jam.
Title: Sandboxes and Pranks
Fandom: The Office
Characters: Jim/Pam
Rating: PG-ish.
Author's Notes: Angsty drunk musing New Year's Eve fic. :)
The office is like their playground.
She's full of giggles the entire day, every day. She's never remembered smiling so much before. The harsh fluorescent lighting is like the sun, the carpet their sandbox. They use the vending machines and the copiers and the telephones as their toys, grins and guffaws and silly looks and whispered pranks their language.
When anyone asks how she feels about being a receptionist at Dunder-Mifflin, she chuckles and rolls her eyes and they laugh with her. Because really, what's fun about taking calls for a boss like Michael and putting up with Dwight Schrute, beet farmer and bear specialist?
Privately, she knows. Nothing but Jim Halpert and their little lighthearted games, the glisten of amusement in his warm hazel eyes over a container of jelly beans.
This was the one prank that went too far, the part that had gone horribly awry. Because suddenly there is nothing lighthearted in his gaze and their makeshift sun is a little darker and it's flickering overhead because the bulb needs to be replaced.
He's looking down at her with that look and she tries to keep her faltering grin stretching her lips, but it's starting to hurt the corners of her mouth.
The way he's looking at her is reminding her that this isn't a playground and the weightless feeling he gives her with adoring glances might not be just friendly. That they are not just grown-up children playing in a bigger sandbox because he is a man and she is a woman and there is nothing innocent about the way she thinks about him curled on her side at night, the dark as her witness.
"What?" she whispers. She should be angry. But she's not; she's not angry. She just floored, literally, legs bent beneath her as she pauses and gazes up at his silhouette. She's floored because secretly he's said what she's been waiting for him to just... say.
"I, uh... Listen, Pam..." His tone changes for a moment, sounds almost sane, but his tenor loses it as his eyes lock with hers once more. "I just think... you could... he's not right for you." And he shrugs, as if it's nothing, and falls down beside her.
Their makeshift picnic of chips and cookies and champagne they'd stolen from the New Year's Eve party is strewn between them.
They're hiding in the annex because "c'mon Pam, no one will find us back here" and because Jim doesn't have a date and Roy is drunk off his ass at his brother's because he hates work functions and Pam wanted to be here, here with Jim.
It hits her then, that's she's here by choice, because she wants to be here and in her slightly-drunken haze she knows partly why she'd been so-so adamant with Roy about coming. At the end of the fight she'd slammed the door and told him to just go and now Jim's eyes are so blue in the semi-darkness and he looks like he's worried about what he's said.
He laughs and shakes his head suddenly, breaking the moment. "I mean... I'm just drunk." But his smile fades and he doesn't look that drunk.
"No," she murmurs, and drinks more champagne straight from the bottle, because she thinks she needs more. Her head sways on her neck. "Why is he wrong for me?"
She's aware she's as drunk as he's claiming to be and despite the tight fear in her tummy she wants to silence his words with a kiss. But that's dangerous and wrong and it would be rude because she asked him a question and she also desperately wants to hear the answer.
He seems surprised and slightly terrified. "Oh, I don't... he's..." He stops and presses his lips together only to lick them and she watches the movement intently. "I... Pam..." Her name rushes on an exhale.
"Tell me, Jim," she asks, and fumbles closer to him. The bag of chips crinkle under her thigh.
"He's... he doesn't appreciate you." He's blinking slowly and she's leaning forward further and she's not sure why his words prick her eyes with small tears. "He doesn't... get you, Pam. The way he treats you, talks to you... like it doesn't matter. You deserve... more."
She can feel the wetness in her lashes, but the drops don't fall. She wants to touch the curl of his shaggy hair where it nips at his ears, the nape of his neck. He's so boyish and sort of beautiful and perfect and Jim. "You get me." Her voice is watery, the confession slurred. She wants to cry because it's 11:56PM on New Year's Eve and she's not in love anymore but she is and she's alone but she's not.
And their playground, their childish restraint from each other has cracks in it and she can see them. She can see them so clearly in the way his eyes are widening just so.
"Hey," he coos softly, and his large hand and his long fingers rest on her arm. "Pam, don't cry..."
"You get me," she repeats strong and firm, because she can't say I love you like she's thinking. "You get me, Jim. Why can't Roy get me?"
He winces at Roy's name and closes his eyes. "Pam, I... I don't know."
She ignores the way the chips crunch beneath her knee, hand pushing the paper plate of hor d'oeuvres to the side. She wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him, burying her nose into the clean intoxicating scent of his sweater. Confessions and questions and sobs bubble in her throat but all she can do is breathe him in and melt when his palms press against her back, pulling her closer so that they are half-laying between desks. He's so warm and his heart is beating so fast and she never wants to move or leave and she thinks she could die right there and die happy.
Eventually she can hear the countdown from the other room, and her fingers tug on the hem of his collar. His chin bumps her nose but it doesn't hurt. They don't kiss at the resounding misplaced shouts of "happy new year!"s and cheers and laughter and music. Instead he gazes at her shining eyes like he wants to say something but he doesn't.
He doesn't do anything but push curls from her cheek and press his lips on her brow. And her heart rips open and starts to stutter fast because he's lingering too long and her lashes kiss her cheeks. "Pam," he sighs and she pulls him tight against her, breathing in the pulse at his neck because she can't pull away and she can't tip her head up to kiss him, either.
The next morning she can't remember what happened next but in her mind she thinks they've never moved from that spot, still petrified in the solace of their embrace, forever.
