Once she got back to her desk, it was as though a high-powered switch had been turned on: everything jittered. She sorted through all of the past two weeks' messages, unable to kid even herself that there was anything important in the stack. She thought about bothering the camera crew, but for most of the afternoon they were preoccupied with Ryan and Kelly, and out of her sight.
She wondered if she'd have time to change, where they'd go, if he'd pick her up. With shaking fingers she went through all the messages again, sorted the M&Ms by color, tested each pen and pencil in her cup, and put everything back. It wasn't the most time she'd ever had to waste at work, by far – there had been times both before and after Jim arrived that had been worse.
But it had never before felt like there was something so crucial waiting for her.
As the clock clicked from 4:56 to 4:57 she had the desperate urge to dash out (right behind Creed), but she'd never done that before, and figured she shouldn't start now. Besides, Michael was still in his office, blinds down, having a voices-raised confrontation with Dwight about the black paint. He could still ask her to come in and take notes; he'd done it before.
Four-fifty ... there. 4:58. Something fell over and cracked in Michael's office. In the kitchen, it sounded as though Kelly had just slapped Ryan. Angela was sidling up to within earshot of Michael's door, probably imagining that her mere presence would establish order.
4:59. Pam checked that her keys were in her coat, her cell phone in her bag, her computer shutting down. Michael burst through the door, a demolished Dwight in tow, and garbled something offensive. Pam nodded, smiled. Still 4:59.
The second the elevator doors closed over Michael's face, it was 5:00:01 and Pam was out of her chair, throwing her coat over one arm and clutching her bag in her hands.
It was weird to wait for the elevator with Meredith and Stanley, and even weirder when it came and Pam had to sway back and forth as the three of them traveled one floor down together.
He was waiting in the parking lot. Pam, for a moment, had a bizarro flashback of Roy in his high school football uniform, leaning against the hood in the same way — but no, flashbacks were over, this was different. They weren't leaning in the same way, and this was not Roy's truck at all, but Jim's Saab. It would never be Roy's truck again: thank God for that.
"Hey, Beesly," he said with a grin, and Pam let out the breath she had been holding, let go the fear that what had happened two hours ago wasn't real. "I can take you back here tonight to get your car, but now I figured ... I just thought —"
"Yeah," she agreed, finding her voice. "Let's get out of here before anyone else shows up."
Being able to make Jim smile like that was a talent she'd thought she'd lost.
In the car she wasn't sure whether she could look at him, let alone touch him. He drove to the little strip mall with Alfredo's Pizza Café, and turned off the car slowly once they'd parked.
Pam looked at him; he was still staring straight through the windshield.
"I left Karen in New York," he told her.
"Jim —"
"With friends," he clarified, turning to face her. His eyes were reassuring, Pam thought — they always had been. Only it used to be too much, and now it was all she needed.
Jim spoke again, softly: "There was never going to be a right time."
Pam nodded. He got it. Finally she got it; he got it; they were together. Now they'd see.
"Want some pizza?" he asked. She grinned.
Jim thought the fifteen-year-old behind the counter had a crush on her, and she laughed and hugged his arm — new and improved Pam — and his smile when he looked at her meant he knew how good it felt, because he felt it too. She beat his high score at pinball while they were waiting for the pie to bake, and the way he leaned into her to fake-sabotage her moves reminded her of the time (so long ago) when he'd picked her up in the dojo and swung her around, and the rightness of the feeling terrified her. It wasn't supposed to be. But now it was.
They'd parked out of the way — right next to a dumpster, basically — and it wasn't the right place or the right time, but Pam could feel it about to happen before it started.
Kissing Jim was exactly like she remembered. It was exactly like everything she was afraid her imagination and memory had built up too much: exactly like nothing else. His hands pressed gently into her elbows and then around her waist, braver than they'd been on Casino Night. Pam felt herself releasing something, lifting up as she did, fitting into him. She threw her arms around his neck and didn't have to feel bad about it, now; she wasn't engaged. She wasn't miserable or shy or confused or grabbing at the first thing that seemed to make sense. This was the only thing that made sense.
If Jim never took her back to her car tonight, if she woke up tomorrow in the same clothes, it was okay, Pam decided. Whatever happened, it was okay.
He closed his eyes early, always. He kissed her like she was alone in his narrow field of view, like he was bringing her with him somewhere and didn't want to leave any part of her behind. His lips tasted like Jim's lips; his body against hers was Jim's warm body; she looked up at him and saw Jim's familiar face. Their noses were still touching.
He swallowed. "I'd ask you to come back with me," he whispered, "but —"
"I understand," Pam said. "Too soon."
He smiled like she'd said something funny, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"No," he said, "it's not too soon. I just have a roommate."
Pam felt a hot wash of excitement course through her. It was now. It was okay. Maybe they were being stupid, but she didn't feel stupid — and that was a lovely change of pace.
She leaned in close to Jim's left ear, opened her mouth.
"I don't," she hissed.
He tilted her chin over, and kissed her again.
Walking Jim through her apartment was like finally getting to tell him everything that had transpired in the months when he was gone — and after he came back, too, before he'd really talked to her. She grabbed his hand (a non-friend thing, but she could do that now) and showed him where to put his coat, as if she had visitors constantly. He didn't protest.
"I think you've microwaved popcorn in this kitchen more than you've used the stovetop," Jim pointed out with a carefully blank expression, peering at her oven.
"Your point?" she returned. "Last time I was at your place, there was three-day-old cereal in the toaster oven."
"Okay, not mine," he laughed, but something had twinged in each of them. The last time she was at his place, it was a different place — before he'd left, and while she was still engaged.
"Let's continue the tour, Beesly," he suggested, tugging at her hands. "Don't have a lot of time here."
She thought about asking if that were true, if he'd need to go see Karen when she got back from New York, but she wasn't going to fight his battles for him before he was ready, and now he was pulling her, toward the bedroom where he'd never been and where she'd thought of him almost every night she'd slept there.
She didn't know who hit the bed first, but they were there, grabbing at each other, making up for lost time and condensing the responses to a thousand unanswered questions. Her hand was at his collar and his fingertips had brushed the skin inside her shirt, above her waistline, when: "Pam," he said suddenly and pulled back.
"I forgot to tell you," he continued, breathing hard. They were staring at each other. "I'm really sorry I didn't come to your art show."
Pam very nearly laughed. She was too giddy, she realized, and she had to let herself breathe — so she did. She leaned on one elbow, looking at Jim: his back was pressed into the bedspread and his hair, thankfully, was flopping back into its usual nonstyle. The sight of him there should have been odd and disorienting, after so many dreams and disappointments, but it wasn't.
"Come to the next one," she said, and felt a smile creep in.
Story Notes:
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.
Author's Chapter Notes:
For hjea@LJ, who reassured me that posting Jim/Pam fluffery is always okay. And to the rest of you -- thanks for indulging me. Obsessive rewatches of "The Job" are bound to produce something like this. :P
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