Office fic: the city burns slowly
the city burns slowly
the office, toby (toby/pam), pg, 778 words, no spoilers but this is apoca!fic and the world’s ending, mmkay? this is what i get for reading sartre while consuming sugar.
“Costa Rica?”
The bed is unmade like everything is.
Stars, One More Night
*
“Costa Rica?”
“Costa Rica.”
Side by side, they angle themselves under a desk and trade sighs within the hour as if it were habit. It’s almost romantic, if you think about it, but even that inclination disappears after seconds.
There are dark circles painted under Pam’s eyes, her hands folded neatly in her lap as her legs stretch in front of her. He smiles, absently, leaning back and counting the clicks of the clock off to the side. He had a moment, before, where he sort of wished he had gone through Kelly’s desk- there isn’t much to read, but back issues of People are almost entertaining.
After awhile, she breathes. “Why Costa Rica?”
“Surfing,” he says absently, fumbling with a pen- it’s empty, two days ago he was supposed to change the ink. “Waves are awesome and it’s quiet. I like when it’s quiet.”
He pauses, looking up at her. Her hair spills against the nape of her neck and his fingers itch to brush against it, but he’s still. For a moment, since he has a couple, he indulges and studies her some more. He tried to get her to sleep the other night, gave her his suit jacket because she was cold, but even then (even him), she’s still restless. They both are.
“Well.” He corrects himself. “I did.”
There might be a laugh, but let’s admit it, it’s too quiet to tell. Things are starting to bleed together, memories, and his ears start ringing with busy signals- he tried calling home, the answering machine, and then his ex’s. His lips are too chapped for a goodbye anyhow.
He picks at his sleeve. “Reach your parents?”
She shakes her head, stretching. He watches as a yellow writing pad drops into her lap and she pulls a pen from behind her ear. They were here late- annuals for him, faxes for her, life still moved at that pace. Only last week, which was funny a couple days ago.
“Nah,” she says, yawning after awhile. There’s resignation, again, in her voice and returning home. She scratches her name in the margin of the first page, her wrist cocking as the pen spins against the pad again and again. “It’s busy.”
He says nothing.
They fall into silence once more and he pushes to remember, again, if he called Sasha- the i love you is dry in his throat, pasted by the wisp of smoke the peels in from the vents. He wonders if she knows, knew, but he’s tries and stops himself from continuing that line of thought. Not yet, he tells himself.
(and a memory: the windows are closed, she says and it’s day six. He watches her fingers press over the security tape- the news is on, blubbering we don’t know what’s going on.
Pam sighs.)
Toby looks up, edged by the strange impracticality of bravery. He remembers screaming on the six o’clock news. It echoes, for awhile, and they stayed in the kitchen when they realized it was outside.
“I was going to ask you out.”
Her eyes are wide, cheeks flushed, and still, still, he drops his gaze and listens as her pen stops. There’s a snap and, out of the corner of his eye, he sees waves and a palm tree.
And well, great Toby, way to go with the timing- it unnerves him, still, that she’s not saying anything. But then again, what really can she say?
Her fingers drift against his thigh. And then her hand drops. He listens for a sigh, but gets the shift of fabric, her skirt brushing against her leg as she moves closer, a little closer.
Her voice is soft. There’s a hesitation, but: “Where would you take me?”
He doesn’t look at her, his hands sliding into his pockets. His thumb brushes over the front of his cell phone. There’s a beep. He might charge it again. Maybe.
“Not Poor Richard’s,” he tells her, “Maybe a movie. Don’t know.”
He doesn’t say: I wasn’t really going to try. Again. Better left unsaid, right?
She tugs at his sleeve and he can smell the smoke again. He slides forward, out from under the desk, moving to the door to check the tape. His fingers press against the edges, out of routine, and he bites his lip.
They have food for a couple days. Good enough, he thinks as he moves back into the room. He sighs before he joins her, resuming his position. His back hurts so he sits straighter, closing his eyes.
Her shoulder brushes his. His eyes open, then.
“I like the movies.”
