Jim shrugs his shoulders and bends forward slightly, burrowing deeper into his coat, his hands shoved in his pockets. They've all been standing outside the building for fifteen minutes now, the chilly October wind whipping around them as they wait for the arrival of the "Poconos Party Bus," as Michael insists on referring to it.

Jim starts to walk in a slow circle, attempting to warm himself even as Michael begins to rattle off a list of the various "funtivities" he has planned for them on this, their camaraderie weekend.

"Climbing wall, karaoke, and - ooh! Almost forgot." He grins at them, ignoring it when Stanley rolls his eyes and turns his back. "The Outlet Mall!"

"Michael, what does any of that have to do with team-building?" Angela, as usual, doesn't even bother to hide her disgust.

"Because it's -- " He waves his hands in frustration, his composure slipping. "Just -- shut it, Angela. Okay? Can you do that?"

Angela shakes her head, muttering acidly, "Wasteful."

Kevin sidles up to Jim, then leans close to murmur, "This hotel has a lounge."

The smile that follows his announcement is slow, creeping across his face in a manner that always reminds Jim of a ten year-old boy who has discovered a secret stash of porn or something.

"Mmm." Jim finds himself wondering absently what Kevin was like as a ten year-old...because he's pretty sure that he couldn't possibly have behaved that much differently then than he does now. He hears Oscar ask Michael why they have to take a bus when the Pocmont Resort is only a half hour away. Michael's response is flustered, his disappointment palpable; he's been planning this for weeks, and the lack of enthusiasm he's facing now has dampened his spirits.

Jim almost feels guilty as Kevin goes on, obviously wanting Jim to share his excitement about the lounge: "And you know what that means."

"There'll be a piano..?" He mutters absently, not really intending to be a smartass, but somehow unable to stop himself either. Because he's distracted and frustrated and grouchy, and the last thing he wants to do is spend the next two days engaging in mind-numbing, time-wasting exercises all in the name of camaraderie...no matter how nice the resort is.

It'd have been a different story if Pam were going - a much different story. But apparently Roy hadn't wanted her to go - not that she'd admitted that to Jim, but the way her eyes avoided his when she told him she wasn't going was something he'd long since learned to recognize as empirical evidence of the fact that Roy could be a controlling, self-centered prick when he really wanted to be.

And Pam...well, Pam could sometimes be so frustratingly passive, in spite of that spunky side he loved so much. Maybe it was the fact that he knew she had the potential to be so much more that really bugged him the most about her being with Roy.

At least, that's what he's been telling himself lately, steadily losing hope after a year of silently imagining all the ways she might find the courage to leave Roy and be with him.

It's misting now, and he's getting close to pissed off, even as he muses silently that he wishes he had an overbearing girlfriend who could've gotten him out of this. He has no idea what excuse Pam gave Michael to exonerate herself from this "mandatory" event, but he's beginning to seriously contemplate faking an illness.

"Roll call!" Dwight's storming through the gathered throng, clipboard in hand, snatching a pen from behind his ear as he orders, "When I call your name, immediately answer 'present.' Do not pause; do not take a breath --- just answer."

Jim's hand shoots up. May as well pass the time....

Dwight responds with a tilted head, a glare, and an exaggerated sigh. "What is it, Jim?"

"Question." Every time he prefaces an inquiry like that, he expects Dwight to call him on the fact that he's basically mocking him. Yet somehow Dwight never seems to catch on. "Why do we have to say 'present' when you can clearly see who's here and who isn't?"

Dwight strides up to stand in front of him, close enough that his breath is unpleasantly warm on Jim's face. When he speaks, it's through clenched teeth. "Do you have any idea what an undertaking this is? Transporting the entire staff of an office when - "

"Kelly's not here." Jim immediately interjects, watching Dwight's expression.

"That is because her sister is getting married this weekend." He spits the words more than pronounces them, having long since lost the ability to be patient with Jim.

"Oh, okay. Because Phyllis isn't going either."

"Her mother is having sur --" Jim watches as Dwight realizes he's just wasting his time. "Jim."

"Dwight." He retorts, musing that he's actually getting a rise out of him now; he wonders if maybe he ought to rein it in a bit. After all, he's got the whole weekend to have fun with Dwight.

"It is absolutely necessary that we account for every individual who attends this event. After all, we're going to the wilderness; anything could happen."

Jim makes a face. "It's a commercial resort in the mountains, Dwight, not the wilderness."

"I'm sorry." Dwight's cocking his head, giving him that righteously indignant expression that he wears so well. "Were you raised in an Amish community 43.6 miles away from the nearest populated area?"

"Oh my god." Jim's eyes widen, and he draws back a little. "How did you know that?"

Dwight's face freezes and he blinks, stunned; in spite of himself, Jim can't hold a straight face. Dwight's eyes fall to his lips, which are pursed and tensed at the corners, fighting back a smile.

"Wiseass." Dwight hisses, then turns on his heel, stalking off.

Just as Jim is wishing Pam were here to see that - and join in - he spots Roy's truck slowly pulling into a parking place off to the side. The driver's side door opens and Roy gets out, leaning behind the seat and jostling with something. But before Jim can figure out what it is, Pam is suddenly coming around the other side of the truck, huddled into her coat as she goes to stand patiently next to where Roy is fumbling.

The surge of excitement and relief that Jim feels when Roy produces an overnight bag and hands it to Pam is significantly diminished when she responds by standing on her tiptoes and kissing him on the lips. It's second nature for Jim to immediately look away, and he wonders why it still rattles him to see them kiss. It's not like it had been passionate or lingering; in fact, it was one of those chaste, thoughtless kisses that longterm couples share when they've become more like room mates than lovers.

He's certain that it wouldn't matter how long he'd been with her - he'd never be able to just peck her on the lips so quickly, so absently. There was just no way.

And then she's standing beside him, grinning, her face turned up, cheeks pink from the cold. Or, at least, he thinks it's the cold - though on closer inspection, he's not sure, because her eyes seem awfully alive, too.

"So..." Why he feels the need to quell his excitement - even though she's clearly not doing anything to hide her own - is beyond him. "You made it after all."

"Mmm-hmm." She nods happily, her eyes on his.

"So what happened?"

She smiles slowly, and he wonders if her answer is a deliberate attempt to avoid the subject of Roy. "Well, come on...what kind of friend would I be if I left you all alone with Dwight for the entire weekend?"

He somehow manages a tight-lipped, tense smile in return, hoping that one day -- one day -- hearing her say "friend" won't make him flinch.

A light snow has begun to fall as the bus pulls onto Highway 402. Michael is slumped, pouting, in a seat near the front, having given up on leading a sing along when Dwight's was the only voice joining him. Creed is immersed in a book with what Pam could swear is a communist symbol on the cover, and Stanley is in a seat behind him, his brow furrowed, pencil poised as he stares at one of his endless crossword puzzles.

Pam's always wanted to ask him what he does with them when they're finished. Does he just throw them away, or does he keep them? And if he keeps them, where does he keep them?

Jim has apparently been watching her.

"Hey..." He's leaning close, speaking in a low voice just above a whisper right near her ear. She catches the faint scent of what she can only assume is his aftershave - an amalgam of soap, pepper, an unexpected sweetness, and him. The scent never ceases to catch her off guard and make her feel just a little weird, like she's caught him in an intimate moment -- walked in on him with his shirt off or something.

He's grinning mischievously. "You think he's got, like, a whole closet full of finished crossword puzzles at his house?"

When she turns to grin up at him, his face is closer than she expected it to be, and she inadvertently freezes, that weird feeling in her stomach contracting just a little. Their eyes meet and hold for a beat too long, so she forces herself to laugh, pulling back and shaking her head.

She turns her eyes back to Stanley as she muses, "I'd always pictured him having a room wallpapered with them."

"Very nice; I could see that, actually." He's nodding now, and she's waiting, waiting for that tightness in her gut to dissipate so she can start feeling normal again.

She's not sure why it's so unnervingly pronounced sometimes, when at other times it just doesn't seem like a big deal. She's aware that she's attracted to him, but she's long since stopped worrying about it. It's not anything like what she feels for Roy, so it's okay; because what she feels for Roy is real. They have a history and a future and such a solid foundation. (Some woman at her mom's church had said that to her a few months ago, and Pam's found herself clinging to it like a mantra ever since...especially lately.)

He'd officially proposed to her almost two years earlier; their wedding date has come and gone three times now, each postponement another little chink in her pride. But she only fights him on it for so long before she always (inevitably) backs off, rationalizing that maybe it's not such a bad thing to wait a while before they get married.

Besides, weddings are expensive, and they need to save more money.

Sometimes she lets herself vent to Jim about Roy, even though she senses that it makes him uncomfortable. He always looks a little tense, with the faintest deer-in-the-headlights manner about him, as if he's afraid to say too much, for fear of saying the wrong thing. He mostly just sits and listens to her, nodding occasionally and carefully avoiding her eyes.

Then two weeks ago, she'd lost it completely and cried in front of him for the first time.

That Saturday was her grandma's 87th birthday, and for weeks her mother had been planning a party for her at the nursing home. Roy had agreed to go, but only after much cajoling from Pam; he hated the nursing home, said it gave him the creeps. So she'd been doubly thrilled when he'd agreed to go to the party with her.

Then the Friday before, he'd wandered into the office, Kenny at his side as he sheepishly explained that he'd have to miss the party because Kenny had a friend who had a boat, so they were leaving at five thirty to go fishing on Lake Wallenpaupack. She'd been so shocked and upset that she hadn't even argued with him; all she could do was stare at him in disbelief, then disgust. She knew full well that he'd brought Kenny with him on purpose, and that he had decided to drop this bomb on her at the office because he knew she wouldn't be able to really react.

At times she disliked Roy with an intensity that frightened her.

The door had barely closed behind Roy and Kenny when she'd stood and rushed to the bathroom, ducking her head; in her peripheral vision, she saw Jim's head lift, could feel his eyes following her. She pushed the bathroom door open, escaping to a stall, where she sat with her head in her hands and cried, her shoulders shaking, throat aching...struggling to ignore the realizations that assaulted her. Because they were far too grave to even acknowledge.

Jim was leaning against the wall in the break room when she came out, his hands behind his back, head bowed - his posture making it clear that he was there for one reason: he was waiting for her. As soon as she stepped out, he snapped his head up to look at her, his eyes slowly roving over her face, and she could tell he was startled by her swollen eyes, red nose, blotchy skin.

She avoided his eyes, feeling that ache swelling up again at the way he was looking at her.

There was something hesitant in his voice as he asked softly, "Hey...you okay?"

She nodded, lifting her head to give him a wide, false smile. His eyebrows rose helplessly as he took in the expression on her face, and she could tell that he was debating whether or not to prod her a little or leave her alone. Then her breath hitched slightly, the faint, barest remanent of a sob deep in her throat in spite of herself.

He'd tilted his head, and the expression on his face had been so fucking heartbreaking: He looked genuinely upset for her, as if it pained him to see her crying...as if he were desperate to do something to make it better, when none of this was his fault in the first place. ...When, she suspected, if she'd been with him, moments like these would never be an issue, because Jim just seemed completely incapable of this kind of insensitivity.

And that's when she realized why she felt so strangely shaken: He was reacting in such a visceral way to the sight of her crying, when her tears hadn't even had anything to do with him. But Roy...most of the time when she cried in front of Roy -- whether or not he was at fault -- he reacted in indifference or impatience.

Still, though, it wasn't his expression that made her start crying again so much as it was the realization that she couldn't remember Roy ever looking at her that way.

She wasn't sure whether it was embarrassment or habit that drove her to bow her head, a hand on her forehead half shielding her eyes as she squeezed them shut, the tears beginning again.

There was a rustling sound, a murmured, "Hey...." and then he was there, his arms around her, pulling her close to him.

Why his reaction made her cry even harder, she didn't really want to think about. Instead, she just rested her head on his chest, distracted by the width of his shoulders, the way one of his hands gently caressed her back, the other warm and solid against her waist.

It hadn't taken long for the tears to dissipate, because there was something about being that close to him that just chased away all her frustration at Roy, replacing it with something else...something that pulled at her every bit as much as the sadness had before. More, maybe.

There had been an awkward moment when she'd drawn back, wiping her face while he shoved his hands in his pockets, lowering his head as he waited for her to pull herself together. She'd wanted to say a lot of things...to ask a lot of things.

Instead, she'd murmured without looking directly at him, "Hey...thanks."

She hadn't given him a chance to respond - instead, turned to walk out the door, feeling his eyes on her as she went.

Later that night when she'd taken off her shirt, she caught a familiar scent, recognizing it almost instantly as Jim's. As she clutched her shirt in her hands, pressing her face into the soft cloth, she told herself that what she was feeling right now was comfort, the familiarity of a friend.

Sometimes even now when she really thinks about it, she's kind of shocked to realize that as it stands, he's actually her best friend. She'd not had any really close girlfriends in high school because she spent so much time with Roy. The few friendships she'd had had gradually fallen away as those girls got married, had kids, moved on...while she waited and waited and waited to move on herself.

Jim makes up for a lot, she has to admit. And she knows he's got a little crush on her - or, at least, she thinks he does - but she brushes it off. It's harmless; he's harmless. Right from the beginning he'd put her at ease in a way that was both warming and just a little unnerving, as she wasn't used to forging friendships so easily, especially not with men.

He'd teased her her first day on the job, because she'd been so nervous - not sure what the hell to make of Michael, to say nothing of Creed or Dwight - that she'd shredded half a box of tissues, a habit she'd had since middle school.

On one of his many visits to her desk just to check on her, he'd noticed the mass of destroyed tissues just to the side of her monitor. There had been something almost shockingly gentle in his eyes when he'd gestured to the pile, then remarked, "So...apparently Puff's offend you. Is it because they weren't the kind with the lotion?"

It had taken a moment for her to realize what he was talking about, and when she had, she'd chuckled, flushing as she shook her head, then sighed. "You caught me. If they aren't Puff's Plus, then they just won't do."

"No judgement here." He'd held up his hands, their eyes meeting as she started to laugh again.

Then she'd tucked her bangs behind her ear, averting her eyes. "Okay, fine. It's a nervous habit...the, uh, shredding thing."

"Hey, no worries." He shrugged good naturedly, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "I used to eat my older brother's Star Wars cards when I'd get nervous."

She raised an eyebrow at him, a huge smile on her face as she searched his expression to discern whether or not he was kidding. "Are you serious?"

"Oh yeah - totally." He was obviously struggling to keep a straight face.

She started to giggle again, her hand covering her mouth as she gasped out, "Okay, well, that's way worse than shredding tissues."

He'd been unable to keep from grinning down at her. "Believe me, I'm aware. When I told Dwight, I thought he was gonna faint."

She was thinking of his comment at lunch the next day as she listened, wide-eyed, while Dwight calmly relayed the more gruesome details his grandfather had passed on to him from the time he'd spent in a concentration camp during World War II. Her napkin was in shreds in front of her before he'd even finished the story.

When she'd realized that Dwight's grandfather wasn't a Jew, but a Nazi, her eyes automatically rose to meet Jim's. He'd given her a lopsided grin, without a word sliding his napkin toward her; she took it with a grateful smile.

A week and a half later, when Jim had asked her to go with him to lunch at Cugino's, he'd done it in such an innocuous way that she hadn't thought twice. ...Though there were things she noticed about him that sent a little twinge to her gut: His car was surprisingly clean, a basketball in the back seat next to a novel whose title she couldn't make out. He'd opened the passenger's side door for her, then did the same when they entered the restaurant, as if it were just second nature.

It caught her off guard a little that he brought his messenger's bag into Cugino's with them, but as soon as they were seated at their table, he turned and opened the flap, reaching inside to pull out a pack of 500 napkins.

He presented them to her matter-of-factly, saying, "In case you need to shred."

She was still laughing when the waitress came to take their order, and he regaled her with crazy stories throughout their lunch -- about him and his brother growing up, about Dwight, about Michael. She could see that he loved to make her laugh - that much was obvious - but she didn't really give it much thought. After all, he was such an incredibly charming, seemingly self-assured guy -- cute, too -- that he probably had a girlfriend.

Besides that, there was something in his kindness that put her at ease; she had the sense right away that he was looking out for her, and the realization sent a warmth over her that she hadn't felt in a long time. She'd decided by the time their lunch was over that she'd clearly been missing out all these years in not having a close guy friend, and as they drove back to Dunder-Mifflin, she'd found herself wondering what Roy would think of him.

And then things seemed to be a blur: He'd parked the car, taking the keys out of the ignition before turning to look at her; she was smiling up at him in anticipation of whatever quip he'd offer -- but the expression on his face had stopped her cold.

His eyes were on hers, his lips parted as if he wanted to say something but wasn't sure exactly how. And all at once she knew what the look on his face meant; she recognized the intensity in his eyes immediately...felt the panic rising, inextricably interwoven with an excitement she didn't dare let herself acknowledge.

Before she could say anything to stop him, he spoke softly, looking down at the gear shift, then back up at her face, his eyes holding hers: "I'm really glad we did this - got out of the office, spent some time alone. I mean, you're really....pretty amazing."

He'd chuckled as she'd watched, frozen; then he'd added, "I'm just.... I'm really sorry, Pam; I've just never really felt this...."

His voice trailed off, and for some stupid reason she'd nodded, paralyzed, the hand she had in her coat pocket closing tightly around a half-shredded, balled-up tissue.

When he'd continued with the thought, it had been with a dazed look in his eye, his voice a hoarse whisper that sent a chill down her spine: "...and this fast. But I'm just...."

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes still on hers as an insane impulse seized her -- seemingly out of nowhere -- to just lean forward and kiss him; her eyes even drifted to his mouth before she could stop herself. She knew he'd noticed, because his gaze, too, lowered to her lips, then slowly traveled back up to meet her eyes.

Some purely instinctive sense told her that if she didn't say something, he would kiss her -- that he was about to kiss her. Like, now.

So she blurted, the words rushed, her voice too loud: "You have to meet my fiance."

The shock on his expression sent a twinge to the pit of her stomach; it actually took him a minute to recover, blinking in astonishment, his lips parted slightly as if he were searching for the right response.

He'd finally managed, "You're...? I didn't - "

She realized then just how terrified she was of this moment, how desperately she wanted to get back to where they'd been earlier...back before this palpable tension that felt like it might swallow her whole; back before the look in his eyes that made her suddenly understand that old cliche about a burning gaze.

Yes, she was acutely aware that they just had to go back before it was too late -- because as yet, it wasn't too late to pretend that she'd taken what he'd said to mean that he felt a platonic connection.

So she cut him off, talking over him: "Oh yeah, well, I don't have a ring yet; I mean...we're kind of saving - he's, he's kind of saving up...."

"Oh...." He was still obviously reeling, and then his eyes met hers again.

The vulnerability she saw there touched her so much that she swallowed hard, then said softly, "I really think...it'd be good if you could meet him."

Their eyes held, and he seemed to stiffen, as if he were trying not to flinch. So she whispered, "Please."

She wondered if he knew what she was really trying to say: Because I like you - I like you so much that I really, really want to be good friends with you, to keep going on the way that we have been so far, even if you do look at me sometimes in a way that makes it hard to breathe. It's just...you've got to meet him if we're gonna go forward and be friends, real friends.

As she sat there staring across at him, suddenly aware of how pronounced her breathing had become, she was caught off guard by how much she wanted just that - to know him, to be close to him...friends. Good friends. Close friends.

She could've sworn he'd ascertained the course of her thoughts; she could almost see him silently debating it...whether or not he could forget this moment and start over, re-define his expectations. But even before he spoke, she knew he'd do it - because although she'd only known him for two weeks, he'd made one thing almost startlingly clear: Nothing slipped past him unnoticed, and if he could make life easier for her - be it in the form of stupid stories about eating Star Wars cards or via a ridiculously huge pack of napkins - he'd do it.

The bitter gall that suddenly tinged the warmth that came along with such a realization would grow achingly familiar to her in the months and years to come, even as he gave her a forced smile, then: "Meet....? Uh, yeah, I'd...I'd like that. Sounds good. Definitely, yeah...."

He'd looked away from her then, adding, "So we should get back inside."

Uncomfortable as that moment had been, it would reassure her time and again in the future, because what it told her was that whether or not he had a little crush on her, he wouldn't push it. She drew on that knowledge when she felt herself pushing it.

....And as she sits next to him on the bus, drifting back from memories of that day when they'd teetered on the edge, she feels a sudden surge of excitement at the thought of spending the whole weekend with him - away from the office, away from Scranton. The guilt that follows the excitement is familiar -- and easily dismissed as she smiles up at him again.

She wonders then if he can smell her perfume - if it's distracting him as much as the scent of his aftershave is sort of frazzling her.

They're gathered in the Panorama room, bags in piles around them, Michael standing with his back to the stretch of windows lining the wall.

"Isn't this awesome?" He flashes them one of his toothy grins, complete with a half-snort, half-chuckle. Jim finds himself glancing down at Pam with a slight smile, which she's quick to return, her eyes meeting his in a way that makes him look away after a few seconds.

He's beginning to suspect that maybe there's just something about being on a retreat with her - out of the office, miles from Scranton, away from Roy - that has sent his senses into overdrive. Because normally, he has an easier time keeping his impulses in check.

"Michael, can't we just go to our rooms?" Oscar asks, one hand on the strap of his overnight bag, which is resting on the floor just beside his feet.

Jim doesn't like the way Michael raises his chin in the wake of Oscar's question, because he's got that slightly panicked, definitely grasping-for-a-way-to-stall expression as he tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling, biting his lip before he lowers his chin.

"Oscar, you raise a good point...as is characteristic of your race."

Oscar's just barely shaking his head, as if he can't even really commit to engaging. "Michael, what does that even....?"

"So here we go!" Michael simply talks over him, digging in his pocket to produce a ziploc bag filled with tiny slips of paper.

Jim leans close to Pam, whispering, "God, please let there be a get-out-of-jail-free card in there...."

It's just an excuse to catch the scent of her hair, which he has finally decided smells exactly like a pear when you take the first bite...coupled with the tart sweetness of a peach that has ripened in a brown paper bag the way his Nana Halpert used to do it. ...Quite literally mouth-watering (at least when he's this close to her).

She's chuckling at him now, ducking her head to stifle the sound as she half-gasps, half-asks, "And what would that mean, exactly?"

He's careful to blink at her slowly, holding a totally serious expression as he explains matter-of-factly, "A ticket out of here, of course."

"Oh yeah?" She asks, and he wonders if he's imagining the way her face kind of falls a little. "You mean you'd leave me here to fend for myself all weekend?"

He draws back in surprise at the question -- or rather, at the implications behind the question: That she's counting on him to be with her this weekend, to make it all bearable.

He wonders then if she could be even remotely as distracted as he is by the realization that they have all weekend long; he could swear there's more than just the usual charge in the air between them, then immediately feels stupid for thinking such a thing.

Before he can say anything back to her, Michael's standing in front of Oscar, extending the small plastic baggie and instructing him, "Go on, pick a name...and then thank the academy!"

Michael dissolves into snickers as the rest of them look on -- some bewildered, some bored, some irritated. Creed's off to the side inspecting the air conditioner vent with the stem of his glasses, while Angela stands next to one of the long tables, her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in staunch disapproval.

Oscar is clearly confused...appropriately wary. "Michael, I don't - "

"The academy? Your name is Oscar? Hello!" Michael rolls his eyes and giggles some more, Dwight letting out a far too enthusiastic bark of laughter as Oscar gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head before dutifully reaching into the bag, extracting a small scrap of paper.

Jim and Pam exchange another look just before Oscar reads, "Kelly."

Michael's eyes close, his lips a firm line as he tilts his head to the side in obvious consternation. "That's not... Give that back."

As he snatches the tiny scrap of paper from Oscar's hand, Angela asks in exasperation, "Michael, what's going on?"

Michael turns, dropping the wad of paper onto the table behind him before facing his employees with a wide grin that seems to just scream bad idea.

"We are drawing names to work out the sleeping arrangements!" He announces, quickly -- fearfully -- scanning their faces for reactions, careful not to look directly at any of them.

Jim immediately meets Pam's eyes, and it doesn't even occur to him to be irritated by Michael's announcement -- because he's too busy silently thinking, Please, please, please draw my name and Pam's name; please make that happen....

Before he can even feel embarrassed for thinking it, several of the others have begun to complain. Stanley shakes his head and turns to sit at one of the long conference tables, pencil in hand, crossword puzzle in front of him. Creed's leaning toward Meredith, asking her something that makes her shrug, sucking on the straw that seems to accompany her everywhere she goes.

Angela, of course, is not at a loss for words. "What do you mean, 'sleeping arrangements'? You told us we'd all have our own private rooms."

The faint din that rises echoes her point, even as Michael shakes his head and impatiently waves his hands again. "Well, when I said that, I thought you would have private rooms. Then when I found out how freaking expensive this place is -- even in the off season! -- there was just no way...."

Several pairs of eyes are fixed on him, seething and impatient; he reacts by slapping his palms, rubbing his hands together a couple of times before he finishes in a sadly obvious attempt at being carefree, "So...roommates it is! Slumber parties and freezing each other's underwear and pillow fights and scary seances and...."

Pam glances up at Jim, her eyes wide; he gives her a lopsided grin in return, his mind racing: Would it be totally inappropriate if we shared a room? I mean, from a practical standpoint, she's one of my best friends, and neither one of us is even remotely close to anybody else in this room. So wouldn't it make sense for us to just room together? She's engaged, so it's not like there'd be any....

The train of thought is so completely ridiculous that he can't even complete it; there's simply no way in hell he'd ever suggest such a thing. He's very much aware that if it's going to happen, it'll have to be at Pam's suggestion.

And then once again, he snaps out of it, wondering what the hell has gotten into him that he can actually be standing there contemplating the possibility of sharing a hotel room with Pam -- much less entertaining the notion that she would actually be the one to bring it up.

"Michael...." Toby has stepped forward now, prompting Michael to freeze, closing his eyes as if to steady himself before opening them again to give Toby a withering stare.

Toby is, as usual, undeterred, his voice calm. "I don't think it's a good idea to assign sleeping arrangements by randomly drawing names -- "

"Oh yeah?" Michael cuts him off. "And how would you propose we do it, Toby? You got a better solution?"

"Well...yes, actually." Toby's expression is patient, and the way he's regarding Michael is reminiscent of the kind of cautious, encouraging look one might don when trying to encourage a toddler to go pee pee in the potty. "You could...you know, set up the sleeping arrangements by sex."

Jim winces, murmuring under his breath, "Oooooohhh...that was an unfortunate choice of words."

Pam giggles in response, even as Michael responds with a hearty does of righteous indignation: "My god! Is that all you think about, you sad, smarmy little man?"

It takes Toby a second to locate the source of Michael's indignation; then it takes him a moment or two more to muster his patience and an explanation that's straightforward yet innocuous enough not to rile an office manager with the emotional maturity of a ten year-old.

"Michael...I meant that we should probably, you know, bunk according to...gender. Like, boys with boys and...so on." Toby knows better than to add "girls with girls."

They all stare expectantly at Michael, wondering whether or not he'll find some minutae, absurd detail to blow up over, or whether he'll actually suck it up and concede defeat (or at least, what he perceives to be defeat) before his enemy. Jim's just about to lean toward Pam and offer up a wager when, thankfully, cooler heads prevail.

