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Author's Chapter Notes:
I've been sort of haunted about Jim's secret ambitions since Local Ad and Philly Jim, and this has ended up being a personal and cathartic story to write. Very different from my others, but hope you enjoy it.

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.


Jim didn’t hate his job as much as he often said he did. It wasn’t like he loved selling paper at Dunder Mifflin, because he most certainly did not. It wasn’t glamorous and it wasn’t sexy and it definitely wasn’t the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. But it had its positives: he made decent money, he didn’t have to travel or put in long hours, and he had met Pam because of it. Plus he was often entertained by his co-workers, especially Michael. He was naturally a decent salesman, so it was a pretty easy gig. He almost hated to admit how much he enjoyed planning and executing pranks on Dwight. And he and Pam sometimes were able to make lunch plans that involved very little food and lots of other bodily nourishment. So it definitely wasn’t all bad. But in front of the cameras, and when he’d catch up with his college friends, he would exaggerate his dislike for it because, really, if he loved selling paper he would be like . . . Dwight. If he actually enjoyed his inane and ridiculous job it would be like admitting that you drank White Zinfandel or that you watched The Bachelor or that your top desert island movie was Legally Blonde: sort of sad and embarrassing. People would be disappointed that you didn’t have better taste.

But lately he couldn’t decide which was more pitiful: actually liking selling paper, or hating the job he’d had for years and not doing anything about it. Or maybe worse yet . . . just being too scared or unmotivated or indifferent to do anything but sit around and whine.

No, he really didn’t hate his job. What he hated was feeling . . . wasted. Wasted as in wasted potential. Wasted talent. Wasted time. It’s not like he thought he was destined for greatness or anything. He certainly didn’t come from a family of big dreams and high expectations. His dad had the same mid-level job at the same mid-sized company for almost 30 years. His mom was an amazing writer but had never expressed any interest in doing anything with her writing and had instead raised her kids and occasionally done some substitute teaching at the elementary school without ever revealing her hidden talent to even her closest friends. His brother worked in sales for a medical supply company in upstate New York with moderate but not stellar success. They all had just normal, everyday jobs, everyday lives. Nothing exotic, nothing dramatic, nothing interesting. When Jim went to college, he couldn’t remember anyone asking him “What do you want to do? What do you want to be? What are you good at?” Instead he was taught to be practical, to think about what degree sounded good on a resume. It was always about common sense rather than what he actually wanted.

He realized, now, that was a mistake – not thinking more about who he was and what was important to him. He also realized, now, that taking a chance and following your heart sometimes blew up in your face before it paid off. But when it paid off, it often paid off big. At night, when he’d feel Pam’s soft, warm body press against his back, her arm wrapping around his torso, her hand sliding up under his t-shirt to feel his heart thumping against his chest, he was reminded of what could be gained by taking a chance. When her lips were on his skin, her breath hot and restless in his ear, he remembered that he did have it in him to take risks. When something really mattered, when he was clear on what he wanted, he knew that it could work out despite the odds. He could make it happen and nothing could stand in his way. Not a lug head fiancé or a pantsuit-wearing girlfriend or a job transfer to another state or being in love with someone who is just as scared and insecure as you are.

What he couldn’t figure out is what to take a chance on now. He’d been so focused on Pam for the past four years – on loving Pam, on getting Pam to love him back – that he hadn’t thought about much else. Last year, when he’d tried to excel in his job and become serious new corporate Jim, it had felt hollow and forced and the exact opposite of thrilling. It had felt like running full speed toward a brick wall. Head first. Without a helmet. But now . . . he and Pam were happy and he loved her and wanted to be more for her. He wanted to be the kind of guy, the kind of husband, she’d be proud of. The kind of man who respected himself enough to care about his work. To want to do better, to be better. He wanted her to feel about him the way he felt about her.

He realized lately that he was jealous of Pam’s art. Not in the way that Roy had been jealous of it, resentful of her painting and drawing because it took her attention away from what was really important (i.e. Roy). No, Jim was jealous because she had something that excited her, something that she was good at, something she wanted to be better at. She had a dream. When she painted she was in her own little world and hours would fly by and suddenly she’d look up and realize the light had changed and the day had slipped from morning to afternoon to dusk without her even having realized it. After she spent the afternoon painting she’d often hug him and press her face to his neck and sigh contentedly, regardless of what had happened at work that week. He could feel her happiness radiating off of her, like a subtle hum. She’d come home from art class giddy and talkative, anxious to share with him what she had learned and how her teacher had praised her efforts. When Jim would admire one of her drawings, she’d positively glow, not so much because she needed him to validate her but because she appreciated the fact that he cared, that he noticed some detail that she’d worked so hard on. Her art made her a better person.

He wanted something to make him a better person. Something that, when he did it, time just evaporated. Something that made him excited and hopeful for the future. And since he was pretty sure he couldn’t make a living making love to Pam or playing basketball – the two things he could quickly think of that he loved doing and always looked forward to – he had to find something else.

