Cappuccino Chocolate Chip (Pam/Dwight), G
Title: Cappuccino Chocolate Chip
Author: Chardin ( scrantonscribe )
Pairing/Character: Pam/Dwight
Rating: G
Summary: After Dwight gets back from the hospital, Pam finds things aren’t quite as different as she expected.
Timeframe: Post "The Injury"
Spoilers: The Injury
Many thanks to EmilyHalpert of More Than That for her excellent beta work.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
*
“Whoa…is that a Prism DuroSport?”
Pam glances up from the computer screen. Dwight is standing with his elbows on her desk in an unnervingly Jim-like posture. He stares intently at a small white MP3 player sprouting from the USB port.
“Yeah. Roy gave it to me for Christmas…” Pam tries to ignore the eerie sense of déjà vu. “I’m putting songs on it.” She waits apprehensively for mention of a Russian music website, but instead, Dwight reaches over to pick up the MP3 player. She leans away slightly to avoid touching his arm.
“Nice cover. Where’d you get it?” Dwight sounds suspicious, like maybe she stole it from his desk while he was at the hospital.
“Um. You kind of -- gave it to me, Dwight.”
He drops the device as though it were contaminated with nuclear waste. “What? No, I didn’t. I think I‘d remember doing something that abnormal.”
“Yesterday. When you had the concussion. You gave it to me and told me about that Russian website. It’s really great, actually. I bought an Enya album for, like, three dollars.”
Dwight staggers away from the desk, touching his forehead with one hand. He stands for a moment, swaying slightly; then he’s inches from Pam again, leaning over the desk and breathing in her face. Dwight’s voice, when he speaks, is low and intense.
“Pam. You have to tell me. What did I do yesterday? Did I hurt anyone? Was I the victim of a crime? Did I…” he lowers his voice, “leak information?”
Pam’s leaning backward as far as possible without being downright rude. “Oh, Dwight, I don’t know -- ”
“Silence! We shouldn’t talk about it here. Someone might be listening.” He glances around furtively.
It’s lunchtime, and everyone is in the break room but Stanley, dozing at his desk, and Ryan, nodding slightly to a beat from his earbuds. “Do you want to…talk about it in the kitchen?”
Dwight shakes his head rapidly. “Not safe. It could be bugged.”
Pam wonders who would bug the kitchen. “What do you want, Dwight? If we can’t talk about it here, and we can’t talk about it in the kitchen -- ”
“We have to go somewhere else, where no one knows our names. Get your coat.”
Pam’s mouth drops open, but Dwight is already wrestling his trench coat off the rack. She gets the odd feeling that she’s fallen into a Robert Ludlum spy novel.
Pam wracks her brain for a quick, believable, semi-accurate excuse. Roy hasn’t taken her out for lunch since before Thanksgiving, and it’s no secret. Dwight would notice if she came back empty-handed from the “dry cleaner.” A wild fabrication involving Pam’s mother and a chainsaw accident springs to mind, but not even Dwight -- to whom the unlikely is just another possibility -- would buy that. Maybe a bear attack instead?
A list of excuses is still scrolling through Pam‘s head when she‘s suddenly on her feet and fumbling for her handbag. Common sense screams as it flies out the window, and Dwight taps his foot impatiently at the door while she puts on her coat. “Sometime today would be nice,” he jibes.
“You know, I think I want to stay here. We can talk at my desk,” Pam counters. Dwight mumbles something under his breath.
“Sorry, Pam. You’re no slower than the average deskbound female. Come on.”
*
Dwight’s car smells like manure and pineapple air freshener. The heat is stuck on the highest setting, and Pam is starting to feel a little faint.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Manning Farm Dairy,” Dwight replies, then falls silent as if this is a perfectly sufficient answer.
“You mean the ice cream parlor? Dwight, it’s January.”
“I know. To eat ice cream in the winter is a test of character and physical superiority. I make a point to eat at least two scoops of fresh ice cream every day from November ’till March, outdoors.”
“Rain or shine?” Pam asks weakly.
