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Story Notes:
I'm having so much fun imagining how Pam's reacting now that she knows what's coming.


Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or anything else you may recognize.
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Something's definitely going on.

Jim’s been acting wild all week. Even on an ordinary day he’s a bundle of nervous energy, constantly in motion, hands flapping as he talks, leg jiggling under his desk; but whatever’s been on his mind these last few days has amplified it tenfold. He can hardly sit still; his normally massive appetite has dwindled to practically nothing; he’s made twice as many sales in one week as he did all of last month. I’m ready to set out sugar-free candy and switch his coffee to decaf.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have my suspicions about what’s going on, but he hasn’t said another word about marriage since our pseudo-lighthearted conversation last month at my desk, and for the sake of my sanity, I have to assume it’s something else. I can’t be getting all choked up every time he clears his throat or gives me one of those earnest gazes that stop my heart. And it’s not like he’s done anything specific. But it’s out there, now. And it’s just…he’s acting weird.

It started on Sunday night when he surprised me while I was pulling laundry out of the dryer, sweeping me up in one fluid motion and taking me to the bedroom, where he tossed me down on the bed and stared down at me with a wickedly lascivious grin like something out of a bad romance novel.

Is there such a thing as a good romance novel?

The thought so tickled me that I started to giggle but then his eyes got dark and he was on top of me and all the humor in the situation disappeared as we made love on top of a pile of bath towels I hadn’t put away yet.

Granted, that wasn’t extremely unusual behavior. That sort of thing had fallen off a bit since we first got together, but there was still plenty of surprising and spontaneous passion. Always a good thing.

Monday he had a sales call in Pittston and called me eight times from the road with such riveting commentary as “I just saw a herd of deer!” and “What movie was that where Frances McDormand was a record producer?”

(Laurel Canyon. He wouldn’t hang up until I looked it up on IMDb.)

Normally I’d have welcomed the interruptions but, strangely enough, it was a little busy in the office that day and I’d planned on using my free time to finish a project for my Advanced Drawing class that night. I was a little snippy on his last call, and then immediately guilt-ridden when he murmured, “Oh, okay, sorry, didn’t mean to bother you. I’ll just see you later then,” and quietly hung up.

I called him back and asked him to pick me up a chai latte. The smile in his voice when he asked if I wanted a muffin, too, was well worth it.

Tuesday he disappeared right before lunch, which kind of pissed me off because we were supposed to go out and I hadn’t brought anything. Also, he drove, so I couldn’t go anywhere. I was angrily scraping nickels and dimes from the bottom of my purse to buy something, anything, from the vending machines when he reappeared with two huge brown bags that smelled deliciously of the new Indian place all the way over in Moosic. He’d brought enough for anybody that wanted it, and in five minutes we were spread out in the conference room with Dwight, Kevin, Phyllis, Creed, and Kelly.

“You know, half the fun of going out to lunch is the going out part,” I pointed out.

“I know, but this is still good, right?” He smiled winningly and reached over to tear off a piece of my naan, dunking it in my meatball curry sauce. After driving all that way he hadn’t even made a plate for himself; he was just picking things off mine. “You said you loved this place but it’s too far away unless it’s takeout. And this way, everybody gets lunch,” he said through a mouthful of bread. “Win-win.”

“Win,” I added automatically, regarding him curiously. “But not everybody likes Indian.”

“Well, you can’t please all the people all the time.” He ducked his head down and gave me a quick kiss. He tasted like curry. Yum.

Wednesday I stopped off for a drink with some people from class and called Jim to tell him I’d be late, so I was just going to go home afterward. He said “Okay,” in the soft voice that means but I’m disappointed and in the end I couldn’t stand the thought of my bed without him, so I let myself into his apartment around eleven and was shocked to find he wasn’t there. His car was still out front and there were lights on in the living room and the bedroom, but no Jim.

I sat down on the couch, baffled and more than a little concerned, and pulled out my phone to call him. A second later I about jumped out of my skin when his phone started ringing from where it was charging on the kitchen counter.