When he was honest with himself he knew he was capable of more than just selling paper. He had glimpses of it sometimes, when something would trigger a flicker of excitement or possibility inside him. The sparkle of what if…? When he allowed himself to think impractically, ideas of what he could do or could be would float into his head and for moments at a time he’d believe they were possible. It wasn’t too late. He was a smart guy, a talented guy with good ideas. But then some saboteur in his head that sounded an awful lot like his grandfather would say, “Why would you wanna’ do that?” or “You’re kidding . . . right?” And he’d quickly ignore the very advice he had given Pam that day a couple of years ago when she had caved in to Roy’s practicality and given up on the design internship. Apparently taking a chance on something was fine advice for her, for someone with dreams. But for him? What could he do? What could he take a chance on?

And then there was that thing with Ryan and Toby. That embarrassing, awkward, humiliating moment when that weaselly little half-bearded twerp decided to put Jim in his place. In front of the cameras. A part of Jim figured it was revenge for any number of things Jim had unwittingly done: going over his head with David Wallace, dating girls that Ryan wanted to date, being a decent salesman while Ryan had never made a sale, topping out at 6’3” when Ryan was 5’9”. There were probably many reasons Ryan wanted to remind Jim who was boss, and Jim knew that. And now that Jim had seen that evidence of Toby’s feelings spelled out so clearly on Pam’s knee, he realized even Toby had ulterior motives. But another part of Jim knew that Ryan was right. Jim didn’t try very hard, he did goof off a lot. He did enough to get by, enough to meet his numbers, but that’s about it. And that part of him, the guy who wasn’t driven or ambitious, the guy who didn’t have a dream, hated that Ryan was right.

So when Pam asked him what had happened, he didn’t tell her. He knew she didn’t care about the things that Karen had cared about: what kind of job he had, what suits he wore, how he got his hair cut, how often he played childish pranks. Jim knew that Pam loved all the things about him that Karen had wanted so badly to upgrade. He could lose his job tomorrow and Pam would still love him. But something in him just still felt … ashamed by the fact that he had been reprimanded by Ryan. The temp. Fire guy. Reprimanded like he was a slacker, a fuck-up, a child who hadn’t turned in his homework.

At Pam’s apartment later that night, he could still feel the cloud of that conference room ambush hanging over him. He was quiet during dinner when Pam swore she would never wear her glasses to work again.

“He actually called me an ugly scientist.” She shook her head, remembering.

Jim nodded as he pushed his food around on his plate.

“And then Kevin? With that whole librarian thing? Just . . . ew.”

“Yeah. That was creepy,” Jim agreed absently and stood up to take his plate to the sink. He scraped the majority of his uneaten food down the disposal.

“Not a big fan of my meatloaf?”

“Huh?” Jim looked up. “Oh, no. It was good. I’m just not that hungry, I guess.”

Pam gave him a worried look.

“Are you okay?”

Jim nodded and rinsed his plate. She knew something was wrong and he should probably just tell her, but Ryan’s words haunted him. And honestly if you spent as much time selling as you do goofing around with Dwight and hanging out at reception, we wouldn't be having this conversation.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Pam stood up and came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “You sure?”

Jim set his plate in the sink. It wasn’t just the thing with Ryan. It was the day he had tried to change the birthday parties at work and Phyllis had called him Michael. It was locking them all out of the office and then the added sting of watching Toby fondle his girlfriend. It was the humiliation of Utica, of looking like an ass, of feeling like an ass. It was even having to hitch a ride home with Meredith while Pam excitedly worked on the animation for that ad, because that just reminded him that he had never felt the need or desire to stay late for anything work related. Ever.

He turned around and looked down at Pam. Her forehead wrinkled with worry. Jim carefully removed her glasses and set them on the counter.

“You don’t like them either?”

Jim shook his head. “They just make it harder to do this.” He tilted her face up to his and kissed her. He could just try to focus on the moment, on the feel of her mouth on his, of the smell of her hair and her hands sliding under his shirt, cool on his skin. He didn’t have to think about the many ways he felt like a failure. He had her, now. That could be enough.

Pam kissed him back, slowly, thoughtfully, like maybe something in his kiss would tell her what was bothering him. He pulled away before she could figure it out and pulled her body against his, wrapping his arms all the way around her. He rested his chin lightly on the top of her head and he smelled the coconut of her shampoo.

“I need to leave Dunder Mifflin,” he said quietly, surprising himself.

Pam pulled away and looked up at him. “What?”

He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know. I just . . . feel like I’m losing myself there.”

She studied him for a minute, squinting a bit to make out his face without her glasses on. “Is this about whatever happened with Ryan today?”

Jim bit his lip and didn’t answer her directly. It was and it wasn’t. Being with Pam made him want to be the kind of man who respected himself enough to do more than just squeak by. There was an overachiever inside of him – the Jim who showed up with his A game when he spearheaded the office Olympics or when he had gathered everyone in the conference room for the read through of Threat Level Midnight. The Jim who put an obscene amount of thought into a secret Santa Christmas gift. That Jim cared. That Jim would work hard, would stay late, would pour his soul into his job if his job were something that he could get excited about.

