- Text Size +
Author's Chapter Notes:
I don't hate Roy; I really, really don't. However, I have no qualms over shamelessly utilizing him to invoke a hot, protective Jim ;) I figure this taking place somewhere during season one. Title from the Meatloaf song, "Everything Louder Than Everything Else."

--

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.

He let’s it fly at Poor Richard’s.

They’re celebrating the end of their quarter close, and she’s buzzed and he’s a little more than tipsy, and Lonnie is buying another round.

He’s sitting at a table with all of the warehouse guys playing quarters, and all of the people from the office are the next table over, except very few of them are actually sitting; Angela and Dwight are over at the juke box (she smiles to herself, she’s the only one who sees Angela slip her hand, so sly and small and slim and white, into Dwight’s back pocket; she’ll never tell) and Stanley is actually laughing and joking, Phyllis and Jim are dancing, exaggerated and crazy, her face is red, his back is to Pam, a little trickle of sweat running down the gentle curve of his neck and dotting the back of his work shirt. It’s crowded in here.

Bang and she spins around, and they’re all cracking up, plastered. Roy’s face is red and he takes another sip of his beer.

“Dude, you s-suck at this game,” Darryl is laughing.

She turns around again, Jim and Phyllis are gone and Angela’s arms are neatly folded.

“Hey,” Roy jabs her in the shoulder, and she turns. “You okay?”

Her eyes widen a little, and she nods, bobs her head like she knows she should. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“D-do you wanna go sit with your office buddies?” He’s slurring, just a little, and she makes a note not to drink anymore, because she knows this night is going to end like every other, with him making a drunken toss of the keys and saying, “You drive, Pammy.”

She shakes her head. “No, I see them all day, I only get to see you now.”

He kisses her and it tastes like beer but it’s okay, she honestly doesn’t mind. He squeezes her arm and whispers, “I’ll be right back, you want anything?”

She really wants something with vodka, but remembers driving home. “Dr. Pepper?”

He guffaws a little, and leans over and kisses her again.

“Du-uuude, Roy, keep it to yourself!” one of the warehouse guys croons, and she blushes and folds her hands in her lap and watches them play quarters.

Someone taps her on her left shoulder, and she turns but no one is there. “Ha ha,” someone says to her right, and she grins and knows who it is before she even turns around.

“Nice dancing before, Happy Feet.”

“Because you’re clearly the Fergie of Scranton,” he quips. “Hiding over here all night, so the paparazzi can’t find you?”

She grins. “Well, you know that they’ve been bothering me lately, I think I need to put out a restraining order on those guys.”

Why is this so easy?

The quarter dinks on the table and into the shot glass, and everyone cheers.

Roy comes back over, a can of soda in one hand and another drink in the other, and she sees his easy smile tighten. “Halpert.”

Jim shoots up out of Roy’s seat. “Sorry, uh, dude, did I take your seat?”

Roy sits back down, and she turns frantically as Jim starts to leave. “Hey,” she says, pulls over a chair on her left side, “stay. It’s okay, right?” She turns to Roy.

He shrugs evenly. “Fine by me, dude.”

Jim doesn’t exactly smile, but nonetheless ambles over and sits down next to her.

Roy takes a sip of his drink and grabs her hand, and she takes her soda and sips. She puts it down quickly. “Ugh, jeez. Roy, is that diet?”

He ignores her, watching the game and laughing.

“Roy,” she half-yells over the music, tugs on his sleeve, but he still doesn’t notice.

“Hey, Roy ” Jim yells to help, and he finally turns. Jim points to Pam.

“Roy, is this diet?”

“What?”

“I wanted Diet, Roy, I think you maybe got regular.” No, I don’t think. I’m sure.

He is watching the game again, then turns to her. “Pam, you didn’t ask for diet.” Her voice is tight, full of ridges.

“Yes, I did.” I think.

“Hey,” Jim starts to move his chair back, “I’ll go get it, it’s no big deal.”

And at that second, all the forces of the universe turn against her.