"Fine! Fine." Michael waves a before turning his back dramatically; then he faces them again, absently pointing a finger. "Oscar and Creed - you're roomies. Toby and Stanley -- just...sorry, Stanley. Pam, you're with..." He looks around, his eyes passing right over Meredith and Angela, then raises his chin purposefully and finishes, "...me."

"What?" Pam's exclamation is almost drowned out by Jim's inadvertant, "Michael, c'mon -"

He regrets saying it (or more succinctly, blurting it), but it had just sort of come out; when he dares to glance over at Pam, she's (thank god) smiling up at him shyly in appreciation.

"Fine, fine...whatever." Again Michael waves a hand. "Pam, you're with Angela."

"No." Angela's arms are folded across her chest, her chin raised defiantly.

"Wh -- what?" Michael's hand passes wearily over his forehead, and Jim almost feels sorry for him. ...But not enough to keep from wondering if he ought to do the honorable thing and step forward, offer to bunk with Pam himself, as Angela clearly isn't willing to do so. Besides, Pam's one of only three women, after all, so they're left with uneven numbers; it'd only be right for him to volunteer....

"No." Angela repeats without flinching. "I will not room with Pam."

Pam draws back in surprise at Angela's vehement declaration, her eyes meeting Jim's - who gives her an encouraging shrug coupled with a slight grin.

"You won't - " Michael begins, then realizes it's not worth his time. "You know what? Fine. Then you'll room with Meredith."

"No." Angela repeats, then, "I'm not rooming with anyone; I don't know any of you people well enough to share a room, and I'll not compromise myself in order to do so. You told us we'd have our own rooms; otherwise, I wouldn't have come."

"Yeah, well, good luck." Michael clearly forgets himself, lapsing into taunting ten-year old behavior. Jim wonders absently if maybe Michael had little sisters. Then again, probably not, because --

"I will not." Angela is standing firm now, that eyebrow raised in such a way that Jim's almost positive could make a dog submissively pee on the spot.

He leans down to whisper to Pam, "So...do you think the eyebrow thing is on purpose or unconscious?"

Pam gamely studies Angela's expression for a second, then stands on her toes to whisper, her breath intoxicatingly warm on his ear, "Totally on purpose. Look at the crease on her forehead."

Jim manages to nod, trying to ignore the curiosity that has sprung up, leading him to wonder what her breath might feel like on his neck, his bare chest...against his lips. "Okay...still, it's pretty freaking scary."

"Totally." She laughs.

Michael has given up. "Fine, just -- you know what? Fine. Pam, you're rooming with Meredith. Angela, you're on your own."

Pam nods at Meredith, who smiles a weak, clearly unenthusiastic smile that immediately fades; Jim's heart sinks a little as Michael adds, "Jim, you're with Kevin."

His eyes meet Kevin's - who gives him a purposeful nod and two vehement blows to the chest before bringing his fingers to his lips - leaving Jim wide-eyed and bewildered. Somewhere in the periphery he's aware of Dwight exuberantly following Michael like a puppy nipping at its master's heels, "Michael...you didn't assign me to anyone! Does this mean we'll room together?"

They pick up their bags and head to their rooms, and Jim's at least a little gratified to discover that the room he'll be sharing with Kevin is across the hall and one door down from Pam and Meredith's room. Even as he's registering this, Pam tugs at his sleeve. He stops just outside his door, looking down at her expectantly.

"So...meet me out here in fifteen minutes?" Her eyes meet his, and he swallows with an audible gulp at the expression on her face.

But before he can answer her, Michael's striding down the hall, clapping his hands and announcing loudly, "Listen up, my chiefs!"

Jim knows better, but he just can't resist: "...Uh, chiefs?"

Michael turns to him, blinking patiently. "Yes, Jim...chiefs. We're in the Poconos, hello?"

Jim squints, struggling to make the connection, then: "And that makes us chiefs...how, exactly?"

Michael waves a hand, then shakes his head. "The Poconos were Indians, Jim."

"Really?" He can feel Pam watching him, sees in his peripheral vision her shoulders shaking with laughter.

"No duh, Jim. Honestly - didn't you go to college?" Michael doesn't wait for an answer, instead resuming with his earlier announcement. "There's a welcome event in the Skyview Lounge at 6:30; I expect you all to attend, because I'll be giving a motivational speech."

"God help us all." Jim mutters under his breath, loving it when Pam automatically starts to laugh again.

Michael goes on: "So...take the next hour to get ready, sex yourselves up -- "

Jim winces at the phrase, shaking his head. Pam's giggle is muffled, prompting him to meet her eyes again. The way she's so unabashedly...watching him is something that is new. Surely it's new - she's not like this all the time; I know she's not.

He's further convinced when she catches his eye just as they all disband, pointing to the hallway as she amends her earlier request in light of Michael's announcement. "Here, 6:20?"

He wonders if she can see how flustered he is as he answers, "I'll be here."

She'd never have believed she'd find herself wishing she could be more like Meredith, but tonight...well, she's envying her just a little.

Because while Pam is fiddling with her dress, drawing the fluttery folds of black fabric closer together as she searches through her purse for a safety pin in the hope of minimizing the cleavage, Meredith is leaning into the mirror curling her eyelashes as she talks on and on.

"I'm telling you, Pam...this is the place to meet men. Wealthy, sophisticated, really....hot men." She deftly wields a mascara wand, then leans over to suck a deep gulp from her styrofoam cup with a static sounding slurp, prompting her to frown, pulling off the lid before she heads to the bed, rifling through her suitcase. As Pam watches, eyebrows raised, Meredith turns to produce two tiny bottles - one of vodka, the other of rum.

"Ta daaa!" She announces proudly, then tosses one at Pam.

Pam catches it awkwardly, fumbling a little before she places it on the dresser with a loud clink as Meredith cracks open a soda, then pours it into the cup, followed by the contents of the small glass bottle she'd pulled from her bag. "Thanks, but...I'll wait 'till we get to Skyview."

Meredith shrugs. "Do what you like."

Then her attention shifts to Pam's dress. "Hey...why're you holding it together like that? C'mere...."

"No, really...." Pam shakes her head, feeling suddenly very out of her element. She'd bought this dress for $29 at TJ Maxx -- a simple black dress that skimmed her mid-calves, sleeveless and fluttering. She'd chosen it because it was fairly simple, not too daring -- only she hadn't realized it was quite so low cut.

"Seriously, Pam." Meredith pushes Pam's hair back from her shoulders, her hands on Pam's upper arms as she surveys her. "You've got a great rack; you really oughta show it off."

For some stupid reason, instead of reacting herself, she envisions what Roy's reaction will be when she tells him the story: "Seriously? Babe, that's hot."

She shakes her head and smiles. "Thanks, but I'm just...not used to stuff that's cut this low."

As she glances down, she sees more of her breasts than she does her black bra, which is precisely why she's so uncomfortable.

Meredith scoffs, then extends her styrofoam cup toward Pam, nodding at it. "Have some. It'll take the edge off."

"No thanks; it's just -- I'm not much of a drinker - "

"C'mon, Pam! Live a little!" Meredith is giving her a winning smile, the enthusiasm in her eyes contagious as she adds, "We're at a resort in the freaking Poconos! When else are we gonna be in a place like this? Don't you wanna live it up? Just a little?"

Pam feels a slow smile creeping across her face as her eyes meet Meredith's; she bites her lip nervously, scrunches her nose, then suddenly reaches out to take the cup. The knowledge that Jim's just across the hall from her makes her feel about twelve years old again -- it's like she's at one of those super-rare girl/boy parties, with nothing to do but giggle amid her girlfriends about the cute boy in the corner.

Back in those days, she hadn't even known Roy; back then, she'd felt a lot like she does right now: carefree, open to possibilities. It's been such a long time since she's felt this way -- even if she knows right now that her possibilities will extend no further than reveling in the look on Jim's face when he sees her in this dress....

Suddenly the anticipation of that very thing is exciting enough for her.

Meredith laughs when Pam pops the plastic lid from the cup and takes a big gulp, sputtering a little, but grinning beneath it all. She feels really good -- alive, excited.

Still, though, she stops at her second drink, which prompts a guffaw from Meredith, who gestures toward her suitcase. "My stash is in here - you're welcome to it later, if you change your mind."

Pam can't help but laugh, envisioning the expression Jim would've gotten if he'd been around to hear Meredith's offer. Someplace deep that she's aware of but careful not to acknowledge, she knows she's thinking far too much about Jim, but shrugging off the guilt is easy as slipping out of a silk dress.

Because Meredith's words have sunk in: this weekend is an anamoly; they'll probably never be in a situation like this again, so it's okay if she lives a little. And she fully intends to do just that.

*******

When she steps out into the hall twenty-five minutes later, he's standing there waiting for her, his back to her as he stares vacantly down the hall. He's wearing khaki pants and a white shirt; she can see the outline of one of those tank top undershirts beneath his oxford, and it gives her pause. She wonders for a split second if maybe she should tiptoe back into her room and grab a cardigan, because she's suddenly realizing with a certainty that's both thrilling and terrifying that when he turns around and sees her, things will likely shift. Significantly.

The tension will be palpable, and while it's always been there, she's aware that she's never before actively sought it out.

He turns just as she's struck with the inescapable realization that she kind of wants him to want her, has somewhere along the line come to rely on the confidence that she gets from his all-too evident desire for her.

Only now she wants to rachet it up a notch, and she's not really sure why.

At first he doesn't speak, just stares, his mouth a little agape, eyes sweeping over her in a way that's both intense yet altogether Jim: intense in that he doesn't speak for a few long seconds, just stands there taking her in from head to toe, shaking his head slightly; Jim in that he's careful not to linger on any specific point.

Finally he manages a throaty, "Wow. You really...amazing."

He's not wearing a tie, so the top two buttons of his shirt are undone; she has to struggle not to stare as a thick silence falls between them. She knows she has to find a way to break the tension, but for some reason, the only thing that comes out is, "Meredith told me I have a nice rack."

At first he looks shocked, his eyebrows rising as he freezes and stands there blinking at her, a half-smile on his face; then he repeats: "Wow."

Even though she immediately feels mortified to have blurted it out, she's also relieved -- and feeling a little weak, that distracted sense intensifying -- at the fact that he doesn't take what she said as an invitation check out her cleavage, nor does he do the predictable thing and swagger, retorting smoothly, "Well, Meredith's right."

As she watches him, there's nothing even remotely cocky in his demeanor; he seems completely flustered, as if he's just not even sure what to do with that information.

The insecurity looms large again, prompting her to cover her mouth with her hand. "Oh my god. I can't believe I just told you that."

He regains his composure a bit, giving her a wry grin before he retorts, "I can't believe she told you that."

Pam immediately feels relieved, grinning back at him and giggling a little as they begin to walk in the direction of the Skyview Lounge. "I know, right? She also offered me her 'stash.'"

She watches his profile, absently musing that she loves his jawline as he purses his lips, then: "Okay, Beesly...you're starting to scare me a little. This is sounding an awful lot like one of those really bad Cinemax movies that come on after midnight."

"Oh yeah?" She knows better than to flirt this way, but it doesn't stop her. "Familiar with those, are you?"

He stops walking, turning to stare at her with an eyebrow cocked. Beneath his expression she can almost see his mind working: He's shocked that she's being this blatantly flirtatious...debating whether or not to play along, because he knows her well enough to be aware that he has to step carefully; if he comes on too strong, the guilt will send her scurrying back to that shell of resignation that she calls happiness.

He surprises her a little by managing to settle on a middle ground: "Don't turn this around on me; you're the one with the wild confessions right now. So tell me...did you take her up on her offer?"

She grins naughtily at him. "I took two big gulps from her cup."

"Oh my god!" He looks delighted...alive. Like she feels. "You mean you dared to drink from the notorious cup? And you didn't burst into flames?"

And just that fast, he's Jim again -- Jim, the friend who makes her laugh; the friend who feels a little too much for her; the guy with whom she sometimes sympathizes because even though she feels it, too, she knows how to turn it off when she has to.

It doesn't dawn on her until they're walking into the Skyview Lounge that in the past few hours, Jim the friend has begun to morph into someone who's so much more...someone almost dangerous. It's ironic -- as if, now that they're far from the harsh flourescent lights of the office, it's the darkness that won't let her run, won't afford her a place to hide.

*******

Michael's motivational speech is every bit as horrible as could be expected, littered with disjointed, nonsensical metaphors and jaw-droppingly inappropriate jokes.

He segueways into the karaoke portion of the night every bit as disastrously, gripping the microphone tightly, sweat beaded on his forehead. "What does karaoke have to do with camaraderie and team work?"

No one raises a hand to volunteer an answer, and as she glances around, Pam notices that there's a group of people who aren't from Dunder Mifflin gathered in the corner, watching Michael and occasionally leaning toward one another to whisper or snicker. She wonders if there was enough liquor in those two sips she took from Meredith's cup to justify just how irritated she is at them for making fun of Michael -- because she hasn't touched the glass of wine in her hand.

But then, of course, he continues to speak: "Karaoke...makes us adapt. And quickly."

She and Jim exchange a wide-eyed glance; he laughs at her when she takes a huge gulp from her wine glass.

"And as your fearless leader, I shall demonstrate." He's smiling a bit maniacally as chaotic, almost foreboding guitar riffs begin, and before she can place the song, he leans into the microphone to offer up a startling yell, his eyes wide as he stares at the screen in front of him.

Jim hoists his wine glass in the air, eyes on hers: "To humiliation."

She giggles, ducking her head but raising her glass and clinking it against his. "To humiliation."

She's a little unnerved by the way his eyes hold hers as they take their respective drinks, but before she can say anything, he's staring at Michael, a look of recognition washing over his features. "Is that...the Red Hot Chili Peppers?"

She nods slowly, recognizing the song now, murmuring back, "It is...oh my god, do you think he'll take his pants off?"

Jim ducks his head and snorts in an attempt at holding in his laughter. She's feeling just giddy enough to tell him how fucking adorable it is when he does that, but then Michael begins to sing, monopolizing their attention: "'Born in the North, just want to entertain you 'cause I'm down for the state of Pennsylvania...."

Her eyes meet Jim's as if to say, dear god; he smiles in return, shrugging. "You gotta admit - it's pretty apropos."

"That it is." She nods, then she's distracted by Dwight, who to this point has been standing behind Michael on the stage, bobbing his head fairly innocuously. But now he's got a fierce look on his face, he and Michael bursting into a clearly choreographed move that involves terribly unforunate arm movements.

Just as she's about to lean up to comment to Jim, he bends toward her. "Are they -- is that the cabbage patch?"

One hand flies to cover her mouth as she sucks in a gasping breath, which causes Jim to start to laugh, those eyes of his ever on her -- scanning her eyes, her lips...seemingly drinking in everything about her.

She takes another deep gulp of wine, trying not to notice when he does the same, his eyes glued to her face as if he's having a hard time looking away...in spite of Michael's antics.

Michael eventually finishes his song (with a flourish of jibberish that Jim points out is actually in the song itself, making her nod, her lips drawn down as she concedes that at least Michael knows how to pick his karaoke songs), then he announces that it's time to dance. She and Jim stare, open-mouthed, as Michael then breaks into movements that look more like his butt's on fire than that he's dancing. But as she watches him, she's caught off guard to feel a twinge of that same feeling she'd had earlier in the room with Meredith - envy mixed with a little nostalgia.

Sometimes she wishes she weren't so damned shy; sometimes she wishes she could just slip out of her inhibitions, go back to the carefree days when she'd been twelve, thirteen...dancing with her girlfriends, giggling at boys as they huddled in groups on the opposite side of the room, then working up the nerve to march on over and dare to actually talk to one.

As she thinks back on it, she's struck by the fact that in those days, there had always seemed to be such possibility waiting around the corner, no matter how silly; the cute boy might just talk to her, or the drawing she'd done of the flag in front of the school might be chosen for the display case in the cafeteria. Maybe that's why thinking of those times conjures a sense of adventure, excitement...something she really doesn't feel much these days. Unless she's executing a prank with Jim, or --

"Hey."

She turns, startled. Jim's smiling down at her, gesturing to her empty glass. "You want another glass of wine?"

She looks down at it, her brow furrowing as she immediately thinks about the fact that she's not used to drinking and never really has more than one glass of wine at a time even when she does drink...so it might not be the best idea, because she's already feeling a little flushed. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Meredith dancing close to a tall man with gray hair and one of those weird Abraham Lincoln beards.

Then she hears herself say, "You know what? Yes. Yes, I do want more wine."

Jim catches the note of defiance in her voice, his eyebrows shooting up, lips pullled into a smile. "Well okay then. I'll make it happen."

She giggles to hide the little flutter in her stomach at the way he'd worded it -- which makes him give her a crooked smile, shaking his head a little before he tells her, "Be right back."

He's as good as his word; within a few minutes, they're sitting at a table with Angela, Toby, Oscar, and Stanley, watching as Michael, Kevin, Dwight, and Meredith tear up the dance floor. As the warmth of the wine slips through her, she finds herself strangely aware of her own thoughts: It's weird that I don't have any idea what time it is or how long we've been sitting here; it's like time's standing still out here.

Her eyes fall again on Meredith's dance partner with the Abe Lincoln beard, and she thinks, Maybe time does stand still here....

She chuckles to herself, amused at the course of her own thoughts, then looks up to see Jim watching her closely, his head tilted as he squints at her, eyebrows knit. "Okay, do I even want to know what you're all giggly about over there?"

She raises an eyebrow at him, then deliberately turns to look at Meredith's Abe Lincoln lookalike. Jim follows her gaze, his eyes, too, resting on the man; then he turns back to Pam. "What? The Abe Lincoln guy?"

For some reason, the question sets her off, so she starts to laugh even harder as he adds, "You're laughing at him? Because of the beard? Oh -- c'mon, Pam, what if he can't grow a thick enough moustache, so he overcompensates with the beard?"

Her hand is over her mouth now, her shoulders shaking silently as she hunches forward and cracks up. She can feel him watching her, knows he's got that familiar look on his face -- smile wide, eyes warm because he loves to make her laugh. And god, he's good at it.

"Hey...are you still breathing over there? C'mon, Pam, seriously -- take a breath." He's leaning toward her, feigning concern as she tilts her head back and laughs harder without making a sound, aside from barely discernible gasps and sniffs.

She shakes her head at him, the giggles slowing just a little as she runs a finger under her left eye. She feels flushed and happy and more alive than she has in...longer than she cares to really think about.

Then a slow Elton John song begins, and Jim's smiling at her, his head tilted as he asks, "So, would you, uh...care to dance, Beesly?"

She's always loved it when he calls her by her last name, because it seems so familiar, so affectionate. But she's suddenly realizing for the first time just why he refers to her that way -- the subterfuge it offers, the fact that it's a seemingly innocent moniker that so exaggeratedly emotes just friends.

Even in the face of so much more that's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Her eyes meet his, her nod almost imperceptible, and she finds herself understanding suddenly what Meredith meant earlier when she referenced taking the edge off. Because she attributes it to the glow of the wine when a shock shimmies down her spine as soon as his hands are on her waist; tells herself it's just the headiness of the alcohol that makes her feel a little dizzy when he gives the slightest, almost indiscernible tug, drawing her close against him.

Or maybe it's the fact that they're dancing to a song that is, all too unfortunately, called "The One."

Her stomach falls as her eyes meet Jim's, and she wishes the song's title wasn't bugging her so much right now (because really, she knows it shouldn't - ought to make her miss Roy, not feel like she's suddenly afraid Jim will somehow be able to read her mind, discern what she's thinking). She's silently hoping he'll say something completely offensive or stupid to reassure her that the path she has tread for the last ten years hasn't been in vain. It's a heady thought, a frightening moment of illumination...intensified by the fact that he seems as transfixed as she is, his steps slowing, losing time with the music as he gazes down at her, the look on his face revealing so much that she's momentarily terrified...electrified.

She has to shake her head slightly to break the stare, then - because she can think of nothing else to do - she moves forward to rest her cheek on Jim's chest, her eyes closed as she wishes she weren't so acutely aware of the fact that the last time she and Roy had had sex -- no, the last several times -- she'd felt oddly disconnected - distracted, as though she were hovering above, watching him run through all the familiar moves that had once been enough.

Faking it had become a means to an end as she'd tried to convince herself that it wasn't self-compromising or self-defeating...re-inforcing the absence of the connection that they should have, but don't.

Before she can stop herself, she's drifted into a fantasy of what it would be like with him...with Jim -- fast-moving, drowsy images of his lips and his tousled hair and that gravelly voice low in her ear as he moves over her, attuned to every last detail - as he so always unfailingly is - driving her to distraction...frustration. She's frustrated enough, in fact, to start to pull away from him slightly (maybe we're just dancing too close) -- but then there's his familiar scent again. It always makes her so curious...so incredibly curious because it brings her face-to-face with the reality that there's so much more to Jim than she allows herself to really acknowledge, much less explore. He's a man -- has at some point been skin-to-skin with a woman, sweaty and flushed; has lain himself bare, probably, expressiing his feelings openly instead of hiding behind jellybeans and pranks.

It's a little weird to feel such intense jealousy over nameless, faceless women.

She's had enough wine to draw back, gazing up at him tipsily, his shoulders impossibly broad beneath her relatively small hands as she tries to ignore that stupid song, inhaling his clean, spicy scent and asking without really thinking, "So...what're you wearing?"

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she's painfully aware of how utterly wrong they sounded.

He draws back, lips down, chin lowered to his chest. "I'm sorry, but...how much of Meredith's mysterious styrofoam cup potion did you drink earlier? Because - wow, this is really awkward - but...uh, we're not having phone sex here; we're just dancing."

That comment alone tells her that he's had just a bit too much to drink himself; the fact that she's able to hold his gaze steadily -- deliberately cocking an eyebrow -- lets her know that she's had too much to drink, even as she responds smoothly, "Oh really? I must've gotten the wrong memo...."

Even though his eyes never leave hers, his head lolls back a bit as if in a tacit admission that she's playing dirty now...that it isn't fair because he doesn't understand the rules, can't possibly understand the rules when she's looking at him this way. It's odd how just staring him square in the eyes -- reveling in all the thoughts she usually won't allow herself to acknowledge -- seems to hit him like a physical blow.

She wonders if it's possible that his scent and his expression and his shoulders are capable of quickening the effects of the wine, even as she gives him another small smile and explains, "I wasn't talking about your clothes. I meant what...you know, cologne are you wearing?"

The way his eyes suddenly widen would be comical if she weren't standing this close to him; the fact that she could swear he's blushing a little is somehow endearing, as if she's asked him a personal question or something. But now that she thinks about it, it kind of was a personal question -- after all, she's always found it almost shockingly intimate whenever she's close enough to catch that familiar scent.

"I'm not...wearing cologne." His smile is a touch uncomfortable, maybe a little flattered...definitely flustered. The fact that his hands are spanning her waist, their heat permeating the thin fabric of her dress, seems almost like it shouldn't even be possible.

Still, she shakes her head at him skeptically. "Yeah right."

"What?" He draws back just a little in surprise, but it doesn't escape her notice that he's quick to lean back in. "You think I'm lying about not wearing cologne? What, is there like some underground rash of cologne-addicted men who splash it on in secret, then deny it if someone calls them on it?"

She laughs, throwing her head back -- far enough so that she feels a little dizzy, tightens her grip on his shoulders to keep from falling; his hands on her waist shift as he pulls her closer to him. A rush of heat sweeps over her when she realizes how large his hands are on her waist, his fingerstips almost touching at the small of her back. He's always made her feel good -- makes her laugh when no one else can, sends a thrill up her spine when he enlists her in a new prank, convinces her that nothing's really impossible -- but this is the first time she's been consciously aware of just how desireable he makes her feel .

She's finding it increasingly difficult to focus, yet she still manages to say smoothly, "You've got to wear something; I know you do."

He still looks kind of baffled by the whole exchange, and his eyes are almost hazy, darker than normal. "You do, do you? And why is that?"

"Because you always smell really...." She has totally forgotten herself for a second, her voice trailing off as she tries to think of a worthy adjective. And then she snaps back to herself, remembering that he's standing right there -- that he's actually holding her, that they're dancing, and she's freaking rambling on about the way he smells.

So she blurts, "Oh my god."

His smile widens, prompting her to snap, "Shut up."

He chuckles, shrugs his shoulders beneath where her hands rest. "What? I didn't say anything! But, please -- continue that sentence. For the love of god continue that sentence."

"Oh really?" Now it's her turn to be amused.

"Yeah." He doesn't skip a beat. "I mean, you're over there going on about how I smell, and I'm really hoping you don't finish that sentence with 'like a French whorehouse' or something."

She laughs again, then lifts a hand to point at him. "Aha! I caught you! You do wear cologne!"

He tilts his chin, lips pursed as he squints. "Because they sell cologne at French whorehouses...?"

She wishes she had his ability to keep a straight face, but she's horrible at it -- so all she manages is to frown almost furiously at him before a bark of laughter escapes her. Then she sobers, clearing her throat before she looks him in the eye and says sweetly, "You tell me; after all, you're the one who brought up the whole French whorehouse thing."

"Fair enough." He nods thoughtfully. "Okay, well if they do sell cologne there, then I'm totally pissed because Claudine told me that they don't -- though she did offer to sell me one of those flowbie things. You know, the ones that vaccuum your hair?"

Pam's laughing again, shaking her head. "I swear...where do you come up with this stuff?"

"Where do you come up with it?" He counters, those eyes on hers, something flirty in his smile. "Seriously -- I'm not wearing cologne; I hardly ever do."

"So you do wear it sometimes." She's cocking her eyebrow and smiling slyly at him now, hoping her look comes off as arch and not jealous. Because she figures he probably only wears cologne on dates, and the very thought sends a flash of jealousy through her that makes her mouth actually twitch.

"Oh my god. You are just...impossible when you've got some wine in you. You do know that, right?" But the look on his face tells her he loves it, that he's drinking it in in the same way that she's desperately hoping this song will keep going.

"Thank you." She gives him a little head nod. But she's not letting it go yet. "So if you don't wear cologne, then what is it? Because I swear, you always smell so...amazing."

She doesn't even realize what she's said - just sways in his arms, hands still on his shoulders, face tilted up toward him expectantly - until a long silence passes, during which time he's staring at her, wide-eyed and looking almost desperate, as if she's crossed some invisible line. And that's when she realizes that she kind of has crossed a line -- but the wine...the wine spurs her forward.

"What?" She asks, knowing full well what.

"What?" He repeats quickly. "I didn't -- I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

"Oh, you heard me." She cocks her eyebrow again, suddenly glad she couldn't find a safety pin earlier to hide the cleavage. He's not looking, of course, but she likes knowing that she looks sexy, maybe.

"Yeah." His voice is suddenly gruff as their eyes meet and hold. There's that heat again - feels like it's rising from the inside out, stemming from the marrow of her bones and elevating until it's burning just beneath her skin.

She lets herself stare him directly in the eyes for a few seconds -- something that she's rarely able to do, which is odd given that he's one of her best friends. But the flush of the wine doesn't let her cloak the truth, so she's suddenly very much aware of exactly why she's always quick to break a stare that lingers too long.

