FIC: A Lack of Color (The Office, Pam/Karen, Pam/Jim, PG)
Title: A Lack of Color
Author: aphrodite_mine
Summary: Post-"Double Date", Pam struggles to figure out where she stands. Pam/Karen friendship, Pam/Jim.
Rating: PG
Thanks to nalakaori_chan for the beta!
When Pam gets home all she wants to do is cry and sleep and never show her face at "that place" again, and of course Jim is being almost ridiculously nice to her, making her feel awful for caring so much about the whole thing in the first place. But, really, she's right. This is her mom she's talking about, and Michael just came in and he had no right to act like that only to dump her on her ass; hasn't her mom suffered enough.
She keeps replaying the moment when her hand made contact with his face, and it wasn't nearly enough; everything bubbling to the surface, and Michael stupidly crying when she was the one who should have been falling apart.
"I'm craving peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches," she tells Jim, because he won't stop looking at her, and even though the idea of the two half-solids swirling together on wheat bread turns her stomach in the wrong way, she knows they don't have Marshmallow Fluff in the house, and she just needs one second to breathe.
Jim must sense something, because he's out the door fast, careful not to jangle the keys too loudly, probably remembering the time that set off a four-hour migraine punctuated by vomiting on either end. Everything is interrupted by sickness these days--even when Pam feels wonderful; like a beautiful glowing pregnant thing, there's an underlying ugh waiting to rise up and attack without warning. And as a result (they have to be so careful) everything around her is shades of gray and white.
They've been meaning, and wanting, to paint this place for months, but as long as the thought has been there, Jim's had the question, "Won't this be bad for the baby?" and one day, when Pam bought brick red paint on a whim, just to look at something else, opening the can brought on a wave of dry heaves that left her over the toilet for hours.
So maybe her mom just wanted to be happy, and maybe Pam didn't have the authority--the whatever--to interfere in their relationship. In the grown-up stuff. Maybe she should have just... sat back and watched. Let Michael parade her mother around the office and make MILF jokes and hold back the urge to puke that for once was actually called for. She rubs her eyes, wondering if she took things too far.
Knowing that the problem will never be Michael, because this is his office. Knowing that there are too many things in life she's been ignoring, and maybe--just maybe--it's time to stop.
*
Ten minutes later she calls Jim, crying. "I'm sorry," she says, barely understandable, "I'm not even hungry. Will you come back and just hold me and not say anything about today or earlier or work or anything at all?"
"I'm already on my way."
*
There isn't even a weekend to let things mull over, to let Michael work up a dramatic story for why he doesn't have a bruise (Pam tries not to listen, but she overhears Phyllis telling Andy she's pretty sure he's wearing makeup, and in a little way, it makes her feel better). The next morning, she resumes the endless hours of calling and failing, letting the feeling really sink in that I'm not good at this, and What have I done--not hitting Michael, that had to happen. But with her life.
Her life.
Half-way to lunch, Pam has to take a snack break. She's found that eating small snacks helps keep the nausea down. Nibbling on crackers (she spread on the peanut butter Jim bought last night, packed them in a baggie), she idly checks her email, expecting maybe a shame note from her mother or a forward from someone she used to know.
Instead; k.filippelli@d-m.com - Sub: no invite means no present, right?
Pam can feel herself digesting, or the baby moving, and she clicks on the message.
Kidding, kidding. I assume you're still at this address and not Halpert x2 as Michael would likely find that too confusing. Heard the kid was conceived in sin--don't ask how I know, the gossip mill of DM runs wide and deep. Any case, happy for you. I have some left over maternity clothes/awesome shea butter lotion that you might be interested in? (Totally not implying that you have stretch marks, as that is something a jealous ex might engage in, ha) Keep answering phones like you own the place, Beesley.
*
Pam thinks of a thousand replies, starts at least six. She wants to tell Karen that she's not a receptionist anymore, that she's moved on, up. In the end, all she sends is "That sounds nice, thank you. Maybe we can meet for coffee/tea/water/something kid friendly?" She types her work number, then her cell, as an after thought. "PS I slapped Michael yesterday. He dated my mom, and then dumped her."
