“I’m sorry I misinterpreted….our friendship.”

His own words echoed in his head, only the utter heartache he’d felt when he’d said them was alchemizing quickly into anger.

It wasn’t the fact that she’d rejected him that was pissing him off; it was the way that she’d done it – not even bothering to deny what she felt for him, trying to force him into that ridiculous false narrative – he’d “misinterpreted” things?

Right. 

Truth be told, he was most angry at himself for giving her so much of himself – for laying it all out there in such a way that absolutely ruled out the possibility of ever going back, for crying in front of her.

For going along with her fucking game, for saying, “I’m sorry I misinterpreted our friendship.”

He felt like such a failure suddenly.

He strode purposefully back into the warehouse, not looking at anyone as he headed straight for the makeshift bar, his jaw tense, fingers drumming the counter impatiently as he ordered a shot, which he immediately downed, then signaled for another. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Angela staring at him, her lips a thin line of disapproval.

It was a testament to how angry he was that he slowly turned, giving her a withering stare that actually made her look away.

He clumsily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand after he tossed back the second shot, walking once more through the crowded room toward the door.

“Jimbo!” Michael called out to him as he passed by.

He didn’t look at him, just held up a hand, muttered, “Later” and kept on walking.

He didn’t even know where he was going, only that he felt such a fury bubbling up that he had to keep moving. 

He felt the sudden urge to just start running, to run until he collapsed.

This whole night was just a fucking nightmare.  My life is a fucking nightmare. She has ruined my fucking life; she’s ruined me.  She’s turned me into this sulking, helpless loser.  Why the fuck have I been holding on for this long?  

He rounded the corner to the back of the building, feeling the alcohol hitting him in full now as he felt a little dizzy, slightly sick. 

For some reason, he was glad; at least now he had a real reason to feel like he was going to throw up.

He stopped, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall, taking in deep breaths, his chest almost heaving as he tensed his jaw, feeling angry again at the tears he felt starting to make his throat tighten.

“Jim?”

He opened his eyes, blinking a few times, his vision slow to return to normal.  There appeared to be two Jans striding toward him.

She’d seen him standing against the wall, had actually chuckled bitterly to herself at the image he presented: breathing heavily, eyes closed, head tilted back in agony or regret or mortification – maybe all three. 

It was as if he’d lived her life tonight, his posture a reflection of everything she was feeling.

As she’d walked toward him, not really thinking about why she was doing so, her thoughts had taken a slightly different turn.

His jaw was dark with the shadow of stubble, his neck taut, and as she drew closer, she could see the vein in it throbbing.

When he lowered his head from the wall, eyes resting on her, she was taken off guard by the anger she saw there. 

She’d always liked Jim Halpert; he was one of their best salesman, was always polite and affable, clearly more intelligent than most of the men she encountered at Dunder Mifflin.

There had been something so melancholy lingering in his eyes when he’d met with her a few weeks earlier to discuss transferring; she’d known instinctively that he was running away from something – or more succinctly, someone – but she didn’t question it. 

He’d be a valuable asset at the Stamford branch; she actually had complete confidence that he could probably turn their numbers around in a matter of months.

Yes, she’d always liked him, had always felt a tiny twinge of sympathy for him because he was stuck in such a career rut, his talents so obviously going largely to waste. 

But she’d never been attracted to him before.

Then again, he’d never looked at her the way he was looking at her now, his eyes so brilliantly green in the darkness, that vein in his neck distracting her, as it throbbed with an anger that matched the burn in his eyes.

He wondered why she was walking toward him like that, what she could possibly have left to say to him – because he didn’t want to talk about the fucking transfer again, didn’t want to talk about anything.

He leaned his head back against the wall, neck tilted as he watched her lazily, not caring what she said, not caring if she saw how drunk he was. 

She stunned him by striding up to him, not even pausing before she seized his jaw, pressed her lips to his, one of her hands in his hair. 

His first response was to be aware that this was a bad idea: She’s my boss’s boss.

Then: I’m in love with Pam. 

The fact that the thought even popped in his head absolutely infuriated him.  

No more. He thought. No more.  

His arms snaked around her waist, pulling her roughly against him as he reached a hand around to tilt her jaw to an angle that suited him.  Her fingers were already pulling his shirt out of his pants, long nails brushing against his skin. 

He pulled back from her slightly, lips never leaving hers, allowing her easier access to his bare skin, her fingers sinking into the hair on his chest, skimming the surface of his body as she shoved his shirt and sweater up impatiently. 

Again he drew back, pulling the shirt and sweater over his head, nearly losing his balance as he threw them to the concrete beside him, watching her drunkenly as she shrugged off her leather jacket. 

He reached out, deftly unbuttoning her shirt, groaning when he shoved it off her shoulders, revealing a tiny lace bra, her tanned skin, taut stomach. 

His lips were on her neck as she gasped, her hands fumbling clumsily with the snap on his pants.  He didn’t stop kissing her – wanted to help her get his pants off, but wasn’t able to turn his attention from her neck, her ear, her mouth, his own hands reaching for the snap on her impossibly tight jeans.

She pulled away from him, stepping back to slide her jeans down her hips – the lacy underwear she wore matching her bra, making him sway on his feet a little as he watched her.

When she had his pants off, hands touching him roughly, urgently, he’d suddenly shifted, turning to push her up against the brick wall, one hand behind her head to cradle it from the hard concrete, the other beneath her leg, lifting it as she wrapped it around his hips, her head falling to the side as she gasped again.

With every thrust, his knuckles behind her head scraped against the wall painfully, which seemed fitting to him.  He didn’t stop, didn’t break his rhythm, even when she started to groan loudly in his ear, her nails digging into his back – that, too, hurting, drawing blood, he knew, but he really didn’t give a fuck.

Just wanted this, her, wanted to go with the anger for once in his life. 

He closed his eyes when he came, leaning his forehead against the wall over her shoulder, gasping for breath, holding her up because she was trembling all over.

When he pulled back, gazing down at her, she was watching him, looking stunned, something strange in her expression.

Her eyes fell to his hand then, and she’d said in that cold, clipped voice, “You’re bleeding.”

He glanced down, seeing the bright red blood on his knuckles from where they’d scraped against the bricks.

 “Yeah.” He’d said, his eyes closing for a second. “I am.”