He might smile, but he’s staring at his hands. “Cool.”
end.
the office, toby (toby/pam), pg, 778 words, no spoilers but this is apoca!fic and the world’s ending, mmkay? this is what i get for reading sartre while consuming sugar.
“Costa Rica?”
The bed is unmade like everything is.
Stars, One More Night
*
“Costa Rica?”
“Costa Rica.”
Side by side, they angle themselves under a desk and trade sighs within the hour as if it were habit. It’s almost romantic, if you think about it, but even that inclination disappears after seconds.
There are dark circles painted under Pam’s eyes, her hands folded neatly in her lap as her legs stretch in front of her. He smiles, absently, leaning back and counting the clicks of the clock off to the side. He had a moment, before, where he sort of wished he had gone through Kelly’s desk- there isn’t much to read, but back issues of People are almost entertaining.
After awhile, she breathes. “Why Costa Rica?”
“Surfing,” he says absently, fumbling with a pen- it’s empty, two days ago he was supposed to change the ink. “Waves are awesome and it’s quiet. I like when it’s quiet.”
He pauses, looking up at her. Her hair spills against the nape of her neck and his fingers itch to brush against it, but he’s still. For a moment, since he has a couple, he indulges and studies her some more. He tried to get her to sleep the other night, gave her his suit jacket because she was cold, but even then (even him), she’s still restless. They both are.
“Well.” He corrects himself. “I did.”
There might be a laugh, but let’s admit it, it’s too quiet to tell. Things are starting to bleed together, memories, and his ears start ringing with busy signals- he tried calling home, the answering machine, and then his ex’s. His lips are too chapped for a goodbye anyhow.
He picks at his sleeve. “Reach your parents?”
She shakes her head, stretching. He watches as a yellow writing pad drops into her lap and she pulls a pen from behind her ear. They were here late- annuals for him, faxes for her, life still moved at that pace. Only last week, which was funny a couple days ago.
“Nah,” she says, yawning after awhile. There’s resignation, again, in her voice and returning home. She scratches her name in the margin of the first page, her wrist cocking as the pen spins against the pad again and again. “It’s busy.”
He says nothing.
They fall into silence once more and he pushes to remember, again, if he called Sasha- the i love you is dry in his throat, pasted by the wisp of smoke the peels in from the vents. He wonders if she knows, knew, but he’s tries and stops himself from continuing that line of thought. Not yet, he tells himself.
(and a memory: the windows are closed, she says and it’s day six. He watches her fingers press over the security tape- the news is on, blubbering we don’t know what’s going on.
Pam sighs.)
Toby looks up, edged by the strange impracticality of bravery. He remembers screaming on the six o’clock news. It echoes, for awhile, and they stayed in the kitchen when they realized it was outside.
“I was going to ask you out.”
Her eyes are wide, cheeks flushed, and still, still, he drops his gaze and listens as her pen stops. There’s a snap and, out of the corner of his eye, he sees waves and a palm tree.
And well, great Toby, way to go with the timing- it unnerves him, still, that she’s not saying anything. But then again, what really can she say?
Her fingers drift against his thigh. And then her hand drops. He listens for a sigh, but gets the shift of fabric, her skirt brushing against her leg as she moves closer, a little closer.
Her voice is soft. There’s a hesitation, but: “Where would you take me?”
He doesn’t look at her, his hands sliding into his pockets. His thumb brushes over the front of his cell phone. There’s a beep. He might charge it again. Maybe.
“Not Poor Richard’s,” he tells her, “Maybe a movie. Don’t know.”
He doesn’t say: I wasn’t really going to try. Again. Better left unsaid, right?
She tugs at his sleeve and he can smell the smoke again. He slides forward, out from under the desk, moving to the door to check the tape. His fingers press against the edges, out of routine, and he bites his lip.
They have food for a couple days. Good enough, he thinks as he moves back into the room. He sighs before he joins her, resuming his position. His back hurts so he sits straighter, closing his eyes.
Her shoulder brushes his. His eyes open, then.
“I like the movies.”
He might smile, but he’s staring at his hands. “Cool.”
end.