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 didn't wear perfume.

That was one of the things he had begun to know about her.

He knew this by leaning over the reception counter under the guise of watching her play solitaire. He tried hard not to stare at the place where her hair brushed against her shoulder, the hint of a clavicle behind the soft gray collar of her sweater. He had always liked clavicles. That spot made him think of Saturday mornings, sleeping in late, sugar cookies, candle light . . . and that, was not something that could be found in a bottle of any kind. He had to stop himself from thinking about what the rest of her might smell like.

He stored this one certain thing along with the others in the mental lock box that had already begun to grow in shape and size, the colors melding into one that matched the color of her hair.

Fall was her favorite season. He had learned this with a surprise invitation. It was the second time that week that they had left for lunch. The first time had been on Tuesday, and had ended awkwardly with her subtly letting him know she had a fiancé. The leaves had started to turn, and it was starting to get chilly. She wanted to go somewhere where she could get a bowl soup and watch the clouds deepen as they ate.

He hadn't questioned why she wanted to watch the clouds with him and not her fiancé. All he could think about was how he was so hers for the taking, should she choose to take. She hadn't.

She pronounces his name in a way that he has never heard it pronounced before. Sometimes, teasing, with the slightest lift to the single syllable. Somehow it conveys several hundred syllables all at once, words unspoken, thoughts carefully not formed.

He first notices this on a Friday as she is saying good-bye. The possibilities roll off her tongue as her words stretch out behind her.

She doesn't pronounce anyone else's name with the same artful sweep. He tests his theory, nothing special about Phylis, or extraordinary about Oscar or Michael. He smiles spitefully, as he eavesdrops, her voice tired and colorless.

She smiles, noticing, the phone still pressed against her ear. Roy's single syllable is not as perfect as his own.

The glimpse of a spark was enough, for now. It had to be enough, even though his fingertips burned with the knowledge of her skin, having held for longer than he intended.

She had pulled away, thoughts he could not comprehend suddenly coloring her cheeks. She looked at her shoes, her hand slipping from his. He was learning that she was good at hiding behind normal things, and just like that, every thing snapped back into place. "In your face!" Dwight shouted as he and Michael high-fived in the lane next to them,

It was her turn to throw her ball down the lane, and he watched, the stunned grin he was getting used to, plastered on his face, a twinge of regret that he had let the moment pass without words. She had a way of making his words a tangled mess in his head.

Her ball dropped into the gutter, and disappeared. She shrugged "Sorry, I suck". He was learning that she was a pretty terrible bowler too.

As far a love goes, he isn't sure he's cut out for that sort of thing.


The Lilies on her desk make him sneeze and he holds it against them, mostly because Roy sent them for her birthday. He would have sent her daisies, the kind with the tall stems, in oranges and pinks. They lasted longer and they fit her better.


His homemade card made out of Dunder Mifflin #10 Regular looks soggy next to the vase. On the front he had simply printed HB! in neat block letters.


He had lingered over what to write on the inside the night before, finally settling on just a happy rainbow, signing his name in the same block letters.


Her smile, which he was starting to think of as "his" smile, made his heart thump a little faster. And he knew, that she got it . . . got him.


Dwight glared at him as he bounced in his seat a little, his knee doing that nervous jittery thing it did every time she looked at him that way.


Yeah, he was pretty sure that he isn't cut out for that sort of thing.

It had started with Dwight's stapler. The one he had fastidiously labeled with his name using the P Touch Labeler that Pam kept at her desk. He locked it in his desk each night, not knowing that Pam maintained the master keys for the entire office.


Pam thought of it as an experiment, since Dwight had shown a particular kind of affection for the ordinary looking stapler.


"Do you think he will freak out?" she asked.


"Probably. Then he will demand that we all empty out our desks . . . "Jim said putting his freezing hands in his pockets.


"We have to find a good hiding spot for it."


"He will suspect me, and will torment me all day." Jim said smiling down at her.


"Naturally."


"And this is a good plan because?"


"It will make the day go by so much faster" she said with a convincing grin. "Come on. It will be so much fun to have a secret mission for the day."


Jim held his breath, the blustery January air pricking his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Her gloved hands were animated in the near dark, as she spelled out her plan.


Jim had taken it a step further, only half joking, when he suggested they completely rearrange everything on Dwight's desk instead.


