Jim's having a New Year's Eve party. He doesn't tell her in person, which hurts, although no more than the myriad of other blows she suffers each day. Pam receives a mass e-vite on the Friday before the 31st, close enough to the date that most people have probably already made plans. Of course, she has none. Before she hits RSVP, she tries to imagine how beautiful Karen will look on his arm, probably in something classy. A black suit, maybe, with a sparkly top underneath. Nothing too flashy. Reply sent, Pam settles back in her chair and stares at the back of Jim's head. Maybe Kelly will take her shopping.

*

After returning from Stamford, Jim moved back in with Mark, and for second, it's like nothing's changed since the karaoke barbeque. Pam trips a little on the front walk, nervous. Her shoes are too high, her dress is too short and she's trying too hard. It's already embarrassing and she's not even inside yet. Her fist pauses inches from the door while she considers that this might be the worst idea since the time she went back inside the cabin of the Lake Wallenpaupack Princess because she was "cold".

The door swings open before she can make a decision, Creed emerging with a joint hanging precariously off his lower lip. He points at her like she's a miraculous apparition. "Hey! It's the receptionist!" He calls inside over his shoulder: "The receptionist found us out! Hide your weed!" He turns back, all smiles. "Smokin' dress. I'm just going for a cigarette. No funny business. You wanna come?"

Pam fights to keep her mouth from falling open.

"No?" Creed shrugs. "Suit yourself." He disappears around the corner with a flicking noise she recognizes as a lighter. A Stevie Wonder song starts on the stereo and she considers it a good omen. Stevie can only lead to good things. Her father told her that once, twenty years earlier, and it's always been true. I've done a lot of foolish things that I really didn't mean. The lyrics make her gulp as she steps over the threshold.

There are a lot of people she doesn't know, friends of Mark's, she guesses. Pam creeps into the living room, searching for sympathetic eyes. Kelly approaches and presses a glass of champagne into her hand. "Oh my God, Pam, you look soooooo gorgeous! Where did you find that dress? Did you go to the store I told you about? You are such a goddess in red!" Kelly waves across the room. "Ryan! Look at how beautiful Pam is! Can you believe it? She's like Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge!"

Pam bows her head and blushes. Red had seemed like a good idea at the time (like so many other things in her life), only now people are staring as Kelly gestures emphatically at Pam's cleavage and she mostly wants to sink through the hardwood floor. She gulps her beverage, the bubbles rushing down her throat. Jim's watching with curiosity from across the room, although it's more amused interest than anything, so she can't take it seriously. The champagne flute is empty in a matter of seconds and she gravitates towards the kitchen, hopefully holding out her glass to temporary bartender Oscar. He pours, smile compassionate. Gil nods encouragingly.

She forces herself back out into the thick of things. The pictures on the wall are still the same, stark photographs of clouds and art that eludes her interpretation, a combination of beautiful and ridiculous. It's easy to tell what Jim chose and Mark added. Romantic versus pretentious. She's staring at a puff of white vapor when a hand brushes the small of her back and doesn't move away. "You look really nice."

Pam turns, enveloped in a familiar, welcome scent, clean and masculine. "Uh, thanks. You, too."  Jim's wearing a charcoal gray wool sweater she's never seen before, with a blue button up shirt underneath. It's a good look.

Jim laughs, drops his hand, but doesn't step away. "Thanks. Did you get a drink?"

She holds up her full glass. "Yup."

"Of course." He fiddles with the light switch, picking at the painted-over screws. It's a relief that he's just as nervous as she is. Silence connects them like an accusation. Karen spots them and Pam panics, scans her brain for some way to make the profound lack of words friendly. Nothing comes and she hopes Jim will save them.

He fails, miserably, shifts away from Pam without a trace of subtlety. "Oh. Hi. Are you, uh, having a nice time?"

Karen glances between their two guilty faces, clearly sensing the tension. "What's the matter?"

Jim musters a grin. "What do you mean?"

Karen squints at them both. "Nothing. Never mind." She nods at Jim's empty glass. "Can I get you a refill?"

