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.

* So, this started out as a oneshot to fill the time waiting on more episodes so I could work on "Growth is an Erratic Forward Movement." Then it became 16 pages, and counting, on Word. Expect a prologue, two chapters, and an epilogue.

** I don't usually post entire songs, but it's necessary in this case.

Don't fear, even though you're at a loss.

I'm numb, a shell of empty thoughts.

But you glow, you stretch and pull me out.

Does that trouble you?

Do I trouble you?

Love me, hate me, make me live again.

I need you around.

Heal me, hurt me, make me live again,

I want you around.

So long, I never had experienced,

This bliss.

So how could I resist?

And I'm fine, a little light-headed.

Does that worry you?

I didn't mean to worry you?

Love me, hate me, make me live again.

I need you around.

Heal me, hurt me, make me... live again,

I want you around.

Now, retreating from the light,

I love it when we fight,

It makes me think...

At least you still care.

Give up, you're not going anywhere.

Moonlight, illuminates your stare

And it's great, captivating you.

Does that trouble you?

Do I to trouble you?

Love me, hate me, make me live again.

I need you around.

Heal me, hurt me, make me... live again,

I want you around.

Can you live again?

Can you live again?

Make me live... again.

Make me live again.

Make me live... again.

Better Than Ezra, Live Again

--

It happened in the office.

She'd envisioned them someplace else, but once it - she - began, nowhere else seemed appropriate.

It was different than she'd imagined and nothing she'd expected.

She hadn't pictured Phyllis at the copier or Andy by the fax. She hadn't imagined Stanley, a crossword in his hand, or Angela, signing off on paychecks.

But they were there.

All of them.

A sea of familiar faces, frozen in time, mouths open, eyes trained on the kitchen window.

She'd stared at the pieces, strewn on the floor between them. DU and half of an N taunted her, shards of an innocent, office coffee cup, torn apart in a rage.

Hers.

She's surprised herself with the force... depth, of her anger. It had left her shaking from head to toe, eyes black with fury.

At home, afterward, she was strangely calm.

The look on his face when she stormed from the kitchen, the way he'd opened and closed his mouth, like a fish out of water...

She knew they weren't done.

He gets to be angry, too.

And she sort of relished the idea.

She felt nothing like herself, and completely who she was, all at the same time.

And whatever happened next - she'd had her breakthrough.

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.

"Hey," she says shyly, fiddling with something in the sink. "Lunch?"

"Yeah," you tap your watch.

The refrigerator door sounds like a jackhammer, but not louder than the silence between you.

"Gross."

You step closer, look over her shoulder, "Doing dishes?"

The face she makes reminds you of a kid who's been given a plate of green beans when they asked for a hot dog.

It's adorable.

"Yes... ick." She flings water off her hand, "Michael mixed chocolate pudding in with his coffee two days ago, took one sip and left it on his desk. It sort of... congealed. I couldn't take it anymore."

"Wow...that's... disgusting." You smile, "Should I even ask where his motivation came from?"

"The French." She says simply.

"Ah," you reply, somehow knowing exactly what she means.

"Well, I guess..." You step away, pointing stupidly at your lunch bag, like it will finish the sentence for you.

"Oh," She seems flustered, wipes at the cup with a towel, "I'm almost done. You can have the kitchen to yourself."

"No, I wasn't..."

"It's ok. Really. I'm leaving."

You don't know how, but the room's suddenly shifted.

"Pam."

"No, Jim. It's ok. I know you'd rather I not be in here, what with the limits on how often we can speak, and I'm sure Karen wouldn't like it, so..."

You don't know where it's coming from. What you did.

"I didn't say..."

"You didn't have to. Although, you say it pretty much every day. Actions speak louder than words and all that..."

She waves her hand dismissively, and you want to scream. Want to take her shoulders and shake her, ask her what in the hell is wrong with her, why she's acting this way.

But you don't.

Because it's easier to bite back.

"Yeah," you laugh cynically, "they do."

She turns on her heel, purses her lips.

Her cheeks are flushing, eyes on fire, and you know everything's about to go up in smoke.

"I suppose you mean Casino Night?"

It feels like a slap in the face. Like you've been pretending for 11 months and 12 days that she'd forgotten that night, and now she won't let you.

"Among others."

You're bitter, but so is she.

"You don't get to punish me anymore."

Her voice is steady, quiet.

Strong.

And you realize, if she wasn't ripping you inside out... again, you'd be proud of her.

"How am I..."