Because she'd known instinctively that it would feel like this - the desire to know more of him, to know that side of him seizing her and making her feel almost irrational. She wants him to kiss her, wants to trail her fingers along the width of his shoulders without the shirt, wants to be able to just let go for once.

Thankfully, he very obviously forces himself to snap out of it, then averts his eyes and says in a tight, slightly uncomfortable voice, "It's probably just...I dunno, shaving cream or soap or something."

She nods slowly, feeling incredibly stupid all of a sudden. And then (thank god) the song has mercifully ended, so she's looking away from him as her hands slip from his shoulders to slide down the front of her dress, smoothing it across her thighs. She gives him one last smile before turning and walking in the opposite direction, not even bothering to look back as a lame Whitney Houston song begins.

When Toby appears, asking her to dance, she accepts so enthusiastically that he looks a little stunned. But she doesn't care; instead, she moves close to him, one hand on his shoulder, the other enclosed by his hand. She closes her eyes when their small talk fades to an awkward silence, trying to ignore the fact that she can still feel Jim's eyes on her as he sits at their table next to Stanley.

Still, she makes herself acknowledge that dancing with Toby is not bad at all; he's such a sweet guy, and he's got this dry wit that creeps out every now and again, always cracking her up when she gets a glimpse of it. She's nodding and smiling as he relays a story about his two year-old daughter Sasha accidentally dialing 911 -- which is pretty funny, she knows, but she's having a really hard time paying attention to him. She realizes then that he smells like Dial soap, which strikes her as weirdly apropos; Toby is nothing if not reliable, no matter how defeated.

And then she's looking around again as the song starts to come to a close, quickly searching the crowd, looking for Jim...and there he is, standing to the left of the bar, something self-deprecating in his posture -- chatting with an impossibly attractive girl in the first truly little black dress Pam has ever seen.

So she turns away, grateful when the song finally does end. But before she can return to her table, Oscar's there asking her to dance, and as she nods in acceptance, she wonders if the sympahty she sees hovering beneath his expression is just her imagination. She dances with Stanley next, then again with Oscar before taking a turn with Michael, followed by Kevin. And even as she smiles and makes small talk, her hand resting awkwardly on a shoulder -- Oscar's, Toby's, Stanley's, Michael's, Kevin's -- she finds her gaze wandering in Jim's direction too many times to be comfortable.

She's unnerved at first by the sight of him waltzing Meredith across the floor -- particularly when she sees Meredith give his shoulder a little squeeze before inching closer to him. Then she's even more distracted by the fact that she can feel his gaze penetrating through her once he's back at their table; every time she glances up, his eyes are on her. In the beginning he gives her a game smile, taking a sip of the caramel colored whiskey in his glass. Then he begins to quickly look away whenever their eyes meet, no longer sipping so much as gulping, tilting his head back slightly.

By the end of the night, he isn't bothering to look away anymore -- just stares boldly at her, his expression a mixture of intensity and jealousy and desire and desperation. It's why she never dares to dance with him again, why she makes sure he doesn't even have a chance to ask.

As the night draws to a close, she's unable to figure out quite how to escape the realization that it's not him she's afraid of.

He's not entirely sure why he's almost angry as they trudge down the hall behind Oscar, Toby, and Kevin, back toward their rooms. He wishes he could convince himself that he's just being petty - that it's nothing more than childish pouting because watching her dance with other men for almost two hours wasn't exactly his idea of a good time - regardless of the fact that the men in question were his admittedly underwhelming co-workers.

But he knows, even in his half-drunken stupor, that there's more to it than just jealousy. Because much as he'd been unable to take his eyes off her all night, she'd seemed equally incapable of not meeting his eyes every time she glanced over from the dance floor. In between dances, their conversation at the table had been strangely stilted.

And he knows why. Or at least, he thinks he knows why -- maybe because she, too, is wrestling with the same hum beneath the surface of her skin that he's been unable to shake ever since that dance. Could she possibly be feeling as freaked out as he is right now? Does it seem to her, as it does to him, that they've spent so long perfecting the art of navigating the space surrounding the edge that to have dipped a toe in - touching, dancing, being that close - might well be enough to make them slide all the way down?

As if to punctuate his thought, she stops at the door to her room, turning to give him a big smile and a casual, "'Night," as if they're still just them. As he murmurs "good night" back to her, he's not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved.

*******

Kevin's brought his Xbox and is trying to talk Jim into playing one game of Madden with him, but Jim just can't bring himself to do it.

"Sorry, man...." He yanks the covers back from his bed, glancing apologetically over his shoulder at Kevin. "I gotta go to bed before I pass out."

As he slips underneath the covers, the hotel comforter stiff against his arms, Kevin responds, "Okay...but we are so playing tomorrow."

"You're on." He manages to mumble before he fades out.

*******

He's sitting in a darkened room on a cot covered with a stark, crisp white sheet, the only light in the tiny space stemming from a sickly, pale streetlight just outside the window.

There's not much in this room -- the cot he's sitting on, a shelf that looks like it's got x-rays stashed in folders lined along it, and a crash cart that has boxes and boxes of tissues. He sees them, then chuckles bitterly to himself, but he's distracted when he looks down and realizes that he's wearing faded blue scrubs. The fabric is stiff and itchy against his bare skin, and the v-neck is low enough that he's annoyed to have forgotten to wear a tee-shirt underneath. Because seriously, the chest hair is not something he cares to wear as an accessory.

The door opens and closes then, and suddenly Pam's standing next to him. He sort of shrinks back, expecting her to laugh at him for wearing scrubs, but instead, her gaze falls to the open v of his shirt; she doesn't say a word as she reaches without looking down to grasp at the open neck of her own shirt, pulling the fabric together to cover herself and clutching it tight.

"Don't do that." He whispers, shocked to have said it aloud without making a joke of it somehow -- instead, staring at her hungrily, knowing she sees it all over his face...so past the point of no return that he just can't bring himself to even care anymore if she knows or not.

She looks upset suddenly and asks him something that's unintelligible.

...And then he's on top of her on that richety old cot, grateful for the thin cloth of the scrubs because she's so enticingly close, the heat of her flesh permeating through. He's kissing her the way he's always wanted to - long and deep, with no pretense, no fumbling awkwardness. There's another flash, and then she's naked beneath him, her head tilted back, eyes closed.

It's visceral and vivid and yes as he uncovers a side of her he's wanted so desperately to see for far too long now - sweat and muffled moans and absolutely no control, no pretense. His head is hovering just beneath her ribs, his tongue trailing her belly button, her hand in his hair when he hears her gasp mournfully, "It doesn't count, Jim."

He's dizzy, dazed and unable to concentrate, feeling like he's nothing more than a disembodied mass with a throbbing center.

Still he shifts, sliding to rest himself on his arms above her, gasping, sweaty as he asks, "What...?"

For some reason he can't fathom, she cries out, bites her lip, squeezes her eyes shut, then: "This. Us. Doesn't count."

*******

He awakens with a start, his hair damp around the edges, neck wet with sweat, that throbbing ache having followed him from feverish dreams only to leave him in a frustrated reality. The irony in the fact that he can't even have a proper sex dream about her isn't lost on him as he closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath and attempting to quell the ache...even though he knows that it'll inevitably follow him until his head hits the pillow again -- probably beyond.

The clock on the bedside table blinks a faded red 6:27 at him; he looks at the ceiling, wondering if he should just go ahead and get up. They're all supposed to meet in the Seasons dining room for breakfast at 8:00...leaves him plenty of time to get in another hour of sleep, he decides.

So he shifts, deliberately shutting his eyes and nestling deeper into the bed, willing his mind to go blank. Instead he's met with flashes from the dream, slipping through his head in a bluish blur, and it doesn't take long for him to realize that he can't just continue to lie here any longer. Not like this.

Ten minutes later he's striding toward the on-site fitness center they'd toured the day before, grateful that there's only one other person in there - an older looking man on a stairmaster. He settles quickly on a treadmill, turning it up until he's at a steady jog, his tennis shoes pounding relentlessly against the rubber foundation beneath him. In some ways, this is the last thing he feels like doing after drinking the night before, but at the same time, it's a release that he really needs right now.

Because the calm he'd hoped to feel amid the light of day and the clarity of sobriety is just not there; in its place is the same antsy gnawing that he's felt almost since they got here. Dancing with her when he'd had that much to drink - or for that matter, when she'd had that much to drink - was a stupid idea, he tells himself. ...Especially given the fact that this atmosphere is just charged somehow in a way that he can't really put his finger on.

He's used to what he feels for her now; he's gotten pretty good at hiding it and ignoring it and sometimes almost forgetting it. But here, now...it's like he can't shake those thoughts; just knowing that she's here is an incredible distraction.

And he's not sure why, but it almost feels as if they've stepped into a different realm altogether here -- one that's thrilling because it seems to open up the possibilities that've been closed to them for as long as they've known each other.

But it's a place that's also paralyzing in the face of the reality that those possibilities are no more likely here than at home, no matter.

Still he can't help but jiggle his leg nervously as he sits at the small table in his hotel room forty-five minutes later, his hair still a little damp. Kevin had headed down to the dining area just as Jim was getting out of the shower, saying something about wanting to be the first get there in case there's a buffet.

Jim's got the door wide open, and from where he sits, he has a view of the hall. It's pathetic -- and he knows it -- to be sitting here pretending to read the newspaper as he waits for her to pass by -- which she will inevitably have to. He wonders if she'll stop; he wonders, too, if the haze of the night before will have dissipated by this morning.

He gets his answers soon enough when he hears her faint knock on his open door as she leans in the doorway, holding to the doorframe and looking a little pale. "Hey."

He can't help but laugh at the expression on her face - she looks nothing if not hung over. But looking at her sends a sharp flash of his dream right through him, bringing with it a flush of discomfort, his eyes flicking away, then back to her as he teases, "Look at you...."

"Shut up." She snaps playfully, and he's starting to feel just a little relieved. Because even though she's tired, she doesn't seem to be feeling particularly upset or freaked out.

"Wow." He chuckles, following her out the door, then heading down the hall next to her. "Good morning to you, too."

"My god." She moans, giving him a nasty look. "Do you have to be so...chipper?"

He laughs, and it brings a smile to her lips. "Man, somebody is a bit hung over this morning."

"Oh, like you aren't." They're walking into the dining hall now, and Michael is waving frantically to them from the Dunder Mifflin table as Dwight concentrates on the menu, studying the selections as if he'll be tested on them later.

"Pam." Jim stops just inside the doorway so he can look down at her with a serious expression. "I've already run close to three miles this morning, thanks very much."

"You did not!"

"Did, too."

"No way. It's got to be forty degrees outside, colder even." She looks skeptical.

"Yeah, you're probably right about that." For a second he wonders what she'd say if he told her just why he'd had to get out of bed and burn off some energy. He doesn't dare, of course, instead continuing, " ...Which is why I went to the on site gym this morning and got my jog in there."

She pauses for a beat, then: "I hate you."

She turns and walks away, but he follows, laughing as he easily catches up to her. "Okay, okay, fine -- how about I make it up to you by telling you my magic hang over cure?"

Her eyes meet his as they reach the table, and the color is back in her cheeks now. He pulls her chair out for her without thinking, but she's unfazed - steps around, then just before she sits down: "Deal. But I'm not running on a treadmill."

He chuckles as she sits down, then takes his seat next to her. "Okay. No running."

Their eyes meet for a second, as what he'd said resonates in his head: No running.

*******

"Okay, this is what we're gonna do!" Michael's standing at the front of the room grinning like a kid at his own birthday party. "Team-building stuff!"

"Like trust falls?" Jim asks immediately.

"Ahhhhh....better than that, my good sir!" If the level of Michael's enthusiasm is any indication, what they're about to engage in will either be completely lame or physically perilous.

From behind his back, he extracts a plastic bag filled with assorted colors of balloons. Jim glances over at Pam, and they exchange a quick oh no look.

Stanley's on it immediately. "I am not gonna stand around here blowing up balloons like some idiot fool."

Michael's shoulders droop a little, then he seems to rouse himself, snapping, "Well you know what, Stanley? Then you can't play!"

"Wow." Jim whispers under his breath, leaning down toward Pam. "Last time I heard those words was when I was...seven, I think."

Pam giggles, and he gives her a warm smile, relieved that the tension from the night before seems to have dissipated a bit. Even if he's still not quite able to shake that distracted feeling the dream left him with, he has to admit that things are okay...normal again. At least for now, anyway.

It takes them close to ten minutes to blow up all the balloons, and in the process, Kevin is stunned to discover that he possesses an almost preternatural ability to inflate balloons at an alarmingly rapid rate. Then Michael's coaching them on a game that involves each of them having a balloon and being forced to keep it in the air, while every five seconds, Michael adds another balloon to the mix, necessitating that they work together to keep all the balloons aloft.

Dwight is in his element as leader (though he insisted - to no avail - that the others refer to him as "prefect"), stalking around the circle they form, neck craned to catch any potential balloons that might get away from an employee...at which time he screams, "PENALTY!"

The first time he does it to Pam, he's unfortunately close to her ear, prompting her to jump, then call out imploringly to Michael, "Michael, seriously...does Dwight have to yell at us?"

Micheal's clearly having a ball batting around his balloon, swatting at others as they float by. "Yes, Pam! Creates stress! Nice workplace stimulation!"

Jim can't help but grin at her when she sighs in exasperation, exhaling and blowing her bangs out of her face.

He tips a balloon her way. "Shake it off, Beesly."

"Suck on it, Halpert." She shoots back, prompting him to draw back in surprise, which in turn sends a smile across her face. That smile widens slowly as he watches, recognizing the look in her eye; just as he's realizing she's about to pull something, she suddenly bats a balloon his way, hitting him square in the face with it.

"Oh no. Tell me you did not just do that." He tries to give her a warning look, but he's fairly certain the stupid grin on his face undermines it.

She's struggling hard to keep a straight face as she informs him proudly, "Oh yes - I just did that."

He tilts his head, twisting his lips to the side as if to say tsk-tsk, then reaches above his head, palming a balloon loosely in each hand before smacking them her way, aiming for the top of her head and meeting his mark.

She's laughing now, flailing around to grasp any of the balloons that are within her reach and then swatting them at him, even as Dwight punctuates the activity with an intermittent, "PENALTY!"

Before long, no one's playing by the rules anymore, and it somehow ends in an all out balloon assault on Michael -- who's delighted with the attention, his face flushed as he giggles like a child.

He eventually restores order, and by that time, most of them are breathing heavily and ready to rest. Then he suddenly announces their next activity: "Balloon Bop!"

Jim glances down at Pam. "Well now this oughta be fun."

"Definitely."

Michael explains that while the object of this game is the same as the other - to keep the balloon suspended in mid-air - the means to that end are different; this time, they'll take turns stepping to the center of the circle, one of them responsible for the balloon while the others shout out commands regarding what body part to use in order to keep the balloon in the air.

Kevin's got that weird, kid-with-porn smile as Jim cocks an eyebrow at Pam. He can think of any number of reasons why this is just not a good idea.

But it turns out not to be all that bad, and when Dwight's in the center of the circle, things really get interesting. Pam's the first to call out to him. "Bottom of your left foot!"

It's apparently in Dwight's blood to follow orders; he immediately kicks his leg back in such a way that Jim leans down to Pam and comments, "If only he had a parasol and a sundress..."

She bursts out laughing at that, and he's starting to feel that familiar sense creeping in on him; it's like he can only have fun with her for so long before his mood starts to shift a little, the futility of it all dampening his spirits. But he shrugs it off, calling out, "Dwight - Adam's Apple!"

"Not a body part!" Dwight answers, his eyes focused intently on the bright pink balloon that hovers overhead.

"No, it is a body part, Dwight."

"No, it's not; quick, somebody call something out! Hurry, the balloon's falling!"

Jim watches as his co-workers silently - and apparently, unanimously - agree that letting the balloon fall is the best outcome for them all, because then maybe they can move on to something more interesting. He expects Michael to be as upset as Dwight is when the balloon wafts down to skim the hardwood floor.

But Michael isn't deterred. "Oh my -- do you see? Do you all see that? That's team work!"

"They didn't follow the rules of the game, Michael." Dwight kicks at the balloon.

"Shuuuut it." Michael chirps happily. "You all decided to work together and let the balloon just fall. Bravo! Give yourselves a hand! ...And you're welcome, by the way."

*******

They spend the rest of the day exploring the resort, and soon enough, it's nearing evening again. They're all standing in the hallway outside their respective rooms as Angela and Kevin argue about the Skyview Lounge.

"There are other places on site where we can eat." Angela's voice is tight, her eyes on Michael. "I don't see why we have to go back to that bar."

"How many times have I told you ---" Kevin's so mad he has to take a breath. "It is not a bar! It's a lounge!"

"Which means 'bar.'" Angela doesn't even look at him, and Jim wonders if she doesn't secretly love pissing Kevin off whenever she can.

But Michael's looking flustered - Jim's sure it's because he's daddy taking them on vacation, and he's bummed that the kids can't get along - so Toby dutifully steps up and says quietly, "Listen, Michael...why not let everyone choose where they'd like to eat tonight? It's okay if we all...separate, you know."

Michael's eyes widen, and his reaction is apropos of Toby just having suggested he shoot a puppy. "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you, Toby? Well, we true Dunder Mifflinites don't 'separate' when times get rough."

Jim immediately responds: "Hey...whoa, Michael, that's not..."

He doesn't finish, instead just swallowing hard as he remembers the last time he and Toby had had drinks at Poor Richard's, seven weeks earlier.

"I keep thinking about how things were when she found out she was pregnant." Toby had stared down into his highball glass as if it were an oracle. "We had trouble, you know -- I mean, she had to go through some...infertility stuff."

Jim nodded, watching his face closely, suddenly understanding a whole realm of complications and genuine pain that he'd never even considered before. His mom had always lauded him for being hyper-sensitive, but at times like this, he wished he wasn't so much. Because this was hard -- really hard -- to witness.

Toby went on, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall. "And when she found out she was pregnant, it was like....like beyond us; I remember thinking it was a guarantee that we'd make it...you know?"

Again, Jim had nodded sympathetically.

Toby had gone silent for a long, long time, then: "Turns out there apparently are no guarantees."

He'd looked up then to hold Jim's gaze, and Jim was shocked at the sudden pang of envy he felt -- he was genuinely jealous of Toby. Not because Toby's life was so much better than his own, but at least Toby had something to lose.

And as far as Jim could see, there was beauty in that -- he figured that it would have to be easier to navigate your way through a break up with a woman with whom you'd actually been close, intimate -- as opposed to resigning yourself to missed opportunities, bad timing.

Because he knew what it was like to try to essentially abort what he was damned near certain was right...what was meant to be.

Thankfully, Michael's voice jolts him out of his thoughts: "I'm the boss, Toby; you're not. You're just here because Jan wouldn't let me leave you in Scranton." Michael's top lip is curling in a sneer now.

Pam ducks her head and laughs a little; Jim elbows her, gives her a mockingly stern expression.

A silence falls as Michael tilts his head toward the ceiling for a moment, then, decisively: "We're all meeting at Skyview in an hour."

"Yes!" Kevin does a fist pump. Angela rolls her eyes.

"So I guess that's that." Jim glances down at Pam, a little nervous to be going back to that same place. It's dumb and he knows it, but the night before had been so surreal -- at least, for him. He wonders what she's thinking.

"Guess so." She sighs, then turns to head to her room, pausing to look over her shoulder at him, calling out, "Here? 6:20?"

He grins, something in his stomach tightening. "What am I, your escort service?"

She shrugs at him, cheeks pink, lips curved in a little smile. "Maybe."

As she leans toward the large bathroom mirror, carefully gliding eyeliner along her lash line while Meredith dries her hair, she wishes she could quell her nerves. It's like it was the night before, only ratcheted up a notch or two -- because last night, while she'd had the promise of spending some time with Jim, she'd had no real idea what to expect. But now she knows what the Skyview Lounge is like; now she knows that there'll be wine and dancing and another opportunity to slip out of her own life and into what probably ought to be someone else's.

She feels guilty for thinking it, guiltier still when she catches herself imagining dancing with him again.

She's grateful when Meredith finishes blowing her hair dry and starts chatting to her, because it fills the silence, keeps the dreams out of her head. By the time she's getting dressed, she's resigned herself to taking a few steps back -- to leaving Jim alone tonight. It's not a good idea to spend as much time with him as she has been since they've been here, because it seems to just make things...tense. Too much.

"Hey, what're you doing?" Meredith asks suddenly, just as Pam is sliding her black jumper up over her hips.

"What?"

Meredith gestures to her outfit. "Why're you wearing a turtleneck under that?"

Pam blinks in confusion. "Because it's October...and it's cold."

"Not inside, it isn't. C'mon, honey, you have got to take that turtleneck off." Meredith's shaking her head now, and for some reason, Pam's not annoyed -- just feels a weird warmth toward her. Because it's nice of her to care, at least.

"I don't have anything else to wear, though." Pam gestures to the black dress she'd worn the night before.

"I didn't say you shouldn't wear the dress you've got on now; you just don't need the turtleneck under it." Meredith tells her.

Pam glances down at herself, picking at the smooth black fabric with one hand. "You mean wear my jumper just...by itself?"

Meredith chuckles, but there's no malice there. "Sweetie, that's not a jumper; that's a hot little black dress if I've ever seen one."

"Seriously?" Pam glances down at it again -- sleeveless, a form-fitting sheath with a wide neck that shows off her clavicle, dips in at the waist, the skirt hitting just above her knee. It has never occurred to her to wear this as a "hot little black dress."

"Seriously -- here, take off the turtleneck and just see how it looks without it. Trust me; you're gonna look fabulous."

Pam's still not entirely sold, but she gamely nods, pulling the turtleneck over her head, the drawing the dress back up to her chest and slipping her arms through the wide straps. Without being asked, Meredith immediately steps behind her to zip her up, then gently turns Pam so that she's facing her.

"Oh, man...you look amazing. God, I wish I still had a figure like yours -- how come you don't show it off more?"

"I don't know...just shy, I guess." Pam answers, moving to stand in front of the full length mirror inside the closet door. She's startled at her reflection, because she looks...well, pretty damn good. And the dress isn't as revealing as she'd thought it might be. In fact, as she turns to the side, glancing in the mirror again, she's struck by how classy it looks just on its own.

"Mmm-hmm." Meredith's nodding. "I knew you'd be a knockout - wait 'till Jim sees you."

Pam freezes, the panic cold. "What?"

Meredith laughs easily, waving a hand. "That kid is just gone over you. You have to know that, right?"

Pam's mouth is dry, and she's not sure why; it's just the two of them -- she hadn't blurted that out in front of anyone else. But still....

"I don't - we're just good friends, Meredith."

Meredith nods, and Pam's actually a little surprised at the way she immediately backs off. "Okay, okay. ...But you watch his face when he sees you for the first time."

"That's not - no, I'm not..." Pam's flustered and trying desperately to hide it.

So she grasps the straw she knows best. "Meredith, I'm engaged to Roy."

"So? There is nothing wrong with flirting a little, with just having a good time."

"What does that mean?" She knows the last thing she should probably be doing is letting Meredith talk her into even entertaining the thought that it's okay to pretend for the weekend that she's not engaged.

Meredith shrugs. "Whatever you want it to mean - but trust me on this: You'll be married soon enough, and all this...stuff'll be a thing of the past. Better enjoy it now, while you still can."

Pam shakes her head with a skeptical, slightly confused smile; clearly Meredith's impression of marriage leaves a lot to be desired.

Ten minutes later when she follows Meredith out the door, Meredith suddenly glances around to give her an exaggerated wink before turning away, calling out, "Hey Jim" as she brushes past him.

For a second Pam stands rooted to the spot, like she's afraid to step all the way into the hall...and she's not sure why.

Well, she has a general idea.

He's standing there looking just as Meredith had predicted he would: stunned, like someone's just knocked the breath out of him. She feels her own breath catch a little at the sight of him standing there in khakis and a white button down shirt with a black sweater over it, his hair brushed just a little more neatly than usual. He looks older, maybe a little sophisticated...definitely like the kind of guy girls would turn to stare at on the street.

And then she realizes that they're standing there just staring at each other, so she shakes her head and smiles, snapping out of it and stepping out, pulling the door closed behind her, then turning to face him.

"Hey." She's the first to speak, and her voice is a little more breathless than she'd intended it to be.

"Uh, hey." He's still staring, then: "Sorry, I'm just -- wow, you look amazing."

She grins at him, trying to relax. "That's what you said last night, if I recall correctly. What, is that just your go-to compliment?"

He laughs, tilting his head back, but he's moving slower than usual, as if he still can't quite pull his eyes away from her. "You caught me. Just said it to Kevin, as a matter of fact."

"You're horrible." She laughs as they begin to walk down the hall, Oscar and Toby emerging from their room to catch up with them.

"What? I did." Jim insists. "He's wearing this snazzy-looking fedora, and...well, yeah, as soon as I saw him, I said, 'Kev...you look amazing.' What? Wait 'till you see him - guarantee you'll say the same thing."

She's shaking her head at him now, loving it when he just takes a joke and runs with it that way; she's pretty sure she could spend an entire month with him and no one else and never get bored.

Their night begins with karaoke -- Michael, Oscar, Kevin, and Dwight all taking a turn -- and when they try to cajole her into going up there, she shakes her head emphatically. She's grateful when they switch, as they had the night before, to the dance floor. But when Michael's the first to ask her to dance, she's initially disappointed - then the guilt kicks in, and she's swaying in his arms, making herself have a good time.

When the dance is over, she joins Jim at their table, settling into her chair with a sigh.

"So hey...you want something to drink?" He asks, gesturing over his shoulder at the bar.

She thinks about it. "Yeah, I do."

"So what'll it be?"

"Well, I don't know." She grins impishly at him. "What all do they have?"

He cocks his head. "It's a bar, Pam; they have everything."

"Even Shirley Temples?" She can't resist teasing him.

He blinks, his expression blank. "You're not serious, are you?"

"No." She giggles again, and he shakes his head at her.

"Such a geek...." He murmurs, prompting her to throw a napkin at him.

"Come on." She stands suddenly. "Let's go to the bar and see what they can make."

He's still chuckling at her as they stride up to the counter. She's startled when the bartender - a dark haired guy who looks to be about their age - turns and smiles in recognition. "Hey, Jim..."

"Hey, Shawn." He nods at Pam. "This is Pam."

She extends a hand to him, marvelling at the fact that Jim has already made a friend. Sometimes she envies him that - his easy charm, the affable demeanor that just draws people to him.

Ten minutes later, they're back at the table, and she's sipping an appletini as Jim glances over, takes in the bright green drink, then rolls his eyes. He'd teased her mercilessly about it, telling her ordering a Shirley Temple would've been better than that.

"Would you please shut up and let me enjoy my drink?" She pretends to be huffy at him, then, casting a derisive look at his gin and tonic, adds, "Besides, at least mine isn't an old man drink."

"An old man drink? Really?"

"Mm-hmm." She gives him a self-satisfied grin, then sets down her glass. "So you're on a first-name basis with the bartender, I see."

"Yeah." He nods, taking a sip of his drink. "I talked to him a little last night. He's a nice guy. ...And it's never a bad idea to be on a first name basis with your bartender, Pam."

