1. Surprise, surprise, couldn’t find it in your eyes, but I’m sure it’s written all over my face

You think you’re being stealthy and inconspicuous and sneaky and every other adjective that would describe someone with Danger as their middle name. You think your voice is unwavering and convincing when he asks you what you’re doing, right then.

He laughs, tells you to get a life, and reminds you he’ll call you tonight and pick you up tomorrow. When you hang up, the large cake with white frosting and Happy Birthday Jim scrawled across the top is still precariously balanced between your hip and the counter top. It wavers slightly, even though you hadn’t realized your hands were shaking.

Jim can always tell when you’re lying. You think maybe there’s a first time for everything.

After sliding the cake into the refrigerator between Chinese takeout cartons and Stanley’s ham sandwich he leaves every Friday because his wife doesn’t seen to know/remember he goes out that day for lunch, you make your way to the conference room. This proves difficult, because despite the fact that the walk is less than five feet between rooms, you have to part and step through a forest of balloons and you feel oddly like you’re swimming. You can see Phyllis’ form on a chair, tinted red and distorted through one such balloon and you bump aside the last of them to stand beside her.

"Do you think he knows?" she whispers conspiratorially, as if he’s in the next room and not across town.

You shake your head no and smile, convincingly enough to have the other woman nod and return to the guest list in her hand. She doesn’t notice your smile falter, because you’re still not so sure.

You look out at the darkened office and you shiver at how similar it is compared to a horror film after the apocalypse, when the businesses are abandoned and looted. Only there’s nothing to steal here except paper.

You wish you could be having this conversation with him, over whether they could be safe here in case of zombie attack, but that would require him being here. Which would be bad because ‘surprise’ is a key word is the phrase ‘surprise party’. Without it it’s just party, which is just lame.

Michael told the party planning committee they could use the office as a staging area, because Jim’s birthday was on a Monday and he just might question balloons and streamers at her place.

In the end, after you convince him to come into work (even though he’d called in sick) post-celebratory lunch in honor of another year of Jim Halpert, everyone pops out like jacks-in-a-box. Except of course Angela, who refused to take part because it was a distraction, and Meredith who was passed out at her desk and Dwight who had conveniently stepped out. And Stanley who just didn’t care.

He smiles widely and acts surprised, pretending he’s not totally laughing at you for hopping around excitedly for pulling it all off without him ever expecting.

But you know him better then he thinks, and halfway through you both find yourselves alone by the punch which no one will drink because Meredith made it. You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who wanted to be carried out of the office after offering lap-dances and passing out on a work night. Except of course Meredith.

You say this and he snorts, but you’re still waiting in the comfortable silence to confront him.

"You suck." You say matter-of-factly, giving him the totally serious face.

Jim nearly spits out his soda and laughs once, shortly. "Excuse me, Beesley?"

"I said ‘you suck’," you say slowly and enunciating your words, as if audibility had really been the problem. "How did you know?"

He sighs, caught. "You’re really not as sneaky as you think. You wouldn’t last one week as a secret agent. Really, Pam, doomed" he fakes disappointment. "It’s down near unpatriotic."

You frown and shake your head.

"Am not," you mutter indignantly.

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2. Would you run to me if somebody hurt you even if that somebody was me

It isn't just that he knows everything about you, every minuscule detail, your insides and outsides. He knows precisely what buttons to push and where to put pressure to make you hurt, but that isn't the main problem.

It's the aftermath.

The silence after the door has slammed shut, after the tears turn cold on your cheeks, after you finally breathe more than angry heaves and begin to think. It's when you realize that you didn't mean half of what you said and yet there's that barrier, you think they call it pride, that keeps you from apologizing. After all, he said half of his words without thinking too, right?

You hope so.

But then there's the inevitable post-argument doubt that makes you run over the cracks in your past and your chin begins to tremble, and these tears are different than before. It's slow and painful, more than you think you can bear, and you want to call your best friend so you can eat ice cream and watch old movies, anything without love in the title or romance in the genre.

But then it hits you. He's your best friend.

You wonder if all the king's horses and all the king's men were the ones to push that stupid egg off the wall and if so, they could indeed be the ones to put him together again.

You wonder, and then you call, but hang up before it goes to voice mail and before you make a blubbering fool out of your self on tape.

You open the freezer door harder than you should, rage remaining you suppose, and grab a spoon from the drawer.

You try not to think about how you picked out the lining inside the drawer together and the debate over flowers versus faux wood. Surprisingly he'd been on the floral side of the battle, but you'd thought it was too girly. You stare down at the blue petals and try to smile.

The black and white movies aren't the same, and even though you can repeat every word by heart, they don't ring true in your head until he comes back and it's his heart thumping against your ear and not your stupid dead pillow.

