Chapter: Passive Aggression
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Yadda, yadda
A/N: So this is pretty much a huge break from the first few chapters, in length, style, and focus. It's also the beginning of broadening the horizons of this little experiement. This fic revolves almost entirely around the episode Dunder-Mifflin Infinity, especially the semi-deleted scene with Amy, Toby's alleged girlfriend.
They met at a bar. That really should have been a red flag, but if Toby's past has shown him anything, it's that he's really good at ignoring red flags. Take his ex-wife. Take his dead-end job. Take the slow decent into hell that is his life.
It wasn't too long after Jim had abandoned the corporate interview, and the hopes Toby had almost dared to hope had fizzled and died beneath the sun of Pam's smile. He was at Poor Richard's, feeling reckless in his milquetoast way and perhaps more than a little buzzed, when he caught sight of the pretty girl at the end of the bar. He bought her a drink and watched as the bartender pointed towards him. She smiled across the wooden ocean between them and somehow, by the end of the night, they ended up side-by-side, like two pieces of driftwood caught in an eddy.
She said her name was Amy. The next morning, he only remembered dark hair and a smile, but he had her number written on a coaster.
He called her two days later, after a day dealing with Dwight filing what was approximately the billionth complaint against Jim for yet another juvenile prank. He ceased to register what it was as Dwight rambled on, taking to staring at some point in the air about three inches past the man's left ear, thinking only about the quiet months in which he'd thought he'd never have to deal with this sort of thing again.
They made a coffee date, and it went reasonably well. She talked a lot, and he nodded in all the right places. In some ways, he was reminded of Kelly, but Amy wasn't quite so high-pitched and didn't say a word about Brangelina, which was an improvement. She said he was a good listener, and he smiled gratefully.
For the rest of the date he felt curiously light, as if he'd been allowed reprieve from the burdens of his life. He listened to her talk about her favorite bands and the ones she'd seen in concert, and her was almost convinced that he might be happy.
They went out for dinner and a movie on the next date. She still chattered over the meal, but not so much, and he wondered if it was nerves rather than personality on the first date. She mentioned a break-up in passing, accidentally-on purpose, and her voice was still raw. He wasn't terribly surprised. They kissed when he brought her home. It wasn't any noticeable effort on either of their parts, but simply slotted into place in the sequence of the night. She tasted like popcorn.
Another coffee date almost convinced him that something might be building between them. He told her about the documentary--"No way! You're like a reality TV star?!"--and about his coworkers. She was the right mix of amused and disbelieving, intrigued by the idea of cameras but not dropping hints about her own fifteen minutes.
He decided he liked her. Then it all went to hell.
Toby had thought his dreams of Pam to have died a quiet, noble death, but the sight of her kissing Jim lurched them into reanimation. They hounded him like a pack of zombies, utterly dead but still clawing at his heart. So he did the only thing he could do, in the most passive-aggressive, HR rep way imaginable. He sent out a memo about PDA.
Secretly, he was hoping to either embarrassingly out them or get a firm denial to ease his mind, but somehow he managed to convince himself that he was only doing his job. Never mind that he'd stayed mum when it became increasingly obvious that Dwight and Angela were doing more than filing expense reports together. Never mind that he hadn't the nerve to send such a reminder to Michael about his million indiscretions. He was simply doing his job.
Whatever he was trying to achieve, though, totally backfired. His coworkers all but cheered at the news. He was surprised a shower of confetti and the release of a flock of paper doves didn't accompany the congratulations. Oh, but worst of all, far worst of all, was the hopeful line Pam threw out to him about it being his fun way of congratulating them, her eyes locked on his, silently pleading for him to say yes, say yes so we'll still be civil coworkers and almost-friends.
What else could he do? He said yes.
After blowing the two of them off in regards to paperwork, he called Amy on his break. They made plans for that night. At Poor Richard's, which should have been a red flag.
When she sat down across the table from him, he thought she looked pretty. Beautiful, really, in a deliberate way, in a way totally unlike Pam. She was what any sane and straight man should want. Never mind that she wasn't what he wanted. She was what he was going to get.
He had a drink or two too many. Really, that was it. The world and all its troubles were still well within his grasp. Just not the ability to drive.
Perhaps Amy noticed the brittle brightness in his tone, the uncharacteristic boldness with which he put his arm around her waist. In all likelihood, she did not, or at least, did not understand its meaning. After all, she barely knew him.
She only had a few drinks, well spaced out over the course of time they stayed there listening to the juke box and watching the corner-mounted TV, so when they left, she steered him towards her car.
"So where to now?" she asked, an invitation hidden in her voice.
At that point, Toby was just drunk enough to be able to say "How about your place?" but sober enough to be disgusted with himself for his reasons. She agreed, though, whatever that was worth. The radio substituted for conversation on the ride over.
She brought him up to her apartment, which was a nice enough place, but very foreign to him. The nerve the bottle had lent him began to drain and he wondered what he was doing there.
She said, "My roommate's out of town."
She said, "There's beer in the fridge if you want any."
She said, "Why don't we go into the living room and sit down."
He just followed and sat down next to her. Her fingers curled around the hem of her skirt. It was a short skirt, mid-thigh sitting down. She turned to him, mouth open to say something else--
He kissed her. Hard. He hadn't kissed a woman like that in years... Maybe never exactly like that. It was high-school desperate, unskilled and tasting of alcohol. The tension in her shoulders unwound and she kissed him back with her own brand of desperation.
His perception of time grew fuzzy. Looking back, they were on the couch a long time, but one kiss seemed like another, like one unchanging moment that stretched out over the better part of a half-hour. His hands wandered over her, but it felt mechanical and expected, a pantomime of a love scene. But she was warm and soft and real, and though his heart was battered and his mind vaguely vengeful, his body had a momentum of its own.
