She's strong at work. She still smiles and goes about her business, despite the rather rude and uncalled for comments (and looks) she gets from her co-workers.

If it weren't for him, she wouldn't have a reason to smile.

Then again, if it weren't for him, she wouldn't have to deal with their crap.

She wouldn't have turned her life upside down and kicked familiarity to the curb, like some unwanted stray dog.

Not that she'd ever kick a dog to the curb, the worst she can do is ignore it and hope for the best.

The first fight is heated -- really, really foul language and really, really hurt feelings.

"You didn't have Phyllis call you a whore," she defends.

"She didn't call you a whore, Pam." He sounds less than happy, more than annoyed.

"She didn't exactly give me a hug around the neck and tell me she's happy for us," she moves to sit up. "You know, maybe I should just head back to my place. See you in the morning," and she places a kiss on his cheek, trying to smile.

"No, you don't," he pulls on her wrist and gently but forcibly sits her down. He stands and looks down at her, "Don't walk away from this. Nobody called you any names, nobody hates you. You're great, smart and beautiful and I have no idea what the hell they're all so worked up over."

She shoots up and pushes him out of the way, walking to the other side of the room. "Oh, no, Jim. You don't get to stand and fucking talk down at me." She touches her palm to her forehead.

"We knew we'd get some pretty shitty treatment, Pam."

"So I'm supposed to be okay with it just because we knew it'd happen? I'm sorry, I didn't know Toby would ask us to violate company policy, or that Phyllis would accuse me of cheating everyone out of clients, or that Ryan would fucking pretend to want my help just so he could ask me out!" She's almost spitting, she's so mad.

"To be fair, the last one was probably a jab at me. He's always had something to prove," he steps forward.

"Oh, wouldn't you know it? I feel fucking dandy, knowing our boss has it out for you."

"Didn't say that, Pam," he sing-songs through clenched teeth and walks into his kitchen, plucks two beers from the fridge.

"You didn't have to," she snatches the beer he offers and twists the top off, tossing it onto his coffee table.

"Shit, you don't have to take everything so literally! You read too much into this crap. These people shouldn't mean anything. They make their living selling paper." He stops mid-sip, knowing he's once again said the wrong. Damn. Thing. Her eyes flash red, and then some weird shade of blue-gray.

She bows her head. "So, what? You sell paper. You're one of 'these' people. Right? So I shouldn't -- you shouldn't mean anything to me?" She continues like this, ignoring his echo of 'no's.

"Didn't say that."

"You didn't have to!" She grunts in frustration and takes a sip of her beer.

The yelling and swearing and everything but breaking up goes on for about ten minutes until she gets so angry -- so fucking mad -- she half-screams throws her half-empty bottle at his living room wall.

And he stares in silence.

She slumps to the floor, a heaving mess of red hair and even redder eyes.

He doesn't say anything as he goes to his kitchen and gets his dustpan and broom, or as he sweeps and cleans the mess (thank goodness for hardwood floors, and for him not living in an apartment, even though the neighbors 40 feet away can probably hear everything). He doesn't say anything as she watches him and keeps crying. He just lets her do her thing, partly because he doesn't know what else to do.

So he sits behind/next to her on the floor and shelters her with his arms and body, holding her and letting her cry and swear and occasionally tell him to fuck off, or leave her alone.

But he doesn't, and he won't.

He will not walk away again.

"Let go," she whimpers, and for a second he thinks she'll beat him up some more trying to get away from him, but she's too tired and he's too scared and if she were to get away now she knows she'd never get back.

So he kisses her forehead and tells her he loves her, and she just cries.

Tangled in the sheets at five-thirty the next morning when the alarm goes off, he decides they should call in sick.

"Let them talk," he declares, and that's exactly what they do.