Where did he go without his phone? I contemplated going through his call list before deciding that was a fairly high-level invasion of privacy. Still, something felt off about the whole situation. Jim’s nothing if not dependable, predictable. Where the hell is he? He doesn’t really live within walking distance of anything but the tiny little strip mall a mile away, and even if he’d gone for a nightcap at the dingy dive bar down there he wouldn’t have gone without his phone. Would he?

Maybe he’s got a whole secret life I don’t know anything about. A night job. Another girlfriend?… there’s that cute blonde girl downstairs who smiles at him all the time. Right in front of me, too.

Oh please. I'm with him practically every second of the day. And besides...that's ridiculous.
Right?
Okay, I'm officially insane.


Maybe something happened to his parents, or his brother or sister.

Yeah, and he rushed out without his car or his phone and didn’t let you know. Get a grip, Beesly.

Still, I was about two seconds from opening up his phone and scrolling through every call and text he’d ever made or received when the door opened. He was flushed and sweaty and his grey Penn State t-shirt was soaked through in huge patches over his chest and back. “Hey!” A delighted grin lit his face. “What are you doing here?” He kicked off his running shoes in the entrance and came over to hug me but stopped at the last second, plucking at his sweaty shirt and bending at the waist to kiss me without touching me. “I thought you were staying home tonight.”

He’d never gone running at night before. At least, not that I was aware.

I had a sudden, sickening vision of him downstairs with that blonde whore (really Pam? When did you become Angela?) and for a second I actually teared up at the thought, absurd as it was. He noticed immediately, of course, because that’s what he does, notices things, and his eyebrows drew together in concern and uncertainty. “Pam…?”

I wrapped my arms around him and pressed my face into his damp chest, breathing him in. “I am home,” I sighed.

On Thursday, Michael called a meeting to discuss “productivity in the workplace” and promptly tore into Dwight, of all people, for wasting time. Apparently he’d seen Dwight playing Second Life and decided it was an unforgivable offense to play computer games on company time. (As opposed to playing solitaire, or online shopping, or crossword puzzles, or Sudoku, or knitting, or reading…)

“Not to mention it’s preprost--preprosterorous,” he added scornfully. “Like anybody can really fly.”

Jim lifted his hand.

“Yes, Jim, what is it?” Michael snapped.

“You’re absolutely right, we shouldn’t indulge our personal hobbies on company time,” he agreed solemnly.

All eyes in the room swung toward him in shock. Jim, champion of productivity? Dwight’s eyes narrowed and he shot Jim a death glare.

“Buuuut,” Jim drawled, “I believe what we do on our lunch hour and during our break times is our own business, isn’t it?”

“Well…yes…but—” Michael pressed his lips together, flustered.

“I seriously doubt a salesman of Dwight’s, um…caliber…would ever consider playing games unless he were on such a break. Would you, Dwight?” Jim glanced over at him, lifting his eyebrows questioningly.

Dwight’s a freak, but he’s not an idiot. “Absolutely not,” he asserted strongly. “Jim is correct. I only play Second Life when I am on an officially sanctioned break period.”

Michael huffed, irritated. “I know you were not on your lunch. I saw you eating in the break room with Angela.”

Really? How did that one get past me? Are they back together? I caught Jim’s eye and his brows drew together just slightly.

“You did not see me eating with Angela,” Dwight said flatly, his expression stony. “And I never said it was on my lunch. It was during my afternoon break.”

“You were—you know what? Just forget it. Whatever. Just...just don’t play stupid computer games on company time. If it’s your lunch or your break or whatever, then do what you want.” Michael waved a hand dismissively. “Back to your desks.” He stormed out of the conference room and into his office, shutting the door.

Jim got more than a few strange glances as everyone filed out. Dwight hung back as well, ignoring Angela’s pursed lips and drawn eyebrows as she passed by. When it was just the three of us, Dwight gave me a pointed glance of please leave now, which I pretended not to comprehend, and then turned to Jim. “I would like to…thank… you,” he said formally. Despite his polite tone there was the slightest grimace on his face, as though it pained him to use the word.