Fandom: The Office
Characters: Jim/Pam
Rating: PG-ish.
Author's Notes: Angsty drunk musing New Year's Eve fic. :)
The office is like their playground.
She's full of giggles the entire day, every day. She's never remembered smiling so much before. The harsh fluorescent lighting is like the sun, the carpet their sandbox. They use the vending machines and the copiers and the telephones as their toys, grins and guffaws and silly looks and whispered pranks their language.
When anyone asks how she feels about being a receptionist at Dunder-Mifflin, she chuckles and rolls her eyes and they laugh with her. Because really, what's fun about taking calls for a boss like Michael and putting up with Dwight Schrute, beet farmer and bear specialist?
Privately, she knows. Nothing but Jim Halpert and their little lighthearted games, the glisten of amusement in his warm hazel eyes over a container of jelly beans.
This was the one prank that went too far, the part that had gone horribly awry. Because suddenly there is nothing lighthearted in his gaze and their makeshift sun is a little darker and it's flickering overhead because the bulb needs to be replaced.
He's looking down at her with that look and she tries to keep her faltering grin stretching her lips, but it's starting to hurt the corners of her mouth.
The way he's looking at her is reminding her that this isn't a playground and the weightless feeling he gives her with adoring glances might not be just friendly. That they are not just grown-up children playing in a bigger sandbox because he is a man and she is a woman and there is nothing innocent about the way she thinks about him curled on her side at night, the dark as her witness.
"What?" she whispers. She should be angry. But she's not; she's not angry. She just floored, literally, legs bent beneath her as she pauses and gazes up at his silhouette. She's floored because secretly he's said what she's been waiting for him to just... say.
"I, uh... Listen, Pam..." His tone changes for a moment, sounds almost sane, but his tenor loses it as his eyes lock with hers once more. "I just think... you could... he's not right for you." And he shrugs, as if it's nothing, and falls down beside her.
Their makeshift picnic of chips and cookies and champagne they'd stolen from the New Year's Eve party is strewn between them.
They're hiding in the annex because "c'mon Pam, no one will find us back here" and because Jim doesn't have a date and Roy is drunk off his ass at his brother's because he hates work functions and Pam wanted to be here, here with Jim.
It hits her then, that's she's here by choice, because she wants to be here and in her slightly-drunken haze she knows partly why she'd been so-so adamant with Roy about coming. At the end of the fight she'd slammed the door and told him to just go and now Jim's eyes are so blue in the semi-darkness and he looks like he's worried about what he's said.
He laughs and shakes his head suddenly, breaking the moment. "I mean... I'm just drunk." But his smile fades and he doesn't look that drunk.
"No," she murmurs, and drinks more champagne straight from the bottle, because she thinks she needs more. Her head sways on her neck. "Why is he wrong for me?"
She's aware she's as drunk as he's claiming to be and despite the tight fear in her tummy she wants to silence his words with a kiss. But that's dangerous and wrong and it would be rude because she asked him a question and she also desperately wants to hear the answer.
He seems surprised and slightly terrified. "Oh, I don't... he's..." He stops and presses his lips together only to lick them and she watches the movement intently. "I... Pam..." Her name rushes on an exhale.
"Tell me, Jim," she asks, and fumbles closer to him. The bag of chips crinkle under her thigh.
"He's... he doesn't appreciate you." He's blinking slowly and she's leaning forward further and she's not sure why his words prick her eyes with small tears. "He doesn't... get you, Pam. The way he treats you, talks to you... like it doesn't matter. You deserve... more."
She can feel the wetness in her lashes, but the drops don't fall. She wants to touch the curl of his shaggy hair where it nips at his ears, the nape of his neck. He's so boyish and sort of beautiful and perfect and Jim. "You get me." Her voice is watery, the confession slurred. She wants to cry because it's 11:56PM on New Year's Eve and she's not in love anymore but she is and she's alone but she's not.
And their playground, their childish restraint from each other has cracks in it and she can see them. She can see them so clearly in the way his eyes are widening just so.
"Hey," he coos softly, and his large hand and his long fingers rest on her arm. "Pam, don't cry..."
"You get me," she repeats strong and firm, because she can't say I love you like she's thinking. "You get me, Jim. Why can't Roy get me?"
He winces at Roy's name and closes his eyes. "Pam, I... I don't know."
She ignores the way the chips crunch beneath her knee, hand pushing the paper plate of hor d'oeuvres to the side. She wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him, burying her nose into the clean intoxicating scent of his sweater. Confessions and questions and sobs bubble in her throat but all she can do is breathe him in and melt when his palms press against her back, pulling her closer so that they are half-laying between desks. He's so warm and his heart is beating so fast and she never wants to move or leave and she thinks she could die right there and die happy.
Eventually she can hear the countdown from the other room, and her fingers tug on the hem of his collar. His chin bumps her nose but it doesn't hurt. They don't kiss at the resounding misplaced shouts of "happy new year!"s and cheers and laughter and music. Instead he gazes at her shining eyes like he wants to say something but he doesn't.
He doesn't do anything but push curls from her cheek and press his lips on her brow. And her heart rips open and starts to stutter fast because he's lingering too long and her lashes kiss her cheeks. "Pam," he sighs and she pulls him tight against her, breathing in the pulse at his neck because she can't pull away and she can't tip her head up to kiss him, either.
The next morning she can't remember what happened next but in her mind she thinks they've never moved from that spot, still petrified in the solace of their embrace, forever.