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It’s been a week to the day since he burst into the conference room and started the rest of his life. A frantic week, full of quick fire banter and roaring laughter and talking with their mouths full because they just remembered something else that’s too good to wait to share. There’s been fighting, quick and sharp and painful, and even quicker apologies. In a matter of days, they’ve unravelled all the wires they crossed over the past year, attacking the issues like a puzzle to share over a lunch break.
Even taking “it” slow degenerated into her taking his shirt off within a couple of days. They slowed down then, savoring the final moments at the edge, before leaping off the precipice together, into something new.
It’s been a week of firsts, firsts that he’ll tell their friends about in years to come, like their first date and the first dress she wore only for him. There are firsts he’ll keep to himself, no less treasured than the others, like the first time she took the initiative and kissed him, on her doorstep when he arrived with flowers and an attempt at his old hairstyle or the first time she gasped out his name and later fell asleep in his arms.
It strikes him that this is another first, probably the first time they’ve been like this beyond the few quiet moments at night when they’ve been drifting off, limbs still tangled together, breathing slowing down to the same rhythm.
But this time it’s daylight, the first truly quiet moment they’ve spent in the sun.
He hasn’t moved in over an hour, reveling in the feeling of being at home on this sofa that he didn’t buy, in this apartment that he doesn’t rent. Karen’s sofa was stiff and made you sit up straight, uncomfortable, and he thinks that if he had been feeling particularly metaphorical, that really would have told him everything he needed to know.
It’s a new feeling, another to add to his ever-growing list, how easy it is to relax here, with her. The room is growing familiar already, though still new enough to surprise him, not unlike the woman beside him. She’s caught him snooping at her apartment once already, leaving the kitchen earlier to find him trailing a finger along her bookshelves, examining the photo framed family pictures dotted around. He didn’t flinch when she caught him, just smiled and shrugged, because she’s Pam and she didn’t mind, instead she dropped her spatula and kissed him, covering him with flour from the little apron she’d been wearing.
He’s slouching low into the cushions now, his feet propped up on the battered coffee table that’s covered in paint splashes. She’s beside him, her whole body curled up against him, half lying on the sofa and half against his chest. The wine glass in his hand is precariously close to spilling over and he’s not remotely concerned. She won’t care, though he’ll jump up and apologize if it falls. She spills everything, he’s already learning.
She cooked him dinner tonight and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t feel like that means he owes anything in return. His contribution was the wine and the conversation and the way he’s been making her smile all night. Over dessert, when she told him that what he brought to the table really was enough, he believed her. He’s planning to cook her dinner tomorrow for another reason entirely, because it might be a bit old-fashioned but he thinks she deserves someone to take care of her for a change sometimes.
They’ve been talking, off and on, mostly odd little confessions that suddenly seem so important.
She can’t see him, curled up against his chest the way she is, which he thinks is helping her say some things that eye contact would make impossible.
“203 - 987 - 1849,” is her latest enigmatic announcement.
“What?” he glances down at her, brow furrowed though she can’t see that. “Is that -”
“Your number in Stamford.”
“Wow.”
She sighs against him and he feels her regret echo into his own chest. She reels off his office extension in Stamford next, the long complicated sequence tripping off her tongue in a second.
“I know it doesn’t change things, but - just so you know, I did want to call.”
“Thank you,” is all he can say in response, because it’s hard to hear but it is mending the cracks in him to know that she missed him as much as he missed her.
The weak Spring sunshine is fading slowly, bathing the whole room in a warm hue. She looks beautiful, with the early evening sunlight dancing in the strands of gold in her curls, so he tells her.
She begins to correct him, something about how it’s been a long day and her carefully constructed curls are falling apart and can’t he see the bags under her eyes? He doesn’t laugh at how easily she sidesteps the compliment.
“I mean it,” he tells her quietly, firmly, staring down until the burning in her cheeks recedes and she smiles, accepting the compliment. It’s his new favorite thing, blurting out one of the many things he loves about her and then staring her down until she melts and lets his words seep in.
A sudden flare of sunlight breaks the hazy beauty of the moment, glinting off the paint splashes that litter the surfaces around him. He pushes the next confession out before the light fades and everything looks rosy again, because he doesn’t want to ignore the harsh colors of their past.
“I knew about your Art Show.”
She tenses below him, the hand that had been drawing patterns on his chest stops immediately, resting atop his heart.
He can feel her hand trembling against his chest, rattling something deep within him. He reaches up to take her hand in his as he continues.
“I told myself I wasn’t going because you didn’t need me there, because Roy would be there. But I think I did it to hurt you, on purpose.”
