Disclaimer: Neither the Office nor its characters belong to me, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Getting onto the roof poses no significant challenge, at least not to someone of his many talents. Dwight is the product of two proud families, two strong, hearty, and preternaturally stealthy lineages. Paternally, the Schrudes, so disdainful of any sign of weakness that they changed their name to Schrute after deciding that ‘d’ sounded like surrender. Maternally, the Manheims, proud soldiers in the servants of the Kaiser and then the Fuhrer, capable of killing up to thirty-five able bodied men without detection. The stories have been passed down through the generations, converging on him like carefully trained foxes, and Dwight considers it his most serious responsibility to live up to the high standard of his history.

So with the grace of a dancer, he pirouettes and brings his leg cleanly over the basket, leaving it undisturbed on the rooftop while he inspects the chimney. It is a matter of pride for him, nothing more.

Because what difference would that basket have made, anyway?

***

Chapter One - Cocktail Party of the Condor

The cocktail party is less an ocean than a pond, a stagnant mass of people who look different but are exactly the same. Jim is watching Karen fix the tie of a slightly inebriated and more than slightly overweight piece of algae--one she used to date, no less--when David Wallace leans against the doorframe opposite him. He knows he looks ridiculous, stricken, and he really hopes Wallace isn’t about to comment on Karen’s heretofore hidden proclivity for dipping her pen in company ink.
God, I hate these parties,” he says. Jim glances over, but Wallace’s eyes are locked onto the crowd, and suddenly Jim feels like he’s expected to respond with some sort of code phrase that will prompt Wallace into dropping a nondescript envelope stuffed with classified information or satellite photos of missile sites. Or maybe sales quotas.

Wallace continues, “Do you want to sneak out back and shoot some hoops?” Jim just looks over, relief plain on his face, and he sees Wallace nod understandingly. “Meet me outside in two minutes.” All that’s missing is an ominous come alone. The executive disappears into the dining room and Jim is left more than a little stunned.

He ventures towards his girlfriend, the soft piano music stalking him like an overeducated wolf. She’s got her wine glass clasped between both her hands, and he can see that she’s almost finished it off.

“You stay here and have fun,” he says. “’Cause I’m going to go out back and shoot some hoops with David Wallace.” He raises his eyebrows, inviting a response.

“Okay then,” she replies, a laugh bubbling out. “Oh, um, don’t mention that you and I are dating…’cause I think he might still have feelings for me.”

That’s too much for Jim, he almost gapes, shock and exasperation bleeding into his voice. “Wallace?” He can’t believe it. “What the hell, have you dated like every guy here?”

And a smile spreads across her face and laughter dances in her eyes and he loses all expression, but he can’t stop the beginnings of a smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. Her laugh is honest, genuine, and his comes out in a rough snort.

“Wow,” he says, a little disbelievingly but there’s no mistaking the note of relief in his voice. “Okay. You got me.”

She’s laughing hard now, this close to doubling over. “I so got you,” and she does the little finger point she likes to do when she knows she’s topped him, whether it’s in jokes or Scrabble.

He can’t help but think that she turned out to be way funnier than he expected, more prone to the verbal joke than the prank, but funnier nonetheless. She’s a girl who focuses. When’s she’s at work, she’s working. When she’s with him, she’s with him. He likes that, even if he hasn’t always been able to reciprocate it. He wonders whether that shows on camera, whether it really captures who they are. Whether you can really tell who a person is from edited footage shot in an office park.

But he can’t help himself with her, he has to dig. He has to know, even if he knows it’s stupid. “So, none of them?” He is hesitant, like he’s wondering whether it’s something he should even ask, or if he’s crossing some invisible line.

“Of course not,” she says, and he wonders if she sees the tension fly from his shoulders. “I mean,” she continues. “You’re kind of like…my first.” The look on her face is serious and vulnerable and he is stunned more than anything because some of what she does is definitely not first-timer material.

“Really?”

She makes a face. “Oh my God, it’s so easy it’s not even fun.” She giggles and he could swear he’s blushing a bit.

