care_says: (rpf - mindy is awesome)
[personal profile] care_says
Title: Trade My Soul for a Wish
Fandom: The Office RPF
Pairing: BJ Novak/Mindy Kaling
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Conducting a secret marriage over Twitter is harder than it looks.
Word Count: ~1500 words
Author Notes: Inspired by these stupid Tweets. Set in the same 'verse as Pennies and Dimes for a Kiss, so it won't make sense unless you read that first. Title from Call Me Maybe (see a theme?).

"Don't go," Mindy says to him through a mouthful of pillow, peering with half-lidded eyes at the shadowy form of BJ hovering over the dresser. Mmm, he's still wet from his shower, the towel knotted around his waist, and yeah, she would be okay with him coming back to bed right now.

He looks up, a pair of boxers balled up in his hand. "Where, to work? Where you should be going?"

She makes a frustrated noise and throws a pillow at him, which he catches. Fucking Little League with John. He knows she needs the extra fifteen minutes when he's taking his shower. "No, Vegas. For the bachelor party."

"I'll think of you every second," BJ says, dry, but he sits down at the edge of the bed and puts a hand against the side of her face, thumb stroking her cheek.

"Shut up," and Mindy sits up, sliding one arm around his neck and pulling him towards her. He tastes like Tom's Of Maine mint toothpaste. Her own breath must be disgusting but he's married her in sickness and in health, so whatever. He just has to deal with her morning breath.

"Come with me," he mutters against her mouth and presses his lips to her jaw, her neck.

"I -- can't." She swats him lightly when he makes her gasp. "Asshole. I have work to do. I'm important now and you're going with all guys to do guy things. Boring."

"I'll make time for you. I'll even go shopping with you." His hands slide beneath the sheets and up the old Harvard t-shirt of his she's wearing. BJ buries his nose in her shoulder. "Plus, wouldn't it be nice to revisit our wedding location?"

It'd be funnier if she weren't turned on, but if they're going to have morning sex, they'll also be late for work and she's thirty-three now -- she's trying this responsible adult thing out. "Yeah, well, you can go pay homage to our wedding chapel if you want, but I have to work."

"You're going to read your script and rewatch Breaking Bad and then go out for frozen yogurt. That's not work."

Fuck. He knows her too well. "That's just my creative process." Mindy pushes him away reluctantly. "I have to shower and we have to show up to set like we're not married."

"We have to tell people soon," he says, standing up.

Mindy shrugs and bites her bottom lip, staring down at the ring on her finger. Every day she takes it off before they go to work, sliding it carefully into a little box on her nightside table. Sometimes she holds her hand up in the middle of the day and expects to see it, the reminder of her and BJ. Secret marriage is both awesome and hard, and this is definitely one of the hard parts.

"I want to kiss you in public, Mindy." BJ's stares down at her, gaze unwavering.

God, he's just -- and suddenly she wants him so badly that she can barely stop herself from tackling him. Instead she pushes the sheets aside and stands next to him, hooking a finger into the waistband of the towel. "Ten-minute shower. Let's make it quick."

An hour and a half later when they walk into work, Mindy wonders if everyone can tell that she got laid this morning. She's probably giving off a sex-glow or something.

*

The evening progresses pretty much exactly how BJ predicted it would. She reads her script for half an hour before she ends up turning on the TV and about half an hour after that, she's hit with a craving for frozen yogurt that you wouldn't believe, but Mindy refuses to give into it. BJ shouldn't have the satisfaction of being right because he always is and it's infuriating.

Her stubbornness lasts for maybe twelve minutes before she's grabbing her purse and car keys and runs out the door to Pinkberry's.

Of course BJ calls her when she's happily ensconced in her front seat, eating yogurt with mangos and kiwis and mochi, and she nearly drops the carton straight into her lap.

"How's your yogurt?" he opens with.

"Fuck you," she says. "How did you know?"

He laughs and the sound settles warm in Mindy's chest. "Guessed. What is it? Strawberries and gummi bears?"

"I'm not obsessed with candy all the time."

"Wow, restraint. Okay. Color me impressed."

"How are your strippers?" she shoots back.

