Author's Chapter Notes:
This chapter is a little short and a little jumpy, but I'm content with how it is, I guess. I hope you enjoy! Everything belongs to NBC, Greg Daniels, Ricky Gervais, etc, etc.
TWO:
Pam wakes up to a loud splintering crash. She springs up in bed and scrambles to get out, one leg getting tangled in her purple sheets before she shoves a sweatshirt from the dresser down over her head.
Exasperated groans travel down the hall and for a second she’s worried, but then a loud string of expletives follows. Instead she rolls her eyes, her bare feet thump softly against the floor as she pads to the kitchen.
“Roy? What hap--Ouch!” she cries, and hops on one foot as she searches the floor for her wound-inflicting adversary. The sharp, jagged edges of the shard contrast with the smooth turquoise surface, embedded in the white shaggy throw rug. It takes her a second to realize what it is, and when she does her throat constricts and her stomach drops. She feels dizzy: teapot teapot teapot.
“Pam?” a gruff voice calls from the behind her. She hears the thump of heavy work boots, unfamiliar against the wood floors of her tiny apartment. “Pam? Don’t go in there; I broke your goddamn tea thing.” Roy lumbers past her into the kitchen, carrying a broom and dustpan.
“I alrea—what happened?” she stammers, leaning against the doorframe. She lifts her injured foot; the initial stinging is now just a dull ache on her sole.
“I was gonna make you some tea, but I stubbed my toe on the stupid kitchen table, which hurt like a bitch by the way, and I dropped your goddamn tea thing.” he says gruffly, frustrated.
“Oh, are you okay?” she asks, still inspecting her foot for any damage.
He mumbles a “fine” and waves her off, bends down to start sweeping the pieces of terra cotta scattered throughout the kitchen. At one point he slides under the table to get a particularly large piece, bumps his head on the table as he's standing up. Another string of expletives follows, but he doesn’t want any ice when she asks, just rubs the back of his head for a second.
“Pammy—er, Pam? Don’t you think this table’s kinda big for the kitchen? Like this kitchen is real small compared to our old kitchen and I know you wanted our old table and everything, but…” he stands and moves to find the trash can. She feels a tiny bit of satisfaction in her chest when he checks two cabinets before locating the correct one. As his back is turned, she bends down to grab the piece she stepped on, pockets it.
“I like this table.” she says, tone dry. She feels kind of bad since its injured him and everything, but he broke her teapot, so.
“Whatever. You still want some tea?”
“It’s fine. Thanks for the thought, though.” she kind of wants him to leave, wants him to offer to at least buy her a new teapot.
“Yeah, well, I’m trying, right? Boyfriend-girlfriend stuff. Making you tea.” he grins, a little self-righteously. “You know what, I’ll put a mug in the microwave instead. Go back up to bed.” he pecks her on the cheek, dry and chaste.
Pam’s petty sure she already said no, and she hates tea in the microwave, but he’s trying, so she complies, does what he says. Seven minutes later he comes in with a mug, slipping under the covers next to her.
“Here you go. Chamomile’s your favorite, I remember.” He pronounces chamomile like the ‘ch’ in chocolate.
“Yeah, it is.” she lies, forcing a smile because he’s trying.
She takes a sip and it’s too weak and too sweet but she drinks it anyway; her foot hurts.
Chapter End Notes:
Please review! Or I'll send you to Sandals, Jamaica with Michael Scott. Or maybe just Jan.
