On the day that the cameras had arrived at the office, they'd looked for four-leafed clovers for the first time.

The honking horn that had so mercifully interrupted that awkward moment - wherein he inquired about her headache, twisting uncomfortably in his chair while she clutched a tissue and fumbled, stammering as she answered him in half sentences - had not been Roy, as they'd both initially suspected. Pam, in fact, had known that it couldn't have possibly been Roy, because they'd said goodbye shortly before the whole debacle with Michael, Roy heading over to Darryl's house for a fantasy football thing.

When Jim had suddenly straightened in his chair, assuming it was Roy, she'd let him go on thinking that, offering up a faltering "Listen, have a nice weekend" before heading toward the elevator.

She'd been pacing the small patch of green just adjacent to the parking lot for close to ten minutes before Jim appeared, looking surprised - and unmistakably delighted - to see her standing there, one toe skimming the grass in front of her.

"Hey," He greeted, his steps slowing. "I thought you left with...Roy."

Always he hesitated before saying Roy's name, she'd noticed, as if uttering it stung him so much that he had to take a moment to prepare himself.

"No, I just..." She didn't finish, wondering how the pervasive sense of the camera's gaze had managed to follow them outside, even though there was no camera in sight.

A heavy, uncomfortable pause fell as he watched her, her head lowered, eyes scanning the ground in front of her.

"So..." He cleared his throat. "What're you doing out here?"

"Looking for four leaf clovers." She answered absently without looking up at him.

He nodded, his hands on his hips as he, too, surveyed the ground. "Searching for good luck?"

"Mmm-mm." She shook her head, kneeling to lean closer to the ground, her eyes trained on a small patch just to the left of her shoe. "You get a wish."

"What?" A smile was tugging at his lips as he watched her.

"That whole 'good luck' thing is bogus." She squinted, inspecting her target area more closely. "Instead, you get a wish."

"I see." He nodded, his eyes scanning the ground beneath him as he suddenly started, then knelt down, snatching a fragile green stalk from the ground before holding it up triumphantly.

"What...?" She was baffled.

He held it out to her, the perfectly formed four-leaf clover, his eyes scanning her expression.

"So I get a wish, right?" His voice had all of a sudden gone gravelly.

"I guess so." She pretended to be nonchalant, her heart beginning to quicken for reasons she couldn't really have explained.

"Do I have to say it out loud?" He asked quietly, his hazel eyes never leaving her face.

"Maybe." The enigmatic answer slipped out before she knew it. She braced herself for his good natured ribbing, but instead, he only held her gaze more carefully.

"What happens if I don't say it out loud?" The stalk was rapidly wilting between his fingers; she found herself wondering if he noticed the way her clavicle rose and fell, her cheeks and collarbone flushed.

"Then I guess you'll have to just..." She gulped. "...make it come true."

She kind of understood in that moment what people meant when they described an out-of-body experience - feeling swept along by impulses entirely beyond one's control, looking down in astonishment at the events that unfold, wholly divorced from all rational thought or concrete sense of context.

She knew he was going to kiss her well before his lips brushed against hers. It was all over him, the desire: His hands trembled slightly as he set the clover to the side; his eyes held hers for a long moment before lowering slowly, deliberately to her mouth.

In that instant, she wanted him with such a ferocity that she'd have had let him have her there on the grass if he'd pursued it.

Thankfully, he hadn't.

Instead, he'd simply held eye contact with her for a long moment before very slowly lowering his head, his lips nearing hers at such a languid pace that she could've easily pulled back, slapped his face, even, had she wanted to. He'd done it that way on purpose, she knew - just to be a gentleman, to ensure that he wasn't pushing her into something she didn't really want.

Of course she wanted it.

She wanted it even more because all he did was brush his lips lightly across hers before slowly pulling back - nothing more. No hands on her face, no tongue tangling with hers. Just a simple, chaste kiss that she should've been able to shake off. But the thing was, it only made her that much hungrier for him.

Without a word, his eyes never leaving hers, he picked up the discarded clover and pressed it into her palm.

With that, he was gone.

She hadn't moved from that spot for close to an hour after he'd left, oblivious to the chilly wind or the falling dusk. At first she didn't consciously think about anything - just stood there, all intelligent thought suspended as a slow, burning ache settled into her chest. With every breath she took, it seemed that the ache intensified, bringing her closer to a realization that she'd struggled to ignore for too long now.

By the time she walked slowly to her car, she had convinced herself that it was nothing; it hadn't even been a "real" kiss, and he'd probably done it just because he felt weirded out by the cameras, just because their presence meant that the two of them couldn't be as relaxed with one another as they were used to being.

He was her best friend, nothing more than that.

The next morning, he'd seemed relieved when she greeted him casually, acting the same way that she always did. But then, she thought she saw disappointment coloring his features more and more as the day wore on, yet she chose not to believe it.

In the years that followed, they'd never spoken of that day, the utter silence leading Pam to seriously wonder on more than one occasion whether or not she'd dreamed the whole thing. More often than not, she almost concluded that she had.

Of course, years of jinxes and pranks and hand-crafted doves passed, bringing with them an earth-shattering, soul-shaking confession followed by a kiss that was as chaste as the other one, yet passionate enough to rock her entire world, his intention - his need, his desire - inescapably clear. There was no convincing herself anymore.

Then there was his transfer, punctuated by an unexpected phone call that shattered the illusions she'd clung to (it's too late); then a rebound girl so beautiful that Pam sometimes felt despondent, because her beauty was eclipsed only by the fact that she was so damned likeable and so clearly crazy about him.

And now this - all the wasted time and things left unsaid shattered around them like the mirror that Roy had reduced to mere shards of glass.

Nothing was theirs anymore, probably never would be again.

Karen hadn't said much to him as they'd walked to their cars, and it was just as well for him; he didn't feel like talking anyway.  What he really wanted most was to be alone so that he could think, so he could try to figure out why in the hell Pam hadn't told Roy until now about Casino Night.  And why in god's name had she even told him in the first place?  What was she trying to accomplish, exactly?

He realized when he and Karen made it to their cars that they'd not settled on plans for the evening.  If dinner and a movie hadn't sounded good to him before, they sure as hell didn't appeal to him now.

So he gave Karen a small smile. "Mind if we take a rain check on going out tonight?"

He was relieved when she immediately shook her head, but the relief was fleeting.  

"Not at all...I mean, all things considered." Her eyes scanned his face, searching for his reaction.  He wasn't sure why he deliberately tried not to have one.  

She continued. "Why don't I pick up some Chinese and bring it over a little later?  How does that sound?"

It didn't sound remotely appealing.  For one thing, he knew he wasn't going to be able to eat; he hadn't been able to shake the faint nausea that had hit him in the moment that his eyes met Pam's just after Roy had called his name.  But more than that, he desperately wanted to be alone...because he was still reeling from everything that had happened, and he really wasn't sure that he could manage to hide it from Karen.  Not tonight.

So he gave her another forced smile, almost wincing as he said, "I'm really...just not hungry.  I mean - I don't know; I guess I'm a little..."

He didn't finish because he couldn't find the words to describe what exactly it was he felt at that moment. And even if he had, he knew that to have said it aloud would've probably been the end of them.

She swallowed hard, and he could see she was struggling. "Jim, it's just.... I don't think you need to be alone tonight."

"What?" He drew back. "I'm fine, really."

"Are you?" She asked pointedly, her eyes meeting his and holding them.

He knew he had no real choice here; to have insisted on being alone would've only made things that much worse.  Aside from that, he'd known almost immediately that he would have to answer for what had happened today; there was just no way she'd let it go.  

And when he really thought about it, he had to admit that he couldn't blame her.

So he smiled again, then nodded. "Okay; you win."

There was more defeat behind her smile than victory, but she nodded anyway. "Good.  So...give me time to take a shower and change.  How about six thirty?"

"Sounds good." He wondered if he'd ever looked her in the face before and lied to her.  He'd certainly misled her more than once, and while he wasn't proud of it, he rationalized it as simply necessary.

But two hours later as he sat across from her on his sofa, their discarded dinner containers scattered on the coffee table, he'd wondered (and not for the first time) if maybe he'd made a colossal mistake in thinking it was fair to get involved with her when he'd known it wasn't over with Pam.

Or rather, that it was still there, even though it would never be.

She hadn't brought up the incident with Roy until after they'd finished dinner, each of them having had a glass of wine, both working their way through a second.

"So..." She twisted to the side, carefully placing her wine glass on the end table next to her before turning back to look at him, her head tilted slightly. "Are you going to tell me what that was about this afternoon?"

He blinked, the hard knot of dread that had been in his gut all night quickening just a little.  He shook his head slowly, his mouth open as if he'd say something, but no words came out.

Finally, he managed to reply, "I honestly...don't know."

She cocked her head, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously, Jim...I need to know what's going on."

He sucked in a breath. "And I'm telling you that I'm not entirely sure what's going on."

She sat very still for a moment, looking away from him; he watched as her jaw set, lips in a firm line, then she suddenly turned to face him again, her eyes blazing with an anger that he hadn't seen coming.

"Are you really going to do this?  I mean, I thought we were past all this bullshit!" She stopped abruptly, then spat, "Damn it, Jim, the least you can do is be honest with me!  Because as much as you're in the nasty habit of forgetting I exist sometimes when Pam's around - "

"Whoa." He drew back. "That's not... It's not like that."

It was too late now, he realized; she was livid, her hands shaking as she reached for her wine, taking another sip as she tried to steady herself.

Then she turned to give him a level stare, her face betraying nothing, her voice flat. "Did something happen with you and Pam?"

"I told you - "

"Recently."

"No." He answered emphatically, leaning forward a bit when she looked away. "Seriously, Karen - look at me.  I wouldn't... No, I haven't even really talked to Pam in weeks."

He could see from the way her eyes roved his face that she wanted to believe him, and he suddenly felt a pang of guilt.  She didn't deserve this, any of this.

"Then why did Roy come after you today?" She asked softly, the fear evident in her expression now.  

He inadvertently lowered his head, his eyes on the carpet.  He wasn't sure why - much less how - it could still feel like a sharp blow to his solar plexus just to think back to Casino Night, but there it was.  And talking about it?  Too much, more than he was ready or able to handle.

Even though he knew he really needed to look at her when he answered her question, he just couldn't do it.  Instead, he remained with his head bowed slightly, his eyes on a scratch in the corner of one of the legs on the coffee table.

"Probably because she told him what happened between us last year."

She was clearly confused. "Why would that make a difference now?"

He desperately didn't want to answer that, because he knew that it would probably be the final piece of the puzzle for her...but there was just no way that he couldn't answer.  

And then he had the sudden realization that if he was really going to move forward and leave the whole damned mess with Pam behind him - if he was going to really try with Karen - then he'd have to just be honest; there was simply no other way to handle it.

So he raised his head to look at her, but in spite of himself, he averted his eyes as he answered gruffly, "Because she was engaged to him at the time."

She didn't react at first, and then her face slowly crumpled, her brows knitting, lips trembling as she stood up, putting the back of her hand to her mouth.  He, too, immediately stood, taking a step toward her as he said her name; she shook her head, turning her back to him.

He stood frozen, and when he saw her shoulders shaking slightly, the guilt was as sharp as the panic had been earlier today.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the ceiling, a little caught off guard by the lump in his throat.

His voice was hoarse: "Karen, please...just...look at me, please.  Please."

When she turned to face him, he sucked in a breath at the sight of the tears on her cheeks.  She'd only cried in front of him once before, and that was the day he'd admitted to still having feelings for Pam.

"I'm so sorry, Karen." It was a sharp whisper.

She started to shake her head, then stopped, wiping the tears away impatiently. "I don't want you to be sorry, Jim; I want it to be over...."

The fleeting panic that shot up his spine shocked him - made him realize how much he really did want her...this, however imperfect it was. "What're you...you want what to be over?  This? Us?  Because I don't..."

"No -" She was quick to shake her head. "These...all the stuff with...her.  You said it was nothing; you said it was just a crush, then just a kiss.  And now you - "

She stopped abruptly, putting her fist to her lips before finishing deliberately, "And now you tell me she was engaged to Roy when it happened..."

"That doesn't change anything." His voice was soft, the words hollow even to his own ears.

She laughed bitterly, a thread of hysteria beneath the intonation. "Are you serious?"

His eyes widened, prompting her to shake her head incredulously. "She didn't marry him, Jim."

He blinked, swallowing hard. "Okay."

He wasn't sure why he felt a slow-building panic rising in his chest, why he felt it necessary to brace himself for what she might say...until she said it.

"She obviously didn't marry him because of you."

"No." Now he was the one shaking his head, looking away, his jaw clenching. 

Because it hurt too fucking much to even think about the fact that she'd stared up at him in those moments, looking at him in such a way that he'd been certain things would be fine.  For the first time in months he'd been able to really breathe, because as he'd gazed down at her, his lips still pulsing, her hands warm in his, he'd known she wasn't going to do it.

She wasn't going to marry him.  

The relief and the elation and the utter shock were a welcome change from the heart-pounding panic that had steadily intensified as her wedding date drew near.

This is really it.

He'd leaned down to kiss her again, a blur of images racing through his mind, startlingly clear: kissing every inch of her naked body, whispering against her bare skin as he did so, telling her how long he'd wanted to do that very thing...being able to wake up next to her in the morning, to fall asleep after whispering with her in the dark. 

Holidays and normal days and work...no more running, no more wondering what the hell was wrong with him that he couldn't feel it for any other woman.  They'd laugh about it later, maybe even tell the story of how he'd waited so long for her.  He'd groan exaggeratedly; she'd laugh and look at him the way she had across that poker table.

He felt absolutely humbled by the prospect of how amazing it could be.

And then she'd stopped him, her voice catching on his name.  In that single moment, all of it came crashing down so unexpectedly that he was dizzy. How he managed to whisper, "You're really going to marry him?" was a mystery to him whenever he found himself thinking back to that moment...because just remembering it hurt so fucking much that he couldn't even sit still.

"Seriously, Jim." Karen's voice brought him back to the present.  She was more composed now, taking in a quivering breath. "There's a reason she didn't marry him."

"And it has nothing to do with me."

"Jim - "'

"No - " He felt frantic. "You have to just...stop."

"And you have to just be straight with me." False bravado in her eyes, but it didn't matter - because at least she was trying. "What the hell is going on?  Do you want this or not? Do you want me more than you want her?"

He wished she hadn't asked him that; it wasn't a fair question.  Because nothing had ever compared to--and that wasn't anyone's fault.  Certainly wasn't hers.

The train of thought made him angry; the sudden realization that Roy had lunged for him while Pam just stood there, knowing it was coming....infuriating.

Most infuriating of all was that he knew he could never really articulate to Karen just how desperately he did want her, how much he wanted this to work...god, he wanted it to work more than he'd wanted anything in a long time.  Since -

He shook his head in frustration, feeling her eyes on him -- watching him, taking him in, standing there trembling because she was brave enough to at least face it, to at least be honest and say Yes, I want you.

Her eyes widened when he took two steps toward her, his palms on either side of her face as he kissed her hard, so hard that when they drew back, they were both gasping and his lips were stinging.  When he looked in her eyes, what he was searching for was there: She wanted him.  She was afraid still, yes, but she wanted him.  And she was staring back at him boldly, her chest rising and falling, lips glistening.

It was frantic, an urgency in the way she unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, in the way that she impatiently helped him pull her own shirt over her head, throwing it to the side even as his lips found her breast, one of his hands fumbling with her bra.  When they were pressed skin to skin, slick with sweat, gasping, he gazed down at her, taking her in: the sheen of sweat on her smooth skin; the way her eyes didn't leave his face; her nails just barely skimming his back...her body pliant beneath him.  

She had every reason not to believe, and yet here she was...taking a chance, even though the deck was stacked against her.  She'd been blindsided by the whole situation with Pam...but here she was, naked and vulnerable beneath him because she wanted to be, in spite of it all; because she was brave enough to go all in.

He understood the risk, knew what the stakes were for her.

When he pushed forward, she gasped, but then she drew him closer, deeper, her eyes closing, head falling back.

His lips were against her ear as he murmured, "I want you..."

And in that moment, it wasn't a lie.

They didn't talk much after they made love that Friday night; he lay behind her, his body curved around hers as he felt her breathing grow more steady.  The rhythm of her breathing somehow made the silence more soothing; his limbs felt heavy with post-sex languor...relaxed, settled.

Inevitably, thoughts of Pam began to ebb into his consciousness, even as he fought to reason with himself.

This is where I need to be; this is what it's about....this peace, this calm.  Not that kind of obsessive, gut-wrenching thing that what I felt for Pam was.  

He lowered his chin, pressing his lips briefly to Karen's bare shoulder, inhaling her scent as he closed his eyes.  She shifted slightly, sighing in her sleep, bringing a small smile to his lips.  He always softened toward her when she was sleeping; there was something so obviously vulnerable about her then.

...And there's something to be said for the way she's just...mine.  She's not hung up on some ex; she's never gone back and forth about what she feels for me.  She's been upfront, right from the beginning.  

...Not like Pam.  Pam's not even capable of being upfront.  Maybe she doesn't even know what she really wants; maybe she'll never be able to see a life outside of Roy.

It made him sad for her, for the girl who had been his best friend once upon a time.  When he thought back to the way he'd once tried to encourage her to strive for more than just meeting Roy's expectations, he felt another tug of sadness - almost a kind of grief, because he just couldn't believe in her anymore.  It's not that he didn't still want to - god, it was so hard not to slip back into it all again - but seeing her walk out of that wedding hand-in-hand with Roy had forced him to let go of those old illusions to which he'd so unconsciously been clinging.  

