Story Notes:
I never really have ideas for epic Jim and Pam stories, more little oneshots and drabbles. This will be the place where I can share those. The title's appropriate, because I don't know that I'm the one to provide you with the drama that some of our more talented writers here provide. There's no timeline on this, no structure; some stories will be happy, some not...the only thing I know is that they will all involve Jim and Pam. I don't know how often I'll update. It's all pretty free form. With all that said, I hope you enjoy! As always, endless thanks to Dundie All-Star, who has been championing this idea for a looooong time.
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.
Author's Chapter Notes:
This contains a reference to my story The Date, and the title refers to an epic scene from The Empire Strikes back, that was then epically mirrored in Return of the Jedi, because that, my friends, is how I roll. ;)
In all your days, you’ve imagined yourself as many a movie character. As a kid, it was Indiana Jones, on an amazing adventure to find some long-hidden artifact; it was Mikey from The Goonies, in search of One-Eyed Willie’s subterranean treasure ship. Even in college, you fancied yourself as a slightly-older William in Almost Famous - after all, you did write a few sharp editorials for the school paper in high school about Weezer’s second album and how overrated you thought Silverchair was.
That’s why it shouldn’t be at all surprising that as an adult (or as close as you’ll ever get to that status), you’re displaying some distinctly Rainman-esque tendencies.
Some of them were always there. Let’s be honest: you figured out years ago that you could get to her counter in a minimum of seven steps (three when you took that other desk, but that path isn’t as engraved in your head or the carpet). You are well aware that your half hour lunch breaks average 46 minutes and you spend approximately 81% of that time talking, despite the fact that you usually have to throw out a good portion of your sandwich because you run out of time to finish it. The mean length of the glances you share is seven seconds (up from a paltry three just two years ago), and she smiles at you no less than 26 times a day (up from…well, much less a year ago, or even a few months ago).
And this from a guy that never earned higher than a B in any math class, ever.
But now, you find yourself calculating regularly just how long it’s been since you’ve been together. How many hours have passed since your world, almost magically, split wide open and let the sun shine in constantly, regardless of if it’s day or night? How many minutes since you haven’t had to look for a reason to smile, because it seems now you just never stop? How many seconds since you learned that bliss is a real state of existence and you are eyeball-deep in it?
This is why you know, as you retrieve two beers out of the refrigerator and she sits on your couch watching some sort of home design/renovation show that she recorded on your TiVo, you have been with her for seventeen days, three hours and 23 minutes, and neither of you has said “I love you.” Or any variation thereof.
You think you should give yourself partial credit. You have managed to get out such poetic phrases as “You are just…so…,” “You know that I’m, like…,” and “Oh, God…you…,” but these usually end in dazed head-shaking or kissing - and that last one, that occurred the first time you saw…well, all of her (six days, 21 hours and 14 minutes ago), and by no means should you have been expected to form a full sentence under those circumstances. Her response is usually a happy smile and nod, sometimes paired with a squeeze of your hand or her arms wrapping around you, and honestly, that’s not a bad deal. You two haven’t been in this new world where you actually communicate using real words for very long, after all. It takes a bit of getting used to.
But for God’s sakes, you’ve already bought her an engagement ring. The scales seem a bit unbalanced between what you know is true and what exists outside of your mind, in the world of sentiments actually expressed.
It isn’t that you’re scared, or at least you’re pretty sure it isn’t. You don’t have anything to be scared of, right? Because honestly, after the long and twisted path you’ve both had to walk, there’s no way either of you can be unsure of your feelings. It just isn’t possible. You’ve each handed your heart to the other - at different times, in different ways. Are the words really that important?
No. Of course not. They’re just words.
Important words, but words nonetheless.
You flop back next to her and she flashes you a quick grin as she daintily takes the bottle from your hand, then returns her gaze to the screen. Your finger traces an infinity symbol on her shoulder as she watches and you stare aimlessly at a paper plate from dinner on the corner of the coffee table.
