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.

I have to block out thoughts of you so I don’t lose my head.

He had gotten used to the words of that certain song, cresting and falling in his head over the past year. They were there, banging around when he was away and caught himself staring out empty windows, and then again later, with his back to her, just inches away from where they had briefly held hands, his breath jagged, waiting for her to change everything.

Then that night on the beach, her words sick and warm in his gut. He knew it showed all over his face, the way things like this always did. He knew what her words meant, just knew, how to read between her lines, but there were other things to consider, and it was too late. It was too late he had reminded himself over and over in his deliberate way.

Too late he had said again to Karen, when she wouldn’t look him in the eye on the way home, worried about what he was thinking. New York was still on and this changes nothing. But he knew he was already starting to lie. Because maybe, it wasn’t really too late.

And then, that night in New York, downstairs at the hotel bar, there were new songs in head.

I want to swim away but don’t know how. Sometimes it feels just like I am falling in the ocean.

And just like that, that song took the place of the old one, and he slept fitfully, waking up and then falling asleep, the remembered feel of her lips on his, and the realization that all he wanted to do was to go home.

On the drive back, he knew he should be worrying about Karen, the sloppy way he had left things, the damage he had done, but instead he was thinking about yogurt lids. How her fingers had quickly linked the paper clips, as he stood by unable to return to his desk for the wonder of it. And then, regretfully, the day that he dropped his silver medal in the trash as he packed the last of his things.

And now, after those songs that were playing on a constant loop in his head for so long, it was almost impossible to believe that they were here.

He wondered if she remembered the time in his bedroom, in the old apartment on Sycamore Street. He remembered of course, because he had watched her surreptitiously while she examined his “dorky” yearbook picture. Trying to stop himself from completely spilling over, and she unaware, coloring everything in his world. It was an unfocused half memory now, the events anyway, but what was, and is, still very clear, is the pinprick delight, of his heartbeat skipping, tripping in his chest, threatening to break out, and roar over them both.

It was like that a little bit now. Another apartment on another street, but still, she was here. And everything that was familiar felt different because she was. Only this time, well maybe, she wouldn’t walk down the steps with a little wave, and his heart, disappearing into the passenger seat of Roy’s truck.

Do you want a glass of wine?

Ok, yeah sure.

She scrolls through the songs on his IPod while he takes two glasses down from the cupboard, and uncorks a bottle of wine.

His eyes are on her as he does these tasks. On the outside everything had changed, but inside not much had changed since that barbeque at his house. She fills the room and he can’t look away.

You can put in the dock if you want to play music.

Oh yeah, music would be good.

He hands her the glass.

Can I pick something?

Yeah, oh wait . . . I might have something embarrassing on there.

Ooh like what? A devilish grin, making his heart beat faster.

Oh, no, uh I knew you would eventually find out that I have an extensive Kelly Clarkson collection.

That’s ok. I kinda like Kelly.

I was kidding.

She settles on an Elvis Costello song he can’t remember listening to since college.

They each sip silently, not sure what should come next. And as usual every word of every song speaks her name.

The way you walk, the way you talk and try to kiss me

The first time they kissed was when she won a Dundie for whitest sneakers. He’d spent weeks wondering.

And laugh in four or five paragraphs

That one Tuesday when they had spend all morning changing Dwight’s screen saver every time he got up, mostly with pictures of midgets (because Dwight was deathly afraid of midgets).

All your compliments and your cutting remarks

I’m really sorry if you misinterpreted things. It’s probably my fault.

Jim?

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.


She had never seen it coming, not then, not really. Back then she hadn’t been considering Jim at all. He was the music that got under her skin and made her feel good Monday through Friday, but he wasn’t a real possibility, he wasn’t supposed to ask for anything back. That was the way it had been for the past couple of years, and she had never really considered that it would change.

The absence of feeling, anything, had been ten years in the making. Then, decimated, by a two-minute spark, pressed against Jim’s desk. But, all that time of not feeling . . . anything, had left its mark. It took all of her to tell him she was still going to marry Roy. The look on his face had made her instantly regret it, but there was no way she could stop the words from coming out of her mouth.

But then absolutely everything had changed. For Pam it had not been walking over those coals, or the disappointment over her art show, or even the fact that she had cooked all those hot dogs while everyone else participated in Michael’s games. If she was being honest with herself, and these days, she was making a serious effort to do just that, it had been the sight of Karen and Jim sitting together in front of the fire that night. What did it, was the overwhelming certainty that if any more time passed, without her saying anything, there would be no hope for a second chance, and she needed a second chance, Karen would have her Jim, yes her Jim, and the thought of that pushed the words out of her mouth faster than she could think about the consequences.

