It takes Pam two weeks to work up her courage. Karen takes a job with corporate, packs her desk with only very slightly red eyes, and walks out without looking back. Jim is distracted for the rest of the week, and his neck tells Pam he is miserable. Pam tries to make jokes, tries to make things right, but she ends up talking about the importance of dairy in your diet. It is not a success.
After that first weekend -- during which, Kelly tells Pam, Jim went out with Ryan and got so drunk he puked on the side of Ryan's car -- Jim's better. He comes to visit Pam at her desk, eats her candy, talks smack about her solitaire skills, and on Wednesday, when he enlists her help in pranking Andy, she knows things are back to normal. She has her best friend back.
That Friday, Jim's putting on his coat, talking to Toby about some game they watched the night before, when he turns to Pam and says, "You coming? We're going to Poor Richard's." "We," evidently, means Toby, Ryan, Kelly, Phyllis, Kevin, and Stanley. And Jim.
"Of course," Pam says, smiling. Jim smiles back, that thing his face does where it lights up the room and he's doing it all for her. She rushes her faxes and she knows she doesn't get everything right but she doesn't care. She's combing her fingers through her hair and willing her stomach to resolidify. Tonight is the night. She hums to herself, just a little.
Even though she knows this will be it, it takes a few drinks to work up her courage. During her second margarita, her blood humming in her veins and the room sparkling so prettily, she's bouncing in her seat, laughing so hard at Kelly's story she falls into Jim, and she ends up just... not letting go. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Jim turn to look at her but she doesn't look back, not yet. She feels Jim lean into her, just a little, and Pam's mouth curves into a tiny smile. Tonight is the night.
+ + +
Phyllis asks Jim to drive Pam home. Pam's still in the bathroom -- she and Kelly have been in there for fifteen minutes, now, and Jim, leaning against the wall outside, can just hear them giggling. He nods, and Toby leaves. Ryan knocks on the door, tells Kelly he's tired and wants to go home. Five minutes later, they emerge, still giggling, flush with alcohol.
"Come on, Beesly," Jim says, gesturing for her to lead the way. "I'm your designated driver."
A weird look passes over Pam's face, and Jim feels something in his chest stir. He's told himself not to hope anymore, told himself so many times it's become some sort of negative mantra, but it never works, and it's not working now.
Jim manages to get Pam into the car, which turns out to be easier than getting himself into the car, though he only had two beers. Pam's humming under her breath and keeps grinning up at him, and he forgets which is the gas and which is the brake.
They drive in silence for a few minutes, but as they approach the light where Jim would turn right to take Pam home, or go straight towards his own place, Pam suddenly says, in a voice too loud for the car, "You know, I don't feel so good. Maybe I could crash at your place?" and suddenly Jim can't remember how to breathe with hopefulness.
"Yeah, um, OK." Jim tries to keep his voice light, tries to keep his heart from soaring out of his chest. "Geez, Beesly, you're turning into a real wino, huh?"
Pam doesn't say anything, just leans back in her seat, a smirk on her face.
+ + +
Mark forgot to turn the porch light on, and Jim can't find his keys. He's amazed at how many things are in his pockets -- loose change, a receipt from Poor Richard's, a gas receipt, a business card, a Coke tab, lots of lint -- and none of them are his keys. Pam shifts from one foot to the other and laughs at him, which -- as he points out to her -- really doesn't help find his keys.
He finally digs them out, but fumbles and drops them when he tries to put them in the lock. He stoops, but Pam bends down to get them, too, and the top of her head bumps Jim's chin. He shifts back and looks down, just as she looks up, and before he even knows what's happening, she's kissing him. She tastes drunk, but good. He expects her to pull away quickly, and his stomach flips over when she doesn't. She's kissing him a little more insistently, even, and it takes all of Jim's willpower not to just lay her down right there on the porch. After a couple of very long, very nice minutes, Pam pulls away from the kiss, but not from him: she rests her forehead against his.
