Title: Five Mornings with Jim and Pam
Fandom / Pairing: The Office, Jim/Pam
Rating: T, for suggestions
Disclaimer: Our employees are all extremely gruntled. Aaaaand, I don't own The Office.
Summary: I'll tell you how the sun rose a ribbon at a time.
Notes: This is a celebration. Enjoy it; we're about to get hit with The Angst, I'm sure of it. Six more, y'all, six more.


The sun shining through her open window is what wakes her. It's still early summer, so a cool morning breeze blows through the room and makes the curtains flutter. The wind chime she hung from the window frame on a whim rings quietly in the gently-moving air. The sound is light and soothing, and she rolls over to see the sky.

She sees him and the night before comes back in a rush; movies and late-night TV and them simply crashing, half-dressed and exhausted. He's still sleeping, and she feels a dopey smile spread across her face. The lines around his eyes are relaxed, and she sees the roundness in his face that he lost while he was gone. Gently, she raises a hand to tuck a stray lock of hair away, and her hand traces the line of his jaw, touches the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

His eyes open slowly, blinking blearily against the morning light. He looks a little confused but then his gaze alights on her.

"Hello," he says silently, mouthing the words.

"Hi," she replies in kind. The room stays soundless save for the win.


The first thing she is aware of is the sensation of touch. She can feel something warm - a hand, her fuzzy mind supplies - gently stroking her skin, soft and both warm and cool against her flesh. The long, languid strokes trace the contour of her body, down nearly to her knee.

The motions slow and her eyes open to see why. Shaggy hair and green boxers greet her, and a smile tugs at her lips. "If I knew you liked silk so much, I'd have worn this sooner."

"Maybe it's not the silk," he replies, a rakish grin crossing his features. "Maybe it's what underneath." He tugs at the hem of her short, royal purple nightgown. His hand settles on her hip, warm and heavy.

"Maybe," she says with a laugh, hands coming up to rest on his bare shoulders.


She rouses suddenly, without the usual, gradual progression to wakefulness she usually experiences. It's disorienting, like she's been pulled out of a dream, and the feeling is compounded by the grey light in her room. She turns over and sees him, unkempt hair and large hands and the wiry, muscled frame she's come to know so well.

She has a moment of clarity, and she steals from her bed - their bed - to grab her largest sketchpad and the charcoal pencil. She pulls a chair up beside the bed and begins to sketch, her nakedness forgotten in her need to capture this.

His lines - shoulders, neck, chin, chest - are so familiar to her that they appear almost instantly. The rumpled sheets and the shadows they create are next. She's halfway through shading the pillow when she notices he's away.

"Hey," she says, pausing in her sketching.

"What you are doing?" There's a glimmer of laughter in his eyes, dark green in the low light.

"Drawing," she replies coyly.

"I can see that," he returns, propping himself on one elbow. "What are you drawing?"

"You," she says without hesitation.

He looks surprised and she's almost proud of the fact that she can surprise him still. Then, he sits up, the sheet settling about his hips. "Come here," he beckons, patting the bed beside him.

She sets the pad against the wall and crawls into the bed, sitting on her knees beside him. He cups her face in his large hand and kisses her. The kiss is so deep and so thorough she swears it touches her soul.

When they break apart it's her turn to look stunned. He pushes back a stray curl of her hair and smiles shyly. "Good morning," he says quietly, and she feels it in her skin.


She blinks blearily, the red numbers on the clock not quite registering. A moment passes.

She sits bolt upright. "Oh, shit," she says aloud, and flings off the covers. She bustles into the bathroom and brushes her teeth quickly.

He sits up tiredly, running a hand through his hair and making it stand further on end. "What's wrong?"

She towels off her face. "I've got to meet Dawn in twenty minutes and the place is at least a half-hour away," she calls in a muffled voice. She throws the towel into the hamper and pulls her makeup toward her. "I can't believe I slept in. Why didn't I set the alarm?" She brushes on foundation in short, hasty strokes.

Two large hands wrap around her waist, and she feels him push aside the strap of her camisole to kiss her shoulder. In the mirror she sees their reflection - him in a t-shirt and boxers, long arms wrapped nearly double around her midriff, bare between the hem of the tank top and the band of her panties. She closes her eyes, trying to save the image of them in her mind's eye as well as enjoy the feeling of his touch. His lips brush against her neck, her ear, her hair, and she sighs softly.

"You're late anyway," he says into her hair. "Call her and tell her you'll be late." His grip around her waist loosens, and his hands skim the contours of her torso.

She brushes on the blush she's held in her hands, trying to concentrate on making sure she doesn't look like a clown. "She's my best friend from college," she says, feeling her resolve eroding quickly.

He sighs and rests his chin atop her head. "Okay, okay." He pulls himself away and goes to sit on the bed, watching her bustled about and get ready. She swipes on mascara in deft strokes and shimmies into jeans and a shirt she picked out days in advance. He smiles, watching her run around, and when she's grabbed her purse and slipped on her does she catches sight of him.

"What?" she asks, unable to stop the grin from spreading across her face.

"Nothing," he says, and stands. He kisses her quickly. Go. Have fun. Call me later." She smiles and climbs down from the loft. She pulls open the door, half-turning to smile at him.

"Bye," she calls, and steps out the door.


He stops the car outside of her apartment and cuts the engine.

She smiles shyly. "This weekend was great."

"Yeah," he says, smiling at her. His hands drum nervously on the steering wheel and the action makes her smile turn from shy to brilliant. They lean in for a quick kiss, and when they part she grabs her overnight bag and steps out of the car. She walks up the path to the stairs to her apartment, the weight of his gaze settled between her shoulders. Halfway there, she pivots on her heel and walks back to his silver car. He rolls down the window and look at her curiously.

She kisses him soundly, long and lingering. When they part, he looks a little dazed.

"I love you," she says softly, and it is and isn't the first time she's said it.


She silences him with a smile. "I know." She drums her hands against the car door and steps away. "Bye, Jim." She raises her hand in a small wave and makes her way up the path and up the stairs quickly.

It isn't until she's long since closed the door that she hears the engine turn over and the car drive away.

1. I'll tell you how the sun rose a ribbon at a time. - Emily Dickinson

2. Originally published 31 March 2008.