“Rain or shine.”
*
She loses consciousness briefly as they turn onto Meadow Avenue. Just a second of heat-induced blackness, then the interior of the Trans Am swims back into focus and Dwight is looking at her. Pam rolls down her window with some difficulty (she wonders when Dwight last had a passenger) and sticks her head out like a dog.
“What’s wrong with you, Pam?”
“I’m okay now, thanks for your concern. Are you ever going to get the heat fixed?”
“Maybe. I’m teaching Cousin Mose how to dissemble an engine. He’ll make a darn good mechanic when I’m done. Can hire him out to the neighbors.”
She rests her head against the dusty window frame. “Good for you, Dwight. Good for him.”
*
Perhaps he was a little alarmed when his passenger blacked out, because Dwight opens the door for her once they reach Manning’s Dairy.
This is weird, Pam thinks. Dwight is taking me out for ice cream. In January. To talk about what he doesn’t remember. Just wait ‘till I tell Jim. She laughs aloud.
They’re standing at the counter, waiting as a businesswoman orders coffee. “Why are you laughing? What’s so funny?” Dwight asks with a hint of eagerness. He hates being on the outside of inside jokes.
“Nothing. Just -- that sign. It’s shaped like a cow.”
“Oh.” He stares at it, slightly puzzled. “That is a staggeringly poor representation. A cow like that would never live to reproduce.”
*
Pam steps up to the counter with a bill in her hand, but Dwight pulls her back. “Wait here,” he whispers. “This is man’s work.”
While she’s still digesting his last remark, Dwight edges forward and glances sidelong into the case of ice cream. After a ridiculous show of examining the merchandise, he leans forward and practically whispers to the scared-looking teenager behind the counter. “Is Bernie here?”
“No sir; Bernie only works on weekends,” she replies. “I -- I can take your order. If you want.”
“Dammit,” Dwight swears under his breath. “How long have you worked here, girl?”
“About three months, sir. Just a little cash for college next year. I work Tuesd -- ”
“I don’t care,” he interrupts. “Can you combine Caribbean Mango, Sour Apple Dare, and Licorice Grape Tsunami in one cone with gummy worms and hot tamales?”
The teenager looks dazed. “I can try.”
“Great. Now you, Pam, what do you want?” Dwight snaps his fingers at her.
“Uh, I don’t really care. A scoop of vanilla in a cup, I guess. Maybe chocolate sprinkles?”
All the ice cream tubs appear (unsurprisingly) to be full, so Pam’s startled when the girl shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, we’re all out. Someone bought the whole tub for a party. The Cappuccino Chocolate Chip is great, though.”
“I’d like a scoop of that, please,” says Pam, smiling kindly. Anyone in the food service industry deserves a smile after dealing with Dwight.
*
They eat huddled outside at a tiny, windswept table for two. Pam lobbied hard for indoor seating (“Please, Dwight? Just this once. It’s twenty-nine degrees outside,”) but Dwight held firm, and they came to a compromise: ice cream outside where it won’t melt, then coffee inside to unfreeze Pam’s fingers.
She tells him most of what she remembers from yesterday, censoring the parts that would embarrass him or hurt more than help. She tells how he called her “Pan,” how Michael fell off the toilet, how Billy Merchant came for a visit. She says he didn’t do anything very awful, and forgets to mention that everyone liked him better while concussed. She also manages to forget that Angela went around looking mortally offended for half the afternoon, that he called Creed “Dad,” that he made Vietnam sounds on the way to the door. Pam ponders whether or not to mention that he tweaked her nose and said she was adorable, or that they’re kind of sort of friends now. The shock of that realization has worn off, and she’s decided it’s alright. In nine out of ten cases, Pam finds it easier to be friends than enemies.
“And what about Jim? Did I humiliate him in any way?” Dwight asks with relish, and she decides to forget the hug as well.
*
“I didn’t pay you for the ice cream,” Pam realizes as they drink coffee indoors. Her fingers are completely devoid of feeling, and the gusts of Scrantonian winter wind have turned her hair into a bird’s nest, but she’s smiling. Weird.
