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Story Notes:
I've got this S2... thing happening lately. Let's see where it takes us, dears.
~~~~~

They were sprawled on a wicker loveseat on Michael's back porch.

Well, slab, really, but there were Christmas lights strung around the flimsy railing that protected all visitors to said slab from a nasty three-inch fall. It was kind of a porch. Like Michael was kind of their friend and his party was kind of fun and Jim was kind of drunk.

The music was loud and silly, the stuff of YMCA lock-ins and weddings. In a rum-fueled moment of false bravado, he extracted Pam's plastic cup from her fingers and twirled her out onto the back porch. Slab. Whatever.

It had started as a silly, exaggerated waltz of sorts, steps so large that Jim bumped his thigh into the railing around them more than once. But that grew boring and awkward to sustain - not that they didn't have black belts in sustaining awkward things.

"We should probably leave enough room for the holy spirit," she remarked to his throat. The hair on his arms stood up.

Jim took an imperceptible step back, loosening their half-embrace. "You didn't go to Catholic school."

"Yeah, but I kind of always wanted someone to say that to me."

So their steps slowed and Pam stopped laughing with a sigh, a glance over her shoulder, and a less-than-graceful flop to the creaky lawn furniture. Jim followed suit, settling against the opposite arm. He could hear Ryan just around the corner in the living room, so drunk that he was talking politics with Dwight.

Jim let his head fall back against the top of the loveseat, staring up at the sky. With a little grunt of frustration and a creak, Pam shifted next to him, curling her legs up onto the seat, shins pressed against his thigh, the toes of her sneakers digging into his hip. "I'm glad I came," she said. He rolled his head to the side, contemplating the curve of her hip as she settled her cheek against the arm of the seat.

"You're going to have wicker scars if you do that."

"I'll tell everyone I was in a swordfight," she suggested, closing her eyes for a moment.

"Doesn't look like it went well for you."

"You should see the other guy," she murmured, tucking her chin so she could look through the back door. "I don't think anyone saw us come out here," she observed.

"That was kind of the plan," Jim said, glancing quickly to see how many layers she was peeling away from that little assertion.

"We could sneak out the back," she remarked, not opening her eyes, turning his way, nothing.

"You want to go home?" he wondered.

"Nah," Pam shook her head and grimaced. "Wicker hurts," she explained, pushing herself up and quickly bending her legs the other way, falling against his side. His arm rushed to circle her shoulders and he caught himself, trying to force brotherly, friendly thoughts down to his very fingers. She sighed and let her right arm fall across his legs. When he glanced down, he found that her eyes were wide open, staring at Michael's vinyl siding. "What smells like pineapple?"

"Oh, I, uh, spilled some juice on my shirt. From the Mai Tais."

"Is that what those were?" He tightened his hand, just barely, on her bicep, and she was up in the same moment, laying her torso across her own thighs, pressing the flat of her palms into the toes of her sneakers. She let her face fall against the front of her knees. It was quiet as he looked at her back. "I'm sorry I was laying on you," she said quickly, sitting up again. "Trying to crush you or something," she joked, glancing his way.

It seemed that he had decided that he was going to kiss her. Really, seriously decided it. Not like all of those other times, when he had toyed with the idea, knowing there was no way he could find the nerve to do it, or like that quick, drunk peck a month back, barely enough time to close his eyes. Hand on the back of her neck, his lips on her cheek, then brushing hers, out here in the quiet and dark, feeling drowsy and a little sad. He laughed at her, at the very idea that he was within minutes of ending all of this nonsense, and replied, "You'd have to try harder than that to crush me. I'm a lot bigger than you," it felt dangerous to say it, to place their bodies in the same sentence.

She gave him a small, sideways glance, as if she heard it just the way he did, as if she was contemplating proximity in just the same way. She said nothing.

He sat up straighter. He was going to do it. "Pam," he heard himself say quietly. He wanted her to turn her head. He wanted to pin her with a look.

It was her expression that stopped him from lowering his mouth to hers. He could see himself written all over her face. This overwhelming, complicated, often awful thing that he felt for her was undeniably, obviously looking right back at him.

He didn't look away. She lightly licked her bottom lip while her eyes dropped to his mouth. He'd lean in, he'd meet her halfway, he told himself, even as he was watching the realization that she was thinking about kissing him take shape just behind her eyes. She lowered her head and leaned back, but not too far.

"Room for the holy spirit," she said quietly, all lightness forced. It was better than a kiss.

~~~~~
Chapter End Notes:
Not mine. You know I wouldn't even dream of it.


Talkative is the author of 15 other stories.
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