Pam waits. She waits and she counts.
Eight. Eight months ago. She leaves Roy. Breaks his heart. (Maybe.) He hits bottom, gets a DUI. She'd like to think it's because of her, but maybe she thinks too much of herself. She doesn't do that very often, except when she thinks about the two men desperately in love with her. That’s when her stomach flutters and her heart races with the power she holds. Then she remembers she's (only) Pam, and it crashes into a vortex of self-doubt and insecurity that's not assuaged by the blanket of adoration she wraps herself in each morning.
Four. Four months after he returns. She’s tired. Tired of "friends." Tired of playing nice and, mostly, tired of being old Pam. She decides to move on. She makes changes. Tighter clothes, more makeup, more confidence. People start to notice (he notices). Roy’s trips upstairs, which had slowed, become more frequent. As if there was an unspoken competition for most visits to reception, Pam notices she needs to refill her jelly bean jar two or three times a week. She and Jim talk, joke and prank (lingering glances, stolen touches), just like old times. Tension builds, and cracks in his relationship with Karen begin to show. Cracks become chasms and, one night, a lingering touch becomes an unending kiss.
Two. Two months later. She moves in with Jim. It's too fast, she knows, but the heat and the fun and the sex and, and just everything. It’s too overwhelming. She can't stand being away from him, not even for the half-hour it takes to drive home and change clothes. She starts with a drawer at his place that quickly expands to a spot in his closet to a hamper in his bathroom and her own mug in his cupboard. She thinks how lucky she is that she works with him, because she can't imagine spending eight hours a day away from him. When his thousand-year-old couch is replaced by her own (completely unannounced, score one for the new me) one day, he just smiles and flops on it as if it's been there forever. They make love, (…ew, no) they fuck on the couch, and he tells her to pack up the rest of her stuff.
One. One month later. Karen still drunk-dials Jim. It makes things frosty at the office, all parties allowing Karen to pretend she doesn't remember so things continue like nothing's different, but yeah, it’s icy. Not that it wasn't already a little cold. But Karen seems to blame Jim more than Pam, so even if they aren't friends, they've been civil to each other (so far). Pam blames Jim too. She blames him for letting Karen call, for not changing his number (I've had this number forever, Pam. Clients know it, for fuck's sake), for not turning off his phone at night. She thinks he likes Karen’s calls. Sometimes he takes the phone in the other room and talks in low tones that would make Pam immediately wet (so wet) if they were next to her ear.
Sometimes she opens the bedroom door and throws shit (pillows, shoes, towels - whatever he's left on the floor that day) at him when he's on the phone with Karen. He snaps the phone shut and pushes against her fists on his chest until she gives in and he licks her to orgasm, his tongue driving the anger out of her by force, bringing her back to him.
Seven. Seven months PR. Post Roy. She still counts it that way, because the only was she's ever counted time is time with Roy. Marking anniversaries, setting dates. But now she's with Jim. They settle into a routine. Things look better (routine). Pam realizes that for all they had in common they have twice as much in different. Art. Xbox. Neat. Sloppy. Fancy New. Same Old. Thankfully, Karen's finally stopped calling, no thanks to Jim (he never did tell her to fuck off, I did). And Pam and Roy have settled into a friendship that while not easy, is at least not strained anymore.
She gets sick with strep throat. Jim makes sure she remembers to take her medicine and comes home at lunch to hold her while she sleeps (I will not be annoyed. I will not get bitchy. But, dammit, I can take care of myself...). He tells her that Michael announced a paper convention. He's sending Jim and Karen. And Dwight and Andy too, but Pam only hears “…and me, and, oh, yeah, um, um Karen, too…” Pressure fills her ears and rage fills her head until her eyes hurt and her head feels like it's a basketball. (Fucking Karen. Again. Always Karen.) She throws her mug at the door as it closes behind him, the cup not even giving her the satisfaction of a nice, loud shatter as it bounces off the carpet.
She's not quite recovered when she decides to meet him at guy's night out, the night before everyone leaves for the convention. She's tired of fighting and tired of being mad, so she shows up and he's already a little drunk. She quickly catches up and when he asks if they’re okay, asks if she still loves him, she grabs his arm and leads him unsteadily out of the bar, pouring him into her passenger seat. She pulls him, unthinking, led by nothing but need and want and the desire to wipe the thoughts (out of town! With Karen! Bastard.) from her head. Hot and sloppy and angry and wet, she presses her lips to his, opening them and roughly forcing in her tongue. Right there, in her car in the parking lot, they find a familiar rhythm. She unzips him, taking out his cock and bending over him. He's too drunk to be surprised, but not too drunk to take advantage, so he leans back and feels nothing but the softness of her mouth and the rough swirl of her tongue. When he thinks he's going to come, he pushes her off and back onto her seat, shoving up her skirt and returning the favor, making her squeal and moan and writhe and come unexpectedly quickly under him.
Her car is small, but the seats slide back farther than you'd think and it's easier than she'd ever imagined it would be. She straddles him and doesn't need to guide him to her, their bodies following a practiced path. She rides him until he growls that he's going to come and she rides him harder until she comes again, too. She lays on him, breathing heavily for a long moment, taking in his scent, wanting him to wrap his arms around her. He does it without her asking, and she lets him briefly until she pulls away, pulling down her skirt and slipping into her own driver's seat.
"You going back in, or do you want a ride home?" she asks, jacking the seat back to its upright position and ratcheting it forward so she can reach the pedals. He's so tall, he doesn't need to do more than put his seat up. She looks at him pointedly, lets him pull her to him for a final, rough kiss. She lingers, his lip caught between hers, teeth lightly holding. Letting go, he presses his forehead to hers. "We don't talk about this. You understand, right? I'm with Jim. Roy?"
"Right," He pops the door, doesn't look at her. "I'm going back in."
Five. Five weeks. That's how long it's been.
Thirty. Thirty seconds. She's not at all surprised when the plus sign appears. (Cephalexan. Son-of–a-bitch. That's what you get for thinking you're so smart.) She sits, curled up into herself, rocking. A smile, sly, cold and something else, stretches across her face until she's laughing uncontrollably. She smoothes her hands across her stomach (belly now, isn't it), and something inside her twists horribly. She turns on the faucet and splashes icy water over her face. (Still there, Pam? Not really, but close enough.) She tries on a few different faces in the mirror, picks one that she thinks will work, and opens the door.
Jim’s there, his face worried. She pastes on the face she's chosen and shows him the stick. He whoops and grabs her, whirling her around.
"You're not mad?"
"Hardly."
He hugs her so tightly that he never sees her falter.
Story Notes:
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.
If you're a fan of sweet and fluffy Pam, this is NOT the story for you. Co-written by two Pam fans who wanted to see another side of our favorite character.
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