"Hi," she whispers against his lips, and hiccups, giggles.
"Hey," Jim whispers back, closing his eyes. Pam always smells good, something flowery and light, and even in winter she smells like springtime.
"We should get inside," Pam whispers, and kisses him again, quick. She licks his lip, just a little.
He really can't get the door open after that. Pam has to take the keys from him, and with one swift, smooth turn, the door's falling open. She holds her arm out to gesture him inside, the same way Jim always does, and even makes the same face. And Pam thinks she can't do impressions.
His own house feels foreign and unsteady as Jim makes his way across the living room and up the stairs. The only light comes through the sliding door shades, striping the walls and furniture and floor as Jim picks his way through the detritus of Mark's evening, gaming controllers and DVD cases and bags of chips, Pam tiptoeing behind him. It is so quiet Jim feels like his own breathing must be deafening.
The climb up the stairs has never seemed so long.
Jim has never been in Pam's bedroom -- either her bedroom with Roy, or her bedroom in her new apartment. He doesn't know what her bedroom with Roy would have looked like; he never wanted to think about their shared space. But he's imagined her bedroom in her new apartment -- he thinks it's light blue or light green, maybe yellow, and certainly very neat. Probably a lot of clean lines, because Pam's not a hugely ruffly girl. It has prints of cafes in Paris and flowers on windowsills and there's an open jewelry box on the dresser, and the bed's not so girly that Jim wouldn't feel comfortable flopping down on it. Not that he's ever done it. But he's thought about it.
Pam has seen his bedroom, of course, and Jim has never been so acutely aware of how little it's changed since high school as he is right now. Same bed, even near identical bedding, same desk, same bookshelf with yearbooks and comic books and David Foster Wallace, same bulletin board with letters and notes and birthday cards. Jim says a silent prayer of thanks that he just washed his sheets.
Pam giggles, again too loudly for the space. "Jim's bedroom," she says, to herself.
Jim stands, and waits. He feels out of space, unsure of how to hold himself, what to do next. He wants to sit, but he's not quite ready to relax, nor could he even if he wanted to. He has no idea what's going on. Well, he thinks he does, but he can't possibly be right.
Pam's standing just inside the doorway; she leans back against the wall next to the door and begins to list. In two strides, Jim's in front of her, pushing her upright from the elbow.
"Hi," she says again, and again she's kissing him.
Jim leans into Pam, braces himself against the wall with one arm, and of its own accord, his other arm snakes around her waist. She is so little, as little as he remembers from kissing her against his desk the night of the casino party, nearly a year ago. He pushes her coat out of the way, snags her sweater with his fingertips. Pam is still kissing him and Jim is amazed that he can kiss her back and trace circles over the base of her spine and process what's happening to him and not die.
She's pushing back against him, kissing him hard, insistent, pushing his lips apart with her tongue, fisting his hair with both her hands, making a purring noise deep in the back of her throat. She tastes like margaritas and salt, and this is the Pam Jim's fantasized about, aggressive and hot and wanting him. Her hips keep grinding into his, and Jim still sort of can't believe that he's grinding back into her because all higher brain function has shut down.
She lets go of his hair with one hand, slides it down his neck and grabs a fistful of shirt and yanks it out of his pants. Her fingers are hot and smooth against his skin, but she's digging her nails in, just enough that it hurts a little but it's still good. Really good, especially the way she's clawing his skin as she undoes his belt buckle.
"Hey," she giggle whispers, sliding his belt out of the loops of his pants.
"Hey," he replies, feeling breathless. "What... what prompted this?" He could kill himself for asking a dumb question like that right now.
Pam smiles at him, pulling the belt out with a flourish. "My first day of work at Dunder-Mifflin," and she's unbuttoning his shirt as she talks, "you convinced Dwight I was a spy from Staples, sent to steal company secrets."