She led him to her bedroom. He managed to stammer out something about protection, and she said she was still on the pill. There was a darkness to the word "still," an angry void he recognized. It hit him then that her reasons probably were not so different from his. Somehow, that made it easier.
The sex was... okay. Even though it had been a while for him, he managed to hold on until she seemed satisfied, then there were a few white-hot seconds of pleasure. Afterwards, though, there was only emptiness. They untangled and fell asleep almost immediately.
The next morning he awoke to an empty, unfamiliar bed. There was no shock, however, or flutter of panic. He opened his eyes with the calm, cold realization of exactly what he'd done. He looked at the clock and saw it was a few minutes past seven.
He pulled on his boxers, undershirt, and pants--god, he'd worn the same suit he'd put on for work yesterday morning--then slipped his button-down shirt over that, feeling too exposed. He gathered the rest of his clothes and walked out of the room. He found the bathroom quickly and made use of it.
He could hear sounds down the hallway and followed them to find Amy in the kitchen, clad in a robe and making coffee.
"Good morning," she said as if it really was. "Want some coffee?"
"Yeah, that sounds good."
"How do you take it?"
"Black." He sat down at the table, putting his wad of jacket and tie on the chair beside him. They shared coffee, and eventually some toast, with palpable awkwardness overlain with a thin veneer of politeness.
"I have to be in to work at nine," he said abruptly.
"I'll drive you in... Just gimme a bit to get ready." She disappeared off the bathroom and soon he heard the muted blast of the shower. She had today's paper on the counter, and he read it thoroughly while he waited. He finished dressing with his eyes still glued to the print. It was easier than thinking.
When she got out, hair still damp but dressed for the day, he took the chance to finish getting ready. He borrowed her mouthwash, then washed his face and ran her brush through his short hair. He looked... pretty much the same as he did yesterday.
She was waiting in the kitchen when he finished.
"You ready?"
"Yeah... Uh, Amy?"
"Mmm?"
"Last night... it was... It was good."
She smiled, and kissed him briefly.
The ride to Dunder-Mifflin was punctuated only by directions. Finally, she pulled into the parking lot, and rolled to a stop out front.
"Looks like your stop," she said with a hint of a grin.
He nodded, and opened his mouth to say goodbye. "Do you want to come in and meet everyone really quickly?" he found himself asking, then smiling hopefully.
She pursed her lips. "...Sure. Why not?"
Everyone's eyes turned to them as they walked in the door and he felt a thrill of victory as Jim tore his gaze from Pam to regard him and the beautiful woman he led.
"Hey, guys. This is my, uh, girlfriend, Amy," he said as casually as he could muster.
"Hi," Pam offered.
"Hey, Amy. How ya doing?" Jim chimed in.
"Nice to meet you," the receptionist continued and Jim faintly echoed the same.
Toby waved vaguely at the main part of the office. "This is everybody else. Okay... This is the place. So, thanks for the lift."
"Yeah, sure. I'll, uh, I'll see you tonight, right?" she asked, her eyes begging for it to be true.
"Absolutely." He felt her stiffen as he kissed her, the cameras zooming in. He ignored them and she yielded cautiously to the intense kiss, or at least didn't push him away.
"Whoa. Easy, tiger," she said when it broke, an attempt at a joke not quite masking the uncomfortable shock.
"I just really like you," he murmured.
"Okay. Bye, guys. Nice to meet you." She fled the fish-eye lenses as quickly as possible.
"Have a great day!" he called after her like a plea.
Pam broke the awkward silence first. "Whoa, Toby. Watch out. You're going to violate your own PDA memo."
"I wouldn't want to do that now, would I?" he said, shocked by the venom in his own voice, and walked back to his desk with the burn of everyone else's stare on his face and neck. Jim's stung the most, confused pity and disgust. Like he was so much better. Like he hadn't done the same thing with Karen.
Through the day, no one noticed he wore yesterday's clothes. All his suits looked the same, and they all blended into the background along with the man inside them. He bought lunch from a machine and ate it at his desk, avoiding the break room and the threat of conversation. He called Amy and cancelled their phantom date, telling her he unexpectedly had to work late. It was transparent as hell, but she accepted it.
He got a cab at the end of the day and rode to Poor Richard's. He drove home, barely registering the murmuring of the radio. He felt sick, from hunger and from his junk-food meal, but mostly from what he'd done.
Over the next week, Amy called a few times. He merely stood beside the phone as spoke into the ether of the answering machine. The last message she left sounded sad, resigned. She must have known he had only been using her, but she still clung to a thread of hope.
He picked up coaster with her number, and put one hand on the phone before he stopped. An epiphany struck him where he stood, and it was as if he could see down the tunnel of the future he was heading into... Some dates, some sex, a woman who would almost but not quite understand him. It would either end badly or, worse, work out into a sham of a relationship, two people clinging to each other in the fear of loneliness.
He let his hand fall away from the receiver. He didn't want that. He didn't want Amy, and when it came right down to it, he wasn't truly sure he wanted Pam, but he didn't want that. He'd had enough of settling for whatever came his way.
The coaster dropped from his fingers and tumbled end over end into the trash can.
A/N II: I found that scene facinating to puzzle out. It's kind of surprising that no one else has considered why he would do that (since usually every lil' aspect of the show is disected and discussed, with a cute little history fic to back it up). Then again, nobody wants to write Toby since he got creepy (except as Jim's foil). But why exactly did he start seeming so creepy, anyway? Surely everything he's done was somehow logical to him...
Ahem. Enough of my pro-Toby propeganda... Special thanks to MrsBigTuna for reassuring me that this wasn't as awful as I feared it was. Next chapter will also be a little different than the rest... Future fic, anyone?