"Oh, really?" She can't keep herself from smiling at him. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

They spend the next half hour watching the others dance, sipping on their drinks and keeping up a running banter. She's feeling relaxed now, the guilt behind her as she gets swept up in the genius that is Michael dancing wildly with Meredith to some old Madonna song.

As soon as it's over, the all-too familiar sounds of George Michael's "Careless Whisper" begin. It's so silly and dramatic that she glances at Jim -- who immediately tilts his head, saying, "Okay, come on; we totally have to dance to this."

She feels the flush in her cheeks even as she laughs easily, nodding as she agrees. "Totally."

He makes a production of standing, then extending his hand to her with a mockingly intense expression; it takes her a second to realize he's pulling his best George Michael, because for a moment, she's a little caught up -- she has to admit -- in the way he's looking full-on at her with such open...oh my god. He's right; I am such a geek.

Even though they're doing this as a mocking ode to the melodrama of the song, she still feels a little breathless at the fact that he doesn't let go of her hand - leads her all the way to the floor, where he then sweeps her close, struggling to hold that serious expression. She feels almost dirty for finding it alarmingly sexy when he's clearly just doing it to be funny.

But with that saxaphone solo in the background, it's just impossible to keep a straight face, so she ends up laughing again, murmuring, "Wow...haven't heard anything by Wham! in a long time."

"So what was the name of that other guy who was in the band with him?" He asks. "You know, the one with the big eyebrows and the dark hair...?"

She nods, still chuckling. "Yeah, Andrew Ridgley - I was kind of scared of him when I was little."

His eyebrow shoots up. "I'm sorry, what? You were scared of one of the guys in Wham!?"

"Shut up." She rolls her eyes, then they're silent for a second, their eyes meeting and holding. It's the flush that comes from being this close to him and looking him in the eye that compels her to fill the silence.

So she asks suddenly, "Hey, did you ever see this video?"

He thinks about it for a second, and it strikes her then that there's no way in hell Roy would ever entertain such a question - much less make fun of George Michael for his melodrama, not his sexuality.

"I'm not sure...what happens in it?"

She's happy to explain, because it means she can try to distract herself from the reality that she can't stop thinking about how great his hands feel on the small of her back. "It's the one where he's got the girlfriend who's kind of homely, and he cheats on her with this really snotty looking woman who's all smirky and gloaty and -- what?"

He's watching her with a small smile, his eyes warm, his expression telling her that even though he's paying attention, his thoughts are getting away from him. She knows that look.

"Nothing." His voice is a little gruff, then he visibly snaps out of it. "So the woman looks snotty and smirky and gloaty...?"

Their eyes hold again for a second before she goes on. "Yeah, right. She totally is. And then the homely girl walks in on them -- "

She stops abruptly, less because she's embarrassed than that she's at a loss for exactly what euphemism to use.

Jim, of course, is watching her closely. "Walks in on them...playing Yahtzee?"

For some reason that strikes her as outrageously funny, so she lets out a bark of laughter, then momentarily lowers her head to his chest to stifle the giggles. His shoulder is broad, his chest sturdy, his scent so...him.

She lifts her head back up to find him watching her, a big grin on his face as he quickly amends, "No, wait! I know what it was: She walked in on him putting on the other girl's make up."

Pam draws back, eyeing him searchingly. "Okay, did not expect a gay joke from you."

"Whoa." He, too, pulls back slightly, looking almost indignant. "It wasn't a gay joke; it was an eighties joke."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. I'd have said the same thing about Boy George."

"Also gay."

"Okay." He pauses, searching in his memory. "David Bowie."

"Bi-sexual." She's kind of enjoying this now.

Then, of course, he pulls out the big guns: "Simon LeBon."

His expression conveys all too clearly that he knows he's got her, his smile widening as she gives the slightest nod as if to concede defeat. Her unfortunate crush on Simon had come out during one of their marathon 20-IM-Questions sessions, and now she's wondering why in the hell she didn't just lie to him and say someone less dorky.

She's on the verge of giving him credit -- after all, it's definitely due - when he suddenly asks, "So wait...you said you didn't expect a gay joke from me -- what does that mean?"

It had been a total slip, and she's grateful that she hadn't gone on to add that she'd have expected it from Roy, just not Jim - so she's fumbling a little now. "Nothing - just that...you know..."

He watches her search for the right word, and when she fails, he leans toward her, and his warm breath near her ear sends goosebumps on her arms as he murmurs, "Beesly, are you telling me you think I'm gay?"

She knows he's kidding, and she knows, too, that the best move she could make would be to play along with him, pretend she'd thought he was gay. But apparently, Shawn's appletini seems to have tranquilized her inner governor.

Her laughter is loud, her head thrown all the way back. "Oh my god -- believe me, I know you're not gay!"

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she knows she's said too much; the way he stiffens slightly, his smile kind of freezing on his lips, only confirms that realization.

"What're you...?" He seems like he's too flustered to finish, his eyes meeting hers for a moment. There's so much happening beneath his expression that she visibly flinches; he suddenly looks so vulnerable, like she's hurt him somehow.

"Nothing - no, Jim, I mean..." She shakes her head, almost desperate to escape this moment. "I wasn't -- it's just..."

"It's okay - "

"No, seriously, Jim." She interrupts him, looks him in the eye even though it's so damned unnerving to do so when he's this close to her, when his hands are on her waist, the small of her back. His face is too close for her to comfortably hold eye contact; even as she tries, her gaze slowly wanders down to his lips, and the desire to press her mouth to his is abrupt, unexpected...disarming.

She swallows hard, looks away, then back at him. "I'm sorry if that came out...wrong, or whatever."

She shakes her head, as does he, and she's painfully aware that this is the closest they've ever come to acknowledging the enormous unspoken thing that stands between them.

He seems to be aware of that, too, and is apparently every bit as eager as she is to avoid the subject. "No, seriously, Pam - I was kidding."

She nods and an awkward silence falls, thick with too many things that have risen to the surface, waiting to bubble over.

Then he surprises her by saying, "Hey."

She glances up at him expectantly - fearfully.

He holds her gaze, his expression dead serious. "I just hope you know that...I'm never gonna dance again - at least, not the way I danced with you."

Her eyes widen, and the panic is almost choking her. "What...?"

He's still staring at her, but she could swear he wants to smile. Then he adds, "Because guilty feet have got no rhythm, and though it's easy to pretend - "

She realizes then that he's quoting the song, so she immediately smacks him on the chest, exclaiming loudly, "Shut up! God, I hate you so much sometimes!"

It's at that unfortunate moment that she's aware of an elderly couple dancing next to them, watching and listening, completely rapt...and a little startled.

Her eyes meet Jim's again, and she knows from the little smirk on his face that he's not about to let this opportunity pass him by.

Her certainty is validated when he gives her a mockingly stern expression then says in a voice loud enough for the other couple to hear, "Now honey, remember what we talked about: We use words, not our fists."

She can't help it - knows she ought to keep up the charade - but between what he said and the patronizing expression he's giving her, she's a lost cause. First she purses her lips together to keep from smiling, but she's fairly certain she probably just ends up looking like she's trying to imitate a baboon. And seeing the struggle on his face as he chokes back the laughter is too much - so she lets go, her shoulders shaking as she bows her head, one hand over her mouth as she dissolves into a silent fit of laughter.

He catches her off guard by sliding one hand up her back, caressing her hair and gently guiding her head to his chest as he damned near coos, "Hey, it's okay; I forgive you. Don't cry..."

She laughs even harder, burying her face against his sweater, and for a few seconds, everything's ostensibly as it should be: They're executing another of their harmless pranks, playing off each other as good friends do, just having a good time.

But then everything dissolves all too quickly, and she's painfully caught off guard by the sudden urge to really cry. The way he's holding her close, still moving with the slow music, his hands warm as they glide up and down her back, his cheek against her hair...it's all so startlingly right that she doesn't know whether to laugh harder or really cry. In the haze of the alcohol and the glow of the lights, beneath the warmth of his hands and the shockingly secure feeling that comes from resting her head against his chest, she's realizing all of a sudden that in this moment, she can't run. Doesn't even want to.

"Hey." His voice is soft as the song draws to a close, and she knows he's noticed that her laughter has subsided...that maybe she's clinging to him for real now. "You okay?"

She pulls back to smile up at him, but the expression on his face startles her. It hits her suddenly as she gazes up at him - his brows knit in concern, eyes searching her face, jaw tensed - this man loves you.

The shock is almost as palpable as if he'd said it out loud.

"I'm -- yeah, I'm good; I'm just..." She takes a few steps back from him, shaking her head. "...Spaced out or something. But yeah, no, I'm good! I'm fine...."

"...Okay." The tone of his voice tells her that he's confused, a little bewildered...that he picked up on most of what she'd hoped would slip right past him.

Instead of sitting down next to him at the table, she approaches Oscar, asking him to dance. It's kind of cruel, she knows, to leave Jim with nothing to do other than sink into a chair, looking as dazed as she feels, but she can't risk spending any more time around him right now. Because she's suddenly realizing that she's somehow slipped in way over her head.

*******

Shortly before midnight, the Dunder Mifflinites begin to slowly crumple at the table; shortly after that, they're trudging once again down the hall toward their rooms. She and Jim haven't really talked much since that dance, and she's struck by how utterly unnerving it is that two nights in a row now, they've danced just once, and it's ended in awkwardness...maybe worse.

But when she really considers it, she's not surprised. Because nothing's been easy with him -- at least, not when she really lets herself venture beyond the laughter and the pranks and the silly banter; not when she's left with just the raw emotion that's there, that's always been there.

No, things haven't been easy since that day in his car when she'd realized so suddenly that he was going to kiss her and had blurted out that stupid thing about him meeting Roy. One of the darkest secrets she holds close is the silent, almost unconscious regret that she stopped him that day.

Because if she hadn't...well, things might've -- would've -- been different.

But they're not, and thinking about that is tantamount to imagining herself married to George Clooney or someone like that. It's unrealistic; it's a projection of her hyper-romantic imagination, nothing else. Roy knows things about her nobody knows, not even Jim; Roy's the only guy she's ever been with, and that's a tie that binds her to him even more tightly.

She shakes off those thoughts, glances up at him; his expression is intense, and she realizes all of a sudden that they're alone in the hallway.

"Listen, Pam -- "

It's cowardly and horrible and she knows it, but the fear is bigger than she is...so she quickly waves a hand, "Don't - just...let's don't, okay?"

He blinks slowly, and she knows she's hurt him. Again. "Okay..."

This is not what she wants - not by a long shot; she bites her lip, looks at the floor, then back up at him, her eyes holding his steadily -- because this is important; he's important.

"I didn't mean for it to get...all weird, or whatever. I don't want it to be like that."

He's quick to respond, his shoulders rising. "I don't either...."

"Because you really are my best friend..." She scans his face -- so serious, vulnerable in a way that cuts her to the core; her best friend, yes, but so, so much more than that.

The realization is inescapable, daunting enough to make her risk hurting him again for the sake of protecting herself as she clumsily adds, "Next to Roy, I mean."

He actually reels backward a little - his chin toward the ceiling as he rocks on his feet. She feels her mouth trembling like it does when she's about to cry, but she tells herself that what she said was right...true.

But she knows it's not. And she knows that if she stands here one second longer, watching as he struggles, so obviously stunned by what she'd said -- because he knows she wasn't being honest -- she'll blurt out an apology, tell him she really didn't mean to hurt him by saying it and that she doesn't understand why it is that she keeps hurting him.

And that's precisely why she steps forward, kissing him very deliberately on the cheek -- a risky move, but then, he's enough of a gentleman not to test her (thank god)...just kind of stands there frozen, the walls up.

"Thanks for everything." She whispers in his ear, knowing it sounds about on par with "Careless Whisper" but unable to bring herself to look at him, much less say anything real.

"Yeah." His voice is gruff, his eyes on the carpet as he turns, walking the short distance to his room. He goes inside without looking back at her, and she's grateful, because before the door even closes behind him, she's leaning heavily against the wall, her vision blurred by the tears.

She's not willing to let them fall; she's not going to stand out here and sob over him like some jilted junior high girl. Because she's got a life and a fiance and so much to look forward to.

But it's a hollow, hollow consolation; all she can do is push away from the wall, unlock the door to her room, and stumble inside. She doesn't even bother to wash her face, just changes into her pajamas then falls onto her bed, eyes closed as she squirms to pull the covers from beneath her, willing her mind to just be still.

*******

They're standing in front of a stained glass window, the vibrant colors seeping into her consciousness, rendering reality a blur of angles that are too sharp, desires that run too deep.

"Hey." His voice distracts her, because it's throatier than it should be as he asks, "You okay?"

She feels like she's moving in slow-motion as she raises her eyes to meet his, then gives him a sad, slow, bitter smile. "You're always asking me that."

He looks so incredibly weary. "I know."

She barely shakes her head - just shifts her jaw slightly to the right. She knows he'll flinch even before she asks, "So why do you ask me when you know I'm not?"

She waits for him to react, waits for the requisite awkward fumbling and backpedaling.

What happens instead is that his mouth is suddenly on hers, his palms spanning her waist as he pulls her close -- too close for him to hide it anymore or laugh it off or put up a polite subterfuge.

She's shocked...then completely dismantled when he murmurs against her lips: "God, I want you so much....please, Pam. Just once."

"Once." She repeats the word almost mechanically, searching desperately for a way to talk herself out of this even as he slips her dress off her shoulders, his lips following where his hands have been.

"Just once." He says again.

"I can't." She's not sure which is worse: the fear that he'll stop, or the realization that she doesn't want him to.

"But you are." His words shock her, and just as she's about to deny it, she realizes he's right there. It's a different room now, maybe even a different day - or maybe not. It's all the same anyway, she thinks, the days just bleeding into one another.

She looks up when she feels a familiar throb, almost drunk at the realization that yes, it's Jim. Then it's fast and blurry; she's on top of him, and she can clearly see that he's caught somewhere between heaven and hell -- his head tilting to the side and then all the way back against the pillow, his taut jaw and clenched teeth just further evidence of all she's done to him, all she keeps doing to him.

There's a sudden clatter then, followed by what sounds to her like hissing. She's slow to regain consciousness, but when she does, she's immediately wide awake -- and totally shocked to see Meredith and the Abe Lincoln guy, arms around one another, lips touching as they clumsily back toward Meredith's bed.

She doesn't even pause to think about it; her immediate instinct is to leap from her bed and stalk toward the door, stepping out into the dimly lit hallway and pulling the door closed behind her. She stands there for a few minutes, disoriented, her heart still pounding - from the dream or the fact that she'd come that close to waking up and finding Meredith having sex with that guy, she's not sure.

And she has absolutely no idea what to do now -- doesn't even know how long she was asleep or what time it is. ...Much less where the hell she's going to sleep tonight. Of course her eyes immediately stray to the door of Jim and Kevin's room, but she doesn't let herself entertain the thought.

Because images from that dream keep flickering behind her eyes, and she's not entirely sure she'd even be able to comfortably look at Jim right now, much less ask him if she can sleep on the floor of his hotel room.

She paces the hall in her bare feet and pajamas for a good five minutes before she works up the nerve to knock on Angela's door. There's initially no answer -- it is, after all, god only knows how late -- so she knocks again.

Then there's a clanging sound as Angela fumbles with the lock, propping the door open to peer out at Pam, her eyes beneath the chain lock. She looks absolutely livid.

"Um, hey, Angela. I was just...Meredith's got some guy in our room, and -- "

"I don't believe this." Angela snaps, interrupting her. "I do not believe this."

"Believe what...?"

Angela's glare is cold, piercing. "That you would have the nerve to interrupt my sleep over this, when you're just as bad as she is!"

"What're you...?" Pam's not entirely sure why she's even engaging...maybe because she's too tired to do otherwise.

"You heard me! I saw you drinking and flirting just like she was -- you've made your bed, so go lie in it!" Then the door slams in her face yet again.

She stands there with her mouth literally hanging open for a few seconds, completely shocked; Angela's never been particularly nice to her, but seriously...this is not at all good.

Twice more she paces the length of the hallway, her mind racing: This is just stupid; I should knock on Jim's door. There's no way he'd ever do what Angela did; he'd be great about it, and of course he'd let me stay with him and Kevin tonight. I'm being dumb; we're good friends - I mean, when I really think about it, it's really stupid that I even bothered to ask Angela first. I should've just gone to Jim's room and been done with it.

But she knows why she didn't; the normal hesitation she would've ordinarily felt has been amplified by that dream, the sense of it pulsing somewhere in her consciousness, even as she tries to talk herself off the ledge.

And then she's frustrated: This is -- it's dumb. So I had a stupid dream about him -- it's just because this has been such a weird trip, and I'm not used to spending this much time with him. That's all it is. I could've ended up dreaming about any of the guys from work -- it just happened to be Jim.

By the time she's standing outside his door, her hand raised and prepared to knock, it's almost become a test of sorts: If she can ask him this favor, sleep in a chair or something in his room, then she'll have proven that he's her friend...nothing else.

Still she hesitates, swallows hard; it's just that the dream was so unnervingly vivid, and it's like she knows now what it feels like to have his mouth on hers, his body close.

She doesn't let herself think further than that, rapping her knuckles against his door softly as she bows her head, suddenly feeling panicked - and almost borderline hysterical - thinking, Oh my god, what the hell am I doing? This is stupid - it's just not a good idea, and I really should -

The door swings open, and he's standing there in front of her before she can complete the thought.

For a second, all he does is just stand there staring at her, caught off guard; then he realizes how stupid he must look in his old plaid pajama bottoms and faded gray tee-shirt, one arm resting on the top of the doorframe as he gapes at her. He and Kevin had just started their second Madden game, and in his peripheral vision, he sees Kevin lean backward a bit, controller still in his hands, smiling slyly when he sees Pam.

Finally Jim manages to speak: "Uh...hey."

He smiles nervously, reaching up to scratch the back of his head in a purely self-conscious gesture; his shirt apparently creeps up enough to expose the line of dark hair that goes from his belly button on down -- because Pam's eyes suddenly shift to his lower abdomen, seeming to follow that trail.

"Hey." She looks flushed, almost like she's embarrassed or upset about something.

His brows knit as he scans her face. "You okay?"

She visibly starts -- so noticeably, in fact, that he jumps a little as well, and then she's staring up at him as if, in asking her if she's okay, he's managed to totally freak her out.

"No, I'm -- I mean, yes. Yeah, no, I'm fine." She shakes her head, waving her hand impatiently. Then she quickly adds, "I'm really sorry to just...you know, barge in on you like this, but I...."

He watches as her eyes stray to Kevin, and he can tell from the way she's fidgeting that whatever she has to say, she'd apparently prefer not to say it in front of Kevin.

He swallows hard, ignoring it when his heartbeat accelerates at the thought of what exactly she might have to say to him this late at night...in private. Then he turns to Kevin, calling out, "Kev, pause it, will you?"

"Yeah..." Kevin gives him a not-so-subtle nod and a grin that are tantamount to a flashing neon thumbs up sign. Jim pretends not to notice, stepping outside the door, pulling it so that it's almost closed, and joining Pam in the hallway.

"So what's up?" He asks, his eyes sweeping over her. She's wearing a pair of pink sweatpants and an obviously old tee-shirt - presumably of Roy's, because it has the little blue Nike symbol in one corner and is way too big for her. Her hair's a little messy, her makeup almost gone, and she's bare footed.

"Well..." She sucks in a deep breath, then finally looks up at him. "I was asleep, and Meredith came in with the Abe Lincoln guy, and they started to...."

Her voice trails off, her eyes meeting his; he feels his eyebrows shoot up as he breathes, "Oh my god." He draws back, pursing his lips as he registers what she's just told him. "Wow... The Abe Lincoln guy? Really?"

She nods, their eyes meeting again, and then she bursts out laughing, putting a hand over her mouth to stifle the noise.

He, too, chuckles, but it's slowly beginning to dawn on him what this means. "Oh, wait...so you don't have anywhere to...?"

"Sleep, no." She shakes her head, biting her lip as she blushes again. "I mean, I asked Angela, but she was just...really mean."

"Seriously?" He forces himself to give her a sympathetic expression, even though he's silently thanking god for Angela's righteous indignation right about now.

He clears his throat. "Well listen, it's no problem for you to...stay with us; I'm sure Kev won't mind. Hang on a sec, and I'll check with him."

He pushes open the door to see Kevin still sitting there with that naughty grin, and before he can say a word, Kevin nods. "It's totally cool with me, man...."

When Kevin raises his eyebrows suggestively, Jim can't help but wonder exactly what it is that Kevin thinks this'll mean. Is he expecting Pam to bring a friend? Change into a sexy negligee or something?

And then it dawns on him: Oh holy shit...I'm sleeping in the same room with Pam tonight.

He nervously clears his throat as he steps back out into the hallway, giving her a quick smile. "Yeah, Kev's cool with it."

"Thanks." She looks a little relieved, but still nowhere near relaxed. Then she hastens to add, not looking at him, "And just so you know - I'm okay with sleeping on the floor."

"What? No way." He makes a face, scoffs at her, hoping she doesn't notice the heat coloring his face now. "That's ridiculous - I'll sleep on the floor."

"No." She shakes her head. "It's your room, and I'm not letting you sleep on the floor."

He tilts his head at her, a smile pulling at his lips. "Oh really?"

"Yes really." She crosses her arms and looks up at him with such defiance that he can't help but chuckle.

"So you're 'letting' me do things now?"

She's grinning up at him now. "Maybe."

"Good to know." He nods, then: "But I'm afraid I've gotta defy you on this one -- yeah, you're totally in the bed, and I'm on the floor."

She immediately protests, but he holds up a hand to quiet her, saying in a mockingly stern voice, "Hey -- this discussion is over."

Now she tilts her head, arms still crossed. "Okay, that's what people say when they know they're losing an argument."

He wants to grin, but he pretends instead that he's agitated with her. "I'm sorry, but...are you always this antagonistic in the middle of the night?"

She looks startled. "Oh my god, is it the middle of the night?"

He chuckles. "Well, not really; it's a little after one."

"Oh." She nods and a silence falls, then: "So, what if we put off the whole sleeping arrangements debate and wander around for a while?"

His nerves are slowly, slowly calming as he begins to realize that this may well be a good thing. ...Could be a very good thing, in fact.

"Avoidance - I like it." He grins, then there's a beat of heavy silence, their eyes holding as the subtext echoes far louder than the words themselves had been.

So he's quick to turn away, opening the door as he murmurs, "Yeah, sounds good - let me tell Kevin."

She nods, and Jim sticks his head back inside their room, calling out, "Hey, Kev...Pam and I are gonna go for a walk."

He's met with Kevin's patent snickering, which he ignores, turning back to Pam. "Okay, so..."

It dawns on him then that he's wearing his pajamas. "Um, I guess I need to change...?"

"Oh no you don't." She's got that spark in her eye that he loves so much. "If I have to run around in my pajamas, then you have to, too."

"Seriously?" He pulls a face, but the truth is that he'd have paraded around in a grass skirt if it meant he could spend time alone with her.

Still, he points to her attire, then: "C'mon, that's not fair; what you've got on could pass for something you'd wear to the gym."

"Really?" She's giving him a totally incredulous look.

"Yeah. Sweatpants and a tee-shirt - no big deal." He gestures to his loose-fitting plaid pants. "Not like this."

She tilts her head toward the ceiling, taking in a deep, almost resigned breath, then slowly turns so that her back is to him. The words "LOVE PINK" are sprawled across the backside of her pants in white letters that are anything but subtle.

His laughter escapes with a snort, and she turns back to him, her cheeks a little tinged with color.

"Yeah, I know; shut up." She rolls her eyes. "Roy's sister works at Victoria's Secret, and she got me these for Christmas last year. They're really comfortable, just so you know."

He nods, trying to maintain a straight face, then chuckles again before making a show of clearing his throat before he concedes, "Okay, whatever. Will you allow me to grab a sweatshirt?"

She laughs, givnig him a gracious little nod. "Yes, you may."

"So bossy..." He mutters good-naturedly as he goes back into the room, snatching his University of Scranton sweatshirt off the desk, then shaking his head at Kevin -- who is still sitting on the floor snickering at him.

As they make their way down the hall, they chat about insignificant, mostly work-related things. All is strangely quiet, and after almost half an hour, they've passed only three other people; it's as if they have the entire resort to themselves.

When he glances over at her, she's got a big smile on her face, her cheeks pink, arms swinging at her sides; his own smile widens at how obviously happy she is to be spending this little bit of borrowed time with him. And the more he thinks about it, the more he really wants to make the most of this - because when will they ever have a chance like this again?

"So, hey...you hungry?" He's got an idea.

"Mmm-hmm, yeah." She nods. "Why?"

"Well why don't we swing by Skyview, see if we can get something to go?" He asks, surprised when she hesitates -- but then she points at his clothes.

"You mean you're willing to walk in there wearing that?"

He glances down, scanning the well-worn plaid pajama pants and the gray, stretched tee-shirt, then looks back up at her and shrugs. "What? I match -- see, there's a little bit of gray in the plaid, and - "

"Oh my god." She shakes her head, then gives him a playful little shove. The gesture catches him off guard...but pleasantly so.

He laughs. "Hey, at least it doesn't say 'LOVE PINK' across my butt."

"I hate you."

"Yeah, I'm not buying that." He grins at her until she breaks, dissolving into another fit of giggles. Her laughter follows him into the bar as she hovers just outside the door, peering around the corner and smiling at him, prompting him to shake his head, unable to keep from laughing softly to himself as he makes his way to the bar.

Luck is - for once - on his side: The bar's almost empty, and the only patrons left are likely too drunk to even pay any attention to what he's wearing. Even better than that is the fact that Shawn's still working his shift -- and, in fact, before Jim even makes it to the bar, he sees that Shawn's scanning his attire and laughing.

When he makes it to the counter, Shawn grins. "Hey, Jim. Slumber party?"

Jim laughs. "Yeah, something like that. Pam's...we're gonna wander around for a while, and I thought I'd see if we can get something to go."

"Sure." Shawn pulls out a menu and slides it across to Jim, and just as he's about to ask if they want drinks as well, he pauses. Then: "Hey...I got an idea."

"Okay." Jim draws back in surprise.

"Hang on." Shawn disappears into the back, then re-appears holding a basket that's draped with a sage green cloth, the outline of a wine bottle clearly visible beneath. He sets it proudly on the bar in front of Jim, then: "So this is our honeymoon basket."

"Really....?" Jim's eyes meet Shawn's, and he's suddenly grateful that he'd had enough to drink the night before to have answered honestly when Shawn had casually asked him if he and Pam were dating.

...Because beneath the haze of the alcohol, he'd answered honestly: "No. But I wish to god we were."

Then he snaps out of it, asks, "So, what's in a honeymoon basket, exactly? Because I don't wanna...well, you know...." He looks away, feeling completely stupid.

Shawn gives a knowing laugh. "Nothing like that, man, believe me. We give these to any couples who book the honeymoon suite -- and it's weird, because I swear, those are the reservations that get cancelled the most. But it's good for us, because then we've got the leftovers."

He pats the side of the basket with a big smile before he continues. "And it's perishable -- some fruit, champagne, chocolate, that kind of thing -- so we gotta get rid of it however we can."