“Aw, it’s okay, Pam,” says Dwight, stirring his coffee with a knife. “It was…enjoyable. Talking.”
Pam wipes a smear of Cappuccino Chocolate Chip from her upper lip. “Yeah. I’ve never eaten ice cream outdoors when it’s starting to snow before.” She massages her numb fingers.
Dwight reaches for her left hand and holds it between two fingers, moving his thumb in small circles across its back. “Your hands are cold. If you experience intense burning, inhibition of movement, or prolonged lack of feeling, tell me. It could be frostbite.”
She pulls her hand away without thinking, because, well, this is Dwight. “Oh. Yeah, that’s -- Thanks. I‘ll keep an…eye open.”
Dwight seems oblivious to Pam’s embarrassment. He checks his watch, swears, and yanks her to her feet. “God, not again! This is the second time I’ve been late in two months! Get a move on, Pam!”
*
Once they’re back in the furnace-like Trans Am, he falls silent again. Pam gazes out the window. Scranton speeds by much faster than it does when she’s driving; apartments and offices and dreary strip malls blur together. She wonders if Jim is still out with his client, and where they went to lunch. Perhaps he’s in traffic with them right now, a few cars behind. What would he think if he saw me in Dwight’s car? Pam asks herself. It’s an amusing thought.
At a long stoplight, Pam feels eyes on the back of her head. After an uncomfortable minute in which she debates whether or not to do anything about it, she turns to find Dwight staring at her. She can’t identify the expression on his face -- it’s unreadable, laden with his characteristic, peculiar intensity. Maybe he was just spaced out, Pam thinks later. Not really looking at me. His flat blue eyes seem focused, though.
“Um. I. What -- ”
It’s an awkward moment. Pam stutters a few times before blurting something about the extra-long stoplight. Dwight merely nods, peers at her stoically down his nose, and turns back to the road.
As they pull into the parking lot, Dwight clears his throat.
“You can pay me back later for the coffee,” he says.
Author: Chardin ( scrantonscribe )
Pairing/Character: Pam/Dwight
Rating: G
Summary: After Dwight gets back from the hospital, Pam finds things aren’t quite as different as she expected.
Timeframe: Post "The Injury"
Spoilers: The Injury
Many thanks to EmilyHalpert of More Than That for her excellent beta work.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
*
“Whoa…is that a Prism DuroSport?”
Pam glances up from the computer screen. Dwight is standing with his elbows on her desk in an unnervingly Jim-like posture. He stares intently at a small white MP3 player sprouting from the USB port.
“Yeah. Roy gave it to me for Christmas…” Pam tries to ignore the eerie sense of déjà vu. “I’m putting songs on it.” She waits apprehensively for mention of a Russian music website, but instead, Dwight reaches over to pick up the MP3 player. She leans away slightly to avoid touching his arm.
“Nice cover. Where’d you get it?” Dwight sounds suspicious, like maybe she stole it from his desk while he was at the hospital.
“Um. You kind of -- gave it to me, Dwight.”
He drops the device as though it were contaminated with nuclear waste. “What? No, I didn’t. I think I‘d remember doing something that abnormal.”
“Yesterday. When you had the concussion. You gave it to me and told me about that Russian website. It’s really great, actually. I bought an Enya album for, like, three dollars.”
Dwight staggers away from the desk, touching his forehead with one hand. He stands for a moment, swaying slightly; then he’s inches from Pam again, leaning over the desk and breathing in her face. Dwight’s voice, when he speaks, is low and intense.
“Pam. You have to tell me. What did I do yesterday? Did I hurt anyone? Was I the victim of a crime? Did I…” he lowers his voice, “leak information?”
Pam’s leaning backward as far as possible without being downright rude. “Oh, Dwight, I don’t know -- ”
“Silence! We shouldn’t talk about it here. Someone might be listening.” He glances around furtively.
