Pam was so absorbed in the task of correctly measuring all of the ingredients for her next batch of cookies that she didn't even notice when the sounds of Jim wrestling the Christmas tree into its stand stopped coming from the living room. She pressed her tongue between her lips as she measured out exactly half a teaspoon of vanilla and poured it into the big pink mixing bowl that she'd splurged on when she'd moved into her own apartment.

This was Pam's second Christmas in her little one-bedroom place near Dickson City; she loved having her own space and living as she pleased. Living in her apartment had gotten even better about eight months after she'd moved in, because that's when she and Jim had finally gotten their act together and started spending lots of time in the apartment together. Just knowing that he was in her living room, grappling with the poor tree, made her warm and happy inside.

She had just poured one cup of flour into the bowl and was reaching into the bag with the measuring cup for the next when she felt two very large hands spanning her waist. "Oh, my God!" she yelped, both her hands flying into the air. The flour shot up into the air and cascaded down over them like heavy snow, sticking in their hair and sprinkling all over their clothes.

He managed to keep from snickering until she pulled back, eyes wide and hands in flailing position. "What the hell was that?" she asked, obviously about ten seconds away from laughing herself.

"Oh, my God. Yes," he choked out between laughs. "That was officially the most successful ‘sneak up on Pam' moment of all time!"

"Jim!" she squealed, trying very hard to frown. "You ... are ... so ..."

He doubled over in laughter, resting his hands on his knees, when he saw her huffing angrily while covered in flour.

"You are so dead!" she cried, reaching her hands into the big bag of flour and unceremoniously dumping the handfuls over his head.

His mouth dropped open. "Oh, Beesly, it is on!" he replied. He grabbed the bag and started tossing globs of the soft white powder at her. She shrieked and started scooping up the flour that had fallen to the floor into a little pile that she could fling at him. He moved to stand over her and dumped the rest of the bag's contents into her already-powdered hair.

She came up for air, sputtering and wiping the flour off her face. "Dead!" She lunged for him, trying to stuff the flour she'd managed to gather down the back of his jeans. In his haste to avoid her, however, he slipped on a spot on the floor which was especially caked in flour and wound up in a heap against Pam's kitchen cabinets.

"Truce," he said weakly.

"Oh, God," she said, dropping the flour and shuffling on her knees to his side. "Are you okay?"

"Ouch," he replied. He winced as he reached around to rub on his back.

She pressed her lips together and frowned. "Does anything feel broken?"

"My pride?" he said. She sighed. "My tailbone is a little sore."

"Here, lean forward and let me look," she offered. As he did, however, she felt his strong arms wrap around her, and before she knew it, she was sprawled on her back on the flour-covered linoleum. "Oh, my God, you suck!"

He let out a laugh that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. "I had my fingers crossed when I asked for a truce."

She struggled against him, but he pinned her wrists to the floor and blew a noisy raspberry against her neck. "Stop it! Hey!"

"Ow!" he cried as her knee connected with his thigh. "Play fair, would you?"

She snorted and used her lower body to flip them over so that she was straddling him. "You're one to talk."

"Well, this isn't against the rules of the game. I don't mind this."

"I'll bet you don't," she replied flirtatiously. "Say you're sorry."

He batted his eyelashes innocently. "For what, Beesly?" He freed one of his hands from her grip and reached under her T-shirt to tickle her ribs.

"Don't!" she squealed. "Quit it!"

"Say ‘I'm sorry I tried to shove flour down your pants,'" he demanded, finding the spot he knew was the most ticklish and attacking it mercilessly.

"I - I'm sorry I tried to shove flour down your pants," she gasped. "Kind of."

He flipped them over again and tickled her with both hands. "Say ‘Jim Halpert is the hottest man on the planet.'"

"Oh, come on!" she giggled.

"Pam..." he threatened, tickling her under her arm.

"Noooo!" she shrieked. "JimHalpertisthehottestmanontheplanet!"

He started laughing as she managed to lever herself up into a half-sitting position, clawing at his sides. "Say ‘I'll marry you, Jim.'"

Still squirming against him, it took her a moment to register what he had said. "Wait, what?"

He stopped tickling her and brushed away the strands of hair that had fallen into her eyes. "Say ‘I'll marry you, Jim.'"

"But..." It took a moment for her to regain her composure, but soon she was straightening her shoulders and looking him straight in the eye. "Nobody named Jim has asked me to marry him that I know of."

He smiled, leaning in to kiss her softly on the cheek. "Will you marry me, Pam?"

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. "Really?"

"Really."

He felt his heart swell up as she broke out in the biggest grin he'd ever seen. "In that case, I'll marry you, Jim."

"You will?"

"Are you kidding me? Of course," she said, looping her arms around his neck and ruffling his flour-streaked hair.

He tackled her and kissed her soundly. "I love you, Pam."

She buried her face in his neck, tickling him with her eyelashes. "I love you, too."

They lay wrapped in each other's arms for a moment before he pulled back and asked, "Why ‘of course'?"

"Huh?" she asked, brushing a streak of flour off his cheek.

"You said ‘of course' you would marry me."

"Right. Of course I'll marry you, because otherwise I'll have to find someone else to put up my Christmas tree next year."

The mock-wounded expression on his face sent her into fits of giggles again, resulting in another bout of wrestling on the floury kitchen floor.