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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.

This is what they do.

He settles back on the couch, the remote forgotten in his hand because Pam is groaning where she always groans (at Dwight and his shredder), and chuckling where she always chuckles (at Jim's hair), and snorting where she always snorts (at Ryan and his basketball gear and his smarmy cool-guy look).  Jim's heard her reactions so many times that he's forgotten what his own initial ones were.  He marvels that the credits elicit the same responses from Pam every time, because they bore him now.  Water cooler, copier, contract.  He hopes they'll change the images for the later seasons.  Thinking ahead makes him shift in his seat; his hand rediscovers the remote and toys with the idea of changing the channel, but he doesn't.

This is what they do.

He thinks he could touch her if he just slid his hand across the cushion a little bit.  He resists that, too.  Sitting apart for the episodes is part of the ritual, and something Pam insists upon.  He wonders what she gets from it, if the space makes her feel like she's back there with the curve of the reception desk between them.  It doesn't matter to him; that was then, this is now.  And they're only halfway into the second season.  He really wants to touch her.  The cat jumps up onto the couch.  He uses one elbow to knock it back down to the floor.  This earns him a frown.

This is what they do.

He remembers this day, the one that plays out curiously flat before him.  He'd missed her more than he thought he would, and then when she'd come back she'd been flirty with Roy.  Flirty.  Jim had never thought he'd be reliving those hours, would have considered it something akin to torture.  He'd thought the doc crew would make a film (two hours tops) but they'd decided on a series (fuck them).  So now, once a week, he sees it all again: gray people in gray rooms doing gray work.  His time there had smelled of aftershave and musty carpet.  His time here smells of nothing.

This is what they do.

He kicks himself mentally and offers hollow laughter at the (in)action on the screen.  She surprises him by reciting along with a few things.  Her memory is far better than his.  She remembers the two of them in details - words, gifts, pranks.  He remembers feelings - want, then satisfaction, then dismay.  He wonders if she ever thinks ahead to the end then remembers there hasn't been an end.

Except for the episodes, which almost always end in thirty minutes.  When the credits roll again, she says goodnight, as she always does.  He says goodbye, as he must, and presses the button to end the call.  At the other end of the couch, his wife's voice is tight.

"How's Pam?"

This is what they do.



nomadshan is the author of 44 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 1 members. Members who liked Couch also liked 71 other stories.
This story is part of the series, Still. The next story in the series is Sink.

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