Jim shrugged. “As long as we get our work done, what do they care how we spend our downtime?”

Dwight looked like he wanted to say something else, but just gave a curt nod and left the room.

“So you’re Dwight’s friend now?” I whispered. “His…champion?” I grinned.

He shrugged again, but a tiny smile played at the corners of his lips. “I guess.”

I reached over and laid the back of my hand on his forehead. “Hmm. You don’t feel feverish.”

He stretched his arms over his head as he stood up. “It wasn’t just about Dwight, Pam,” he chided. “The leisure time of everyone in the office was threatened. I had to do something.”

“You defended Dwight!”

He smiled. “Is that so bad?”

What the hell?!

Friday, when we went to the movies, I was both horrified and relieved when he bought an extra-large popcorn, M&Ms, Milk Duds, and a bag of Skittles to go with his Mountain Dew. With all that sugar I’d be peeling him off the walls later…or…well, extra energy can be put to many uses. On the other hand, he’d hardly eaten anything all week, so I was glad to see his appetite return, even if it was junk food.

In the end, though, we barely touched any of it. The movie was ridiculous (not really sure what I was expecting out of Hellboy II, but whatever), but there were too many people around for us to really do a proper MST 3000 on it, so about twenty minutes in we just started making out. We were in the back row, so we probably only offended a dozen or so of our fellow patrons. Not that either of us cared. We hadn’t done anything like that since the first week we were dating, when Spiderman 3 turned out to be such a disappointment and the salty taste of popcorn on Jim’s tongue had been infinitely more fascinating.

Afterward, we went back to my place and then walked over for drinks at Fado’s, the dark little Irish pub near my apartment, where we got completely trashed on three pitchers of Guinness. That’s about two too many for me and Jim ended up drinking most of it. I couldn’t say why we drank so much; neither of us really likes to get drunk. We were just talking and laughing and having a good time playing darts, and then before we knew it they were announcing last call.

I was pretty buzzed, but Jim could hardly walk. He was giggling uncontrollably about… something …weaving and staggering into me at intervals until he stopped suddenly and said, “Oh, fuck, I’m gonna—” and promptly threw up into the bushes along the sidewalk.

“Nasty!” I laughed, grabbing him by the belt loops of his jeans to hold him up as he retched an extraordinary amount of black Guinness and bits of popcorn into the unfortunate foliage. But it soon became less funny as he started to slump dangerously and I realized he was passing out. “Hey, stay on your feet! Jim!”

Too late. His eyes closed and he went down on his knees despite my best efforts to keep him upright, and I fell with him, still giggling a little but starting to feel the gravity (har har) of the situation. Jim’s a big guy, six-three and all lean muscle, and there was no way I was going to be able to carry him, or even drag him.

Desperate times, desperate measures. I still had him by the belt loops, which was probably the only thing keeping him from curling into a fetal position. With my right hand I tugged backward sharply to pull his torso upright, and with my left, I slapped him hard across the cheek.

His eyes sprang open and he stared at me in bewildered hurt. “Whas tha for?”

“Sorry, sweetie, but you gotta walk, okay? We’re almost there.” I smiled encouragingly and would have kissed his poor confused face if he hadn’t just vomited everywhere. At least he’d managed to keep it off his clothes. “C’mon, Halpert, get up. Upsy-daisy.” I yanked on his belt loops, willing him to find his feet.

Upsy-daisy!” he echoed in a slurring singsong, lurching to his feet and leaning on me so heavily I nearly toppled over. I wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him a few steps until he got his feet under him and managed to stagger along mostly under his own power. Luckily we were only a couple of blocks from home, or we probably would’ve been arrested for public drunkenness. Jim stumbled on ahead of me to the bedroom and fell, face-first and already snoring, on top of the comforter while I locked up.