Jim looks down at his flute. "Oh. You know what? I'm okay for now. Thanks, though."

Pam hides an inappropriate smile in her champagne as Karen blinks in confusion and retreats to the makeshift bar. It's tough, but Pam bites her tongue, for the moment, anyway. All's fair in love and war. "Thanks for inviting me."

Jim's eyes are still on Karen as she sips a freshly poured martini. "Sure." He faces Pam and takes a faltering breath. "Hey, can you excuse me for a minute?" Without waiting for an answer, he turns and goes after Karen.

Pam stares at her new ruby colored shoes and suspects that maybe all the effort will go to waste.

*

Midnight is not far off, and Pam is officially drunk, watching Jim and Karen like she's going to be tested on it later. Every word is catalogued for review, on the slim chance that she will remember any of this tomorrow. It seems like they could be closer, all things considered. Maybe the situation isn't as dire as she imagined. The champagne is pounding in her veins, amplifying her heartbeat until she can't hear anything else. Kelly has vanished somewhere with Ryan and there's no one remotely sober enough left to have a distracting conversation with. She almost longs for Michael, misses the way he brings out the tender side of Jim. They'd rescue Michael together, if he were here to make a fool of himself.

Her heart drops as she notices Jim leading Karen towards the stairs. Pam sinks heavily onto the couch. Sadness is inevitable when you're drunk, alone, and wearing your nicest dress. Some of her drink spills onto a cushion and she leaves it to soak in. The Times Square countdown is on the TV, a tinny noise beneath the beat of the music. Twenty minutes until the New Year. She could be home by then, in her pajamas.

A door slams on the second floor. Moments later, Karen comes sweeping down the stairs, Jim rushing after her. "Karen, wait."

Karen stops at the front door and spins to face him. Pam couldn't stop staring if she wanted to. "New Year's Eve, Jim. Really? You couldn't hang in there and dump me on Valentine's Day?"

Jim has the sense to look sheepish. "Karen, I'm really sorry."

Everyone at the party is watching now, peering down the hall. Karen notices and raises her voice, projecting towards the living room, a wry grin on her lips. "I'm so glad I didn't sleep with you!" She waves to the onlookers. "Good night everyone! Happy New Year!"

The door swings shut behind her and Jim remains with his back to the party. Pam suspects he's too embarrassed to turn around. She would be. At last he straightens his shoulders and faces the audience. His mouth twitches - like he might try to say something to clear the air, although ultimately he just ducks his head and slowly strides back up the way he came.

Pam is frozen in her seat, slack-jawed. Gil catches her eye and inclines his head in the direction Jim went. It takes her a second before she realizes what he's trying to say. Go after him, girl. "Oh!" She claps a hand over her mouth when she realizes the "oh" was out loud. She lurches to her feet, worries she might be too drunk for this to end how she hopes it will, nervously smoothes the wrinkles on the front of her dress. Her hair is probably a mess. The stairs seem steeper than they should be, the carpet and the alcohol making her sharp heels unsteady. She knows the way to his room and it's the only door closed in the hall. Her knock is whisper quiet, because maybe he won't hear and she won't have to be brave tonight, can go home, and sleep it off.

The door opens before she can chicken out and her mouth gapes. Jim runs a hand through his hair and stands back, a sort of welcome. "Hi." She follows him into the room. Everything has been rearranged by two hasty moves and the walls are bare, like he hasn't quite settled in.

She's not sure how to start. The champagne got her this far, only now her tongue feels thick and clumsy. "I didn't...um..." She hikes her thumb over her shoulder. "I wanted to make sure... are you okay?" Was that a sentence? It doesn't seem likely.

Jim shakes his head. "I'm such an idiot."

She's not sure if he means for breaking up with Karen or dating her in the first place, so she declines to comment in detail. "Oh." Not her best work.

Jim lifts his head, as if suddenly noticing that she's in his bedroom. His eyes sweep down her body and she blushes, feeling totally naked under his gaze. Her fingers tighten around the glass still in her hand, fighting the urge to see how soft that sweater would be against her skin. Their eyes meet and her blush deepens.

