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i.
“What are these?” Dwight frowns at the two pieces of paper gifted by Angela. “Tickets to a Broadway musical? I had no idea you enjoyed those.”
Angela straightens her shoulders. “I don’t always particularly enjoy them, but this one is special.”
“A production of… Cats?”
“Yes,” she clips, tilting her head up at her boyfriend challengingly. “Is there a problem with that?”
Dwight is not one to lie, nor to sugarcoat things for people, even when they think they deserve it. That would be simply beneath his nature. “I’m not a fan of any musical production and I’ve heard the worst things about this one. I mean, it’s basically singing buffoons dressed up as cats of all things.”
“Fine,” Angela scoffs, ripping the tickets away from his hand. Dwight may criticize lots of things about her, as any person might, but cats are the foundation of her being and if he can’t respect that, so be it. “I’m sure I can find someone actually interested to spend some time with me. Andy seems to enjoy cats and music and he’s now back from—.”
“Wait, no!” Fuck. Grabbing her wrist gently, Dwight brings the tickets back into his own hold, a solemn look upon his face when he says, “I’ll go with you and watch deranged people in make-up and cat costumes sing on stage if it’s what you want, Monkey. There are some songs even I am sure to appreciate.”
Angela smiles, tight-lipped. “There’s a song that actually reminds me of Oscar. You’ll see.”
“Oscar?” Dwight does not feel threatened by the accountant, of course, but he still stands straighter as he questions, “Why Oscar of all people?”
“Trust me, you’ll know when you hear it.”
“You look very dapper, D.”
Dwight has dressed to impress.
He usually doesn’t, as there’s no need to do so in a professional environment in which comfort and nice ties along with work should be the priority of all the employees and employers alike. And though he’s sure Angela of all people appreciates the shirts and ties he wears to work, occasionally grabbing at them to pull him towards her when no one is the wiser, Dwight intends to actually impress his woman.
Which is why he wears a grey vest and a white shirt. And a bowtie, because Angela seems to like untying them as she kisses him at home and there’s something about Angela’s kisses that always pulls him in for more.
Like a viral infection of sorts, but he’s too happy to indulge in them to actually do anything about it. So far it has not been proved infectious to other people at least, except maybe stupid Andy, but he’s not entirely sure how Andy, of all people, might have caught the infection.
That’s an investigation for a different time.
“And you,” he tells his woman with a smirk as he softly brushes his hand against her wrist to see the sudden rise and fall of her chest with a hitched breath, “look better than any woman in the world ever has.”
Even Starbuck. After all, Starbuck has never worn a slightly see-through lace tank underneath a tight black vest that hugs her figure in all the right places. An outfit that, frankly, he’d never have expected Angela to wear either but he would have to be an idiot not to appreciate it.
In the soft light of the corridor, Dwight spots the growing flush upon her cheeks as she ducks her head with a smile. “Don’t be so forward about it,” she tells him, biting her lower lip as she checks the corridor for any prying eyes. “But thank you.”
“Monkey.”
After another brief scan of the corridor which proves the complete and utter disinterest of all the passersby, Angela gives in with a sigh, extending her hand to enlace with his, their palms perfectly clasped together. When Dwight grins, she jabs a finger at his chest, “Don’t push it, though.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She shakes her head. “I doubt that.”
Indeed, his woman knows him so well. If there is but one thing he dreams of, it is pushing it and pushing as far as possible. Of holding her hand not just in a crowded corridor where no one may notice, but even when they’re at an important event, like a wedding.
Maybe even their wedding.
Would that be too forward? Or is a wedding proposal exactly what Angela is awaiting before making their relationship public?
He doubts that.
They sit next to each other, which is an improvement to the last time they went to the movie theatre together. Back then, the term together would have even been a stretch, but he supposes they did end up watching the same movie and sharing their mutual opinions on their way back home to his farm, but it’s much, much better now.
Angela blames it on how packed the establishment itself is, but it had been up to her to book the tickets. She chose to seat them together.
He doesn’t mention it, instead choosing to lace their fingers together right below the line of sight of anyone nearby. It makes his heart sing well enough already.
“Is this show going to be like one of those interactive ones—.”
“Shh!”
Unfortunately for him, given their close seat to the stage itself, his question is answered soon enough, when a large fake paw is placed upon his shoulder during one of the weirdest songs he’s ever heard in his life.
