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Story Notes:

There's a nod to the British version at the very end (I'll clarify it in my end notes).   

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.

He was well aware of the fact that what he was contemplating (no, planning) could result in the loss of his job; after all, the very definition of a documentary stipulated that the cameramen not alter the natural course of events or become actively involved with the subjects in any way.

Even more than that, though, he understood that to do this would be to tread a dangerous line; it was rather like playing god in some ways.  

But, while he appreciated the gravity of both facts, his conviction that it was simply the right thing to do overrode all doubts.  

----------------

"Hey, Jim...?"

"Yeah?" Jim turned, giving him a wide smile.  

This is the right thing to do; he deserves to know the truth.  They're wasting too much time.

"I was just wondering if...uh, you could spare some time during lunch?"

He held his breath as he watched the confusion register on Jim's expression, but soon enough, that affable smile returned as Jim nodded. "Sure."

"Great." Rick forced an uncomfortable smile, backing away as he prepared to head to the conference room - then in afterthought he paused, turning back around to add, "It'll be worth your time."

Again Jim's brows knit slightly, his smile faintly confused. "...Okay."

-----------------

He had absolutely no idea what to expect from Rick during lunch.  Was he having problems with Cliff, the other camera guy?  Was this related to Michael somehow?  Was he going to ask for some insight into the enigma that was Creed?

In any case, it was a relief to have definite plans for lunch - a tangible reason to avoid the break room.  Since he'd broken up with Karen three weeks earlier, deciding exactly when and how to retrieve his ham and cheese sandwich from the fridge had become a weird sort of Russian roulette -- if he went in too early, the seating arrangements could go all wrong, and he could end up sitting next to Karen.  

She was always civil to him, offering a tight-lipped smile and a murmured greeting while purposefully avoiding his gaze. Sometimes he wished she'd fly off the handle at him, because the guilt was utterly horrendous - and inescapable.

She'd told him to leave her alone, which he dutifully did, but sometimes he could've sworn it was the last thing she really wanted.

If he went into the break room too late, he risked the possibility of them both being in there -- Karen's head bowed slightly over her salad, Pam's eyes on his face as she toyed with her yogurt spoon.  He thought he sensed something like defiance in Pam's demeanor these days, as if she'd been forcing herself to behave in a manner antithetical to what her impulses would've dictated.  And given the fact that she'd been consistently keeping her distance from him ever since she and Roy had broken up (in what he'd heard was apparently quite the scene), well....

But then, he'd learned his lesson well; the possibility (the certainty) that he was misinterpreting her yet again was more than enough to keep him silent.  

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He'd felt awkward while he followed Rick down the hall to the small room just outside the suite that the production company and cameramen had fashioned into a working editing room.  His curiosity intensified when Rick led him into the room, gesturing for Jim to take a seat while he shut the door behind them.

He watched as Rick slowly turned to face him. "Listen, I'm really out of line here."

Jim felt his eyebrows rise, his eyes widening as Rick added nervously, "I could lose my job over this."

"Okay..." Jim was starting to feel uncomfortable.  He'd always gotten along with Rick, but this was just...weird.  "What's going on?"

Rick sucked in a breath, then moved to take a seat next to Jim, gesturing toward the console in front of him.  There was a small monitor just in front of where Jim was sitting.

Rick deftly reached out to flip on the system, pressing two buttons before adjusting a knob that brightened the screen even as he said quietly, "I just thought that you should know."

"Know what?" Jim blinked in confusion, his smile forced now.

Rick paused, obviously considering just how to answer that question, then - with a small, wry smile - "All the stuff you've probably suspected but couldn't believe."

Jim cocked his head, one eyebrow raised. "I'm not sure I follow..."

"Nah, of course you don't.  But you will." Rick's eyes held his meaningfully for a long moment, then: "I hope I'm not overstepping here - hell, I know I am.  Just... Honestly, Jim, it's what I really believe is right."

"...Okay." Jim's eyes were huge as Rick slowly backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.  Jim was almost ashamed to find himself praying this wasn't some sort of taped confession of adoration from Rick.  Because he was so baffled that anything seemed plausible.  

He realized later that there was one possibility that would never have crossed his mind -- and it was, ironically, the very truth that left him holding his breath as the images flickered across the screen.