While the part of him that had been unexpectedly hopeful in the wake of the cameraman's question ("If Pam were interested in you, would you want to give things a try with her?") was blindsided at the quick turn of events, the friend in him who had seen her through so many heartaches at Roy's hands - and had been so proud beneath the layers of hurt when he'd come back to see all the progress she'd made - it was that part of him she'd shattered the night of Phyllis's wedding.

Because seeing her leave with Roy brought home to him - finally - that he couldn't continue to be invested in her happiness in any way; no more continuing to watch her take ever-steadying steps forward that led her farther and farther from the girl whose spirit had been squelched by a man who held her back.

When she'd won that art contest and told him so - shyly, a flush on her cheeks - her eyes had been huge, trained on his face, sending an almost painful warmth right through him at the realization that what he thought still mattered to her, in spite of everything.  She still looked to him for encouragement.

He had been too disarmed by her obvious excitement to prepare himself; his reaction had been from the heart, effusive as he forgot for just a split second all the hell that he'd suffered at her hands over the past year. 

He'd been reminded of the days when they'd had a real connection - of the days when it had been enough to sustain him.

When she'd walked out that door with Roy in a dress that struck him as painfully reminiscent of the one she'd worn on Casino Night, she'd brought him face-to-face with the realization that he couldn't handle being emotionally invested in her anymore...in any capacity, not even as her friend.

And that was the hardest thing of all for him to take.

He woke up the morning after Roy's outburst to the sound of Karen bustling around in his kitchen, and he was surprised to find that he felt overwhelmingly glad that he'd let her talk him into dinner the night before; more than that, he was incredibly relieved to wake up and know she was still there.

Because she kept him from his thoughts, held those nagging questions at bay.  

He'd shocked even himself when he had tried to talk her out of leaving to go back to her apartment for a videotape shortly after lunch.  She'd been insisting that he see the season of Ally McBeal with Robert Downey Jr., and the enthusiasm in her eyes had warmed him unexpectedly.

Brushing her long, dark hair from her shoulder, he'd smiled at her, one eyebrow cocked. "Seriously...?  You have to go get it now?"

Whatever fears and anxieties she'd suffered through the night before had clearly been assuaged - probably because he sensed she was picking up on the fact that he was truly grateful to have her around.  "Yes - I'm telling you, you'll love it. Swear to god - it's really funny."

He'd given her a skeptical look, one eyebrow cocked. "I heard she's always getting upset and taking pouty walks."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized that Pam had told him that years before.  The pain was a sharp twinge in the pit of his stomach, which he ignored.

Karen chuckled at him, casually shoving aside a stray lock of hair that had stuck to her lips as she pulled on her coat.

He was struck then by how incredibly beautiful she was...out of his league, really.  The biting guilt was familiar, brought on by the nagging suspicion (yet again) that she deserved better.  

So he grinned and agreed to watch the show with her, walking her to the door and planting a long kiss on her lips, admonishing her in a low whisper, "Hurry..."

Her whole expression had softened, her finger warm as it trailed his cheek. "I will."

They'd spent the remainder of the weekend huddled in bed, watching episode after episode, and he was surprised to find that she was right; it was funny.  

"So..." After the first episode, she'd turned to him, lifting her chin in a way that made him smile warmly, touching her chin.

"'So...'?" He played dumb.

"It was funny - I know you loved it." She grinned at him.

He tried to keep a straight face, then gave up. "Okay, fine, maybe it was.  Something about the whole, 'Went to law school - sold out' line, maybe..."

She chuckled. "I'm a fan of her telling him, 'You are the biggest ass I have ever met.'"

"Oh?" His eyebrows rose.  "Remind you of anybody in particular, or was it just in the delivery of the line?"

She laughed at him then, shifting to put her arms around his neck.  Her hair smelled of coconuts; when he realized it was a familiar scent to him (not apples and pears and the agony of knowing it'll never happen), he lowered his lips to hers, breathing in deeply.  

Yes, it had been a good weekend - good enough to make him think that carpooling to work with Karen was a good idea.  The distraction that had plagued him on Friday seemed to have dissipated, in its place a surprising need to have her close.  

The spell had worn off as soon as he'd pulled into the parking lot and spotted Pam's little blue car.

When he sighed, Karen glanced over at him, her eyes soft in the way that they always were after they'd made love.  When he'd pulled her close that morning in bed after the alarm went off, she'd laughed at him.

"What's gotten into you, anyway?"

"Mmm." His voice was hoarse with sleep, muffled in her shoulder as he kissed her neck. "Don't know.  You, maybe...?"

Whatever witty retort she'd had ready was drowned out by the low moan in the back of her throat, his hand lowering, shifting between them carefully before she drew in a sharp intake of breath.  He'd smiled against her lips.

"You okay?" Her voice brought him back to the present, back to nodding and swallowing back the fear that choked him at the thought of seeing Pam again after all that had happened.  U2's "Stay (Faraway, So Close)" began to pulse in the background, making him wish he hadn't left that CD in his car.

He and Pam had listened to it one afternoon on the roof, the dilapidated old lawn chairs pressed close enough that they could share ear buds.  Three and a half years ago it had been, back when the tension was at a low simmer, with only a hint of the defeaning roar it would become.

He'd been startled to hear that - much of a U2 fan as she claimed to be - she had never bought the Zooropa cd.

"I heard it was too experimental or something." She'd ducked her head, tucking her bangs beneath her ear in a self conscious gesture.  

"Some of it is." He'd affirmed.  

She'd glanced up at him then, very conscious of the sudden awareness that he validated her every thought, or so it seemed.

"But some of it is just..." He paused, then, "Listen to this one.  I guarantee it'll make you want to go sketch."

She'd exchanged a grin with him, by some miracle not betraying the quaking within her at the comment he'd so casually tossed out.  Because it further underlined the fact that he really listened; he paid attention in a way that Roy never had.

On the occasions in which she found herself distracted by that pull toward her creative outlet, Roy had accused her of being bitchy and withdrawn.  

It had been a strangely intimate experience to huddle close to Jim - close enough to feel the stubble of his cheek against her own, close enough to inhale his scent.  At first they'd commented back and forth on the song - a nervous, clipped banter to distract themselves from the ever growing awareness they shared of the proximity of their lips.  Just one slight move....

If I could stay, then the night would give you up...
Stay...and the night would be enough
Faraway, so close....

For a second that seemed to stretch on for an eternity, their eyes had held.  She'd never forget the way his gaze had fallen to her mouth before he quickly corrected himself, flicking his eyes back to hers; when her tongue inadvertently darted out to wet her lips, he'd watched, his pupils dilating.

The song had ended abruptly, taking the moment with it; they'd been caught unawares, still leaning close, staring at each other while the significance of the moment resonated between them.

Just the bang and the clatter
as an angel hits the ground

She'd yanked the earbud out almost indignantly, thrusting it toward him without looking at him, murmuring, "Yeah, that was....good."

He'd watched helplessly as she mumbled an excuse, disappearing down the door to the kitchen.

And now here he sat in his car three years and more than a lifetime later, faced with it all over again.  He wanted to hate her for what she'd reduced them to, wanted to cultivate the anger that had been slowly building in him ever since Roy had charged at him.  

But the anger was hard to hold onto, he was finding; because the truth was that he almost felt like he and Pam had been prisoners of war together - had suffered unspeakable atrocities that only they could understand.  When he considered the sheer violence of having left her behind so unexpectedly - their final contact marked by an intimacy that had taken years to develop, only to be shattered by that single nod....well, old war buddies was an apropos metaphor.  

No matter that somewhere along the line, she'd morphed from his ally into the enemy.

Karen had given him a long, sizzling kiss in the elevator, her body pressed close as her hand trailed from his chest down to his crotch, shocking him, caressing him in a careless way that instantly affected him.  She'd felt it, her smile widening against his lips.

"You're really asking for it, Filapelli..." He whispered.

She drew back, eyes sparkling as she turned to go without another word, leaving him standing against the wall in a stupor.  

By the time he'd collected himself enough to step out of the elevator a few minutes later, the desire had long since faded, something very different and twice as compelling in its place.

Still he tried to convince himself that the pounding in his ears was a residual effect of her lips on his, her hand touching him in a way that Pam's never had...never would.

He knew what she'd look like when he walked in - those eyes would fasten on his face, huge, for a split second, and then she'd look away quickly.  If he could just believe that it was because she felt awkward, everything would've been all right.  But there was that fucking nagging suspicion of something more haunting him in the same way that the shadows behind her eyes wouldn't leave him alone.  

She'd gotten to work half an hour early that morning, hoping that he'd show up early, too...alone, so they could talk.  Because they needed to talk.

The old Jim would've wanted to talk.

And that's when it really dawned on her how much things had changed. Because "the old Jim" hadn't had a girlfriend; "the old Jim" had been at her mercy, hers alone.  And she'd thrown it all away.

She realized with a sinking feeling when he walked in a mere minute or two after Karen that they must've ridden in together.  It was a biting reminder of all the things she tried not to consider where they were concerned; it suggested an intimacy that sliced through her.  The realization that she had to sit across the room every day from the woman who was sleeping with Jim sometimes seemed too much to handle.  

She glanced up at him when he walked in, their eyes meeting for a split second (too long, he realized immediately, enough to obliterate a weekend of sex and laughter); he averted his eyes, shrugging off his coat, then hanging it on the rack, wondering if he was pulling off the casual thing.

To prove that he could do it, he gave her a casual smile, greeting her pleasantly. "'Morning, Pam."

In the beat that followed, he caught the familiar strains of the song he'd just been listening to and wishing away.

And if you listen I could call
And if you jump you just might fall
And if you shout
I'll only hear you

In spite of himself, he froze, his eyes darting to meet hers again.

The fact that he was so obviously stunned by the song she was listening to sent a surge of happiness through her, followed quickly by an impossibly sharp slice of raw pain.  Because somehow knowing he was remembering that day so long ago made the memory of it seem that much more impossible.

Stay with the demons you drown
Stay with the spirit that I've found
Stay and the night would be enough...

--------------------------

He kept his distance from her as best he could, was careful not to make eye contact with her.  He sent Karen an IM offering to take her out to lunch, telling himself it was just because he was feeling connected to her, wanted to hang onto that...ignoring the possibility that maybe he was just running away.

Pam watched him covertly all morning, searching his expression, willing him to look up at her, to just give her a chance to make an overature. But he seemed disinterested, never turning his eyes her way.

She was sitting at the break room table later that afternoon when suddenly he appeared.  She started, and he seemed to hesitate for a moment - as if he might just turn and walk way - but then thought better of it, making his way to the Coke machine.

This was the chance she'd been waiting for all morning, so she forced herself to say in a small voice, "Sorry I almost got you killed."

It was absolutely sickening to him how easily she could shake him - how fucking difficult it was to be in the same room with her, how hard it was not to look at her.

Still he managed a chuckle, saying noncommittally, "Yeah, that was nuts."

He pretended to be absorbed in which drink to choose.

She wasn't sure what to make of his response - he seemed distant, but she couldn't put her finger on whether he was angry or just incredibly tired.

So she went on. "He could've broken your nose or something...crazy."

She attempted a laugh and failed miserably as the awkwardness intensified.  He shifted on his feet, putting his change into the machine slowly, wondering if she knew how completely disillusioned he felt in that moment.  So many times they'd sat at that table and laughed easily.

Now this.

His back was fully to her now, and his utter silence was making her grow more and more nervous, but she forced herself to go on...because there were things she needed to say.

"It's just so stupid.  I mean, getting back with Roy and everything."  There, I said it; I'm sorry, Jim - it was stupid and a mistake and my god, he's not who I want.

She paused, ready to say more - to say it all - if he'd just turn around and look at her.  

But he'd given up the pretense of getting a drink, because he wasn't sure what she was getting at about Roy, and before he could stop it, the hope flared high.  Is she trying to tell me that she's sorry because she wants...?

He didn't even let the thought continue, because he'd felt that hope before, and it was a dangerous, destructive thing.

His head was bowed, his eyes on the floor as he said without a shred of conviction, "No, you guys seemed to have a really strong connection...."

He wanted to add, like what I have with Karen - just to hurt her, just to let her know what it felt like.  

But he couldn't do it, in spite of everything.  Still couldn't hurt her intentionally.

What he'd said made her desperate suddenly to make him understand.  

"Not anymore."  There was an unmistakeable certainty in her voice. "It's, um...completely over now."

She waited for him to react, her eyes sweeping from his shoulders to his feet, rising to rest at the back of his neck.  Even though she couldn't see his face, it struck her that he seemed absolutely exhausted, as if he'd just given up and didn't even have the heart to try anymore.

It was the thing she feared most.

As he stood there with his back to her, his eyes closed briefly, and he let his thoughts just go for a second: Then why'd you do it?  Why did you walk out of that wedding with him?  Why were you staring at me when I was dancing with Karen?  Why do you watch me all the time?  Because I swear to god, it seems like you want so much more.

"I'm sorry if you...misinterpreted things."  

It was the memory that shook him out of his funk.

He turned then, chuckling bitterly, then murmured as he walked away, "We'll see. I'm sure you guys'll...find your way back to one another some day."

She couldn't believe what he'd just said; the words struck her like a physical blow, prompting her to say, "Jim - "

He paused, turning warily to look back at her, trying not to really see her...as if maybe not focusing on her face would enable him to escape the fact that he'd just all but encouraged her to run back to Roy.  

She was caught off guard by wave of panic and regret that hit her when he turned around to face her.  She realized fully for the first time that there might not be any going back for them - ever.

Her voice was throaty, her heart full when she said with great difficulty, "I am really...sorry."

He hated hearing her say those words, because he'd heard them from her before.

In that moment he knew what people meant when they said they just felt world-weary, as if nothing would ever make sense or feel right again - because that's what this was like, so fucking frustrating to be standing there aching like that - seeing that she, too, was so clearly struggling with something.

And he thought he knew what it was, thought he suspected what it was she was really sorry about...but he wasn't about to make the same mistake all over again.

So instead he replied, "Oh yeah, don't worry about it."

She nodded, looking down at her hands as the tears welled in her eyes.  For a second the panic seized her, because she was about to lose it, and she knew it; if he were to just look at her, he'd see that she was about to cry, and that would be the end of it...

But he walked out the door, never looking back at her.  

Fourteen days later she was curled on her sofa nursing a glass of wine and mindlessly watching a re-run of Law and Order: SVU when her doorbell rang. She jumped, surprised, because it was after eight.

When she opened the door, Roy was standing there, rocking on his heels a little nervously, a large shopping bag in one hand. The way he smiled at her - shyly, with such a painful humility - made her want to just put her arms around his neck and cry.

Because no matter how out of line he'd been to do what he'd done - both at the bar and in the office - she still couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't deserve what had happened to him. He'd lost pretty much everything - the woman he'd believed for so many years that he would marry; the stable job he'd had for almost as many years; even, to a lesser degree, his reputation with everyone who worked at Dunder Mifflin, with the exception of a handful of his old friends from the warehouse.

Sometimes she thought back to Casino Night and marveled that just one night could have such far-reaching repercussions.

"Uh, hey." Those blue eyes skipped quickly away from her face, as if he were afraid to look at her directly, lest he scare her.

Again there was that sharp guilt.

"Hey." Her voice was warm, and she immediately stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come on in."

He ducked his head with a tight smile, dimples flashing, then gestured behind him to his truck. "I, uh...I really can't stay."

"Oh, okay... What's up?" She asked, leaning against the door frame.

"Well, I wanted to give you back some of your stuff." He gestured to the bag in his hand.

"Oh." She reached out and took it from him, averting her eyes as she turned around, leaning to drop it beside the door.

An awkward silence fell, then he said hoarsely, "That's not really the only reason I came."

She glanced back up at him expectantly.

He went on. "I'm gonna be...taking some time to just figure things out. I mean, Pam, I really don't want to just - "

He stopped abruptly, staring at her with an intensity that made her ache for him, because he was obviously struggling.

"I know it's over and all - and I accept that; I do - but...I don't want us to just never speak to each other again. It just - " He shook his head. "I can't make it make sense in my head, if that...makes any sense...?"

He realized what he'd said then and chuckled nervously, she joining him, nodding as she said, "Yeah...it does."

"Good." He stared at her, his eyes scanning her face as if he were memorizing every detail. "Things just got way out of hand, and it made me realize that..."

He sighed deeply. "...Maybe all this stuff is for the best; maybe I just need a change of scenery."

She nodded again, surprised at the tiny flicker of panic she felt at the realization that he was clearly here to tell her goodbye - to really say goodbye. But it was a flicker, nothing more.

Nothing like the incessant, lingering grief she felt over what her relationship with Jim had disintegrated into.

"So I'm gonna be moving to Laflin for a little while - with Jeff."

"Oh..." Jeff was his second cousin on his mother's side.

"Yeah, he's got a job prospect for me there, so..." His voice trailed off, and another awkward silence passed between them. "And I just...I couldn't leave without telling you goodbye."

All she could do was stare up at him, feeling an unexpected affection for him quicken within her. It was hard to believe he was the same man who'd lunged at Jim a few weeks earlier.

"I'm glad you came by." Her voice was small. "And...good luck out there. Tell Jeff I said hey."

"I will." He nodded, then paused, looking at her hard for a long moment.

Finally, he sucked in another deep breath, then he caught her completely off guard. "And hey - Halpert...he's a good guy."

She didn't know what to say to that; all she could do was nod quietly, miserably. When she looked up at him, he was watching her with an expression that was so obviously tender that she stood on her toes and put her arms around his neck, feeling his arms slip tentatively around her waist.

So many times he'd held her; he was incredibly familiar to her, familiar and comforting and so much else...just not enough.

"I'm sorry, Pam." It was a hoarse whisper in her hair.

"Me, too."

She shut the door after the lights of his truck flooded the darkened parking area, then picked up the bag he'd given her and carried it to her bedroom, where she shoved it into the closet. And then up on the highest shelf, pushed to the back corner, was another part of her life compartmentalized and not so easily forgotten.