After hitting send, not a minute passes before her desk phone rings--without going through Erin--and she picks up. "Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam," she says, without a second thought, the rhythm never having left her.
Karen doesn't ask any questions like "Seriously?" or "You did WHAT?" but merely says, smiling (Pam can tell--that old saying that you can tell when someone is smiling into the phone is true) "Pam Beesley--Halpert--whatever? You are awesome. I absolutely need to hear more."
*
Ty is only eight months, but spending an afternoon watching him, beginning to stand up holding onto tables, crawling all around, and even chattering is exhausting. Pam gets home and sprawls out on the bed, smiling.
"I like this color on you," Jim says, touching her stomach. Neither of them can stop touching her stomach; it's really wonderful, actually.
"New top," Pam breathes, tucking her hands up under her head. "I got a bunch. A friend said she won't need them, at least for awhile." She doesn't ever think that she's lying, because, honestly, why would Jim want to know.
He lies down next to her, kisses her cheek.
*
She tugs off her coat on Monday morning, knowing the movement exposes her body a bit more than she's used to. But Karen's style is different than hers, and this was all that was clean this morning, and didn't require ironing. Ironing is no one's friend.
"Mmmm," Michael cave-man-voices, out from his office. "Pregnancy boobies!" He must immediately realize he's gone too far, because his hands, which were reaching out, retract, and he turns away.
Pam narrows her eyes. "Really, Michael?"
"No, no." He clears his throat. "You're right."
Pam sits at her desk for just as long, in that same awful chair, but her back doesn't hurt when she gets home.
*
"I'm throwing you a shower. You need to have a shower."
Pam blinks. "My mom's doing that, Karen."
"So? We can work together. That's great."
"My mom who I cried to every day when you and Jim were dating?"
Karen smiles, touches Pam's knee. "So it's that mom."
"But if I can get over it than so can she, right? I mean, you do have some good qualities."
"So do you, you know."
She sighs, smiles. Looks at Karen's face--no hint of a joke or lie there--and, despite everything, Pam says, "I know."
Author: aphrodite_mine
Summary: Post-"Double Date", Pam struggles to figure out where she stands. Pam/Karen friendship, Pam/Jim.
Rating: PG
Thanks to nalakaori_chan for the beta!
When Pam gets home all she wants to do is cry and sleep and never show her face at "that place" again, and of course Jim is being almost ridiculously nice to her, making her feel awful for caring so much about the whole thing in the first place. But, really, she's right. This is her mom she's talking about, and Michael just came in and he had no right to act like that only to dump her on her ass; hasn't her mom suffered enough.
She keeps replaying the moment when her hand made contact with his face, and it wasn't nearly enough; everything bubbling to the surface, and Michael stupidly crying when she was the one who should have been falling apart.
"I'm craving peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches," she tells Jim, because he won't stop looking at her, and even though the idea of the two half-solids swirling together on wheat bread turns her stomach in the wrong way, she knows they don't have Marshmallow Fluff in the house, and she just needs one second to breathe.
Jim must sense something, because he's out the door fast, careful not to jangle the keys too loudly, probably remembering the time that set off a four-hour migraine punctuated by vomiting on either end. Everything is interrupted by sickness these days--even when Pam feels wonderful; like a beautiful glowing pregnant thing, there's an underlying ugh waiting to rise up and attack without warning. And as a result (they have to be so careful) everything around her is shades of gray and white.
They've been meaning, and wanting, to paint this place for months, but as long as the thought has been there, Jim's had the question, "Won't this be bad for the baby?" and one day, when Pam bought brick red paint on a whim, just to look at something else, opening the can brought on a wave of dry heaves that left her over the toilet for hours.
So maybe her mom just wanted to be happy, and maybe Pam didn't have the authority--the whatever--to interfere in their relationship. In the grown-up stuff. Maybe she should have just... sat back and watched. Let Michael parade her mother around the office and make MILF jokes and hold back the urge to puke that for once was actually called for. She rubs her eyes, wondering if she took things too far.