He walks away, still a little shocked at how easily she slipped under his radar and he swears he can feel her eyes on the back of his neck when he sneaks out the back door.

Jim decides he really doesn’t mind that feeling, even when he’s consumed by doubt, wondering if they are going to make it and whether he really wants them to.

***

Wallace’s basketball court is makeshift, a hoop stood up on the edge of the patio, smooth reddish bricks standing in for the glossy wood he remembers from high school and half a season of college. From the sound of the ball bouncing between those bricks and Wallace’s hands, he comes out here pretty often or at least often enough to know to put air in the ball. It’s a crisp bounce, the kind you only get on makeshift courts because the bounce off wood is much heavier sounding, and Jim realizes he misses playing pickup games in the park with his brothers, his friends, whoever more than he thought.

Jim catches the ball when Wallace passes, inviting him to take the first shot, and Jim begins to drive towards the basket. It’s a casual thing, no real attempts at defense made, and Jim makes an easy layup. He lets Wallace grab the ball as it bounces to the ground. Jim thinks he might have seen a camera slip out, but he doesn’t say anything.

“So,” he starts, making his shot before tossing the ball to Jim. “What’s with Jan and Michael?”

Jim shrugs. “I don’t know…where to begin?” For a split second, he worries that he’s gone too far, almost-but-not-quite badmouthing his boss in front of his boss’s boss’s boss’s boss (or, he corrects himself, his boss’s boss/girlfriend’s boss’s boss), but Wallace grins and they share a laugh. Jim shoots, watches the ball descend through the white net gauntlet.

A chill runs through his body and he feels like something is supposed to happen now, but the air is still and it’s quiet but for the distant sounds of the carefully controlled suburban wildlife and the bounce-bounce-bounce of Wallace’s dribbling. The older man eyes the basket through his glasses, and he sneaks a glance back at Jim.

“I have to say,” he says. “I’m a little surprised you’re still with us.” He shoots. “Not that we don’t appreciate the numbers you’ve been posting lately, but still.” The ball bounces off the rim, ricocheting off onto the edge of the patio and coming dangerously close to some delicately looking plants.

“Why’s that?” Jim chases down the ball and brings it back, careful not to step on anything green or brightly colored. He’s surprised at how natural this feels. For some reason, and maybe it’s that he has only seen Corporate in the context of Michael’s latest stunt, he always imagined these get-togethers as stodgy, uptight affairs.

Of course, they are for the most part, he realizes. It just so happens that the people hosting them don’t really enjoy them any more than the people attending him. But with Wallace…well, he starts to wonder if he might not mind this part of working for Dunder Mifflin. He makes a mental note to thank Karen, remembering night after night in which she none too subtly talked up the benefits of a nice drive up to Westchester to break up the week’s monotony.

But Wallace gives him an unimpressed look. “Jim, I’ve seen your personnel file. I signed off on hiring you.”

“The CFO signs off on regional hires?”

“Scranton’s, at least,” Wallace says. “For obvious reasons. Going to take that shot, or were you waiting for written permission?”

“Smack talk from Corporate,” Jim jibes. He makes his shot. “I prefer invitations, really. Calligraphy makes me swoon.”

Wallace chuckles a little and Jim thinks he might get used to being around someone whose sense of humor has evolved beyond a teenager’s. On a good day.

“But seriously, Jim, we don’t see a lot of people with your credentials selling paper in Scranton.”

“Andy Bernard went to Cornell,” Jim says casually.

“Yeah, which you’d know if you spent more than five seconds in a room with the guy,” Wallace replies, “and his mother’s maiden name is Mifflin, so what does that tell you?”

Wallace dribbles back, almost to half-court, takes the shot--and makes it. Jim whistles his congratulations as Wallace passes him the ball. Jim is a little surprised to hear that Andy is related to the founders of the company, because it seems like something he would’ve mentioned.

Jim is forced to confront the possibility that Andy’s constant namedropping might be his version of subtlety, and he blanches. Still, Jim’s not sure he’s comfortable talking about other salesmen behind their backs, so he doesn’t reply. Better to let it fade into the night.