Her hands shook as she dragged the stool from her vanity over to the closet, standing on top of it to reach for the box; she almost dropped it as she stepped off the stool and laid the box on her bed. For the longest time she just sat in front of it, staring at it apprehensively as she bit her lip, willing herself not to open it, not to go back down that road.

The last time she'd looked inside she'd ended up in the women's bathroom at work, crouched in a stall with her head in her hands as she sobbed, sickened and stunned at the realization that he was gone...really gone.

He hadn't given her any indication that he was even considering such a drastic step as transferring, hadn't left her a note...just this, the evidence of who they were and how they'd gotten there. That same afternoon, she'd hidden the box in the trunk of her car, where it had remained until she'd moved in here - and even then she hadn't dared to look inside again, had instead pushed it to the back of her closet as if she could will it out of existence.

She didn't know why she felt compelled to look in it now, only that she couldn't help herself.

At first she was smiling as she sifted through the relics of a time she'd have given almost anything to return to (strange that she'd be willing to settle for going back to hiding the feelings, pretending they didn't exist, just so long as she could be near him, know what he was thinking, how he was really doing...). Somewhere amid that precious cache of yogurt lids and paper doves, Dwight's resume and pencil cup, lay the map of how she might navigate her way back to him; the photocopied health care forms full of his scrawled handwriting (Count Chockulitis, mad cow disease, hot dog fingers) and the glove with the crackling red poster paint (he'd lain a hand on her shoulder when she burst out laughing after he showed it to her, whispering, "Shhh! He's gonna know something's up...") made her heart swell a little, that tight ball of regret growing right along with it.

When her eyes fell to the photocopy of Michael's screenplay, the tears that had welled in her eyes spilled down her cheeks; whenever she thought of that day, her memory immediately turned to the night they'd spent later on the roof...what he'd jokingly referred to later as their "first date."

She wiped the tears away with the back of her right hand, her left hand scraping the bottom of the box and producing a well-worn sheet of paper that crinkled when she unfolded it. It was the memo Michael had made her write to announce the Booze Cruise, complete with the list of things they should bring: a bathing suit, ski mask, toothbrush...

She knew why he'd kept this...because that night, she understood now, had changed everything for them. He'd scared the hell out of her on that deck by staring at her so intensely - in a way that he never had before, his lips parted, gaze so intense that she hadn't dared to breathe for that half minute or half hour or whatever it had been.

And then she raised her head, staring ahead vacantly as she thought of that toast he'd given...having been literally dragged to his feet by Katy, the crowd clamoring for a speech. At the time, she'd forced herself to lean close to Roy, pushing away the memory of the way he'd looked at her on that deck half an hour earlier.

Tears in his eyes, choking his throat as he'd spoken, "I guess I just want to say that Pam is...the greatest."

His chin had lowered, his lips trembling a little as he added, "My best friend."

She'd known he'd had a hard time with it even then, but the giddiness of having set her wedding date had given her a convenient cloak to hide behind. But now... She tried to imagine what that must've been like for him: What if you had to make a toast to him and Karen because they were engaged?

The very thought was absolutely agonizing...sending a sharp slice of pain all the way through her, reverberating in her gut. The tattered memo fluttered from her fingers, falling to rest on the bed as she covered her mouth with both hands and began to cry.

This was what he'd lived with for all those years - the same thing that she felt was absolutely draining the life out of her after having struggled with it for a mere ten months.

Her hands were still shaking as she wiped the tears away one after the other, carefully replacing the items in the box. All these things he'd kept...for years.
And then she remembered something that she had kept; for some reason, her heart began to beat a little more quickly as she rose to her feet, hurrying to her desk and opening a drawer. She rifled through it until she felt the small velvet pouch, barely the size of a half dollar.

She carefully tugged on the string holding it together, then tipped it upside down over her desk. Even though she'd known what to expect, her breath still caught when the four leafed clover tumbled out, dried and crisp as paper. She picked it up gingerly, praying it wouldn't crumble - and then the idea struck her.

As she dug through a second drawer, producing a box of blank note cards with Van Gogh's "Cafe Terrace at Night" printed on the front, she knew what she was going to do. It was almost like a compulsion, the sudden need she felt to go with this impulse, no matter how much it terrified her to consider the possible consequences.

On the blank white space inside the card, she'd written, "Do you remember?"
And then, skipping down to the bottom of the page, she'd added, "...Because I do."
It was cryptic and bold and probably totally out of line, but she just had to do it. She carefully positioned the dried clover inside the card, not daring to secure it with tape for fear it would crumble; then she slid the card into an envelope, writing his name on the outside.

She sat motionless at her desk for a full ten minutes, staring at that card until her eyes started to burn. He might well get angry at her if she gave it to him now; he might just throw it away, shake his head in frustration. He might give it back to her and tell her to leave him the hell alone.

Maybe I shouldn't....

Just as the doubt crossed her mind, she caught a flash of his face on Casino Night: I'm in love with you.

He'd looked her in the eye, lain himself bare...and she had responded, she understood now, in the cruelest possible way: refusing him, then giving in - giving him hope - only to devastate him again.

She didn't even put on her jacket - just snatched up the envelope, grabbed her keys, and headed out the door before she could talk herself out of it.

It was surreal to be in the office that late at night, when everything was dark but for the bluish haze of the computer monitors. It seemed fitting, though, because the last time she'd seen the office in this light had been when he'd appeared out of nowhere, pulling her close, pressing his mouth against hers.

She taped the card to his computer monitor, then turned and left the office without looking back.

He'd woken up that morning from one of those dreams that leaves you feeling exhausted - a shockingly real, nightmarish kind of dream that was psychically debilitating.

He'd been back at his old desk in Stamford, gazing out the window at the water as he'd done on so many afternoons, waiting for the numbness to set in...disappointed day after day when it just didn't.

And then he'd spotted her out there in the water, swimming alongside one of the brilliant white boats that often passed; he'd leaned closer to the window, squinting, certain he was imagining her.

He'd realized then that she was trying to climb onto the boat - that she was struggling, maybe even drowning.

He'd heard Karen call after him when he jumped to his feet, but he didn't answer, rushing through the office and down the flight of stairs, out the side door. He didn't stop running even when his feet hit the weather beaten boards of the pier, making a clattering sound as he scrambled past; he didn't break his stride when the pier ended either, instead just felt the sensation of plunging into the icy water.

He'd pushed himself back up to the surface, looking around frantically, gasping for breath - and there she was, standing on the dock of the boat, holding out a hand to pull him up.

The details went fuzzy as they often do in dreams; the next thing he knew he was standing on the deck of that ship with her, both of them soaking wet and shaking all over in the cold night air.

"Never thought we'd be back here." He murmured to her.

"I did." Her eyes held his, and it had dawned on him then that they were on the deck of that boat from the Booze Cruise.

In his dream consciousness, he'd been aware of a sudden thought: I'm doing it right this time. He'd even said the words aloud, taking a step forward then and lowering his lips to hers.

Time had gone hazy again; the next thing he knew he had her pressed against the wall on one of the side decks, their skin wet and clinging, her tongue hot on his neck. Nothing mattered anymore, just her lips and her hands and the way she curved into him; that defeaning buzzing sound wasn't even enough to make him stop.

And then he'd bolted wide awake with a sharp gasp, his brow damp with sweat, body aching and stiff, his alarm ringing out in the darkness.

Karen stirred beside him. "You okay?"

"Huh? Mm, yeah." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stumbling to the bathroom before she could say anything else.

He'd stood in the shower for so long that she'd eventually come in looking for him, calling out, "Hey - I'm heading back to my place to change. You want me to come back by and get you...?"

"No, that's okay." His voice was hoarse over the pelting water. "I'm running a little late this morning, so I'll just meet you at the office."

"Sounds good."

On days like this, he didn't like to have to face Pam; seeing her after one of those dreams was like suddenly pulling a band-aid off of an open wound and leaving it raw and vulnerable. He wondered if the dreams would ever stop; once upon a time, he'd wondered when, but he knew better than that now.

Pam had, once again, gotten to work early, her hands trembling slightly as she looked at his empty desk, the card so clearly taped to his monitor. Before anyone else arrived, she went over and took it off, propping it against his keyboard instead; the night before, she hadn't even thought about the possibility that if it was too visible, Karen might be the one to find it.

The thought that Karen still might find it gave her pause, but she didn't give in to the fear, very much aware of the irony that the thing she was drawing on for courage was the memory of Jim's face on Casino Night.

He was the second to last person to arrive that morning, his hair still a little damp around the edges. He didn't make eye contact with her as he hung up his coat, didn't even say good morning, which wasn't like him; granted, their interaction had been close to nothing since that stilted conversation in the breakroom...but he usually always at least greeted her.

She swallowed over a sudden lump lodged in her throat, praying that seeing the card might provoke some reaction from him - even if he got angry about it, it would be better than the agonizing silence of the past several weeks. At least then he'd be acknowledging her existence; at least then maybe she could initiate a conversation.

He knew it was unnecessarily rude not to even speak to her when he came in, but that dream had left him shaken, exhausted...feeling oddly defenseless. So instead he kept his head down as he trudged to his desk, taking off his bag and hanging it on the back of his chair.

And then he spotted the small white card propped against his keyboard, his name scrawled on the outside. He recognized her handwriting immediately.

Without thinking first, he instinctively flicked his eyes to where she sat; she was watching him, and when their eyes met, she gave him a small, faltering smile.

He desperately didn't want to open that card.

He looked away from her, sitting down and moving it gingerly from his keyboard so he could re-boot his machine. She watched him closely, afraid for a second that he wasn't even going to open it. But then he reached for it, his head bowed as he slowly opened the envelope and pulled out the card.

As soon as he opened it, the tiny green clover fluttered out and landed on his keyboard. He stared at it, his hands shaking as he clutched the card, then scanned her neat handwriting: Do you remember? ...I do.

He was glad his back was to her, because his mouth opened as his breath caught, his eyes closing for just a second. Do I remember? Is she kidding? I lived on that day for years...

And then the suspicion kicked in, the wariness taking over: What the hell does she want? What does this mean? Do I remember what? Being friends with her like we were when I found this clover? Or is she talking about all the other stuff...?

It occurred to him then that he should put the card away before Karen noticed him looking at it, which he immediately did, careful to place the clover back in the envelope as well. And then he simply sat staring blankly at his computer monitor for the longest time, his neck burning because he was certain she was watching him.
He didn't know what to make of it, had no fucking idea what she was trying to tell him. On one hand, it seemed like a fairly obvious statement, given that he'd kissed her for the very first time that day...but Pam wasn't one for bold statements; aside from that, she knew he was with Karen, and he wasn't too sure that she would've made that kind of overature toward him while he had a girlfriend.

The impulse to ask her - send her an email or an IM - was almost overwhelming. But then it occurred to him that he might be misinterpreting her again - what if she just meant she missed being friends with him? What if his just asking her what she meant made things worse than they already were, if that was even possible?
And then the anger began to simmer, because it was so like her to be cryptic, to not just say what the hell she needed to say.

He glanced over to find Karen watching him, her head tilted slightly; when their eyes met, she gave him a warm smile, one that he returned.

Fuck this. I'm not doing this again; I can't go back to the way things used to be. I can't get pulled back into it all over again - and if I let this card thing shake me, that's exactly what I'll end up doing.

So he shoved the card farther back on his desk, sliding it under a stack of paperwork.

She saw him do it, her heart pounding as she waited for him to respond. For close to an hour her breathing was shallow, hands sweating as she waited for him to acknowledge it - an email, IM, a glance, maybe even just for him to get up, give her a look, then head to the conference room.

But he didn't move - didn't even look back at her once.

The hurt and the frustration grew with every half hour that passed with no recognition from him whatsoever; by lunch, she was so upset and humiliated that she grabbed her purse and left the building. All she did was drive around the block with her windows down, the cold air biting and stinging her lungs as she tried not to cry, tried not to think....

Tried to ignore what this meant.
--------------------

The next day was Friday, and he was grateful for the coming weekend. He hadn't spoken to Pam, hadn't said a word about that card, and even though a part of him was furious at her for playing with him that way - for not being more clear about what it was, exactly, that she meant by it - he was also wrestling with a heavy guilt that hung about him. Even though he was careful not to make eye contact with her, he stole furtive glances at her when she wasn't looking, and he could see how the corners of her mouth were drawn, how she looked so incredibly miserable - hurt, tired, and above all else, just so tremendously sad.

He felt cruel at times for not even acknowledging the card, but whenever he felt himself softening toward her, he shut down. He understood very well what he could and couldn't handle these days.

Karen had come to perch on his desk late that afternoon, smiling down at him.

"So...what do you say we get back into the Ally McBeal marathon?"

He chuckled tiredly at her. "Keep your voice down, would you? I don't want to have to turn in my man card."

She laughed at that. "Too late; you're loving that show, and you know it."

"Maybe."

Again she laughed, low and throaty. He loved the sound of her laughter, the velvet of her voice.

"So, you in...?" She was watching him expectantly.

"Absolutely."

Four and a half hours later they'd just finished dinner and were sitting side by side on her couch - she with her legs resting in his lap, he with one hand casually holding her feet. He'd had a hard time focusing on the show, thoughts of that damned card slipping in and out of his consciousness. Whenever he caught himself thinking about it - about her - he forced his attention back to the screen, deliberately, with an ever-growing sense of defiance.

"God, I wish she'd just go away." Karen murmured when Ally's romantic rival appeared on screen, doing her best to seduce Larry, Robert Downey Jr.'s character.

Jim chuckled at her. "Tell us how you really feel, Filapelli."

She rolled her eyes at him, then they turned their attention back to the screen as the woman tried to rationalize, all but begging him to come back to her.

When he remained resolute, a look of shock washed over the actress's face as she whispered, "Wow...you really love this woman."

Larry nodded, jaw tense. "Yeah, I do. And just because I'm still sexually attracted to you, I don't..."

He took in a deep breath, continuing: "You and I could never work; you understand."

She was skeptical. "How do you know?"

"Because - " He'd begun, then stopped in exasperation, finishing through clenched teeth. "Because you're not...her."

Jim felt the line somewhere deep, deep in his stomach, his own jaw clenching absently as he struggled not to react.

Larry continued. "And even if it's now over between me and her, trust me, you don't to be the one following her, because she's... She's it."

Now Jim was sitting stock still, frozen, an overwhelming dread having fallen over him. He hadn't even realized that Karen was watching him until the image on the screen suddenly stopped; it took him a second to react, and when he did, he glanced over to see that she'd paused it and was struggling to sit up, pulling her legs off his lap, putting her feet on the floor.

"What is it?" His voice was throaty.

There were tears standing out in her eyes as she stared at him in shock, utter disbelief all over her face. "You just... Look at you."

"What're you talking about?" He tried to appear casual, struggled to pretend not to know what she was talking about, but he knew he was failing miserably.

And the truth was that his head was just spinning, both from the words the character had spoken, but even more so, from the sheer force with which those words had hit him.

Karen's eyes didn't leave her face as she whispered, "That's what it's like for you..."

"What?" He made a face, desperate to change the subject, because he was too confused to do this right now; he was too caught off guard by the vehemence of his own reaction, was sure he could make sense of it later, if only he could just think....

"That's how you feel, isn't it?" Her voice was thin, strained.

"Karen, c'mon, seriously... You're just - where's this...?"

"You didn't breathe during that entire scene." It wasn't an accusation so much as it was a simple, sad statement, spoken with the cadence of someone who is still in shock.

"It was a serious - "

"I want you to be honest with me." She cut him off, staring him square in the eye, her lips trembling. "I want you to be brutally honest with me."

He looked at her imploringly. "Please don't - "

"Are you in love with her?"

"Karen - " His eyes fell to the floor.

"Just answer the question."

"Why're you doing this?" He looked back up in desperation, starting to feel angry at her for pushing him...utterly panicked. "It was a stupid television show; it's not worth - "

"Are you in love with her?"

"Karen - " Again his head bowed.

"Jim, I mean it; just answer - "

"I don't know!" The volume of his voice startled even him as he stood quickly, turning his back to her and running his palms over his face before facing her again.

She, too, was standing, staring at him, her demeanor almost eerily calm.

In the silence that followed, he swallowed hard, then, "Look, it's just... I'm so fucking confused, Karen; I just don't know anymore what..."

He didn't finish, shaking his head.

She nodded slowly, then: "I think you need to go."

He jerked his head up to stare at her in shock; there was an unmistakable finality in her tone.

"What does that mean? Why?" He was starting to feel that panic creeping up again.

She gave a half-shrug, her eyes wide and stark. "Because this is...it's so obviously not working."

"Why are you saying that?" He wasn't sure why he was arguing with her, really, only that he desperately didn't want to hurt her...and, Pam or no Pam, he couldn't stand the thought of Karen believing that there was nothing to this.

Her smile was small, wintry. "Because it's true, and I just.... You know, I've been trying really hard - "

"I know you have."

"--Let me finish." She held up a hand. "But Jim...this isn't what I want."

He stared at her, stunned, unable to speak.

She went on: "I mean...God, I wish you were really...here, because I really wanted this to..."

Her voice caught, and he could see she was about to cry. But she tilted her jaw slightly, biting her lip to stave off the tears. "But it's just...not."

He didn't know what to say for a long moment, then he looked at her from beneath lowered eyes. "I'm trying, Karen...I really am, and I just - "

"No." She shook her head, a tenderness intermingled with the sadness of her smile. "I know you are...and that's the thing: I don't want that. I don't want to be the girl you have to really...try to feel it for."

"That's not how it is." He was quick to correct her.

She smiled again. "Maybe not...but it's not what...."

Again her voice trailed off, her eyes welling with tears again. She didn't speak for a long time, just stood there staring off to the side, her arms crossed about herself protectively.

