The party had pretty much cleared out. Even Michael had finally run out of steam after his third heartfelt rendition of “I Will Survive.” Jim had suspicions that Meredith was asleep on his bathroom floor, but everyone else had made their way home. Except Pam.

She had called Roy for a ride twenty minutes earlier, but he still had yet to appear. She wasn’t forthcoming with an explanation, but Jim had drawn his own conclusions while pretending to concentrate on collecting discarded beer bottles. He tried not to listen to her conversation – but who was he kidding, he didn't try too hard. She had stood with her back to him, shoulders hunched, speaking in angry whispers. It sounded like Roy’s was at a poker game he was reluctant to leave.

Normally she would catch a ride with Angela whenever she came alone to Dunder-Mifflin events (uh oh – did he just refer to his own party as a Dunder-Mifflin event? Please no. He really needed to get out more), but Angela had made a mysterious disappearance earlier in the evening.

He had wanted to offer her a ride, but was in no condition to operate a motor vehicle. He didn’t feel too gone, but once he counted up the beer he drank during every one of his coworkers’ karaoke performances… well, they added up.

After her phone call with Roy, the tension surrounding her abruptly dropped and she returned to the usual effervescent, happy Pam she became when drunk. Jim liked to imagine that this is who she really was. Who she really wanted to be. Okay, so he had to admit he wasn’t exactly an impartial party on that one – she had flung her arms around him and kissed him the last time she was drunk in his presence – but she did seem to be more herself in some ways, less cautious, so enthusiastic and confident. He wished it didn’t take several second drinks to get her there.

She was helping him clean, which mostly consisted of lavishing praise or criticism on the design of the beer bottles she encountered.

“But seriously Jim! What is this? How come everything that’s supposed to be Irish has this same font? I don’t think it’s authentic.” She scowled her judgment on the bottle she held before her, then dropped it dismissively into the trash bag she dragged along behind her.

“Pam, I didn’t know you cared so much about beer bottle… authenticity.” He frowns over the last word. He’s pretty sure he missed a syllable. Damn. Maybe he was drunk. “Are you telling me this is poser beer?”

Pam had already moved on to the next contender. “See, this is a good color. But the design is too weird! The other beer will totally make fun of it!” She sighed deeply. Jim wasn’t entirely sure she was joking. She carefully deposited this bottle in the bag along with its brethren.

Abruptly she pushed the bag away and plopped down on the floor. She regarded the room around her, and, finding this position unsatisfactory, let out a deep breath and sprawled out on her back, gazing up at the ceiling.

Jim squinted at the couch just two feet away, then down at Pam, hands in his pockets. “Beesly. Do you always end up on the floor when drunk, or have I just been lucky in witnessing this rare occurrence?”

“Jim, no, this is good! Come here!” She gestured a little with one hand, but otherwise maintained her prone position. He stepped closer and crouched down next to her.

“I dunno Pam. It doesn’t really look more comfortable than that couch you’re laying next to.”

“No! It really is! Jim, haven’t you just wanted to lay on the ground at work sometimes when Michael is talking? Like, all the time.”

“Hm… you may be onto something here. Still. I think I need more convincing.”

“Jim, come on, just try!” She rolled onto her side and grabbed his right forearm, tugging him toward the floor. “Jiiiiiim!” she whined when he just made a face at her.

“Okay, okay.” Jim heaved a sigh, then with a show of great reluctance, stretched out on the floor next to her.

“Yes!” Pam executed a victory sign somewhere between a fist pump and a one-sided high five, and flopped back on the ground. She made a sound of contentment. “See! Isn’t it so much better?”

“Better than what, Pam?” He paused. They both were silent a moment. His voice was quieter when he next spoke. “Actually, I guess it’s not so bad.” Another long silence fell.

“Jim!” Pam announced.

“That’s me.”

She rolled onto her side to face him. Seeing her look of concentration, he did the same, propping his head against his right hand.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why!” she flailed her arm and smacked him half-heartedly in the shoulder, “are you so great?” She frowned at him, then dropped her head to the ground, resting it on her folded hands.

She stared at the collar of his sweater for a long moment before gazing back up at him. He didn’t think he had ever seen her look so sad. His voice dropped to a murmur. It was rough when he finally spoke.

“Pam… I’m not so great.”

She stared at him intently for a long moment. In a whisper she replied. “Yes you are.”

Slowly, Jim brought his hand to the side of her face. Lightly, his fingers pushed her bangs behind her ear, then trailed lightly down her jaw line. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. Hesitantly, he pulled back and looked into her eyes once more. Just before she closed them, he thought that they looked glassy.

She let out a silent breath, curling toward him just a little until they were almost touching, her forehead just a hair’s breadth away from his sweater, her arms curled so close to his chest that he could feel her body heat.

She stayed that way for a moment, then two. His hand hovered over her shoulder, uncertain. After another heartbeat passed, she whispered, almost inaudible. “I should go wait for Roy.”

Limbs unsteady, she clambered to her feet, grabbing her jacket off the back of his couch before hurrying out the door, gaze trained on the floor in front of her.

He didn’t follow.