"Babe, you know strippers are for tomorrow night." But his voice goes all soft at the end, the words curling and light. "Anyway, I miss you."

Right. Um. She represses the urge to make a high-pitched squealing noise. God, get it together, she thinks, he's your fucking husband! "Miss you too. Whatever."

"Whatever? Fine, I take it back."

"You can't take it back! You miss me, you said it!"

"And you whatever-ed it!"

"Well, that's my prerogative to whatever it. But you can't take back missing me. I'm your wife."

BJ sighs and the sound makes the connection sound crackly for a second. "You're impossible."

"Thanks, I'm going to take that as a compliment."

"It is, weirdly enough." He pauses. "Well. Alright. I just wanted to call and say goodnight."

"I love you," she says quickly, not that she's making up for the whatever comment. But maybe kind of. If he wanted to think that.

"Yeah. I love you too. Whatever."

Douchebag.

*

The bed feels too big when she gets into it. Mindy turns up the air-conditioning (alright, look, her carbon footprint is already going to be huge, okay?) and puts on one of BJ's hoodies, breathing in his smell in the fabric. He'll be back Sunday, she tells herself, but it doesn't help with the pang of missing him. He's her husband; she's allowed to miss him. She falls asleep half on his pillow, clutching the duvet, and wanting his arms around her.

*

She's not sure what made her do it. Maybe it was a moment of weakness. Or she was temporarily disabled by kryptonite. She should have just sent it as a text message, god, why didn't she? In any case, once she puts it on Twitter, it's too late and it's all shot to hell anyway. She just misses him, okay? She wants to curl up on the couch with him, eating take-out and squabbling.

BJ's Tweeted response is quick, but the call she expects doesn't come for another few hours. Mindy's in the middle of writing a scene for episode 5 when he interrupts her.

"Come home, hmm? Because that's super subtle?"

She minimizes Final Draft on her laptop and leans back against the pillows on the bed. "Admit it. It sounds good."

"It sounds great, babe," he says. "I wish I could." Beat. "You know, at this rate, someone's going to find out. We should just tell people."

"Yeah, I'm just -- " Mindy looks down at her hand again, takes a deep breath. "After the pilot airs?"

He's smiling. She can hear it. "Really?"

"Yeah. I -- I think that might be a good time."

"Okay."

"Okay," she repeats. "I miss you."

"Less than 24 hours," he says.

"Pick up sushi on your way home," she tells him.

*

He walks in when she's sprawled out on the living room floor in her sweats, trying to organize her bills. They're in piles scattered in a circle around her -- credit cards in one place and the electric in another. She's balancing her checkbook on her thigh and she upsets it jumping up, throwing herself at BJ.

"Hi," he says into her hair. He smells like car and unfamiliar hotel shampoo and she can feel the bag of take out bumping against her back, but she doesn't care. Well, she does a little, but that's not the point because he's home and he's kissing her, walking her back until they hit the couch.

Mindy collapses on it, grabbing the collar of his shirt and dragging him down with her. He drops the take out on the rug and kisses her again, the way she likes, slowly, like they have hours to kill. "Missed you," she says when he pulls back to breathe.

"Me too." He grins at her. She curls a hand in his hair, suddenly shy.

"No hot strippers in Vegas?"

His eyes follow hers and he kisses her forehead. "None as hot as you."

She hums happily, nestling back into the couch cushions. "Good answer."

"And I brought home sushi, so I think I'm winning the Husband of the Year award."

"You're definitely a contender, Smuggy McSmuggerson," and she kisses him again, the way he likes, a little sloppy and hot, and they don't talk much for a while.

*

("Picasso is boring? Min, how can you even say that -- "

"I can't even draw and I can draw what he did! Pass the rainbow roll."

"Don't eat all the tuna. I want some. And no, you can't. You definitely can't draw like Picasso."

"Look, Benjamin, a three-year-old could draw like Picasso -- "

"Okay, maybe like Picasso, but a three-year-old doesn't have the depth of -- "

"Oh my god, are you listening to yourself talk right now?"

"I'm trying to explain this to you!"

"You sound like the world's biggest douchebag."

"You love me."

"Fuck you."

"Likewise.")
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alex m.

October 2015

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