Office fic: let’s laugh at ships in the sky
let’s laugh at ships in the sky
the office, jim/pam, pg-13, 1104 words, spoilers for ben franklin, for falulatonks because i promised to do it.
It must have rained all through the night
The tires just couldnt grip right
So I took another long sip
And wiped away my chapped lips
The Hush Sound, Hourglass
In the back of her mind, wedding dresses still smell like attic dust and she reassures herself that, in a couple years, it can be someone else’s vintage prom dress.
She’s hiding, but unable to admit it. The roof is just kind of that place, quiet and away from the line of sight. She sits on the ledge, picking at her nails and studying the marks of charcoal smeared against her fingertips.
The roof door squeaks and she looks up, watching Jim slip across to her. His hands are shoved in his coat and he smiles, but not really. They’re so much better at lines anyway.
“Are you angry at me?” He blurts.
Her lips part and there’s a silence that says well, yes but she’s better at telling a little, little lie. Today, she's done grasping at the edges. So maybe, right now, she’ll give into indulgences.
“No,” she says quietly, looking away. “I’m tired.”
He can play with the meaning.
*
It eats away at her, sometimes, the loss of tangibility, friendship, and all of the above. Sometimes, it’s why she watches him (them) and looks away. Quietly, she wonders if she’ll ever be able to get past this, past this in her own way. This isn’t a backwards philosophy.
She blinks and he’s at the front of her desk, his fingers skimming against the counter. It’s a nervous habit- she’s picked it up since the beginning- and she almost reaches over to still his hand. But that would be touching him. And Pam’s nowhere near ready for the clandestine touching.
She picks her pencil up instead, doodling around the edges. Nothing complicated, but she looks up and Jim’s still there, caught by a nail.
“Draw me something,” he says, like it’s supposed to be desperately okay. “Seriously. Draw me something.”
She blinks again, leaning back in her chair and reaching for her coke. Her fingers curl around the straw and it scratches against the mouth of the can, causing her to cringe a: “Why?”
“Because you look bored,” is kind of lame, but he says it anyway.
She almost laughs because it’s kind of funny- not really- at how uncomfortable they are around each other this way. It’s all just a metaphorical game, oh god, and she’s really sick of playing it.
Let’s talk about habits, then.
“Ah,” she murmurs, slowly with a sigh. “Well, I’m not.”
He bites his lip, tries to pout, but fumbles awkward. She might soften, but he doesn’t notice. “But I still want you to draw me something.”
It’s another attempt, a small one, to burn bridges or insert metaphor here. She brushes her hair out of her eyes.
Maybe, she’ll relent. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”
*
It’s a blank canvas.
Over an extended period of time, she’s come to the inevitable conclusion that staring at a blank canvas has to be the worst feeling the world.
She feels useless and it’s more than harrowing- it pushes out in a painful swirl of insecurities. She’s still questioning why he’s asked her and she’s standing here, right now, when she could be grocery shopping.
Grocery shopping.
Pam turns and picks up a small container of green paint, unscrewing the lid and letting it clatter the ground.
She starts, ignoring the red that spills onto her coffee table.
*
She leaves it on his desk, under papers, with her cheeks flaming as she disappears to the kitchen, to Kelly’s desk with what’s the guy’s name again? on the tip of her tongue.
She makes it to the kitchen. And detours to Toby’s desk instead.
*
“Um, thanks.”
She’s been waiting for later, quietly, and ignoring every glance she gets when he spins his chair in circles.
“Welcome,” she offers nothing more.
He sighs, standing. “What is it?”
A slight curl of her lips causes her to look away as her fingers drum against the calendar in front of her.
“I don’t know.” And it’s honest, an array of colors against a plain backdrop- she gave him everything, undistinguishable, like puzzle. Odd, but she stuck to sentiment for the first time in years. She’s hiding in form and if he wants to get it, he’ll understand.
“You said draw me something,” she mimics, “and I drew you something all the while playing with texture and volume and things you really don’t pay attention to. And I’m more than aware of the fact that I’m subjecting myself to awkward rambling, but you’re a smart guy Halpert, use your eyes.”
He nods and takes a mint.
*
He walks her to her car (Karen’s got a cold, sick at home) and she doesn’t ask why, but doesn’t mind it or the moment either.
We talk in parking lots seems to linger between the two of them and she waits for him to go first because she’s been first everyday he’s been back. She stops, leans against the door of her car, and looks up.
“It’s green,” he says. “And blue.”
She shrugs. “It’s yellow, red, and black too.”
He smirks, shifting, and then leans against the car with her. He stares quietly into the parking lot, out to the street, and she just follows his gaze to pick a streetlamp to watch just because.
“There’s a really bad joke in here somewhere,” he murmurs awkwardly.
She could laugh, but her shoes are more interesting and she remembers a post-it with buy winter boots across it.
“I’m sorry.”
She looks up, studying the lines of his face. She’s gotten better, at lines and color, the pasting of moments and minutes alike. There’s nerves and then there’s something else- she remembers being ready a long time ago, but she slipped and he came back, she stopped.
“No,” she’s slow, “you’re not.”
He looks down and knows that she’s right, there’s an apology needed but they’re not there yet. It was though, for that second, and he gets a tentative smile.
She watches his hands as they slide out of his pockets and he pushes forward, turning to face her. He’s a little too close, but she’s too tired to really be bothered by it. Jim watches her and she watches him back and while they’ve had the unspoken, they continue to have shaky ground. No happy mediums makes everything exhaustingly realistic.
His fingers brush against her jaw. “Maybe soon?”
He doesn’t kiss her, but she doesn’t move. Her lips are wet, her teeth sinking into the bottom one, and maybe it’s almost like he kissed her already. Too long ago and she’s still stuck with memories.