Today had been the beginning of dealing with the consequences of those words that had been so hard to fathom, and she had absolutely no idea what to expect next. On the way home she had hummed along mindlessly to the songs on the radio. And then, in her living room she had stood completely still in the middle of the room, her mind everywhere at once, and at the same time completely frozen. This was really going to happen.

Were you going to ask me something?

Jim is watching her and she can feel his memories emanating off of him. The music dances between them, and for a moment she sees herself pass like a shadow over his features, and it makes her sad, because his eyes look sad, like maybe he is worried she is going to change her mind. She forgets what she was going to say, and instead:

What happened today?

Quietly, but not without humor:

Well, I didn’t get offered a job, broke up with a girlfriend, and then asked another girl I have liked for a long time out . . . so long day.

Sipping wine, perched on his sofa, has become excruciating. There was so much to say, too much to say, but the words are drifting just out of her reach. A melody shifts restlessly in her head, but she can’t remember the words, and that was always her problem, she never knows the right words to anything.

Let’s see, today I became the secret assistant to the regional manager of Dunder Mifflin Scranton for like . . . five hours.

Sounds good so far.

Watched Creed clip his nails.

Riveting.

Did you know he saves those things?

And also . . . just so wrong.

And oh, I got asked out on a date by this really amazing guy, so I can kind of relate . . . yeah it was a long day.

They both laugh at that, until Jim is looking at her that way (she thinks about that time on the boat, the look had been there then, and she remembers thinking if he kisses me right now, I am kissing him back even though it is wrong), and for the first time, she can look back. She bites her bottom lip and Jim . . .

The doorbell startles them both.

Dinner, he says, putting down his glass.

Dinner? I thought we were . . .

She stops herself with a smile as she sees the food delivery bag.

Joie Luck Kitchen? Wow. That is going to get you at least two Schrute bucks.

Do I want to know what that means?

Probably not. But seriously, this is my favorite place, and I haven’t had it since, the last time we had it at lunch.

Before I left?

Yeah.

She blushes a little, but looks him the eye.

It had been a normal lunch on a normal day, the day before everything had gone topsy-turvy. He’d smiled when she touched his arm as they plotted out their next move on Dwight, and she remembered now, how wonderful and perfect it had all seemed.

I wasn’t kidding about missing you.

He hands her the last cheese won ton.

Their fingers touch and butterfly wings rustle low, and she smiles because he always gives her the last won ton, and maybe her Jim really is back.

Jim’s Ipod continues to shuffle through songs, and as they eat, Pam feels her chest, and then her shoulders and then finally her cheeks get warm as she listens to the words of the song that is playing, this one she recognizes instantly.

What?

Um, the night we swayed?

I still call it dancing. Yeah, I remember. Your hair smelled like cherries and vanilla, and I was kind of out of it, and I just kept thinking about what to say next.

Pam didn’t have any words for that, and the music was filling her brain, and all she could think about were all those moments, the almost moments, when things had been so close to happening, and all the times she had stopped them . . .

It had happened without any pretense, just all the words of all those songs filling their silences. Jim had sat on the arm of his couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him, that distinctly goofy smile on his face, as Pam moved around his apartment, going through his things. Her fingers brushed the books on his shelf, first Hemingway, and then Kerouac, and then landing on a title, “One Hundred Years of Solitude”. He remembered buying that one, last year, mostly because the title appealed to him. Her fingers held on it a bit longer as if gleaning some kind of meaning, something of him from it, and he caught himself wondering how that delicately bony edge of clavicle, peaking out from under the strawberry colored top she was wearing would taste. He started to brush the thought away, because it had always ended up hurting to think of things like that, and then it hit him, there was the very real possibility that he could taste that clavicle and all those other places too.

He had hardly been listening, still thinking about that spot, and her hair and neck and maybe her shoulders, when Pam had stopped in the middle of her nervous teasing of him about the sappy songs on his IPod, suddenly serious as their eyes met. For a moment he thought that she had the ability to read minds, or at least his, because he had been thinking and almost said, these are your songs, and a million more, while I sat here thinking about you, but instead he had glanced down at her hands which were nervously clasping each other in front of her, wondering again how they would feel in his and thinking about untwisting them from themselves.

Forever stretched out in front of them as her lips touched his for a fraction of a second, eyes on his, waiting, and then he leaned forward, taking her hands, and as she curled her fingers into his he realized there was no blue print for any of this. Things could spin out of control, this time things could really spin out of control.

Words circled them, running through his brain . . .