That's good enough for him. He slides her sweater over her head, kisses her intently, pulls her close so that her chest is pressed to his, the lace of her bra (and it is a nice bra, and Jim knows enough to know that's the sort of bra you wear when you know someone's going to see it) tickling his chest. He guides her toward the bed, and they trip over each other and stumble on it, and Pam starts laughing, that surprised laugh of hers he's always loved. He kisses her throat as she laughs, and he's always wanted to do that too.
In a breathless tangle they manage to get the rest of their clothes off -- Jim's shirt and Pam's skirt (and she's wearing matching underwear, oh God) and his pants and both sets of shoes. They laugh the whole time, even when they're kissing, and Pam knows this is right. She and Roy never laughed -- sex was serious business with Roy, a race towards successful orgasms, with no time for exploring or laughing or just being. She and Jim aren't exactly taking it slow tonight, but she knows they have all the time in the world, now.
And Jim is all about exploration. The look of wonder on his face makes Pam blush even as she feels herself open up under it. His fingers dance patterns all over her skin, brush her bra straps off her shoulders, only to replace them with his mouth. He touches her everywhere, runs his hands up her legs, brushes the back of her knee in a way that makes her shiver, squeezes her thigh when she brushes her hands over his stomach, through the hair that travels from his navel to disappear underneath his (Hawaiian patterned) boxers.
They're not laughing, now; they're being as quiet as they can, all breaths and whispers. They're in bed now, the comforter pulled up over their heads in a bluish cocoon, and it's too hot and stuffy but neither one wants to leave. Pam is sweating, and Jim rolls her underwear off her slick thighs, and she moans, just a little, into his mouth, as he kisses her and slides a finger into her. She is warm and wet and she reaches for him, finds him just as ready, and it is his turn to moan.
He slides down the bed, nips and kisses his way down her body, through the valley made by her breasts and across her stomach and down until he is in between her legs. He looks up at her, and Pam laughs again, at the perfectly Jim expression on his face, the same one he gives her when Dwight is just being too weird. It's a little out of place, given the situation, but really it's perfect.
The spell broken, she pushes the comforter off them, relieved for the air, and then Jim is using his mouth and his fingers and oh. After a few minutes, Pam can't take anymore -- Roy didn't usually do this for her, and she didn't mind because it always made her feel self-conscious -- and tries to push him off, but he just looks at her and says, "Let me, please," and pretty soon Pam forgets her self-consciousness. Her orgasm takes over her body in a flash of heat and forms the shape Jim, too loud because she can't modulate her voice at a time like this, and it takes her a minute to come back down, to formulate thought. Jim sits back on his legs and smirks, rubbing her calves and waiting for her to return to Earth.
When she's ready, he wipes his mouth and kisses her again, soft and slow. She pushes him toward the pillows, and he sprawls out, grinning at her. She gives him her sexiest smirk, which normally would make her feel a little silly but the look on Jim's face tells her it worked, and bends over, taking him in her mouth. He puts his hands on her head, runs his fingers through her hair, but he's very careful not to push, and for that she's grateful. He pulls her up after a few minutes, doesn't even wait until she's wiped her mouth before he's kissing her, laying against her on the bed, and she can feel him hard against her thigh. This has always been Pam's favorite part, being naked and pressed up against each other, skin on skin and the smell of sweat and aftershave, the taste of kissing and salt.
He doesn't have any condoms; it always seems sad, to keep them until a possible future when he might use them -- every time he opened the bedside drawer, the condoms looked sad and lonely, so he quit buying them unless he was sure he was going to use them.
He's really regretting that right now.
But as always, Pam's thoroughness astounds him. She gets up out of bed, kneels and rummages through her purse, and magically pulls out several condoms. They are still connected, and there are more than Jim's ever managed to get through in one night. And that -- the realization of just how much she had planned this -- makes Jim go a little weak in the knees.
