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Author's Chapter Notes:
My brain needed a break from the story I'm working on (A Plant of Slow Growth, on my LiveJournal at the moment), so I decided to take this little idea and run with it. Because I can.
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.



Pam's mother had always cautioned her against opening the door late at night, because you never knew when a rapist, armed gunman, thief, serial killer, or bill collector was going to come knocking. A girl had to protect herself, that's what she was always told. In her panic, she had grabbed a wooden spoon from the counter and went to the hallway. She was rooted to the spot, clutching the spoon tightly in her hand and trying to talk herself into going back in the kitchen to grab a knife or something a little more useful. Truth be told, she could only muster up enough courage to hope that Mrs. Johnson downstairs would call the police.

She could see a large, dark figure hovering near one of the frosted glass windows that were on either side of the door. This was it. She was going to die at 3am on a Tuesday... well, Wednesday now, but who could argue semantics when they were about to be murdered?

The doorknob jiggled violently and she screamed involuntarily.

"I'M ARMED!" she squealed, the fear evident in her voice. She looked down at the wooden spoon in her hand and shook her head sadly. She was so going to die.

She could hear him talking. She thought maybe he was speaking to her through the door, but wasn't sure. Against her better judgement and against everything she'd ever shouted at horror movie heroines on movie screens, she slowly moved closer to the door. She pressed her ear to the door and listened.

"Paaaam. It's me. Paaaam! PAM!"

She shook her head and muttered an expletive then unlocked the door. She pulled the door open and its green paint shone slick in the moonlight.

Jim was sitting on her welcome mat, his long legs stretched awkwardly out before him. He was still in his suit from work, but it was wrinkled beyond measure and his shoes were scuffed. His left hand was bandaged crudely and he was cradling it in his lap.

"Jesus, Jim," she said. "What happened to you?"

"Mark's bachelor party," he said. "Out of control."

"You're drunk. How did you get here? You didn't drive!" She was ready to smack the back of his head with the wooden spoon.

"Cab," he answered. He stared at the spoon. "Were you baking?"

"Wha - no." She set the spoon on the small table that held her mail and car keys. "Come on, get inside."

She helped him to his feet, which was a rather difficult task. On their third go, he gave up and sat back down, which caused her to stumble into his lap. From her new angle she could see that he had a black eye forming. She reached out to touch it gingerly with her thumb.

"What happened?" she asked quietly.

He winced when her thumb made contact with his eye. "Um, fight. In the bar."

Jim Halpert in a bar fight. She never thought she'd see the day. She got to her feet and carefully helped him to his. He slung an arm around her shoulder and allowed her to lead him into the apartment. The trip to the bathroom was only twenty-five steps but it seemed like twenty-five years. Jim's knees would give out randomly, causing him to crash to the floor and take Pam with him. After much maneuvering and cursing, Pam got him to the bathroom.

He balanced himself on the edge of the tub while she looked through the medicine cabinet.

"What happened exactly?" she asked.

"Not sure what started it," he said. "Somebody punched Mark. Somebody punched me. I punched somebody. Lots of punching. Very much punching."

Pam shook her head. She pulled a box of gauze, hydrogen peroxide and cotton balls from the medicine cabinet and set them on the sink. She had to admit that this was on her top 5 list of situations she would never have expected Jim to be in, but he was loyal to his friends, so if somebody had attacked Mark it was likely that he would have tried to stop the fight. Unfortunately it appeared as though he had only managed to stop somebody's fist with his face.

She wet a cotton ball with hydrogen peroxide then sat on the toilet lid so that she was facing him. She held the cotton ball so it was hovering over the scratch and bruise near his eye and said, "This is going to sting a little."

He winced and closed his eyes as she cleaned the cut. She put a small Band-Aid over the cut and he opened his eyes to look down at it. "It's blue."

"Yep," she answered. She put his bandaged hand in her lap and removed the bloodied gauze carefully. His knuckles were bruised and cut up, and she was afraid that it might be broken. Before she could ask him, he flexed his fingers then laid his hand down flat so that his palm was covering most of her thigh.

"Hurts," he grumbled.

She nodded and carefully cleaned the cuts on his hand with the hydrogen peroxide. He winced and his hand stiffened against her leg. She wrapped fresh gauze around his hand and gingerly ran her thumb over his knuckles.

"Better?" she asked.

He nodded and gave a goofy smile.

"Come on, drunky," she said and stood up. She took his uninjured hand and helped him to his feet. "Lets get some ice for that eye."

Jim followed her into the kitchen and sat down in one of the wooden chairs that seemed to be too small for him. He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He stretched his long legs out like unruly tree roots.

Pam put some ice cubes into a zip lock bag then wrapped the bag in paper towel so it wouldn't be too cold on his skin. She pulled a chair up next to him and held the bag on his eye.

He opened his good eye to look at her. "I'm sorry."

Her voice was soothing and hushed when she replied, "It's fine."

"It's really late," he said. "I'm sorry. I got punched in the face. I woke you up. I'm sorry."

"Shhh, don't worry about it," she said. "It's fine. We'll get you in bed soon and everything will be fine."

"Shouldn't have drank so much," he mumbled. "Should have had a bachelor party at home and played Pictionary."

She smiled. "That would have been one hell of a party, Jim. You should hang onto that idea."

He closed his good eye and grinned. "Save it for my bachelor party. When we get married."

Her eyes widened and she nearly dropped the bag of ice. She cleared her throat but let the sentence pass without comment. He was drunk - so drunk - but, still, it made her smile a little bit. She could only hope that when - or, if, because, you know, no pressure - they got married he would indeed have a Pictionary bachelor party at home. She wasn't sure if she could handle repeating this process the night before her wedding, especially the part where she thought a serial killer was trying to break into her apartment.

He reached his hand out blindly until he found her free hand. He took it in his and squeezed it gently.

"Tired," he murmured.

Pam lifted the ice pack and looked down at his eye. She had spent enough time with two rowdy brothers to know that Jim was going to have one hell of a shiner (and probably hangover) in the morning. She got up and put the zip lock bag in the sink then walked back over to Jim and took his hand.

"Hey, come on, lets go to bed," she said.

He opened his eyes slowly and nodded. He got to his feet with much effort and followed her to the bedroom. He wanted to just flop onto the bed and go to sleep, but he let her undress him and help him into the sweatpants he kept in the bottom drawer of her dresser.

She helped him into bed then climbed in after him and pulled the covers around them.

She snuggled up to his back, wrapped her arm around his waist and whispered into his ear, "Good night, Rocky."



carbondalien is the author of 25 other stories.
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