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care_saysTitle: The Stars are Going to Fall Tonight
Fandom: The Office (US)
Written For:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
yankeeficswap 2006, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
merrilytookish
Pairings: Jim/Pam
Word Count: 1373
Rating: PG
Summary: St. Patrick's Day, 2007.
They end up cleaning the conference room together after Angela's St. Patrick's Day party, which turned out to be kind of fun because Michael bought Guinness for everybody – and – well – far be it that Pam has anything to say against Michael buying free beer for the office. She doesn't drink much of it, but it makes everyone else happier, and she likes Jim's smile when he's tipsy. She sips apple juice and picks at Angela's green brownies and thinks they're kind of weird, because okay, it just kind of freaks her out when brownies aren't entirely brown.
Karen left earlier in the month without theatrics. She and Jim broke up right before Valentine's Day, so. It wasn't that. Pam took her out for Chinese the night before she left, because that's what friends did and they were friends, and it was really about the job offer, plus some of her family was in Chicago and Karen wasn't afraid of moving. They toasted to greener pastures over chicken and snow peas and Pam gave her a scarf she knit herself. Chicago was cold, she heard. She hopes they'll keep in touch, maybe have coffee if they're ever in the same place again. It was nice having a normal girlfriend, even for just a little bit. She's not sure if Karen ever knew anything about her and Jim, but she's not even sure she cares.
Anyway, they're cleaning the conference room. Kind of quiet. Everyone else has left, which is how Pam likes it, and it's dark outside. She can make out the gray lumps of late snow on the edges of the parking lot. It's her least favorite time of year, right before spring. You get slush instead of real snow and it's raining all the time and every year around this time she takes a hot bath and tries to count the number of people that would come to her funeral. She hasn't told anyone about it. It's pretty morbid, not that she wants to kill herself or anything. She's just – curious. And Pam can usually tell if things have been okay when her bathwater is cold before she finishes listing the guests.
This year she wonders if her wedding guests and funeral guests would be one and the same, minus Roy's friends, and makes her feel unsettled. She dips her fingers into her bodywash and writes her name on the wall next to the tub. Maybe she'd ask Jim to give her hypothetical eulogy. She writes Jim's name. But then seeing the blurred contours of the J – I – M on her bathroom wall when she's naked in the tub makes her blush and she wipes the letters off before grabbing her towel. It's stupid, thinking thoughts that she should be discussing with a therapist.
"You're quiet. What're you thinking about?" Jim asks, folding up the paper tablecloth with a row of shamrocks along the bottom. She painted one on his cheek earlier and now she keeps wanting to trace it.
"Nothing," she says quickly. Funerals. Your shamrock. Being naked. "Just random stuff. Not really important."
"Your scintillating conversation skills are really making this all worth it," he teases, putting the folded tablecloth on the now bare table.
She ignores him, taking down the streamers from the ceiling. "You know you can throw that away? It's not we can use it again."
"I knew that," he says. "I was thinking of taking it home though."
Pam's pretty sure he's kidding, but, you know. She looks at him and her left foot wobbles slightly on the chair she's standing on. He's grinning. "Loser."
"Look who's talking." He stuffs the tablecloth into the trashcan and comes around to stand next to her. "You're the one that only has one kitchen."
She can feel him looking at her and it makes her dizzy. She strips the tape off the ceiling quickly and reminds herself to be an adult. Maturity's overrated, she decides, and hands him a ball of green streamers. It's a good thing that orange is whorish now, because otherwise the conference room would have been one raging slut fest. Pam wonders why green's not whorish anymore; maybe it's Dwight's favorite color or something. Maybe this year orange makes Baby Jesus cry.
"We're saving these, right?" Jim looks at his armful of streamer.
"Waste not, want not," she quips. He laughs. "Streamers are always reusable. It's hard to get food on them, and you can keep them for years."
"It was a pretty good party," he says. "For here."
"Thanks to Michael." She's taken off all the tape, and glances around for something to brace herself against so she can climb down. Jim offers his hand. She grips his fingers and squeezes as she tries not to fall.
"The beer definitely helped," he says, once she's on the ground. "But I had fun."
She thinks about sitting with him, quietly making fun of Michael, Andy, and Dwight during the whole party, and how his laugh had been loose and warm – maybe because of the Guinness – but maybe it just because of her. Their shoulders had brushed until they were just leaning in to each other, sides touching, and she could feel his thigh pressed along hers and it made everything a distraction.
"Me too," she says.
Jim smiles. "Good clean sober fun."