Then she glanced up at him, the tears spilling down her cheeks as she said, her chin trembling, her head held high, "I want you, but I want somebody who feels the same way more."

He wanted to argue with her, wanted to tell her he'd do anything to make this work, that maybe if they had a little more time, he could get there. But he didn't speak, because he knew that to do so would've been selfish - just to ease his own guilty conscience, to put a temporary end to her tears.

So he nodded, then whispered gruffly, "I'm so sorry, Karen; I just..."

She shook her head quickly, sliding her fingers under her eyes and wiping the tears away as he took a step toward her. She didn't move, just looked down at the floor, so he took another step, then pulled her to him.

For a second she didn't respond, and then he felt her arms creep around him, felt her body start to shake against his chest as she cried. He closed his eyes, his chin resting on top of her head, the guilt and the sadness owning him in that moment.

Then he whispered sharply against her hair, "I do care; I hope you know that."

She pulled back then, nodding as she wiped the tears away.

She took a deep, quivering breath, then: "I think you should go."

"Are you sure?"

Her eyes were big, sad as she nodded. "Yeah."

He hesitated for a second longer, then: "Okay."

Pam spent much of that weekend vacillating between feeling bleak and listless, to alternately finding herself gripped with sudden surges of unadulterated anger when she thought about the way he'd so completely disregarded her attempt at holding out a hand.

She grieved for the friendship she'd lost; she missed the guy who had once been everything to her but a threat.  She almost couldn't remember what it had been like when she'd had nothing to fear from him but her own desires; no matter that those had come to be nothing short of terrifying.

The ache was damned near unbearable whenever she thought of how close they'd come to having it all; it was hard to believe now - in the face of his utter indifference - that he'd ever looked at her with tears in his eyes and told her he was in love with her.  The memory of what it had been like to fade into his arms and feel his mouth on hers was so distant that it wouldn't have taken much to convince her that she'd dreamed it all.

But then her thoughts would inevitably turn to the way he'd just blindsided her with that confession and the dizzying kiss, then disappeared from her life entirely when she wasn't prepared to really react.  And the way he'd suddenly become so chilly to her after she'd reunited with Roy?  After he'd rebuffed her few attempts at getting him alone to talk - really talk?  

Add to that the fact that she'd gone so far out on a limb in giving him that card, in holding out a hand that way, and he didn't even have the decency to acknowledge the gesture.  She would've been less angry if he'd thrown the card back in her face and told her to go to hell - anything would've been better than his complete and total disregard for what she'd tried to do.

...And then she'd be right back where she started, struggling to stifle the tears: Does none of it mean anything to him anymore?  Even though he's with Karen, doesn't he even care about the good times?  The way things were for a little while?  Or has he just forgotten it all?  

It was exhausting to run the gamut of emotions so many times in one day.

But then something strange happened.

He came in that Monday morning looking even paler and more miserable than usual, and when Karen had come in some time later, she, too, looked haggard and wan.  She had put her purse and coat on her desk, then disappeared to the annex to speak with Toby.

Pam tried not to stare when Karen emerged from the back and started to pack up her desk a few minutes later, even as Ryan appeared with his things in a box, waiting patiently for Karen to vacate her desk.  Karen, in turn, took her box of personal items back to the annex, her eyes downcast; then Pam could hear Kelly's voice, followed by the muffled sounds of Karen apparently organizing her things.

Jim had raised his head, watching for a second, then looked back down at the pile of invoices on his desk, bags under his eyes answering the question of why Karen was switching desks with Ryan.  

Pam was frustrated at herself for feeling that irrepressible hope loom high at the realization that Jim and Karen had obviously broken up.  Would he talk to her now...?

And then she'd been disgusted, because he'd have had no right to do that after so many weeks of indifference.  The despair had come again when he still hadn't looked her way by the week's end, instead working quietly at his desk, disappearing at lunch, then returning with his head down, eyes elsewhere.  

It didn't seem fair to her that she could ache for him - that it could hurt somehow to see him so weary and so obviously unhappy.  He looked lost, sapped of the energy and spirit that once had so defined him.  

But she didn't dare make a move toward him, because in ignoring her card, he'd made his feelings very clear: Apparently, he didn't want anything from her now.

------------------

Two weeks later, she'd attended a one-time two hour seminar on the Fundamentals of Perspective Drawing at the Lackawanna County recreation department.  It was far too intermediate a class for her, but she just wanted to brush up on her technique - and it was a semi-productive way, at least, to pass some time.  

When it ended at 11:00, she found that she wasn't really hungry, and she definitely wasn't interested in going back to her apartment.  So she carried her sketching materials out of the small makeshift classroom and into the gym, where she climbed the bleachers and sat at the very top.  The sharp shriek of sneakers and bouncing basketballs reverberated through the wide area as she flipped her sketch pad to a clean sheet, focusing her gaze on the bleachers across the way, staring until everything else in her peripheral vision went blurry.

For fifteen minutes she sat sketching, staring across and looking down at her work only occasionally, her brow furrowed in concentration.

And then she suddenly heard a voice that made her head snap up: "Hey, man, you okay?"

Her breath caught as she quickly scanned the scattered guys on the gym floor - there were two pick up games going on, it appeared - searching for him....  And there he was, leaning over and offering a hand to another guy who was sitting on the gym floor, his wrist pressed to his nose, which was bleeding profusely.

She watched as the guy took Jim's hand, her eyes falling to rest on the muscles of his forearm as he pulled the other player to his feet, letting go of his hand and leaning forward as he asked, "You all right?"

The other guy nodded. "Yeah, I think so - you just caught me good there."

"Sorry about that." Jim shook his head with a wry grin that disappeared all too quickly.  

She couldn't believe this was happening - that of all the times and all the places....  And then she remembered him telling her months and months before - before he'd moved to Stamford, actually - that he and Mark sometimes played ball at the rec center on Saturdays.  

But it had been such a long time ago that she genuinely hadn't considered the possibility that he'd be here.

She suddenly felt panicked, gathering together her things in order to beat a hasty retreat.  Just the thought that he might see her there and think she'd purposefully sought him ought made her cheeks burn with embarrassment.  Ever since he'd disregarded the card, her pride had been close to the surface, always aching; the last thing she wanted was for him to glance up and see her there.

Of course, in her haste to throw her things together, she'd dropped her sketch pad onto the bleachers with a loud thud that got the attention of several of the players from Jim's game, who were all standing around, still waiting for the injured guy to come back out on the court.

He turned when he heard the sound, following the direction of the other guys' stares; he strained to see more clearly, then his mouth fell open as he realized that it was Pam - Pam standing up there on the bleachers, clumsily clutching what looked like art supplies, her purse strap falling off her shoulder even as she quickly shoved it back in place.  His gut tightened, his jaw tensing. 

He'd come here this morning because of her; he'd been pacing his apartment all morning, staring at that card and wondering what the fuck she'd meant by it.  

He'd decided fairly early on that he couldn't handle being cooped up in that apartment; he felt the sudden need to get out, to be physical, work off some of his nervous energy.  He hadn't even called Mark - had just jumped in his car and headed over to the rec, certain that he could find some guys who'd be willing to play for a while.

Indeed he had, but that knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach just didn't go away - so he played harder, which was precisely how he'd ended up elbowing that poor guy - Steve - in the nose.  He'd felt so guilty, realizing immediately that he just needed to get the hell out of here and find some other outlet, because this just wasn't working.

And now here she was.

She froze as Jim leaned forward a bit, straining and squinting his eyes as he looked at her - clearly struggling to see if it was really her.  Again her pride throbbed, and then a sudden defiance seized her: No.  I'm not going to slink out that door; I'm going to make him talk to me.  If only to force him to acknowledge that I actually exist for the first time in a month.

So she purposefully made her way down the bleachers, feeling self-conscious as a few of the guys very obviously stood back to watch her.  But Jim wasn't one of them; his eyes fell to the floor, as if he wasn't sure where to look.

Jesus, he thought, seeing her in his peripheral vision.  She was wearing a pair of faded jeans that flattered her figure in a way that the skirts and sweaters she hid behind at work never did; paired with the jeans was a black turtleneck that also clung to her small waist, her breasts.

Soon enough she was standing in front of him, forcing him to look up at her; he gave her a tight smile while the other guys gradually dropped back, waiting for Steve to come back out.

She felt a shudder pass through her when his eyes rested on her; it seemed like it had been forever since he'd just looked at her.  

His hair was damp with sweat, his face glistening; he wore a faded, well worn tee-shirt, the neck of which was stretched and fraying.  She felt yet another little chill trickle down her spine at the chest hair that the too-big collar revealed, because it alluded so suddenly to a side of him that she'd only seen the briefest glimpse of - the side of him that she'd wanted to know for such a long time now.

"Hey." She greeted him simply.

"Hey." He replied, glancing up and then looking away again.  She was standing close enough for him to catch the scent of her hair or her perfume or whatever it was that he associated with her.  It weakened him, which in turn set off alarm bells.

The injured player, Steve, jogged back onto the court then, prompting the other guys to re-group, looking at Jim expectantly.

When it was obvious that he would've joined them again, Pam forced herself to say, "Can I talk to you for just a second?"

She was startled when he very obviously hesitated, then reluctantly nodded. "Sure."

He led her off of the court and into a far corner, the din rising again as the game picked back up.

Once she was standing there in front of him - god, he's so tall; has he always been this tall?  And why is it so unnerving to see him in a tee-shirt and shorts? - she felt paralyzed, unable to come up with something to say.  

She shifted on her feet as he glanced at her, averting his eyes, then turning them back to her again - careful not to let them linger.  Because he still didn't know what in the hell she wanted, and he had all but decided that if she was trying to tell him that she wanted to be friends again, he would have to tell her he just couldn't.

Because losing Karen had been enough to jar him into the realization that if this thing with Pam wasn't going to happen - and it so obviously wasn't - then he needed to do whatever it took to move past it.  

Her voice interrupted his thoughts: "I hate the way it's been so weird."

His jaw tensed.  Here we go...

She waited for him to respond, and when he didn't, she suddenly felt that anger leaping up. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

That got his attention.

He drew back, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"

"I asked what the hell is wrong with you?" She repeated, the impatience and anxiety melding into a hot surge of rage. "Why have you been acting like this?"

Because I'm standing here in front of you a full year later - a year later - and it's still fucking here.  Everything's changed - I moved to another state, got an amazing girlfriend, a real promotion, all those things - and I'm standing here in the same spot that I was in a year ago.  

And it somehow it hurts even more now than it did then, because at least then I was dumb enough to believe I'd gotten closure.

Of course he said none of that.

Instead, he tilted his head to the side, twisting his lips into a cynical smile before he shrugged and half-chuckled, half-scoffed in a bitter tone, "I just...tell me how to act, Pam..."

Her mouth dropped open at the all-too obvious apathy he was displaying.  

And then she muttered, "Unbelievable."

His head jerked toward her. "What?"

There was something building in him, something pushing the fear away.

"You." She spat. "You're...unbelievable.  I mean - how could you change this much in a year?"

He took a step back. "Are you seriously asking me that?"

She was outraged that he'd make a mockery of the question that way. "Yeah, I am - but you know what?  Never mind - you apparently aren't even remotely interested in having an honest conversation with me - or anything else for that matter."

Anything else...?  He was totally baffled by her choice of words.

"What're you talking about, 'anything else'?"

She didn't want to answer, but she forced herself to do so anyway.  "I'm talking about the card I gave you - I was trying to be honest with you, trying - "

"To be 'honest' with me?" He repeated incredulously.  "You give me this...this cryptic card and expect me to crack the code, to just know what you're thinking?"  

She was outraged. "No, I didn't expect you to know what I was thinking, but I did expect you to at least give me the chance to talk to you about it!"

He shook his head, wanting so much to believe her - to ask her to just say it, tell him whatever it was that she needed to - but he was too afraid it would all go down the same way it had a year ago.  And he just couldn't stomach hearing her offer up yet another declaration of how much his friendship meant to her.

The anger was a convenient cloak for the fear, a substantial shield for his vulnerability; he spread his arms wide as he asked indignantly, "How did I not give you the chance to talk to me about it?"

"You didn't even acknowledge that I'd given it to you!" Her voice was getting louder; she glanced over his shoulder, expecting some of the guys playing ball to be staring, but they were still engrossed in their game.

What she'd said sent another jolt of anger through him, hot and uncontrollable.  After all I did last year - all I told her on Casino Night - she expected me to come running to her and ask her about that card?

So he shrugged, then asked wearily, his tone caustic, "What the hell did you expect me to do, Pam?  Come rushing over to your desk and beg you to tell me what it meant?  Surely you'll excuse me if I wouldn't be too eager to do that."

Her eyes widened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He held her gaze for a long moment, the answer resonating in his head: Because I'll be damned if I want to hear that I've 'misinterpreted' things all over again, made too much of nothing.

Instead of answering honestly, he muttered, "It means that - no, you know what?  It doesn't matter now."

His words sent a sharp spasm of pain straight to her chest, but she forced herself to hold eye contact with him, to stand her ground for a few seconds.

Then she tilted her head slightly. "Yeah...apparently not."

With that she turned on her heel and stalked off, leaving him standing there staring after her.

-------------------------

She cried on the way home, angrily swiping at the tears with her sleeve as she sniffed, choking back the sobs; they were tears of regret and grief and above all else, anger.  She couldn't believe the way he'd spoken to her - how shockingly cold he'd been.  He had been absolutely livid - and she couldn't for the life of her figure out why he was so angry. Because she hadn't been more forthright in the card?  What had he expected?  He'd had a girlfriend when she'd given it to him, for one thing.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she got, slamming her apartment door behind her and throwing her keys across the room in frustration.  She stood in the middle of her living room floor for several long minutes, the tears having dried on her cheeks as she stared ahead blindly, lost in her thoughts.

The sudden compulsion that seized her was much like the one that had taken hold of her the night she'd spontaneously driven to the office to leave that card on his desk.  Only this time, the feelings weren't bathed in warmth or poignancy; it was a hot, searing anger that drove her to snatch up her laptop, pulling up Dunder Mifflin's website and then searching for his name, his personal information.

His address.

-----------------------

He'd had the insane urge to go running when he got back to his apartment building; it was as if he wanted to crawl out of his own skin because he just couldn't breathe anymore.  The look on her face when he'd told her it didn't matter - her eyes going wide and stark, lips twitching - wouldn't leave him alone; he couldn't get that expression out of his head.

He decided instead to take a hot shower, standing under the spray with his head tilted all the way back, his eyes closed as he tried to ignore the ache in the back of his throat.  When just standing there got to be too much - that antsy feeling returning - he'd shut off the water, stepping out and grabbing a towel, having decided to go on that run after all.

He'd just slipped on a pair of jeans and a clean tee-shirt when there was a sharp knock on his door.  He strode from his bedroom to the living room, wondering if it could possibly be Karen - had she forgotten something?  Come back for some stray CD or piece of clothing?  

But when he swung the door open, Pam was standing there staring up at him, her cheeks flushed, eyes red and absolutely penetrating in a way he'd never seen them.

It was the second time that day that she'd caught him off guard; had he been able to prepare himself first, he might've managed to be cool to her again.

As it was, he just tilted his head, looking at her as if to say, What...?  

She caught the expression, picked up on the silent question, her voice brittle: "There are some things that I need to say."

He looked at the floor briefly, then nodded once, stepping back and opening the door wider, gesturing for her to come inside.  After he'd shut the door behind her, he turned to look at her - caught off guard by how difficult it was not to offer her a drink, ask her to have a seat...make her comfortable.

But his guard was up now, and he wasn't ready to let it fall.  

She stood in the middle of his living room (shocked on some level to find herself standing in Jim's living room), struggling to get a handle on her anger.  She'd fully expected to almost chicken out when she got here; confrontation had never been something she was good at.  

But to her surprise, the agitation she felt hadn't dissipated at all during the ten minute drive over, and now that she was face-to-face with him, the need to get it all out was simply overwhelming.

"What happened to you in Stamford?" She finally asked, staring up at him, noticing the shock as it registered on his face.

"What?" Her question caught him off guard, but her insinuation had already begun to dawn on him, prompting the anger to start simmering again.

"I mean, you came back like...." She shook her head. "...a totally different person."

All he could do was stand there and stare at her in utter disbelief, his mouth actually hanging open slightly.

"...What?" She finally asked, feeling self-conscious.

He was slow to respond, then he answered in a voice that was slightly hoarse, stunned, "What did you expect, Pam?"  

The directness of the question caught her off guard for a second, then she managed, "I don't know...for you to be...you.  My friend."

Before the word "friend" was fully out of her mouth, he was already shaking his head, his jaw bulging and tense.  While a part of him wanted to rip into her for saying such a thing (your friend? After everything that went down on Casino Night...you actually thought I'd be willing - able - to go right back to pulling pranks on Dwight and acting like there was just nothing else there, even though we both know goddamn well that we've never been "just" friends...?), at the same time, what she'd said hit him hard, bringing him again face-to-face with the reality that, no matter how much lingered beneath the surface, she'd never really face it.  

So he swallowed hard, letting the anger dissolve into the hurt, then: "I've done the best I can."

"The best you can?" She repeated, pulling her head back in disbelief, as if to add, Is that the best you could do?

So many memories were drumming against the surface of his consciousness, holding up the wall that he hoped would be impenetrable...years of coming to her rescue in ways she never even really knew about, saving her from some unforseen heartache only to end up watching her leave with Roy when all was said and done.

He attempted to chuckle but failed as he asked incredulously, "What the hell did you expect from me?"

She thought of those cold, smothering weeks after she'd canceled the wedding - the chilling fear of having been unable to be fully honest with anyone about why she'd called off the wedding.  Even her mother - who knew more about Jim than anybody - she'd kept at bay.  