He took a deep breath while his fingers found the smooth skin of her back. When he still didn’t answer, Pam sighed quietly and leaned her head against his chest again. “Jim,” she said quietly, urging him to talk.

“I mostly stayed because of you.” He didn’t want it to sound like he blamed her, because he didn’t. It wasn’t like he had lots of better job offers, or that he even knew what else to do. But it was true – he had stayed at Dunder Mifflin to be with her, to be near her. “I knew if I left we’d . . .” He trailed off for a moment, thinking about what would have happened if he had left and stayed away. “I knew we wouldn’t have stayed friends.”

She pulled away to look at him again, her mouth open to protest, but then she shut it again. He was right and she knew it. If he had left Dunder Mifflin and she had married Roy, their friendship would have eventually trickled away, even if they had wanted to stay friends. It was one thing to be coworkers and buddies, but to maintain a close friendship outside of work, one that would have involved phone calls and planned meetings . . . it was just unrealistic. Especially with the added complication of Jim being secretly in love with her the whole time.

“Then when I did actually leave, it was because of you, too.”

Pam swallowed and looked down. He knew she felt guilty about that still, about her rejection that night in the parking lot that led him to Stamford.

“And when I came back again . . . all you.”

“Jim, what are you—“

He kissed her again, to show her he wasn’t trying to make her feel bad. She had been the one to encourage him to go for better jobs the few times opportunities had come up: that Halloween when he had been so hurt by her suggestion that he take that job in Maryland, last Spring when she had genuinely wished him luck at his interview at corporate. She had never tried to hold him back. He had held himself back.

Pam let him kiss her, let the soft lazy kiss grow to something deeper and more intense. He pulled back again, and watched her eyes open and try to focus on his face. He rested his forehead against hers.

“I just think . . . I need to find something else. Before I turn into Jan or Ryan or . . . Michael.” Jim smiled a bit. “Although, really, of the three, Michael is probably the most appealing option.”

“You’ll never be like them.”

Jim shrugged. “I got what I needed from this job.” He reached up and tucked Pam’s hair behind her ear.

“What, lots of valuable information about bear attacks?”

Jim smiled.

“Firsthand knowledge of the benefits of manure on beet sprouts?”

Jim’s thumbs traced Pam’s cheekbones, then her jaw.

“You.” His voice cracked a bit when he said the word, and he cleared his throat.

Pam slipped her hands out from underneath his shirt and rested them on his chest. “Then you should leave.”

Jim sunk his hands into her hair, feeling the curls slide between his fingers. Pam closed her eyes.

“Maybe I’ll leave, too,” she murmured contentedly.

Jim lowered his mouth to her neck, kissing the spot right beneath her ear. “Maybe we could move away. Go somewhere . . . else.” He suggested it without thinking and immediately wished he could take it back. The saboteur was whispering Where? Where you gonna’ move? Why would you wanna’ do that?

“Mmm hmm,” Pam hummed, her head tilting to the side so Jim could continue his path down her jaw. “Anywhere.”

Jim stopped and looked down at her. She opened her eyes and looked back.

“I’m serious,” he said, realizing that he was.

“Me, too.” She slipped her fingers into his hair. He badly needed a haircut, but again, Pam didn’t seem to mind. “What about . . . Colorado? I like mountains.”

God, she was always surprising him lately. Jim’s hands traveled south, over her shoulders, down her back, over her hips and then back up her front. “Me too,” he said, smiling.

“Totally different kind of mountains,” she pointed out.

Jim shrugged and kissed her. “I’m not picky.”

Their kisses grew heavier and less controlled.

“Let’s go to bed,” Pam whispered against his mouth.

Jim nodded and followed her to her room. He felt lighter than he had all day knowing that Pam wanted him whether he was a slacker or salesman of the year, whether he was Big Haircut or homeless guy. She loved him, whoever he was, whoever he would turn out to be.

Later, when they were tangled up in each other and drifting closer to sleep he heard Pam whisper, “I stayed because of you, too.”

He smiled in the darkness and tightened his arms around her. “I guess we’ve both been fairly compensated, then.”

Her voice was sleepy when she added, “Yeah. Totally worth it.”

Jim felt her body relax heavily against his, listened to her breathing slow. With Karen he had always felt pushed and prodded into being more. Whether it was going out to dinner and a movie instead of staying home to watch a basketball game, or getting his hair cut, or interviewing for a fancy new job. She was the jockey and he was the horse and she was determined to get him to that finish line in first place.

Pam was different. She’d look at him, her eyes smiling, a happy grin on her face, and that alone made him want to be better, be more. He kissed her forehead and drifted off to sleep thinking of mountains and possibilities. And the saboteur was silent.

Chapter End Notes:
Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome, read, and (I promise, going forward) replied to.


wendolf is the author of 13 other stories.
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