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It was poorly spliced footage, something that Rick had obviously thrown together in a hurry.  And it was old footage, in fact, beginning with the day Katy had come to the office in her futile attempt at selling purses.  He squirmed in his chair at the sight of her - the curves he'd come to know so well, the face that had been contorted by the tears the last time he'd seen her.

Just as he began to wonder what the hell Rick was trying to accomplish in showing him this, there was a rather abrupt cut to Pam - who, unaware of the gaze of the camera, applied lip gloss carefully.  When she glanced over, noticing the camera, she immediately stopped, swiping at her lips self-consciously.

Jim didn't breathe for a moment, wondering if his initial read of the image was correct. Was she jealous of Katy?  Because Katy's pretty, or because of...me?  No way.

Even as he sat wondering, there was yet another less-than-smooth cut; this time the footage was a talking head Pam had done.  It took him a second to actually register what she was saying - that she was talking about him and Katy.

Then she'd stopped abruptly before exclaiming in what he immediately recognized as a failed attempt at sounding casual, "Am I talking really loud?  I feel like I'm talking really loud..."

Is she... She was jealous of me and Katy...?  Wait, I'm misreading that, surely...

He wasn't even finished talking himself out of it (So it was weird for her when I was with Katy - big deal.  It obviously didn't mean anything) when a momentary black flash flickered on the screen, cutting to footage of the basketball game they'd played in the warehouse.  He couldn't help but smile with a kind of sad, wistful satisfaction when he watched himself fake Roy out, then glide past him to score.

Then the camera caught him as he jogged past Pam, giving her a brief nod in acknowledgement -- he remembered it well, because he'd been so damned glad she'd been there to see the moment, his moment.  

What he didn't remember - what he hadn't seen, would never have even dreamed of - was the way her gaze lingered on him as he jogged by her.  He stared in absolute shock at the screen, his mouth literally hanging open just a bit as he watched her eyes drift from his shoulders, then down the length of his torso, sweeping over his legs and then back up again.

Holy shit, was she checking me out?  No way...

And then he'd watched in utter astonishment as she tilted her head slightly, actually licking her lips a little as if to say, Damn...

It was an expression he immediately recognized, because she inspired the same sentiment in him on a regular basis. But to see her do it?  On film?  Caught unaware?

Okay... His protective instinct immediately kicked in.  So she's attracted to me - big deal.  That's not exactly a revelation; she admitted it herself when I kissed her.  Doesn't mean anything...apparently. Just because she...I don't know, thinks I'm hot doesn't mean she wants me.  

Obviously she doesn't want me. Because we're both free now; there's nothing stopping us, but we're just...not.

No, she doesn't really want me.

It was almost easy to convince himself of that, even in the face of such empirical evidence to the contrary, simply because he'd had years of practice...and months of heartache and second-guessing that exacerbated the old familiar pain that ran deeper than anything he'd ever experienced before -- all of which seemed to confirm again the cause of it all: She just didn't feel the same way.

----------------

But then what seemed like a miraculous, endless progression of visuals followed: Pam gazing up at him when she was drunk at the Dundies, her eyes resting on his face in a manner that was nothing short of worshipful; the way she'd skipped behind him gleefully on the day that she'd jinxed him; how she'd gasped when her mother had whispered, glancing around surreptitiously to ensure that Roy was out of earshot, "Which one is Jim?"; the warmth in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks as she'd looked up at him adoringly while Michael opened his birthday present - which they'd picked out together at Rite Aid.

The way her expression had gone stony, devoid of emotion, her words a question, not an answer.  "I can't...?"  

Then her body pressed close against him, her hands in his hair as she stopped fighting it, just minutes before she nodded regretfully, shattering the too-brief flash of joy that had rushed over him.

The shock of realizing that those moments on Casino Night had been captured on film was muted by the unexpected sting he felt in watching them...in re-living it all over again.

He turned away from the screen then, because it was just too much.

Then he heard an audible splice - somewhere between the click just before a dial tone and the fuzzy sound of a static television. When he turned back, he was looking at himself sitting across from her in the break room, both of them seemingly world-weary, as if they'd survived a catastrophe so monumental that they were still reeling too much to even acknowledge it.

"I think you should go easy on her."

He remembered the confusion he'd felt when she'd said those words to him - confusion coupled with a momentarily crushing disappointment at the realization that she was encouraging him to make it work with Karen.  

But as he watched the scene unfold on the screen in front of him now, he was struck by how vulnerable she seemed.  Was she having a hard time advising me not to sabotage it with Karen?  

