Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each. ~Henry David Thoreau

* * *
They're sitting across from each other in a hard, wooden booth in the back of Jersey's Bar and Grill, eating cheeseburgers, drinking sodas and not talking. It isn't exactly the perfect first date either of them imagined, but they're here and they're together and it's the best night they've spent since before the night they're not talking about. So, for now, they're content to sit and smile and look at each other openly in ways they've never been allowed to before.

"How's your burger?" she asks.

"Good," he says.

"Yeah, mine too."

And that's all they say for ten minutes.

They reach at the same time for the basket of fries they're sharing, and accidentally-on-purpose brush against each other. Their fingers entangle for a moment too long before pulling away, vibrating a little from the brief contact.

"Oh, sorry," he says.

"No, you go ahead," she says.

"No, please. I insist."

She takes a fry and swirls it around in the pool of ketchup on her plate. He grabs a cluster of fries and stuffs them directly into his mouth with a grin.

And the silence returns.

It's an emotional standoff, each one waiting for the other to say something daring, something meaningful. They know where they are, and where they want to go. It's how to get there that's proving problematic.

He flinches first.

"Is it just me, or is this... a little weird?"

She laughs and the knot in his chest loosens a little.

"It's not just you," she says, sounding more like herself than she has all night.

"Good," he says with a sigh of relief. "Because I was starting to worry."

"I'm sorry. I'm really bad at this."

"Bad at what?"

"This whole... dating thing."

"Wait, is that what this is? Why didn't you say so sooner? I would have put in a little more effort."

And just like that, the tension evaporates and they're laughing again. They're them again. She tells him about Schrute bucks and explains why Michael's office is black. He tells her about Michael's botched interview and Jan's meltdown. She says she feels a little bad for Jan and his heart swells. If he wasn't already one-hundred percent certain that he made the right decision, this moment would clinch it.

"I'm sorry, but I have to ask," she says, sounding suddenly unsure of herself. "You and Karen...?"

"Oh. I... uh, left her in New York." He sips from his straw, avoiding her eyes.

"Oh," she sighs, and he swears he can hear relief in that one syllable. "Left her or left her?"

"Both. Actually." His mouth moves to form a smile, but it fades from his lips before it's fully realized.

"So then you're..."

"A free agent. Yes."

"What about the job? Did you get it?"

"I withdrew from consideration."

Someday when they're past all this--when they're finally in the place he hopes they're going--he'll tell her the story of how an old yogurt lid and a scribbled note brought him back to himself, and back to her. Maybe he'll tell her on a moonlit stroll by the lake, or on his couch after a weekend DVD marathon. Maybe he'll whisper it into her ear one night as they're falling asleep in each other's arms. Maybe he'll never get tired of telling that story for as long as he lives. Just not tonight.

"Jim. Can I just say how sorry I am for... everything, I guess? I should have called you, you know, after... but I didn't know what to say and I didn't know if you'd even want to hear from me..."

"Stop," he says, reaching his hand across the table and placing it gently over hers. "Let's not do this now. I don't want to talk about that stuff tonight. I just want to relax and enjoy being with you. Do you think we could do that?"

"Sure," she agrees, sounding more positive than she feels. "That sounds good."

He stares. She stares. It's five kinds of awkward all over again.

He lets himself look at her. They're so close, he thinks. So close to becoming what they were always meant to be. Everything he's ever wanted is sitting across the table from him. He just can't seem to close the distance, to get past this and become that.

They're both a little relieved when their waiter--a bored, twenty-something hipster named Trevor--comes by to check on them. She tells Trevor they're good, but she sounds about as sure as he feels. Which isn't so sure at all.

"This isn't working, is it?" he says.

Her face, already sad, falls even more.

"Oh, no, no, no. I didn't mean this," he gestures back and forth between the two of them. "I meant not dealing with the past. I guess we can't get around it, can we?"

She considers this as she plays with the straw in her drink, poking at the ice and watching it pop back up again. He looks down at her hand, so small and delicate beneath his, and wraps his fingers around it so they're holding hands on the tabletop. She doesn't pull away.

After a few more moments of excruciating silence, her face lights up with inspiration.

"I have a suggestion," she says, her eyes sparkling.

"Thank God," he lets go of her hand and rubs his together in anticipation. "Let's hear it, Beesly."

"Okay, here's what I think we should do: I think we should get really, really drunk."

