"Wow, Beesly," he says. "You are such a girl." She's draped across him in their bed, boneless and liquid and so very warm.
"That's Halpert, bitch." She giggles, still high from yesterday's matrimonial excess. Oh, and the endorphins from this morning's exercise. So is he. It's hard not to be. "And what gave me away?"
He thinks: if it's like this now, what's the honeymoon going to be like? Will he be able to move when they get back? Will she? Will they care? Ehh, whatever. Motion's overrated.
And he says: "If I told you, you'd probably smack me."
She says: "If you don't tell me, I'll definitely smack you."
"Whoa. Trash talkin' Pam Halpert. If I knew you were going to be like this..."
"You would have married me even sooner, and you know it. So suck on it."
"Oh, yeah? What did I just do?"
She blows a raspberry at him. Then, just to show there are no hard feelings, she leans up and touches her tongue to his. Apparently, muscles in the mouth can conduct electricity. Good to know.
She breaks the kiss after a salacious and altogether indecent amount of time has passed. She smiles. Is he smiling? He's smiling so hard he feels like the tight skin of his face could rip and rays of pure bliss would shoot out of the holes.
That's a weird thought to have when he's naked and sweaty in his marriage bed next to his just-as-naked, just-as-sweaty -- oh, God -- his wife. It's weird to be able to think that. Perfect, wonderful, but totally, utterly weird. Like waking up one day and discovering that Creed makes sense and people should eat rats. Only it's a lot sexier. And less creepy.
Come to think of it, this is nothing like Creed making sense at all. Jim doesn't know where his mind's at.
They lie like this for another few moments: her head on his chest, knotted hair fanned out, her lips planting kisses along his breastbone, one of his arms stroking her bare back. It's all very languid and sickly-sweet in a dirty, post-coital kind of way. Then she says, "Make me eggs," and gets up. Just like that.
"What, now? Like this?" He gestures at his anatomy under the sheet. He's not exactly dressed, and they both know their apartment feels like the coldest circle of Hell on certain late-fall mornings. "It's like Antarctica in there, Pam. Penguins in the ice box. Scientists snapping pictures and taking notes." He thinks. "There might even be a few dead explorers buried in the couch."
"Well, if it's too cold for you while you're cooking my breakfast, you can put a robe on. I don't mind." Mrs. Pamela Marianne Halpert is doing just that, and her husband is certainly watching her do it. She ties the sash and engulfs her naked body with a fuzzy red robe printed with yellow ducks. A devilish little smile flashes across her face. "Or do I?"
A thought dawns. "Hey, that's my bathrobe."
"I know." She wanders into the bathroom. The light goes on.
"Why'd you take my bathrobe?"
"Maybe I wanted some scenery while you're cooking me food. Maybe I claimed your robe in the name of Pam."
"You bought me that robe." He rolls over in bed and starts rooting around for slippers. Socks. Something. Seriously, the kitchen floor is like dry ice at this time of day. Peels skin right off the soles of his feet. Barefoot's not an option. "You don't get to reclaim it. That is in flagrant violation of the Yellow Duckie rules."
"Whatever, Dwight," she says. "Get cracking. I'm hungry."
"You're terrible," he says. "We Halperts are a proud and hardy people, but we refuse to cook in the nude."
"Even eggs?" She turns the bathroom tap on.
"Especially eggs. God, Bees... er, Halpert." He corrects himself, but old habits and all that. "What is wrong with you? Don't you know what cooking eggs naked can do to male potency? I decline -- nay, refuse -- to do anything that might compromise my natural efficiency during our honeymoon."
She snorts, then giggles. He can't resist laughing himself. Laughing Pamelitis. It's an epidemic.
"Yeah, because there's no way you can keep it up all week." She emerges from the bathroom and turns the light off. They both know she's won. This time.
"That's what she said."
"That is what she said," says Pam, nodding sagely. She kneels down beside him and gives him the kind of kiss that makes every nerve ending in his body, from crown down to toe-tip, stand at attention and sing Ave Maria. "Now make me eggs." She bats her eyelashes. "Please? I'll be your wife."
"Too late."
"Oh. Yeah. I totally forgot what we did yesterday. Not." She sticks her tongue out.
He rolls his eyes and sighs again. "Fine. I'll scramble your infernal eggs. But only if you give me my robe back."
"Deal." Her eyes glitter brightly when she unties the knot, and she closes the little distance between them, and maybe... just maybe... thoughts of a cold apartment and a hot breakfast take a trip to the back burner for a little while.
"Jim," she moans as his mouth presses patterns along her jaw and his fingers trace her body. "I want you... to... to... oh, yessss..."
"Yes?"
"... to make me breakfast." She pulls away from him and smiles, oh-so-innocent. "Like, now, Halpert." She even pats him on the ass, which makes him blush despite himself. "There are starving people in Scranton."
So he ties on his silly red bathrobe and stalks out to the kitchen, making a big production out of turning the heater on and scrambling up a few eggs. She watches him the whole time, applauding and whistling when appropriate. And then she takes her sweet time eating, cooing and purring, taunting him with every slow bite.
Story Notes:
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.
In other words: Not Pikachu. Please don't sue.
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In other words: Not Pikachu. Please don't sue.
-- -- --
Chapter End Notes:
That was fluff, okay? Fluff without beginning or end or point, even, really. I've been kicking this around for way too many days trying to massage it into a more complete form. Something with a beginning and an ending. Or at least a better title. Obviously, none of that happened, and the story finally quit kicking back. So here we are.
Apologies for any potential deficiencies in characterization or grammar. They're all mine. If I do any other work in this fandom, I'll put in more effort next time.
I super swear.
NobodyInParticular is the author of 3 other stories.
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