Jim decides that this is fate; it just has to be. So he immediately says, "Sounds great - how much?"

Shawn's grin widens. "Nothing, man -- seriously, I've got two more of these sitting in the back because of cancellations. So it's yours, if you want it."

"Seriously?" He almost can't believe this.

"Yeah, seriously." There's a definite empathy in Shawn's smile. "And I can tell you from experience - the ladies love 'em."

Jim laughs, tilting his head back slightly as Shawn slides the basket toward him, then, "Hey, good luck."

For some reason, those words -- good luck -- seem to translate all the impossibilities into tangible opportunities: He's got the rest of the night to spend with her; he's managed to procure a "honeymoon basket," for god's sake.

When he steps back out into the hallway, carrying the basket by its handle, Pam takes one look at it - at him - then bursts out laughing.

"What?" He asks indignantly, though he's pretty sure he knows what; he is, after all, standing in the middle of a corridor in his pajamas clutching a basket like he's about to go hunting Easter eggs.

"Where're you going with that basket, little girl?" She asks, then laughs again, one hand over her mouth.

"Nice." He retorts.

"I'm sorry, but you just look hilarious." She shakes her head, her laughter gradually subsiding.

"Oh yeah?" He, too, shakes his head, but he can't wipe the smile off his face. "Do I need to remind you again that it says 'LOVE PINK' across your butt?"

*******

They settle on the huge room that houses the indoor pool, its shifting water sending casading beams of light reflecting off of the windows that surround them. Just as they'd suspected, the area is completely deserted - but they still sit side-by-side on the floor against one of the windows, instead of on one of the more visible lounge chairs.

He gestures to the basket in his hands. "So...you wanna find out what's in a honeymoon basket?"

As soon as he says the words, he realizes how very wrong they came out sounding -- but before he can say anything, she's got her hand covering her mouth as she tries - in vain - to stifle the laughter.

"Shut up." He snaps playfully, unable to keep from grinning at her himself. "Honestly, what are you, twelve?"

Her eyes have caught the shimmer from the pool water as she laughs. This is why he loves her, how he knows he could never get tired of her...of this; he watches her laugh, marveling a little at how incredibly giddy she is. "All right, all right. ...I'm just saying that I hear there's chocolate in this thing."

She stops laughing so abruptly that he chuckles. "Oh my god -- well open it, then!"

She leans close to him, peering into the basket as he removes the green cloth; the scent of her hair is almost enough to make his hands tremble a little as he pulls out a bottle of champagne.

"Nice." He reads the label as she digs in the basket to produce two plastic champagne flutes, which she holds aloft as if in victory.

"Shall I?" He asks, gesturing to the bottle.

"Absolutely you shall." She answers, then grins.

As he struggles to open the bottle, she rummages through the rest of the basket, pulling things out and reporting them to him: "Okay...we've got crackers and brie...some strawberries...."

"Nice." He repeats, nodding, careful to put pressure on the cork as he twists it slowly .

She continues. "Ooh, score! Truffles."

Before he can reply, the champagne finally pops - prompting her to jump, drawing back a little. He's not sure why her reaction makes him immediately think, She's so perfect...but something about it does.

After he pours the champagne, they pause, glasses poised in the air as an awkward silence falls. Finally, he says, "So, Beesly...are you gonna toast to something, or what?"

"Why do I have to do it? It's your honeymoon basket, after all." And then she's giggling again.

"Oh good lord..." He sighs, pretending to be exasperated; then he meets her eyes again, raising his glass.

As he sits there staring at her, the urge to just say it - to just tell her how he feels - is almost overwhelming; he wonders what she'd do if he broached the subject...because right now she looks happier than he's ever seen her look.

It's the fear of losing that very thing that drives him to clear his throat, then: "To Meredith and Abe."

That sets her off again, then she repeats, "To Meredith and Abe -- and one night stands!"

In spite of himself, his eyes widen, lips part - but she immediately catches herself, flushing a deep crimson as she waves her hand, shaking her head as she stammers, "I mean because they're...you know; I wasn't -- "

All he can do is sit there and watch her, his head tilted, smile warm.

When she stops fluttering her hands and shaking her head, she realizes that he's sitting there watching, enjoying her discomfort just a little. So she murmurs, "I hate you."

"No, you don't." He retorts, clinking his glass against hers before they take a drink.

*******

An hour and a half later, they've almost worked their way through the bottle of champagne, sitting side-by-side on the concrete floor, their backs against a wall of windows, legs stretched out in front of them.

He passes her the truffle he's just taken a bite of. "It's orange, I think...."

"Ooh." She takes it from him with a grin. She'd been the one to insist that they split the truffles this way, each eating half so that they could taste the whole assortment. He'd chuckled at her when she'd explained her reasoning, but the truth is that he loves the idea - and not because he wants to taste the truffles.

For the better part of the last hour, they've been playing a game that loosely resembles Twenty Questions.

"Okay..." He tilts his head back, resting it against the wall as he searches for a question. "Most embarrassing moment from school."

"Oh, god." She shakes her head, taking a sip of champagne as he laughs.

"Wow, must be good."

"Oh, it's bad. Really bad." She sits up a little straighter, sucking in a breath. "So I was in third grade wearing this mini-skirt that my mom made for me, and it was the end of the day. We'd always put our chairs on top of our desks so the cleaning crews could vacuum at night. And...well somehow my skirt got caught on one of the chair legs, because when I lifted it...."

"No way." He ducks his head, chuckling.

"Yeah...totally showed everyone my underwear."

She gives him a grin, then chuckles with him, adding, "But that's not all; it gets worse."

"Seriously?" He's incredulous.

"Yeah." She pauses, looking down at her champagne flute. "They had a big picture of Smurfette on the butt."

"Oh my god!" He exclaims, letting go and laughing as she pretends to be angry at him.

"Glad you enjoy hearing about my humiliation." But she can't keep a straight face as she bites into another truffle, then hands it to him. "I think that's raspberry. ...And it's your turn, by the way; spill it."

He composes himself as he takes the truffle from her, still shaking his head. "I...wow, Pam, that's pretty hard to top."

"I'm sure you can manage." She says smoothly, one eyebrow cocked. Their eyes meet for a second, and he feels his stomach drop a little.

Then, looking away, he answers, "Okay...I was at one of Jonathan's basketball games -- I was like thirteen, maybe, and he was fifteen. There was this girl I liked - "

"What was her name?" Pam interjects suddenly.

"What?" He blinks at her. "What difference does that make?"

"I'm just curious."

"Curious...or nosy?" He raises his eyebrows and gives her a funny look, then answers, "Ann. Ann Herbert."

Pam's biting her lip again as her shoulders start to shake; he can see that the champagne is already well on its way to her head. "What're you...? What's so funny about that?"

"Ann Herbert?"

"Oh my god." He groans, rolling his eyes. "Herbert was her last name, not her middle name."

She laughs even harder at that, then quips, "Hey, but if you'd married her and taken her name...you'd be Jim Herbert!"

Then she's giggling all over again as he watches, slightly transfixed. "My god...you are really, really drunk."

"Aren't you?" She asks in response.

He pauses, unsure of exactly how to answer that -- because he definitely feels giddy, light-headed...but he suspects it has as much to do with her as it does the champagne.

His smile is crooked. "Maybe a little."

"Okay, then." They fall quiet again, then she sits up straighter, brushing her bangs out of her eyes as she attempts to look serious. "But I wanna hear the rest."

So he sighs. "Okay, fine. So I went to get her a coke -- "

"Wait, she didn't come with you?" Pam interrupts again. "What, was she just really lazy or something?"

He stops, giving her an exasperated look...and there it is again, the sudden urge to just say something, do something. Because she looks so damned beautiful sitting there in the dim lights, the reflection of the water casting light on her face as she laughs at him; it seems as if she's relishing this stolen time every bit as much as he is.

"Hey." She pokes him in the rib with her index finger, snorting at him when he jumps. "Seriously - when's the embarrassing part?"

"I'm trying to get there." He gives her a pointed look. "Okay, so...I went to get her a coke -- and no, not because she was lazy, but because I was being a gentleman --"

She surprises him by cutting in again. "Yeah...you know, you really are; you're, like, the epitome of a gentleman."

"Whaaat...does that mean?" He's not sure he's going to like this.

She shrugs. "I don't know, just that you're...funny, but you're never crude; you've got a naughty side, but - "

"Excuse me?" He raises his eyebrows at her again, realizing that yeah, he himself is more than a little tipsy; otherwise, he'd never have called her on that. "And what exactly would you know about my naughty side?"

She smacks him on the chest, blushing, then giggling as he watches in amusement, folding his arms -- which only sets her off that much more. She lists to the side slightly, bracing herself on one hand, and he instinctively reaches out to steady her, his hand closing over her upper arm.

He's not sure what to make of it when she freezes at his touch, her eyes drifting to his hand, then back up. So he slowly lets go, his heart skipping a little faster.

Then she says, "Next topic."

He thinks about pointing out that he never got to the embarrassing part of his story - that he tripped and fell down the bleachers, flinging coke everywhere before he landed in a gangly heap at the bottom. But he's content to leave that part out.

...Though he does want to get back to all the gentleman stuff. "So...why do you say I'm a gentleman?"

She's looking flirty again. "Shut it. My turn."

"Wow."

"First kiss."

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, his stomach tightens again. In an effort to diffuse the tension that seems to be mounting steadily, he gives her a sly smile. "Sorry, Pam, but gentlemen don't kiss and tell."

"Ohhhh...I hate you." She glares at him, but she can't keep a straight face.

"See, you keep saying that, and yet - "

"First kiss." She cuts him off.

"Seriously? You're really bossy tonight." She gives him a slight bow as if to say thank you, so he laughs and takes a deep breath as he feels himself teetering on the edge, realizing that it really doesn't matter what happens when he hits the ground -- he just wants to go with the sensation of free-falling. Because he's not sure he could fight it anyway.

"Shannon Hall. Eighth grade."

There's silence, and he glances over to find that she's staring at him expectantly, clearly waiting for him to go on.

"What? You want...details, what - "

"Yes, details." She answers matter-of-factly. "Where were you? Was she your girlfriend? Did you hate it? Did she slap you?"

He can't help but chuckle at her, more than a little flattered at the fact that she seems so interested in this...tipsy or not.

"We were standing outside the back of my mom's Caravan -- totally hot, I know -- and yes, she was my girlfriend...so no, she didn't slap me. As for the hating it thing, um...no. Most definitely did not hate it." He grins, and one of her eyebrows shoots up.

"Really." She says, as if he's just admitted something scandalous.

"Really." He repeats, their eyes holding long enough to send that twist to his gut. "So...your turn, Beesly."

"Okay, fine." She takes another sip of champagne. "It was behind the bleachers and...well, he'd tried to kiss me the day before, but I'd chickened out -- "

"Chickened out?"

"Yeah, like ducked my head at the last minute." She explains.

He winces. "Ooh."

"Yeah. So I was determined to make it up to him, you know, show him what I was made of -- "

"And you were how old?"

"I'd just turned fifteen." She gives him a nasty look. "Anyway, so I met him behind the bleachers again the next day, and I actually...counted off -- "

She deliberately lowers her voice on the last part, but he's not about to let it slip past. "Wait, wait...you counted off?"

"Yes - oh shut up. I totally counted off, yes, then smacked one on him. It was completely embarrassing and totally traumatic."

"For him or for you?" He teases with a grin. She throws a balled up napkin at him, then he asks, "So...what was the guy's name? -- And by the way, If it's Herbert, you will never hear the end of it."

She smiles, but she looks a little apprehensive all of a sudden. When she answers the question, he realizes why. "Uh, Roy."

"Roy?" He repeats, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat. "I mean, that -- "

He stops abruptly, something dawning on him.

"What?" She asks self-consciously.

"Nothing."

"No, tell me. What?"

"It's just...don't take this the wrong way, but...does that mean Roy's the only guy you've ever...kissed?" He has to take a gulp of champagne after he asks the question, because he's not sure when or how, but they've suddenly drifted into decidedly uncomfortable territory.

"No, actually, we...let's just say that our first date didn't go well, so we stopped seeing each other for a while." She's looking at her champagne flute again, her eyes avoiding his. "I dated this other guy for a couple of weeks, so...there was him."

"Ah." He's not sure what else to say as another silence falls, the tension palpable...almost painful. He's suddenly wishing he didn't know this about her, because somehow it makes him want her that much more...and he's not entirely sure why.

The fact that he can't even look at her now makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up...because she knows why he won't meet her eyes, why he's staring at his hands so intently. Maybe it's because of the course of their conversation, but she finds herself thinking about all the stories she used to hear in junior high about girls making out with this boy or that -- boyfriends, new kids at school, sometimes even good friends -- all in the name of exploring, figuring things out. It was her shyness more than anything else that had robbed her of those kinds of experiences, and strangely, she's never regretted it until now.

Before she met Jim, the fact that Roy's the only guy she's ever really dated had always been a point of pride for her; she's always cited their longevity and exclusivity as emperical evidence that they were meant to be together. But Jim...sometimes spending time with him unnerves her, because he makes her question all that -- the things about which she'd been so certain for such a long time.

She knows as she sits gazing at his profile that she'll live on memories from tonight for a long time to come; it's so rare that they get to spend significant amounts of time together -- much less to have the chance to hang out well into the night, drinking champagne and sharing stories.

It strikes her as weird that she can feel so incredibly close to him right now, but somehow, not close enough.

She's had just enough champagne to ask the next question that pops into her head: "So you never go on dates. Why not?"

He jerks his head up, his expression colored with shades of guilt, maybe even panic. She knows why he looks like that; she knows the answer to her question, too...or she thinks she does. She just can't really bring herself to believe it.

"What?"

She knows he heard her just fine; he's just stalling as he shakes his head, looking away from her, his gaze falling onto the dark blue water that's gurgling softly in the pool. She waits him out, just sits there watching him until he turns to glance at her again -- then does a double take, as if he's caught off guard by how intently she's staring at him.

"I don't..." He shakes his head, makes a face, shrugs a little - so clearly trying to appear nonchalant, and failing miserably. Finally he says weakly, "I date...."

"When was the last time you went on a date?" She asks, not intending to be cruel; she's just suddenly curious about all the parts of his life that she doesn't know almost as well as her own.

"Whoa." He pulls back a little, and she's not sure if it's anger or just surprise lurking behind his expression. "Pry much, Beesly?"

He smiles to take the sting from his words; she smiles back, her eyes roving his face. He's got a five o'clock shadow now, and his hair is curling at the nape of his neck like it always does; he looks a little tired, a bit rumpled, and absolutely devastating.

"I'm not trying to pry." She tells him.

He nods, still looking a little flustered, then: "Good. Because seriously? I get enough of that from my Nana Halpert."

She giggles, trying to imagine him with a nagging old grandma...finds herself wondering if his grandmother feels compelled to pinch his cheek every time she sees him -- because he's just that freaking adorable.

He keeps talking, and she realizes from the way his words spill out in a rush that he's just babbling on because he's desperate to change the subject...to get back to a place where the tension and the weight of all the things they don't really acknowledge isn't quite so heavy.

"She totally does that. Actually, she's much harder on Jonathan than me -- but that's just because he's older, I guess." He thinks about it. "Well, that, and the fact that he hasn't had a serious girlfriend in something like a year and a half, and -- "

"Is it because of me?" She interrupts him, her voice soft; the fact that she asked him the question tells her that she's had too much to drink...because she'd never have dared if she were thinking clearly.

"What?" His eyes are huge, and she can see his chest rising and falling more quickly beneath that thin gray tee-shirt.

It's too late to back out now, so she says, "That you don't...date more. Is it...my fault?"

His eyes hold hers for a split second, and she knows that's her answer. But then he breaks the stare, shaking his head with a smile. "And how...would it be your fault?"

He doesn't look at her as he asks, and when he reaches to gently nudge the almost empty champagne bottle away, she notices that his hand is shaking. Why that realization makes her feel a little weak, she's not sure.

But the weakness spreads through her, leaving her feeling a little dazed....more hesitant. So she shakes her head, looks away. "Just because...you know, we're so...close and all."

"Mm." He nods, his eyes on the floor again. Then he looks back up at her with what she recognizes immediately as a forced smile. "No...not your fault."

"Okay." She whispers.

A silence falls, then she hears herself say, "So I had this really...intense dream about you earlier..."

She has no idea why she's just said that, because she's not about to share any details; in fact, she regrets the words as soon as she says them - even more so when she realizes he's staring at her, looking almost shaken as he gulps, then asks, "Yeah? What was it about?"

A blush stains her cheeks, and she immediately shakes her head, looking away. "Oh nothing, really...we were just in this...I don't know, this weird room with stained glass windows. And you were asking me if I was okay..."

Her voice trails off, and for a second she forgets herself, gets lost in those heady images that still seem almost as real as if they'd actually happened.

"Okay...what else?" She can feel his eyes on her face, searching her expression, and when she turns to look at him, she could swear he's reading her mind - knows exactly what else.

"Nothing." She looks away, shaking her head again with a dismissive wave. "Just...nothing much, really."

"Hmm." He's sitting there looking distracted, then, without glancing up at her, he comments off handedly, "So weird. I had a dream about you last night, actually."

Their eyes meet for a second, and she blushes again, because she's fairly certain that his dream had probably been much more PG-rated than her own. ...Which is precisely why she can't look at him as she asks, "Oh...?"

"Yeah." He looks away again. "We were in this hospital, and I had on scrubs; it was just...weird."

Something in the way he forces a chuckle makes her suddenly suspect that his dream must have been, in fact, very much like hers. The desire to ask him if she's right-- just out of curiosity -- is so strong that she almost does it...almost.

But instead she asks him yet another question without even thinking about it first: "So how many times have you been in love?"

He freezes again, his head lowering, jaw tensing; she watches, aching, as he raises his head, forcing a smile. "Wow, Beesly...way to take it to a dark place."

He looks as if he instantly regrets what he said.

"Why is it a dark place?" She's never spoken to him this way before - her voice low, gentle.

"It just - never mind." He shakes his head, then chuckles a little. "Just...you and your questions tonight, my god."

"You didn't answer it, though." She pushes just a little. "How many times have you been in love, seriously?"

He hesitates, and she can see from the way his jaw clenches that she's struck a nerve.

Then he turns to meet her eyes squarely, his voice gruff: "Once."

"You didn't answer it, though." She pushes just a little. "How many times have you been in love, seriously?"

He hesitates, and she can see from the way his jaw clenches that she's struck a nerve.

Then he turns to meet her eyes squarely, his voice gruff: "Once."

He can only hold her gaze for so long after he answers, because she looks stunned, like she knows exactly what his answer really meant. He's wondering if maybe he should tell her they need to get back to the room, where they'll at least have Kevin as a buffer. Because this has seriously gotten out of hand, and he's not even sure how or when.

She's watching him, shocked at how serious he looks -- and it dawns on her for the first time that he's been hurt, really hurt.

So she says quietly, "So...will you tell me about it?"

He can't believe he's managed to open this can of worms, can't believe she's sitting here asking him if he'll talk to her about this...when she's the last person he could possibly talk to about it.

So he shakes his head, gives her a gentle smile, then: "Nah...seriously, let's...not."

It bothers her suddenly, in her champagne-induced haze, that he wouldn't feel comfortable enough to talk to her about something like this; she wants him to be able to trust her as much as she trusts him.

So she urges in the gentlest voice she can muster, "Seriously, Jim -- you can talk to me about it; it's just...me, you know?"

If he weren't so fucking uncomfortable, he'd have laughed at the irony that she's obviously assuming he's referring to some old high school flame, maybe a girl he'd dated in college -- that she has no idea that she's the one. And while he knows he's loved more than one girl in his life, as far as being truly in love? In love the way he just so inescapably is with Pam -- founded on friendship and respect and a connection unlike any he's ever known....?

Only once. Only with her.

He glances around the huge room, feeling strangely claustrophobic; the sense of her nearness and their aloneness is almost overwhelming him to the point at which he knows that if he doesn't get out of here soon -- if they don't get out of here soon and away from this serious discussion, from that velvet tone in her voice -- he's going to do something he suspects they'll both regret.

Her voice startles him. "So...do you not trust me, or something?"

"What?" He looks surprised by the question, turning back to stare at her -- though he quickly looks away just as their eyes meet, because he can't handle making eye contact with her when they're talking about this. "No, Pam, it's not...that."

"Then what is it?" She knows she's being pushy and hates that she sounds petulant -- because that's not what she intends at all; it's not how she's feeling. What she's feeling is suddenly confused and more than a little overwhelmed -- at the so obvious pain behind his expression, at the gnawing jealousy borne of the thought that he's loved someone this much....

At the terrifying realization that she wants him so much right now that her throat feels like it's going to close up.

"It's just that - " He shakes his head, the frustration mounting; he wants to ask her why the hell it matters so much to her, why she's so interested -- but he doesn't. Because he's confused, not sure how much he wants to reveal right now...and he also knows that showing the anger that's slowly rising in him wouldn't be a good idea.

Finally he murmurs in a throaty voice, "Look, I just...can't."

The look on his face and the timbre of his voice are pure agony - and that's enough for her.

"Okay." She nods quickly, desperate to make that expression of his go away as she adds softly, reaching out to touch his hand, "Okay...I'm really sorry."

His head bows, his eyes on her hand, which feels almost unnaturally hot against his skin. He raises his head, meets her eyes - and she snatches her hand back suddenly, looking away as she slides the charm on her necklace back and forth.

Then he leans his head back against the wall, chin tilted to the ceiling; she watches in a drowsy haze, heat stealing over her as she imagines leaning forward and pressing her lips to the vein she can almost see throbbing just beneath his jaw.

A long, tense silence falls, then he forces himself to turn his eyes her way - still resting his head against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him. "You wanna head back?"

Her eyes rise to meet his; she holds the stare as she answers softly, "Not yet..."

When her gaze lowers to his mouth, he knows he can't handle much more of this - and he's almost had enough champagne to tell her just that. Instead, he murmurs, "Maybe we should."

She can't take her eyes off him now - her head, too, resting against the wall, tilted so she's facing him - because he looks transfixed, haunted maybe.

Like she feels.

It's why her voice is barely above a whisper when she asks, "Why...?"

He could swear she's breathing more heavily than normal; he could swear, too, that she knows exactly why - because she hasn't broken eye contact with him yet. He's struck again by the realization that they'll probably never be in a place like this again -- that now is the time to do what he'd wanted to do after their lunch at Cugino's that day.

His head feels heavy, drugged, and his voice is gravelly when he answers, "Because I can't really...handle this."

His words send a shock rippling down her spine, settling into her belly with a flutter. On some level, she knows -- knows -- that she's pushing him too far, that she needs to back off; on another level, she's almost desperately willing him to lose control.

She's mesmerized by the dazed look in his eyes, the taut muscle in his jaw, as she whispers, "Handle what...?"

He swallows, staring back into her eyes, and there's something almost...willful there, defiant maybe, like she's silently daring him to do something. Whatever it is, she's not flinching...and he's pretty damned certain that they're past the point of false pretenses.

In fact, it pisses him off a little that she might be trying to play with him right now.

So he lets his gaze wander very deliberately down to her mouth, prompting her chest to rise as she seems to hold her breath, then he lazily raises his eyes back to meet hers, his voice throaty: "You know what."

He knows it's all over as soon as she closes her eyes -- because that's when he decides that he's not leaving this room until he's done something...anything to snap them out of this stupid game they've been trying unsuccessfully to play for almost two years now.

He doesn't say a word, just shifts - prompting her eyes to open, though she doesn't move her head, just sits there with it resting against the wall, her gaze following him as he moves so that he's on his knees in front of where she's sitting. She feels as if she's just gone limp...knows that at this moment, he can have anything he wants from her. Her eyes close again at the thought.

She opens them when he reaches out and slowly takes the champagne glass from her hand, his eyes never leaving hers even as he sets it on the floor beside where he's kneeling; then - still without a word - he extends his hand to her, and she takes it, letting him gently pull her to the point at which she's up on her knees facing him. For a second she thinks he's going to help her stand up, that he's planning on leading her out of here and back to the room, where they won't be alone anymore.

But when he slowly reaches out, his hand trembling as he lightly runs the back of his fingers down her cheek, she realizes that he obviously has no intention of trying to avoid this anymore. Her eyes close again, her stomach dropping.

Just before his lips cover hers, he whispers, "I'm sorry," then pulls her close so that her body is flush against his, his mouth pressed against her own as he slides his hands across her back. She doesn't respond at first -- just lets him do it, lets him pull her into his arms as she feels the heat steal over her, seeming to gain momentum with every beat of her pulse.

And then she can't stand it anymore - with a barely audible sound that's somewhere between a whimper and a moan, she slides her arms around him, slipping her fingers into his hair just like she's wanted to do for such a long time now. His stubble is rough against her cheek, the faintest hint of chocolate lingering on his tongue as he kisses her more deeply. She can't do anything other than respond, shocked at the intensity in his hands, his lips; shocked even more by the quickening of her own desire for him -- which drives her to press closer against him, the thin material of his pajama bottoms leaving no doubt as to how much he wants her.

His mind is racing in time with the pulsing throb that feels like it's permeating all the way through him; he knows he should pull back, maybe say something -- because she's not really his right now, and he needs her to know how much he desperately wants her to be.

But he's caught up, and when she presses closer against him as if she wants to really feel him, he gently eases her back to the floor...half expecting her to push him away, to object; instead she kisses him harder, drawing him down on top of her so that they're pressed close once again. It's all like a surreal dream to her: the fact that he's breathing as hard as she is, almost panting in those brief seconds when their lips part; the sound of fabric rustling as they move against one another.

When he feels the light brush of her nails against the back of his neck, he murmurs against her lips, "My god...you just --"

She silences him by putting one hand on his jaw, drawing his lips back to hers, because she doesn't want him to talk, doesn't want to stop long enough to take a breath and really realize what she's actually doing right now. What they're actually doing.

Even as the thought crosses her mind, she slips her hands underneath his tee-shirt, and it's when she feels his lean chest and taut stomach, the soft hair there -- so different from Roy's stockier, familiar build -- that it hits her: This is Jim; she's really doing this with Jim.

Immediately she pulls away, squirming, putting her hands on his chest and physically pushing him backward in a gesture that she knows is totally unnecessary - because as soon as she'd started to pull away, he'd backed off. It's sheer frustration that makes her push him - raw, almost blinding frustration mingled with a healthy dose of fear as she breathes heavily, sitting up and trying to ignore how much she wants him.

"I can't - we can't....oh my god, what are we doing?" She shakes her head, scrambling to stand, then immediately swaying on her feet, so she steadies herself by backing up to lean against the window.

He, too, stands, still trying to catch his breath, ignoring that relentless, dull throb. "Pam...."

She sounds almost hysterical when she suddenly says, "No -- don't..."

She's breathing as heavily as he is, like she's just run the perimeter of the building, stumbling in a little half circle, both hands pressed to her temples as she begins to murmur in short gasps, "Oh my god, oh my god...."

At first all he can do is stand there and stare at her dully, watching her pace the same circle, looking like she's about to hyperventilate. He's not sure what this means - whether she's reacting this way because she's realizing now the magnitude of what's between them...or whether she's trying to figure out a way to deny it.