Amazing that he could still find himself doubting his gut instinct (Of course she wasn't - why would she have basically advocated for Karen if she had feelings for me?).  

There was more than that: her stunned, devastated expression when Karen had rubbed his back so casually in the parking lot (My god, she saw that?  I had no idea...); the way she'd watched him and Karen embrace at Christmas, her head tilted, hand clutching the phone....

In spite of his fear, his scars, their history -- he knew that false bravado in her eyes well, and he immediately empathized with her for all the little private moments to which she'd borne witness.

Because he'd been there before - god, had he been there.

Before he had time to prepare himself, there was another abrupt cut, and he found himself suddenly and quite unexpectedly faced with the image of her sitting all alone on a bench, her head in her hands as she sobbed. It took him a moment to register the context, and when it hit him, he closed his eyes, the muffled sounds of her sobs causing so much emotion to rush to the surface -- old, haunting feelings that somewhere along the way had come to make up the very fabric of his consciousness.


----------------------

He stood on shaky legs, feeling as if he'd had too much to drink: unsteady on his feet, the room a little blurry, then sliding sharply into focus with a clarity that made him pause and take in a breath.

But he only hesitated for a second before impatiently stumbling out the door, down the hall, and back into Dunder Mifflin's suite.

She wasn't at her desk, and a quick survey of the area revealed that she was in the break room with a cup of tea in front of her.  So he strode purposefully across the room, pushing open the door and pausing with his back resting against it, holding the door knob with one hand behind him, keeping the door closed.

She started when she saw him, but this time when he looked at her, he recognized the defensiveness in her posture, the way her eyes immediately fled from his.

This time he understood why.

All he could think was, It's real; it's real.

She was watching his face closely now, clearly taken off guard by the way he was standing there frozen, breathing heavily, as if he'd taken a flight of stairs to get here.

"Jim...?" Worry was starting to edge into her expression. "You okay?"

He knew he was staring at her, and he knew he probably ought to stop, but he felt incapable of controlling himself.

"I didn't - " He couldn't finish, couldn't tear his eyes from her, gazing at her in a daze.  His voice was barely audible as the words slipped out: "I made you cry...?"

"What?" Immediately she sat up straighter, as if she'd deny it, but the wariness that passed behind her eyes told him that apparently, he'd made her cry more than once - likely many, many times.

He shook his head slightly, eyes still fixed on her face as he murmured, "I swear I didn't -- I really didn't know."

Now she seemed unable to look away from him, swallowing hard. "You're not making any sense."

He nodded absently; his eyes held hers fast. "I was just... Rick showed me some footage, and I just...."

Again his voice trailed off, leaving her to ask in a tremulous voice, "Footage of what?"

The blush that stained her cheeks told him that she knew the answer to the question, but he answered it anyway, tilting his head slightly.  

"Of you...you and me." He shook his head in disbelief, adding in a whisper, "You watching me, and it..."

He wanted to step toward her and hug her when she hurriedly looked away, her lips twitching slightly - in embarrassment or just emotion, he couldn't tell.

"Hey." It was a throaty whisper, prompting her to raise her eyes back to his.

It took him a second to work up the courage to say it - still - but finally, he managed the words: "I need you to...talk to me.  Talk to me, please."

Their eyes held for what seemed to him like an eternity as everything went still; instinctively, he knew that this moment - however silent, however unexpected - was the most honest one they'd had in a year.  Maybe ever.

She broke the gaze then, her eyes flicking to the blinds; he followed her line of sight, raising his chin when he saw Cliff just outside the door, his lens trained through the blinds.

He was about to tell her it didn't matter anymore, but before he could, she turned her eyes back to his, never breaking eye contact even as she reached up with both hands, fumbling with the lapel of her sweater.  He felt his stomach drop when he realized what she was doing.

He followed suit, his hand trembling slightly, eyes still on hers as he, too, detached the tiny microphone, setting it carefully on the counter next to where she'd left hers.

She glanced back at him once as they made their way out the door, past Cliff, past Dwight and Andy and her own desk.  For the first time in almost a year, her eyes were alive, her smile radiant.  

What he felt wasn't hope; it was promise.

Chapter End Notes:

Removing their microphones is a callback to the British version - though it was in a different context.

Thanks to Starry Dreamer for letting me bounce ideas off of her... 



girl7 is the author of 41 other stories.
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