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Story Notes:
Mood fic, set post-Cocktails, inspired by a recent long drive. Title from Jason Mraz's "Song for a Friend".



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.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Mood fic, set post-Cocktails, inspired by a recent long drive. Title from Jason Mraz's "Song for a Friend".



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.
You get the call on a Monday afternoon at work, and from the moment your mom starts to talk, you know something is wrong.

You've felt unsettled all weekend, ever since the horrible scene at the bar, and as your mother's words come crashing down around you, you have the uncanny feeling that you knew this was coming.

It's your grandma, your mom's mom, the one who first encouraged you to paint, setting you up with watercolors at the kitchen table next to her while she corrected papers. She's been rushed to the hospital, and it's not looking good.

The phone slips out of your trembling hand as you go to hang it up, landing with such a crash that Dwight looks up frowningly and Phyllis and Jim turn in their seats.

"I have to go," you say dazedly, to no one in particular, even though they're all staring at you, your eyes locked on a photo on your desk. You and her, old and slightly tattered at the edges, a bit out of focus but always one of your favorites. You're in the elevator, fumbling in your purse for your keys, for three minutes before you realize you aren't moving because you haven't pushed the button for the lobby.

Somehow you make it out to your car, but your hand is shaking so badly that you can't get the key in the door to unlock it. Your keys slip out of you hand, and the jingle they make as they fall to the ground is just too much. Suddenly you realize that you'll need to go get gas if you're going to make it the two hours to your grandma, and your wallet is sitting on the coffee table in your apartment from when you cleaned out all the wrinkled old receipts last night. You crumple to the ground, tears leaking down your face, and hug your knees to your chest, leaning against the side of your car in defeat.

At the sound of footsteps you look up, sniffling. Your eyes are blurry with tears, but the approaching figure is too tall and too thin to be anyone but Jim. For a desperate moment you wish that your grand gesture of honesty with Roy could have waited a few days, because it's a long ride to Reading and Roy could have driven you so that you didn't have to focus. For some reason, the thought seems so ridiculous after Friday's ugly scene and your weekend mantra of "it's all for the best that a sputtering laugh bubbles up through your tears, which only makes you cry harder. Suddenly though, you're staring at Jim's legs, his grey pants filling your sight. He squats down with a soft, "Hey. You okay?"

You meet his concerned gaze, tears still spilling down your cheeks. "It's my grandma. She had a stroke, and they don't know..." You trail off, reaching blindly for your keys. Your knuckles scrap against the cold asphalt, but they're just out of reach.

"Come on. I'll drive you," he stands, picking up your keys and offering you a hand up. You take it, shaking your head.

"No. It's two hours, and I don't know how long I'll need to stay, and there's..." The "Karen" dies on your lips, but you both know it's there.

"Pam. You're in no shape to drive, not a hundred miles at rush hour. Besides. This is what friends do." He's right, and you know it; you can't seem to stop shaking and tears are still clouding your vision and your mind is racing and the last thing you need right now is to wind up alongside your grandma in the hospital. You agree, reluctantly but relieved, thankful that your past still means enough that he'll do this for you. He opens the passenger door to his car and guides you in, carefully shutting the door behind you and then climbing in his side. Once seated, he twists around, searching for something in the backseat, and turns back to you with a box of tissues. You smile feebly and pull one out, blowing your nose.

Neither of your speak as you pull out of the parking lot and merge on to the expressway, the silence broken only by his breathing, amplified by the cold he's still recovering from, and your occasional sniffle. The quiet is oddly comforting and you are somewhat relieved that Jim doesn't feel the need to cover up the potential awkwardness with music. The traffic is moving slowly; it is Monday rush hour after all, and the slow pace is making you anxious. You fidget nervously with the ends of your scarf, twisting them around and around in your lap.

You sigh heavily. As you lean your head back, the taillights seem to stretch out around the curve of the highway like your grandma's antique ruby bracelet, the one she always promised you would be yours someday. You hope to God that today isn't someday, and promise yourself that if she makes it through this you will paint her a picture of this, these taillights glowing in the falling dusk, the bright orange-red against the soft purple sky and the dark of the trees alongside the road. Against your will you feel the tears welling up again, and as you close your eyes tight and try to choke back the threatening sobs you feel a warm hand on your knee and any ounce of restraint you might have had is gone; you are lost.

You don't realize that you've turned off at a rest stop until Jim has opened your door and unbuckled your seatbelt, turning you towards him and cradling you gently against his chest as you sob. He strokes your hair, letting you cry, and the gentle scent of his detergent fills your nose. When you have quieted, he looks at you questioningly, tilting his head towards the restrooms. You nod, and he stands from where he has been kneeling, bits of gravel clinging to the knees of his dress pants, and helps you the rest of the way out of the car. By the time you come out of the bathroom, face tingling from the cold water and the rough brown paper towels, he's leaning against the picnic table near the door to the ladies' room, two cans of coke and a bag of M&Ms on the table next to him. The setting sun glints off the tops of the soda cans, and for a moment, you are blinded.

You both climb into the car, and you've been back in traffic ten minutes when Jim's phone, resting on the console in between your seats, starts to vibrate. He reaches down and sends the call to voicemail without even glancing at the caller ID, but you both know who it is. You realize that neither of you have spoken a word since you left Scranton over an hour ago. "Hey," you start, your voice cracking, still nasally from all the crying you've done this afternoon. "Thanks. I really appreciate this."

He shakes his head, staring at the lights in front of you. "Not a problem." His voice is low and deep, quiet but filling the small space you've been sharing so silently. "You know that if you need a ride back to Scranton, I'll come and get you." He looks over at you, and there's a bit of a question in your eyes - you were forced to leave a particularly awkward message on his voicemail Friday night, and neither of you have mentioned it since - but he holds the eye contact until you're sure he really means it.

You nod slowly, still holding his gaze, grateful that despite everything, even if you never can get back to what you once had, even if this is all there ever is for you and Jim, that at least you still have this. "I know."

He turns back to the road in front of you, and several minutes pass in silence. "I'd drive you wherever you needed to go too." The words tumble out of your mouth without warning, and you aren't sure why they feel like a confession.

"I know," he smiles. A few minutes go by, and Jim gestures at the unopened bag of M&Ms and the coke in the passenger's side cup holder. "Those are for you," he says. "I thought maybe the chocolate would help."

"I know," you smile softly, and spill some of the multi-colored candies into you hand.


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