He finally finds his voice again, gets back on topic.  "Sorry you had to see that."

Pam sets her drink on the edge of his desk. "I'm sorry you had to... you know. That sucks."

He nods, drops his eye-line to the bed. The promise of it, so close, puts indecent thoughts in her head. "Yeah. Maybe it's for the best."

"Oh," she says again, entranced by the bob of his Adam's apple at the top of his unbuttoned collar. That wonderful mouth is moving and she struggles to focus.

"Pam?"

"Yeah?"

He rubs his forehead. "I think I need to be alone right now."

Well. That's not good. Pam fingers the hem of her dress, trying to scrape together some extra courage. "I don't want to go."

Jim actually does a double take. "You... what?"

There's shouting downstairs and Pam recognizes a countdown. Impulsively, she steps forward and grabs the front of Jim's sweater, pressing her lips against his as everyone on the first floor yells "Happy New Year!" He doesn't respond at first and maybe she's drunker than she thought, since she's kissing a man who has only been single for eighteen minutes. He isn't drawing back though, so she keeps going, hoping for a miracle. It comes in the form of his arms sliding, settling around her waist. An incredibly sexy moan rumbles his chest under her forearms. It's better than the last time they kissed, because now she can really taste him and not be scared of the way her stomach bottoms out.

She pulls away slightly, a satisfied smile on her lips. "I thought we'd never get to do that again."

He dips his head for another kiss. "We've never done that."

There's a noise in the hall and they both jump back. Toby rocks awkwardly from foot to foot, obviously trying to decide his best route of escape. "Sorry, I was just... bathroom?" Jim points to the right, silently. Toby nods, slowly. "Thanks. By the way, I didn't see anything. In case you were wondering." He offers a faded smile and a second later Pam hears the bathroom door shutting.

When she turns back, Jim is watching her carefully, his sweater stretched out of shape where she'd been gripping it. "Pam, what are we doing?"

She wants to retreat, terrified by his reluctance. She's come this far though, and can't give up so easily. "Celebrating."

He cocks his head to one side. "And what is it we're celebrating?"

His expression is serious, which always makes her nervous. She prefers the smile of a co-conspirator. "New Year's. Why, what did you think we were celebrating?"

"Oh. Yeah, that." His face falls and she immediately regrets making light of the situation.

She laughs. "I'm kidding, Jim. I'm totally kidding. Sorry, was that not a good moment to make a joke?" She moves back into his arms and smiles when they automatically go around her waist again.

Relief floods his features. "No, not a good moment." He chuckles. "You, Beesley, are a terrible person." His lips brush across the bridge of her nose. "I'm supposed to be hosting a party."

She plucks at his sleeve, head down. "Everyone's drunk; they won't notice you missing."

"I think you're drunk." His words are little wisps of air that stir the hairs at her temple.

"If you're going to take advantage of my drunken state, maybe we should close the door." The thought of being alone with him, in his bedroom, makes her positively giddy.

He goes still under her touch, like he's been insulted. "I am not going to do anything until you tell me."

His earlobe is soft and a little cold between her teeth. "Tell you what?"

"Whatever you came up here to tell me." He's obviously trying to ignore what her tongue is doing to the tendon in his neck.

She tries to distract him with a kiss, but he steps back and crosses his arms over his chest, a mock-stern look on his face. She raises her eyebrows. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. That is, if you want me to kiss you again, which I think you do."

Her hand reaches for his. "Do we have to discuss this now?"

He catches her wrist and holds it. "No. Say it."

The force of his tone sends a shiver down her spine. "Jim..."

"It's your turn, Pam." His strict look is a bit of a turn on, frankly.

She rehearsed this, a million times. In front of her mirror, in the car on the way over. Even if she forgot the whole speech, there's always the back-up plan just saying I love you and leaving the rest to chance. It seems like the important part, anyway. The words just won't come, though, not when he's standing there with her wrist in a vise grip. Talking is the last thing on her mind. Her free hand touches his belt, trails across the top of his thigh where his restraint is belied by his body's response.  