"How are you not?" She's not going to let you finish. "You started punishing me that night, and you haven't stopped since."

"Pam," you want to warn her. Not here. Not now.

"No!" She throws the coffee cup from her hand, and it shatters at her feet. You jump, but she's unfazed. "No. I'm..." she blows a piece of hair out of her eyes, resolved, "I'm going to talk now."

You look down at your shoes, over to the microwave... neither offers shelter.

"You left."

Your head jerks up, and you finally meet her eyes.

"You left. You told me you loved me and you kissed me and then... you just... left!"

"You know why..."

"No, Jim! I don't know why!" She stomps her foot, indignant. Ceramic shards grind beneath her toes. "When you told me you loved me, I was engaged. En-gaged."

Her voice is louder than it should be, and she says the word ‘engaged' like you've never heard it before, like you should have looked it up in the dictionary before you came into the kitchen.

"I know..."

From the corner of your eye, you see a rush of black hair, a flash of olive skin.

Karen.

You know it's too late, she's heard too much. More than you ever told her, so you close your eyes, let Pam continue, it only seems right.

You deserve the flogging.

"So it never occurred to you that it might be hard for me, too? That I might not be able to say yes to you, to be with you, right then. That moment. I mean, God... I knew there was something between us, but when you said you loved me I... I hadn't even faced how I felt about you. So..." her hand flies up in a fury, "what was I supposed to do? You know me, Jim. At least, you did..."

It dawns on you then; she's breaking your heart again.

"I'm not that person. I can't just walk away from 10 years of promises in one night. Not even for you."

She waits until you meet her eyes, forces you to hear her.

"And you wouldn't have either." She lets it sink in. "If you'd been in my shoes, you'd have done the same thing."

And you know she's right.

"So you don't get to hold it against me. You don't get to be mad because I needed to think. Because I didn't call when I broke it off. And you don't get to give me the silent treatment for getting back with him, not when you made it a point to show me how happy you were with someone else!"

"That's not fair." You finally find your voice. "I get to move on. I get to be happy."

"Then be happy! Stop faulting me for that fact that you're not!"

"I am."

She rolls her eyes at you the way she's always done Michael. "Great. Then you'll excuse me if I ask you, since you're in love with someone else, to stop being angry at me. If you're over this - me - it shouldn't matter anymore."

You think you can see your heart beating in your chest. It's roaring in your ears.

Neither of you speaks for a moment. Reality feels like a theory and you think maybe you've entered one of those movies where the two characters face off, cameras zooming alternately on both their faces, waiting for the charge.

But there isn't one.

Her hands fly to her mouth, she looks at you, tears burning the corners of her eyes, and she's gone.

You stagger backward, grip the counter, knuckles white.

No one speaks when you emerge from the kitchen. Phyllis peeks at you like a mother hen, Kelly's eyes hover above the annex wall, and Angela shakes her head in disgust, but they don't say a word. You take a moment to give thanks that Michael's in New York.

Computers hum, phones go unanswered and someone gets an instant message, the ding punctuating the silence like an alarm.

Karen is nowhere to be seen.

"Jim. The female species is very volatile. It is my suggestion you do not speak with Pam for at least..."

"Dwight." You shake your head, pull the jacket from your chair, "I'm just... I'm gonna go."

For once, he doesn't argue.

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.

* This chapter was a little tough for me. It's hard to imagine "together" Jim and Pam, and the only real inspiration I had was the two, wonderful, fleeting, seconds of fluffiness in "Gay Witch Hunt." So, eh, who knows... Oh, and also, totally different "feel" than the last chapter, so...

You park in the driveway and sit for a minute, deciding what to say, how to say it... but nothing comes to mind and you think maybe you won't know until you see her.

It's 6:45, but it's May, so light filters through the trees, and you're glad it's not dark because the walk to the door feels like walking the plank and you know... this is it.

In every way.

There's music coming from somewhere inside. It's loud and angsty and sounds like you feel. You think maybe it's Death Cab, but can't take that much credit for her taste. Not after today.

The windows are open, and you peek inside first, before knocking. Just in case she's still mad, still throwing things. But she's nowhere to be seen, so you tap at the door, forgetting the music will cover the sound. When she doesn't answer, you try the knob, aren't surprised it's unlocked, and step inside.

The living room is small, scattered with her... pictures, books, movies. There's an overstuffed couch with a quilt thrown across the arm, and a coffee table littered with Netflix envelopes, a magazine and an empty bottle of wine. You notice an easel in the corner and smile in spite of yourself.