Her laughter was soft plumes in the cold air. The purple scarf she wore lit her hair the color of flames.


They would come in an hour early. He couldn't wait.

He was pretty sure that drinking on the job was a bad idea.


Then changed his mind.


He watched as Meredith leaned conspiratorily over the reception desk, he was resonably certain that she was adding a little "extra" to Pam's Margarita. He finished off what was left of his.


She caught his eye across the room and shrugged.


The Happy Birthday Michael ! signs had started to droop, and Stanley, Phyliss and Angela had already taken off. Michael had fallen asleep, his head on his keyboard, with Dwight standing guard outside his office.


He sat down next to her, too warm to be completely sober.


"So, you think Margarita Friday's will become a regular thing?"


"Umm . . . I don't know. Michael doesn't do well with Tequila" she said.


"Your cute when your slurring your speech" he said with a hint of a smile.


"Yeah?" she said the bottom of her her paper cup making a ring on her skirt.


Her gaze was unwavering, the freckle's on her cheeks very clear under the flourescent lights.

Suddenly her knee was very warm next to his, her lips too close. The seconds streched out before them, and he thought about doing the unthinkable, the reality of it making it hard to breath. She bit her lip, and he half expected that she could read his mind.


"Hey Pam, you ready to go?" Roy said, breaking the momentary spell.


He watched her take Roy's hand and imagined that it was his own.

Her desk was empty.

Everyone had colds.

Yesterday her nose was red, and she looked sleepy. They laughed in the breakroom, him leaning against the counter while she sipped some smelly tea.

She was becoming his best friend.

The beat of her eyelashes pushed, held him in the grip of this thing, the words stuck in his throat, unfathomable, unreachable, and in the end . . . nothing. Instead he said something stupid about Dwight's conspiracy theories on the ventilation system that systematically distributed germs throughout the office.

She mummered a stuffy response, that made him want to put his arm around her shoulders, pull her in tight. Instead he buried his hands in his pockets, wishing he could just . . . say it.

She felt like home.

The thought raged in his bones, even as he wished it away.

He leaned back and tried to watch her out of the corner of his eye, but she caught him and smiled before blowing her nose.

Today just felt like a non day. The sight of her empty desk making him acutely aware of how many things he wanted to say, if only he could formulate the right words. He had never been very good at coming up with the right things to say. It was always a stupid joke, or a sarcastic remark.

It was nearly six when he noticed the email.

"Did I miss anything?"

He smiled at the screen like she could see.

Her sick day was one of the longest he could remember.

The cameras came, and he tried not to be self conscious. He found himself digging his fists into his pockets, ducking his head when he noticed the lens zooming in on him. He had always hated getting his picture taken, and the idea of being on camera, especially in those achingly odd moments when he was so unsure of himself, was even worse. It was a good thing that Michael was creating enough of a spectacle to keep that probing gaze off of him.

On the first day, he made himself stay at his desk, only getting up once, while the camera men were at lunch, to tease her about the jelly beans she had put out. (She had wanted it to look like she was the friendly kind of receptionist that who did things like putting out jelly beans). He didn't tell her that jelly beans were his least favorite candy. He noticed that she was wearing lip gloss, which he thought was unbelievably cute.

By the end of the first week, he had almost gotten used to the constant presence of the cameras (although he wasn't any fonder of them), but he was still cautious about how many secret glances (and jelly beans) he was taking. He was pretty sure that they had not noticed.

The cameras came, and he tried not to be self conscious. He found himself digging his fists into his pockets, ducking his head when he noticed the lens zooming in on him. He had always hated getting his picture taken, and the idea of being on camera, especially in those achingly odd moments when he was so unsure of himself, was even worse. It was a good thing that Michael was creating enough of a spectacle to keep that probing gaze off of him.

On the first day, he made himself stay at his desk, only getting up once, while the camera men were at lunch, to tease her about the jelly beans she had put out. (She had wanted it to look like she was the friendly kind of receptionist that who did things like putting out jelly beans). He didn't tell her that jelly beans were his least favorite candy. He noticed that she was wearing lip gloss, which he thought was unbelievably cute.

By the end of the first week, he had almost gotten used to the constant presence of the cameras (although he wasn't any fonder of them), but he was still cautious about how many secret glances (and jelly beans) he was taking. He was pretty sure that they had not noticed.