He waits a cool three hours before tentatively calling your home. You don't pick up, but that's only payback.

Tomorrow you'll both fix it at work, and in a week you’ll be fine and he’ll be fine and you’ll be back putting everyone in a diabetic coma being fine together. But tonight you just sit and miss him.

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3. Rumors circulating ‘round, those people keep their ears close to the ground

You had decided, together, it was the best course of action. The two of you being, well, the two of you was new and exciting and scary and everything that does not go well with Kevin’s knowing, red cheeked smiles that convey every dirty and disgusting thought that goes through his head. Or Kelly’s baby names book or Dwight’s strangely technical breakdown of everything that previously seemed romantic. But above all, what you absolutely could not, would not tolerate was Michael.

Michael and his badly veiled sexual innuendo.

Michael and his sneak attacks or Venetian blind peeping.

Michael and his… props.

So when you could see past the ‘oh my god yay! I can finally start the rest of my life’ stage that encompassed your first date and the weekend that followed, you had made a pact. At work you were just friends.

Which was harder than either of you had expected.

At least you had the premise of being friends, unlike a certain odd couple in the office that will not be mentioned out of confidence. Confidence that she will keep her mouth shut as you have yours.

Still, you had to be careful. No kissing, or getting caught in the supply closet (that had been a close call), or hand grabbing or grabbing of anything else. You kept their interaction to when Jim would come over to grab a few jellybeans or when you were playing a prank on Dwight.

In that respect, Jim felt like it was the old days, when he had to invent excuses to wander over to reception. Except the distinct difference was that now you were in on it and it was him that you went home to every night. Which, he has very clearly stated, is the only thing that keeps him from stepping in front of a bus.

Otherwise, it was secret notes and clandestine meetings all the way.

Their initial plan was to meet in the kitchen (it was a common area) and talk across the room, but even you, who had come up with it, had to admit that it would be totally obvious.

The system was working fine, until Toby had seen you together at Poor Richard’s. The next day he’d confronted Jim with one of those love contracts, and an emergency session of the Order of the Paperclips (you’d begged him to change the code word but he’d dug his figurative heels in) was mandatory.

He’d risen casually from his seat at about 10:05 with an empty coffee mug, and you had put all calls to voice mail at precisely 10:06 (you knew because you’d synchronized watches in the stairwell beforehand). Jim stood leaning against the countertop, carefully eyeing the coffee maker as you searched the cabinets for your favorite kind of tea because you could have sworn you’d left it in there.

You were coming to the decision to fill out the paperwork quickly and painlessly because Toby had promised no one would find out about it, when Dwight strode in the kitchen door. He resembled a deer caught in headlights as he stood there, motionless, as if he’d expected no one would be there. The three of you stared at each other for a few moments, but seconds later Angela swung open the door.

She must not have been looking where she was going because she collided with Dwight immediately. Startled, she glanced up at him, lingeringly, until she noticed the other two visitors and they jumped apart, both looking rattled.

"Pam, Jim." Angela greeted stone-like, searching for something to occupy her hands with. She settled for propping open the cupboard and grabbing her mug, a photo of three babies dressed as angels serving as its decoration, and patiently standing beside Jim for the coffee. Dwight simply sat and stared at the wall, clearly failing in the improv category. Both pairs waited for the other to finish their task and leave. Neither got the hint.

"So Pam." Jim began nervously, not sure how to phrase the shapeless words on his tongue, "Did you hear they’re offering Kobe Bryant a new contract for the Lakers?"

You raise your eyebrows toward the ceiling and hesitate, "Ye- es?"

"Do you think he should sign it?" Jim’s forehead matches hers but his expression is of pleading, praying that she’ll understand his code.

Your eyes lock with his and you nod slowly, "I think it’s safest. I mean there are… benefits."

Jim’s face relaxes and he smirks, "I agree."

You and Jim make a leisurely exit, but after you do indeed leave, the cameramen catch, "Since when is Pam interested in sports?"

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4. You only hold me up like this ‘cause you don’t know who I really am

You surmise that the strangest thing will be seeing yourself on television when the documentary airs.

It’s not.

It’s been playing for a week when your mailbox has reached its maximum capacity and your mail carrier tells you that you’ll have to get a PO box or set up a separate receptacle.

You have taken to reading them together, at his dining room table, Santa-sized sacks of letters on chairs and spilled over the sofa. His mostly consist of "marry me"s and love letters, while hers are from aspiring actresses who want to know how you make it seem so real and thirty-something women from the Midwest.

You’re Pam and he’s Jim, together making you Jim and Pam, but it’s not the same to you as it is to them. Suddenly it’s not about you and him. Or at least not just about you and him. It’s about Janice from Iowa who swears that if you two don’t get together next season she’s going to turn into a lesbian because she has no hope.

