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care_saysSo, as most of you know, I wrote three fics last year for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
yankeeficswap and only realized recently that the community was deleted. Hence, the fic was deleted too. So I'm doing a repost! Sorry to those that have already seen these. They will only clutter up your f-list for a bit.
**
Title: The Romance of Afterwards
Fandom: The Office (US)
Written For:yankeeficswap 2006, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chibirhm
Pairing: Jim/Pam
Word Count: 2124
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Where there are no eggs, Santa doesn't exist, and Wedding Crashers is basically the best movie ever.
**
There aren't any eggs left in the fridge. He could have sworn that he had just bought some yesterday, driving home one-handed after work, trying to reach the house before Pam did so that he had time to hide the Christmas present he bought her. He shuffles through the contents of the first shelf. There are a few Tupperware dishes of leftovers, a half-eaten jar of pickles, containers of mixed berries yogurt. No eggs. Jim rakes one hand through his hair and scrunches up his brow.
Pam pads into the kitchen, hair up in a towel, dressed in a loose t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Her cheeks are flushed from the shower. He's going through the vegetable bin, pulling out plastic bags of broccoli, tomatoes, and spinach. No eggs, obviously, but he's looking everywhere.
"What are you doing?" she asks, sliding into a chair.
"I can't find the eggs," he says, distracted.
"I think we're out." She goes to the cabinets and pulls out a box of Raisin Bran. There's a moment of hesitation. She switches the Raisin Bran for Rice Krispies.
Jim digs through the butter case. His face lights up. He emerges victorious with two eggs clutched in one hand and a ear-to-ear smile. "Success!"
She reaches around him for the galloon of fat-free Hood milk. "Congratulations."
"No poking fun," he says to her. "It's too early."
Pam sits down again, pouring cereal out into a bowl. The clink-clink-clink of Rice Krispies against the side of the bowl provides a backdrop to her yawning. "It's eleven, Jim."
"Early," he retorts, and pulls out a frying pan. There's already a packet of bacon on the counter.
"What? No Foreman grill?" she tilts her head to one side, a spoonful of milk-and-Krispies halfway to her mouth. "Has Michael taught you nothing?"
Jim pulls a face and puts two slices of bacon in the pan, turns on the heat. "His wisdom is lost on those that do not believe in the power of beets."
The two of them look at each other across the kitchen.
"Rule number four –- no beets in the house," they intone together. He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and turns back to the sizzling bacon. She giggles over her cereal.
**
It's really very anti-climactic, how it happens. A couple months after Karen leaves for an offer in Chicago, he stops by reception on his way out the door. They've been eating lunch together a few days a week now and things are clicking back into place. She looks up and smiles at him when he rests his palms against her desk, but she's not expecting a dinner invitation.
They spend a few hours lingering over dinner, and when it's clear that they've overstayed their welcome, he helps her into the coat. They hover at her car, nervously laughing, and then she tugs down at his tie and he lowers his head and they're kissing. He presses her against the driver's side, kissing her with one arm around her waist and the other bracing himself.
When they part, her fingers are still caught around his tie and they're shaking. He presses his lips against her hair, sighs. She licks her lips and awkwardly invites him over to her place and he kisses her again in answer, kisses her for long minutes before he lets her climb into her car.
**
They're watching Wedding Crashers and folding laundry in the living room when it starts snowing outside. Heavy wet flakes collect on the windowsills and in little mounds on the sidewalk. They're at that part in the movie when the crazy gay son is revealing his painting to Vince Vaughn when Pam notices the snow. She has one of Jim's t-shirt in hand, the ragged Penn State one that she's stolen to sleep in, and she nearly drops it because she gets so distracted. Jim's still laughing at the screen, his shoulder touching hers, reaching into the laundry basket for another article.
"Hey -- " she pokes his shoulder. "Look."
He kind of turns his head towards her. "Pam, this movie -- " and pauses. "Holy shit, it's snowing!" he says, face turning from amused to gleeful.
"Yeah, I know!" She drops the t-shirt onto the couch and goes to stand at the window, pressing her nose against the cold pane. Her breath fans out in a foggy circle. "First snow of the year."
"I guess we'll have a white Christmas after all." Jim comes to stand behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her against him.
She tilts her head back and kisses him quickly on the jaw. "I guess so." Pam extricates herself from his hold carefully, spinning around so she faces him. "I'll make hot chocolate if you finish folding."