On one night in particular, she'd been unpacking dishes in her new apartment and had suddenly been struck with the inescapable reality that Jim was gone; he wasn't just on vacation, exploring Australia, and they hadn't just had a little fight that would eventually blow over.

He was lost to her forever.  

She'd ended up rocking back and forth on her kitchen floor, dishes in piles all around her; she wrapped her arms around her knees, her chin lowering as she cried, missing him with an ache that seemed to be devouring her from the inside out.  

Because - the complications of her feelings for him aside - he was the only one, the only one who could really understand the complexity of what she was going through.  Perhaps the hardest thing of all was that once upon a time, she could've called him about anything - day or night, whether he was busy or not - and he'd have dropped everything to be there for her.

Ironic that he was the only one she needed now, but he was the one person she couldn't reach out to.  

To have him standing here now, seemingly minimizing what she'd been through, was enough to send her temper soaring again.  

At first she literally couldn't speak, then: "My god, do you have any idea what all I've been through this year?"

"Are you kidding me?" He was as angry as she was, amazed that she could pose that question to him, of all people.  For some reason, he caught himself thinking back to that first night in Stamford, when he'd stood there in the shower, staring vacantly at the blood as it pooled around the drain...feeling nothing, because some part of him seemed to have just shut down.

Her voice was louder when she responded, breaking through his memory: "I canceled my wedding; I broke up with the guy I spent ten years of my life with - "

"And then you went back to him." It was another stupid thing that came out of his mouth, but he was just aghast that she'd rail about the difficult year she had had when he'd actually moved to a different state to get away from it, only to be forced to come back to it all over again.

His words stopped her cold; she actually pointed at him, her breathing just a little labored. "You have no right - no right - to judge me for that."

"Don't I?" He was challenging her now, thinking of the way she'd kissed him that night before affirming that yes, she'd be marrying Roy in a matter of weeks.

"No, you don't." She snapped. "Once upon a time - maybe."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You haven't even been my friend since you've been back!" She was trying not to cry, her pride aching miserably.  Somewhere inside she almost hated him for forcing her to do this, to say these things.

Her comment baffled him.  Haven't been her friend...?
   
Before he could respond, she added hastily, her voice high and thin, "I had an art show, and you didn't even come!"

He wondered if she noticed that he flinched a little; it had been a battle he'd fought with Karen and lost.  She'd immediately grown irritated when he tentatively broached the subject.

A long, uncomfortable silence had stretched between them, and then Karen said carefully, "Look, you see her every day because you work together; I see her every day for the same reason.  And that's okay; I can deal with that.  But it doesn't change the fact that you've got a...complicated history with her, to say the least."

She'd taken a deep breath, then looked him square in the eye as she finished, "So don't ask me to be okay with you wanting to go to her art show; it's insulting and pretty damned insensitive."

He'd been speechless, opening his mouth to argue...then falling silent, because she was right, and he knew it.

But at the same time, what Pam was saying now wasn't entirely fair, and it brought back galling memories of years past, when he'd been her cheerleader of sorts - eternally there, consistently encouraging her, because he did believe in her.  But he always ended up feeling almost emasculated, used...because it didn't matter that he got it, understood her in a way he knew instinctively that Roy just didn't; she always ended up leaving with Roy at the end of the day.

Back then he'd quelled the anger by reminding himself that maybe she genuinely didn't realize what she was doing to him.  But now...?  Now it was all out in the open; he'd told her in no uncertain terms on Casino Night just what it was that he felt, what it was he wanted.

He swallowed, attempting to calm himself, then: "What difference does that make?"

But he knew what difference it made, and he hated himself for caring. It was self-loathing that drove him to add sarcastically, "I'm sure Roy was there - "

"God, will you just - " She was shaking all over, the feeling of being completely out of control something that was entirely alien to her.  She wasn't used to being this furious. "Will you just stop throwing that in my face?  You have no right!"

"Oh no?" He took a step back, one eyebrow raised unconsciously as he stared at her.  "I damn near got my ass kicked out of nowhere a few weeks ago, so I think that gives me - "

"I tried to apologize to you about that!" Her voice was growing louder each time she spoke. "And you were nothing but a total bastard about it - just like you've been ever since Phyllis's wedding!"

That comment made him stiffen a little as an image flashed in his memory of her leaving with Roy, her hand in his, her head down as though she knew she was sliding backward.  

Without really thinking first, he retorted, "Yeah, well, seeing you completely negate all the progress you'd made wasn't exactly - "

"What?" Her voice had dropped several octaves, because he'd hit a nerve. "Negate all the progress...?  You don't even know the half of my progress; you weren't around for most of it!"

"Yeah, well..." He shook his head, his anger settling into the prolonged ache that seemed to be squeezing the life out of him. "I was around to see enough."

She wanted to slap his face when he said that, because she was certain that he didn't know the half of what she'd gone through, the steps she'd taken - and it was absolutley infuriating.

"No, actually, you weren't." Her voice was a shade calmer, albeit caustic. "You weren't there when I called off the wedding and had to try to explain to my family - never mind Roy - why I was all of a sudden backing out; you weren't there when I had to find an apartment while Roy was on a permanent bender -- "

"Because you didn't fucking call me!" He drew back after the words left his lips, because he hadn't really intended to say that much.  But she was pushing him, and he'd been shoving the anger down deep for so many months, rationalizing and ignoring and pretending to the point at which he felt absolutely incapable of continuing to do so.

So he added softly, his voice gritty, "Do you have any idea what it felt like to find out that you cancelled the wedding from Kevin?  During a phone call about setting up fantasy football?"

"Do you have any idea what it felt like to come to work the day after Casino Night to find out that you'd taken a fucking transfer?" She was shaking all over again, remembering the absolute panic that had swept over her when she'd come in to see his desk completely cleared, the box in which he'd compartmentalized their history resting on her desk with such finality.  

She'd really believed she would never see him again.  

"Again - what'd you expect me to do, Pam?" He paced a few steps, then stopped, leaning one hand on the counter of the bar separating his kitchen from his living room.  He, too, was breathing a little more heavily now, and she could see that he was struggling to keep his temper in check.  

She stared at the floor, biting her lip as she fought to hold back the tears, then she raised her head to pierce him with a stare as she asked in a choked voice, "Did it ever occur to you to call me when you found out I called off my wedding?  That maybe I could've used a friend?"

His eyebrows were up again, lips parted as he shifted on his feet in disbelief, then he finally managed to repeat incredulously, "A friend?"

"Yes!" She spat. "What, is that so hard to believe?"

"That you'd need a friend after you called off the wedding?  No.  That the friend in question would be me?  I mean..." He shook his head, looking away, his ego smarting. "I'm sorry, Pam, but after everything that happened with us, I don't.... Jesus, did you really expect me to pick up the phone and call you?  Let you cry on my shoulder about your break up?"

"Well, apparently not." She retorted sarcastically, almost embarrassed; he was making her feel like she'd been presumptuous. "Clearly I was stupid to even think you might do that."

"Are you kidding me?" He was absolutely aghast at what she was suggesting.  The last time they'd spoken, he'd told her he was in love with her; she'd turned him down.  How could she possibly think he'd believe it would be all right to just call her up out of the blue when she cancelled her wedding?   He realized then that she obviously didn't grasp the depth of what he felt for her, even though he'd come right out and said the words; because if she had understood, she would've realized that there was just no way he could've attempted contact with her so soon after that night.  

She was watching him, his brow clouded - in anger, hurt, frustration - and she didn't know what to say to him.  

"I just..." She shook her head, suddenly very afraid because she just wasn't confident that she could really read him anymore.  

Then she murmured, "I thought things would be so different when you came back."

The words made him pull up short, wondering if he'd ever be able to stand across from her and breathe normally again.  He had no idea what she was getting at - that she was hoping for a stronger connection between them now that they'd cleared the air, now that he'd confessed and she'd turned him down?  Because it couldn't be that she'd hoped for a new honesty - she'd shown him clearly that first day he was back that she wasn't open to communicating or even remotely touching on what had happened on Casino Night.  

He'd never forget the way she pretended not to know what he was talking about when he mentioned the awkwardness, then the way she'd so quickly said, "We're friends; we'll always be friends."

"Why would you think anything would be different?" He asked, the exhaustion he felt evident in his voice. "I mean...we didn't even talk about it."

Her breath almost caught when he referenced Casino Night; it had somehow morphed into near mythical status in her head, because she'd wanted more than anything to just talk to him about it - to know if it had been as monumental an experience for him as it had been for her.  Did he think about it all the time, like she did?  Did he regret it?  

"I tried..." She began, but he cut her off.

"When did you try?" He was getting angry again, thinking of the way she'd brushed him off that night.

The indignation in his voice didn't escape her notice; she drew back defensively. "I tried that first day that you came back - "

"No, I tried my first day back, and you brushed me off!" His voice had grown louder again, and he really didn't give a damn; he wasn't about to let her pin this whole stupid mess on him, not when he'd tried so hard to work through it, move past it.

"What?" Her voice almost squeaked with incredulty as her expression darkened with disbelief and indignation. "I did not brush you off - "

"Oh no?  Then what the hell would you call what you did in the parking lot?" He watched her face, waiting for the light of recognition, but all that registered there was confusion.  The fact that she obviously didn't know what he was talking about just made him that much more angry.  "You know - when I tried to talk to you about how awkward things were, and you just disregarded that with one of your usual 'we're just friends' speeches...?"

Her eyes widened, both at what he'd said and at the viciousness with which he'd said it; he was angrier than she'd ever seen him.

"I only did that because you made it clear that you didn't want to talk about it or straighten things out!  You made it more than obvious that you wanted to forget because you'd totally moved on!"  Even just the memory of the way he'd dismissed her invitation to have coffee after work that day stung her pride.  

But now it was his turn to look confused, because he had no idea what she was talking about. "What...what're you talking about?  I never said anything to - "

"Oh believe me, you didn't have to!  You and Karen made it very clear that first day that you were completely over...it."  She'd said too much - more than she'd intended to say, anyway - but she wasn't entirely sure she even cared.  Minute by minute she was losing hope that this conversation would end well, and the desperation was beginning to take over.

He froze at what she'd said, his eyebrows raised, lips in a thin line of anger.  One of his hands still rested on the counter, his fingers unconsciously tightening, clenching into a fist.

"So..." The calm in his voice scared her for some reason; she got the sense that his frustration had alchemized into a raw fury that he was obviously having a hard time keeping in check, and she still didn't understand why he was so angry.
But he answered the question for her soon enough.

"...You didn't want me, but you didn't want me to move on either?  Is that what it was?"

"No - Jim, just -"

He talked over her, his voice growing louder. "Did you really expect me to come back and be like some fucking obedient puppy, hanging on your every word?  Did you seriously expect that?  Why the hell would you even want that?  It's - "

"I didn't want that!" She cried, desperate for him to just listen to her. "I didn't say that's what I wanted!"

"Then what did you want, Pam?  Because I'm having a hard time figuring out why you'd - "

"Would you just - " She couldn't finish, the frustration and anxiety sending tremors to the pit of her stomach.  She knew she needed to just say it, just tell him - because he clearly had no idea, and the assumptions he was making were only adding fuel to the fire. But she was so afraid that he'd be cruel - laugh in her face, tell her it was just too late.  

Because right now, he looked like he might be capable of anything.  

He watched her struggle, biting her lip, and he mistook her silence for complicity.  Jesus...so that's it; she just wanted me to keep falling all over her, just to keep things the way they always were.  

The thought sickened him.

"Wow..." It was a stunned whisper from him as he shook his head. The anger was again fading, that raw ache filling his chest in its place. "I don't...  Pam, I can't go back."

Her eyes immediately filled with tears at what he'd said; she'd known it might be too late...she'd just hoped that it wouldn't be.  

The realization that it was too late fully registered as she looked at his face - his cheeks flushed in anger, faint stubble on his jaw, eyes so weary.  Panic swept over her, ushering in a desperation that seized her.

And then things sort of became a blur - she crossed the space between them quickly, her eyes locked with his - he looking stunned as he seemed to realize what she was about to do - and then she was there, her hands on either side of his face, her lips on his as she fell against him with such a force that his back hit the counter behind him.  Whether that was why he groaned against her lips, or whether it was something more, she wasn't sure, but she didn't care; she just wanted to be closer to him, desperate to get past the failed words and the hurt pride and the myriad misunderstandings that seemed to have driven them to this point.  

He'd been standing there feeling absolutely shredded when she'd suddenly just rushed at him, her mouth on his before he could even really register what was happening.  

But he couldn't have done anything other than what he did: He drew her closer against him, his palms on her back, tongue touching hers.  Her hands were everywhere - in his hair, on his face, his neck, his shoulders, then back up to his hair as she kissed him hard, straining against him as if she couldn't get close enough.  

And he did want her closer.

So he tightened his arms around her, taking a few steps forward, his knees bumping against hers as their lips held; she stumbled, clinging to him as he walked her backward, step after dizzying step until her back suddenly hit the wall behind her.  She heard a muffled moan from her own throat as he moved his arms, slipping his hands down until his fingers were linked with hers, then he slowly guided her arms, sliding them up, their hands liked together against the wall; her head fell back as his lips trailed her neck.

She gasped, utterly shocked somewhere deep in her consciousness that this was Jim - that Jim had her backed against the wall of his apartment; that Jim's lips were passing over her neck, moving back toward her mouth; that it was Jim hard against her.

That they both free now, that there was no one else holding them back now.

He immediately let go of her hands when she squirmed a bit; he pulled back, looking at her through glazed eyes, his thoughts muddled.  The fact that he still wasn't sure what the fuck she wanted was a tiny ball of anger buried beneath the desire that had taken over him.  

But he didn't want to push her into something she didn't want - god knows their relationship was damaged enough as it was - so he prepared to stop, get a grip.  But her mouth was on his again before he could say anything; she put her hands on his shoulders, sliding them down his back in a way that sent chills down his spine, made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.  He moaned when he realized she was drawing him closer, her body straining toward him, hips in line with his.  

This was totally out of control, and he knew it; this was also probably a fucking horrible idea - and he knew that, too.  But he couldn't bring himself to stop her, just pressed closer against her, feeling her breasts against his chest, the warmth permeating through his thin tee-shirt.  Besides, he knew she'd stop it anyway before they got too far - even if she was attracted to him, he didn't believe for a second that she'd have sex with him on impulse like that, not when she had made it clear that she didn't really want to be with him.

She knew she should slow this down, knew she was being impulsive, knew that there was still so much he didn't understand.... Even as she shifted her hips impatiently against his in a purely instinctive move; even as she heard him moan - which, in turn, sent her breath to a standstill in her throat; even as she slipped under more and more...all the while she was telling herself she'd stop - just one more kiss, just one more moment of feeling him against her, just one more second of basking in the headiness of his all-too obvious desire for her.

Because at least in this moment, there wasn't that fucking wall between them; at least right now, their actions were honest, unguarded. She realized then that she didn't want this to stop - it didn't matter if maybe it was too late for a real chance; she just needed to know what it would be like...once.  

 When he felt her hands on his belt loops, he pulled back slightly, his lips still against hers as he drew in a ragged breath. "What're we doing...?"  

It was a stupid question - because what they were doing seemed fairly obvious - but his brain was addled with the nearness of her, the taste of her on his lips.  Still, though, he knew this wasn't happening.  Couldn't possibly be.

"I want you." The words slipped out of her before she even thought about it, and for a split second, she was mortified that she'd said it out loud -- then his head fell back, his chin pointed toward the ceiling as his eyes closed.

Jesus...what the hell is she trying to do to me?

The image he presented standing there with his head tilted back and his eyes closed - so tortured - drove her to rise on her tiptoes, pressing her lips against his neck.  

He stiffened all over, his hands closing over her upper arms as he murmured, "I can't," even though his lips neared hers; he murmured it again - with less conviction this time, his lips moving against her own.

She felt intoxicated by the effect she was so clearly having on him; the realization that he was just barely hanging on to his control only amplified her desire to make him lose it.  Because god, it felt good to just for once give in to that attraction the way that she'd always wanted to.

So she murmured against his lips, "Do you not want....?"

"Yes...god, yes." It was a desperate moan as he felt the last vestiges of his self-control slipping away, the heat building in him with every touch of her lips, her hands - which skimmed the waistband of his jeans, fingers twining in and out of his belt loops, so dangerously close.  He wondered if she had any idea what it did to him to have her hands that close to him...just not close enough.

His response made her heartbeat quicken slightly, the hunger for him suddenly overwhelming her to the point at which she felt almost frenzied, desperate.

"Then please...." She whispered suddenly, the desperation finding its way into her voice.  

It was all he needed to hear; he shifted, suddenly taking one of her hands - still teasingly flitting around his belt - and sliding it purposefully down, over the front of his jeans, letting go of her hand when it rested on the bulge there.  She caught him off guard a little - very pleasantly so - when she immediately gripped him as best she could in spite of the thick denim.

"My god..." His voice was strained, hoarse as he impatiently slipped his hands under her turtleneck, skimming her waist, her rib cage, then moving to touch her breasts; she moaned against his lips, her head falling back a little as she caressed him through his jeans - frustrated, aching, her other hand pushing his shirt up impatiently, passing over his bare chest, the hair there soft against her fingertips.

And humming beneath the surface of her consciousness was the ever-present awareness that this was Jim.  

She pulled back impatiently, shoving his tee-shirt up; he eagerly complied, stopping long enough to pull the shirt off, tossing it aside as she stared at his bare chest and broad shoulders, feeling dizzy just to be standing there in the moment looking at him.  His hands were on her waist then as he, too, pushed her turtleneck up; she stepped back, taking over as she gripped it with her hands, tugging it up toward her head.  

She felt his lips against the bare flesh on her waist just as she cast the shirt to the floor.  He was kneeling in front of her now, lips trailing from her midriff around to her belly button, then up toward her bra as she clutched his hair impatiently; unable to take it anymore, she urged him back to his feet.