The music grows louder, drifting in from an open door off the side of the kitchen, and you follow the sound.

When you step outside, her back is turned. It hits you then, for as long as you've known her, you've seen Pam exactly three ways: in work clothes (everyday), in jeans (twice), and in a blue dress (once and always)... but never like this.

At home.

She's sitting on a stool. There's another easel in front of her, canvas smeared with an image you can't make out. Her hair is tossed on top of her head, pieces blown out by the breeze. She's wearing a t-shirt, but it's old and small; ratty and covered with paint. She's cut off a pair of old sweats at the calf, and they sit low on her hips, exposing inches of skin you've never seen. She pulls the brush away from the canvas, takes a sip of wine from the glass beside her. Her arm is smeared with paint. You imagine her face is, too.

Suddenly you want to see.

"Hey."

She jumps, the glass falls from her hand, second casualty of the day, and splinters on the concrete.

"Shit!" She murmurs.

"Wait!" You hold up a hand. She's barefoot and trying to dodge the shards. "Sit. I'll get it."

She smiles and you forget a little bit of the morning, the things she said. "Thanks. Wouldn't want to add a hospital visit to this day."

"Broom?"

"Kitchen, in the pantry."

You return a moment later and she's there, cross-legged, on top of the stool. She reminds you of a little girl, anxious and glowing.

"Can you turn that down a little?" She points at the DuroSport, positioned on a speaker.

You press the volume down, but not too low, and focus on the glass.

Neither of you speaks. The breeze tousles your hair and you know she's watching you, listening to the sound of the broom, scraping against the concrete. You smile when a Death Cab song drifts through the speakers.

Everything about this moment makes you think, maybe, she wasn't yelling at you five and a half hours ago. Then you remember, the only reason you're here in the first place, is because she was.

You throw out the remnants of the glass and return to the porch. Unsure, you lean against the doorjamb, stuff your hands into your pockets. She looks at you, cocks her head to the side, and smiles.

"Want some wine?" Her eyes are bright, cheeks red.

There's a bottle beside her, unopened, and you realize the empty one on the coffee table is from earlier today.

You nod, trying not to laugh. "How much have you had today, Beesley?"

"Calm down. The other one was only half full." She giggles, "Ok, three-quarters."

You smile, point a thumb toward the kitchen, "Should I get glasses?"

"You broke my last one."

Your eyes go wide, an apology on your lips, and then she's laughing at you, and you're shaking your head.

"Second drink. More like fourth and fifth." You're teasing her, for the first time in ages, and it feels like you never stopped.

She smirks, "I think we're past glasses at this point."

You know what she means, so you open the bottle. The cork pops and you take a long pull off the top, pass it to her. She's still sitting on the stool, and you're standing in front of her, and suddenly you feel exposed, don't know what to do with your hands. They find your pockets again.

She takes a swig, points to the small, outdoor sofa behind you. "You can sit, you know."

"Thanks." You take the bottle from her and drink deep. Wine already tingling in your blood.

"So..." she begins. "Are you going to yell at me now?"

"I thought about it." You answer honestly, "Realized all the ‘punishment' was close enough. Plus, it's no fun without the floorshow."

She giggles again. "God, did I really yell at you today? In the office?"

"Um... yeah."

She holds out a hand, waves her fingers. You give her the bottle and watch her take a sip, see her eyes go wide as she gasps, "Oh my God! Karen!"

"Yeah."

"Jim, I'm... what did she... how are..." she drops her head to her hands, "I'm SO sorry. What did she say?"

"Not much, actually." You shrug, "Goodbye really covered it all." You're not lying, there's not point now. "She said... it's just... I never told her I was in love with you."

She nods. It reminds you of the Dundies and you're suddenly afraid she might fall off the stool.

In the silence you reach for the wine, turn it upward.

"Jim, I..."

"It's ok. There were a lot of things besides... that." You look up at her, pick away at the bottle's label. Guenoc. "So you don't get to take credit for it."

Her shoulders stiffen. "Okay."

She extends an arm, wanting the bottle back.

"No." You sit up a little, put it on the ground, where neither of you can reach. Her mouth falls open, but she doesn't say anything.

"Pam, I..." You sigh, not sure why this is hard after last year and the year before. And today. So you change topics for a moment. "Can you... can you come sit beside me?"

It's getting dark and you need to see her face.

She bites her lip, nods. You watch her move as she settles in beside you, feet tucked underneath her. It doesn't escape your notice that she's turned completely toward you, right arm resting on the back of the couch.