And he listens to Russian music in his free time, occasionally.
Angela enjoys it. Not the Russian music — that she detests because of all the communists, obviously. No, she enjoys the show and the moment in which the paw is placed upon his shoulder. She even squeezes his other shoulder in delight, grinning at the actor as though he were the biggest celebrity.
As if. Dwight has never heard of him.
But if it brings Angela closer to him, he’s willing to put himself on the line of some lunatics’ antics, even by baring his teeth if so needed. And—.
Oh, that’s Oscar.
“I can see the resemblance now,” he tells her with a laugh, suddenly invested in finding out more and more similarities between the deranged cats and his own deranged coworkers. “You do have to push him.”
“And he can be such a bore.”
“Yeah,” he chuckles, pleased that he’s managed to bring out yet another of Angela’s wide smiles.
Dwight curses his humanity and the restrictions it puts around him, making him unable to save the image of her smile for later notice. He almost wishes he were a superhuman just to take a mental picture of her among the bright lights of the stage and the blurred images of those around her, whose faces matter not when compared to his woman.
But, alas, he can’t, so he just smiles and promises to make it happen more often.
Not that he dislikes how stoic and stiff she usually is. It’s a quality that has made him like her and that he continues to adore, but like this — carefree and more willing to touch him — Angela is just… more.
She’s everything.
“Are you having fun?”
Oh. “Absolutely, I am.”
“See?” Angela tilts her head with an arched eyebrow. “And to think that you could have given this spot to Andy of all people.”
Clinging to her as much as possible despite the uncomfortable seats, Dwight makes sure to say, “I would have never let that happen.”
“You almost did.”
Yes. But he would never let that actually happen. Andy will never lay a finger on Angela — she wouldn’t let him and there would never be an occasion in which he’d even get a chance to do so.
Never.
“I have to admit,” he tells her after the show, “this was fun. We should do this again.”
“Watch Cats?”
Dwight looks away briefly with a sigh. “Sure. Or something else. I’ve heard there are some great shows that we could— hmph.” Angela’s lips upon his catch him off guard, his hands flying to her hair to hold onto her as long as possible. When she parts, he smiles with a confused look upon his face. “What was that for?”
“Nothing. To shut you up.”
He can’t help but smile dumbly. “Oh, yeah?”
“Don’t mention it. Ever again.”
Mesmerized, he nods. “Of course. But… I do have a complaint to make.”
“D…”
“It’s nothing technical, although the lights could use some tweaking. They’re a tad too flashy, but I suppose that is the point in such a production. No,” he shakes his head, “I was disappointed that I did not find my own cat counterpart in this play.”
“Were you hoping to do so?”
Dwight shrugs. “Well, you mentioned Oscar and I found Michael, Jim, Creed and Kelly as well. And Phyllis. It’s a shame there was no me.”
“Nor me.”
“Oh,” he grabs her hand with a grin, “you were there.”
“Who, Dwight?”
Suddenly, he feels on the spot, his grin falling. “No one in particular.”
She turns to face him with a frown. “Who?”
ii.
Dwight finds himself watching a new production of Cats for the second time entirely by accident.
He’s in New York on one of his special sales calls with Andy and Michael, staying overnight simply because Andy has managed to screw it up well enough to leave it all for the next morning and he finds himself inexplicably bored.
That doesn’t happen, usually. He’s always on high alert, always ready to do something and always having something to do. Schrutes don’t get bored, after all. If they have nothing to do, they sleep or they inspect the places they’re in.
That’s what he always does in places.
But he doesn’t. Somehow, he finds himself going out. With Andy. No Michael, but he doesn’t give them a reason. Just that he’s busy.
Dwight is nosy but he decides not to pry. Again, he normally would but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets Andy drag him God knows where, disgruntled as that makes him.
“Have you ever been to Broadway?”
Dwight glances at his strangely-acquired-once-cuckold shorter friend with a quirk of his eyebrow. He could lie, but Dwight never lies. “Yes, once.”
“Really?” Andy whistles. “I would have never thought. What did you watch?”
Dwight doesn’t deign to answer that. The sole mention of the play would bring up the person he went there with and he doesn’t speak to— nor about— her anymore. Frankly, it might not even be a she.
Stop prying, it’s none of your business.
“As long as we go watch something that—.”