It’s lunchtime, and everyone is in the break room but Stanley, dozing at his desk, and Ryan, nodding slightly to a beat from his earbuds. “Do you want to…talk about it in the kitchen?”
Dwight shakes his head rapidly. “Not safe. It could be bugged.”
Pam wonders who would bug the kitchen. “What do you want, Dwight? If we can’t talk about it here, and we can’t talk about it in the kitchen -- ”
“We have to go somewhere else, where no one knows our names. Get your coat.”
Pam’s mouth drops open, but Dwight is already wrestling his trench coat off the rack. She gets the odd feeling that she’s fallen into a Robert Ludlum spy novel.
Pam wracks her brain for a quick, believable, semi-accurate excuse. Roy hasn’t taken her out for lunch since before Thanksgiving, and it’s no secret. Dwight would notice if she came back empty-handed from the “dry cleaner.” A wild fabrication involving Pam’s mother and a chainsaw accident springs to mind, but not even Dwight -- to whom the unlikely is just another possibility -- would buy that. Maybe a bear attack instead?
A list of excuses is still scrolling through Pam‘s head when she‘s suddenly on her feet and fumbling for her handbag. Common sense screams as it flies out the window, and Dwight taps his foot impatiently at the door while she puts on her coat. “Sometime today would be nice,” he jibes.
“You know, I think I want to stay here. We can talk at my desk,” Pam counters. Dwight mumbles something under his breath.
“Sorry, Pam. You’re no slower than the average deskbound female. Come on.”
*
Dwight’s car smells like manure and pineapple air freshener. The heat is stuck on the highest setting, and Pam is starting to feel a little faint.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Manning Farm Dairy,” Dwight replies, then falls silent as if this is a perfectly sufficient answer.
“You mean the ice cream parlor? Dwight, it’s January.”
“I know. To eat ice cream in the winter is a test of character and physical superiority. I make a point to eat at least two scoops of fresh ice cream every day from November ’till March, outdoors.”
“Rain or shine?” Pam asks weakly.
“Rain or shine.”
*
She loses consciousness briefly as they turn onto Meadow Avenue. Just a second of heat-induced blackness, then the interior of the Trans Am swims back into focus and Dwight is looking at her. Pam rolls down her window with some difficulty (she wonders when Dwight last had a passenger) and sticks her head out like a dog.
“What’s wrong with you, Pam?”
“I’m okay now, thanks for your concern. Are you ever going to get the heat fixed?”
“Maybe. I’m teaching Cousin Mose how to dissemble an engine. He’ll make a darn good mechanic when I’m done. Can hire him out to the neighbors.”
She rests her head against the dusty window frame. “Good for you, Dwight. Good for him.”
*
Perhaps he was a little alarmed when his passenger blacked out, because Dwight opens the door for her once they reach Manning’s Dairy.
This is weird, Pam thinks. Dwight is taking me out for ice cream. In January. To talk about what he doesn’t remember. Just wait ‘till I tell Jim. She laughs aloud.
They’re standing at the counter, waiting as a businesswoman orders coffee. “Why are you laughing? What’s so funny?” Dwight asks with a hint of eagerness. He hates being on the outside of inside jokes.
“Nothing. Just -- that sign. It’s shaped like a cow.”
“Oh.” He stares at it, slightly puzzled. “That is a staggeringly poor representation. A cow like that would never live to reproduce.”
*
Pam steps up to the counter with a bill in her hand, but Dwight pulls her back. “Wait here,” he whispers. “This is man’s work.”
While she’s still digesting his last remark, Dwight edges forward and glances sidelong into the case of ice cream. After a ridiculous show of examining the merchandise, he leans forward and practically whispers to the scared-looking teenager behind the counter. “Is Bernie here?”
“No sir; Bernie only works on weekends,” she replies. “I -- I can take your order. If you want.”
“Dammit,” Dwight swears under his breath. “How long have you worked here, girl?”
“About three months, sir. Just a little cash for college next year. I work Tuesd -- ”
“I don’t care,” he interrupts. “Can you combine Caribbean Mango, Sour Apple Dare, and Licorice Grape Tsunami in one cone with gummy worms and hot tamales?”
