Jim has to remind himself that he is evolved-Jim now. He’s trying to stick with some of the choices he made in Stamford, like the beautiful brunette who actually wants to date him and isn’t engaged… Nope, he doesn’t like to go there. Evolved-Jim makes it a habit not to think about the curly-haired receptionist with the barest fading tan line on her ring finger. Admittedly, evolved-Jim has been having some trouble sticking to his strict no thinking policy. He feels as if the one part of his evolution (there are exaggerated finger quotations in his mind every time he pictures the word, because he thinks he’s gone more backwards than forwards in the past six months, but that’s another tangent) that he has any semblance of control over is his commitment to cycle to work – every now and then.

As it turns out, today is then. It’s not fun. Mostly, it’s sweaty and miserable and he hates it. But hey, it’s probably good for him and he feels like he has the slightest bit of order in his life which is a nice change from the rest of it all. He pumps his legs and rounds the corner into the office carpark, rubbing the beads of sweat from his brow with the arm of his dress shirt. The one upside to steadfastly refusing to roll up his sleeves – another thing, he begrudgingly tells himself that he has complete power over.

He registers the crunch of tires on gravel a moment too late. Gone is the steady flow of sunshine into the lot. All he sees are stars shooting across a pitch black sky. He leans into it. It seems easier than evolved-Jim fighting him for every once of internal control. He gives all his power over to the darkness and a stillness replaces his thoughts.

* * *

Pam’s had to grieve for many a thing this year: the end of the era that was her relationship with Roy, her friendship with Jim, and then the possibility of friendship and maybe so much more slipping away upon Jim’s return from Stamford.

It shouldn’t surprise her that all this grief has impacted upon her art, and it really has. She only sees in greys and soft pastels now. Not that she was ever one for hugely vivid bright colors to begin with, but the occasional splash of something bold and beautiful tended to make its way in there – no more. Sometimes she tries to convince herself that it’s the loss of the life she knew with Roy that’s dulled the colors, but it’s no use, because she knows that even in the days with Roy it was Jim who added this brightness to her life.

Nonetheless, in those moments where Karen’s hand rubs Jim’s back in the parking lot and he accepts gum from her in a conference room meeting, Pam works a little harder to tell herself that Roy added some of the brilliance that once was.

When she consider the office in her minds eye now, she mostly sees in shades of beige.

That’s all the color she sees in this slow morning moment – bland browness spread out before her – as she dutifully refills the jellybeans on the counter at her desk. It’s symbolic now, considering that the person she fills it for is the least likely to slip over to her desk and indulge in her sweets. She’s on her feet as the door swings over, eyes flicking up automatically to catch a glimpse of Michael stepping into the office. He pauses at her desk. She attempts a smile, but he refuses to meet her eyes. It’s unusual for Michael to greet her with such solemnity. He turns his back to her and taps loudly on the counter, clearing his throat with a scratchy sigh. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he starts as the eyes in the room gradually swing towards him. “I have some bad news. Jim was hit by a car.”

Pam knees give way. She sinks into her seat. Not Jim! her mind screeches.

“Where?” Oscar demands. Pam can’t convince her mouth to form words. She’s a little afraid that if she opens it, all that will seep out is a wail. The little color remaining in the world ceases to exist as Pam knows it.

“It happened this morning in the parking lot. I took him to the hospital and the doctors tried to save his . . life . . they did the best they could. . .”

Pam chokes back the bile rising in her throat. Gone are the soft pastels. Gone is the grey. All that remains is black and empty and threatens to swallow her whole and she wants it to.

“And he is going to be okay.” Michael grins and throws his hands up in the air in relief.

Pam needs to vomit.

“What is wrong with you? Why did you have to phrase it like that?” Stanley mutters with the steady shake of his head.

She still needs to vomit. She tries to pull air into her lungs.  

“Did you see who did it?” Andy asks, rolling his chair away from his desk and towards Michael.

This plunges Dwight to action, who immediately responds, “no need. We can just check the security tapes.”

Michael pales. “Gah. Kind of good news, bad news there. I was able to be on the scene so quickly because I was in the car that hit him.”

“Who was driving?” Dwight demands. “Oh Michael,” he adds as he registers Michael’s slightly apologetic expression.

Pam decides that if Jim is actually okay that she is going to kill Michael.

Fury begins to swell, but falls flat. Anger is red, and she’s done denying that Jim adds the color in her life. She feels like she’s living in an old black and white film, and not in the fun, romantic way – everything filtered through a colorless lens echoing the emptiness she feels.

Pam knows it’s not really her place anymore, but she doesn’t care. Karen is probably mimicking her actions, but she doesn’t register it. She tests her legs and finds that she can stand on them despite that fact her entire being is trembling and her world has gone black. Her keys are in her hand and she’s drifting towards the hospital, the thread that always been binding her to Jim is tugging her forwards and she’s given up fighting it once and for all. She lets it pull her forwards, taking the stairs because she can’t bare to stand still in the elevator.