Knowing that the problem will never be Michael, because this is his office. Knowing that there are too many things in life she's been ignoring, and maybe--just maybe--it's time to stop.
*
Ten minutes later she calls Jim, crying. "I'm sorry," she says, barely understandable, "I'm not even hungry. Will you come back and just hold me and not say anything about today or earlier or work or anything at all?"
"I'm already on my way."
*
There isn't even a weekend to let things mull over, to let Michael work up a dramatic story for why he doesn't have a bruise (Pam tries not to listen, but she overhears Phyllis telling Andy she's pretty sure he's wearing makeup, and in a little way, it makes her feel better). The next morning, she resumes the endless hours of calling and failing, letting the feeling really sink in that I'm not good at this, and What have I done--not hitting Michael, that had to happen. But with her life.
Her life.
Half-way to lunch, Pam has to take a snack break. She's found that eating small snacks helps keep the nausea down. Nibbling on crackers (she spread on the peanut butter Jim bought last night, packed them in a baggie), she idly checks her email, expecting maybe a shame note from her mother or a forward from someone she used to know.
Instead; k.filippelli@d-m.com - Sub: no invite means no present, right?
Pam can feel herself digesting, or the baby moving, and she clicks on the message.
Kidding, kidding. I assume you're still at this address and not Halpert x2 as Michael would likely find that too confusing. Heard the kid was conceived in sin--don't ask how I know, the gossip mill of DM runs wide and deep. Any case, happy for you. I have some left over maternity clothes/awesome shea butter lotion that you might be interested in? (Totally not implying that you have stretch marks, as that is something a jealous ex might engage in, ha) Keep answering phones like you own the place, Beesley.
*
Pam thinks of a thousand replies, starts at least six. She wants to tell Karen that she's not a receptionist anymore, that she's moved on, up. In the end, all she sends is "That sounds nice, thank you. Maybe we can meet for coffee/tea/water/something kid friendly?" She types her work number, then her cell, as an after thought. "PS I slapped Michael yesterday. He dated my mom, and then dumped her."
After hitting send, not a minute passes before her desk phone rings--without going through Erin--and she picks up. "Dunder-Mifflin, this is Pam," she says, without a second thought, the rhythm never having left her.
Karen doesn't ask any questions like "Seriously?" or "You did WHAT?" but merely says, smiling (Pam can tell--that old saying that you can tell when someone is smiling into the phone is true) "Pam Beesley--Halpert--whatever? You are awesome. I absolutely need to hear more."
*
Ty is only eight months, but spending an afternoon watching him, beginning to stand up holding onto tables, crawling all around, and even chattering is exhausting. Pam gets home and sprawls out on the bed, smiling.
"I like this color on you," Jim says, touching her stomach. Neither of them can stop touching her stomach; it's really wonderful, actually.
"New top," Pam breathes, tucking her hands up under her head. "I got a bunch. A friend said she won't need them, at least for awhile." She doesn't ever think that she's lying, because, honestly, why would Jim want to know.
He lies down next to her, kisses her cheek.
*
She tugs off her coat on Monday morning, knowing the movement exposes her body a bit more than she's used to. But Karen's style is different than hers, and this was all that was clean this morning, and didn't require ironing. Ironing is no one's friend.
"Mmmm," Michael cave-man-voices, out from his office. "Pregnancy boobies!" He must immediately realize he's gone too far, because his hands, which were reaching out, retract, and he turns away.
Pam narrows her eyes. "Really, Michael?"
"No, no." He clears his throat. "You're right."
Pam sits at her desk for just as long, in that same awful chair, but her back doesn't hurt when she gets home.
*
"I'm throwing you a shower. You need to have a shower."
Pam blinks. "My mom's doing that, Karen."
"So? We can work together. That's great."
"My mom who I cried to every day when you and Jim were dating?"
Karen smiles, touches Pam's knee. "So it's that mom."
"But if I can get over it than so can she, right? I mean, you do have some good qualities."
"So do you, you know."
She sighs, smiles. Looks at Karen's face--no hint of a joke or lie there--and, despite everything, Pam says, "I know."