That she was so obviously...ready, so clearly impatient fueled him more; he backed her again against the wall, pressing close, his fingers fumbling impatiently with the clasp on her bra.  

Just as he unhooked it, her fingers found their way to the snap on his jeans. 

Jesus...this is happening; this is finally happening.  

The realization - shocking, certain, inescapable - drove him to reach for the button on her jeans, unzipping them before slipping his hand beneath her underwear. She had just unsnapped his pants and was in the process of shoving them impatiently past his hips when she felt his fingers slide against her.

She froze, one hand immediately seeking out and then clutching his forearm - habit, nothing more, because Roy could sometimes get impatient, inadvertently hurting her if she wasn't careful.  

Even as the realization dawned on her - this isn't Roy; it's Jim - he began to explore her, his touch altogether different from Roy's - so different that it distracted her at first, but only for a moment.  He was gentle, and he clearly knew what he was doing; after a few cautious strokes, he hit the mark, prompting her to gasp against his lips, her hips jerking involuntarily.

Again that flash of heat hit him - god, I don't know how much more of this I can take...

So he shifted, taking hold of her jeans and shoving them down past her hips, his lips having found hers again. They kissed almost clumsily for a second, each wobbling on unsteady feet as they stepped out of their jeans, leaving both of them naked but for their underwear - he in boxers, she in bikini panties.  

He wanted to step back, dying to look at her body, take it all in - but suddenly her hands were on him again, slipping deftly beneath his boxers; she gripped him with a confidence that almost startled him.  Then she was touching him in a way that drove him over the edge, because it was all too evident that she wanted what he wanted. And she clearly wanted it now.

She gasped again when he suddenly hooked his hands beneath her armpits, lifting her slightly as he held her up against the wall.  He knew he should stop, pull back, let her catch her breath; he knew it'd be wise to ask her if she was sure she wanted to do this.  

He might've done so, but when he lifted her, she'd instinctively reached a hand between them, shoving down her underwear, then his before she took him in her hand, guiding him toward her.

And that was it for him, the point of no return; he pressed forward, pushing slowly into her as her breath caught on a gasp, her eyes closed.  She didn't exhale until she'd taken him all in - only then did she slowly open her eyes, still shocked that it was Jim staring back at her, his lips swollen and red, eyes glazed with desire.  

He held her gaze for a few seconds, forcing himself to be still, to breathe in an attempt to regain some semblence of his control.  It was a wildly surreal moment, staring in her eyes while he was inside her, both of them gasping for breath; he could've sworn that she was in love with him just from the look on her face...though he still couldn't be sure, didn't know what the hell they were really doing here.

But they were here, and that was enough for him right now.  

He started to slowly move, rocking his hips against hers and prompting her to clutch his bare shoulders, emitting a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a cry.  She couldn't have articulated what this was like - such a shock, so unexpected; she'd come over here anticipating an argument, never dreaming it would turn into this.  

This: the sweat of his skin slipping beneath her fingers as she struggled to hold onto him while he drove into her again and again, her back hitting the wall in time with his movements. Just like before, in no time he'd hit the perfect stride, sending a sharp wave of pleasure through her with every thrust.  It was overwhelming - emotions bigger than she was, desire having long since eradicated her basic level of consciousness.  

She was borne along by impulse and instinct now, nothing else.

That the orgasm hit her so suddenly was just another shock - because it hadn't come this easily with Roy; she wasn't sure if it was that Jim knew what he was doing or if it was the simple fact that this was Jim.  All she knew was that the tremor that started low and usually built slowly seemed to streak right through her as she cried out, "Oh my god....Jim...."

She was shaking all over in his arms, but he didn't stop, holding her close and sending a spasm through her with each thrust.  The paroxysms just didn't stop - another thing that made her feel as if she were spinning out of control, clutching his shoulders, her fingers in his hair, feeling his lips on her clavicle, her neck, her ear, her mouth.

Places no one but Roy had ever been; places she'd always imagined Jim being, relegating the longing to the realm of fantasy - not reality.  Never reality. Perhaps it was that realization that prolonged the intense tremors; she had to consciously bear down to keep her teeth from chattering.

The way she was trembling in his arms caught him off guard; he sensed from her reaction that she'd already gotten there...another unexpected thing that sent him over the edge just a little more.

Before long they were both slick with sweat, making it difficult for him to keep his grip on her, so he paused, wrapping his arms tighter around her and pulling her back, shifting her higher on his hips and away from the wall;  her legs were still wrapped around his waist, her face flushed against his neck as he made his way toward the sofa, leaning forward to deposit her there.  Immediately her arms were around his neck, her hands on the back of his head as she pulled him down impatiently; within seconds, he'd fallen on top of her, reaching down, then pressing inside her again.  

He could move more easily now that he wasn't holding her up; she, too, had more mobility, her fingernails digging into his back so hard that he threw his head back and groaned, moving faster and faster, feeling the orgasm building.  Then all was black, the moment shattering into fragments behind his closed eyes as he moaned again, then fell forward slightly, his face to one side as he gasped for breath.  

And then there was silence but for their labored breathing.  She was slowly coming back to herself, the shock returning, but this time on a more conscious level and less a guttural one as the enormity of what had just happened began to wash over her.  She wondered what he'd say, what he'd do - what this meant.

He pulled back to gaze down at her in stunned silence - her face flushed, hair damp around the edges with sweat, eyes huge as she watched his face, searching his expression. He recognized the stark shadow behind her eyes; she, too, seemed to be reeling with the weight of what had just happened.    

She swallowed, caught off guard by the sudden urge to just cry.  It wasn't so much that she regretted what had happened as it was that, in the silence that followed, she found herself missing him -- wanting to be able to let go and cry in his arms (like she had more than once in the past over some bone-headed thing Roy had done), maybe even tell him that her head was absolutely spinning at the fact that they'd just ended up having sex - against the freaking wall in his apartment.  

That it had been good, astonishingly good; that it was the first time she'd ever felt like she was able to get close enough to him.  Finally.

But she couldn't say those things, because she didn't know what this meant or what he was feeling right now.  The awkwardness was palpable, undeniable - growing by the second as she was ever increasingly aware that they were both naked...that her clothes were scattered halfway across the room.  

He'd envisioned what had just happened more times than he should've, surely, but never quite like this.  While he was still slightly dazed by how eagerly she'd responded to him, he couldn't escape the tense silence that hung in the air between them now.  What he really wanted to do was just tell her he was still in love with her - that he'd never not been, that what just happened had damned near blown his mind...that they could make this work; that it would likely work almost effortlessly, if only they'd just let it.  

And he wanted to ask her if she was okay, if she was regretting what had happened - but he couldn't find the words.  Or maybe the nerve.

Probably both.

She finally found her voice, looking away from him as she murmured, "I, um...should..."

"Oh yeah." He nodded quickly, shifting a little - taking pains not to stare at her naked body; already her arms were crossed self-consciously over her breasts in a gesture that spoke volumes to him.

She regrets it; this just made things worse somehow...

Still he groped blindly behind him, taking hold of an old afghan that was thrown across the opposite arm of the couch; he gave it a quick jerk, sitting up and pulling it free, then handing it to her with a tentative smile, averting his eyes dutifully as she thanked him.

Her skin was burning as she fumbled with the blanket, wrapping it around her torso tightly before she stood - her knees still shaky enough to make her weave on her feet. 

He immediately reached a hand out to steady her, and for some stupid reason, the gesture made her want to cry again, because it was so...him.

The silence stretched painfully between them, and he realized that she didn't even know where his bathroom was.

He cleared his throat, gesturing awkwardly down the hall. "Uh....back there, last door to your left."

"Thanks." She couldn't meet his eyes, turning even as she clutched the afghan tightly.  She wasn't sure why she felt so incredibly embarrassed as she bent down to retrieve her clothes, but she just did.  Maybe it was because she'd never done anything like this before; Roy was the only man she'd ever been with, and their first time had happened after months and months of endless debate, followed by weeks of planning.

But this...she still almost couldn't wrap her brain around the fact that it had happened.  

She closed the door to the bathroom behind her, dropping her clothes to the floor as she looked in the mirror.  Her hair was mussed, her eyes almost black; her cheeks were flushed, stinging still from the way his stubble had scraped them slightly.  She was a little sore and still completely stupefied.  

As soon as he heard the door close behind her, he stood, pulling his boxers back on, then rushing to pick up the rest of his clothes - stepping into his jeans, pulling his tee-shirt over his head.  And then he stood there in the middle of the room staring off into space, because he just didn't know what else to do.

It took her ten minutes to pull herself back together, and when she finally emerged from the bathroom, she almost dreaded walking down the hall and facing him.  Was he disappointed?  Was he regretting it?  Wondering how to tell her it had been a mistake?

When he heard her soft tread on the carpet, he glanced up - and the hope he hadn't even realized he'd had immediately fell at the sight of her face.  She looked pale, shocked, and above all else, devastated - like she might cry.  She couldn't even look him in the eye.

He felt desperate suddenly - longing to ask her how in the hell that could've happened if there wasn't something more between them; he wanted to tell her that, whether she was willing to face it or not, they were so obviously more than just friends.  He wanted to tell her that there was no reason for her to look so utterly dejected - wanted to tell her that he knew with everything in him that this was  it.

But he could've sworn he'd seen that look on her face before - back when she'd said, "I'm really sorry...if you misinterpreted things."

So he looked away, his eyes falling to the carpet, one hand absently rubbing the back of his neck.

When she saw him avert his eyes, it hit her low in her stomach: It's really too late.

She forced herself to say, "I should - I should go."

He looked up at her then, and for a split second their eyes met.  It occurred to her rather randomly that just twenty minutes earlier, they'd locked eyes, and he'd been inside of her.  And now the distance between them was so vast she feared they'd never even be able to have a real conversation again.

"Oh - " He tried to mask the surprise, the hurt.  The humiliation. "Yeah, okay..."

He walked her to the door, where they paused; another protracted, agonizingly awkward silence fell as they fidgeted at the door.

Finally, she looked up at him; the tears standing out in her eyes shook him, made him move as if he'd reach out and touch her arm, pull her to him.

But his hand dropped when she whispered, "I'm really sorry - that was...we shouldn't have...."

His jaw tensed as he breathed out through his nose - a failed chuckle - then he forced himself to murmur, "...Okay."

She stayed in the tub until her skin pruned and the water faded to lukewarm.  For the longest time she simply sat, all conscious or intelligent thought suspended as the images re-played themselves in her head, never losing their intensity - shocking her all over again with the realization of what had happened that afternoon.

She just couldn't imagine where they would go from here...how they could possibly come back from this.  

As she toweled off, then pulled on a pair of jeans and an old button down shirt, she began to consciously dissect it all.  She wasn't sure why she'd told him that it had been a mistake, that they shouldn't have done it; maybe it was because when he seemed like he couldn't even look at her after she came out of the bathroom, the embarrassment had driven her to just say something, anything.

And really, she wasn't so sure she didn't believe it - that it never should've happened, no matter how amazing it was.  

If only she could define it, know what he thought about it....  Was it just sex to him?  Was it even a big deal?  I know he's been with more people than I have, so maybe it won't even give him pause.  ...But how could it not?  How can he not be absolutely reeling like I am?

Will he even acknowledge that it happened on Monday?  Will he want to talk about it? Or will it be like Casino Night, where we never even acknowledge that it happened?  How could it be that - how could we possibly do that when it was so much more than just a few kisses?  

She didn't want to even think about the damage this surely had done to their friendship - or what had been left of it after the hell of the past year.

When the rush of thoughts got to be too much, she tried to distract herself -- first by flipping on the television and clicking through the channels, the grayish images flickering on her face because she hadn't bothered to turn on the light, and even though it was only five, darkness had fallen outside.  There was a storm coming, one that the weatherman was talking about in his singsong way, growing animated as he predicted the rainfall amount, adding that there was also the possibility of hail.

...I wonder what he's doing right now.  Is he just going about his evening, not even really fazed by what happened?  Is he sorry it happened?  Is he trying to figure out how to tell me that it didn't mean anything?

She turned then, flipping on the lamp next to her sofa and settling back with the novel she'd been reading for the past few weeks.  But after she'd finished the second chapter, she realized that the words weren't even really registering; rather, they seemed to glide right off of her, crowded out of her mind by the images that still lingered there.

The way he'd backed her against the wall, pressed close; the look on his face when she'd asked him if he wanted her - when he'd tilted his head toward the ceiling and closed his eyes; the timbre of his voice when he'd moaned, "Yes, god, yes"; the way he had knelt in front of her as she'd pulled off her shirt, his lips pressed against the tender skin on her waist.  In her recollection, it struck her as a gesture that seemed so like him - reverent, almost worshipful.

Well, so like the way he'd been a lifetime ago, back when she'd known he was hers -- when she'd taken for granted (tried so desperately to ignore) that all she had to do was ask.  

How did I not see it sooner?  How did I just let him slip right through my fingers like that?  

She knew better than to indulge those kinds of thoughts, so she shook her head, then padded into her bedroom for her drawing materials.  She sat cross-legged on the floor, her sketch pad balanced her in lap as she searched her apartment for something to draw.  

She settled on the phone, her brow furrowing as she worked, attempting to shrug off the fact that she was still distracted by thoughts of him, by the memory of his touch.  When she surveyed her work after twenty minutes, it struck her as pathetic - ridiculous - to spend time sketching something as inane as the telephone on her end table.  

And then she'd just given up, letting herself go under again, her eyes closing.  She didn't have to even try to conjure the image; it immediately filled her mind: the expression he'd worn in that moment, when he'd filled her completely - the overwhelming pressure and the knowledge that this was it imparting a headiness that left her dizzy.  His eyes had been slightly unfocused, trained on her face; his lips darker than usual, swollen from having been pressed against her own.  

She thought back to the way his stare had seemed to burn right through her the night of the Booze Cruise, realizing that the expression he'd worn earlier today had been in the same vein...just intensified to a degree that made her breath catch in remembrance.  

Even so, she desperately didn't want to forget, because she was fairly certain she'd never see that look again.

Her pencil scraped furiously against the rough paper as she bit her lip, shading, erasing, smudging; half an hour later, she was staring at that expression all over again, the tears choking her throat.

She'd never sketched him before, even though there had been too many moments over the years when she'd caught herself wanting to draw him.  She'd never asked him if she could, and as she thought about it now, she wondered inanely why...

I know he'd have let me if I'd asked him to pose - he'd have been totally embarrassed, maybe would've insisted on parting his hair like Dwight's or something, but he'd have done it, no question.  But I never asked...

As she thought about it, she realized suddenly why she never had: Because to have done so would've been to risk falling prey to the feelings she'd struggled so hard to keep at bay; staring at him deliberately - no internal governor to prompt her to turn her gaze elsewhere - she'd known instinctively she'd drown in it, in him, if she wasn't careful.

She looked again at the sketch in her hands, slipping under.

What am I doing?  What did I do?  

The rain had already begun when she hurried out to her car, but she didn't care.  She hadn't even put on a coat or brought an umbrella because she'd been too driven by the need to see him now, to go to him and say all the things she'd always been too afraid to face - much less admit to.

The possibility that he might shake his head, look at her regretfully, and tell her again that he was sorry, but he couldn't go back...it was terrifying, yes, but suddenly she realized with a shocking clarity certainty just how much worse it would have been not to have taken the chance.  

His first instinct after he'd shut the door behind her had been to flip on the television.  Why, he wasn't sure, because he wasn't paying attention to it.  Maybe he just needed it to drown out the reality of his thoughts.

He sat at his desk for what seemed an interminable amount of time after she left, staring ahead, his chin propped on his hand.  Then he shifted, covering his mouth with his fingers before he tilted his head back, running his hand through his hair as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

He'd fantasized about it for so long, imagined making love to her so many different ways, in myriad scenarios...but never like that, never followed by a painful awkwardness that threatened to overshadow it all.  

And of course he'd pictured them plenty of times having impulsive sex -- much the way they had this afternoon, when the heat just seemed to be too much; when they both were pushed past the point of no return; when there wasn't anything left to do but lose themselves each other's bodies, because words always failed them anyway.  

When proverbial reason and logic went out the window and they allowed themselves - for once - to sink into it all, to drown in each other.

But even in those fantasies, no matter how fueled by frustration the sex had been, he'd always envisioned her being his when all was said and done; he'd imagined her clinging to him, pictured himself whispering all the things he'd wanted to say to her for so long...saw her desperate to hear them, saying them back, responding in kind.

But this...?  Going from feeling her shaking all over in his arms as she came, calling out his name (Jesus...she screamed my name...), to watching her helplessly as she avoided his eyes, pale and shaken...?

From the way she'd responded to him, he knew it couldn't have been that she'd found the sex lacking -- she'd even shocked him a little bit with the unadulterated hunger she'd shown, making no secret of the fact that she wanted him.  And from the way she'd looked at him - touched him, kissed him - he got the sense that she'd wanted this for as long as he had.

But he'd misinterpreted her before, right?  

Was it a rebound thing for her?  Is she just so shocked at all that happened with Roy that she just needed somebody?  Or was it that she just wanted to get it out of her system?  She admitted that she was attracted to me on Casino Night - was this just her way of satisfying that urge once and for all?  

...Holy...what the fuck are we supposed to say to each other on Monday?

But he knew how that would go - she probably wouldn't even mention it or acknowledge it; it would go the way of so many other things - the fact that he'd told her he was in love with her, that she'd kissed him back.  

The things they never dared to talk about...thereby securing them to the realm of the things that haunted him, wouldn't leave him alone.  

When he considered the possibility that this was just it  - that she'd avoid his eyes on Monday, that the awkwardness would stretch into a chasm that eventually destroyed the last shreds of their friendship (to say nothing of the finality of what such a thing would signify: Even sex couldn't make her see it....) - he had to get out, had to move, had to run.