“Oh! Yes!” Andy exclaims excitedly, having ignored everything that Dwight had said, jumping up like a primate. Embarrassing. What did Angela even— no. Not going there. “They’re doing Cats , man! We’ve got to watch it, come on!”
“I really don’t think—.”
“Dwight.” Andy grabs his shoulders firmly, staring him down as seriously as his buffoonish, but somewhat fun and loyal, friend can. “Come on, It’s like—it’s the experience of a lifetime and they’re always booked out which means we have to take this opportuni- tay.”
Dwight sighs. “I don’t like it.”
“Bullshit. You’ve never even seen it. And there’s nothing as good as Cats. Except maybe Rent with Five hundred twenty-five thousand— Ow.”
Dwight’s slap pauses him long enough for Dwight to say, “Fine. But we’re not sitting next to each other and we’re not discussing this on our way back to the hotel.”
If it weren’t for some minor details, it almost sounds like his first date with—he shakes his head. He already has to watch Cats . Again.
There’s no way he is also allowing himself to think of her.
Whoever thought of putting lunatics in cat costumes and making them sing about their personal problems clearly… knew something more than the regular human being. Dwight wishes he could access a reality in which such a mad genius comes from, just to take some notes and understand what really goes on in such a mind.
Because this musical makes simultaneously more and less sense now that he watches it again. As foolish as it still is.
Whose idea was it to sing about a cat concerned with good manners of the mice and thinks of idle destroyment and—Dwight shakes his head, blinking away some tears that he formally refuses to acknowledge.
What is there to acknowledge anyway?
“This musical is a madhouse,” he grumbles to no one in particular, glaring at the stage as though it holds the answers to all his problems and yet is somehow also the cause of his ruin. “A musical shouldn’t make you feel things,” he scrunches up his nose in disregard. “There is no feeling in watching a bunch of buffoons sing. So, no, I am feeling none of the sort. I just have an allergy to their—.”
“Stop mumbling there, man,” a man shoves at him with a scowl, “you’re ruining the show for those actually interested.”
Dwight rolls his eyes. “Idiot.”
He resolves not to make any stupid commentary about the show going forward. There’s nothing to discuss about it, anyway. It’s a stupid musical written by a madman. The result of late night writing that should have been kept in the drafts. Nay, it is not even the result of writing, because he’s frankly certain some words and scenes have changed from one time to another and—.
Oh, Oscar. Heh.
“Stop thinking about her,” he curses himself, shifting in his seat to focus more on these crazed lyrics and scenes. There is so much to examine within them, so much to watch before and after the break. So much to criticize. I mean, who in their right mind writes about—.
Memory. He does find himself now often wandering alone in the moonlight. Like a wrench inside his heart, memories only remind him of better days. Were they better? Were they brighter? Lighter? With her as his girlfriend, as his lover—Dwight wouldn’t know. He moves on fast and whatever comes next is what’s best, therefore he is at his prime now.
And if his heart squeezes and tears well up in his eyes so hard he needs to bend over his lap and wipe them away—it’s not true. She was not for him, not his to possess nor to love. And he is, frankly, as much at fault for loving her as she was for hurting him.
And if he hadn’t killed that cat, maybe, ironically as that sounds while watching a production of Cats —If he’d cared a little more after he’d killed it, had cared a little more about her passion—.
No.
Dwight is fine. Schrutes get over things much faster than ordinary human beings and there’s nothing that could possibly—.
What?
There’s a cat on his lap. Well, a man dressed in a cat costume. A lunatic in a cat costume, preening as those on the stage sing about him, the theatre cat that he is. Dwight blanches under his weight, his hands folded under the man’s buttocks in a way that makes them ache as the song continues and the man spreads further on his lap.
“Don’t cry, good sir, for the show is not over,” the cat whispers in his ear before hopping off with a grin and song.
“Uh,” he begins and trails off, eyes wide and mouth agape. There is not much to say, free of the weight and the bewilderment as much as of the heartache — it somehow all persists. Foolish as that is.
Dwight will get over it. As he gets over everything: by farming and demeaning those who are beneath him.
But, oh, what a strange musical indeed, that draws tears to his eyes and makes him sniffle in a room full of unaffected people. Dwight was never here.
This never happened.
“This musical got you pretty taken,” Andy teases him with a shove and a grin that Dwight doesn’t share, “huh?”