But Wallace doesn’t give up, which Jim has to admire in a roundabout sort of way. “You know, I thought Michael had gotten confused until I saw your resume. Penn is a great school. I mean, it’s Ivy League.” Jim shrugs, but doesn’t respond. “Well, I guess you already knew that,” Wallace continues. “But you could be doing anything you want. Ever thought about going back for your MBA?”

Jim shakes his head noncommittally. “Y’know, I hadn’t really,” he admits. “I mean, I’m not definitely not going to, but I’m not really looking to either, you know?” He doesn’t say that he’s still resisting looking at this as his career, that’s he’s holding out not to achieve something but to find something, almost anything else.

“Well, you know you’ve got options,” Wallace says offhandedly. “Even if you don’t get the MBA.”

“With Dunder Mifflin?” Jim asks, a little curious. He’s not sure he believes that, if only because the last time he utilized his ‘options,’ the branch closed down in less than six months.

“Yeah. We’re talking about creating a new VP spot, someone to really coordinate the branches and lead an effort towards locking down our market share, maybe eating into Staples or one of the other chains. New media, stuff like that. No promises, but I can tell you that we’re talking about taking someone out of Sales and, well, I can probably put in a good word.”

Jim raises an eyebrow.

“Well, I do the hiring,” Wallace admits. “So I can definitely put in a good word.”

Jim laughs despite himself. He never thought of himself as a schmoozer, but maybe it’s just the basketball. “Maybe,” he says.

“Consider it, seriously.” Wallace makes another shot. “It would be good to have a new ass to kick around the court.”

Jim nods. “It just sounds an awful lot like what Jan does now, you know?”

This time Wallace shrugs noncommittally. Jim wonders whether he’s just become part of some sort of corporate conspiracy. He’s seen enough Oliver Stone movies to know that this usually doesn’t end well. Jim takes the ball and dribbles back. As he starts to shoot, Wallace says:

“So, you and Karen Filippelli?” Jim chokes at the last second and his shot goes wide. “Ohh, Scranton, good thing you sell paper, ‘cause you sure can’t handle the rock!” They burst out laughing and even Wallace seems embarrassed by what he said.

“That was low,” Jim says over Wallace’s trash talk, but he can’t keep a smile off his face. “Those were some low shenanigans.”

“But yeah,” Wallace says. “I didn’t know you two were a thing. A couple, I mean.”

Jim stiffens despite himself. “Yeah, um, we’re legit…I mean, we’ve signed all the papers and stuff with HR, if that’s what you’re worried about…” Jim trails off, and he can’t help but wonder whether Karen was really joking about all those guys.

“No, no, I’m not trying to say anything like that. She just seems really great.”

“She is,” he says, and for once it doesn’t really sound like he’s trying to convince himself.

“I hope I’m not overstepping,” Wallace says cautiously, “but I think she’s really good for you.”

“You do?” Jim is glad Karen isn’t around to hear the surprise in his voice, but it’s not like he hears that a lot these days. He passes the ball back to Wallace.

“Yeah.” The older man shoots. “No offense, but you don’t exactly strike me as the cocktail party type.”

“I’m really, really not,” Jim admits.

“So I assume that Karen sort of pushed you into this?”

“You could say that, I guess,” Jim says dryly.

“Not much of a date, really.”

“I don’t know, I’m having a pretty good time so far.” Jim throws a grin towards the older man and doesn’t feel like a suck-up, so that’s a good sign.

“Still, a three hour drive on a Wednesday?” Wallace continues. “It just seems like a lot. And she doesn’t mind you sneaking off, either.”

“I’m not following,” Jim says sheepishly.

“Don’t take my word on this, but it seems like she wanted you to come so you could rub elbows with people like me. I mean, you’ve been out here a pretty long time if you were just arm candy for her.”

Jim almost says something about how silly that sounds, but he remembers the smile on Karen’s face when he told her he was sneaking out to play basketball with Wallace and the protest dies in his throat.