As he was lacing up his tennis shoes, he heard the familiar beep that signaled a ticker tape at the bottom of the TV screen, announcing the severe thunderstorm warning that was in effect until one am.  He hesitated for a second, wondering if he ought not push his luck by going running this close to a thunderstorm...but when he glanced around his empty apartment, traces of her everywhere now, he realized that he almost didn't have a choice.

He had to get out, had to move, had to try not to think.

Yet even as he ran, flashes of what it had been like with her pulsed in time with his shoes hitting the pavement; he'd been so engrossed in the images of that afternoon that he barely noticed when a light rain started to fall.  But when it picked up, pelting against his head and bouncing off his shoulders - distant thunder rumbling suddenly - he reluctantly turned back toward his apartment.

He found himself hoping that somehow the rain could wash away the haze in which he felt snared; he hoped it might cleanse him, offer some sort of symbolic Baptism wherein he'd be absolved of all those feelings he'd struggled with for so long...just so he might find some piece of mind.

Even as the thought occurred to him, he couldn't help but hope that maybe fire could be as cleansing as water; because if nothing else, maybe the heat they'd gotten tangled up in this afternoon could serve some purpose, give them some closure after they'd had time to really process it.

While both scenarios were pleasant to consider, he wasn't certain of either; in fact, the only thing he was certain of these days was the way he felt for her.  Still.   

She was thinking of his face on the deck of the ship that night a year and a half ago as she drove through the darkened streets, her windshield wipers sloshing against the glass.  He'd looked so completely transfixed, so intense; she understood now what it must've been like for him, wondered if maybe he'd made the mistake of thinking instead of doing.

It was a miserable night, true to the weather man's predictions; the rain poured in sheets, the wind blowing the trees, whipping so hard that even the power lines trembled. But she'd always loved thunderstorms; they made her feel oddly centered.

Even so, she didn't feel quite calm as she pulled her car to a stop outside his apartment, feeling a strange twinge in the pit of her stomach when she saw his car.  He was home.

She was going to say it all.

In the short distance from her car to his front stoop, she'd gotten soaked, sorry that she'd hadn't bothered to at least grab a coat before she left.  But at the same time, it seemed to matter comparatively little in the face of what she was about to do.  

She knocked impatiently, waiting, fidgeting with her necklace.  ...Nothing.

Her eyes flicked to his car - I know he's home - then back to his front door, which was seeming more and more like an impenetrable barrier.  

She hadn't even considered the possibility that he'd try to avoid her altogether - that he wouldn't even answer the door when she knocked.  Her pride was aching miserably; she contemplated going home for a few seconds.  But she was loathe to leave, to lose this momentum...mainly because she was afraid she'd never get it back, would never work up the nerve again to do what she was here to do tonight.

I have to do this.

So she sucked in a breath, then knocked again, calling out, "Jim...?  It's me!"

Hearing herself say the words was weird - because, while what she'd said hearkened back to years of a comfortable friendship, it at the same time left her very much aware that somehow, she wasn't just "me" anymore; they weren't just Jim and Pam now, at least not in the incarnation they'd always inhabited. Their dynamic had resembled that of two teenagers afraid to acknowledge all that smoldered beneath the surface - resorting instead to pranks and inside jokes and a shorthand that involved everything but the things that mattered most.  

But now...now he was just inescapably a man to her; she'd never be able to relegate him to that safe place of "Jim" again.

As if to validate her realization, there was still no answer at the door.  Her old friend Jim never would've ignored her, left her standing out there in the rain feeling like a complete fool.  But then, her old friend Jim was the guy she tried to bury her feelings for; her old friend Jim was someone who slipped into her fantasies all too often, but was never fully realized.

But now she knew what it was like with him (he'd been so present - in control, touching her with an assurance borne of the fact that he clearly knew what he was doing; simultaneously so susceptible to her - moaning at her voice, tilting his head to afford her better access to the throbbing vein in his neck.  

Again the realization shocked her, sent a quiver through her.  

Before she could think further, she heard the pounding of footsteps some distance behind her, splashing in the puddles - but she didn't turn around, because she wasn't too keen on making small talk with Jim's neighbors.

He squinted, straining to see through the glaze of the rain; for the second time that day, she seemed almost a vision out of nowhere, unexpected, jarring.  

His pace gradually slowed to a jog, tapering off until he was really just striding toward her briskly, running a hand through his wet hair as he grew closer to where she stood.

"Pam...?"

She spun in surprise, and when she saw him walking toward her, soaked to the skin, she breathed a sigh of relief, oblivious to the rain that was dripping from the small awning above his front door onto her face.  It didn't matter; all that really mattered was the fact that he hadn't been ignoring her.

As she watched him come closer, the look on his face so evidently concerned, she wondered how she could've ever even thought he'd do such a thing.  

When he was standing in front of her, she found it difficult to look him in the eye - harder still to tear her eyes from the way his soaked tee-shirt clung to his shoulders, molded to his flat belly.  The twinge low in the pit of her stomach told her that, even though what had happened earlier had been amazing, it would never be enough; she wanted to be able to take her time with him, go slow, learn every inch of him.

She lowered her chin to the pavement, willing away the thought.

He had to really work to grasp the fact that she was standing there on his door step, having obviously been there for several minutes, at least, based on the way her hair was damp around her face, wet splotches all over her button down shirt, darkening her jeans in places.

"What're you...?" He didn't finish the question because he knew the answer, and it stunned him more than a little.  He'd tried to prepare himself all afternoon for the reality that they might well never talk about what had happened - that it would fade into some sort of mythos in his memory, unspoken, unresolved...much like Casino Night had been, only far more elemental.

"I was..." She began, watching him as he fumbled with his keys, then opened the door to his apartment, standing back and gesturing for her to go in ahead of him.

"Thanks." She murmured, stepping inside, the onslaught of memories hitting her so quickly and so viscerally that she actually froze in her tracks for a second.

He watched her carefully, wondering what she was thinking and why she was really here as he closed the door behind them.  It didn't look good - she was a little pale, seemed incredibly preoccupied, definitely upset.

So he tried to brace himself for the fall, knowing that it was futile.  She was the one person on the face of the earth who had the power to annihilate him with the things she said - and even more so with the things she didn't say.
 
The calm she'd felt on the way over dissipated almost entirely when he turned from locking the door to face her, his hair wet and swept back from his forehead, the faded gray tee-shirt he wore clinging to his chest in a way that sent another flash of them earlier - her breasts flattened against his bare chest, her fingers digging into his shoulders.  She had to avert her eyes.

He saw her do it and felt his stomach drop a little, then he forced himself to ask cautiously, "Do you want a towel or something?  You're kind of...soaked."

She gave him a weak smile as she nodded, murmuring, "That'd be good, yeah."

"Okay." The smile he flashed her was inscrutable.  

He disappeared down the hall she'd trudged earlier in the day, re-appearing seconds later with a cream-colored towel, which he extended to her; there was something careful, hesitant in his demeanor, as if he were afraid of moving too quickly, for fear he might offend her.

He watched as she took the towel, murmuring a thank you as she ran it behind her neck, gathering her hair into a bunch and tucking it into the cloth.  He swallowed hard as she dabbed at her face, ignoring the memory of her delicate skin, her nails pressing into his flesh in a way that only urged him on further.  

"So, uh....have a seat." He gestured to the couch, and for a split second their eyes met, a shared memory passing between them: for her, it was falling back against the soft cushions, still shaking as she pulled him down on top of her; for him, it was the memory of her soft flesh beneath him, the heat too much...consummate release.

He made a point of pulling out the chair from his desk and sitting there, while she perched cautiously on his couch, clearly ill at ease.  The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on him: She can't even look at me; we really fucked it all up this time.  There's no going back.

She took a deep breath, trying to work up the nerve to just start talking, but when her lips parted, nothing came out at all but a strangled, muffled sound - not quite an "I" but not entirely silence either.  So she clamped her mouth shut and looked away from him, worried for a second that she might just start bawling.  

This mattered too much, and it was fucking terrifying.

He watched her face closely, the swelling ache creeping over him, threatening to consume him completely.  So he swallowed hard, lowering his eyes to the carpet as he took a deep breath.

She heard him and glanced over surreptitiously, just as he raised his eyes and looked back at her.  

A few seconds of awkward silence stretched as they looked at one another, then he forced himself to suck in another breath, saying, "So.... I guess you're here about...this afternoon...."

"Yeah." She answered immediately, her throat closing up and making it difficult to take in a good breath.  Although she had every intention of taking his cue and going from there, she still found herself literally unable to find the words.  

He forced himself to take another steadying breath. "I, uh...I'm not sure what you...."

He couldn't finish, shaking his head slightly, unable to bring himself to say the words.  But when it became evident that she either wasn't willing or able to pick up the thread, he finished with some difficulty, "...want - "

It was just the opening she'd needed.

"I really want this." The words slipped out in a rush of breath and fear.  For a split second that old familiar panic loomed, but she was here now; they were here, closer than they'd ever been to just facing this.

And her gut was telling her that, for better or worse, she'd never be able to forgive herself if she didn't just see this through.

He froze, his eyes widening slightly.  Is she saying she wants...sex? ...Or is she talking about us?  

His voice was so low she almost didn't hear it: "I need you to tell me what you want, Pam."

Her earlier resolution wavered slightly...and then she thought of his face on Casino Night - the way he'd looked her in the eye, not even trying to hide the fact that he was utterly devastated.

The memory gave her courage; the need to somehow honor what he'd been brave enough to do that night spurred her on.

Their eyes held, her voice resolute: "You.  Everything."

He didn't blink, didn't move for several long seconds, almost certain he'd misheard her...misinterpreted her.

So he responded with a wry smile, "I'm...gonna need a more specific answer."

She recognized the vulnerability behind his expression; she'd heard that tone in his voice before.

"You really don't know?" She asked, tilting her head as her eyes swept his face, the urge to kiss him hitting her all of a sudden, distracting her for a second.

She was looking at him in a way that he was almost positive she never had before: One of her eyebrows was raised, her eyes holding his steady; she seemed confident, sure of herself...unwavering.  

In the face of the image she presented, he suddenly realized that he it was safe to believe what his instincts were telling him.  Even so, his memories of that night were still astonishingly clear...visceral.

So he answered honestly, "I'm not sure what I know anymore."

Again their eyes met and held, then she nodded; to her dismay, that wave of confidence she'd been possessed with earlier was beginning to quickly wane. But then she caught that flickering awareness: You have to say it now; this is your chance.  If you blow it, you might not get another one.  

"I wasn't honest with you." The words came out unbidden, even caught her off guard.

He blinked, startled. "About what?"

"About a lot of stuff.  Accusing you of misinterpreting things; saying that I couldn't.  Encouraging you to work things out with Karen, when I wanted to ask you what the hell happened to us." She lowered her head, the tears welling in her eyes, making her throat ache horribly. "Telling you that we were just friends and always would be, like it wasn't...."

He slowly stood to his feet, his head tilted slightly as he took a cautious step toward her, even as she went on, her head still down, seemingly oblivious to him.

"Acting like I didn't know what you were talking about when you said that night on the roof was our first date." Her hand trembled as she wiped a tear from her cheek. "Pretending that I didn't know what you were wishing for the day you found that clover...pretending that it wasn't what I wanted, too..."

The relief was enough to make him almost want to throw his head back and laugh out loud.  Instead, he moved to stand in front of her; when she didn't look up at him, he dropped to his knees before the couch, leaning forward to cautiously put his hands on either side of her face.

When she saw him in her peripheral vision in front of her, she felt a flicker of hope - terrifying because she wanted so much to believe; when she felt his hands on either side of her face, she began to shake her head, the tears trickling down her cheeks because she just couldn't believe that this was real, that it was happening.

That it wasn't too late; that he was this fucking amazing.

He tilted her chin gently so that she raised her eyes to his; when he saw the tears there, he smiled a sad, tight little smile, giving a slight shake of his head.  For a second, he looked as if he might say something, but he didn't - just looked at her hard, something struggling in his eyes.

She watched, her vision blurred, as tears shone in his eyes - and that was all she needed.

"You're it." She whispered; when he closed his eyes, it gave her the courage to go on. "I want to do this; I don't even want to say we should try it because I've got more faith in it than that.  I know it'll work, because you're...you're you; we're us, and I just - "

Without warning, his lips were on hers, and when it occurred to her that his lips were familiar to her now, she felt herself relaxing, slipping under...but willingly this time.

His hair was damp and slick beneath her fingertips, his lips warm against her chilled skin. She almost felt drowsy as the fears and anxieties that had plagued her all day slowly slipped away beneath his hands, warm on her face, his thumbs having deftly wiped the tears away as he kissed her slowly, languidly.

He'd kissed her because he couldn't not; the vulnerability that had made her voice tremble was too much to just watch silently...to say nothing of the shocking miracle that, as she'd sat there with her head down, she'd been speaking the words that brought so many of his dreams to life.

But then, just as she had earlier in the afternoon, she'd responded to him with such an unabashed vehemence that he felt himself swept along by the current of his attraction to her. So he pulled her closer, his hands slipping from her face to her damp hair, then down her back.

Yet still he moved with an unstudied ease, as if they had all night.

And then she realized that they did have all night. That same searing heat she'd fallen prey to earlier in the day took hold of her again.

There was more she wanted to say to him; there were things she needed him to say to her. But they would have to wait.

When he realized where this was going, he forced himself to draw back, standing up and offering her a hand, which she immediately took, her eyes locked in his as he pulled her gently to her feet.

She felt drunk, heady as she watched his eyes drift from hers, slowly, down to her lips, then back up to meet her gaze squarely as he said in a gruff voice, "I wanna do it right this time."

It was just second nature for her to give a slow, throaty chuckle, then: "Believe me...you did it right the first time."

As she stood there watching his expression - his eyebrows rising slighty, lips curved in a smile - it occurred to her that it should probably be just a little weird to say such a thing to Jim, but it was the farthest thing from it. Another inane realization that hit her in the moment was that she'd always wanted to have the kind of sexy banter with Roy that she'd seen in the movies and on television, but the few times she'd tried, the words had seemed to fall flat in the shadow of Roy's impatience.

But Jim... He was standing in front of her breathing a little more heavily than usual, and she could tell that he wanted to say something - offer up some witty retort - but he was obviously too distracted to do more than give her a slight shake of his head.

There were so many responses swirling through his head, things he wanted to say to her, but none of them could compete with the awareness that she was his...this was real; it was happening.

Their eyes held fast as he took a slow, deliberate step toward her; the look on his face - serious, burning - sent a weird quaking sensation through her, but she didn't look away, just raised her chin a little higher. The promise of what was about to happen - cast in the light of memories from earlier in the afternoon - made her suddenly grasp what it meant to swoon. As she watched him take another step toward her, the floor beneath her didn't feel quite so secure; the dizzying feeling in her head was much like standing up after you've had too much to drink.

When he pressed his lips to hers again, he felt her arms immediately snake up around his neck, her fingers sinking into his hair as she pressed herself fully against him. He took in a deep breath against her mouth, then knelt slightly, sliding one arm beneath her knees, then standing to his full height, picking her up off the floor.

In spite of herself, she started to laugh at the gesture.

"Oh, that's nice." He pulled back, lowering his chin as he made a face at her.

She laughed harder, resting easily against his chest, one arm around his shoulders; she was so damned tired and emotionally wrung out that she was almost slaphappy. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry..."

"Okay." He stood still for a second as her giggles subsided, then, one eyebrow cocked: "You composed now?"

"Yes." She gave him as serious an expression as she could muster, but then the smile crept through again, leading to a muffled snort that prompted him to draw back in surprise.

"Wow. That's some laugh, Beesly - very...Michael-esque." He couldn't help but tease her; she responded with a light smack to his chest, gazing up at him, loving this particular vantage point.

It didn't matter that his tee-shirt was soaked and was rapidly dampening her clothes; it didn't matter that his neck was still slick from the rain outside, so her hand kept sliding off of it.

All that mattered was that this was Jim...and it was all okay.

He was watching her as her expression softened, then without a word he started to walk slowly down the darkened hall. As they drew nearer to the door she suspected was his bedroom, her heart started to thump against her chest, her limbs tingling with the nervous flutter of anticipation.

His bedroom was dark but for a street light that sent a beam of illumination through the window; outside, the steady rain continued to fall, looking almost like crystal confetti against the backdrop of the darkened sky. When his knees hit the side of his bed, he leaned forward, lowering her to rest against his pillows, loving it when she immediately pulled him down on top of her. He kissed her again, long and deep with just a hint of impatience; he was determined to take this slow, to make it last this time...to drink in every aspect of her, just as he'd wanted to do for so many years now.

They lay pressed close - lips meeting, hands exploring, bodies shifting with muted impatience - in what seemed almost like a hazy, surreal dream to her. She found herself wanting to pull back and look at him - really look at him, just to try to grasp the reality that this was actually happening.

After a few minutes, he paused, his forehead touching hers, his breath warm on her face as he whispered, "I can't believe this."

"I know." Her voice was small, her eyes on his face as he drew back a little, gazing down at her with an awed expression. A wave of heated impatience washed over her then, so she raised up slightly, putting her hands on his jaw and pulling his lips down to hers again. When he groaned against her mouth, she felt the heat quicken again.

So she pushed impatiently at his wet tee-shirt, attempting to shove it up above his waist and chest, but her hands only got tangled in the damp cloth. He pulled his hips back slightly to allow her easier access, their lips touching; still she couldn't manage to get the damned shirt above his ribcage.

He felt a smile threatening as she impatiently pushed and tugged, and when she felt him start to grin against her lips, she abruptly stopped kissing him.

"Is something funny?"