It’s different from them than it is for the two of you.

Jim smirks at you from the other side of the table, the excessively graphic love note hanging limply in his hands and you don’t know if your heart would be for sale ever again if he moved out of it.

Yet again, you think, maybe it isn’t that different.

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5. Well it would’ve been, could’ve been, worse than you would ever know

You don’t have much experience with this. Roy was the only person you’d ever dated, not counting that blind setup that was helpful in the "don’t date people like this" field. Roy had always acted like he knew you better because he’d known you longest, as if time could cover what interest didn’t. But he didn’t know you, not really, not in more than the superficial live together, preferred side of the bed, favorite kind of ice cream way. Yet that was comforting, somewhat, at the time, like a blanket of transgression surrounding you. If you felt guilty or unsure he would never notice, too wrapped up in the game or his drunken friends’ laughs to know there was a reason for suspicion.

That was then, this is now.

It’s a now where he can tell that you’re canceling on him last minute because Kelly really just needed to get totally wasted like yesterday (her wording, not yours) before you even open your mouth to tell him something about overnight faxes or Michael’s incomplete paperwork. Or that you broke the singing bass on his wall on purpose because you thought it was the most hideous thing in the world and it wouldn’t stop looking at you. It’s refreshing, most of the time, so after awhile you just stop lying or fibbing or withholding the truth. You are the Fancy New Beesely after all, and she isn’t ashamed of anything she has to say.

Kevin’s wedding is less boring than it would have been if Jim weren’t sitting next to you, but still pretty standard. You know it’s a sure sign that Stacy had taken the reigns of planning and hadn’t handed them over for anything. Everyone knew if Kevin had his way, the bride would have been wheeled down the aisle in an edible cake and she would have popped out naked. And he wouldn’t have had to write his own vows.

That, you think is the most amusing part. You think it’s no surprise that he just recites the customary "in sickness and health" vows, with minor alterations of "completely" and "awesome". He pauses every few moments to glance up at Stacy from the napkin in his hands to gauge if she’s realized. She doesn’t seem like she minds. In fact she’s crying a little, and the fact that he’s found someone who would put up with, none the less be moved by, his dime store words make him cry a little too.

When he slips on the ring, his voice cracks and that’s when you both stop making whispered fun at him and lean a little closer.

The reception is nice, a lot more Kevin than Stacy in personality, and you just know he’d hired the replacement drummer of Scrantonicity because her boobs singularly are as big as your head and her shirt never quite reaches the top of her pants. There’s an open bar and Michael sings, and you’re thankful for the former when the latter climbs up on stage and begins to belt out "Imagine Me and You." He’s only through the first chorus by the time Jim stands and offers to get you both drinks. You resist the urge to kiss him right then and if you were anywhere else you would have, but instead you reply "yes please" enthusiastically and hope he understands. He does.

You cross and uncross your legs under the table, giggling to yourself when Jim winks at you from across the room. You’re starting to wonder when exactly your life had become this happy hopeful thing when you catch sight of Karen walking in.

It wasn’t as if you hadn’t known she would be there. Kevin had introduced Stacy and Karen a few months ago, at Jim’s request because she was starting to feel like he was the only person she knew here, and they had hit it off. The two women went out to drinks about once a week, and once had invited you to come along. You thought it was weird but you’d come and in fact it was weird. That was the last invitation you’d received.

Jim is sitting down beside you, clearly oblivious, and you can’t tear your eyes off of Karen kissing Stacy’s cheek and congratulating her. All of a sudden it isn’t fall anymore and the joy flowing through your blood freezes in your veins. It’s spring and your heart is so heavy you’re pretty sure that you’d sink to the bottom of the ocean. You’re seeing his arms around her, him making her laugh and you feel uncontrollably guilty for wishing that an anvil would drop on her head and not yours because anvils should be reserved for those at fault. It’s another wedding that seems so long ago, at a time where it was just starting to hit you that your whole life you’d been settling.

He notices the look in your eyes and if this were anyone else on their fourth date they wouldn’t know exactly what you were thinking. They would write off the misty eyed stare as just the typical estrogen response to weddings, but this isn’t anyone else. It’s Jim and he’s breathing out slowly like it might be his last taste of oxygen for a while.

"I’m in trouble aren’t I?" It isn’t a question so he doesn’t phrase it as one.

And since this is Jim, you don’t bother to make excuses.

"I don’t want to be back in that place. Never again, Jim." There’s the slight hint in your wording that makes it seem like a request, but it’s far too desperate for that.

For anyone else the fourth date might be too early for promises like this. But this is you and Jim, so it really isn’t.

"Never again." You hear him confirm, and you don’t bother to question it.