Her eyes are shining, pools in the corners. There's a smudge of paint on her forehead and cheek.

You pull your leg up onto the sofa so you can face her; let your arm fall across hers, start over.

"Pam, I... are you...?" Your head falls back, the moon's starting to shine, "What's going on with you? You said a lot of stuff today. About me. And I get it, it made sense and I know I was wrong, but... why?"

"Why...?" She's confused. So are you. A tear trails down her cheek. Then another one. You wipe it away, carefully, with your thumb, loving how she leans into your touch.

When your hand falls back to your lap, she sniffles.

"Why did you say it? What does it... mean? Because," you wonder if you should be completely honest; know it's the only way, "I wanted to be over you. Over this. I didn't want it to matter anymore. Decided it didn't."

You pause to check her expression. She's there, hearing every word. "Then you went back to Roy and it felt like last May, all over again. And I was mad. At me, more than you, really. I mean... I just... I needed to let you go. So I stopped talking to you and it helped a little. And there was Karen..."

"Who's really, really, great, Jim. And I..." her chin drops and you know she's feeling guilty.

"This isn't about her. At all."

She nods. "I know."

"So... I guess that's it. I'm not here to yell. I won't punish you anymore, but I need to know why. You said, when I told you... last May... you hadn't faced how you felt about me. That I didn't give you time to think. Is that... what today was about?"

You notice her fingers, tracing your arm at the cuff of your shirt where the sleeves have been rolled. You aren't sure when she started, but silently will her not to stop. You know it's a distraction, so she can focus on something else, but you don't care.

"Kind of." She's fascinated by your arm, you by her.

"Pam..."

Her whole body sighs, her fingers rest, unmoving.

"I don't know what to say."

That's not what you expected. It feels sort of like, I can't, but you let her keep going, try to stay still.

"I'm not... really good at saying things."

"I have very solid evidence, and an office full of witnesses, that will testify otherwise."

She smiles a little, "That was a fluke. I was mad and..."

"So pretend you're mad now... or something."

She knows you need answers, you can tell. Her eyes fix on yours and you watch them change. Wonder what she's thinking. It's like she's contemplating everything about you and you're not sure if that's good or bad.

"Okay."

"Okay...?" You're not sure what it means.

Then she sits up on her knees and you realize she's moving forward, toward you. Her hand is on your cheek, eyes still locked with yours, and no one's really asking anything, but she nods at little, imperceptibly. Her mouth finds yours and it's soft and sweet, and she lingers for a second, like she's remembering, and you know you'll never forget the torture she's inflicting, lips hovering over yours as she whispers, "Okay."

She settles back, watches you.

Waiting.

"O...kay." You finally say, not caring how your voice cracks a little.

"I... God, I'm so bad at this." She shakes her head.

"No... I'm gonna disagree..."

She grins and you let out a breath, but don't let her off the hook.

"I know." Her hand moves wildly, "I know I have to... say... something. And I'm trying, it's just..."

You can't really take it, so you pull her toward you, offer a little courage.

It's longer this time and when she opens her mouth, you die, just a little. Her tongue tastes like strawberries and wine and whatever it is that Guenoc throws in their barrels and you make a mental note to keep bottles of it stocked whenever she's around... so always.

She's sprawled across your lap, and you're holding her so, so close you're gripping your own elbows, but it's not really enough. Then your hands are in her hair, fisted like you can't let go and she's tugging on your lip and you think you might go crazy.

"Okay," she says again, breathless.

She pushes against your chest, trying to sit back, but you lean forward, not ready for it to stop.

"Jim," she plants her hands firmly; pushes you away, smiling wickedly.

"Come... on..." It's a groan.

"Don't you want to know what it's taken me all this time to say? What I had to think about?"

Your right hand finds the back of your neck, and you rub absentmindedly. Your left hand rests possessively on her thigh and you don't say anything, just raise your eyebrows expectantly.

She's fingering your sleeve again, so you take her chin in your hands, make her look at you.

"Pam. I lo..."

"No." She shakes her head. "You don't get to say it first this time."

"Okay."

"I... when you told me you loved me last year, I was scared. I was about to get married, but I spent every day thinking about you. I told myself it was because you were my friend and you were there, and it didn't mean anything that I went home at night and got annoyed with Roy for doing things I knew you'd never do."

She tucks a stay hair behind her right ear and you follow behind, on her left side, because you've always wanted to do that.