What she says next leaves little doubt as to which it is: "Okay, this was just -- crazy and insane and...we're just drunk. I mean, it's not a big deal, doesn't have to be --"

"Pam --" He begins hoarsely, extending his hands cautiously as if to calm her, but she cuts him off, her voice high and thin.

"No! No, look, let's just...." She shakes her head, her mind racing: she has to make this right; there's got to be a way. "We're drunk, okay? And it doesn't mean -- I mean, it would've happened between any of us in this situation --"

"What does that mean?" He interrupts, raising his chin warily; he hopes she's not saying what he thinks she might be.

"Just that..." She can't look at him as she folds her arms protectively about herself. "We're drunk, and if it had been you and somebody else -- like Kelly, maybe -- you'd have done the same - "

"No, I wouldn't." He cuts her off, starting to feel the anger returning again. "So what...are you telling me that if I were...Oscar or Michael or -- that you'd have ended up in the same position we were just in?"

The question is just so obviously ridiculous, and he knows it - but he's not letting her shrug this off so easily.

"I don't...." She shakes her head, frustrated, aching...and so damned scared at the look on Jim's face, at the fact that he's pushing this. It kind of makes her angry - angry enough to answer in a small voice, "I don't -- maybe."

She can't lie to him like that without cringing, and when she dares to steal a glance at him, the look on his face stops her cold: His eyes are wide, mouth open, then closing again; she's never seen him this angry before.

The muscle in his jaw bulges, his chest rising and falling because he still hasn't caught his breath, then: "You're really gonna stand here and tell me that? You expect me to believe that?"

The tears sting her eyes at how utterly devastated he looks. "No, I didn't mean...no, okay? Just -- oh my god. What the hell have we done?"

"Pam -- " He tries again - and again she talks over him.

"No - no! Look, this has to...go away; I can't -- " She shakes her head, the alcohol still clouding her mind, the memory of his lips and his hands and his body distracting her, making it impossible to think. Still, she manages, "We're just gonna forget about this, forget it ever happened, okay?"

Her eyes are huge as she dares to glance at him, looking away quickly at the stricken expression on his face. He's shaking his head, so fucking panicked that he can't even manage to speak at first. It's like he's caught in the paralysis of his nightmares, watching her with the certainty that this is it -- she's slipping right through his fingers, and he's got to somehow make her see, make her listen...but he can't even move.

And then it dawns on him suddenly that whether or not this meant something to her -- even if it meant everything to her -- she's not willing to face it. The very thought that this has happened but nothing will change makes him feel almost frantic, desperate enough to do something drastic.

So he steps forward without warning, in one swift motion cupping her face in his hands as he presses his mouth to hers, deliberately backing her up against the wall. She's obviously shocked, but she doesn't fight him; instead, she's kissing him back, her mouth hot, impatient - but she's got her arms by her sides, palms pressed against the wall, as if it's okay to do this as long as she doesn't fully let go.

He's not even thinking anymore; the desperation and the heat have taken over now, and he's just going with it -- for once not doing the gentlemanly thing, not backing off so as not to overwhelm her. Because he wants to overwhelm her, wants to make her see that they just can't run anymore.

And then she's twisting her head, the threat of a scream woven into her voice as she says, lips still against his, "No...no."

He stops abruptly, letting go of her and raising his hands in the air as he backs away, his head down; even before she says anything, he knows that what he just did was a mistake - a big one.

She stares at him, gasping for breath, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth, then: "Why did you do that? You shouldn't have done that!"

He doesn't answer right away, then slowly raises his head to stare her in the eye, his voice low. "Because you can't just brush this off, Pam; it's -"

"Yes I can - we can; we have to forget it!"

He shakes his head, feeling almost nauseas now. "No, Pam --we don't need to forget it. I mean, do you really even think we could?"

He realizes as soon as he asks the question that he's just tipped his hand too far, but at this point, he really can't give a damn. She knows; she has to know. And damn it all, she wants it, too; he can see it all over her - in the way she can't hold eye contact with him, the way her hands are trembling.

But before he can say anything else, her eyes meet his, and - still visibly shaking - she repeats in a whisper, "Yes...because we're just drunk."

He's desperate now, almost ready to plead with her not to do this - not to sweep it aside, not to run away -- because they're so close, so very close. Yet she's shaking her head furiously, biting her lip, her heart pounding because she has no idea what to do, what to say to make him stop; the fact that he's not willing to back off now -- like he always has -- is shaking her to her core.

His voice is hoarse when he looks her in the eye, saying, "This was not an accident, okay? Because the truth is that -- "

"Jim, please don't." Her voice is louder, breaking on the word don't as she turns her back to him, suddenly dropping her head in her hands as she starts to sob, feeling like she's almost lost her mind. All she can think is what have I done? What have we done? I'm engaged; I'm marrying Roy. This can't happen....

His throat tightens at the sight of her standing there with her head bowed, her shoulders shaking as she cries. He's not sure what to do, because he doesn't want to make this any worse - and she really seems like she's on the verge of absolute hysteria. And he can't gauge anymore what's real and what isn't -- doesn't know how much of a part the alcohol is playing in her reaction...though he's afraid that this is it; this is how she's going to handle what just happened.

He takes a few steps toward her, moving to stand in front of her and ducking his head a little to get her to look up at him. He wants to pull her into his arms, but he's too afraid to do that.

So instead he whispers, "Pam, listen...."

She surprises him then, raising her tear-stained face to look him in the eye. She sees the way his eyes rove over her face - the way he visibly flinches a little at the sight of the tears, his mouth twitching, jaw clenched - and she's fucking terrified of how much she wants to press her lips to his again, lose herself in him, go so far that they can't come back.

But ten years -- ten years and one man and what seems like half a lifetime of planning...

"No, you listen." Her voice is choked and she's shaking all over, but she's got to do this -- and she knows it. "This is a really big deal -- "

"I know that." He almost feels relieved that she's at least admitting that now.

But then she says, "No - just.... That's why we have to forget it."

When he immediately starts to shake his head again, looking almost like he might cry, she feels the desperation again, her voice rising. "No -- we have to. Please Jim, I'm begging you to just -- "

"Why?" He asks suddenly, staring her square in the eye. He's not even sure what he's asking anymore -- why she won't face this? Why she kissed him back in the first place? Why she'd limit herself by marrying a guy who obviously doesn't really make her happy?

Why she can't just fucking let go and love him the way that he's always loved her?

She makes a point of holding eye contact with him as she answers, her voice still shaking, "Because you're my best friend, and I just... God, I'm so afraid of losing that."

He's shaking his head. "We wouldn't have to -- "

She looks up at him, wiping the tears from her cheeks with one hand, her eyes huge and sad. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, thick with the tears. "You're not listening to me ---"

"Well, you're not making sense." He interjects, unable to stop himself.

"No, you're not listening -- Jim, I'm engaged --"

"Yeah, I'm aware of that." His voice is bitter, hard, but it's not anger anymore; it's all fear.

She stops abruptly, and their eyes meet, then she nods slowly, swallowing over the lump in her throat. "And I can't...if we don't just let this go, put it down to a stupid, drunken night, then -- god, don't you see? It's the only way back -- and if we can't...get back, then we can't...even be friends anymore."

He feels the words like a blow to his abdomen, his breath rushing out in an exhalation that's almost involuntary, leaving him dizzy. He can't think straight -- can't discern anymore whether the almost nightmarish haze that's clouding his mind is a result of the alcohol or her. This.

Yet the full impact of what she's telling him hits him even as she starts to cry again, adding, "And I don't want to lose that."

And in that moment he knows he'll do anything - anything - to make this right again...because he'd rather keep existing in his own purgatory than hurt her this way. And the thought of not having her in his life at all is too fucking painful to even contemplate.

So he drops his head, eyes on the floor as he nods; he doesn't look at her as he says quietly, "Okay...okay."

He has to stop, has to take a second before he can go on: "...And yeah, we'll...forget about it."

He has to stop, has to take a second before he can go on: "...And yeah, we'll...forget about it."

She starts to cry harder when he says it, and she's not sure if they're tears of relief or regret; but the one thing she does know is that she's desperate for things to go back to normal...that she feels an urgency to get as far from tonight as possible, because that's what she knows she has to do -- what they have to do -- in order for her to slip back into her old life...to follow through with the plans she's had in place for so long.

But she's not unaware of the fact that there's a substantial part of her that wants to just obliterate the rest of the walls -- a crazy, reckless part of her that wants to do something that will take them well past the point of no return -- maybe kiss him again, push him back down to the floor...just drown in it, in him.

Just the thought makes her shake her head, ducking as she wipes the tears away, her breath catching on a sob. She can feel him watching her, but it's several minutes before she trusts herself enough to meet his eyes -- and when she does, the look on his face sends fresh tears to her eyes.

Because she knows he doesn't deserve this; more than that, she knows she doesn't deserve him.

Her breath hitches again; he notices, the muscle in his jaw tensing. Again she bows her head, closing her eyes as she tries desperately to conjure thoughts of Roy...that dear, familiar face -- his blue eyes, the dimples that she's loved since the first time she saw him smile....

Roy's like home to her, simple as that.

So she raises her eyes to meet Jim's, ignoring the nagging awareness that leaving home is a necessary part of life...of growing up, of moving forward. Because she can't face that right now, doesn't dare to even grapple with it, focusing instead on trying to convince herself that she's feeling so utterly shredded inside right now because she's just hurt her best friend. And she does love him...her best friend.

That's all.

He's trying not to think right now, desperately struggling to keep the reality of all that this means from really sinking in...because if he does, he won't be able to go along with what she's asked; if he lets himself face this now, he'll end up on his knees, begging her not to run away from it.

And god help him, but he's willing to do anything to be near her...even if that means negating everything that's happened tonight. Because he's had more than a year's worth of practice at swallowing back his own feelings; that he knows he can do. And even though it's hard, he knows instinctively that living without her in his life at all would be absolutely intolerable...impossible.

"So, hey...." His voice is hoarse, and he doesn't look at her. "We should probably...get back. It's gotta be pretty late...."

She nods, not saying anything at first, then - swiping at her eyes one last time - "Yeah, that's probably...."

She never finishes the sentence, because to say that it'd be best seems like a shameless lie.

They trudge back to the room in silence, heads bowed, eyes on the floor beneath their feet. He doesn't look back at her before mechanically inserting the card into the lock; they tiptoe inside so as not to wake Kevin. But as soon as the door closes, leaving them in almost complete darkness, it dawns on them both: They've got to navigate sleeping arrangements.

He pauses, looking over at her in the darkness; in the light that's filtering from the hallway beneath the bottom of the door, he can just barely make her out her face.

Then he whispers, glancing at Kevin's sleeping form, "Listen -- I know we talked earlier about...who's sleeping on the floor, and -- "

He has to stop, tilting his head as he looks up at the ceiling; it doesn't even seem possible that they'd had that conversation just a few short hours ago. Because things are so fundamentally changed now -- no trace of the light-heartedness they'd indulged in, only this shattered, deafening silence. He wonders how in the hell they'll ever come back from this.

But in his head he hears her words again, strangled by the tears in her throat: "And if we can't...get back, then we can't...even be friends anymore."

So he finishes, still whispering: "But seriously...let me take the floor."

"No." It's a sharp whisper as she shakes her head, not daring to even try to see him in the almost pitch black room.

He pauses, then whispers back: "Pam -- "

He realizes then that there's no point in continuing to argue about this; he just needs to make a palate on the floor and be done with it. So he immediately turns his back to her, walking carefully on silent feet to the closet. He scans the shelves, taking in their contents with a sinking feeling: iron, spray starch, a plastic bag labeled, "Laundry," and three ugly plastic ice buckets tucked into a corner of the topmost shelf. All these things, yet there's not even one extra blanket or stray pillow.

She's been watching over his shoulder, struggling to adjust her eyes to the darkness as she surveys the contents of the closet. When it becomes apparent that there are no acoutrements that would render sleeping on the floor even remotely possible, she feels panicked, almost afraid -- and then she realizes that this could be the very thing they need the most.

Yes, of course it's perfect -- because what happened between them earlier, she tells herself, is an anamoly -- a drunken mistake, no more.  

We're just friends; he's my best friend, and we just slipped a little. Alcohol will do that to you, right? It's just one of those stupid drunken things that people do all the time....

She almost manages to convince herself that it's just a simple mistake not worthy of derailing her entire life.

And she's suddenly captivated by the opportunity this represents -- the chance for her and Jim to prove that there really is just nothing there. In her semi-lucid state, it makes perfect sense that if they can sleep in the same bed after what just happened - and she's determined that they do so - then they will have proven to themselves that it meant nothing, that they're just good friends, nothing more than that.

She's aware on some level that it's a stupid idea, but she's not letting it go -- because she's feeling desperate, needs some kind of guarantee that they can forget about it.

She swallows hard, then whispers, "Just -- look, there's no reason we can't...sleep in the same bed. I mean, it's big enough for both of us; we don't have to even...touch."

He freezes, then turns slowly to face her; she can see in the dim shadows that his head is tilted. He can't believe she's just said that - can't believe she could possibly think it'd be a good idea.

So he says as much, whispering, "I just...don't think that's a good idea --"

She doesn't let him finish, whispering over him, "Look, there's no reason -- I mean, there's nothing.... It's never gonna happen again, so there's no reason for us to...make a big deal of sleeping in the same bed."

In spite of himself, his breath catches as he tilts his head back again, his eyes closing; he wonders momentarily why he can't manage to hate her for being so fucking cruel, however inadvertent that cruelty might be.

But then she whispers, "Please."

He feels so completely undone that without thinking, he murmurs, "You know I'll do anything...."

He hears her breath catch, then she whispers sharply, "Please don't say that; you can't --- "

"I know." He doesn't let her finish - can't let her finish. Then he's nodding, "And yeah...it's...whatever."

They're careful not to touch as they slide under the sheets, both lying flat on their backs; they don't say goodnight, don't dare to speak to each other.

As she listens to his breathing, she struggles to keep it together...but she can't escape the sense of utter finality she feels -- like she's saying goodbye to him in a very real, significant way. Or maybe it's just that she foolishly let herself get swept up in that heady sense of possibility that has seemed to just permeate the air all weekend, and now she's forced to say goodbye to that.

She knows that she won't let herself dwell on what happened after tonight; she knows that, in order to move forward with Roy, she'll have to erase this night from her consciousness...otherwise it will dismantle all the carefully constructed plans she's spent the better half of the last decade cultivating.

And even though she knows that to forget is what's best, she can't shake the sense of loss that's pressing in on her.

She doesn't dare to breathe as the tears begin to slide slowly down her cheeks; when her breath catches just slightly, he hears it, the pillow rustling as he slowly turns to look at her in the darkness.

It's her utter silence that tips him off, the fact that he suddenly can't even hear her breathe anymore. He knows even before he turns to look at her, straining to see her face in the darkness, that she's crying. Still, it doesn't lessen the sharp ache that pierces his chest at the sight of the tears trickling down her face.

He feels tears stinging his own eyes, and he just doesn't know what to do. His instinct is to pull her close, cradle her against his chest, but he knows better than to do that now; he's made a promise to her, and he has to keep it.

Still, no matter how hard he tries -- and he really does try -- he can't just lie there beside her and pretend to be oblivious.

So he dares to reach out -- careful to move slowly -- brushing his the back of his fingers against her cheek, wiping away the tears that've fallen there. The gesture is so him that she can't be quiet anymore; her breath hitches on a sob as she reaches up to clutch his hand, squeezing it tightly as she closes her eyes and tries to find a way to reconcile herself to the fact that she has no choice than but to will everything that's happened tonight into oblivion.

The tears keep streaking her face even as she clutches his hand tightly, not daring to move or speak to him; she tells herself to be still, to let the tears come...because they're cathartic; they'll magically wash away the surreal nightmare that she's lived in for the past hour.

It's wishful thinking at its most deluded and selfish, and she knows it.

Still, she clutches his hand tightly even though she's well aware that she has no right -- no right -- to do it. But she just can't let go...not yet.

When she's not able to stop crying, she whispers, "I'm sorry...."

He shakes his head slightly, squeezing her hand, then: "Don't."

As he closes his eyes, her hand small and warm in his own, he knows he'll be paying the price for tonight for a long, long time.

*******

Jim awakens to a familiar sound that he can't quite place; in his disoriented state, it occurs to him that what he's hearing sounds like a pig doing laundry -- quiet, consistent snorting amid the rustle of clothing. His mouth feels dry, and there's a faint ache throbbing around his temples; he knows even before he does so that opening his eyes is not going to be pleasant.

....And just as he does, the events of the night before slowly, slowly slide into place -- all images blurred like rain on a window, emotions sharp as the edge of a scythe.

Her face is on the pillow next to his, and she's curled up on her side in the fetal position. For a second - no more - he lets himself steal one more moment of living in a dream...doesn't fight the surge of emotion that swells up at the sight of her sleeping next to him. Even so, he couldn't describe her as sleeping peacefully; she's out, definitely, but even in sleep her brow is clouded, lips curved downward, her worries having evidently settled in the corners of her mouth.

Before he can think any further, Kevin suddenly appears, emerging from the bathroom; Jim realizes then that he's the source of the whole pig dream -- because Kevin's snickering quietly to himself. When he sees that Jim's awake, he gives him a thumbs up, mouths, "Way to go."

Jim's almost irrationally angry; he sits up, turning so that his feet are on the floor, shaking his head as he gives Kevin a stare that's withering enough to silence him.

And then she's stirring, her eyebrows lowering as if she's struggling with something. He holds his breath, waiting for her to fully awaken...very much aware that she holds his everything in her hands. How much will she remember about last night? Will she feel differently about it now that it's morning?

Her eyes flutter open; she's greeted with a hazy blur of blue and gray that seems to echo the pounding in her head. Reality and remembrance slam into her far more quickly than they ought to have, the ache in her chest swelling almost immediately when she sees Jim sitting on the side of the bed, his head bowed.

The details are fuzzy -- rippling water that was anything but baptismal; laughter and chocolate and dreams she didn't even know she'd had coming true. Then his lips and his hands and the way he loves her turning her mundane life into a volatile nightmare marked by pleasure that she's sure can't possibly be worth the pain.

As she raises to prop herself on her elbows, he glances over his shoulder -- but then he's quick to turn away as he muurmurs, "Hey."

"Hey." She's still for a second, struggling to get her bearings -- because really, she has no idea what to do right now.

Then Kevin appears from the bathroom, giving her a slow, sly grin. "Good morning, Pam."

"Hey Kevin." She tries not to sound as annoyed as she feels, but thankfully, Kevin's heading toward the door. Just before he steps out, he turns and gives Jim a purposeful expression, saying, "I can hang the 'Do Not -- "

Jim doesn't even let him finish. "No -- Kev, seriously...." He shakes his head, then: "Just -- never mind."

Kevin's smile is sly, and he gives them both a knowing look before he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Jim sits still for a few seconds, thinking that Kevin couldn't possibly have said anything worse.

Then he takes a breath, glances at her again over his shoulder. "So...you okay?" He's careful to keep his expression blank, doesn't linger on any particular aspect of her face.

She, too, looks away. "Yeah."

She's trying to figure out what to do now, what to say; she's trying to will herself to move, but all she can do is lie there, half propped on her elbows, aching all over at the way his head is bowed, his shoulders slumped a little.

He knows he needs to break the ice, but he doesn't know what to say or where to begin. Should he try to talk to her about last night now that they're sober? Or will that freak her out again?

"Listen, Pam - "

"No, I don't...." Her voice is hard as she shakes her head. "Just...let it go, Jim."

He feels her words in his gut, unable to pull his eyes from her profile for a second. He's struck by how utterly weary she looks; the girl who'd beamed at him on the dance floor the night before is absolutely gone.

He doesn't respond at first, then in a gruff voice: "Okay."

It's all he can manage, all he's willing to do at this point. With that he stands, striding toward the bathroom and leaving her sitting there in the bed.

She wants to follow him, wants to cry, wants to lie back down and sleep her way into oblivion -- but instead, she shifts, sliding so that her feet are dangling over the edge of the bed. Then she stands up and walks out the door, not looking back.

She silently congratulates herself on how good she already is at just walking away from it.

*******

They don't speak during breakfast, but between Michael and Dwight, there's more than enough chatter and distraction to alleviate the tension a little. They're careful to maintain their distance on the bus ride home as well -- Jim's sitting next to Oscar, headphones on as he listens to U2's Achtung Baby, staring dully out the window at the blurred scenery, even though it's passing by so quickly it's making him nauseated.

But he can't close his eyes, because when he does, he's assaulted by images from the night before: the way she'd stared over at him in the dim light, her eyes straying to his mouth; the sound she'd made when she gave in, putting her hands in his hair, pressing closer against him; her shoulders shaking, head in her hands as she cried afterward.

He's completely exhausted, suspended somewhere between consciousness and feverish dreams...thinking that maybe he'll call Jonathan, see if he wants to come down and hang out next weekend; it's been too long since they spent any real time together. Besides, Jon's got that friend with the sister he insists Jim has to meet - he's been pushing it for months now, actually, and Jim's consistently deflected his suggestions to this point...mainly because he'd known it'd be futile.

He's not been looking, because he knows what he wants, who he wants.

He shifts, closes his eyes, ignoring the flash from last night of her hand on his jaw, pulling him down, silencing him with a kiss. He tells himself that at least he has his answer now; at least he knows there's no chance -- because really, it's been that glimmer of hope that's kept him hanging on all this time, kept him from moving forward -- the sense that maybe, just maybe she'll recognize the connection they have, find the strength to walk away from Roy and really give things a chance with him.

But he knows definitively now, and so does she, apparently: She's really marrying Roy, and that's that. Whatever he thought he picked up from her was just...a projection of his own feelings, wishful thinking maybe. And really, this is for the best; it's better to have a concrete answer than to be left wondering, right?

Yet he can't escape the fact that the way she kissed him the night before -- to say nothing of her reaction afterward -- indicated so much more; that she freaked out and insisted they forget it is a dead giveaway that she knows there's more to it than just some random, drunken hook up.

For that matter, the fact that she's sitting several rows in front of him, having not spoken to him since she'd told him to let it go earlier -- it's empirical evidence that she wants him; she really wants him, struggles with it the same way that he does, and that's why she's so fucking afraid.

It's got nothing to do with Roy or her engagement or even the fear of losing their friendship; it has everything to do with the fact that she's so steeped in her own limited experience - in her years of planning a life with Roy - that she's too afraid to even imagine something outside that realm.

The certainty he feels ought to be a consolation -- and it would've been if she hadn't made it so painfully clear that she's not willing to face any of this.

She's deliberately chosen to sit next to Stanley, because she knows he's the one person who won't bother her; he'll lose himself in his crosswords, leaving her to lose herself in all the reasons why she's marrying Roy. But it's weird, because it's like her mind's still clouded by the fog that had hung over her the night before; she's sober now, obviously, yet she doesn't feel any more capable of thinking clearly than she had last night.

Still, she closes her eyes, conjures thoughts of Roy.

The first time they'd had sex, he was seventeen, she sixteen; it hadn't been planned...had just happened one night when they'd been at his parents' house, his mom and dad out of town. When it was over, she'd immediately started to cry, the shock and the guilt and the emotion overwhelming her. Roy had pulled her close, whispering to her, his naked chest sturdy beneath her cheek, her tears dissipating amid all that he promised: a future and marriage and love that wouldn't end, ever.

She's half asleep now, the bus window cold against her forehead as she slips into the past.

Senior year they'd had their first serious fight; after almost two years of dating exclusively, she'd started to feel the pressure of being the star quarterback's girlfriend. Because she wasn't outgoing or charming or flirty like the cheerleaders were; she was quiet and introspective and insecure -- qualities that were exacerbated by her awareness of the low chatter that seemed to echo the halls about her and Roy: why was he with her? Why not with Marta Jordan, who everybody knew had her sights set on Roy? She was a cheerleader -- was his cheerleader, actually, in that he was one of the three football players' lockers she had to decorate every Friday.

He'd been Marta's escort when Marta was on the Homecoming Court, and even though he'd gone out of his way to convince Pam that there was nothing to it -- that he was just doing Marta a favor because she didn't have a boyfriend at the moment and couldn't possibly walk alone -- Pam hadn't been able to deal with it. Because as she watched from the stands, Marta and Roy looked so right together; he was broad shouldered and handsome, she curvy and gorgeous, with a beauty queen smile and the confidence to match. As Pam watched, she couldn't imagine how Roy wouldn't have fallen for Marta.

So she'd confronted him after the game, accused him of cheating, told him she wanted to break up because of it. It was the first of three times he'd ever cry in front of her -- his shock morphing into anger and then utter disbelief at the realization that Pam could believe he'd be unfaithful to her.

"Baby...how could you...? I mean, we're gonna get married one day; I love you. You think I'm....?" The realization that he wasn't lying hadn't been half the consolation it should have been in the face of his tears.

She's jarred from the memory by the sudden and shocking realization that she cheated on him -- that she was the one to stray.

She has to bite her lip, squeezing her eyes shut, wishing she weren't so acutely aware that Jim's just two rows behind her, that he's been looking weary and pale and utterly devastated; that there's more to him than the affable guy who's been her best friend for the last two years...that he's the same man who kissed her last night with an intensity that still affects her ability to breathe normally; that she knows what it's like now to be in his arms, body flush against his; that he's been hard against her, that he wants her...wants her so much that he hasn't even looked at her all morning, aside from those few moments in the hotel room.

That he represents a world she genuinely believes has passed her by. She's marrying Roy; it's what's meant to be.

As for she and Jim...she tells herself they'll find their way back to their old dynamic; as soon as they're back at work on Monday -- returned to their normal environment -- the awkwardness will dissipate. They'll move on, never mention this weekend, and soon enough, it'll recede into the background of her consciousness. And maybe one day, she'll almost forget...wonder if it even really happened.

It's what she tells herself, anyway.

*******

Half an hour later, Jim's stepping off the bus just in time to see Pam run to where Roy's standing, leaning against his truck as he waits for her. He knows he ought to look away when she throws her arms around Roy's neck, her face tilted toward his, but he just can't take his eyes off her...them.

Roy chuckles as Pam lets go of him, his smile warm. "I missed you, babe."

The guilt hits her hard, brings tears to her eyes suddenly and without warning; Roy sees, tilts his head, smiles again. "Hey...why're you going all weepy on me?"

She's quick to shake her head, and in the corner of her eye, she sees Jim walking past, head down as he makes his way to his car; she wonders if he heard Roy ask her that...suspects he likely did.

Still, she forces herself to look up at Roy again, saying quietly, "Because I missed you, too."

Roy gives her another big smile, then his eyes stray over her shoulder; he starts, then, "Hey, Halpert!"

Jim stops walking immediately, but it takes him a second to lift his head, to turn around and look at Roy.

When he does, he's careful not to look at Pam. "Yeah?"

"Hate to brag, man, but you missed one hell of a game yesterday; the Eagles kicked ass."

"Oh yeah?" Jim smiles, nodding slowly. "That's awesome."

"It was." Roy nods as well, then glances down at Pam - who's staring intently at the concrete.

Before he can say anything else, Jim says, "So, I'll see you guys later," then turns away.