"Nothing wrong with that." Pam glances around the room. Everything's pretty much back to normal. The janitor said he'd vacuum the carpet for them, and they've already pushed the table against the wall.
He nods. "Nothing wrong with that," he echoes. "Hey, are we done here?"
"We make a good team, Halpert." She spins around and faces him, in the doorway of the conference room, and she hasn't been this happy for a while. You know, thinking of funerals. Happiness can be relative.
"I had faith that we'd rock the cleaning." He sticks his hands into his pockets. His tie is striped green today, for St. Patrick's she supposes, but it's new and she likes it as she wonders where it came from. Maybe his mom bought it for him.
They stand there with stupid grins and it's not last year when Roy was waiting for her in the truck downstairs. This year she has no place to be and no one in her apartment and it makes her feel strangely invincible, like she can do anything. She's gotten this feeling more and more recently, but this time it rises in her chest and swells around her lungs and heart, fluttering. Her breaths come short.
"Jim – " she says, at the same time he goes, "Pam – "
They pause and laugh. She glances at him. "No, go ahead."
He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. Her gaze follows it. "I was wondering what you were doing for dinner."
"Oh." Her stomach twists pleasantly. "I was wondering the same thing. I, um." She bites her bottom lip. "I could make something, in my one kitchen."
"Is this an attempt to secretly poison me, Pam?" His voice goes all low and rumbly and it makes her shiver. "Because I have been educated on the dangers of cooking in one kitchen. You can't fool me."
"Yeah, you got me." She shifts her weight to her other foot, folds her arms across her chest. "Um. So. Do you, um, want to?"
Jim looks startled. "Huh? Oh, I thought – yeah. Definitely. I'd love to."
"Cool." Her face feels hot and she hopes she's not turning too red. "Cool."
She doesn't know what she's looking for when she pulls out of the parking lot and Jim's behind her, the headlights of his Corolla winking in her rearview mirror. She knows what she's hoping for, the same thing she's been hoping for since he's been back from Connecticut. The same thing that he used to want and she hopes that he still does. The sidewalks are littered with green confetti from the St. Patrick's Day parade, and she wonders if it's possible to burst out of your own skin. Because it feels like she could, at any moment. The stars are going to fall tonight, Pam thinks as she stops at a red light. The stars are going to fall tonight.
Fandom: The Office (US)
Written For:
yankeeficswap 2006, for merrilytookishPairings: Jim/Pam
Word Count: 1373
Rating: PG
Summary: St. Patrick's Day, 2007.
They end up cleaning the conference room together after Angela's St. Patrick's Day party, which turned out to be kind of fun because Michael bought Guinness for everybody – and – well – far be it that Pam has anything to say against Michael buying free beer for the office. She doesn't drink much of it, but it makes everyone else happier, and she likes Jim's smile when he's tipsy. She sips apple juice and picks at Angela's green brownies and thinks they're kind of weird, because okay, it just kind of freaks her out when brownies aren't entirely brown.
Karen left earlier in the month without theatrics. She and Jim broke up right before Valentine's Day, so. It wasn't that. Pam took her out for Chinese the night before she left, because that's what friends did and they were friends, and it was really about the job offer, plus some of her family was in Chicago and Karen wasn't afraid of moving. They toasted to greener pastures over chicken and snow peas and Pam gave her a scarf she knit herself. Chicago was cold, she heard. She hopes they'll keep in touch, maybe have coffee if they're ever in the same place again. It was nice having a normal girlfriend, even for just a little bit. She's not sure if Karen ever knew anything about her and Jim, but she's not even sure she cares.
Anyway, they're cleaning the conference room. Kind of quiet. Everyone else has left, which is how Pam likes it, and it's dark outside. She can make out the gray lumps of late snow on the edges of the parking lot. It's her least favorite time of year, right before spring. You get slush instead of real snow and it's raining all the time and every year around this time she takes a hot bath and tries to count the number of people that would come to her funeral. She hasn't told anyone about it. It's pretty morbid, not that she wants to kill herself or anything. She's just – curious. And Pam can usually tell if things have been okay when her bathwater is cold before she finishes listing the guests.
This year she wonders if her wedding guests and funeral guests would be one and the same, minus Roy's friends, and makes her feel unsettled. She dips her fingers into her bodywash and writes her name on the wall next to the tub. Maybe she'd ask Jim to give her hypothetical eulogy. She writes Jim's name. But then seeing the blurred contours of the J – I – M on her bathroom wall when she's naked in the tub makes her blush and she wipes the letters off before grabbing her towel. It's stupid, thinking thoughts that she should be discussing with a therapist.
