Title: Insatiate #11
Fandom: The Office (US)
Character: Pam (Jim/Pam)
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Whatever happens, this is.
Notes: Set after 2.01: The Dundies
Roy isn't home by the time Pam stumbles in. It takes her three attempts, but she manages to hit the right speed-dial on her cellphone. Over the static, the background noise, and her own disorientation, Roy mumbles something about hanging out at Darryl's tonight.
Pam doesn't remember whether he hung up first, or if she dropped her cellphone in the bathtub by accident. It doesn't matter.
She takes a moment to stare fondly at her shoes, then wrestles out of her clothes and tumbles into bed. She's awake, and the buzz of the last three half-margaritas is wearing off.
She's bored and she's alone, so naturally, she calls Jim. He answers on the third ring, and his voice is a little hoarse.
"Coffee was such a bad idea," she confides. "I mean, I know it's supposed to help with the alcohol, but I can't even close my eyes now."
A pause. "Doesn't Roy want to talk?" Jim asks.
"He's still out," Pam replies. "At Darryl's."
"Ah." Jim prolongs the word, and it swirls around her. She hears a rustle of cloth, and then Jim chuckles. "So you thought you'd deprive me of sleep."
And she's suddenly very, very aware she's just wearing a tank top and panties. "Yeah, well," she says, pulling the sheets over her hips. "Caffeine was your bright idea, and--"
"You shouldn't be the only one to suffer," he finishes. "Logical."
"Sorry." Pam snuggles into the mattress for that extra bit of warmth. The cotton feels good, smoothing against her legs. "I can let you sleep."
"No, it's cool, it's just." He clears his throat. "Something on your mind?"
"Oh, you know." She bites her lip, teases the elastic of her panties with her middle finger. "Work. Global warming. Noah Wyle's next TV movie."
"Exactly." She shifts, closes her eyes. "What about you?"
"Also the usual." Jim takes a deep breath, and it sounds a little like the ocean. "Pandacam. It's a tough addiction to quit."
She trails her hand up, pausing at her belly button, circling, then moving lower.
"Yeah, I'm here," she murmurs. "Just. Talk to me, okay?" She parts her legs, just barely, and slides her fingers between.
"Okay." He clears his throat again. "Okay. Well."
"Tell me about, um." She bends a knee, bites her lip for a second. "A movie. Your third favorite."
Jim laughs, a low burst, and begins to hem and haw. She teases him, and mostly manages not to gasp as he tells her the story.
If he knows what she's doing, he never mentions it. And neither does she.
A/N: Title and summary adapted from Adrienne Rich's The Floating Poem, Unnumbered:
Whatever happens with us, your body
will haunt mine -- tender, delicate
your lovemaking, like the half-curled frond
of the fiddlehead fern in forests
just washed by sun. Your traveled, generous thighs
between which my whole face has come and come --
the innocence and wisdom of the place my tongue has found there --
the live, insatiate dance of your nipples in my mouth --
your touch on me, firm, protective, searching
me out, your strong tongue and slender fingers
reaching where I have been waiting years for you
in my rose-wet cave -- whatever happens, this is.
Originally linked here. Linked on office_fanworks.