He pretends to consider it. "Well…"
"Hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream and cinnamon and nutmeg on top," she says quickly, in a rush. It's weird to her that he's never had her hot chocolate, that after these months of living with him now they still haven't had an opportunity.
Jim's eyebrows rise. "Damn, Beesly. Wow. I will definitely finish folding."
She links her hands behind her back, bites her lower lip. It's ridiculously cute. He leans down to kiss her mouth and they stay there for a second, by the window. The Christmas tree in the corner flickers multicolored lights against them. When Jim pulls away, she's blushing mutely, and they look at each other before she scurries off into the kitchen. He hears the stereo come on, Christmas carols softly filtering through the air. It's some sultry voice crooning Santa Baby, he thinks.
When Pam comes in with the two mugs of hot chocolate, Jim presses pause in the midst of the kiss between Rachel McAdams and Owen Wilson on the beach. Pam sits down beside him and hands him his cup and their hands linger against each others, fingers threading. He takes a sip that leaves frothy whipped cream around his mouth and she giggles before looking back at the television.
"She's engaged," she says, quietly.
"Well -- just about," he says in reply.
Pam frowns, disengaging their hands to wrap hers around her mug. He watches her stare into the cinnamon-sprinkled depths for a minute before leaning closer.
"I'm cuter than Owen Wilson," he says.
She lets out a laugh before she can stop herself, turning her smile to him. "Oh yeah, you wish."
**
They don't walk into her apartment groping each other. She arrives first and unlocks the door, her knees already locking because she's thinking about kissing him again. He shows up ten minutes later, enough time for her to do a speed-clean of the living room and to haphazardly make her bed. He doesn't do anything tremendously romantic, doesn't bring her flowers or a bottle of wine. Instead he just smiles when she opens the door, smiles at her like he's never wanted anything more, and she gets shivers running down her spine just from that.
They don't have sex immediately. She doesn't know if she's entirely ready. She brings him a cup of tea with the teapot he gave her two Christmases ago, during that game of Yankee Swap, and maybe it's then that he starts to notice how much of him is already in her apartment. They talk about them, him sitting with his tie loosened on the couch, and her on the floor with her back to him, feet under the coffee table. She stares at the side of one of her art books for hours as they speak.
She makes up the couch for him to sleep on and disappears into her bedroom. But she hears him using the bathroom at around three and she can't help but go into the tiny hall and take his hand, pull him into bed with her. And it's okay then, she feels okay, she feels better than okay. In the morning she opens her eyes and watches him until he wakes and she's so grateful that he's with her.
**
They come home from her parents' house full and happy. She's practically asleep on her feet, but he begs her to stay up and hang their stockings. They weren't going to do that, originally, but Pam found two stockings with bear heads in Santa hats while she was in Walgreen's two weeks ago and named them Dwight and Angela and then Jim said, well, they had to buy them now; it's not like they could leave the bears without a loving home. So when they enter the dark house, Pam goes to find the stockings in their closet and Jim goes into the kitchen to take out Chips Ahoy for Santa.
"Um. Jim." Pam looks at the plate of cookies in his hand when he comes into the living room. "Really?"
He wrinkles his nose. "Santa gets hungry. Do you know what a big job it is to bring presents to every boy and girl? Do you know how many calories he must burn sliding down chimneys?"
Pam hangs her Angela stocking. "Jim. Um. I hate to break it to you, but… Santa Claus isn't real."
Jim looks at her. "I -- What? You -- you can't be serious. Oh, God, Pam."
"Sorry, was that disillusioning?" she asks without a hint of remorse, grinning.
He puts the plate of cookies on the coffee table and starts to head back into the kitchen to fetch a glass of milk. "I think you broke my heart. That was really mean. I don't know if we can still be together."
"Well, something had to come between us. I don't think we could recover from a Santa-sized wedge." Pam picks a cookie off the plate and eats it.
"Pam, are you calling Santa fat?" Jim reappears with the milk. "Because he takes offense to that."
"Does he?"
"Yes. Santa is gravity-challenged, Pam. Okay? Can you accept that?" He picks up his Dwight stocking, regards it. "You know, this is much more attractive than Dwight." But he hangs it up nonetheless.
They stand back to admire their handiwork in the glow of the Christmas tree. Pam's face is in shadow, but he can tell she's smiling at him and it makes his face feel hot. The snow's piled up pretty high outside and the sky is that pinkish-gray cast that always comes after snow, more like a shade of twilight than anything else, when everything is lit up around them. He touches the inside of her wrist and gestures to the bedroom. The hallway is dim, but nothing has ever felt brighter.