His eyes flutter closed for a second and maybe she won't have to say anything at all. He reaches out behind them blindly and slams the door shut, then walks her backwards to whatever unyielding surface presents itself first. A wooden chest of drawers, littered with family photos that tip over in the collision. She's holding her breath, not sure if he's going to yell at her or kiss the hell out of her.

He does neither; instead lowering his hand, smoothing the side of her dress down the outside of her hip until he reaches the bottom edge of the fabric. The nail of his index finger scrapes gently at her nylons. The discovery that they are lace-topped stockings causes him to look up in surprise. She smiles at him smugly, daring him to continue with her eyes. He takes the dare, pushes his hand up under her hem to caress the bare skin on the inside of her thigh. Her breathing restarts, then hitches again. His name escapes her lips as a hiss.

He leans in, exhales lightly next to her ear. "I'm going to make you say it." His fingers sweep up between her legs, pressing against the damp satin.

She bites her lower lip and positions her body to give him better access. "God, I hope so." The tendons in her wrist flex in his grip and he releases it, places her hand on his shoulder, covering it with his own. She gathers a handful of wool in her fist, an anchor point so she won't melt away under his touch. He's watching her, drinking in her reaction to his movements.

He ventures further, brushing slick skin. "Is this okay?"

She nods so violently it makes her dizzy, gasps when his finger slips deep inside her with a single thrust. She can scarcely remember her own name anymore, never mind what it is she's supposed to be telling him. When his thumb nudges her clit, she sees stars behind her closed eyelids. He adjusts, explores, until he finds just the right rhythm and angle to get her writhing with pleasure. She climaxes, the red silk of her dress spilling across his forearm, the edge of the dresser digging in her back.  

He crooks that clever finger and her whole body spasms again. "Now will you say it?" His voice is crackling with desire.

She drops her forehead against his chest, opens her mouth to bestow on him every endearment she can think of, when she's interrupted by footsteps in the hall, then Kevin's voice calling out. "Jim! Hey, Jim, are you up here?" Jim yanks his hand away and her knees start to buckle. She presses the back of one hand to her lips and braces the other on the dresser. 

Kevin is dangerously close now. "Jim?" The bedroom door swings open. "We can't find the..." Blankly, his gaze wanders back and forth between Jim's rumpled sweater and Pam's flushed cheeks. "Oh." He smiles, slowly, realization dawning. "Ohhhh. You should really lock the door."

Jim sighs. "Yeah, I'm getting that. What is it, Kev?"

"It's not really that important, you know, if you need to... Mark can't remember where you said you put the rest of the beer and he said I should ask you." Kevin turns to Pam to explain something she could really care less about. She's biting her lower lip so hard she's starting to taste blood. "Mark is really drunk."

Jim glances at her, then back at Kevin. "It's outside on the patio, Kev."

"Yeah. He said he already looked there."

Jim scratches the back of his head. "You know what? I'll be right down."

Kevin reverses into the hallway. "Okay."

When he's gone, Jim fixes her with a smoldering glare. "We're not done here, Beesley." He closes the door behind him to give her a moment alone.

*

Nearly half an hour passes and Jim doesn't return. She suspects it's intentional, his way of making her do all the work. Which is fair, if she thinks about it. She sits on his bed for a while, trying to compose herself, then crosses the hall to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her cheeks. The reflection of her face reveals a sly half-smile and nipples still straining under the silk of her dress. She presses her fingers to them, willing them into submission. She cannot possibly rejoin the party like that.

Satisfied at last with her appearance, she descends the stairs on shaky legs. No one notices her entrance and she leans on the end of the kitchen counter as casually as possible. Her abdomen is still pulsing slightly with the warmth of orgasm and it's kind of exciting, to spot Jim across a room full of their coworkers (and some strangers), knowing what they just did. He meets her gaze and raises one of his eyebrows suggestively.

She grins and lays her palm on her chest, silently mouths the words he's been waiting to hear. I love you.