Dwight purses his lips. “Shut up. I said no discussing the show after it. I don’t care about your opinion on this.”
“Alright, but let me just say one thing. One thing and that’s all. Please?”
“Permission granted.”
Andy thrusts his fists in the air in enjoyment. “Macavity is totally a song about Jim. He always gets away with it. You have to admit it. And Gus? That’s me—come on—and the way he sat on you and—.”
“That’s over the limit. More than one thing.” A pause. “But yes.”
Still none about him.
iii.
“Monkey, get ready, we’re going to New York tonight,” Dwight says, pushing an envelope towards his wife with a proud smile.
“New York?” Angela frowns, turning to face her husband as though he’s announced a tirp to Hell instead. “On such short notice?”
“Yes. I have made all the proper arrangements and booked all that is needed, so just open the envelope and find out what for.”
“You know I love you, but I detest surprises.”
Dwight nods, kissing her hands in lieu of an apology. “I know. But I love you, too, so just open it, woman.”
“Alright.” Angela doesn’t trust him that much, arching her eyebrow at him to underline how little she believes in the goodness of it, but she is curious enough to clip the envelope open with her sharp fingernails. “You know, this better be—oh my God.” A look of wonder spreads upon her features as she holds up the three tickets. “Cats? You really want to go watch it again?”
Nodding, Dwight kisses her forehead. “I don’t see why not.”
She shrugs, waving her hands in confusion. “What’s even the occasion?”
With a soft peck to her lips and a kiss to her neck, laying a hand on her lower back to draw her closer to him, Dwight murmurs, “Can’t a husband take his lovely, cat-obsessed wife of two years to a Broadway show of his choosing just to celebrate their marriage and prove furthermore how important it is to him?”
“Stop it,” Angela chuckles, pushing at his chest with no real dedication to it. To avert her gaze from the intensity of his, she looks down at the tickets instead. “Three?”
“The third is for Philip.”
Angela pauses. “Is he allowed inside?”
“Yes,” he assures her. “I checked their website several times, even with Clark’s help. And as for any production, no children under the age of four are permitted inside. Under no circumstances. It’s part of the reason I had to wait so long before I finally took you out on this. But now, our son is over the age of four.”
“This could work,” she allows, nodding at the tickets with a hum, “but usually a romantic getaway—.”
“Ah, woman,” he shakes his head disapprovingly. “I’ve taken care of it already. Philip’s godfather, my accountant, your former coworker and our friend Oscar Martinez, has been invited as well to take care of Philip while we enjoy the show and whatever comes after. You know I wouldn’t have arranged this without a chance for us to spend some free time. One last moment of freedom before the—.”
“Yes, alright,” she shushes him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt to give him a small taste of what the aftershow will be like indeed.
Shortly before she throws a bag towards and whines, “You should’ve told me earlier to get ready, though. How will I get ready in such a short time now?”
“You didn’t buy me a ticket?” Oscar glares at his regional manager with furrowed brows and a hand on his hip, Philip mimicking him in his arms, even matching his expression of bewilderment and anger. “This is an outrage.”
“Total outrage!”
“See? Philip agrees.”
Dwight scoffs. “Philip is in his mimicking phase, like a true Schrute. I went through it, too, though slightly later. But Philip likes getting an early start, I know it. And he’s getting ready to hunt you, like proper predators do when they’ve found their prey. Watch out for his teeth. But that’s irrelevant,” he waves his hand. “You’re a part-time state senator and my employee. I didn’t think you were in need of money. I did, however, order you a seat next to ours, if that makes you feel better.”
“But you would have had to pay to do—.”
“No, I would—.”
“Yes. To order online and anywhere you have to actually pay which means—.”
“No, idiot. I’m expecting you to pay me back, of course.” As if that wasn’t obvious. “Either now or by a deduction of your salary. I’m your employer, not your bank.”
Philip seems almost as disgruntled as Oscar, a small frown creasing upon his large, prominent forehead. “I don’t like this.”
“Yeah, me neither, Philip. This feels like—.”
“Oh, don’t be daft, Oscar,” Angela scolds him with a half-smile, a hand on his shoulder to stop his stupid tirade of words. Oscar knows way too many and he really likes showing off just how much smarter he is than everybody. “You’re paying us back by taking care of our Philip during the show and after. Dwight is just messing with you because you’re too uptight, and you’re our friend.”