Roy shoots up, his hip bumps the table, which makes Jerry’s elbow bump a shot glass while knocks into Roy’s new, full bottle of beer, which slides off the table and pours a mini waterfall of alcohol into her lap while Roy says, “Chill out, Halpert.”

“Ohhhh!” all of the workers croon at once as Pam rights the bottle and attempts to brush beer off her lap.

“Roy!”

“What? Oh, Jesus Christ!” he yells, when he sees the spilt beer. “Dammit Pam, that was a full bottle!”

She turns. “You’re yelling at me, Roy, you knocked it! This was a new skirt ”

“Pam, Miss Pam, I’m sorry –” Jerry starts, and Jim reaches over to try and get a napkin.

“Why are you getting so upset over this?”

“You’re the one who’s getting upset!”

“Don’t tell me how I feel, you cunt!”

The song ends, and the breath freezes inside of her. All of the warehouse workers grow quiet, and Darryl utters a low, sloppy, drunk, “oh.” Jim’s arm, which was brushing up against her, tightens.

She gets up, snatches the napkins from Jim’s hands. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Pammy,” he’s already starting, follows her as she pushes past, her eyes stinging. Now she’s going to cry in front of everyone, great.

(Well. You don’t care about crying in front of everyone.
You can’t lie to yourself.)


“Damn,” Jerry says, and bounces another quarter.

“Brother’s screwwwed-d-d,” Darryl laughs and slurs, taking his turn. Some of the office workers, Stanley and Ryan and Kelly, have taken notice.

Jim watches Roy plow after her and grab the back of her arm (how dare he) and he wants to go hit him and tell him not to touch her.

“Pammy!”

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses, tries to pull away.

“Pam, I’m so so sorry, I know, I know that was bad but I swear baby, I didn’t mean –”

“Roy,” she bites, “can we just go?” Her skirt is still soaked, sticking to her thighs, defining each one, even in the crappy light.

(Don’t think it isn’t driving Jim Halpert wild, either)

“Yeah, yeah let’s just go home, I’ll go get your stuff.”

“Super. Give me the keys.” Her voice is flat and effortless. “Honestly, Roy...” she begins, but leaves to get the truck before she gets the guts to finish.

Jim has a plastic straw in his hand, and is bending it back and forth, grasped so tightly his fists are red, when Roy comes back over, reaches for Pam’s jacket.

“Hey guys, we’re gonna be taking...” He pauses, burps. “Taking off for tonight.”

“Bye-e-e Roy,” they all chorus in unison, and Jim isn’t sure if he can let go of the straw and keep himself from knocking Roy’s front teeth out.

He’s halfway to the door when Jim notices Pam’s purse. He jumps up. “Roy!”

Roy turns, and all the warehouse workers and office workers are watching him and for the love of God, keep it together, Halpert, he wills himself as he walks closer.

“Pam’s purse.”

“Oh, right.”

“You wouldn’t want to forget that,” he says, a little cocky and a little pissed and a little hurt for her. “It has a lot of her important stuff in there. Keys, credit card, stuff she wouldn’t want lost –”

“I know what’s in her purse.” He grabs it. “You trying to start something here, Halpert?”

He chuckles a little bit, and his fist is clenching, pumping in and out. He feels everyone’s eyes latched on to them, but if he kills Roy here like he wants to, Pam will have to sit in the emergency room all night with beer on her skirt.

Besides, she’s not yours. She never will be.

He swallows hard, unclenches his fist for the final time, half moons dotting across his palm like a stitch. “Nope, I was just leaving.”

He storms out of Poor Richard’s, emotions on every sleeve.

Pam’s sitting outside in the truck, tapping her fingers on the wheel when Jim comes out. He makes as if he’s going to come over, but then stops and waves goodnight.

Inside Poor Richard’s, Roy turns around and sees two tables worth of Dunder Mifflin employees staring at him, who immediately turn their gazes down to the table as if they’ve never seen anything more interesting in the world.

He sighs and pushes through the door into the headlights of the running truck, and wonders how he always ends up as the big stupid asshole.


Erileen is the author of 2 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 1 members. Members who liked Everything Louder Than Everything Else also liked 10 other stories.


You must login (register) to review or leave jellybeans