The words echo horribly in the quiet room and he wants so much to snatch them back but it’s the truth and he’s learning that the truth is always better in the long run.
“It’s okay,” she begins quietly and then, as though she’s checking herself, realizing that he’s isn’t Roy, that she’s not the girl who brushes things off anymore, she corrects herself, “No actually it’s not okay. It’s not. And you’re right, it did hurt me.”
He tilts his head down to press a kiss to her hair. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she agrees, smiling again, “I understand. Besides, it wasn’t very good ... I mean ...I wasn’t very good then - without you, before this whole bravery thing really kicked in. Maybe you can come to the next one?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he agrees, feeling a weight he’d half forgotten he was carrying lift off his chest at her words.
The momentary flare of sunlight fades and the room is once again bathed in hazy light, warm and comfortable. Like the future that’s stretching out before them, everything is a little unclear but the edges are soft and that’s all he needs to know.
It’s another new feeling that hits him now, as he’s drowsy and at peace in her home. It’s an odd sort of sensation, freeing and weightless, the realization that he doesn’t have to censor himself anymore. He really can say what’s he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, and it’s more than before because now, he can tell her anything.
A million and one things come to mind, but there’ll be time for them later because now, and this is an old feeling, he really just wants to know about her for the moment.
“Do you think you’ll go into art full time eventually?” he asks, careful to keep his tone neutral so she can’t even imagine the shadow of displeasure that he knows she’s conditioned to expect.
It’s a long time before she answers, but he lets the silence stretch out, waiting.
“I want to,” she says eventually, rewarding his silence. “I’m not good enough yet, and I don’t even really know what area I prefer. But in the long run, I’d love to make a career out of it.”
He knows she can’t see him but he almost wishes she’d look up now because he’s sure his face is a picture of pride and adoration.
“It’s not practical though,” she begins slowly.
“Don’t say that,” he jumps in before she can elaborate, because she sounds so sensible, so stifled, and he can’t bear it. “It’s your dream Pam and more than that, it’s a real possibility for you. You’re talented. So don’t you dare worry about whether it’s practical.”
She’s quiet again for a long moment and he worries he’s said to much, a momentary flicker of fear consumes him, a remnant of the times when he wasn’t the one allowed to say things like that to her but he did anyway.
“You’re right,” she agrees finally and he relaxes the second he hears her the soft hopeful note that has returned to her voice. “Thank you.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
It’s another long moment of quiet, though he knows she’s waiting to say something because he can feel her heart beneath the hand that’s he’s tucked around her, and it’s racing as though she’s on the edge of something, then slowing as she fails to form the words. He waits until the words tumble out.
“What about you? I mean what do you want to do? To be?”
He knows she can feel his heart racing now, just as he’s been judging her mood by feeling hers. It’s a reflex, the drop in his stomach that accompanies this question, the sudden quick breathing. The question has been thrown at him so many times at so many family gatherings by so many distant relatives and he’s never yet found a satisfactory answer. Still, it doesn’t even occur to him to lie.
“I really don’t know. I know I don’t want to sell paper forever,” he admits, and he’s surprised by how easily the answer trips off his tongue.
“I didn’t think you did,” she agrees softly, her fingers dancing patterns on his chest again.
She’s curled up beside him, chest rising and fall in sync with his own and it’s everything he’s ever wanted. So he tells her the truth, the truth that he hasn’t even admitted to himself until recently.
“For so long, and I don’t mean this as a bad thing, but for so long, what I wanted has been so tied up with wanting you, I never really thought of much else.”
“Oh?” She shifts slightly now so she can face him, just for a moment. There’s a shy smile playing around on her lips, as though she’s not sure whether it’s welcome. When she meets his eyes, it blooms into a full smile. “Well you’ve got me now.”
He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing that. He doesn’t respond, just tightens his hold on her for a moment.
There are a few things, these vaguely formed ideas that dance around the edge of his mind sometimes, of what he could do if he was brave enough to try. But they’re nothing concrete now and he thinks it’s okay to keep them to himself until they’re something really palpable, just like he knows she’s doing when she says she doesn’t know what area of art is her favorite.
“So yeah, I don’t know what I want to do but I’m pretty excited to maybe find out someday soon.”
She smiles up at him, nodding in understanding. She takes the wine glass out of his hand, takes a sip and puts it down on the coffee table, creating a little ring of red wine beneath the glass that he decides is his favorite of all the stains on the wood because it’s his.
They’re quiet again and he starts doing the thing he’s been doing off and on all week: glancing down at her, every few minutes, just to check she’s real.