You're staring me down a glance makes me weak.

Made him smile, because they had been cruelly appropriate, and to an extent still were. He thought about the time in the kitchen, he’d been jinxed and she had asked, “Do you want to tell me something? You look like you want to tell me something. Jim you can tell me anything.” and he had felt his stomach drop, helplessly hooked then, like now, with the longing to tell her everything. Only this time he could, he thought giddily as one hand softly, almost hesitantly floated to her right hip, ready to pull back if it wasn’t right.

Now I'm twisted up when I'm twisted with you.

For Jim it was a symphony of memory and love pushing out all other thought: holding her arm at the ice rink, that surprise kiss at Chili’s . . .

His other hand found it’s way to her other hip, and she was pressed against him, his knees on either side. He felt her fingers slide across the back of his neck . . . and he was thinking about the night on the rooftop. Her sadness and how he had known then that he would never stop loving her. And then her head on his shoulder . . . and oh God, he had known even way back then.

They broke apart for a second, the moment surging over them, leaving them out of breath, and that spark that was all Pam infused light shimmered over and between and around them, and he felt that dizzying feeling, like being out of control, and tugged on her hips with both hands, their lips finding each other. In his head, they were there, in the vagueness of the dim room that night in May, rewriting their history, the time in between melting away, only this time her lips did not pull away. And he, thinking, only Pam, Pam, Pam and Pam. He found himself reconstructing their past as their lips erased those things that had kept them apart, and he marveled at how he remembered absolutely everything. He touched the side of her face, the soft angle of her jaw, drawing her closer and she did not pull away with an, I can’t.

Each touch belongs to each new sound.

His hands trailed along her shoulders, her rib cage, and settled on her lower back, in that space that was a perfect fit for his hands. He felt her twitch at his touch, and for a moment he almost pulled away. Was he going too far? Was this again, more for him than it was for her? But she moaned a little in the back of her throat, his name on her lips, he smiled against her, and hooked a finger in her belt loop, pulling her even further forward an urgent inch at a time. She drew back for a second catching her breath, and they both smiled in the space between them. Please let this go on forever he thought, and he knew that this time she could read his mind, because his thoughts were written all over his face and she drew him to her again.

Touch . . . sight . . . taste like fire

Her fingers sent little jolts through him as they skipped across the back of his neck, the ends of his hair igniting in her touch, the back of his ears, his neck.

Finally she pulled back, smiling, a curly strand over one eye, her neck and cheeks flushed.

“Wow, best first date ever.”

“Yeah”, he said low and raspy, completely undone. “Really?”

“Definitely. We shouldn’t have waited so long to do that.”

“That was pretty much your fault.”

“That’s a good way to end this date in a hurry Halpert.”

But she was smiling, and his hands went to her hair. Another place to touch to feel, all this time just wondering, and now . . .

The next morning had signaled the beginning of things, songs were already writing themselves in the perfect way that her head fit under his jaw, her chin on his chest. That first night they had fallen asleep on his couch, his arm hooked under her, her bare feet tangled up against his socks, everything still a new tingle and awkward. She had wondered how long the awkward would last, and then had realized that she hoped for a little bit longer. The slow unraveling of all that was to be was a delicate anticipation that she could almost taste on her swollen lips. Jim had slept until nearly eleven and she had decided to nuzzle closer even though she was wide -awake. She had thought about how it had never been like this with Roy.

With Roy, it had been all diversions, and wooden promises. Her heart, and head disconnected, numb from the comfort of things, reluctant (or was it scared?) to define whom she really was.

Most of the time they had moved around the apartment, little more than roommates. She had told herself that this is how it was when you were with someone so long, it couldn’t always be candle lit dinners, and butterflies in your stomach. Still, the persistent thought that she was missing out on something more had nagged at her in a way that made her alternately angry, and guilty.

Sometimes, when he stayed over at Kenny’s, she had found herself relishing having the place all to herself. She had lain on her back, on the living room floor, music turned up loud, her hair a mess all around her, imaging far off possibilities. And most of the time, it was Jim’s face that swam up into the crevices of her fantasies, and she had stopped herself, because that was just ridiculous, because back then they had been just friends.

In a way it had felt, like she had always been headed here, to this moment, and she realized that Jim had known long before she had. She thought how lonely that must have been, and had snuggled closer.

Saturday and then Sunday had been a slow kind of torture. She had made plans to see her parents in Carbondale, and had reluctantly kissed Jim on the nose around noon. Before she could make it down the stairs he had come rushing down the hall, still in the clothes he had slept in.

“I forgot -” he said barely getting the words out before pulling her close and kissing her in a dizzying wave.