“I don’t know, Jim, it just seems to me that it takes a pretty special woman to do that sort of thing,” he says wistfully. “A lot of women will try and change you into what they think they want you to be, and some will take you exactly how you are. But I haven’t found that many who will try and get you to be a better you for your own sake, you know?”

Jim hesitates. “Yeah, I think so,” he says, and he isn’t quite lying. He gets it, but he’s just not sure what it means. Not yet.

“I don’t know what I’m talking about,” Wallace admits jokingly. “I’m a married man, I know nothing about women. Maybe she just wanted to wear heels and a pretty dress.”

But neither of them really believes that, not anymore.

Wallace tosses him the ball. There’s commotion from inside, the sound of couples milling towards the front door and murmured thank yous and goodbyes, and Wallace shrugs as if to apologize for the turning of the planet on its axis.

“Game point. You make this, Scranton goes home with the title. You choke, and all bragging rights stay in Westchester.”

Jim takes the shot, but he can’t stop thinking about what Wallace has said.

***

They sneak back inside unnoticed, Wallace easily sliding between two lingering partygoers and subtly ushering them towards the foyer, and Jim finds himself maneuvering through a small gaggle of stuffed fortysomethings. He spots Karen out of the corner of his eye, the white and black of her dress catching his attention, and he turns to see that a blonde woman has cornered her.

The blonde seems to be doing the lion’s share of the talking, and Karen keeps tipping her empty wine glass towards her mouth as if to coax dregs of ameliorating alcohol from its emptiness. He waits just out of sight, watching as she disentangles herself from the blonde’s oratorical clutches, sliding away with a friendly smile and proffered farewells until she’s alone, scanning one side of the room with her green eyes. She’s beautiful, but he can’t shake the sense that she seems almost nervous and it casts a shadow over her face, like she’s worried the world around her will disappear at any moment. Karen isn’t the type of woman you feel protective of, but nonetheless he thinks that might be exactly what he is feeling now.

He slides up behind her, letting his hand brush against hers, and she almost jumps as she turns around.

“Hey,” she says. “You were gone a while.” He shrugs. “How was the hoop-shooting?” Her voice is playful and he just smiles enigmatically, clasping her hand more firmly in his and leading her towards the front, where David and Mrs. Wallace are shaking hands and bidding farewells and safe drives.

“Don’t make a face or anything,” she warns, “but I’m pretty sure Michael and Jan snuck off to screw in the bathroom.” Nausea permeates his body and she jabs her elbow into his side. “I said no faces!” Rachel makes one last comment about how lovely Karen’s dress is while David conspiratorially implores Jim to think about what they discussed. Karen shoots Jim a look, but says nothing as they walk out of the house.

“You haven’t said a word since you came back inside.”  Karen says, half-amused and half-concerned. “Did David kick your ass? Did he go all Call of Duty on you?” She smiles at him and he brushes his hand against hers. He still says nothing. It’s rare for him, to be speechless, but there’s something about tonight that keeps him quiet.

Her heels clack, first against the driveway and then against the street, and they search for her SUV among the few cars that remain. She goes to the driver’s side and he follows her, grabbing her before she reaches for the door and spinning her towards him.

He kisses her, deeply and much less softly than she expects, pulling her close to him and she swears she can feel his heart pounding against her chest and she’s lost in him. For the first time, though, she’s pretty sure it’s mutual. He doesn’t let her go and he can smell her and it’s beautiful in more ways than it ever has been before. And as quickly as it began, it’s over, and he presses his forehead to hers, his eyes closed.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hey,” she replies shyly. She’s hard and tough and assertive as all hell, but she sounds so small that he just wants to pick her up and hold her close. “What was that for?”

A light kiss on her nose and he opens his eyes. “I just wanted to thank you, you know, for making me come and do this.”

She smiles wider, and it’s a bit more devilish this time. “Well, that’s a hell of a way to do it. But I’m pretty sure this was an obligation, so you ought to go lay one of those on Wallace.” But her eyes tell him everything as his hands fall away from her.

“Yeah, but if it weren’t for you I would’ve blown it off,” he replies. “So thanks for making me come.” He starts to walk around to the passenger side when she grabs his arm and pulls him in for another kiss, whispering in his ear before letting him go:

“Please, Halpert, I haven’t made you come yet,” she says with a wink and it’s corny as hell and he can’t help but laugh.