**
They act like kids on Christmas Day.
All the presents have been torn open. Wrapping paper is scattered across the rug, tumbling under the couch and beyond reach. They're sitting together on the floor, her in a new cable-knit sweater and him examining a watch. There's a pile of new art supplies and novels next to her and Pam lazily flips through an empty sketchbook, smoothing her hand across the crinkling pages. Jim snaps the watch onto his wrist for the fifth time in eight minutes and strokes a finger pad across its face.
"Hey," he says.
She looks up. Her eyes are happy. "Yeah?"
"I have a question for you," he says, reaching for her hand.
"Okay. Shoot."
"I was kind of thinking if you, um, would consider getting engaged." Jim looks at their hands, resting against her thigh. "I don't have a ring or anything. I'm just -- I'm wondering if it's time I buy one."
The way she looks at him is enough to make him broadly smile and then her kiss is sweet and tastes like peppermint and spice and he slides a hand underneath her sweater and t-shirt to rest his fingers against her bare stomach. He's already thinking about the ring and the wedding, a short engagement period. Kids, maybe, but he doesn't want to get ahead of himself. She rubs the side of his face.
Their foreheads rest against each other. Jim expels a breath. "So."
"What?" she kisses him again.
"What did you really want for Christmas?" he asks.
Pam pulls away slightly. "A Smurf. Duh, Jim. It's like you don't know me at all."
"Oh, right. A Smurf. Obviously." He's laughing.
"Obviously," she echoes.
The radio's playing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing and later they'll run outside and have a snowball fight that will eventually encompass their entire block, but for now they just sit in silence. Jim's new watch ticks its way to 10:36 and Pam doesn't remember ever being unhappy. He hums along against her neck and the melody tickles her skin in rhythm.
yankeeficswap and only realized recently that the community was deleted. Hence, the fic was deleted too. So I'm doing a repost! Sorry to those that have already seen these. They will only clutter up your f-list for a bit.**
Title: The Romance of Afterwards
Fandom: The Office (US)
Written For:
yankeeficswap 2006, for chibirhmPairing: Jim/Pam
Word Count: 2124
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Where there are no eggs, Santa doesn't exist, and Wedding Crashers is basically the best movie ever.
**
There aren't any eggs left in the fridge. He could have sworn that he had just bought some yesterday, driving home one-handed after work, trying to reach the house before Pam did so that he had time to hide the Christmas present he bought her. He shuffles through the contents of the first shelf. There are a few Tupperware dishes of leftovers, a half-eaten jar of pickles, containers of mixed berries yogurt. No eggs. Jim rakes one hand through his hair and scrunches up his brow.
Pam pads into the kitchen, hair up in a towel, dressed in a loose t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Her cheeks are flushed from the shower. He's going through the vegetable bin, pulling out plastic bags of broccoli, tomatoes, and spinach. No eggs, obviously, but he's looking everywhere.
"What are you doing?" she asks, sliding into a chair.
"I can't find the eggs," he says, distracted.
"I think we're out." She goes to the cabinets and pulls out a box of Raisin Bran. There's a moment of hesitation. She switches the Raisin Bran for Rice Krispies.
Jim digs through the butter case. His face lights up. He emerges victorious with two eggs clutched in one hand and a ear-to-ear smile. "Success!"
She reaches around him for the galloon of fat-free Hood milk. "Congratulations."
"No poking fun," he says to her. "It's too early."
Pam sits down again, pouring cereal out into a bowl. The clink-clink-clink of Rice Krispies against the side of the bowl provides a backdrop to her yawning. "It's eleven, Jim."
"Early," he retorts, and pulls out a frying pan. There's already a packet of bacon on the counter.
"What? No Foreman grill?" she tilts her head to one side, a spoonful of milk-and-Krispies halfway to her mouth. "Has Michael taught you nothing?"
Jim pulls a face and puts two slices of bacon in the pan, turns on the heat. "His wisdom is lost on those that do not believe in the power of beets."
The two of them look at each other across the kitchen.
"Rule number four –- no beets in the house," they intone together. He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and turns back to the sizzling bacon. She giggles over her cereal.
**
It's really very anti-climactic, how it happens. A couple months after Karen leaves for an offer in Chicago, he stops by reception on his way out the door. They've been eating lunch together a few days a week now and things are clicking back into place. She looks up and smiles at him when he rests his palms against her desk, but she's not expecting a dinner invitation.