He lets out a throaty chuckle. "Wow. Wasn't expecting that. Do I need to stage an intervention here?"

"No, no, listen. We both have all this... stuff we've got to say. And since I don't see any hot coals anywhere, I think I'm going to need something else to get my courage up. So I figure we can dance around this forever or we can just get trashed and let it all out. But we both have to agree, so neither of us is taking advantage of the other."

"I can't get drunk, I drove us here."

"We'll call a taxi. I can bring you back for your car tomorrow."

He pretends to think about it, but he's already made up his mind.

"You know, the last time I saw you drunk, you kissed me."

"Oh my God, that's right!" she says, one hand covering her mouth. "I'd totally forgotten about that."

"I didn't know if you remembered."

She smiles his favorite, flirty smile, the one that always leaves him breathless. "We have so much to talk about."

"Is there any chance this plan ends with us spending the night together?"

His eyes follow her fingers as she brushes her bangs across her forehead.

"Sober Pam thinks that would be a bad idea," she tells him gently.

"Yeah," he has to agree, though he can't hide his disappointment. "Probably."

"Drunk Pam, however, is another story."

Jim's eyes grow wide and his hand shoots up. "Waiter!"

Pam giggles, but she doesn't stop him. His eyes never leave hers as Trevor returns and opens his order book.

"Two shots of tequila please," he says. She looks impressed. "And... what'll you be having?"

* * *

They're only a few drinks in, but she's already feeling bubbly and brave. The pleasant, alcohol-fueled sensation is a convenient excuse to express the things she's wanted to tell him all night. All year, really. Longer. She thinks she knows what he isn't saying, but she's lost confidence in her ability to read him. And if he doesn't feel the same, well, at least there's another round of drinks on the way to cushion the blow.

"So, if you're single," she begins.

"Which I am," he adds.

"And I'm single..."

"Which you are. I mean, as far as I know."

"Then do you think we could be not single... together?"

His tight-lipped smile grows into a full-on grin.

"I think we could do that," he says, nodding and keeping his voice low, so she knows the words are just for her.

"And, um," she hesitates. The next part is not coming as easy as she thought it would. "What you said... that night? Are you still..."

"I am still."

His words hang heavy in the air between them like a storm cloud over the desert, poised to end a long drought with a steady, life-renewing downpour. She can feel the rain coming. Her thirst propels her forward.

"Me too," she says.

Their eyes meet and an understanding passes between them, too precious to speak aloud. Reality shifts and reforms into something different and new. She doesn't yet know what it will be, but it feels like something good.

* * *

It's not that late, but it's a Thursday night and the bar is starting to empty out. With the exception of a rowdy group of college students a few booths over, they mostly have the back room to themselves. The earlier awkwardness has faded into a quick kind of energy that skitters across their skin. His tolerance is a little higher than hers, but he's definitely got a good buzz going, and it's not just from the alcohol. He sort of wishes he were completely sober for this, but more than anything he just wants to ride it out with her and see where it goes.

"Just so you know what you're getting into," he begins, pointing a finger at her playfully. "Some things to consider. One, I tend leave the cap off the toothpaste. It's a character flaw, but I can't help it. Two, I'm going to expect you to attend sporting events with me, but I promise to wait until you come out of the bathroom before I leave. And three, I don't seem capable of being anything but a complete jackass to any girl I date who isn't you, so you'd be doing all womenkind a favor by taking me off the market."

"Good to know," she says, laughing.

"Your turn," he insists.

"Okay, full disclosure," she says. "I expect you to take me out to dinner at least once a week. I'm a terrible cook, so if you were expecting Martha Stewart, you're so out of luck there, Halpert. No talking allowed when I'm watching Survivor or Project Runway, and there will be no flipping of channels during the commercials. Oh, and apparently, I snore. Loud. Seriously, like a chainsaw. So you may want to invest in earplugs."

The implication of her last statement isn't lost on him. It sets his mind wandering in a million different directions.

"Really?"

"Yeah." She blurts out the next words quickly, her head bowed in embarrassment. "My sister and I used to share a room growing up. She complained about it all the time, but I didn't believe her. It finally got so bad she taped me one night and played it back the next day."

A strong gust of breath bursts through his closed lips.

