It was amazing to her how simple things actually were in the end, after the years of uncertainty and doubt. Going home at night to a man she wasn’t sure if she loved anymore, but whom she wasn’t ready to let go. Trying to deny that the man she spent every day with was more than just her best friend. It had been exhausting thinking that he didn’t love her anymore, that he’d moved on with her complete opposite. She tries not to think about it too much because things are good now and she’s sleeping through the night finally. She can see someone order a ham sandwich and not excuse herself to the bathroom, running to make it before her cheeks are wet and her throat has closed up. She can look him in the eye and there’s no internal battle about whether or not to reach her hand up into his hair and smile against his lips as she slips a shamelessly suggestive Post-It into his back pocket. She thinks about the good things now.
Sometimes at night after he’s fallen asleep next to her, hair in his eyes, mouth open just the slightest bit, arm thrown haphazardly over her waist, she thinks that maybe it had to be so complicated in the beginning for them to appreciate what they have now. Or maybe this is just the universe’s way of making good for pretty much ruining a year or two of their lives. If it’s been a particularly difficult day, she wonders if it’s just the calm before the storm. But then he snores a little and adjusts in his sleep and his thumb kind of rubs over her hip, just under the edge of her tank top, and she decides that’s just the disappointingly expired yogurt from lunch talking.
So when Tuesday rolls around Pam just smiles and zips up her new grey skirt, the one she bought with some of her tax return money the other weekend that Jim says makes her look like she should be carrying a pair of heels in her purse, and throws the salad she made last night into an old Target bag as she runs out the door on her way to work.
***
He sometimes has trouble sleeping when they don’t spend the night together. It’s not like he stays up until 4 in the morning or lies there with his eyes open staring at the ceiling, he just fidgets a lot more. And his right arm, the one that would normally be draped across her middle, falls asleep, like he’s been holding it at a weird angle all night. He tries to keep those nights to a minimum, though. Really, he just tries to spend as much time with her as humanly possible. He laughs and tells her it’s because he really has nothing else to do, but his eyes are screaming at her, telling her he’s making up for lost time, trying to prove that he’s in this with everything he has and he isn’t going anywhere. Plus he really just can’t get enough of her. She does this thing while they’re watching tv, she’ll laugh out loud at the most random parts, slapping the armrest and snorting and just really losing it. He tries to ask her what’s so funny, but she’s laughing so hard she can’t form words and tears are streaming down her face. She grabs his shoulder to try and steady herself, but then he starts to give in and then he’s laughing along with her, and all because Doc just told the farmers wife to keep her husband’s leg clean or he’ll get gangrene. It happens so often that most of the time he just doesn’t ask anymore.
It’s gotten to the point where there are a lot of things he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t ask if she wants to eat on Friday nights. He just shows up at her house around 8 and leaves his car running in the driveway, because he knows that she doesn’t like to wait in the foyer of the restaurant for that stupid little disc thing to start convulsing in her hand, so they really need to leave like 5 minutes ago. He doesn’t ask if she needs help with the dishes after brunch with his parents is over, he just walks into the kitchen and rolls up his sleeves, yelling that he thinks they should go out to dinner with Dwight and his babysitter next weekend because he never did find out if Dwight’s parents fed him paint chips when he was a small child. He doesn’t ask if she wants him to come to her next art show, he’s just waiting in the car for her with a small bouquet of paint brushes and oil crayons, rambling on about how this time he’s going to see if he can get Eyeliner Girl to admit that all of her work was inspired by The Sound of Music. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
In fact, now that he thinks about it, there’s really only one question Jim needs to ask Pam. One last thing that he doesn’t already have his answer for. He’s pretty sure he knows what it will be, it’s just the matter of actually getting down to it. He’s not nervous. He feels like he should be, like all guys are, but he’s not. Things he’s absolutely certain about don’t make Jim nervous. The only thing left his how he’s going to do it. There are so many extravagant and cheesy stories about rooms filled with things and JumboTrons and 20 minute speeches and rings inside food and that’s really just not them. Not her. She wouldn’t want him to dance around or draw it out, Pam would just want it simple and heartfelt.
So when he’s sitting on her couch Tuesday evening, watching her attempt make a beer can chicken with an electric skillet on top of her stove, he just sort of smiles and unfolds himself from the couch, grabbing the little black box out of the messenger bag sitting by the front door.
***
She doesn’t hear him making his way to the kitchen, just sort of feels him come up behind her, figures he’s there to say something about her superior cooking skills or make a joke about how one of these days they’ll get that second kitchen and he’ll banish her and her experiments to the one in the back. Pam wipes her hands on a towel and turns around to face him, mouth already set in a line and ready to throw The Great Curry Fiasco of ’07 back in his face, when she realizes that he’s just kind of sitting at the table with something in his hand, smiling kind of funny. She opens her mouth to ask him what’s going on but he preempts her by lifting up the box and opening it.
Neither of them really says anything. She smiles like she did when he asked on their first date. That one he loves where she keeps her mouth closed and kind of quirks up one side of it while her eyes fill up a little bit. For a split second he wonders how she looked when Roy asked her, but then he realizes he doesn’t actually care. Because right now she’s reaching out to take the ring and he’s slipping it onto her finger as he stands back up and they’re still not talking, but she’s smiling even wider and they both start to laugh a little. She slips her fingers around the back of his head, thumbs running over his cheek bones while she kisses him, opening one eye to see the way her left hand looks against his hair. She breaks the silence as she comes down off her toes and slides her hands to his chest.
“How did you pull that off?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You put no effort into that proposal. You didn’t even speak, and you still kicked my ass.”
“Pam. As well as having the ability to control things with my mind I’ve been researching telepathy for about 8 months now so… pretty sure I put a lot more work into that than you’re putting into dinner right now.”
He really doesn’t need to ask her things anymore.
Author's Chapter Notes:
This is my first fic, thought I'd tackle the ever-popular proposal.
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.
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.
Chapter End Notes:
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