He gave her his best wide-eyed, innocent look. "Absolutely not."

She narrowed her eyes, pretending to glare at him - which prompted him to chuckle, then he shifted, sitting up to rest on his knees as he easily pulled the shirt up and over his head. He tossed it impatiently aside, and it hit the floor with a dull thud.

When he turned back to her, he was shocked to see her face in the dim light, her eyes roving over his shoulders and chest; even as he noticed, she reached a hand to trail lightly across the width of his shoulders, down his lateral muscles, then back up again. There was just nothing boyish about him here in the flesh - not the hair on his chest, not the width of his shoulders, not the curve of his jaw against the illumination from the window when he tilted his head toward the ceiling for a moment.

Her feathery touch sent a shiver through him; he closed his eyes for a second, opening them again when he heard her whisper, "Wow..."

"What?" His voice was hoarse as he moved, resting lightly on top of her again.

"I just...you're so...manly." The word just slipped right out of her mouth; as soon as she said it, she regretted it.

He abruptly stopped moving, prompting her to start giggling, shaking beneath him.

"Seriously?" He was looking down at her, both eyebrows raised now. "What, dare I ask, were you expecting, exactly?"

"I don't know...." She was laughing so hard she couldn't get in a good breath. "...where that came from. I just - you took your shirt off, and you looked so..."

His lips were parted now as he watched her - vacillating between an almost calming warmth at the sound of her laughter, the sight of her so happy, and a mounting impatience, because their rushed, heated sex from that afternoon had only fanned the flames for him. He'd had enough of her to know that this was amazing - that the hum he'd felt beneath his skin from the first moment he'd shaken hands with her was no accident - but he was hungry to know more of her.

He settled for leaning down and growling playfully against her lips, "So I see I didn't leave enough of a manly impression on you this afternoon, then..."

"Are you kidding?" Her voice was throaty as she tilted her head, giving him better access to her neck as one of her hands trailed down his back. "If you only knew..."

"Why don't you tell me?" His lips were on her clavicle now as he began to unbutton her shirt, pressed hard against her.

She shifted impatiently against him, her fingers slipping through his damp hair. For a split second she felt shy, self-conscious as he flicked open the last button on her shirt, then drew it carefully apart.

When she saw his hands tremble slightly, heard his sharp intake of breath at the sight of her bare stomach, her breasts spilling out of the top of her bra, her inhibitions began to fade.

"I couldn't...think of anything else all day." She whispered, both hands resting on his back now as he paused, his lips against her neck as he unhooked the clasp on her bra.

"God, I couldn't either." The words were a vibration against her pulse as she felt the tension and then the release as her bra came undone. She raised up on her arms just enough to help him slide it all the way off of her before she fell back to rest against the pillows. The feel of him hard against her thigh was both distracting and thrilling, a prelude to what she knew was about to happen; she tilted her head back slightly, closing her eyes.

"Pam..." It was a hoarse whisper as he gazed down at her, her breasts full, waist and belly taut. "My god, you're so...beautiful."

He was frustrated for a second at how trite it sounded, because he was truly close to speechless at the sight of her.

Then she heard him whisper, "I'm still in love with you..."

Her eyes opened, and the look on his face was too much - again, she was reminded of the way he'd looked at her the night of the Booze Cruise. For the first time, she could think of that night and not feel shredded inside; because now it wasn't a requiem for what could've been, but rather, was a prelude to all they would have.

"Me, too. I just..." She whispered in return, her back arching slightly when he lowered himself until her breasts brushed the hair on his chest.

He felt her body tense, then pulled back to gaze down at her as he whispered sharply, "Tell me...please."

"I love you." She whispered in a rush of breath as his hand worked between them, unsnapping her jeans. She followed his lead but with much easier success; the sweatpants he'd worn to run slid down easily.

Hearing her say the words while she writhed beneath him was almost too much, because in that moment so many of the wildest wishes he'd harbored for years were suddenly coming true.

He'd just helped her out of her jeans when he felt her fingers close around him, causing him to freeze suddenly, his breath catching with an agonized, "Jesus...."

She wanted to say something back to him, but nothing came out; all she could do was pull his face down toward hers again, their lips meeting just as a loud crash of thunder sent the items on his bedside table rattling.

She jumped, startled; he pulled her closer, whispering against her ear, "You okay...?"

"Mmmm...." It was a cross between a sigh and a moan. "Better than that."

"Yeah?" She loved the way his voice was hoarse, throaty.

He felt her smile against his lips, prompting him to murmur, one hand shoving his boxers down before his fingers hooked beneath the straps on her underwear, "What're you smiling at...?"

She started to chuckle, but the sound was muffled by a gasp when she felt him all of a sudden there, a breath away from everything.

"I don't..." She couldn't finish because he shifted, pressing against her; then he shifted again, reaching down, then pushing into her. He propped himself on his hands, gazing down at her; she felt him throb suddenly deep inside, making her close her eyes.

She knew she'd be distracted by flashes of this night for weeks, months: the sound of the wind whipping through the trees as the rain pelted against the window, his lips soft and wet against her own, his movements slow and languid; the glazed look in his eyes when he pulled back to gaze down at her; the way his voice cracked slightly when he uttered her name in a half whisper, half moan.

The way it was so completely and utterly different from the way it had been with Roy - because, while she and Roy had come to know each other's bodies as well as they knew their own, learning each other's likes and dislikes, Roy was easily distracted. He knew what she liked, and sometimes he remembered; other times he got caught up in the heat of his own desires, seemingly forgetting what she needed.

But Jim...

When he whispered, "Tell me what you need..." she shocked herself by doing just that. It had been literally two and a half years before she'd been bold enough to ask Roy for what she wanted, what she really needed.

But there was something about Jim that put her at ease; perhaps it was their history, the fact that he'd been her best friend for so long that led her to trust him, to really let go with him.

Because that's what she did - just let go, no matter how terrifying, no matter how shockingly vulnerable she felt in doing so. What she came to realize was that along with the vulnerability came an intimacy that ran so deep it brought tears to her eyes.

As if to punctuate her thought, he pulled back, never breaking his rhythm even as he met her eyes then whispered vehemently, "God, I love you so...much, Pam..."

For some reason, all she could do was whisper back, "Please..."

He intuited what she meant, so he nodded once, then: "I will."

He listened carefully as her breathing quickened, then he lowered his lips to her neck, leaving a damp trail on her skin as he moved lower. But she stopped him with a sudden jerk, her body tensing all over, causing him to raise his head. When he saw her - her head thrown back against the pillow, one hand clutching his shoulder, the other closed around the sheet - he hoped to god this was it because the sight of her reacting that way pushed him too far.

"Pam..." His voice was louder, more urgent than it had been before; all she could do was nod furiously, lowering her head to meet his eyes even as she felt the quivering emanating from some place deep, low.

There was something just shockingly intimate in forcing herself to hold his gaze until the moment the orgasm swept through her, causing her to shut her eyes tightly, her head tilted all the way back as she bit her lip. She understood suddenly why people used the metaphor of waves crashing against the shore to describe this, because that's what it felt like for her - like she was borne along, crashing against him only to feel it building again in a wave.

To say his name over and over in that moment was the most miraculous thing of all.

When the tremors subsided, she opened her eyes to gaze up at him - sweat beaded on his forehead, the look on his face somewhere between agonized and almost drunk.

He knew it wouldn't be long when she pressed tighter against him, leaning up to whisper in his ear, saying the things he never really believed he'd hear her say; things that chased away all the doubts he'd had in the past.

Things that erased the last vestiges of the guise of "just friends" to which they'd clung so desperately for such a long time. Never again could they run from this, hide from the truth of what they really were to each other.

He groaned, pulling her close as a tremor ran down his spine, bringing with it blissful release, seeming impossibly perfect.

And then there was silence, their breathing labored, the rain still falling, thunder distant, somewhere far away...or so it seemed.

-----------------------------

After several long moments, she heard his voice, hoarse in the darkness: "Wow. Some day, huh?"

The smile spread quickly across her face, and then she was laughing, thinking about how humiliated she'd been that morning when she'd looked up from her sketching to see him playing basketball on the court below.

"You could say that."

He chuckled. "Damn right. ...And just think: I went to the rec center to play ball because I was so freaking frustrated by everything that I had to blow off steam somehow."

"Really?" She turned to face him, drawing the sheet up and tucking it under her arms. She wondered if she'd ever get used to seeing him with his shirt off - same charming smile, same tousled hair...but no old man tie, no ill-fitting shirt. Just his broad shoulders and trim, slightly muscular chest, a smattering of dark hair punctuating his appeal.

"Yeah." He reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, his smile gentle.

She took in a deep breath. "I was sort of doing the same thing - I mean, I was there for a sketching class, just to, you know, get out of my apartment."

"Really?" His voice was gravelly, low, his eyes closing for a moment.

""Mmm-hmm." She paused, then: "So tell me something: Why did you just ignore my card?"

His eyes opened at that. "Because I didn't - I had no idea what you meant by it."

She chuckled wryly. "I thought it was pretty obvious myself."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "Obvious? Seriously?"

"You kissed me for the first time that day." For some bizarre reason, saying the words aloud made her feel suddenly free.

Their eyes met and held, her hand absently seeking his in the darkness as another crash of thunder sounded in the distance, the wind sending the rain pelting harder against the window.

"Believe me, I remember." He grinned.

"So...?" She prodded. "I was trying to make an overture."

He laughed. "Well forgive me if I wasn't exactly sure what you wanted."

"Really?" She was genuinely surprised. "You honestly didn't know?"

He took in a deep breath. "Well...I mean, yeah, I suspected, but... I don't know, Pam; I was so sure last year that there was something more there - "

"There was." She blurted. "There always has been."

There was another shared moment of silence, their eyes meeting again in the dark. He wondered when - if - he'd ever get used to the fact that she was his now, that this was happening.

His voice was a little lower when he finally replied. "...And when I told you how I felt that night, you said I'd misinterpreted things."

"I know." She swallowed hard. "I'm sorry for that. But Jim...seriously, I just...did not see that confession coming, so I just sort of responded on auto pilot. Does that make sense?"

He nodded. "Mmm...yeah, it does."

And then she whispered suddenly, "God, I'm sorry I screwed things up so much..."

"Hey, no..." He rubbed her arm, drew her closer to him so that her head rested on his bare chest. Even after all that had happened over the course of the day, she still almost couldn't believe that this was Jim.

His voice was a rumble against her cheek as he went on. "We both made mistakes... And yeah, I should've said something to you sooner, but I was just...."

"I know."

"...But hey, it's okay now...you know?" He lowered his chin slightly to peer down at her.

She, in turn, drew back to prop again on one elbow, and then she beamed at him. "Oh my god...it really is, isn't it?"

"I'm thinking it is, Beesly." He grinned, then: "Unless, of course, this was just a booty call for you."

"Oh my god!" Her hand smacked his bare chest as he threw back his head and laughed. "You're horrible!"

"Me?" He pulled back a little, assuming an innocent, incredulous face. "Need I remind you that you jumped me this afternoon."

"I was just trying to get you to shut up." She eyed him archly, a huge grin on her face.

"Oh really?" His right eyebrow shot up again as she nodded. "Well then what was this about?"

The answer came to her immediately, but she felt the old hesitation stifling her -- and then she realized all over again that she was where she belonged - finally. There was no need anymore for fear or hesitation.

So she met his gaze pointedly, then answered, "Just about the fact that I've wanted you for so long that I can't remember a time when I didn't."

"Wow." He was genuinely stunned, blinking in amazement, a huge smile on his face. "I just - wow. Never thought I'd hear you say that...ever."

"Well, it's true." She was sure everything she felt was all over her face as she gazed up at him.

"Glad to hear it." He gave her a grin, a comfortable silence falling. Then: "Hey...are you hungry?"

"Starving." She answered immediately.

He laughed. "Then what do you say we order a pizza?"

-----------------------


It had been nothing less than surreal to banter with him about showering versus taking a bath: "Pam, a shower would just be more efficient..."

"Suck it. You just want to see me standing there naked."

He blinked. "Well...yeah."

She'd laughed at him, watching as he made his way to the kitchen, calling behind out to her, "You win, Beesly - this time! Go ahead and run the water; I'll be right back."

When he re-appeared with a bottle of Palmolive and a sheepish smile, she raised her eyebrows at him.

"Well...c'mon, I don't keep bubble bath around, and I know you like bubble baths, so..."

"Of course you do." She said softly, a gentle smile on her face.

Then it was finding something for her to wear, as the clothes she'd worn over were still damp from the rain.

"So..." He'd cast a glance over his shoulder at her, standing in his boxers in front of his dresser while she stood behind him, wrapped in a dark blue towel. "How about a tee-shirt?"

"Sounds good." She nodded, then added quickly, "A big one, preferably."

He paused, turning to grin at her. "A big one, eh? Would it shatter your image of me if I - "

" - burst out with a 'That's what she said'?" She grinned as he laughed. "Not in the least."

"Well actually, I was going to say that I'd planned to dig out the smallest tee-shirt I could find."

"Nope." She shook her head. "Need to be covered as much as I can be, Halpert."

He paused, one eyebrow raised. "You do realize, don't you, that I've seen you naked? That we have, in fact, had sex - twice, actually."

"Really?" She gave him a daft expression. "Hm. I hadn't remembered...."

"Oh really?" His eyebrows were up as he took a step toward her menancingly.

Just as his lips neared hers, the doorbell rang, prompting him to groan as she giggled, then whispered, "Pizza's here."

He retorted: "Actually, it might very well be Dwight; we were gonna have a Dungeons and Dragons marathon tonight."

Her laughter followed him to the door.

------------------

"I started bawling before you even got to your car that night." She took a sip of wine, gazing over at him.

"What?" He drew back. "Seriously? Oh my god, Pam...I had no idea. Why'd you say it, then?"

She shrugged. "Because by that point I'd figured out that you and Karen were...together, or whatever. And I felt stupid."

"Why would you feel stupid?" His voice was soft, his expression gentle.

"Because I got up at five that morning to do my hair just for you; because I spent two days cleaning my apartment, thinking you'd come over after work and we'd talk."

"My god." He repeated, blinking in astonishment. "That's just - I never would've dreamed you'd.... Wow."

She smiled at him softly, his hair more tousled than usual because he hadn't even brushed it after their bath.

Then: "So when we played that prank on Andy - you know, the one with the phone?"

"Yeah?" She waited expectantly.

He gave a quick, pained smile, as if the memory was still difficult for him. "...Scared the hell out of me."

"Why?" Her voice was so soft he almost didn't hear her.

"Because I'd been doing a pretty good job of convincing myself that I was over you, that I'd moved on." He looked down at the floor for a moment. "But that...that made me realize it'd never go away."

"I'm glad." She whispered, swallowing hard.

He seemed to snap back from his reverie, glancing over to smile warmly at her. "Me, too...you have no idea."

----------------------


"I never would've thought we'd have such pretty weather so soon!" Phyllis cast a glance at the brilliant blue sky, shielding her eyes from the sun with her flat black purse.

Pam nodded, caught in something of a daze. Strange to walk through this parking lot knowing all that I know...facing all that I've faced.

Really living for the first time, not running anymore.

She'd left Jim with a lingering kiss at her front door, clutching his tee-shirt in her hand. They'd spent a total of four hours and forty-five minutes apart that weekend; he'd stayed at her place on Saturday night, insisting that she show him all the pieces she'd displayed at her art show months before. In the interim, they'd filled in the blanks while they haunted the spaces of her apartment: alternately lounging on her living room floor, their backs against the couch; nestling in her bed, her head on his bare shoulder; sitting in her bathtub with her back against his chest, his arms encircling her from behind, their fingers linked.

The mysteries they unlocked were vast, humbling.

"I don't know..." She shook her head. "I mean, you looked really...intense, so yeah...I guess I sort of knew. But I mean, you were with Katy - "

He groaned, then chuckled, prompting her to ask, "What? She was gorgeous, and you know it."

He gave a nod of acquiescence, then: "That she was. ...But she couldn't have been more wrong for me. You knew that - you had to have known that."

"Maybe." She wasn't looking at him.

But he wasn't letting her off the hook that easily. "Of course you knew. Why else did you ask me what it was like dating a cheerleader?"

Her head jerked up at the memory; she'd forgotten saying that to him. All that stood out to her of that night was the intensity on his face, the utter terror she'd felt when she realized he was about to kiss her.

"You were gonna kiss me, weren't you?" Her voice was far away.

He recognized it as another thing to be thankful for that he could answer honestly: "I was trying to work up the nerve, yeah."

Their eyes met and held.

"If you would have, I wouldn't have stopped you."

---------------------------

She'd just happened to glance over her shoulder at the same time that the elevator gave a crystalline ding, the doors sliding open smoothly.  Jim was making his way toward the building, his messenger's bag over one shoulder, a wide smile on his face.

"Oh you know what, Phyllis? I totally forgot...something in my car. Go on up without me."

Phyllis nodded immediately, not even questioning her. Pam marveled that she could actually feel a flutter of anticipation just at the thought of being alone in the elevator with him after the weekend they'd shared.

She knew so much about him now; more than that, she was settled comfortably - already - into the entity that was them. It was seamless, natural - of course.

"Morning." He gave her a seemingly innocuous smile for the benefit of the wizened old security guard, but when her gaze lingered, Jim felt himself beginning to weaken.

As soon as the elevator doors closed behind them, his lips were on hers, her back against the far wall of the elevator.

"How're we..." He began, but soon was distracted by her bare neck, ever aware that their time was limited.

"...gonna be normal?" It was a gasp, her hands on the back of his head.

"Yeah..." His mouth covered hers then as he drew her close, her body flush against his own.

Just before the elevator gave its final sound, signalling the impending swishing of the doors, she smiled archly against his lips.

"Oh come on...like we haven't been faking it all these years anyway."