Oscar chuckles, ducking under Dwight’s heavy slap to his shoulder. “I knew that.”
“You’re so easy to mess with,” he laughs. “Makes me almost miss Halpert.”
“At least he’s not Andy.”
Dwight nods solemnly. “Or Erin.”
Dwight barely pays any attention to the musical. Unlike his other times, in which wanted to willfully ignore it, he finds himself now too drawn to Angela’s smile and pride to focus on anything else.
There’s something about the chance to hold your wife’s hand in public and to lean over to lay a kiss on her cheek as a scene she particularly enjoys, as peculiar as that may be, that simply makes his heart soar and diminishes any woes he might’ve had from all the years past.
It’s almost healing.
“So, that’s you,” he grins when the Old Gumbie Cat comes up, relishing in the way she widens her eyes at him and shoves him with a feigned scowl.
“Shut up!” she rolls her eyes at him. “I’m not old!”
“No, but here’s a fact: you’re concerned about the behavior of everyone as well. Fact, you want to prevent idle and wanton destroyment. Fact, you—.”
“Shut up, you two!”
Angela suppresses a smile as she turns her hand around and laces her fingers with Dwight’s again. The position is not as comfortable as either would want it to be, but it allows her to slide towards and whisper, “The Old Gumbie Cat is Phyllis, maybe, but not me.”
“False.”
“True.”
“False.”
“Shut up.”
Dwight manages to actually stay shut this time, lulled by the gentle tracing of Angela’s thumb on the palm of his hand and the way she leans her head on his shoulder. With her next to him and Philip cooing on her left, Memory barely manages to bring small tears to the corners of his eyes.
Unlike last time.
“This song—.”
“Yeah, it’s okay,” Angela confirms with a nod, squeezing his hand for comfort, tears brimming at the corners of her eyes as well. Dwight almost reaches out to clean them away with his handkerchief. “Last time I heard it, we had broken up, I thought for good, and it was…”
Dwight understands very well. “Yeah. Me too. And one of the actors sat on my lap to cheer me up. Oh, right during this song.”
“Andy’s song,” Angela murmurs after a pause, waiting for it to finish so as to lean in towards him with another question upon her beautiful, round lips. “But how did you even find yourself here?”
Dwight shrugs. “Ironically, Andy. He had pooched a sale, as was his usual, and we had to stay overnight for it and I just… agreed to go to Broadway with him. Pretending I hadn’t seen Cats despite how little I wanted to watch it. There were too many memories…”
Angela purses her lips into a tight apologetic smile, gazing at him meaningfully, eyes warm and wet with unshed tears. “Yeah. That couldn’t have been—.”
“Mommy, daddy!” Philip intrudes their moment by pointing at the two characters holding hands on stage with a curious smile and wide eyes and despite the concerned shushing by Oscar, he manages to wriggle in his seat further to add, “That’s you two!”
The pair turns to the stage slowly, flush with both the embarrassment of their son shouting during a live production, his screams placated only by Angela’s kiss to the top of his head, and that he’s identified his parents in this couple of all, “Oh.”
“I think our son has…”
Angela nods, biting her lower lip. “Yeah.” What a world. “We’re Growltiger and Griddlebone.”
“Huh,” Dwight hums, his perplexed gaze flickering between his excited son and the stage. “That makes no sense though.”
Oscar rolls his eyes. “Still makes more sense than me being the Rum Tum Tugger.”
“Shut up, Oscar.”
He’s wrong, anyway. That song is definitely about him. But perhaps his son has found him and his beloved wife in this play, after all. And as weird as that sounds, it fills his heart with nothing but joy. A joy that spreads everywhere and makes stretch over the seat just to capture her lips into a brief kiss.
Angela’s befuddled smile when they part is definitely worth it.
They say the third time’s the charm and perhaps they’re right.
There’s nothing like watching cat people sing about their woes and joys on stage, criticizing and somewhat uplifting the lives of stray cats whose streetlife is one full of turns and surprises that only a musical as weird and contorted as Cats could fully represent. And there’s nothing like watching it with your wife’s hand in yours and the excited giggles of your spectacular son.
So, Dwight supposes, Cats is only bearable if there is a family to share it with.
And to think Andy could've stolen Dwight’s first time.
Suck on that, Andy.