Buttercup: a Jim/Pam fanfic by louisalorin.

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“I walked across hot coals for you, Jim. Quite literally.”

He rolls his eyes. “Technically that’s not even true. You were just temporarily insane.”

“Still, it was awesome. And therefore you should give me some Skittles.”

He likes the green ones best, but he saved those and ate the others because so does she. When she pours them into her hand they look like what they are: little lime-colored tokens of love.

Looking up at him, she smiles and smiles.

*

It’s Tuesday, it’s raining out, and she wonders how he can hold an umbrella and a briefcase and walk and kiss her neck all at the same time. The plainest grayest Tuesday she can remember and they are making out under an awning two blocks from Dunder Mifflin, fat drops of water pouring down in a kind of curtain, hiding them from view. (Not quite, actually – the camera can see her purple wellingtons and the stripes of Jim’s umbrella.)

“I want to get a dog,” Jim says into her hair. She laughs, because they only signed the lease two hours ago.

She loves the rain.

*

He takes her to Russell’s that first night. Italian food. She wears the red blouse she bought online and then stashed in her car, too afraid to put it on until now, when the only other option is not to.

It takes them twenty giddy minutes to decide what to order, neither of them hungry in the slightest. Later, Jim kisses her in the parking lot, but not before he kicks his foot idly against the pavement and she realizes he hasn’t decided whether to do it or not and so she pulls him to her by the lapels of his overcoat.

Eyes locked on his and she wants to throw away the key; his hands slide into her hair, palms cool, mouth warm, cheeks rough.

In a way it’s just like Casino Night, the same flood of suppressed emotion trembling in her fingertips, travelling from his lips to hers and back again.

It’s the taste of happiness. This time, though, Pam knows she deserves it.

*

“Uh…actually, Mom, we’re going on a trip this Christmas. Me and Jim.”

Pam waits. Her mother’s voice, over the phone, is surprised and happy.

“I don’t know yet. Where do you think we should go?”

A week later, still deciding, he spins the globe; she points.

(The camera zooms in on her finger.)

*

It sounds stupid, but until Jim asks her to try, she’s never been on top before.

By this time she’s come to realize sex does not have to merely be a girlfriend’s duty; by this time she is pulling him into supply closets when nobody is looking and sending him text messages from the reception desk that make him blush and grin and fidget in his chair. But still, things with Roy were…very different.

Head propped up by pillows, Jim holds her hands as she bites her lip, eyes shut tight – watches as she seats herself on his lap, sighing softly – traces the underside of her breast with his thumb, traces the delicate cord of her neck.

She opens her eyes, and watches him watch her.

*

Casual Friday causes some problems for Pam nowadays.

“She calls it my sexy boy sweater,” Jim explains, plucking at the wool.

“Because I want to have sex with him whenever he wears it,” Pam clarifies loudly.

Laughing, Jim drops his head out of frame; she beams. It’s become an inside joke with them: her blurting out private details in front of the camera.

(The producers are thinking of putting a video together as a wedding gift.)

*

“Wool socks?”

“Yes.”

“I remind you of wool socks?”

“You remind me of a lot of nice things, actually.”

“But wool socks was the one you said. Out of all the nice things.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Didn’t you get the memo? Wool socks are the best thing ever!” She jumps on him, pushing him against the wall and knocking the breath from his body. “You really do love me!”

“Sometimes you are just so weird.” But he’s grinning all over his face.

*

“I don’t want it to be like before,” Pam says, when he asks about the planning.

“You mean you having to do all the work?” Jim asks quickly.

(Even more than Pam, the camera picks up his desire to be different than Roy – he fairly exudes it at times.)

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“I mean like a big deal, with showers and gifts and invitations and all that. I want something smaller.”

She worries he won’t understand; she worries he’ll think she’s not proud of what they have, of what they are. But he just smiles, and says:

“Well, Phyllis stole your wedding, so you couldn’t recreate it even if you wanted to. Also, I didn’t want to say anything before…but I thought the flower arrangements were somewhat lacking.”

She raises her eyebrows, smile curling upward. “Oh, did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

They lapse into silence, thumbing through homeowner magazines together on the couch, music drifting from the stereo.

*

Dear Jim,

I like your forearms.

She has gotten this far when Kevin ambles up to the reception desk. Instantly, she minimizes the email window. A bad choice, perhaps, because:

“Why are you looking at babynames.com?”

Kevin’s slow voice carries to all corners of the office – heads start turning, glances flicking in her direction. (The camera zooms slowly in on her face.)

“I like names,” she answers calmly. A second later: “Did you know that Kevin means ‘Son of the Prophet’?

“Really?”

“Yep!”

He ambles away, deftly deflected, and she goes back to her email.

*

“Seriously? You brought me coffee?”

“I did indeed.” She sets the cup down on his desk.

“I can’t believe this! You never buy me anything.”
Her proud smile drops into a look of indignation. “That is so not true! What about the—”

“Vending machine Lifesavers don’t count.”

“Says who? That is 90 cents I will never get back, Jim.”

“You bought them for yourself, you just didn’t want the cherry ones.”

“Well, what about the Sean Lennon CD?”

“Hmm. You…got that at a garage sale, right?”

Half-laughing, she puts her hands on her hips. “Since when is a bargain purchase—”

“Phone’s ringing,” he says pointedly, jerking his head at the reception desk.

She grumbles as she walks away, and yanks up the receiver. “Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam.”

“Hey buttercup! Thanks for the coffee.”

She slowly looks over at Jim. Grinning, he holds his cell phone to his ear.

“‘Buttercup’?” she asks into the phone, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m hoping it’ll catch on.”

“Right.”

They hang up, smiling at their computer screens.

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End.