"You're quiet. What're you thinking about?" Jim asks, folding up the paper tablecloth with a row of shamrocks along the bottom. She painted one on his cheek earlier and now she keeps wanting to trace it.
"Nothing," she says quickly. Funerals. Your shamrock. Being naked. "Just random stuff. Not really important."
"Your scintillating conversation skills are really making this all worth it," he teases, putting the folded tablecloth on the now bare table.
She ignores him, taking down the streamers from the ceiling. "You know you can throw that away? It's not we can use it again."
"I knew that," he says. "I was thinking of taking it home though."
Pam's pretty sure he's kidding, but, you know. She looks at him and her left foot wobbles slightly on the chair she's standing on. He's grinning. "Loser."
"Look who's talking." He stuffs the tablecloth into the trashcan and comes around to stand next to her. "You're the one that only has one kitchen."
She can feel him looking at her and it makes her dizzy. She strips the tape off the ceiling quickly and reminds herself to be an adult. Maturity's overrated, she decides, and hands him a ball of green streamers. It's a good thing that orange is whorish now, because otherwise the conference room would have been one raging slut fest. Pam wonders why green's not whorish anymore; maybe it's Dwight's favorite color or something. Maybe this year orange makes Baby Jesus cry.
"We're saving these, right?" Jim looks at his armful of streamer.
"Waste not, want not," she quips. He laughs. "Streamers are always reusable. It's hard to get food on them, and you can keep them for years."
"It was a pretty good party," he says. "For here."
"Thanks to Michael." She's taken off all the tape, and glances around for something to brace herself against so she can climb down. Jim offers his hand. She grips his fingers and squeezes as she tries not to fall.
"The beer definitely helped," he says, once she's on the ground. "But I had fun."
She thinks about sitting with him, quietly making fun of Michael, Andy, and Dwight during the whole party, and how his laugh had been loose and warm – maybe because of the Guinness – but maybe it just because of her. Their shoulders had brushed until they were just leaning in to each other, sides touching, and she could feel his thigh pressed along hers and it made everything a distraction.
"Me too," she says.
Jim smiles. "Good clean sober fun."
"Nothing wrong with that." Pam glances around the room. Everything's pretty much back to normal. The janitor said he'd vacuum the carpet for them, and they've already pushed the table against the wall.
He nods. "Nothing wrong with that," he echoes. "Hey, are we done here?"
"We make a good team, Halpert." She spins around and faces him, in the doorway of the conference room, and she hasn't been this happy for a while. You know, thinking of funerals. Happiness can be relative.
"I had faith that we'd rock the cleaning." He sticks his hands into his pockets. His tie is striped green today, for St. Patrick's she supposes, but it's new and she likes it as she wonders where it came from. Maybe his mom bought it for him.
They stand there with stupid grins and it's not last year when Roy was waiting for her in the truck downstairs. This year she has no place to be and no one in her apartment and it makes her feel strangely invincible, like she can do anything. She's gotten this feeling more and more recently, but this time it rises in her chest and swells around her lungs and heart, fluttering. Her breaths come short.
"Jim – " she says, at the same time he goes, "Pam – "
They pause and laugh. She glances at him. "No, go ahead."
He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing. Her gaze follows it. "I was wondering what you were doing for dinner."
"Oh." Her stomach twists pleasantly. "I was wondering the same thing. I, um." She bites her bottom lip. "I could make something, in my one kitchen."
"Is this an attempt to secretly poison me, Pam?" His voice goes all low and rumbly and it makes her shiver. "Because I have been educated on the dangers of cooking in one kitchen. You can't fool me."
"Yeah, you got me." She shifts her weight to her other foot, folds her arms across her chest. "Um. So. Do you, um, want to?"
Jim looks startled. "Huh? Oh, I thought – yeah. Definitely. I'd love to."
"Cool." Her face feels hot and she hopes she's not turning too red. "Cool."
She doesn't know what she's looking for when she pulls out of the parking lot and Jim's behind her, the headlights of his Corolla winking in her rearview mirror. She knows what she's hoping for, the same thing she's been hoping for since he's been back from Connecticut. The same thing that he used to want and she hopes that he still does. The sidewalks are littered with green confetti from the St. Patrick's Day parade, and she wonders if it's possible to burst out of your own skin. Because it feels like she could, at any moment. The stars are going to fall tonight, Pam thinks as she stops at a red light. The stars are going to fall tonight.