“What?” she finally asks, when a few minutes have passed in silence. “Do I have something in my hair?”
He laughs quietly, his laughter shaking her body on his chest until she joins in.
“What is it? Where?” Her hand flies up, searching her hair for something that isn’t there.
He only laughs more, gently removing her hand from her hair, “There’s nothing there.”
“What have you been looking at then?” she asks curiously, returning her hand to it’s position over his heart.
“You,” he replies honestly, tucking the curls she’s just attacked back away from her face. “I just kind of can’t believe this is real y’know, so I need to ... check,” he trails off, embarrassed now.
“Oh,” she smiles to herself, but the teasing has gone out of her voice now, replaced by the soft, warm tone that he’s starting to get addicted to hearing. “I get it.”
He feels her heart pounding more than ever when she suddenly whispers, “I want a house with a terrace.” The tumbled declaration seems simple enough to him but she’s suddenly tense in his arms.
She’s holding her breath, he can feel it, though he has no idea why. It’s so simple, such a little detail of the future they’ve just been dreaming of; he can’t understand the significance that she’s obviously put on it, though he knows there’s something there.
“Okay,” he agrees because it’s only a terrace and if she wants that, of course she can have it.
The breath she lets out is shaky and long, and it takes a moment before she speaks again. “I’ve always wanted a house with a terrace upstairs. To plant flowers on. They don’t make houses like that in Scranton though.”
He wonders if the cracking in her voice is tears and though he can’t fathom why they’re there, the old-fashioned protectiveness that he’ll never apologize for takes over and he gives her the only answer he has.
“Then we’ll move. Or we’ll build one. Whatever it takes, okay?”
The evening sun has faded now, casting long shadows around them. He moves only to switch on a lamp, restoring the rosy glow they’ve been enjoying for hours and she sits up, shifting to face him. The tears he sensed are shining behind her eyes, but she’s smiling at him like he’s everything she ever wanted. He smiles back, because maybe he is everything she ever wanted, just like she is to him.
She blinks away the tears and kisses him, gently, for a long moment. When they part she shifts her mouth to his ear, whispering a quiet thank you that he only half-understands.
They’re quiet again now and his mind drifts towards why it is that this is so perfect. It’s easy to think that it’s because it’s Pam that’s lying in his arms, talking about yesterday and today and tomorrow with him, and it’s just what he’s been wanting all these years. But that’s too simple really, too easy an understanding for something that’s always been a kaleidoscope of sorts, tilting and reforming in his mind. It’s perfect because it’s not just everything he dreamed, it’s just everything. It’s the realization, lying here in the dying sunshine, that’s he was right to wait for this, that it wasn’t a pipe-dream that he imagined could exist if the pieces of them fell into the right patten.
It’s real.
She’s still his best friend, still the one who’ll laugh at him as often as with him. They can still play jokes on the world together and laugh about them over a can of something sugary from the vending machine. They haven’t lost that, but there’s a million other things now, things that he always thought could go with it and make him complete. He can kiss her just as easily as tease her now, slipping from serious to silly and back again with ease. He can make her gasp out his name, whether it’s at work and she’s begging him to stop making her laugh, or at home when she’s clinging to him between her simple cotton sheets, just begging him not to stop at all.
It’s everything he wants and he can see his whole life wrapped up in this one person. All the pieces he used to cobble together to feel complete are bundled up in her now, and it should be frightening but it’s not at all.
The next day, when she’s at art class and he’s at a loose end, he goes to the mall. He buys her a diamond ring because when he glances at it in the display, he can see that terraced house winking back at him. He can see all the pieces of them bouncing around in it’s depths, all the frantic weeks they’ll spend like this one, all the quiet moments they’ll have like last night, all the tiny facets of the life that they will have together. The salesman says it’s a big purchase, but he laughs and tells him it’s a bargain for what he’s getting from it.
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.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Inspired by Chair Model because all the cool kids are doing it. This is a oneshot, but a rather long one.
On a slightly unrelated note, I just wanted to take a min to thank whoever took the time to nominate me for the March Madness Member's Choice Contest. I cannot tell you how much it made my week to see one of my stories listed in this week's choice. So whoever you are, this one's for you....
On a slightly unrelated note, I just wanted to take a min to thank whoever took the time to nominate me for the March Madness Member's Choice Contest. I cannot tell you how much it made my week to see one of my stories listed in this week's choice. So whoever you are, this one's for you....
Chapter End Notes:
Reviews are love :)
shootingstars is the author of 10 other stories.
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