She didn’t protest and tugged at his shirt, willing the memory of this into her brain forever. Just in case – just in case it was somehow all a dream, and would have vaporized into nothingness, when she got back.

“Ok, I wasn’t planning on doing that. Really, I wanted to give this to you this . . . for the drive.”

“A mix tape? Are we like, going steady?” She had said turning it over in her hand beaming at him.

“Something like that.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, and could not stop grinning.

“Oh and Pam. I made that before, even before that night. So, it's kind of cheesy, but you know, it was exactly what I was thinking.”

“Should I be scared?”

“Totally, but really, I was gonna give it to you back then but I chickened out.”

At the first stop sign she had turned the case over and read his neat writing, because it wasn’t a song she recognized.

The Secret’s in the Telling – Dashboard Confessional

On the drive over, she had played that first song almost a dozen times. It reeked of Jim, and she couldn’t stop tasting him and already missed him even though it had only been an hour. It was last year’s version of Jim all jumbled up with the sadness that had come with her rejection. It was the silence, and the nervous laugh when she had shown up on his doorstep that first night. It was his sense of humor and his melancholy, his thrift store ties, and his bad hair cut. She had found herself thinking that he had given her much more than a CD; he had given her a window into himself, a peace offering to undo the hurt. He had returned himself to her in the best way he knew how. He was always braver with this stuff than she could ever be.

Monday she had tried to play it cool when he had walked in and hung up his coat, but melted when he smiled at her.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Good weekend?”

“Yeah, you?”

She had imagined that it would be difficult at work now, but surprisingly she had found herself floating through the day, mentally working her way through her closet. They had agreed to dinner at her place tonight, and she wanted it to be perfect. She had hardly noticed that everyone had noticed.

It had not bothered her when Kevin had smirked at them "So have you guys been, like doing it all weekend?"

It had not bothered her when Michael had pulled her into his office and told her that "Office romances could really suck sometimes.” and what did she think he should do about Jan, who was had decided to take a sabbatical to “find herself.” Which basically meant that she was chain smoking, watching Oprah, and buying a lot of junk off QVC.

It had not bothered her when she caught Angela’s disapproving glare, as she ran something through the copier.

It had not bothered her when Karen, who's eyes were very red on Monday, and then very angry on Tuesday, had pressed the close button on the elevator when Pam had been about to get on to go to lunch, as if she wasn't there. Well, maybe that had bothered her just a little bit.

Guilt was something that Pam had a hard time keeping from rising up in her chest. Pam had always been one to try and make things right, sacrifice her own wants and needs in order to keep the peace. But things were different now she had reminded herself as she had smiled at Jim over the rim of her coffee as they held hands across the table. And she was not about to give up Jim to assuage anyone’s hurt feelings.

It had been a little over three months, and Jim was still finding new things to love about Pam. The way that her skin looked just after a shower, how her favorite ice cream was Ben & Jerry's Heath Bar Crunch, how she always had a jar of pickles in her fridge, the fact that she wore a faded pair of overalls covered in stains and a hole in one of the back pockets when she painted.

It had also been almost a month since Karen had left Dunder Mifflin Scranton for good. On her last day, Michael had insisted on throwing her a good-bye bash, ignoring the obvious discomfort that colored her cheeks. Jim had wanted to say something to her, but had thought better of it when he had caught her eye across the room. Karen had not spoken to him or looked him in the eye unless it was by accident, or work related since May. Still, he had felt sorry for her. It was clear that all she wanted was to get the hell out of Scranton as quickly and quietly as possible, and it was obvious that Michael wasn't going to let that happen.

What had started out as a simple going away party at the office with chips and dip, and a silly card that they had all signed, had evolved into a series of drinking games and general chaos. At six thirty Jim and Pam had watched on the sidelines as Meredith and Phyllis had challenged Creed and Kevin to game of beer pong.

"She's got wicked aim", Jim had said, leaning over to Pam as he had watched Phyllis dunk one of Michael's golf balls in the money cup on Creed and Kevin’s side of the conference table.

Kevin had quickly returned the favor, and Meredith downed almost an entire beer in one gulp.

"She is going to be sick", Angela had said in disgust.

"Excessive alcohol intake severely weakens a female's cognitive functions." Dwight had said. "Men can drink much more with little to no damage to their mental acuity."

"So, if you were a betting man, you’d be going for the boy’s team?” Jim had said trying not to laugh as Phyllis sunk another golf ball into a cup on the other side of the conference table. So far, the girls team seemed to be ahead.

“Naturally. Genetically speaking they have an advantage.”

