Author's Notes: Oh, Ryan. You are the dog of all dogs.

I would like very much to be your friend.

London Bridge

This pairing makes no sense.

The "feelings" Ryan has for Kelly are completely noncanon.



Kelly is humming "Glamorous" when she enters the break room, and Ryan knows from experience that this indicates an extreme emotion, usually of the joyous nature. (Should she have invaded his previously pleasant afternoon with "Big Girls Don't Cry" on her lips, he would have been out of his seat and out of that building before she could warble the pre-chorus.)

Ryan closes his eyes and tries to find his happy place she dances embarrassingly around him, apparently under the misconception that he finds it sexy and irresistible and doesn't make him want to purposely choke on his own meal.

"Don't you want to hear about my morning?" She asks brightly, finally-- finally-- taking a seat in the chair beside him. He's abundantly grateful she didn't choose his lap.

"Not particularly," he answers steadily, and bites down on a nice crunchy potato chip. He's found that if he masticates loud enough, he can actually somewhat drown out the sound of her voice.

She laughs, as if he's said something funny. He isn't entirely sure where she got the idea that he was being sarcastic. "We-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ell, it started out just like any other morning. I woke up next to the man of my dreams . . ."

Well, that, at least, he can appreciate.

". . . Took a shower . . . ate breakfast . . . got dressed . . ."

"I was present for all of the above, Kelly," he interrupts flatly. "You really don't have to remind me."

She expels a long, drawn-out sigh and tucks her hands between her knees, jiggling them like an eight-year-old who has to pee. He takes a sick pleasure out of not commenting and letting her continue her little fit of epilepsy on her own time. "Ryyyyyaaaannnn," she whines, leaning forward with what he believes to be her attempt at a sly smile.

He considers ignoring her, but he can smell the perfume that he bought her for her birthday, and it's weirdly sort of a turn on that she's wearing it and didn't tell him. He'd figured she would be the type to announce her odor every time she bathed in the spray.

Her apparent belief that his gifts were a naturally occurring phenomenon in her life that did not need to be fussed over was startlingly . . . normal of her.

But, okay, he's officially overspent his thought quota of "well-maybe-Kelly's-not-that-bad" for the day, so he rolls his eyes and asks in a painfully monotone voice, "And then what happened, Kelly?"

"Well, then I got to work . . . and I saw Pam and Jim flirting at Pam's desk . . . and then . . . "

She looks like she is about to burst. It's ninety-nine percent ridiculous and only one percent endearing, so he waits her out again until she just can't contain herself.


It takes him a full five minutes to decipher what she's said. (Which, for those less schooled in Kelly's language, translates roughly into: and then I totally got hit on. Unfortunately, she does not mean this literally.)

Into his silence, she adds thoughtfully, puckering her lower lip, "Now don't you get all jealous, Ryan baby."

He flips through everyone that works at Dunder Mifflin, and can't think of a single one stupid enough to try and date Kelly (the exception, of course, being himself, but he prefers to think of this more as a 'using' situation than a 'pathetic' one). He's three-quarters-of-the-way impressed that anyone is willing to take her on, knowing what she is capable of.

The rest of him feels bizarrely twisted, an emotion he decides to chalk up to indignation rather than any branch of jealousy.

He can't deny that he's surprisingly annoyed, however. "Who was it?" He asks brusquely, and takes a somewhat vicious bite of his sandwich.

"Oh, it doesn't matter," Kelly answers breezily, standing up and clearing away the food that she didn't eat. As if she gets hit on all the time or something.

Whatever. She's probably throwing herself a party.

She tosses him her extra potato chips, which she never eats but buys anyway because she knows he likes them.

"Come on, Kelly. Who was it?"

"Ryan, it's not like he stood a chance anyway. Everyone knows we're like, practically married."

All the more reason to discover this new competition and set him right, should that kind of notion deter him.

"Kelly . . ." He stands up and walks behind her, hugging her around her waist because he knows she goes crazy for that James Blunt romantic cuddling crap. "Come on. Tell me. Why won't you tell me?" She giggles and doesn't try very hard to break out of his grasp.

"Because you'll just go all crazy like the time I accidentally drove your car into a telephone pole. Because seriously, Ryan, that is like not healthy. I was reading about it in People. Mel Gibson's anger issues totally ruined his career and if uncontrollable rage can hurt a movie-God like Mel, then . . .?"

He pulls away, giving up because in a twisted and backwards way she's right. It won't even have anything to do with her, either; it's not like he's willing to fight to keep Kelly. Hell, he's willing to fight to lose Kelly. But still, he can't have the other guys thinking he's some weak pussy who can't even hold onto a desperate leech.

She plants one on his cheek even though he's told her a million times not to do it in public (and a room made entirely out of glass is public, in his opinion), and flings a kiss over her shoulder as she leaves. Ryan shudders with relief and absolute self-loathing as she does, settling down to relax and eat his (her) snackfoods in peace.

In retrospect, though, it really could have been worse.

She could have been singing "Fergalicious".