She nods, looking away. “Maybe soon.”
finished.
the office, jim/pam, pg-13, 1104 words, spoilers for ben franklin, for falulatonks because i promised to do it.
It must have rained all through the night
The tires just couldnt grip right
So I took another long sip
And wiped away my chapped lips
The Hush Sound, Hourglass
In the back of her mind, wedding dresses still smell like attic dust and she reassures herself that, in a couple years, it can be someone else’s vintage prom dress.
She’s hiding, but unable to admit it. The roof is just kind of that place, quiet and away from the line of sight. She sits on the ledge, picking at her nails and studying the marks of charcoal smeared against her fingertips.
The roof door squeaks and she looks up, watching Jim slip across to her. His hands are shoved in his coat and he smiles, but not really. They’re so much better at lines anyway.
“Are you angry at me?” He blurts.
Her lips part and there’s a silence that says well, yes but she’s better at telling a little, little lie. Today, she's done grasping at the edges. So maybe, right now, she’ll give into indulgences.
“No,” she says quietly, looking away. “I’m tired.”
He can play with the meaning.
*
It eats away at her, sometimes, the loss of tangibility, friendship, and all of the above. Sometimes, it’s why she watches him (them) and looks away. Quietly, she wonders if she’ll ever be able to get past this, past this in her own way. This isn’t a backwards philosophy.
She blinks and he’s at the front of her desk, his fingers skimming against the counter. It’s a nervous habit- she’s picked it up since the beginning- and she almost reaches over to still his hand. But that would be touching him. And Pam’s nowhere near ready for the clandestine touching.
She picks her pencil up instead, doodling around the edges. Nothing complicated, but she looks up and Jim’s still there, caught by a nail.
“Draw me something,” he says, like it’s supposed to be desperately okay. “Seriously. Draw me something.”
She blinks again, leaning back in her chair and reaching for her coke. Her fingers curl around the straw and it scratches against the mouth of the can, causing her to cringe a: “Why?”
“Because you look bored,” is kind of lame, but he says it anyway.
She almost laughs because it’s kind of funny- not really- at how uncomfortable they are around each other this way. It’s all just a metaphorical game, oh god, and she’s really sick of playing it.
Let’s talk about habits, then.
“Ah,” she murmurs, slowly with a sigh. “Well, I’m not.”
He bites his lip, tries to pout, but fumbles awkward. She might soften, but he doesn’t notice. “But I still want you to draw me something.”
It’s another attempt, a small one, to burn bridges or insert metaphor here. She brushes her hair out of her eyes.
Maybe, she’ll relent. “I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”
*
It’s a blank canvas.
Over an extended period of time, she’s come to the inevitable conclusion that staring at a blank canvas has to be the worst feeling the world.
She feels useless and it’s more than harrowing- it pushes out in a painful swirl of insecurities. She’s still questioning why he’s asked her and she’s standing here, right now, when she could be grocery shopping.
Grocery shopping.
Pam turns and picks up a small container of green paint, unscrewing the lid and letting it clatter the ground.
She starts, ignoring the red that spills onto her coffee table.
*
She leaves it on his desk, under papers, with her cheeks flaming as she disappears to the kitchen, to Kelly’s desk with what’s the guy’s name again? on the tip of her tongue.
She makes it to the kitchen. And detours to Toby’s desk instead.
*
“Um, thanks.”
She’s been waiting for later, quietly, and ignoring every glance she gets when he spins his chair in circles.
“Welcome,” she offers nothing more.
He sighs, standing. “What is it?”
A slight curl of her lips causes her to look away as her fingers drum against the calendar in front of her.
“I don’t know.” And it’s honest, an array of colors against a plain backdrop- she gave him everything, undistinguishable, like puzzle. Odd, but she stuck to sentiment for the first time in years. She’s hiding in form and if he wants to get it, he’ll understand.
“You said draw me something,” she mimics, “and I drew you something all the while playing with texture and volume and things you really don’t pay attention to. And I’m more than aware of the fact that I’m subjecting myself to awkward rambling, but you’re a smart guy Halpert, use your eyes.”
He nods and takes a mint.
*
He walks her to her car (Karen’s got a cold, sick at home) and she doesn’t ask why, but doesn’t mind it or the moment either.
We talk in parking lots seems to linger between the two of them and she waits for him to go first because she’s been first everyday he’s been back. She stops, leans against the door of her car, and looks up.
“It’s green,” he says. “And blue.”
She shrugs. “It’s yellow, red, and black too.”
He smirks, shifting, and then leans against the car with her. He stares quietly into the parking lot, out to the street, and she just follows his gaze to pick a streetlamp to watch just because.
“There’s a really bad joke in here somewhere,” he murmurs awkwardly.
She could laugh, but her shoes are more interesting and she remembers a post-it with buy winter boots across it.
“I’m sorry.”
She looks up, studying the lines of his face. She’s gotten better, at lines and color, the pasting of moments and minutes alike. There’s nerves and then there’s something else- she remembers being ready a long time ago, but she slipped and he came back, she stopped.
“No,” she’s slow, “you’re not.”
He looks down and knows that she’s right, there’s an apology needed but they’re not there yet. It was though, for that second, and he gets a tentative smile.
She watches his hands as they slide out of his pockets and he pushes forward, turning to face her. He’s a little too close, but she’s too tired to really be bothered by it. Jim watches her and she watches him back and while they’ve had the unspoken, they continue to have shaky ground. No happy mediums makes everything exhaustingly realistic.
His fingers brush against her jaw. “Maybe soon?”
He doesn’t kiss her, but she doesn’t move. Her lips are wet, her teeth sinking into the bottom one, and maybe it’s almost like he kissed her already. Too long ago and she’s still stuck with memories.
She nods, looking away. “Maybe soon.”
finished.