Pam watches him go and feels a strange sense of regret...frustration, maybe. Because he hadn't so much as looked at her, his expression inscrutable -- as if nothing untoward had happened between them at all.

It's exactly what she asked him to do, what she'd wanted; she just hadn't anticipated how much it would hurt.

Monday morning is an exercise in awkwardness: Michael insists on holding a follow-up camaraderie meeting for the sole purpose of filling Kelly and Phyllis in on all the things they'd missed at the Pocmont resort. Pam, for once, takes her transcribing responsibilities very seriously, and is careful to scribble down every word. Because it's a distraction, and it saves her from having to really deal with the fact that they're talking about all the monumental things that happened over the weekend...while she tries so desperately to forget the monumental things that happened between her and Jim.

Jim sits near the back of the room, hunched forward, forearms on his knees, his hands clasped loosely in front of him as he wills himself not to think about all the moments that should've mattered.

All morning he's vacillated between anger and hopelessness: anger that she'd insisted they play this ridiculous game in the first place, and utter hopelessness at the realization that he had his chance, and he screwed it up somehow. Maybe it was the second kiss that did it; maybe he should've left well enough alone after the first one.

And maybe he has no right to feel a surge of pure rage when he thinks of how she ran to Roy as soon as she got off the bus, but it's getting harder and harder to quell.

He'd gotten to work before she had - on purpose - settling into his chair only to stare at his monitor without seeing it, lost in the same thoughts that had plagued him all weekend long. He had no idea what to expect from her when she came in the door -- would she really be able to act like nothing had happened? For that matter, would he?

As luck would have it, he was in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee when she arrived, so when he returned to his desk, she was just taking her coat off and hanging it on the rack. He tried not to start when he saw her, tried not to betray the jolt of shock that had rippled down his spine at the sight of her face...the memories relentless as they rushed over him.

When she'd pulled into the parking lot that morning and seen that his car was already there, she'd had to pause for a few seconds, summoning her confidence before she got out of the car and headed toward the building. She'd been relieved to find that he was away from his desk when she walked in -- but then, just as she'd been hanging up her coat, she'd turned to see him standing there with a cup of coffee in his hand, the expression on his face shocked -- as if just seeing her did something to him.

Their eyes met for a split second before he quickly looked away, murmuring, "'Morning."

"Hey." She wondered if he could hear the tremor in her voice - hoped he didn't.

He hadn't so much as looked in her direction for the rest of the morning, and when Michael had called them all into the conference room, he'd taken a seat near the door next to Phyllis -- instead of waiting for Pam and sitting next to her as he always did.

And now as Michael draws his "seminar" to a close, all she can do is stare as Jim walks quickly out of the conference room without so much as a glance in her direction. At first all she feels is a near crushing disappointment, but soon it's replaced by a fierce indignation, her pride throbbing.

So she does the only thing she really knows to do: She follows his lead and ignores him, carefully keeping her eyes averted for the rest of the day. It's remarkably easy, she finds, to avoid contact with him.

She spends the better part of the late afternoon trying to shake off the panic.

He, in turn, feels the frustration mounting as he debates whether or not to send her an IM or an email...something along the lines of What the hell's going on, Pam? But he knows it's a bad idea.

The thing is that she insisted they do the whole let's-forget-it-ever-happened routine for the sake of the friendship -- and that's a sacrifice he's prepared to make if he has to. But she isn't even looking at him, much less talking to him, and he doesn't know what the hell to make of it.

Is she suddenly repulsed by him now? Is she trying to figure out a way to make herself hate him instead of remaining friends, moving on like she'd insisted she wanted to do?

And most importantly, why in the hell did she let it happen in the first place if there's nothing she wants from him?

By Wednesday afternoon, he's not willing to waste any more energy trying to figure it out; he's resigned himself to the fact that the entire situation is a complete nightmare and always has been. She's engaged; he's in love with her -- and he could swear she knows it; he could also swear that she wants more. No, after last weekend, he knows she wants more; she's just too afraid to admit it.

Even as the thought registers, he has an idea.

Much to his dismay, forty-five minutes later, his phone rings.

"So what's the deal?" Jonathan asks, sounding suspicious. "Why now? Why all of a sudden?"

"What...?" Jim tries to sound nonchalant, but he's fairly certain he's not pulling it off -- and aside from that, he's acutely aware of the fact that Pam's standing not too far away, her back turned as she sends a fax. "You've been trying to talk me into this for months, so why the third degree now?"

Jonathan doesn't answer right away, then: "You got plans tonight?"

"Tonight? No -- "

"All right, then - we're going to Poor Richard's."

"Eh, I'm not -- "

"I'll drive." Jonathan interrupts.

Even though he has no real desire to go anywhere after work - other than to his apartment, where he can be alone and think, try to unwind - he can't help but give in. "Fine...."

"Good. I'll swing by and get you from there a little after five."

"Is - are you..." He casts a quick glance in Pam's direction, relieved to see that her back is still turned as she patiently waits for a fax to slowly feed through the machine. "Is it just gonna be...you and me?"

Jonathan laughs at him. "Yeah."

"Go to hell." Jim shakes his head, Dwight casting him a disapproving stare.

"I'll see you there."

Jim can't resist: "Where? In Hell or here? Wait -- you know what? Same thing."

"Smartass."

Jim laughs. "I try."

She's staring intently at the fax machine, watching as the paper slowly slides through; behind her Jim's on the phone, and even though she can't really hear exactly what he's saying, there's no mistaking his laugh, or the fact that he's obviously making plans. Her imagination runs away before she can even stop it, and suddenly the person on the other end of the phone is a leggy blonde who's free...unafraid of anything.

She almost shakes her head in frustration, willing the thoughts away as she strides purposefully into the storage room, straightening the shelves so emphatically that the paperclips rattle, and she accidentally drops a ream of paper to the floor with a loud thud. She wants to ask him when exactly he'd decided to punish her for what happened -- when he'd apparently changed his mind about letting what happened between them the weekend before just go; she wants to let him have it, ask him why the hell he ever bothered acting like their friendship was important to him, when it so clearly isn't.

But she's being petulant, and she knows it; aside from that, she's aware on some level that she really has no right to this -- to the anger, the hurt feelings, the expectations. After all, it's her fault things are so screwed up between them.

The realization ought to make her at least feel a little better, she knows, but somehow it only makes her feel that much worse.

It's just his luck that Michael has a spat with Toby that erupts shortly after 4:30 -- something about Toby refusing to reimburse Michael's purchase of the Disclosure DVD -- so Jim ends up sitting in the conference room with the two of them, door closed, blinds drawn, as Michael rails away about how Toby just doesn't get the importance of sexual harassment. Jim's not entirely sure exactly why his presence is necessary, but he also knows better than to ask.

Pam emerges from the supply closet to find Jonathan leaning against her desk, his eyes fixed on the motivational poster to his left. It's always weird to see him when she's not expecting it -- and sometimes even when she is -- because he's like that good-looking guy in high school that makes your tongue turn to cotton, but is so undeniably nice. She's not one for silly crushes - never has been - but the day she'd met Jonathan, his effect on her had been slightly unnerving.

Of course, "unnerving" had quickly become an inadequate adjective the moment she'd discovered that he was Jim's brother.

But still, they'd hit it off immediately -- after all, he's a lot like Jim -- so she's always thrilled to see him once the unexpected jolt wears off.

"Hey." She says quietly, because he's (ostensibly) so engrossed in the poster that he hasn't even noticed that she's approaching.

He immediately starts, turning to give her the same kind of smile that Jim often flashes -- both charming and disarming -- then: "Hey!"

As she steps into his open embrace, standing on her tiptoes to hug him, she wonders if Jim has told him about what happened last weekend. They're close, she knows - maybe more so than most siblings because they'd lost their dad when both were so young - but she's never been able to discern just how much they share.

When they pull back, she could swear he's studying her expression carefully, as if he's searching for something - a clue, evidence of what she's thinking.

So she quickly fills the silence, tucking her bangs behind her ear. "What're you doing here?"

"Oh, just picking Jim up - we're gonna go to Poor Richard's, have dinner and a drink." He shakes his head, then adds, his eyes not leaving hers, "He's interested in this girl I know, so I gotta do pre-blind date prep with him...."

"Oh." Her voice is far too loud and she knows it. "That's -- yeah, that's really cool. I mean, it's -- you know, it's great that you'd set him up with.... It's just really...awesome."

Jonathan's eyes are narrowed now, and she's pretty sure he's seeing right through her -- but she's too thrown to even attempt damage control.

Before either of them can say anything else, the conference room door opens in a sudden burst, swinging so hard that it bounces off the adjoining wall, even as Michael storms out, waving a hand behind him as he calls out derisively, "Yeah, whatever Toby!"

Pam's eyes meet Jonathan's, and she has to look away at the expression on his face - his eyebrows up, lips pursed, laughter clearly lurking - because he reminds her so damned much of Jim. ...And she just doesn't want to think about what it could signify that she can't even handle looking Jim's brother in the eye right about now...because it throws a serious kink in her whole just-a-mistake-between-friends-that-meant-nothing narrative.

Then Jim emerges from the conference room deep in conversation with Toby -- to whom he gives a small, sympathetic shrug as if in encouragement -- before his eyes rest on Pam and his brother. It appears to her as if something akin to panic crosses his face as he strides toward Jonathan with a big smile, his eyes steadfastly avoiding hers.

"Hey - just let me, uh, wrap up some stuff..."

"No rush - Pam's keeping me company." Jonathan's tone is innocent, his expression innocuous even as he turns to flash Pam a casual smile. Once again, she can't help but wonder exactly how much he knows.

"Oh - yeah, that's....yeah." Jim doesn't even try to look at either of them as he settles into his chair, beginning the process of shutting down his computer as his mind races: What the hell are they talking about? Did he tell her he's setting me up with someone? Did she let on about...? Holy shit.

He clicks the mouse a final time, then stands, striding to the coat rack without even looking at Pam. "All right - let's get out of here."

*******

"So..." Jonathan tips his beer back, then sets the bottle on the table. "What's the deal?"

Jim wonders if he's managing to remain expressionless as he stares back at his brother. "You tell me - did you talk to her?"

Their eyes hold for a moment, then Jonathan asks pointedly, "Who?"

Jim feels his jaw muscle clench, and he debates for a second whether or not he should call his brother on it, ultimately settling on the path of least resistance. "Elizabeth."

Much as he'd love to add an indignant who else? he knows better...fears the answer.

Still, Jonathan isn't letting it go so easily. "I sent her an email - haven't heard back yet. But you didn't answer my question: What's up? Why the sudden interest?"

Jim shrugs, takes a drink. "Why not? You've been telling me how great she is for months now, so...I wanna meet her. End of story."

Jonathan studies his expression closely for a moment, then shakes his head again. "Yeah...not buying that. So what happened? Something with Pam?"

Jim feels his jaw muscle clench in spite of himself. "I'm not...Pam's got nothing to do with this."

Again Jonathan falls silent, piercing Jim with a long stare, one of his eyebrows cocked, then: "Still not buying it."

"Jesus -- you're such a...suspicious bastard sometimes." Jim shakes his head. "Seriously, I think you need a hobby or something."

"You think?" Jon laughs when Jim gives him a withering glare, then the waitress re-appears to take their order, and the conversation is forgotten. Jim can't help but breathe a sigh of relief, because he hasn't made sense of it yet -- and the truth is, he's almost terrified that he never will.

*******

"So we're dancing to this...lame George Michael song -- "

"Wait - " Jonathan interrupts, holding up a hand. "You mean there are George Michael songs that aren't lame?"

Jim laughs, slapping his hand on the table, then sobers suddenly, pointing drunkenly at his brother. "Yeah, that'd be funny if you didn't have, like, every one of his albums...."

"They're called cds now, Jim." Jon takes a sip of his whiskey. "And by the way, I don't have every album; you borrowed Listen Without Predjudice something like five years ago -- "

Jim interrupts him: "Whoa...now that's an apropos title. You think he knew people would give him shit like they do...?"

Jonathan laughs at the serious expression on Jim's face, because he looks like he's genuinely concerned about the derivation of the title and the potential emotional investment behind it.

"So go on." Jon waves a hand. "You were dancing...?"

Jim nods absently, realizing rather suddenly that he's drunk and very much aware that he has absolutely no desire to discuss this any further. When he thinks of sitting here and telling his brother about everything that happened, he feels a surge of desperation that's bordering dangerously on anger.

So he shakes his head. "Nah...you know what? I shouldn't have brought it up. It was just...more of the same. Seriously, though...what about Elizabeth?"

Jonathan's eyes narrow for a second, then he slides his fingers down the condensation along the sides of his glass. "You sure you wanna meet her? Sounds a little like a kneejerk reaction to whatever went down with Pam."

He watches as Jim's lips tighten, that jaw muscle bulging as he tilts his head slightly, his eyes on the napkin beneath his drink. Then: "I gotta move on."

"Move on from...where?"

"Pam." Jim answers miserably, adding, "It's been, like, five days since that damned retreat, and it's like I can't...get it out of my head. But see, that's what's so fucked up: I promised I'd forget, swore we'd pretend it never happened."

"Wait a second." Jonathan's staring at him now, studying his expression carefully. "Pretend what never happened? Holy -- did you sleep with her?"

Jim scoffs, shaking his head as he starts to take a drink -- then at the last minute, pulls the glass away from his lips. "Actually yes -- I did sleep with her. Slept right next to her, made sure not to touch her after she let go of my hand."

"Okay." Jonathan sets his glass heavily on the table, giving Jim his full attention. "You need to start talking - what the hell happened on that retreat?"

Jim doesn't answer for a long while, instead staring into his drink as if it holds the answers he's been seeking so desperately. But he manages to fill Jon in on the more important details, feeling almost nauseated to be talking about it. It occurs to him suddenly that he's going to pay dearly for this tomorrow.

After he's finished talking, Jonathan exhales loudly, settling back against the booth as he processes everything his brother just told him. He's clearly at a loss for words, because his lips part, then close again as he shakes his head slightly.

Finally, he says quietly, "That really sucks, Jim; I'm sorry."

Jim nods miserably, taking another drink as Jonathan adds, "So...what're you gonna do?"

Jim chuckles bitterly, then looks up to meet his brother's gaze squarely. "I told you: I'm gonna move on. Now, are you gonna set me up with Elizabeth or not?"

*******

She's making chicken parmesan because it's one of the few things she knows how to prepare without following a cookbook. There's something comforting about it, too -- flattening the chicken breasts, dipping them into an egg bath before breading them, then dropping them into the hot olive oil so that there's an immediate sizzle.

She likes to cook sometimes, because she's found that it allows her to kind of clear her mind of everything but the task at hand...and she's always found something really satisfying in preparing a good meal; it makes her feel like she's good at something -- like maybe she'll be a good wife one day, even a good mother.

But today those thoughts give her pause as she thinks - inevitably - of all that happened almost a week earlier: Jim's hands, his lips, his body -- close, heady, and still so damned distracting.

They haven't had a real conversation since the one right after everything had happened, when she'd freaked out and begged him to forget; instead, they've maintained a careful distance from one another, exchanging early morning greetings and engaging in only work-related conversations -- even then, their eyes averted as they speak in monosyllabic phrases.

"Hey babe."

She jumps when Roy's lips touch her neck, his hands resting easily on her waist as he stands behind her, peering into the pot of boiling linguine. He doesn't do this very often - sneak up behind her when she's cooking, press his mouth to her neck -- and she's always loved it when he does.

Today she finds it strangely disconcerting.

As they sit in the living room twenty minutes later, eating their dinner off of TV trays as they do every night, the television droning mindlessly, he suddenly says, "Hey...this is amazing, babe. ...Yeah, really good."

"Thanks." She murmurs absently, wondering why he's feeling compelled to compliment her on a dish that's in their weekly rotation -- one that even she's getting a little sick of. Now that she's thinking about it, it's a little weird, too, that he's home with her on a Friday night instead of at his weekly poker game.

For a second there's a surge of panic - oh my god, what if he knows somehow? - but she stifles it, reasoning that there's no way he could possibly know.

And then she's distracted for the next few minutes, caught up in chastising herself for the thought -- because there's nothing for him to know. She made a mistake with Jim; it was a stupid, drunken thing that meant nothing...tantamount to tripping and falling down the stairs or something.

"Hey, Pammy...." His voice is throaty, and she's slow to look at him, thinking to herself that she's got to tell him to quit with the "Pammy" stuff; it's infantilizing at best.

But the expression on his face - and the realization that he's barely touched his dinner in spite of his copious praise - gets her attention. Again there's the panic, because he's looking at her now -- really looking at her.

"What...?" She struggles to sound normal, but to her own ears, her voice is strangled, pinched. Her hands begin to tremble, so she puts down her fork, clasps them in her lap as she gives him her attention - or tries to.

"I just...need to talk to you about...something." His head is bowed, and her fear is cold; she swallows hard as she waits for him to look up at her.

When he doesn't, she forces herself to ask, "What is it?"

"I don't know how...." He shakes his head, then raises his eyes to hers, and she's stunned to see tears hovering on his lower lashes. She's seen him cry three times in the seven years they've been together, so it's yet another shock. The fact that she finds herself thinking of the tears that had stood out in Jim's eyes after she'd shoved him away is just one more fucking thing that's terrifying her right now.

It's like she's watching as her life's slowly disintegrating around her.

"Roy...?"

"I'm so sorry, Pammy -- god, I'm so goddamned sorry." He shakes his head, those tears swelling even more, threatening to fall.

Her heart is pounding in her ears because there's only one reason that he could possibly be actually crying right now, and her mind is racing as she tries to figure out why in the hell Jim would've told him - which makes no sense at all. And then she's wondering why the hell Roy would be apologizing if Jim had told him....

Then he says, the words tumbling out in a rush of breath, "Something happened last weekend while you were out of town, and I'm just --- Jesus, Pammy, I've been going crazy trying to figure out how to fucking say it to you, how to tell you -- "

"Roy." Her voice is sharp, but only because she can't manage to be calm anymore. He knows - obviously he knows - and she's ready to get it over with, to just let him confront her so she can somehow figure out a way to make it okay.

But before she can say anything else, he's reaching over and clumsily grabbing her hand, bowing his head so far that his chin's almost on his chest, his voice barely audible as he murmurs, "I swear to god I was drunk, and it's never happened before and I -- god, I swear it'll never happen again; if I'd been with Kenny, it wouldn't have -- "

Slowly she's realizing that this has nothing to do with her. With Jim.

The relief floods her so much that she almost doesn't care what Roy's trying to say. Still she asks, "What're you talking about?"

He lifts his head, those teary blue eyes meeting hers as he squeezes her hand tightly, his chin trembling. It takes him a minute - he actually reaches out and touches her face, and she's disconcerted that her immediate reaction is to pull away, the memory of the way Jim's hand had trembled slightly as his fingers trailed her cheek so unnervingly vivid.

"I went out with Kenny and Jeff on Saturday night." He says, his voice choked as if he has a cold.

Immediately she's aware of where she was on Saturday night: dancing with Jim, slipping into another life as they laughed about "Careless Whisper," his hands and his shoulders feeling so amazingly right. His eyes holding hers hours later, his head tilted all the way back as if she were torturing him just by her very presence...his lips taking away the ability to think, his hands all over her, but not enough. Not even close to enough.

And that's why she can't get him out of her head, she's starting to realize -- the fact that what had happened just wasn't enough.

She's so lulled by her own memories that it takes her a few seconds to re-focus on what Roy's saying -- something about Kenny leaving him alone with Jeff, their cousin, and these two girls who were as drunk as he and Jeff were.

"I swear to you, babe, if Kenny had just stayed...I wouldn't have had so fucking much to drink, and I wouldn't have --- " He stops, shaking his head fiercely, his eyes on her face, then he whispers: "Babe, I...I fucked up; I totally fucked up."

"What're you...?" She's having a hard time concentrating on what he's saying.

He swallows hard, studies his hands, then - without looking up at her - "I slept with someone else."

She hears the words as if she's hovering outside the window listening in; it's almost like she's outside her own body, watching what's going on -- the way he slowly steals a glance at her, his head still bowed as he almost cowers in anticipation of her reaction. And she's just sitting there stock still, staring blankly at the television as Pat Sajack sells some woman a vowel, enabling her to solve the puzzle.

What he's said washes over her slowly, and the thing that upsets her most is how numb she feels, how she's almost marveling at the fact that she really should be freaking out right now, but she's just not.

"Babe, you gotta believe me...." Roy's looking at her warily now, clearly terrified by the way she's sitting there in stony silence. "As soon as I woke up -- like, in the middle of the night -- I got the hell out of there. I was drunk, okay? I was drunk and out of my head and baby, I love you, and that's why I'm telling you this; that's why I'm coming clean when I could've -- "

"It's...no, don't." She shakes her head, her brows knit. She doesn't even want to do this; what she wants more than anything is to crawl into bed, sleep until she's back to the place before Roy did something so incredibly thoughtless and stupid...back to a time when he was the only man she could even imagine wanting, a time when Jim didn't make her feel like her throat was going to dissolve into her stomach.

It occurs to her suddenly just how drastically her life has changed in the last week -- years and history and careful plans just washed away.

She's fallen silent without even really realizing it until Roy says haltingly, "Pammy....?"

The anger is a flash of heat, sudden and uncontrollable. "No. Just --- no."

She stands up suddenly, steps carefully out from behind her TV tray, then: "I want you to go."

"What? No, babe, please -- " He almost knocks his plate off the tray in his haste to stand up as well.

"I don't...wanna talk about this or -- do this; I just...." She shakes her head, turning her back to him. She's not sure why she feels like such a fake when she adds, "I need some...time, some space; I can't -- "

"Babe, seriously...." He moves to stand in front of her, his hands out in supplication. "Just please, give me a chance to -- "

"No. Are you not fucking listening to me?" Her voice is loud now, loud enough to startle even her, but she doesn't back down. "I want you to go - just...leave, go to Kenny's or something; I don't care where you go. I just can't...."

He swallows hard, his head bowed, then he looks back up at her. "Just promise me, babe...promise me this isn't it; you gotta give me a chance to show you how fucking sorry I am, how -- "

"I really need you to stop talking." Her voice is softer now, measured and even. "I want you to just...go. I'm not saying it's --- just go. Please."

She doesn't continue, isn't letting herself really think right now, because on some unconscious level, she's aware that the sudden desperation she's feeling is less a product of his confession than it is the pent-up emotion she's tried to stifle all week.

And there's something else, too...something bigger, something she can't even begin to allow herself to contemplate.

He's listening to her, nodding and smiling as she animatedly explains that her irrational fear of goats stems from an incident in her childhood in which a goat at the zoo started chewing on the bottom of her tee-shirt and wouldn't let go.

Elizabeth laughs as she relays the details: "And it wasn't one of those small, cute little goats either -- it had horns!"

When she gestures - which she does a lot, he's noticed - the black sweater she's wearing slips off one shoulder, revealing a thin black bra strap trimmed in lace. He's aware that it probably ought to turn him on, intrigue him...but it somehow just doesn't. And the story she's telling really is funny - he knows that, too - but he's feeling so weirdly distracted, as if he can't really focus on her or what she's saying.

Then there's the moment after dinner when he knows all he has to do is invite her over for a drink, and she'll be more than happy to oblige...but he just can't. Instead, he walks her to her front door and turns down her invitation to come inside, claiming that it's been a rough week (it has), and that he's got a busy day tomorrow (he doesn't - it's Saturday). It never even occurs to him to kiss her good night.

He drives home, his windshield wipers having to work to keep up with the steady flow of snow and drizzle, as he wonders what the hell is wrong with him that he can't just disconnect for one night. But he knows why, and that's what's bugging him most of all.

*******

She stands on the front stoop of his apartment building for close to five minutes, her teeth beginning to chatter from the cold as the wind whips the nasty wintry mix, drizzly snow collecting on the edges of her hair, the shoulders of her coat. By the time she musters the courage to punch his doorbell in a sudden burst of impatience, her fingers are numb, the knuckles slow to bend...but at the same time there's something simmering beneath her skin that distracts her from the elements. It's an altogether unfamiliar sense, and she can't place exactly what it is: anger? hurt? frustration?

The few seconds that elapse after she rings the doorbell seem more like long minutes, giving her time to feel foolish -- beyond that, really; she feels almost hysterical, completely out of control, as if she's quite literally not in her right mind, as they say.

Because she has no idea what she's going to say to him, much less why she's here.

He's just changed into his pajamas when he hears the door bell, and his first instinct is to stop, dropping his head and slowly shaking it back and forth in frustration: Jonathan. He doesn't even have time to realize how irrational his train of thought is -- that Elizabeth would've called his brother and given him the rundown of how disinterested Jim had been, how he'd all but dropped her on the curb and sped off; that his brother would then brave the nasty weather just to drive to his apartment and lecture him about moving on.

No, neither of those things are even remotely likely - it's just where his mind goes first - and it's not until he's unlocking the door that it occurs to him that it's probably not going to be his brother standing there. Still, it doesn't prepare him for her.

Pam's just about to lose her nerve - the prospect of hurrying back to her car (running) growing more appealing with each breath - when the door swings open and there he is -- there they are: face-to-face, alone again, and damned if he isn't wearing those same pajama pants, but with a white tee-shirt this time.

She fidgets, her hand lifting to tuck her bangs behind her ear before fluttering above her clavicle as she averts her eyes, willing out of her consciousness the far-too visual memories of all that had happened the last time they'd been alone.

When she dares to steal a quick glance at him, she sees that he seems almost frozen; then he swallows hard, placing one hand on top of the doorframe as he leans against it in what she knows is just an absent gesture, but nonetheless, it's one that strikes her as inescapably sexual...because she knows now all that lies beneath those kind eyes, that affable demeanor.

And it's fucking devastating.

He tightens his grip on the doorframe in a vain attempt at steadying himself -- even though he's pretty sure there's nothing he could do right now to protect himself.

So he gives up, offering her a bright (what he hopes is nonchalant) smile: "Uh....hey."

It seems cruel to her that she should be so aware of what it feels like when his hands are on the sides of her face, his mouth against her own. "Hey."

There's a beat of awkwardness, silent fast whispers of all that's passed between them -- confused don't regret it wish we could talk fucking love you can't let myself even think -- before he visibly comes back to himself, shaking his head as he steps back. "C'mon in."

She follows him tentatively, feeling almost as if she's slowly unraveling from the inside out as she watches him close the door behind her. He hesitates for an almost indiscernible moment, his head bowed, before he very obviously forces himself to turn to her, asking brightly, "So...you want something to drink?"

For a second - no more - he flinches, because the question had genuinely been a reflexive one -- the polite thing to ask -- but in the wake of that lost weekend, it seems to bear a loaded subtext.

So he quickly adds, "I mean, anything: coke, orange juice, water, uh..."

It seems almost insane to casually ask her if she'd like a drink when she's shown up at his apartment at 11:30 on a Friday night...when they haven't really spoken all week; when there's so much that they really need to talk about, but can't.

"Do you have wine?" She blurts, her gaze darting quickly from his when he starts in obvious surprise.

He's shocked by the question, because it seems to betray so much: She's not here to be sure I'll keep pretending nothing happened; she's here to talk about the truth...if she can work up the nerve. And she wants to work up the nerve.