"I was with him for 10 years. I didn't know... anything else. And I felt like I had no choice, like my life was on this path and there was only one road. You know?"

You nod and she continues.

"So, when you told me, when we kissed... I freaked. I didn't know how to be that girl who left someone for someone else. And it took me a while to realize that's what I wanted. To be with you. And now, looking back, I think it's good. Sort of. I wish I'd called you when I broke it off, made you talk to me somehow, but I needed... time."

You feel a knot in your throat, but manage, "I'm sorry I didn't give you any."

"It's okay."

"No. It's not. You were right. I..."

"Jim." She puts her hand over your mouth. "If it's alright with you, I'd like us both to stop apologizing. If we don't, we'll be doing it forever."

You bob your head in agreement, lips pursed in the palm of her hand.

"And I just want to tell you... I want more than that, too."

"Wow..."

"Shh!" She holds up a finger. "I'm not finished."

You know this is it, you're done. Forever.

"I'm... in love... I love you."

Another tear falls down her cheek

You feel like an idiot, the way you're grinning, and then she's laughing, her arms around your neck, face buried in your shoulder.

"I swear, Beesley, if this is a prank..."

She giggles, slaps your arm, "What a terrible thing to say!"

"Just checking. You and Dwight seemed extra chummy when I got back, and I know he's got it out for me, so..."

She laughs and sits up, everything hanging there between you... like you're waking up, finally living again.

"No." She shakes her head, "It's not a prank. It's real. I promise."

You stare at her for a moment, because you can.

"I love you, Pam."

You run a finger along the line of her nose, kiss her softly, loving how she sinks your chest, but then she pulls away and stands up quickly, scurrying inside.

"What... where...? Pam?"

"Hang on," she calls from the house.

She appears at the door with a t-shirt quilt and a bag of Jelly Beans.

"I was gonna save these for work, but..."

You lift your hand, roll your finger like a little boy, "C'mere."

She squeals and runs toward you.

"How old are you?"

She kisses you then, but it's more like teasing, and she pulls away, grinning triumphantly.

"Wow..." you have a little trouble breathing, "so... old enough."

You hold out your arm and she settles in beside you, head on your chest. You're both quiet for a while. It's all sinking in.

"God," you finally say, and she's looking up at you, eyes glowing in the moonlight, "Michael's going to be SO sad he missed today."

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.

"Ohmigod. It was soooo romantic. They were in the kitchen fighting and it was so, so passionate, like in The Notebook, when Noah and Allie are on the dock and it's raining and then he just, kisses her. Jim didn't do that to Pam here, but I bet he did later. You know, how Noah has Allie pressed against the wall and... ohmigod. I wish Ryan would do that to me. What? You haven't seen that movie? You totally have to rent it, it's so awesome. Plus, now, Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams are dating in really life. And they're so, totally adorable."

--

"Are we supposed to care? I'm here for a paycheck, not an afternoon social."

--

"It was really hot, the way she yelled at him. Really hot."

--

"Well, I don't want to toot my own banjo, but if I hadn't told corporate what a good job the Tuna did in Stamford, he'd never have been asked back to Scranton. And Pama-lama wouldn't be out there with a smile, and the Tuna, on her face. Andy Bernard believes in love. He is a lover, not a fighter. No... more... fights."

--

"Yeah, it's great. I can't tell you how much I love hearing Kelly go on, and on, and on about them. Every day. I've also watched The Notebook six nights in a row. So, yeah... remind me to thank Jim."

--

"They finally got together? God, that's depressing. Happy people annoy me. Got any Scotch?"

--

"I think it's wonderful. Such a sweet story. Like me and Bob Vance."

--

"It was completely unprofessional. People should not yell or cavort in the workplace. And private matters should be kept private. What? No, I have no comment on the status of their relationship. If co-workers are going to date, it's no one else's business but theirs!"

--

"Halpert's dating who? Isn't she the cleaning lady?"

--

"The Schrutes do not allow our feminine beings - animal or human - to engage in verbal attacks of any kind. I have coached Jim in this topic before, but it appears he did not act upon the tactics advised - idiot - so he's lucky the outcome was favorable."

--

"It would be silly to think I had anything to do with their reunion. I am just... the great intubater... wha..? Instigator? No, I'm pretty sure it's intubater. And I am the great one who told Jim not to give up. If I hadn't intubated him, I doubt they'd be here today. Just one of the many services I offer as a best friend and boss. I don't want to take too much credit, but... well, I'm pretty sure I'll be best man at the wedding."