* * *
"Boy, you're cute," he tells her, squinting his eyes and slurring the words more than a little.
"And you're drunk," she says.
"Maybe. But when I sober up, you'll still be cute."
"Cute." Her lips form into a pout. "You said my dancing was cute. At the wedding."
Now, his pout matches hers. He suddenly looks much younger, like a little boy who's just been told he has to finish his homework before he can go outside and play.
"Wow, that night sucked."
"Horrible, awful night."
"You left with Roy."
"You danced with Karen."
And there they are. The names they've been avoiding all night. Like heat-seeking missiles, they find their opposing targets and the air changes, thickens. He slumps down in the booth and rubs his face with his hands. She leans back and steels herself for what's coming. There's so much waiting for them on the other side, if only they can get through this part without breaking each other's hearts all over again.
* * *
"Wasted," she mumbles into the table. Her head has fallen forward at some point, and her cheek is resting on her forearm.
"Yeah," he agrees, nodding slowly. "Me too."
"No, my life," she says, raising her head and smacking her lips. "Wasted. Nine years with him. And you were always there... and you were so good... and I loved you, Jim. I really, really did."
She feels a tickle in the back of her throat and knows she's on verge of tears. Somewhere in her mind she's aware that in coming up with this grand plan, she'd forgotten to take into account how emotional she gets when she drinks. It's a pattern with her. First, the liberating, giddy highs, and then the dark, shameful lows. At the Dundies he only saw the happy phase. He wasn't around later when she stumbled home, crawled into bed and silently cried herself to sleep, trying desperately to keep her trembling under control so she wouldn't wake up Roy. Once again, she feels herself slipping down, down, down, and she's unable to stop it.
She lets out an audible little sniff and he can't help but notice the moisture rising in her eyes.
"Hey," he says, brushing her hair behind her shoulder. "Shh. Don't... don't cry."
"So stupid," she continues, as if she hasn't heard him. She's too far down this road that even he can't pull her back. "I can't believe I got back with him. Ugh. What was I thinking?"
"It's okay," he says, rubbing her back lightly. He keeps his voice soft and soothing. "That's all over now."
"No, wait," she turns on him, her voice taking on a slightly accusatory tone. "I know what I was thinking. You didn't want me anymore."
"No. Pam. Don't you see? It was just the opposite. I wanted you so much. Even though I tried not to. Even though I moved away. Dated someone else. It didn't work. God, you have no idea how much it didn't work."
She comes back to herself a little, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly.
"We're such a mess," she notes bitterly. "How did we ever get here?"
"Doesn't matter. We're here."
* * *
She heads to the ladies' room while he pays the check and calls a cab. He gives the woman on the phone just one address, hers. It's not that he expects anything to happen tonight, whatever they might have agreed to beforehand. It's just that she's in no condition to be left alone and he can't shake the need he's always had to take care of her.
She fades in and out of consciousness in the back seat of the cab, nestled in crook of his arm for most of the drive home to her apartment.
"You love me," she says during one of her lucid moments, looking up at him in wonder.
"Yes I do," he confirms, smiling back at her and placing a kiss on her head.
"I love you, Jim."
She closes her eyes again and he flashes back to the day of Michael's ridiculous diversity exercise, when she'd fallen asleep on his shoulder. He closes his eyes, just like he did then, and revels in the feel of her body, soft and warm against his. That day, he'd allowed himself to pretend for just a moment that she was his. He thinks maybe he doesn't have to pretend anymore, and the thought keeps him wide awake until the car pulls up in front of her building.
* * *
She wakes up in her own bed, still wearing the clothes she had on the night before, minus her shoes. On the nightstand next her bed there's a glass of water and two Advil waiting. Her head feels like it weighs 20 pounds and her mouth is dry, so she swallows them and downs the water in one gulp. Even the tiny pinpoints of light seeping through the closed blinds make her eyes hurt. There's no way she's going in to work today.
The water was refreshing, but she needs coffee, industrial strength. Moving almost in slow motion, she extracts herself from the covers and heads for the kitchen. As soon as she enters the living room, she stops short.
There he is, curled up in an odd half-twist on her couch, one arm slung over his head, the other resting on his chest. It doesn't look like a comfortable position, but he's fast asleep. The dark, V-neck sweater he'd been wearing the night before is draped over the easy chair next to the couch, leaving him in just a plain, white T-shirt and khakis. She's torn between wanting to wake him up and just watching him sleep. The voyeuristic approach wins out because she figures he'll probably be as hung over as she is when he wakes up, and she wants to spare him that for as long as possible.
She scans her imperfect memory of the night before and comes up with a few scattered images, but nothing coherent past the point where they started ordering the naughty shots. There was some crying, she knows that much, and a taxi ride and sloppy kisses on her front doorstep, but more than that she can't be sure. If it weren't for the evidence stretched out on her couch, she could be easily convinced that the whole night had been a dream.
Finally, the need for coffee begins to outweigh her desire to watch him sleep. It's almost 7:30, so she only has about a half an hour to call work and leave a message before Michael gets in. If she waits any longer, she'll have to talk to him in person, which she really, really doesn't want to do. She pulls herself away and tiptoes to the kitchen to start a pot brewing. As she scoops the grounds into the filter, it occurs to her that Jim took the day off too. She wonders if he'll want to spend it with her. He was supposed to be in New York, she thinks as she fills the pot with enough water for at least four cups. But he's not in New York, he's here, in her apartment, on her couch.
"Good morning."
Or, rather, he was on the couch a moment ago. Now, he's standing, solid and tall, in the entrance to her little kitchen, both hands grasping the top of the door frame with ease. His new short haircut is mussed and his bangs are falling into his eyes. He looks as ragged as she feels, but he's smiling.
"Speak for yourself," she says, rubbing her temples with one hand and pouring the water through the top of the coffee maker with the other.
"Speaking for myself, I feel like death on a stick," he says, stepping into the kitchen. She notices for the first time that he's not wearing shoes or socks and tries to remember if she's ever actually seen his feet before. He comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. His voice has just a bit of a morning edge to it, deep and gravelly. "But yeah, good morning."
She turns so she's facing him and puts her arms around his neck.
"So, I'm a little fuzzy on the details of last night."
"Well, it was quite a night. Thanks for letting me crash here, by the way."
"Did we... uh...?"
"Play checkers?" he asks playfully. She narrows her eyes, but it only encourages him. "Bake cookies? Crank call Dwight?"
"You know what I mean."
"I know what you mean," he says, his tone serious now. "And no, we didn't. Although that last thing may have happened."
"Oh, whew," she says, then corrects herself quickly when she sees the stung look on his face. "I just mean that... I'd want to remember it. You know, when we... when it happens. If it happens. I wouldn't want to forget... something like that."
His expression transforms into one of pure delight. "Wow, look at you blush."
"I hate you," she says, but she doesn't turn away.
"I hate you too," he replies, just before his lips meet hers.
She pours whatever is left to be said into their kiss, opening her mouth and her heart to receive him. He answers with intimate confessions of his own. They're back on track again, communicating in their own way, not necessarily through words, but through humor, simple gestures and an uncanny sense of knowing each other wholly, completely.
When the kiss ends, they don't talk, but they don't need to anymore.
Author's Chapter Notes:
And the fun continues. There may be a line in here inspired by a certain recent NBC promo, but I swear I'd already written something similar before I saw that. I just changed the line to match it exactly, because it kills me dead.
Chapter End Notes:
Thanks for sticking with me on this one. I got a bit sidetracked from the WIP I was working on, but I'm planning to get back to it now that this is out of my system.
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