You wonder that maybe it’s on her to say it first, then wonder if that’s juvenile. Sure, she didn’t come out and say those words to you back on the beach, or on your first date as she handed you that coaster, but for all intents and purposes you knew that’s what she was telling you. You are fluent in Pam, easily translating the adjectives in her eyes and adverbs in her fluttering hands. You know what she said when she didn’t say it. Similarly, you’re pretty sure she understands your clumsy half-declarations and lingering stares. So essentially, it’s been said.
Except it hasn’t really been said.
She lets out a sort of squeak and her head jerks in your direction, brows furrowed. You have no idea why you’ve suddenly stolen her attention away from the painting technique being explained on the screen and you wonder if she’s become telepathic, aware of your questioning of her. Then you realize that the finger that had been gently tracing along her shoulder blade is now tangled in one of her curls tightly. Simply put, you just pulled your girlfriend’s hair.
Wait - wasn’t that how you said it as a kid? Does that count?
You quickly unravel the strand and shoot her an apologetic glance. “Sorry about that,” you murmur, feeling a blush make its way up your neck. Her look of discomfort and surprise melt away as she smiles.
“’s okay,” she assures him, taking a pull off her bottle and looking back at the television. You look that way as well, but it’s clear that rag-rolling is just not up to derailing this train of thought.
Maybe you should plan a romantic evening, the kind that made you mime gagging when they popped up in movies when you were younger, and usually made you change the channel even after you were older. Something with wine, and decadent food, and the perfect ambient lighting. You have planned these evenings before, for other women - not many times, but enough to not be completely naïve about it. But with her, romance seemed to bloom on its own. The way she absentmindedly bobs her head to a commercial jingle as she snags another piece of pizza does more to you than any night of dining and dancing. Watching her laugh at an impromptu haiku you emailed her (oh Andrew Bernard/in pink and lime and sky blue/Cornell’s proud peacock), trumps any love poem recitation by far. Love and romance had never seemed to fall privy to the chicken-or-the-egg question until now - before, you had only used romance as a way to show your love. Now, romance became a natural byproduct of revelling in being in love.
Because you are in love.
Even if you don’t say so.
Your eyes are on the television and your mind is far, far away, so it takes you a moment to realize that she is watching you. “Are you all right?” she asks gently, and her expression offers subtitles. I know something’s wrong but I don’t want to seem too nosy. You’ve never accidentally pulled my hair before - I’m not mad, but it was weird. Now you’re just sort of vacantly staring and I know you aren’t interested in this show. I’d really like to hear what’s on your mind, please?
You can feel your face going through some sort of rearrangement of its features, trying to settle on a look that’s casual. You know you’re about to say something regarding this issue, but what you’re not sure. You don’t have to read from an approved script with her anymore, which is fantastic and freeing, but it leaves you at a loss for words sometimes. You look down and toy with her fingers, then back up as you take a deep breath.
“I was just thinking that…we haven’t…”
And you trail off, studying her face. Her expectant half-grin slides away, replaced by confusion. Her eyes dart back and forth just slightly as she mentally searches for something obvious that the two of you haven’t done yet. You don’t smile to encourage her, because you can’t, because in that nanosecond you know that you are terrified that there is a very good reason why you have been with her for seventeen days, three hours and 44 minutes, and she hasn’t said those words yet.
And, an instant later, you can see that she has figured all of this out as well. Well, maybe not the time frame, but everything else. Her eyes widen and her lips purse, and you know that she can see your every thought, every fear in your face. Her fears, similar in nature and strength, are just as evident. This has gone from being just another moment you log to a Moment, one that will be written in your Story, Remembered for all time.
“I love you.”
It’s said on exhale, quickly but evenly and with certainty.
It’s said in unison.
There is only one response. It’s full of relief, of assurance and of love. It, too, is in unison.
“I know.”