She drives her car on autopilot. There’s an irony there – that she is paying no care to how she drives her car when Jim has just been hit by one. It strikes her that this may be it, the thing she never actually forgives Michael for. She may have finally found her limit. She will end Michael over this if it comes to it. She thinks back to his announcement, moments before and the knot tightens in her stomach. She needs to get to Jim.

She’s pulling into the hospital carpark before she really has time to plot Michael’s bloody and violent demise. She’s fairly certain that this train of thought is the only thing keeping her from actively breaking down and sobbing hysterically. She lets it drive her. Pam feels the bile steadily rising in her throat for what feels like the tenth time this morning as she switches her engine off.

She’s been rushing towards him, but feels her momentum slow. She’s utterly terrified of what she may find. She knows this is it, that the darkness will eclipse her and the color will continue to seep out of her world never to return if Jim is... something less… Her brain is screaming freeze, but her legs – bless them – are in fight mode and continue propelling her forward. The thread tying her to Jim pulses and pulls her closer as she continues to near him.

She reaches the nurses station, and, “Jim Halpert,” falls from her lips as she cringes. The sound of her voice is raw and grating and she can hear the emptiness echoing from her. The nurse takes pity on her, and her response is kind, calm and measured. She gently points Pam in the right direction. Pam tries to thank her, but finds she can’t get the words out. Her entire world has pinpointed down to laying her eyes on Jim. She just needs to know.

Michael had said he was okay. She knew Michael better than just about anybody. She knew that Michael’s affirmation was meaningless. He would lie to paint himself into a better picture. Of that she was sure. There was no knowing until she actually knew.

She wills herself into his room, with a mantra of it’s better knowing throbbing through her mind. She releases a raw sob as she sees him. She lets the frame of the door take her weight, unable to keep her shaking legs from giving out on her completely. He’s conscious. She’s never felt palpable relief flood through her like this before. The thread joining them swells and fills her heart with an aching, tangible joy.

A doctor stands in the room, with his back to her. Pam’s sob swings Jim’s gaze to her face, albeit a little slower than usual. She can see the dull flash of pain float through his eyes that is quickly replaced with that intangible Jim-ness. Jim beams at her and her heart thuds loudly in her chest. He hasn’t looked at her like that since before Stamford. Jim is back. The flood of color, bold and vibrant that pulses through her is enough to restart her battered, blackened heart.

He stretches a hand towards her and she gladly complies, drifting forwards, her own hand outstretched in return. “Pam,” he croaks, as if seeing her for the first time in months, which as she thinks about it may just be the first time he’s really looked her in the eyes in a long time.

The doctor clears his throat. “Jim. Just a few more questions. You told me your birthday, next – ”

Jim cuts him off. “Do I get bonus points if I tell you her birthday too. It’s the 25th of March, 1979.” Pam releases a squeak of a giggle and feels dizzy with relief, acknowledging his answer with the squeeze of his hand that by some miracle is still clasping hers.

The doctor is less than amused by Jim’s comprehensive Pam knowledge. “What is the date today?” he grunts. Jim’s brow furrows in response. He glances at Pam for reassurance. She shrugs, a gentle reminder that the answer falls solely on him.

“Umm,” he quirks his lips in that patented Jim way. He closes his eyes for a moment, searching his bruised and battered mind for a response. “January 3rd?” he guesses.

Pam catches the doctor’s gaze as he eyes Jim shrewdly. She feels the steady calm she’d found since laying eyes on Jim begin to strip away. It’s not right. It’s not even close to right considering it’s December. The color throbs at the edge of her awareness. “2006?” he adds weakly, flicking his eyes worriedly from Pam to the doctor. She tries to convey reassurances from behind her troubled stare, but she can’t keep the fear out.

Of course, in the last two minutes she’s forgotten something very crucial to this whole thing. All she’s registered is her pull towards Jim. Somewhere it’s slipped out of her mind entirely that Karen exists. The reminder as Karen steps into the room is jarring. She tries to pull her hand back from Jim and maintain normal used-to-be-best-friends decorum.

She is met with a puzzled look and he grips her hand tighter in response, refusing to relinquish it. As she gently tugs her hand back, Jim’s fingers catch on the fourth knuckle of her left hand where he expects to find purchase – she can tell the moment it floods his awareness, that the ring that has been the silent partner dictating the terms of their friendship for years is gone.

His fingers fumble and he lets go of her hand completely, his eyes searching hers for answers as his jaw drops into a silent oh.

She nods gently, feeling her eyes well with tears – it’s been a damn long year. She is met with unparalleled joy, she can see the moment he tries to taper it down and hide it under his usual careful mask, but the light lingers in the corner of his eyes.

Karen misses this wordless exchange. Pam can feel her stare burning into the point where their hands had been clasped until moments before. Karen must shake off her annoyance, because she carries forward, rounding the doctor to stand at Jim’s other side, with a carefully furrowed brow of concern that Pam feels she’s painted on to cover up her annoyance at finding Jim so amiable with Pam. Karen presses her lips to Jim’s forehead and his eyes bug. His gaze swings from Karen to Pam, absolute confusion the reigning emotion.

He clears his throat, and with an attempted tone of detached indifference that Pam can read like a book, casually asks, “Uh, Doc? What’s the date today?”