"Oh, Pam," he groans, and her eyes light up. He gets up out of bed as she stands, pulls her in close to him, and kisses her. Pam stands on her tiptoes and leans into him, and they have to stagger sideways to avoid falling. They end up pressed up against the same wall they started at. Pam is making desperate moaning noises in her throat, running her hands all over Jim's back like she can't find a place to settle. He grabs the condoms out of her hands, and somehow, between the two of them, they manage to tear one off and open it and get it on.
Jim plants his feet and puts his hands around Pam's waist. He lifts her up, and he kind of really loves that she's little enough for that, that he's big enough for it. She wraps her legs around him, and with another kiss, she presses her forehead against his and looks him in the eyes as she sinks down onto him, and Jim knows it's a matter of minutes. Maybe seconds.
Pam holds onto his shoulders, digs her heels into the small of his back, trying to keep focused on not falling, which is made pretty difficult by whatever Jim's doing with his hips and the look on his face, the open, happy, megawatt smile he's wearing.
He keeps going, and it's not till she realizes he's not just smiling, he's laughing, that she realizes she's been moaning and talking. Loudly. And with cuss words. She claps a hand over her mouth, but Jim shakes his head. "Have I told you how much I really, really love Fancy New Beesly?" he asks, kissing her hard and fast.
Another minute and he's done, almost collapsing as he finishes. Pam buries her head in his neck and falls in love with the way he says her name while he's coming.
They end up laying on the floor, too tired to move back to the bed just yet. Pam lays with her head on Jim's chest, his heartbeat thudding in her hair, his sweaty skin sticking to her sweaty hair. Jim runs his hand along her arm absent-mindedly, and Pam wouldn't mind if they never got up from here.
"So if it was your first day at work that made you decide to do that," and Jim's voice rasps in his dry throat, "may I ask what took so long?"
Pam tilts up to look at him, at the crinkles around his eyes as he smiles at her. "Michael told me, a couple of weeks ago, that if I'm a bird, he's a bird. And that really got me thinking."
"Um, what?"
Pam laughs. "It's from The Notebook. He also said that love, actually, is all around. Which is good to know."
"It is, isn't?" Jim hugs Pam a little tighter. "But are you seriously telling me I have Michael Scott to thank for this? Because that's pretty weird. I mean, I obviously can't thank him in person. Maybe he needs a 'World's Greatest Matchmaker' mug? Someone deserves a reward for this."
"Um, hello," and Pam punches his arm. "Don't I get any credit at all? Where's my reward?"
They fall asleep on the floor.
+ + +
At work Monday, Jim and Pam can't quit giggling, and even Michael can tell something's different.
"So, how was your weekend?" he asks, mirroring Jim's lean on Pam's desk. "You guys do anything cool? I saw Are We Done Yet? Hi-larious."
Pam knows it's wrong, and that it's not even all that funny, but she can't stop laughing. Tears stream out of her eyes, and Michael just keeps asking, "What? What?"
Finally, Michael walks off, muttering, "Whatever. You probably didn't do anything cool this weekend."
Author's Chapter Notes:
So I realize Jim and Pam are not at the high point of their relationship right now, so clearly the answer is porn. With thanks to Kate, lianhanshee, and Matt for betaing.
Also, a disclaimer: Not mine.
Chapter End Notes:
Notes: The title comes from the Randy Rogers Band song "Tonight's Not the Night (For Goodbye)." I realize neither Jim nor Pam is a country fan, but I am.
This is my first attempt at writing smut (probably obvious), and I feel sort of nervous posting this, like, what conclusions will people draw about me from this??? :p I'm definitely interested in concrit about what worked for you and what didn't.
This is my first attempt at writing smut (probably obvious), and I feel sort of nervous posting this, like, what conclusions will people draw about me from this??? :p I'm definitely interested in concrit about what worked for you and what didn't.
sundancekid is the author of 12 other stories.
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