, and Scully wasn’t sure what he was hoping they would do…applaud? Compliment him further? God, she hated small towns. Finally, after the awkward silence had stretched beyond what Scully even thought was possible, he extended an arm to the chairs behind them and took a seat at his desk. “Sit, sit, this isn’t the inquisition,” he promised in a voice that was some kind of accent mixing British with German, and Scully turned to Mulder again, this time with a look of flat desperation. He chuckled quietly as they sat down across the expanse of desk from a very jittery and excited Michael Scott. “Now,” Michael muttered, finally settling into his chair and clasping his hands on top of his desk, “How can I be of service to you?”

“We were just hoping to have an opportunity to speak with each of your employees,” Mulder explained. “It wouldn’t take long, just a few minutes with each of them, a couple questions…”

“So…” Michael interrupted, “this is the inquisition,” he assessed carefully, suddenly seeming a bit wary and threatened by the prospect of the FBI questioning or accusing any of his employees. Mulder frowned.

“No, just a simple, standard interview process.”

Michael slumped in relief and huffed out a loud breath as Mulder readjusted his tie. Scully felt a twinge of satisfaction at the fact that Mulder was undoubtedly feeling the discomfort that was dripping down the walls of the room.

“Ok, so you don‘t suspect any of us…” he inhaled noisily, “like…Toby or anybody?” Michael clarified nervously, and Scully wondered who Toby was and took a mental note of the name and the fact that it had been mentioned without provocation. Not that what this guy said held much weight in her mind.

“You aren‘t currently suspects, as far as we know,” Mulder assured him, licking his lips in puzzlement.

Michael nodded and shifted, turning his stare to Scully, who crossed her legs and met his gaze with an expressionless face.

“Does she…speak?” the regional manager asked Mulder in a whisper.

“Sometimes…You have to put a quarter in. Listen is there a room or an area where we could just set up shop for about an hour?” Mulder forced out, and it took almost all of her willpower to keep from reacting to the joke he had made. Michael Scott’s gaze remained fixed on her intimidating and immovably bland expression, and his mouth twisted into a sort of grimace that part of her couldn‘t help but enjoy. She blinked.

“Conference room,” Michael mumbled distractedly, clearing his throat and shifting in his chair. Scully sighed again through tense lips and Mulder nodded his thanks before turning to her with an enthusiastic grin and asking if she was ready to ‘get this show on the road.’ She turned and stared at him with a look of unmasked and unmistakable contempt.

This was definitely Mulder’s idea of a good time…and it was definitely not Scully’s.

***