The teenager looks dazed. “I can try.”
“Great. Now you, Pam, what do you want?” Dwight snaps his fingers at her.
“Uh, I don’t really care. A scoop of vanilla in a cup, I guess. Maybe chocolate sprinkles?”
All the ice cream tubs appear (unsurprisingly) to be full, so Pam’s startled when the girl shakes her head. “I’m so sorry, we’re all out. Someone bought the whole tub for a party. The Cappuccino Chocolate Chip is great, though.”
“I’d like a scoop of that, please,” says Pam, smiling kindly. Anyone in the food service industry deserves a smile after dealing with Dwight.
*
They eat huddled outside at a tiny, windswept table for two. Pam lobbied hard for indoor seating (“Please, Dwight? Just this once. It’s twenty-nine degrees outside,”) but Dwight held firm, and they came to a compromise: ice cream outside where it won’t melt, then coffee inside to unfreeze Pam’s fingers.
She tells him most of what she remembers from yesterday, censoring the parts that would embarrass him or hurt more than help. She tells how he called her “Pan,” how Michael fell off the toilet, how Billy Merchant came for a visit. She says he didn’t do anything very awful, and forgets to mention that everyone liked him better while concussed. She also manages to forget that Angela went around looking mortally offended for half the afternoon, that he called Creed “Dad,” that he made Vietnam sounds on the way to the door. Pam ponders whether or not to mention that he tweaked her nose and said she was adorable, or that they’re kind of sort of friends now. The shock of that realization has worn off, and she’s decided it’s alright. In nine out of ten cases, Pam finds it easier to be friends than enemies.
“And what about Jim? Did I humiliate him in any way?” Dwight asks with relish, and she decides to forget the hug as well.
*
“I didn’t pay you for the ice cream,” Pam realizes as they drink coffee indoors. Her fingers are completely devoid of feeling, and the gusts of Scrantonian winter wind have turned her hair into a bird’s nest, but she’s smiling. Weird.
“Aw, it’s okay, Pam,” says Dwight, stirring his coffee with a knife. “It was…enjoyable. Talking.”
Pam wipes a smear of Cappuccino Chocolate Chip from her upper lip. “Yeah. I’ve never eaten ice cream outdoors when it’s starting to snow before.” She massages her numb fingers.
Dwight reaches for her left hand and holds it between two fingers, moving his thumb in small circles across its back. “Your hands are cold. If you experience intense burning, inhibition of movement, or prolonged lack of feeling, tell me. It could be frostbite.”
She pulls her hand away without thinking, because, well, this is Dwight. “Oh. Yeah, that’s -- Thanks. I‘ll keep an…eye open.”
Dwight seems oblivious to Pam’s embarrassment. He checks his watch, swears, and yanks her to her feet. “God, not again! This is the second time I’ve been late in two months! Get a move on, Pam!”
*
Once they’re back in the furnace-like Trans Am, he falls silent again. Pam gazes out the window. Scranton speeds by much faster than it does when she’s driving; apartments and offices and dreary strip malls blur together. She wonders if Jim is still out with his client, and where they went to lunch. Perhaps he’s in traffic with them right now, a few cars behind. What would he think if he saw me in Dwight’s car? Pam asks herself. It’s an amusing thought.
At a long stoplight, Pam feels eyes on the back of her head. After an uncomfortable minute in which she debates whether or not to do anything about it, she turns to find Dwight staring at her. She can’t identify the expression on his face -- it’s unreadable, laden with his characteristic, peculiar intensity. Maybe he was just spaced out, Pam thinks later. Not really looking at me. His flat blue eyes seem focused, though.
“Um. I. What -- ”
It’s an awkward moment. Pam stutters a few times before blurting something about the extra-long stoplight. Dwight merely nods, peers at her stoically down his nose, and turns back to the road.
As they pull into the parking lot, Dwight clears his throat.
“You can pay me back later for the coffee,” he says.