"Ooh," Pam breathes. She brushes Roy's bruised skin with the tip of her index finger. "Does it hurt?"

He shakes his head, moving his leg away from her when she touches it. "No," he scoffs.  "Of course it doesn't hurt."

She inches closer to him on the couch. He's taken off his uniform already and he's wearing shorts and an old practice jersey; he smells like Irish Spring and boy deodorant. The tips of his hair are still damp from his shower.

"It was a good game, babe," Pam whispers into his ear, pressing her lips against his cheek. She likes these nights that they have with each other, the ones after his football games, when he's tired and soft and quiet. When they sit in his parents' basement, the only light coming from an old TV set and a bulb hanging in the corner by the washing machine, when they count the minutes and make each one last as long as possible together until Roy's dad yells from the door at the top of the stairs that Pam needs to go home now. They touch and kiss and go as far as they can, knowing the entire time that they could be caught at any second, but just not caring because it's so new to both of them. And everyone keeps saying that they're not going to be seventeen forever.

Roy puts his hand against the back of her head and pulls it in toward him, kissing her. "I know," he whispers back. He shifts his weight onto his left hip, and groans as his movement causes him to put too much pressure on his injured thigh. His face distorts, and he breathes sharply.

She giggles. "Are you sure it doesn't hurt?" she teases. "I think you're lying, and it hurts really bad but you don't want to admit it."

He squints his eyes at her. "It doesn't hurt. My foot's asleep, that's all."

"Right. Your foot's asleep."

"What, you don't believe me?"

"Well, you did take a pretty hard hit tonight, and that's a nasty bruise. I don't see how it couldn't hurt."

Roy turns away from her. "It just doesn't, okay? And it wasn't that hard of a hit." He folds his arms across his chest.

"Oh," Pam says softly, staring at her lap. "Okay."

He gets like this sometimes, and it's usually her fault, because she should know by now that he doesn't like to talk about what hurts him.

"I'm kind of tired," he says, staring at the TV. "Maybe you should go."

She slides off of the couch, grabbing her coat and backpack off of the floor, and climbs the basement stairs, peeking down at him through the space between the wall and the banister.

* * * * *

Pam catches Jim's eye a few times on Monday, but she bites her tongue to keep from saying anything because he's in a really good mood and he keeps smiling at Karen like they had a really great weekend and she's back to not wanting to ruin things for them.  She doesn't know what had happened over the past few weeks but suddenly he and Karen are together together, and she wonders how long it's been that way and if it had mattered so much to her before she'd gotten back with Roy.  She kind of hates how things like this sneak up on her and kick her when she's already on the floor.  She knows that later on she'll tell herself she's being stupid and it's been like this with them all along, but for now she lets herself think that she missed out on a big part of the story.  She'll take any comfort she can get these days. 

If she tells Jim anything, he'll be expecting something, and nothing may even happen so it's not even worth it.  She decides that there's nothing to say about it, and she hides behind paperwork and phone calls all day.

But she knows Roy.  That's the problem.

The office is empty now; the last cameraman had shuffled out with his equipment about a half an hour ago, and she's thankful for no more phones ringing, and silence save for the soft buzzing of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling. At 5:45 she thinks maybe it's safe to leave, and she contemplates looking through Michael's window just to be sure that everyone's gone. But she doesn't. 

She begins to take down her coat, and the door to the office opens. She stops, because it's Jim, and he tries to rush past her.

"I just-I need to use the bathroom," he says.

He gets just past Ryan's old desk when she calls out, "Jim."  He stops, but doesn't turn.

She stands behind him, not really knowing what to say, and then he sits on top of the desk, his arms folded across his chest. He turns his face towards her, and his left cheek is swollen and bright pink.

"Oh, no," she whispers. "Roy?"

He nods, his jaw set.

"Just now?"

He nods again, and smirks but when he does, it aggravates his cheek and he sucks air in through his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut.

She slides next to him onto the desk. "I should have told you," she says, looking down at her shoes.

"It wouldn't have made a difference." His voice is calm and practically emotionless, and she wonders if he's been expecting this to happen all along.

"I think it would have."

"He would have hit me either way."

"Maybe," she shrugs. "But I told him everything, and the least I could have done was tell you everything, too."  And she should have, she would, she can.  That's how things work now.

Jim doesn't respond, and he looks down.

"I'm sorry," she finally says. There's quietness between them now, and there always has been, but it's a different kind of quiet. It's the kind that's not full of things unsaid, but full of questions with half-answers and almost-truths. It feels like progress, maybe, from where they used to be.

He doesn't say it's okay, but he offers her a tiny smile, turning his lips up as much as he can. It doesn't reach his eyes and she knows that's because it's too painful for him, and she understands.

"Let me see," she says softly, and he tilts his face towards her.  She examines it.  "Oh.  You probably need ice."  She slowly reaches out her hand, and brushes his cheek as softly as possible with her index finger. "Does it hurt?" she asks.

Something about it seems so close and so familiar. She tries to trace back to a moment where this could have happened before, but the time and the place are all wrong and the person is not the same, not in the least. 

And when she touches him, he doesn't flinch or move or turn his face away.  He exhales.  "Yeah. It hurts."