"What?" he asks, utterly amused. He's laughing more at the situation than at her. She seems to know that instinctively, and soon she's laughing too. He suspects that there's more to the story, something she's holding back. He makes a mental note to ask her about it sometime. Some other time.

* * *

She's moved over to his side of the booth and they're sitting together like one of those annoyingly sappy couples she used to roll her eyes at. She thinks they could easily become one of those couples, and maybe she could live with that. It's not so hard being here with him now. It's the opposite of hard, which is why, she suspects, it's taken them so much effort to avoid this all these years. She's tired of fighting it. She feels like she could fall into his eyes, or maybe dive in. For the first time since she's known him, she's not scared of what is waiting for her there.

She's lost count, but she vaguely remembers downing a couple of tequila shots, something that tasted like cough syrup, a glass of imported whisky that made her throat burn and some kind of neon-colored liqueur. Now, they're taking turns ordering naughty-sounding shots for each other. She tells Trevor that Jim would like a buttery nipple and Jim says Pam will have sex on the beach. They're giggling like teenagers and she's pretty sure it wouldn't be as funny if they were sober. But his hand is resting lightly on her knee and his breath is warm on her neck, so she's pretty sure she doesn't care.

They've gone somewhere intimate now, to a place where no one else exists but the two of them. They've built this place together, brick by brick, over the years, without even realizing it. It has stood empty for the last year, shuttered and locked, awaiting their return like summer vacationers. It feels like they're finally ready to come back, open up the windows, dust off the furniture and settle in for good.

* * *

"Boy, you're cute," he tells her, squinting his eyes and slurring the words more than a little.

"And you're drunk," she says.

"Maybe. But when I sober up, you'll still be cute."

"Cute." Her lips form into a pout. "You said my dancing was cute. At the wedding."

Now, his pout matches hers. He suddenly looks much younger, like a little boy who's just been told he has to finish his homework before he can go outside and play.

"Wow, that night sucked."

"Horrible, awful night."

"You left with Roy."

"You danced with Karen."

And there they are. The names they've been avoiding all night. Like heat-seeking missiles, they find their opposing targets and the air changes, thickens. He slumps down in the booth and rubs his face with his hands. She leans back and steels herself for what's coming. There's so much waiting for them on the other side, if only they can get through this part without breaking each other's hearts all over again.

* * *

"Wasted," she mumbles into the table. Her head has fallen forward at some point, and her cheek is resting on her forearm.

"Yeah," he agrees, nodding slowly. "Me too."

"No, my life," she says, raising her head and smacking her lips. "Wasted. Nine years with him. And you were always there... and you were so good... and I loved you, Jim. I really, really did."

She feels a tickle in the back of her throat and knows she's on verge of tears. Somewhere in her mind she's aware that in coming up with this grand plan, she'd forgotten to take into account how emotional she gets when she drinks. It's a pattern with her. First, the liberating, giddy highs, and then the dark, shameful lows. At the Dundies he only saw the happy phase. He wasn't around later when she stumbled home, crawled into bed and silently cried herself to sleep, trying desperately to keep her trembling under control so she wouldn't wake up Roy. Once again, she feels herself slipping down, down, down, and she's unable to stop it.

She lets out an audible little sniff and he can't help but notice the moisture rising in her eyes.

"Hey," he says, brushing her hair behind her shoulder. "Shh. Don't... don't cry."

"So stupid," she continues, as if she hasn't heard him. She's too far down this road that even he can't pull her back. "I can't believe I got back with him. Ugh. What was I thinking?"

"It's okay," he says, rubbing her back lightly. He keeps his voice soft and soothing. "That's all over now."

"No, wait," she turns on him, her voice taking on a slightly accusatory tone. "I know what I was thinking. You didn't want me anymore."

"No. Pam. Don't you see? It was just the opposite. I wanted you so much. Even though I tried not to. Even though I moved away. Dated someone else. It didn't work. God, you have no idea how much it didn't work."

She comes back to herself a little, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly.

"We're such a mess," she notes bitterly. "How did we ever get here?"

"Doesn't matter. We're here."

* * *

She heads to the ladies' room while he pays the check and calls a cab. He gives the woman on the phone just one address, hers. It's not that he expects anything to happen tonight, whatever they might have agreed to beforehand. It's just that she's in no condition to be left alone and he can't shake the need he's always had to take care of her.

She fades in and out of consciousness in the back seat of the cab, nestled in crook of his arm for most of the drive home to her apartment.

