Pam doesn't notice when the sixth round of drinks arrive, and nearly knocks over the fresh crantini at her elbow. Ryan raises his eyebrows at her. "Take it easy," he murmurs, with a friendly smile, but she forgets it immediately and gulps down a third of the drink. The bartender has changed since she sat down. The last two glasses have been pungent with vermouth, which she can't stand, but it's too much trouble to remember to tell the waiter.
In the little booth in front of her sit Ryan, Kevin, Jim, Michael and Dwight, sipping beer, beer, beer, Black Label and some sort of Belgian raspberry import, respectively. "That looks like blood," she told Dwight when the first glass arrived.
"Don't be silly. Blood is much more viscous," he replied. Many glasses later, Dwight's speech itself has become viscous and slurred, eventually stopping completely. Now he is slumped forward a little in his seat beside her, with a pale pink ring around his lips and breath that is sickly sweet.
Michael is still working on his second drink, and has difficulty masking a slight shudder with every cautious sip, but his mood has noticeably improved. He smiles at them beatifically. "The old gang," he says, leaving his hand on Ryan and Jim's shoulders slightly longer than is absolutely necessary. "My compadres. Oh, and comadre, of course," he adds, raising a glass at Pam. "Speaking of which, where is Oscar tonight?"
"He had plans." Jim doesn't look up from his pint glass. "With Gil."
Michael nods over-vehemently. "As is completely natural and healthy." He looks around the booth. "And why are we all here? We're all in relationships now... except for Dwight, of course." From his corner, Dwight mumbles briefly and is silent. "Everyone just needs a night off from the old ball and chain now and then, am I right?"
There are a few half-hearted nods.
"You going to be sleeping on the couch tonight, Pam?" asks Michael. "For having a wild night out with a bunch of guys?"
She looks at him over the rim of her glass. His face is red and a little shiny. "No," she says slowly, "it's not like you're all strangers."
"And it isn't exactly wild," mutters Ryan into his beer.
"Not yet, not yet. Night's not over." Michael waves expansively at their waiter. "Another round for me and my friends! Just keep lining 'em up," he adds, as the man looks pointedly at Michael's nearly-full glass.
This time she can't really taste the vermouth.
-----
Later, Dwight snores peacefully, curled into the fetal position with his thumb not actually in his mouth, but dangerously close. Kevin has joined the crowd at the bar to watch the game.
For the last half hour, Michael has been attempting to draw them all into a game of Truth or... Truth, from what she can gather. She doesn't really understand the rules of the game, and she's pretty sure it's just a flimsy excuse for Michael to tell them all about places and ways that he and Jan have had sex, with wildly inappropriate amounts of graphic detail.
His next question is, predictably, "What is the most public place you guys have ever done it?" Without waiting for anyone to reply, he rushes on: "For me and Jan, it was a beach cabana in Jamaica. I thought the door was closed, but turns out it was open, by like, a foot and a half!" He digs Ryan a little in the ribs with his elbow. "Her knees: over my shoulders. Her feet: hooked through the towel rack."
Ryan has made an interesting transformation over the last half hour, from staring glassily at the wall to giggling helplessly at everything Michael says. At this fresh revelation, he doubles over and smacks the table with the flat of his hand, making their coasters jump. "Nice!" he snorts, giving a pleased Michael a messy high-five. "Good work, dude!"
"Top that!" Their boss looks around at them smugly.
"What counts as sex?" asks Jim. It is the first time he's spoken in a while.
Michael scoffs loudly, "Whad'ya mean, what counts as sex? Do I need to draw you a picture?"
This elicits a fresh burst of laughter from Ryan, who begins searching his jacket for a pen.
"Figure of speech, Ryan," says Michael, pushing it away with an impatient swipe.
"I mean, are we using the Clintonian definition here?" asks Jim. His words are coming very slowly and deliberately. Pam forgets how much he's had to drink, although she started out the evening by keeping track.
"Use any definition you like," says Pam. "We just want the dirt." Her ice cubes have melted so that there is a tiny hole through one of them. She slides it into her mouth and pokes her tongue through the hole, feeling the opening expand as the ice gives way.
"Then I guess... on the tennis court, at night, against a chain link fence." Jim glances openly at her for the first time that night. She can't tell what he's thinking.
"Was anyone playing tennis?" asks Michael, in an awed voice. Beside him, Ryan convulses.
Jim smiles languidly. "No. I'm not that crazy, I guess," he said. "Someone could have seen us, but I think probably no one did. It was pretty late."
Ryan shakes his head. "Weak," he says. "I got that beat. Airplane."
"Mile High Club, in the business class bathroom! We're like twins!" Michael slaps him on the shoulder, and this time, Ryan doesn't seem to notice.
"Not the bathroom, dude. In our seats." Ryan chuckles into his glass of beer, and refuses to elaborate,
Pam's mind races feverishly. Roy's car. Her bedroom. His parent's bedroom. A hotel room. Another hotel room. Another. She wonders if she should make something up. Something far enough in the past they might believe it of her -- the football field after a game, or something similar. She has a momentary vision of Michael making a joke of it to Roy, Roy looking confused, the slow realization that would creep over everyone that would be greater than the shame of the truth right now.
"I've got nothing. Sorry, guys," she says.
"Aww. Poor Pam. Poor Sister Mary Pamela," says Michael. "It's okay, Sister Pam, without couples like you and Roy, there would be no America." He clasps her hand over the tabletop, his sleeve in the nachos.
"Thank you, Michael," she says numbly, his obvious sincerity neutralizing the faint wave of irritation she feels. She looks at Jim, whose eyes are on the television several feet away. Her skull feels tight, like it is filled with air. "On the other hand," she says, raising her voice to make sure he hears her, "I'm not dead yet."
Michael snickers appreciatively. "You go, girl," he says, not for the first time that night.
Ryan's laugh is careless and a little patronizing. "Yeah, right. You and Roy are going to get nasty now."
She shrugs. "Maybe. We've spent nearly a decade together... mostly..." Jim looks at her quickly and then focuses on his drink. "We've got the foundation built. We're comfortable. Now we can take risks."
"Like maybe the floor of the bedroom once in a while?" Ryan giggles.
The anger she suppressed at Michael's teasing rises in her again. "I guess you're the expert, Ryan. How can I compete?" she says sarcastically.
"You know..." Michael raises a finger thoughtfully. "In ten years with Roy, Pam's probably had more sex than all of us combined. So that makes her the most experienced one here." He gives her a kindly smile, and she squirms a little in her seat.
"With the same guy, though," protests Ryan.
Jim clears his throat. "Yeah, so what, Ryan?" he asks.
There is a lull in the booth. An explosion of cheers and a few scattered groans drift from the group gathered around the wide-screen television.
Story Notes:
This is nearly identical to the original version of Vanilla, which I removed a couple of months ago. I have tinkered with it slightly so that I could re-post it here (there were a few sections that I'm using for a non-fanfic project).
Please don't worry about leaving feedback, unless the spirit particularly moves you; many, many heartfelt thank-yous to those who reviewed the original.
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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.