***

David ushers the last guest out the door and debates barricading it until the weekend. He has no idea why he picked Wednesday night to host a party. Though, to be fair, it’s not like it’s particularly late. Michael overstayed his welcome, as he expected, but once he got the Pennsylvanian out the door the cameras seemed to vanish. He was never quite comfortable being on camera, though he doesn’t mug or even look at them. He’s gotten where he is today by ignoring distractions, even when it wasn’t easy.

There is a lot of himself in Jim, he thinks, that same sense of humor, that intelligence that isn’t being challenged by where he is now. He’s not a stupid man, he knows that Michael needs serious oversight, and he’s heard rumors about Jim’s…well, rather spectacular lack of motivation. But Jim still posts numbers in the top ten--not the top ten percent, but the top ten. David sees leadership potential, believe it or not.

Well, honestly, David sees someone he can finally like, someone who can jump ship with him when things get so bad there’s no denying it. Jim seems like he can be a worker and a friend at the same time, like he’s done those balancing acts before. And Karen, well, Karen seems good for him.

“Hey, Rachel,” he says offhandedly. “What did you think of Karen Filippelli?”
His wife perks up, raises an eyebrow. “Black and white dress?”

David shrugs, eliciting a sigh.

“Men. Hm, dark hair, dark skin, with the tall guy?”

“That’s her.”

“She’s nice. Didn’t talk to her much, but she seemed sociable. I’m not setting her up with your deadbeat brother, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He laughs. “Well, you only met her once, so I guess I can’t expect you to put her through that.”

“That, and she seemed pretty serious about that guy.”

“Hon, that’s Jim Halpert from Scranton.”

She makes a clucking sound in the back of her throat, and he’s been married long enough to know that she’s telling him she has no idea what he’s talking about. Rachel had quit the rat race long before he went to Dunder Mifflin, around the time Jack was born, but before that she’d been a fairly aggressive VP at Bethlehem Steel. He smiles a little bit, remembering how she intimidated the living hell out of him at first, how she beat his high score every time he set a new one on the pinball machine at that bar they used to go to.

“I’m looking at him for a position up here,” he clarifies.

“Does he know that?” His wife hasn’t let his quirks escape her.

“He knows he’s got options,” he says vaguely. “He passed the basketball test.”

“Didn’t let you win, huh? You beat him fair and square?”

David grimaces, despite himself. “I didn’t beat him.”

***

Jim has been on enough road trips to know the difference between street conversation and highway conversation. Street conversation is simple, light. Maybe a brief recap of the night’s highlights, but nothing serious and nothing too detailed. Highway conversation can go anywhere, and banter is usually appreciated if not actually required. He’s known Karen long enough to know that she likes to drive, she likes the power of the steering wheel in her hands and the road ahead of her. Part of him wishes they could have driven to Scranton together, but tonight has really been his first direct experience with Karen’s love of the road.

“So I’m standing there, watching you fiddle with your ex’s tie,” he starts.

“He wasn’t my ex,” Karen corrects.

“Yeah, but I definitely thought he was at the time,” says Jim. “And he just slides on up next to me. Guy doesn’t even look at me when he’s talking. It was straight out of All the President’s Men, I swear.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Redford or Hoffman?” she asks with a grin.

He strikes a dashing pose, or as dashing a pose as he can strike while wearing a seatbelt. “Do you even have to ask?”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s still grinning and that same seatbelt keeps him from leaning across the car to kiss her on the cheek. And something has changed or maybe it’s just started to change, because he can’t stop smiling and there’s nothing even resembling regret in his heart.

“But anyway,” he continues, “I go out there and he starts asking me about Michael and Jan, like I know something--or, you know, like I’d want to know something.”

“Please, you’re not the one who saw them disappear together. I’ve been trying to purge the mental image ever since.” She shudders.

“What, not interested in his hand slowly trailing up her thigh?” he says, affecting the deep, deliberate voice of mocking seduction.