"You love me," she says during one of her lucid moments, looking up at him in wonder.

"Yes I do," he confirms, smiling back at her and placing a kiss on her head.

"I love you, Jim."

She closes her eyes again and he flashes back to the day of Michael's ridiculous diversity exercise, when she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder. He closes his eyes, just like he did then, and revels in the feel of her body, soft and warm against his. That day, he'd allowed himself to pretend for just a moment that she was his. He thinks maybe he doesn't have to pretend anymore, and the thought keeps him wide awake until the car pulls up in front of her building.

* * *

She wakes up in her own bed, still wearing the clothes she had on the night before, minus her shoes. On the nightstand next her bed there's a glass of water and two Advil waiting. Her head feels like it weighs 20 pounds and her mouth is dry, so she swallows them and downs the water in one gulp. Even the tiny pinpoints of light seeping through the closed blinds make her eyes hurt. There's no way she's going in to work today.

The water was refreshing, but she needs coffee, industrial strength. Moving almost in slow motion, she extracts herself from the covers and heads for the kitchen. As soon as she enters the living room, she stops short.

There he is, curled up in an odd half-twist on her couch, one arm slung over his head, the other resting on his chest. It doesn't look like a comfortable position, but he's fast asleep. The dark, V-neck sweater he'd been wearing the night before is draped over the easy chair next to the couch, leaving him in just a plain, white T-shirt and khakis. She's torn between wanting to wake him up and just watching him sleep. The voyeuristic approach wins out because she figures he'll probably be as hung over as she is when he wakes up, and she wants to spare him that for as long as possible.

She scans her imperfect memory of the night before and comes up with a few scattered images, but nothing coherent past the point where they started ordering the naughty shots. There was some crying, she knows that much, and a taxi ride and sloppy kisses on her front doorstep, but more than that she can't be sure. If it weren't for the evidence stretched out on her couch, she could be easily convinced that the whole night had been a dream.

Finally, the need for coffee begins to outweigh her desire to watch him sleep. It's almost 7:30, so she only has about a half an hour to call work and leave a message before Michael gets in. If she waits any longer, she'll have to talk to him in person, which she really, really doesn't want to do. She pulls herself away and tiptoes to the kitchen to start a pot brewing. As she scoops the grounds into the filter, it occurs to her that Jim took the day off too. She wonders if he'll want to spend it with her. He was supposed to be in New York, she thinks as she fills the pot with enough water for at least four cups. But he's not in New York, he's here, in her apartment, on her couch.

"Good morning."

Or, rather, he was on the couch a moment ago. Now, he's standing, solid and tall, in the entrance to her little kitchen, both hands grasping the top of the door frame with ease. His new short haircut is mussed and his bangs are falling into his eyes. He looks as ragged as she feels, but he's smiling.

"Speak for yourself," she says, rubbing her temples with one hand and pouring the water through the top of the coffee maker with the other.

"Speaking for myself, I feel like death on a stick," he says, stepping into the kitchen. She notices for the first time that he's not wearing shoes or socks and tries to remember if she's ever actually seen his feet before. He comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. His voice has just a bit of a morning edge to it, deep and gravelly. "But yeah, good morning."

She turns so she's facing him and puts her arms around his neck.

"So, I'm a little fuzzy on the details of last night."

"Well, it was quite a night. Thanks for letting me crash here, by the way."

"Did we... uh...?"

"Play checkers?" he asks playfully. She narrows her eyes, but it only encourages him. "Bake cookies? Crank call Dwight?"

"You know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," he says, his tone serious now. "And no, we didn't. Although that last thing may have happened."

"Oh, whew," she says, then corrects herself quickly when she sees the stung look on his face. "I just mean that... I'd want to remember it. You know, when we... when it happens. If it happens. I wouldn't want to forget... something like that."

His expression transforms into one of pure delight. "Wow, look at you blush."

"I hate you," she says, but she doesn't turn away.

"I hate you too," he replies, just before his lips meet hers.

She pours whatever is left to be said into their kiss, opening her mouth and her heart to receive him. He answers with intimate confessions of his own. They're back on track again, communicating in their own way, not necessarily through words, but through humor, simple gestures and an uncanny sense of knowing each other wholly, completely.

When the kiss ends, they don't talk, but they don't need to anymore.