Title: In the Light
Rating: R, for sex. Ooh, now I've gone and given it away.
Spoilers: Season 4, vaguely, and the Summer Vacation promo thing
Summary: We saw Jim and Pam's first night away together, but we were deprived of many of their other relationship firsts over the summer hiatus. Here's one: Their first time. Yeah, that first time. (Dwight is not involved.)
Notes: My first Office fic. Watch me write something angst-free! Didn't think I could do it, did you?


With Roy, this had been easy. Predictable and not altogether fun and sometimes more like a chore than anything else, but easy. She'd always known what to expect (not much) and he'd always kept the lights off so there wasn't much actual interacting to be done, save what their bodies could do, practically in their sleep. It'd been ten years, after all. Most of the time, he hadn't even bothered with undressing them all the way. Just the essential parts, in the dark.

Now, the lights are still on, and she's slightly nervous at so much exposure.

She has to stop herself then, because what the hell is she doing, thinking about Roy, when he's standing there, an almost wise half-smile on his face, as if he's known all along they'd end up, somehow, like this. And suddenly she doesn't mind the exposure, not when he's looking at her like that, like she's all he wants to look at for a lifetime and beyond.

She thinks, ten years from now, that they'll probably still want to leave the lights on from time to time. She quirks a small smile at that and it's her last thought that's even remotely connected to Roy at all, because when he touches her cheek like that, all other thoughts fly out of her head. As well they should.


"What, what?" she counters, her voice sounding far away from herself.

He runs the tip of his finger down her jawline and she hears her own intake of breath before she knows that's what she's doing. "What's the smile for?" he explains himself, and she almost laughs because how does he not know that answer?

Instead she shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, and leans her cheek into his hand, eyes closed, hoping the pressure of his other hand on the small of her back will hold her up if her legs give out. She feels his fingers trail from her jaw down her neck, where he brushes the shirt he'd unbuttoned earlier off the slope of her shoulder. Now it's his breath she hears drawn in, and she shifts her shoulders only slightly so the fabric pools at her elbows.

"What's the smile for?" She repeats his question, a bit incredulously, and he just chuckles, low in his throat. She opens her eyes to see him reach up and unwrap her arms from around his neck, dipping his head at the same time to settle his lips at her collarbone, breathing in deeply as her shirt drops to the floor with a light swish of sound.

She lets him continue to undress her, and while the surprising, bold, Fancy New Beesley part of her wants to take control, to take his face in her hands and kiss him senseless like she's got a feeling she can, she withholds that part of her (for now) and basks in the feeling of being desired.

When he runs his fingers under the band of her bra and grunts in mild frustration and confusion, she fails in stifling a giggle and reaches back to take his hand, moving it to her front, between her breasts, sure he can feel her heart pounding against his fingertips as he fumbles with the clasp. "Are you laughing at me, Beesley?" His voice is somehow both rough with wanting and light with their familiar banter.

"Me? Never," she manages in much the same tone, looking up at him with wide, trying-to-be-innocent eyes. When the garment falls open and his hands move to cup her breasts, she drops all pretense and lets out a soft moan, pressing into his hands, wanting.

And then it's no longer slow and languid and taking time, but a frenzied clash of giving and taking and she's not sure how they're suddenly both free of all their clothing. His arms are around her firmly and he's half stumbling with her backwards until the backs of her knees feel mattress and he lays her down on his bed. His bed, and she has a flash of memory of sitting on the edge of it, laughing at his high school yearbook, miming typing as he watches her with a look that, at the time, she hadn't recognized in his eyes.

"Pam." A pause, then, his body over hers, his hard arousal pressing against her thigh, and he pulls up from their kisses to look at her. She's taken aback by the sudden seriousness in his eyes. "Are you sure?"

She blinks once, twice, before she feels the tears burning at the back of her eyes. Ro...well, another man wouldn't have asked, certainly wouldn't have asked and meant it, but she knows this question is not just for show. She blinks again to clear her vision and lifts her head to brush his lips with hers. "Yes." And then she does take his face in her hands, kisses him long and hard and slow until there's no doubt left in his mind, though just to make sure she says it again, mumbling into his mouth. "Yes."

"Yes," he repeats her, but it's triumphant, and she'd giggle again if her mouth wasn't buried in his, because he sounds so little-boy excited and happy and so very Jim. So she's confused when he stops her again, this time looking a little embarrassed as he reaches halfway towards the drawer of his bedside table. "Are you...I mean, do we...need..."

Understanding dawns and she shakes her head slightly, pulling his arm back to her. "No, I'm still...I..." She feels herself flush furiously and she hopes she doesn't have to explain that she'd been on the pill with Roy and has kept on it, for no reason other than it's habit and it seemed like a little too much change after ten years and maybe, well, she'd been hoping.

Mercifully, he just grins and kisses her silent, a gruff "good" muttered against her lips. His hands are everywhere again, and hers follow suit, wanting him to feel the way she does when he touches her. And when he enters her for the first time she arches her back sharply and in the midst of the heady burn there's something that feels like all the pieces of her life are finally fitting together.


Afterwards, they're reclined against his pillows, she tucked under his chin watching his thumb trace her fingers, one by one. She suddenly wants to sketch them like this, their hands, lines and angles and shadows, meeting and parting and meeting again. Maybe she'll do that for her next art show; a study of their hands.

"You should wear your hair like this more." She feels his breath tickling her scalp as he speaks quietly into her hair, and she smiles because his voice sounds like how she feels – warm and content, drowsy with satisfaction.

"It's all messy like this," she points out, recalling his hands raking through her curls, locks tangled around his fingers, balled in his fists.

He chuckles and she feels it reverberating from his chest against hers. "Down, I mean."

"Mm." She nuzzles her face against his warm, still slightly sweaty skin. "I do always say I'm going to let my hair down more."

"But you never do." A teasing tone now, light and familiar and sensual. "Hypocrite."

"Well, I wouldn't want to be a hypocrite."

"No," he agrees, and nudges her temple with his chin so she'll look up at him. She does, and his eyes sparkle, because he knows that tomorrow, she'll wear her hair down.



Note: The hair hypocrite conversation is inspired by one of those season 4 promo spots, the "how The Office spent their summer vacation" thing.