They spend a few hours lingering over dinner, and when it's clear that they've overstayed their welcome, he helps her into the coat. They hover at her car, nervously laughing, and then she tugs down at his tie and he lowers his head and they're kissing. He presses her against the driver's side, kissing her with one arm around her waist and the other bracing himself.
When they part, her fingers are still caught around his tie and they're shaking. He presses his lips against her hair, sighs. She licks her lips and awkwardly invites him over to her place and he kisses her again in answer, kisses her for long minutes before he lets her climb into her car.
**
They're watching Wedding Crashers and folding laundry in the living room when it starts snowing outside. Heavy wet flakes collect on the windowsills and in little mounds on the sidewalk. They're at that part in the movie when the crazy gay son is revealing his painting to Vince Vaughn when Pam notices the snow. She has one of Jim's t-shirt in hand, the ragged Penn State one that she's stolen to sleep in, and she nearly drops it because she gets so distracted. Jim's still laughing at the screen, his shoulder touching hers, reaching into the laundry basket for another article.
"Hey -- " she pokes his shoulder. "Look."
He kind of turns his head towards her. "Pam, this movie -- " and pauses. "Holy shit, it's snowing!" he says, face turning from amused to gleeful.
"Yeah, I know!" She drops the t-shirt onto the couch and goes to stand at the window, pressing her nose against the cold pane. Her breath fans out in a foggy circle. "First snow of the year."
"I guess we'll have a white Christmas after all." Jim comes to stand behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and pulling her against him.
She tilts her head back and kisses him quickly on the jaw. "I guess so." Pam extricates herself from his hold carefully, spinning around so she faces him. "I'll make hot chocolate if you finish folding."
He pretends to consider it. "Well…"
"Hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream and cinnamon and nutmeg on top," she says quickly, in a rush. It's weird to her that he's never had her hot chocolate, that after these months of living with him now they still haven't had an opportunity.
Jim's eyebrows rise. "Damn, Beesly. Wow. I will definitely finish folding."
She links her hands behind her back, bites her lower lip. It's ridiculously cute. He leans down to kiss her mouth and they stay there for a second, by the window. The Christmas tree in the corner flickers multicolored lights against them. When Jim pulls away, she's blushing mutely, and they look at each other before she scurries off into the kitchen. He hears the stereo come on, Christmas carols softly filtering through the air. It's some sultry voice crooning Santa Baby, he thinks.
When Pam comes in with the two mugs of hot chocolate, Jim presses pause in the midst of the kiss between Rachel McAdams and Owen Wilson on the beach. Pam sits down beside him and hands him his cup and their hands linger against each others, fingers threading. He takes a sip that leaves frothy whipped cream around his mouth and she giggles before looking back at the television.
"She's engaged," she says, quietly.
"Well -- just about," he says in reply.
Pam frowns, disengaging their hands to wrap hers around her mug. He watches her stare into the cinnamon-sprinkled depths for a minute before leaning closer.
"I'm cuter than Owen Wilson," he says.
She lets out a laugh before she can stop herself, turning her smile to him. "Oh yeah, you wish."
**
They don't walk into her apartment groping each other. She arrives first and unlocks the door, her knees already locking because she's thinking about kissing him again. He shows up ten minutes later, enough time for her to do a speed-clean of the living room and to haphazardly make her bed. He doesn't do anything tremendously romantic, doesn't bring her flowers or a bottle of wine. Instead he just smiles when she opens the door, smiles at her like he's never wanted anything more, and she gets shivers running down her spine just from that.
They don't have sex immediately. She doesn't know if she's entirely ready. She brings him a cup of tea with the teapot he gave her two Christmases ago, during that game of Yankee Swap, and maybe it's then that he starts to notice how much of him is already in her apartment. They talk about them, him sitting with his tie loosened on the couch, and her on the floor with her back to him, feet under the coffee table. She stares at the side of one of her art books for hours as they speak.
She makes up the couch for him to sleep on and disappears into her bedroom. But she hears him using the bathroom at around three and she can't help but go into the tiny hall and take his hand, pull him into bed with her. And it's okay then, she feels okay, she feels better than okay. In the morning she opens her eyes and watches him until he wakes and she's so grateful that he's with her.