“Dude,” she groans, and he laughs at how she turns into a nineteen-year-old guy sometimes, with her dudes and her gratuitous cursing. “Not cool.”

But there’s a smile on her face and he knows she’s waiting for him to go on.

“Anyway, where was I?”

“He was asking about Michael and Jan.”

She always remembers where he leaves off, it gives him the impression that she’s hanging on every word even though he knows she just has a good memory for conversation. It makes him feel important in a way he never has in a relationship, like his stupid stories matter instead of just being fodder for amusing a bored companion.

“Yeah, well it wasn’t really a serious game--just taking shots, you know? Can’t get too messed up or the women will suspect something is amiss.”

She scoffs. “Did he try to trash talk you over triple-bonded card stock?”

“Actually,” he admits. “He talks some pretty impressive smack. Only one part of which involved paper, and it was the only time paper came up the whole night.”

“Oh yeah? What did he say?”

So he tells her.

“Come on!” she says disbelievingly, her eyes still on the road but her mouth curled up into an irrepressible smile. “There is no way he said that.”

“He did.”

“That is just--I mean, that is so damn lame, like that is the lamest thing I have ever heard someone say in athletic competition, and I used to play field hockey.”

“They talk a lot of trash in field hockey, Filippelli?” he replies inquisitively.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” she says. “It’s not like ice hockey, you can’t check someone or get into fights. Got to get that aggression out somehow.”

“See, I always thought that’s what the girls’ locker room was for,” Jim says, and Karen rolls her eyes.

“You’re such a perv, Halpert,” she shoots back accusatorially, but she’s hiding a grin that she thinks he can’t see. “You never talk like this around the cameras.”

“My mother’s going to see that documentary,” he says seriously. “I am not discussing anything remotely approximating sex with my mother, even if she does resemble a producer at the time.”

“See, this is how I know you’re Catholic,” she says, laughing to herself. “It’s not the idea of national television seeing you talk about your pervy fantasies, it’s that your mother might figure out that you have sexual desires.”

“Yeah, what’s your point?” he says, and she laughs out loud this time.

“But seriously, what did you two talk about?”

She is genuinely curious and more than a little excited. Despite being so career-minded in her own right since she started at Dunder Mifflin, she is a teenager in that she can’t wait to tell her friends how cool her boyfriend is.

“Oh, nothing,” Jim says lightly. “He says I should think about going back to school, maybe getting my MBA.”

Karen snorts. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”

“He said something to you?”

“Not exactly,” Karen replies. “But Wallace is pretty snobby about that sort of stuff, I hear he’d hire a desk chair if it came with a Wharton diploma.”

“I don’t know, I wouldn’t call it snobby. He’s a pretty good guy, actually.”

“Kiss-ass,” Karen says with a smirk. “I’m proud of you, you know?” She takes one hand off the steering wheel to clasp his, her eyes staying on the stretch of open highway ahead.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, you going out there and making an effort…”

“I played a game of basketball,” Jim says, making a face.

“Well, baby steps.”

He says nothing at first, but just smiles to himself a little.

“What’re you smirking about?” she asks curiously.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on,” Karen says, resisting the urge to pout. “Tell me.”

“It’s silly, really.”

“Jim,” she says seriously. “If I didn’t like silly, or find silly at least slightly cute, would I really be dating you?”

He ponders this. “Good point.”

“Well?”

“Wallace likes us. Together, I mean.”

She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “He wants a threesome?” Suddenly Jim wonders who the real pervert in this relationship is.

“No…I mean, I don’t think so. He likes us as a couple. Says we’re good together.”

She says nothing and he wonders if maybe he shouldn’t have told her, wonders if it sounds like he’s saying ‘Wallace, but not me,’ even though what Wallace said did more to make him think about them than anything has before, but then she says:

“Well, now that we know Wallace has the conversational priorities of a preteen girl…is this like the corporate culture equivalent of meeting your parents?” she jokes, wondering if that’s pushing him too far too soon.

But he laughs, his eyes and nose and head and heart filled with her, and she joins him and the highway goes on and on into the night.