Ugh. My hair and clothes reeked of beer and the bar; I had to jump in the shower. It was invigorating and seemed to wash off enough of my buzz to just leave me feeling pleasantly amorous and thinking it might be fun to reanimate my unconscious boyfriend.

Don’t forget to make him brush his teeth first.

Jim was still asleep on his stomach when I came back and started digging into my dresser for pajamas. I hadn’t been home much this week; I needed to do laundry. And I didn’t have anything sexy at all; my favorite little black-teddy number was over at Jim’s. The best I could find was a tank top and a pair of Jim’s boxers which, he’ll be the first to admit, he loves to see me wear.

Not that it was going to matter. Jim was sprawled diagonally across the bed, snoring lightly. I rubbed his shoulder and murmured his name but got only a muffled grunt in response.

Crap. Guess I’m sleeping on the couch.

Wow. I’d never seen him this drunk. It was kind of funny, except I couldn’t help worrying that he would be puking on my comforter later. I set about pulling off his shoes and reached under him to unbutton his jeans, half expecting him to grab my hand and crack a joke about my indecent intentions; but no, he was totally gone. Still, it took me a few minutes to slide his jeans down off his impossibly long legs, and the t-shirt was looking to be more and more an unmanageable task so I decided to just leave it.

I kept a quilt my grandmother made me folded at the end of the bed, and I tugged it out from under his legs to drape it over him. He groaned and mumbled something and buried his face into his pillow.

Well, if there’s one thing I learned from years with Roy, it’s that seducing a drunk man is a waste of time and energy. Too bad, I sighed. Still, Jim’s so cute when he’s drunk. He gets all knee-slapping and giggly and finds everything just hilarious and it’s completely adorable.

I hardly ever went drinking with Roy. When he got drunk he would get more talkative than usual but it often became argumentative and was occasionally a little scary. Not that I’d ever tell Jim that. After a while, Roy’s nights out with Kenny became a good excuse to stay home and take a nice long uninterrupted bath.

I looked down at Jim’s sleeping form and smiled. Yeah, definitely made the right decision.

I picked up his jeans and folded them in half to drape them over the back of my desk chair, sighing in irritation when keys and change spilled out onto the floor. I picked everything up and reached into his right front pocket to put it all back and that was when I felt it.

Something small, square, and covered in velvet.

I pulled it out with trembling fingers and just stared at it. A little black jewelry box.

No doubt whatsoever about what’s inside.

Oh. My. God.

Was he going to propose tonight? At Fado’s? No way. That would not be “kicking my ass.” Although…it would have been a surprise, yeah. Is that why he got so drunk? Liquid courage? But he didn’t seem nervous or jumpy or weird tonight at all, just happy and animated. And if I know Jim he’s gonna be a sweating, stammering mess when he does it.

What, so he’s just, like, walking around with it?

No, that would be stupid. What if he lost it?

So…maybe it’s just earrings or something. Yeah.

So if it’s not a ring I can look at it, right?

Right.

Except my birthday was last month.

It’s not earrings.

I have to see it. I bet it’s gorgeous.


With what I felt to be an act of supreme self-sacrifice, I pushed the box back into his pocket without looking inside. Carefully folded the jeans and laid them on the chair. Curled up next to him for a minute and kissed the nape of his neck where the hair curled softly.

I wonder why he hasn’t asked yet? When he got it? What he’s planning?

Maybe this is all just an elaborate prank. I was probably supposed to find it and look at it. It’s probably something from a Cracker Jack box.

Halpert, you evil genius. But I'm not gonna bite.

I am so gonna marry this man.


Just as soon as he gets around to asking.




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Chapter End Notes:
I actually thought Hellboy was really fun and hope the sequel will be just as cute, but it seemed like the kind of movie Pam might scorn. And I hope people still remember MST 3000.


Should I leave it hanging and wait for the writers (assuming they're gonna give us what we want!) or continue on and come up with my own way for Jim to do the deed?

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