Jim had been glad when Michael had vetoed Dwight's Drink and Dodge (ball) idea, but had groaned, when instead, Michael had coerced them into a game of musical chairs, with the loser of each round having to do a shot of Tequila for every person that had been eliminated. Dwight had volunteered to play the music referee, and everyone except for Angela had gathered reluctantly around the circle of chairs that Michael had set up.

Jim had watched in amusement as Creed and Meredith jostled for a good position. They had come out of beer pong a little worse for the wear, and their coordination was pretty off. He had wondered if they realized that the "winner" wouldn't have to consume any more alcohol.

Pam had caught his eye, he shrugged and they both had laughed. He loved the sound of her laughter in a crowded room. Some things never changed around here, as much as they had completely changed.

Karen had beat Jim out for the first one without a chair when the music stopped, clearly not wanting to participate. He had been the second one out, and had stood next to her as they watched the rest of the office vie for seats.

"I'd put my money on Toby making it to the end, he's got a pretty good hip check."

"I don't know what I saw in you.” she had said disregarding his attempt at humor, not looking at him.

"I'm sorry that I hurt you."

"Well you got what you wanted, so I guess win-win for you and Pam."

"It wasn't like that.” he had said watching Pam watch them from across the room. But it had been like that, and he knew that he would never be able to make it right with Karen. How could he apologize for loving someone else?

Pam had been ousted next, as Dwight had stopped Sexy Back midstream, and had done three shots. She had noticed Jim and Karen talking, and for a flash of a moment he had thought he had seen a pang of jealously cross over her face. But she had been nonchalant and stood next to Karen wishing her good luck on her future endeavors. Jim had loved Pam a little bit more then, because he knew how hard it was to be near someone and their ex, and still be able to carry on as if it didn't matter. She gave him a little wink and he had wondered what would have become of him if he had taken that job in New York.

Karen had left around seven thirty, slipping out and avoiding Jim and Pam completely, but her going away party was still in full swing. Jim had wanted to take Pam home, put on some cheesy music and lounge around, but Kelly had her deep in discussion on what Jim could only guess was the situation that was still brewing with Ryan. Jim could tell that Pam was a little tipsy because she had seemed really engrossed in whatever Kelly was saying and was nodding her head a lot. Jim loved it when Pam was a little tipsy.

At eight thirty, Michael had turned up the volume on the boom box he had brought in.

"Group sing along!" Michael had shouted to get everyone's attention.

"Nah Mike, boring." Darryl had said in protest.

"No. Shut it. My party, and we will sing if I want to."

"Lame." Darryl said sounding disgusted.

"Where it began . . .” Michael sang, swaying to the music, a phantom microphone in his hand.

Jim had rolled his eyes at Pam, pleading; let's get out of here.

"Who'd have believed you'd come along . . ." she had sung sweetly, joining Michael, winking at Jim.

"Oh no." Jim had said falling in love with her all over again, unable to stop himself from grinning ear to ear. Would it always be like this?

"I hate Barry Manilow!" Kelly had wailed.

"Um, Neil Diamond.” Kevin had said correcting her.

"Who?"


"Hand's touching hands . . ."Andy sang loudly and surprisingly in tune.

By the time they had reached the chorus, the rest of the Office had drunkenly joined in with a loud and off key “Sweeeeet Carol-ine, ba ba ba . . .”

Jim had finally given in, "good times never seemed so good . . ." he had sung to Pam with a little shrug of his shoulders.

Pam had tugged on his tie then, pulling him close.

"Let's get out of here", she had whispered

"But, Sweet Caroline, I mean it's a classic. Barry Manilow I think." he had coyly whispered back.

"I don't care about classics. I just want to get you home." She had started to blush before the whole sentence had come out. Jim loved the way she still sometimes startled herself by her own boldness.

Jim had ushered them out as quickly and quietly as possible, but no one had really noticed their quick escape. Even Angela looked a little flushed. They had been able to hear everyone singing from the hallway and he had found himself concentrating on the words, as always looking for meaning, connections and reflections.

"And it don't seem to lonely . . ."

As they had stood in front of the elevator he had thought about that first day at Stamford. That had definitely been lonely, longing for her and stinging from her words simultaneously. He had reached for her hand, he never wanted to go back to that.

"We fill it up with only two . . ."

He had thought about how he loved how she looked sitting Indian style on his bed, while he went through his CD's picking tracks to play her, telling her stories about how each one held memories, ties, to something in his life. He loved the way she listened intently, drinking him in, laughing at his stories, allowing him this indulgence as if he was the most important person in the world.