**
They come home from her parents' house full and happy. She's practically asleep on her feet, but he begs her to stay up and hang their stockings. They weren't going to do that, originally, but Pam found two stockings with bear heads in Santa hats while she was in Walgreen's two weeks ago and named them Dwight and Angela and then Jim said, well, they had to buy them now; it's not like they could leave the bears without a loving home. So when they enter the dark house, Pam goes to find the stockings in their closet and Jim goes into the kitchen to take out Chips Ahoy for Santa.
"Um. Jim." Pam looks at the plate of cookies in his hand when he comes into the living room. "Really?"
He wrinkles his nose. "Santa gets hungry. Do you know what a big job it is to bring presents to every boy and girl? Do you know how many calories he must burn sliding down chimneys?"
Pam hangs her Angela stocking. "Jim. Um. I hate to break it to you, but… Santa Claus isn't real."
Jim looks at her. "I -- What? You -- you can't be serious. Oh, God, Pam."
"Sorry, was that disillusioning?" she asks without a hint of remorse, grinning.
He puts the plate of cookies on the coffee table and starts to head back into the kitchen to fetch a glass of milk. "I think you broke my heart. That was really mean. I don't know if we can still be together."
"Well, something had to come between us. I don't think we could recover from a Santa-sized wedge." Pam picks a cookie off the plate and eats it.
"Pam, are you calling Santa fat?" Jim reappears with the milk. "Because he takes offense to that."
"Does he?"
"Yes. Santa is gravity-challenged, Pam. Okay? Can you accept that?" He picks up his Dwight stocking, regards it. "You know, this is much more attractive than Dwight." But he hangs it up nonetheless.
They stand back to admire their handiwork in the glow of the Christmas tree. Pam's face is in shadow, but he can tell she's smiling at him and it makes his face feel hot. The snow's piled up pretty high outside and the sky is that pinkish-gray cast that always comes after snow, more like a shade of twilight than anything else, when everything is lit up around them. He touches the inside of her wrist and gestures to the bedroom. The hallway is dim, but nothing has ever felt brighter.
**
They act like kids on Christmas Day.
All the presents have been torn open. Wrapping paper is scattered across the rug, tumbling under the couch and beyond reach. They're sitting together on the floor, her in a new cable-knit sweater and him examining a watch. There's a pile of new art supplies and novels next to her and Pam lazily flips through an empty sketchbook, smoothing her hand across the crinkling pages. Jim snaps the watch onto his wrist for the fifth time in eight minutes and strokes a finger pad across its face.
"Hey," he says.
She looks up. Her eyes are happy. "Yeah?"
"I have a question for you," he says, reaching for her hand.
"Okay. Shoot."
"I was kind of thinking if you, um, would consider getting engaged." Jim looks at their hands, resting against her thigh. "I don't have a ring or anything. I'm just -- I'm wondering if it's time I buy one."
The way she looks at him is enough to make him broadly smile and then her kiss is sweet and tastes like peppermint and spice and he slides a hand underneath her sweater and t-shirt to rest his fingers against her bare stomach. He's already thinking about the ring and the wedding, a short engagement period. Kids, maybe, but he doesn't want to get ahead of himself. She rubs the side of his face.
Their foreheads rest against each other. Jim expels a breath. "So."
"What?" she kisses him again.
"What did you really want for Christmas?" he asks.
Pam pulls away slightly. "A Smurf. Duh, Jim. It's like you don't know me at all."
"Oh, right. A Smurf. Obviously." He's laughing.
"Obviously," she echoes.
The radio's playing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing and later they'll run outside and have a snowball fight that will eventually encompass their entire block, but for now they just sit in silence. Jim's new watch ticks its way to 10:36 and Pam doesn't remember ever being unhappy. He hums along against her neck and the melody tickles her skin in rhythm.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-13 07:32 am (UTC)[I hope The Host is not eating your brain too much.]
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-13 01:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-14 12:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-30 07:23 pm (UTC)I'm bored and have therefore spent the last hour playing FANDOM PALEONTOLOGIST and attempting to recover what I can of yankeeficswap. Putting what I've found into a comprehensive list is going to take a while, so since you're the one who brought the deletion to my attention, I figured I'd give you your results first. It's kind of good news/bad news - nothing turned up for your other two yankeeficswap fics, but I did find everything for this one, so...lucky you, kind of! Anywhere, here it is:
http://64.233.169.104/search?q=cache:community.livejournal.com/yankeeficswap/6190.html
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-30 10:32 pm (UTC)