"Uh...I think so, yeah." He turns away quickly, running a hand through his hair, then turns back to her, waving his arm, his eyes trained carefully on the loveseat behind her. "Have a seat. I'll just -- "

He doesn't finish - instead, makes his way to the kitchen that's a few steps up from the living room, separated by a tiny bar - while she sinks gratefully onto the couch in something of a daze, not even thinking to take her purse off her shoulder or shrug out of her coat. Instead, she sits stiffly and stares blankly at the items on his end table: a well-worn lamp that looks like it must've belonged in a different place, a different time - most certainly a hand-me-down; an enormously thick yet surprisingly dog-eared book with the title Infinte Jest; a well-worn piece of paper bearing unintelligble writing in smudged ink that has clearly served as a makeshift coaster; a black and metallic gray telephone base that houses a built-in answering machine, the bright red light flashing a 1 that seems to be taunting her with all the things about him she doesn't know. Is it a message from that girl?

She forces herself to look away from the blinking light, focusing instead on a framed picture of him and Jonathan, ascertaining almost immediately from the shining, clean cherry frame that his mother must've given him the photo - complete with frame - as a gift. She couldn't blame his mom, because it's a flattering picture of both of them - their smiles so warm and genuine, handsome features so similar.

Jim emerges from the kitchen - having found, to his dismay, that he does not, in fact, have any wine - and she's staring at the picture of him and Jonathan that's on his end table, her expression inscrutable. For a second he watches her -- the way she's gazing at the photo, looking so tiny in her coat, purse on her shoulder like she's too afraid to really move -- and he feels that quake in his stomach rising.

He clears his throat, then: "Mom gave me that for Christmas last year."

She starts, glancing over at him. "It's a great picture; I can see why she gave it to you."

Their eyes meet but it's only for a split second - which somehow seems too long - and then he murmurs, "Uh, I was wrong about the wine; I'm really sorry, but -- "

She interrupts him without thinking because it seems stupid to bother with watching what she says now of all times: "Anything with alcohol'll do."

He freezes for a split second, realizing that something's definitely up...and then he's pissed at himself for even hesitating. If she needs liquid courage to face this head on, then I'll be happy to oblige.

"Okay - lemme see what I've got." He starts to head back toward the kitchen, then turns around again, offering her a crooked smile. "And, uh, you can take off your coat, you know. Purse, too -- I mean, you're kinda clutching it like you're afraid I might snatch it or something. But it's not really my color, so...."

He gives her a charming shrug as their eyes meet, and her slow smile sends a flush all the way through him. She could cry with gratitude at what he'd said -- because she'd so needed him to crack a joke, to remind her that not everything in her life has become totally unrecognizable.

She's grinning back at him, nodding as she slides her purse off her shoulder. As she's shrugging out of her coat, she murmurs, "Okay...if you're sure -- because it kind of picks up the plaid in your pajamas, so...."

He can't even manage a suitable retort; all he can do is chuckle because he's trying desperately not to register how amazing she looks in her well-worn, faded jeans and oversized white sweater - the collar stretched and revealing her delicate clavicle, one faintly pink bra strap sending a shot of hunger straight through him. It's not lost on him that he should've felt the same when he'd caught a glimpse of the more elaborate, lacy elastic strap of Elizabeth's bra earlier in the night.

After a brief inventory of his kitchen cabinet, he returns to inform her, "Okay, as far as alcohol's concerned: I've got vodka, rum, gin...and cherry brandy."

Her brow furrows. "Cherry brandy...?"

"Yeah." He dares to look directly at her, wondering why the hell it couldn't have felt like this when he'd gazed across the table earlier at Elizabeth, who had certainly gone out of her way to charm him. "I helped my mom with this English department party she did last spring, and her department chair gave me cherry brandy as a thank you."

She grins at him, and for a split second, the universe shifts and it's possible to pretend for a second that she's just Pam, his best friend, the person who immediately gets why cherry brandy had been such a lame, random gift -- when even his mom had admonished him to be grateful for it and not make fun.

Pam's feeling relieved, too -- enough to quip, "Okay...well, I'd love to show you what I'm made of and ask for a glass of cherry brandy neat, but...no way."

He chuckles at her, and the way she's looking at him makes him think of what a luxury it had been to dance with her a week ago - his hands resting on her waist, the scent of her hair all around him. "Good call, Beesly."

Once again, she's so inexplicably grateful to him for using the friendly, so-familiar moniker; she'd suddenly like nothing more than to just stand up and throw her arms around him, but she forces herself to be still.

She shakes it off, gives him a mockingly appreciative little nod. "Thank you. So...what can you make? I mean...I'm far from an expert here -- what do you do with rum, vodka, and gin?"

Her expression is so earnest that it pains him, her naivete as surprising and endearing as it always is.

He clears his throat. "Well, I'm thinking that...uh, 'doing something' with all of those ingredients would probably be a bad idea, but.... I can either do a gin and tonic or a rum and Coke. ....Or, of course, a cherry brandy upside down cake -- but that'll take at least three hours."

She laughs, then without thinking cocks an eyebrow incredulously. "Wait - isn't a gin and tonic that old man drink that you had --"

Her voice stops abruptly as she flushes, having not intended to mention the previous weekend. But there's nothing she can do, really, other than finish weakly, "...at the, uh, camraderie thing?"

For a split second he wants to push her -- to call her on the fact that she's clearly distracted (if not all-out unnerved) to have to even mention the weekend before. Because he knows damn well what that means, just why she can't make eye contact with him right now. It's yet another bit of evidence that all that happened wasn't just a fluke, and it clearly isn't something she can so easily brush under the carpet.

He's glad for that - but not glad enough to throw it in her face; it's utterly ridiculous and he knows it (makes a silent resolution to call Elizabeth tomorrow and ask her out again, damn it), but he's constitutionally incapable, apparently, of just standing there as she squirms.

So he answers quickly, "Yeah...maybe a rum and Coke'd be more your speed...?"

As she nods in agreement, she's consciously aware of two things: one, that in almost seven years together, Roy still couldn't have gauged what sort of drink she'd like (never mind Jim's hesitation at 'doing something' with all the ingredients -- Roy had always gotten a kick out of ordering strong drinks for her, just to see how drunk she'd get); and two, that this is surely the third or fourth time since she showed up on his doorstep - having ignored him all week, not to mention how horribly she'd treated him the Sunday after...everything - that he's gone out of his way to make her comfortable, even though he has no reason in the world to do that for her right now.

It occurs to her then that the cruelest thing of all is her inability to escape the knowledge of just what it signifies that he's done those things; again there's that whisper: This man loves you.

She shakes it off, because she just can't do anything else; she doesn't look him in the eye as she replies, "Works for me."

"Okay...cool." He returns to his small kitchen, then fumbles with the shot glass and the rum, his hands shaking a little as he cracks open the cans of diet Coke, telling himself to think of anything - anything - but all that happened last weekend, what this might mean....

Minutes later, he manages to emerge from behind the counter with two rum and Cokes, his smile lopsided as he tries to brace himself for what she's about to say, sitting carefully on the love seat next to her -- a respectable distance away. But she doesn't say anything at first; instead, she takes not one but several deep gulps from her drink, not even bothering to conceal the fact that she's grasping for courage in any form she can get it. He's not sure what to make of that, so he maintains his silence.

Then she says, her eyes resting again on the picture resting on his end table, "So Jonathan looked good when he came in the other day."

He nods. "Yeah, he's...he's doing really well. He's seeing someone, actually...kinda seriously."

"Really?" She eyes him over the rim of her glass.

"Yeah." He nods again, taking a gulp of his drink. "Keri - she actually lives in his apartment complex, just a few doors down."

"Wow, that's...convenient." She tilts her drink back again, not really caring if it's obvious that she's trying to get tipsy...drunk, even.

"Yeah, it...is." He can't help but notice the way she's drinking - tossing it back, and he knows she's not a drinker. Makes him wonder. "Yeah, they're...pretty serious, I think."

There's an uncomfortable silence, then just to fill it, she comments, "Nana Halpert'll be thrilled."

She starts to laugh, as does he, but they're both thinking of that night -- when she'd asked him why he didn't date, and he'd deflected the question by rambling about how Jon hadn't dated anyone seriously for quite some time, and Nana Halpert had given him a hard time about it. They realize at about the same time that Pam really shouldn't even know who Nana Halpert is, much less that she'd be happy to hear of Jonathan's romance; for that matter. She'd hit it off with Jonathan the day she'd met him, and when she'd subsequently realized he was Jim's brother, she'd gone home and taken a bath, caught in a daze...ending up with her head in her hands, the warm bathwater soft but still no mask for the salt of her tears. That was in the days when she could sob like that, then resolutely dry her tears, climb into bed next to Roy, and tumble into troubled dreams without ever consciously grappling with what really mattered.

Because it was just another sign that she was trying so desperately to ignore.

She comes back to reality - alone in Jim's apartment with him, the alcohol leaving a sparkly haze over her that's not quite enough to dull that fucking ache that won't leave her alone - only to realize that their laughter is slowly dying, the resulting silence deafening...heavy.

Jim's been watching her closely -- her gaze fixed on some distant, inscrutable thing on the opposite wall as she's clearly lost in her thoughts -- and he knows there's something simmering there. A snatch of a lyric flits nonsensically through his head, some lines from a U2 song he'd listened to on the way home from Elizabeth's: Something is about to give / I can feel it coming / I think I know what it is....

He offers her a tight-lipped smile, glancing down at the drink in his hands, then looks up again to find her staring intently at him; in spite of his reverie, her silence and her stare get the best of him: "...What?"

"Nothing." She shakes her head in an attempt to forget that she's kissed him before...that if they kissed again right now, it wouldn't be a big deal -- because they've done it before, so what would it matter now? Add to that the fact that her fiance had a one night stand, and she can't help but think, beneath the ever-burgeoning glaze of the rum, that this night is all hers...theirs.

The possibilities that had haunted her on that retreat seem to have followed her home...appear as though they should materialize here, tonight. It's a crazy thought and she knows it, but somehow, she can't really discount it.

To keep herself from leaning toward him, pressing her mouth to his, she says, looking at her near-empty glass, "So...Jonathan told me you're interested in a girl he knows or works with or...something?"

Jim's caught off guard -- has to take in a breath, trying to figure out how in the hell to respond to that. "Uh...yeah, no...it was just a...blind date kinda thing he was trying to set up -- "

"Did you go out with her?" She's still not looking at him, doesn't dare to, for fear of acting on the insane, irrational impulse to remind him that he should be with her, not some random girl with whom his brother works. In her semi-drunken haze, she's certain Jonathan would side with her on this one.

"What?" He's buying time, still shocked at what she's asked...unsure if he's afraid of or desperate for all the questions that will surely follow. "Um, yeah. Tonight, actually."

Her head jerks up, her eyes holding his; she hopes the prolonged stare creeps under his skin the way it always does hers when she holds eye contact with him for more than a few seconds. The jealousy is searing, hot...what she should've felt in the face of Roy's confession, when all she'd been then was indifferent.

She's far, far from indifferent now, her hands shaking as she grips her glass tighter. "Oh?"

He's not sure why she's asking or what the hell is going on, much less how he should respond. "Yeah."

"So...how'd it go?" She takes another gulp of her drink, distracted as she tries to remember all the reasons why she shouldn't stake her claim on him now...god, give them both some release, some peace. Even the alcohol can't dull the blunt shock that is her awareness of just what that impulse means...what it signifies. It's like she's standing on the shore watching as her carefully planned life spins away from her, and even though she knows she should try to catch it, she's at the same time almost willing it out of existence...drunk, dizzy from the idea of all that Jim represents.

"It was....okay, I guess." He nods, taking a sip of his own drink, his eyes on his hands. The anger's swelling again because she's making him feel inexplicably guilty -- as if he's betrayed something that's sacred just in going on a blind date, trying to move on...which was what she'd asked -- no, begged, demanded -- that he do, right?

"Just 'okay'?" She knows she should shut up -- or more importantly, should get the hell out of here -- but she can't stop herself. She's unmoored, out of control, and she knows it -- knows it.

Yet she just can't bring herself to care.

"What're you...?" He shakes his head, uncomfortable with the way she's questioning him. It's not just because of all that happened between them a week ago; they've never really talked about his dates, however few and far between they've been since he met her. Never mind the anger...the biting rage that's bouncing off the surface of his consciousness, daring her to pose one of her fucking inane, out of line questions at just the right moment. Or maybe the wrong one.

She's not seeing -- isn't oblivious, just won't allow herself to recognize the anger -- then shrugs, hoping she pulls off looking nonchalant. "Just...asking."

Again her eyes meet his, and this time the anger wins, prompting him to answer pointedly, his gaze unwavering, "Didn't really go too well, actually."

She wishes she could look away, but she can't -- of course. Just like she'd been utterly incapable of stopping him the weekend before when he'd taken the champagne glass from her hand, setting it on the floor, whispering, "I'm sorry" -- all unconscious EXIT signs. His lips, his hands, his body.

Her tongue tangles over the words, betraying her: "Why didn't it go well?"

It strikes him as odd that her question should so clearly register for him as the point of no return; nonetheless, he's consciously aware that he won't back down tonight like he did a week ago --- because he understands now that she doesn't want him to hide anymore, whether or not she's ready to admit that.

He won't answer her question until she finally meets his eyes, then: "I was...distracted."

She feels the words in her gut, and it's pleasure and pain all over again: She hates herself for being glad that he can't move on, but at the same time, knowing he's "distracted" -- ostensibly by the same memories that have haunted her -- sparks that swell of desire low, deep, emanating from her center. And the way he's looking at her -- that penetrating gaze, oh god....

It's wrong -- beyond wrong, really -- maybe just cruel, but she can't stop herself: "Distracted by what?"

Again he's seized by the anger, his jaw clenching, lips tight. It's a calculated risk to answer honestly and he knows it, but the desperation and the desire and the anger are in control of him now -- and he's pretty damn sure that they should be.

Still, he compromises as best he can, shaking his head slightly without breaking eye contact, his voice gruff as he says, "Don't do that."

She has to fight not to close her eyes, his words hitting her hard; his anger and impatience are almost shockingly palpable, and while they'd scared her slightly at the resort, she's a little disconcerted to realize that they're almost like a drug to her now.

But she's not feeling brave enough just yet to dive into the addiction, so she whispers, "I'm sorry; I didn't mean -- "

He shakes his head before she can finish, takes a drink, waves his hand. "Don't -- it's not...."

He doesn't finish, but she nods anyway, following his lead and taking another large gulp that makes him wonder exactly what it is that led her here tonight. Because he's been watching her closely -- noticing the fleeting shadow that darkens her expression before she seems to brighten again, raising her eyes to his and giving him a smile. It's baffling; her expression is almost inscrutable, and he's suddenly hit with the compulsion to just know what the hell she's thinking.

So he takes one final gulp, then starts to ask, "What's -- "

But she cuts him off with the answer before he can finish the question: "Roy slept with someone else."

"Roy slept with someone else."

Their eyes hold for a beat, and in that brief moment, she's pretty sure he's ascertained why she's here and why the heady scent of possibility hovers all around them, even though she herself hasn't fully faced that reality yet.

"Oh my god." He knows he should say something more than that, but he's too stunned to manage his reaction. His emotions are all over the place -- should he comfort her first, as her friend? Let her cry on his shoulder again if that's what she really needs? Should he capitalize on the opportunity, just say all the things he's been thinking for such a long time?

Or should he just shut the hell up and wait for her to give him a sign?

He still hasn't quite decided, even as he breathes, "Wow," then shakes his head slightly before tilting his chin toward the ceiling, swallowing hard.

He's still looking at the ceiling, doesn't turn his eyes her way, even as he asks, "So...are you okay?"

Her immediate response is to begin nodding, even though the truth is that she's fairly certain she's not okay; in fact, it's as if saying it out loud -- telling Jim what happened -- has made Roy's little excursion that much more real. But the strange thing is that she's still not feeling the pangs of jealousy; instead, she's just terrified of the fact that his single indiscretion has cast her comfortable, carefully planned life into shards of chaos.

And possibility.

He's watching her now, studying her profile as she stares at the coffee table, her face a little flushed. And then suddenly the realization hits him: Oh my god...is she -- is it over now? Is that why she's here?

In spite of his best efforts, his voice trembles as he asks, struggling to affect nonchalance, "So, are you -- I mean, are you still...?"

She knows exactly what he's asking, and she also knows that he has every right to ask. Yet she falters anyway as she answers, the words coming out too fast, "I don't - we didn't...."

She stops because what she can't quite articulate is that she just doesn't know yet what she's going to do about Roy, and in truth, doesn't even want to think about that right now; she just wants to keep sitting here next to Jim in his dimly lit apartment, the sleet lashing against the windows as the wind howls.

His eyes lower to his hands, the sharp stab of disappointment stinging his chest -- but only for a second; it's quickly displaced by another question that slowly dawns, leading him to gradually raise his eyes back to hers. Why is she here? What is it that she really wants?

She lifts her head, meeting his eyes for a second - realizing fairly quickly that it's a risk she can't afford to take and thus immediately looking away - before saying with forced lightness, "You know, I really don't wanna...talk about it, actually. I shouldn't have...."

"No, hey...no it's -- it's totally okay, really." He shakes his head, the protective instinct taking over. Because that's the thing about Pam: He wants what he wants, but at the same time, he's long since learned that he's incapable of capitalizing on opportunities at her expense.

So instead he'll let the question continue to hang in the air, palpable as the slight chill in the room, distracting as the howling wind outside.

An awkward silence falls, then she says softly, "Can we just...talk about something else? Anything?"

"Yeah...absolutely." He nods emphatically, a long, awkward silence falling. Then: "So...what do you wanna talk about?"

She doesn't answer right away, her gaze fixed absently on the opposite wall; then she starts, shakes her head a little, before answering, "First pet."

He's caught off guard at first, but when he glances over at her, she's so small and vulnerable and everything he's ever wanted -- the very embodiment of why Elizabeth just hadn't been -- that he can do nothing other than play along with her. "A dog -- German Shepherd, actually."

He emits a low chuckle when her expression immediately softens before she interjects, "Oooh...German Shepherds are awesome."

For a split second, he wants to just ask her how it is -- why it is -- that she can sit here questioning him about his first pet when she's just found out her fiance had sex with someone else. But he doesn't ask, because he doesn't have to ask; he already knows the answer. The question is whether or not she has realized the answer.

Sometimes the sheer promise of all that could be burns so brightly it's painful.

But he's been doing this for a while now, so he knows how to handle it. "Yeah, they are, and this one was really just...great. He'd actually sit at the end of the driveway every afternoon and wait for Jon and I to get home from school -- like, the bus would pull up, and there he'd be, sitting there waiting for us."

"Oh...." Her hand drifts to her necklace, and she's caught completely off guard by the tears welling in her eyes.

"Yeah." He's looking at the floor as if he's lost in the memories. "And then he'd -- swear to god -- shake our hands when we got off the bus. Like, he'd hold up a paw the way we'd taught him to do, and -- "

He glances over at her then and feels immediately guilty to see that she's biting her lip, tears hovering on her lashes.

"Hey - oh my god, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to -- " He doesn't finish because she stops him - waves a hand, shakes her head furiously, which causes the tears to spill over her cheeks, trickling down her face. She wipes them away -- quickly, impatiently -- with the back of her hand.

For one brief, utterly insane moment, he wants nothing more than to just break through the pretense, pull her into his arms, tell her she belongs with him, not Roy. Because this is just...fucking unbearable; he feels suddenly exhausted at the effort it takes to pretend it's not killing him to see her this way...to pretend he's not been in love with her ever since the week he met her.

He settles on reaching a cautious hand toward her -- afraid to go so far as to actually touch her, but unable to just sit there. His voice cracks a little: "Hey...listen, I'm sorry; I didn't -- "

She shakes her head again, chokes out, "Don't -- "

He quickly nods, his hand dropping as he watches her helplessly, biting back the anger and the frustration and the urge to just ask her what the hell it is she sees in Roy, because if he had a chance with her -- a real chance, not a drunken interlude -- he'd never leave her looking this way.

The guilt is strangling her; she knows she had no right to come here tonight -- just like she had no right to let go a week earlier -- but at the same time, the thought of standing up and just leaving is enough to make her feel physically ill. He's the only one she needs right now...the only person she wants.

He stares blindly at the book on his end table as he waits for her to compose herself, wondering where his anger is -- because he's consciously aware that he should be furious at her for showing up tonight, for running to him in the face of Roy's indiscretion. But the truth is that he's ridiculously, embarrassingly grateful...because she's here, having appeared like a miracle on his doorstep, and he's resigned himself to taking what he can get.

And really, how can he not see this as a reprieve? A chance to go back and do things differently this time? So differently from the week before, when he'd let her silence him -- silence them both?

There's an awkward silence punctuated by her sniffles, then she grins at him self-consciously. "So I guess I totally ruined that story, huh?"

Their eyes hold for a split second, then the smile on her face finds its way to his, and he's forcing himself to laugh, for her sake. "Yeah, no kidding! I mean, geez, I didn't even get to the part about Jon being blind and the dog restoring his sight -"

"Shut up!" She rolls her eyes, wondering how it's possible to go from the depths to the heights just like that...but here she is. Here they are. She can feel him watching her -- knows the expression on his face all too well: his head tilted; lips in a wistful, half smile; eyes warm...feelings all over his face.

So she clears her throat. "Okay, meanest prank anyone ever pulled on you."

He can't help but laugh in sheer delight, even though he's distracted by the inner debate of whether or not to offer her another drink -- it's the polite thing to do, certainly, but he's not really sure if it would make things better or worse.

Playing it safe seems the better option, so he skips the drink offer, answering: "When I was, like, ten years old or so, Jonathan somehow got his hands on a can of fish bait, and he opened it, then left it under my bed."

"Oh my god!" Her hands fly to cover her mouth as she starts to laugh.

She's hovering somewhere above it all, taking in the scene; six hours earlier, her fiance admitted to sleeping with someone else, and she's pretty sure that her life is falling apart...yet here she is, Jim making her laugh. Something cruel in her consciousness whispers that this is why she's not as upset about Roy's mistake as she should be; that she should only be so lucky as to walk the path that this man represents -- because they'd navigate it side by side, no chance of her getting lost in his shadow or deliberately straying behind; not even a remote possibility of him pressuring her to sacrifice her dreams to sameness...stability.

He's still watching her, has to force himself to laugh - unable to ignore the faraway expression on her face as her laughter slowly dies, her eyes fixed on the blank screen of his TV set, her lips slightly parted. She's obviously deep in thought, and he's suddenly aware of the fact that - no matter how seemingly easily she's bantering with him - she must be internally reeling right about now.

Still he attempts to keep up the thread of conversation: "Yeah, my room reeked for months...sooo not funny."

Of all the moments they've shared, this one strikes her as an odd time to just feel it...but there she is: face-to-face with the limitations of the life she's planned -- the life she has every intention of following through -- and somehow she still feels almost dismantled by all that the man in front of her represents. So much...too much to possibly be real.

Their laughter dies, and the silence echoes relentlessly with all the things they're trying so desperately to ignore.

She gazes over at him, taking in his tousled hair, the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, those eyes...the combination of which is suddenly a threat, she's realizing -- letting herself stare at him for too long is much like the sensation of sliding slowly into a warm bath, when slipping down is such blissful release, even though the heat of the water flushes her skin.

The need to make something happen again swells in her; she hears herself say, "So...you got any more rum? Or are you afraid I'll drink you under the table?"

It's times like these that he wishes he didn't know her quite so well -- because the fact that she's so eager to drink tells him clearly that there are things she wants to say, but she just can't muster the nerve on her own. As for drinking him under the table -- the very fact that she'd even say such a thing makes him want to just put his arms around her, pull her to him; because she's not a drinker, never has been.

No, there's so much more going on here, and apparently, she's finally ready to acknowledge it. He feels a familiar humming low in his gut, creeping under his skin.

Still, his conscience forces him to ask, brows knit, voice a little lowered: "I do...but are you sure you wanna....?"

She ascertains what he's really asking, knows why he's asking: He knows as well as she does that for them to be alone together tonight, in the wake of all that happened between them the weekend before, coupled with what's happened with Roy...they're asking for trouble unless they step carefully here.

But she feels like she's unmoored, spinning out of control...surprisingly relieved to let go of the reins.

So she doesn't blink, doesn't hesitate before meeting his eyes and answering, "Yes."

Their eyes hold, the heat so palpable it's almost ridiculous not to acknowledge it. But he knows her well.

"Okay, then."

He tries not to think as he measures a shot of rum, cracking open a can of Coke and pouring it into the glass -- so distracted that he overfills it, has to scramble for a dish towel to sop up the foamy, caramel-colored mess. He's so preoccupied, in fact, that he slowly lowers the dish cloth to rest on the edge of the sink as he leans heavily against the kitchen counter, propped on one hand.

He can't even complete the thought, because she came here of her own volition...and there's a reason she did so.

He strides back into the living room, handing her a drink and offering a smile as he sits beside her on the sofa. His stomach caves in a little when she tilts her head back and takes a deep gulp, then lowers her eyes to her hands as they cup the sides of her glass. He, too, takes a drink, loving the combined heat and sweetness of the rum.

A protracted silence falls as he watches her, unable to move his eyes away. He knows he should say something to cut the tension, but he feels almost like he's caught in a haze.

And then, his voice a ragged whisper: "He's out of his fucking mind, to have you and -- "

"Stop." It's an autopilot response; she doesn't really want him to stop...just knows that she should want him to stop. Her cheeks feel flushed, her chest and clavicle hot; she's beginning to recognize the lovely drowsiness creeping over her as the rum works its magic.

...Or maybe it's just him.

His head lowers, and he's suddenly aware that he's a little drunk, because when he raises his head again, it takes him a second to focus on her. And he's so goddamned dangerously close to saying it all as he gazes over at her -- she sitting next to him with her head resting against the back cushions of the couch, her chin tilted toward the ceiling, collarbone flushed, neck an open invitation.

Even though she's leaned back, her head feels too heavy, her eyes closing as she whispers, tears choking her throat, "I don't even know what I'm....doing."

It strikes her immediately that she knows full well what she wants to do.

He can feel his self control slowly dissolving as he sits beside her, a long silence falling, the sound of the wind whipping outside accelerating the desperation that he's struggling to quell. Her name is a hoarse whisper as he raises his head to study her profile: "Pam."

He won't say anything more until she lifts her head; even then he won't go on, waiting until she holds eye contact long enough for him to see what he's looking for.

The way he's staring at her -- his eyes boring into hers, then lowering to her lips and back up again -- is making her stomach feel tight, her throat constricting. She has to consciously fight to breathe normally, because she's suddenly aware that this is it -- if she doesn't say something, do something to break this tension, it'll be all over. The muscle in his jaw is jumping, and his eyes look glassy; yes, she's pushed him too far, and she knows it.

The realization is almost intoxicating.

He swallows hard, then, his voice jagged, "What're you.... Why're you here?"

Everything's hazy, and it's almost like she's fallen into a dream -- because the impulse is to shake her head, quickly jump to her feet and fumble with her keys -- yet she can't manage to get her body to cooperate.. So she stares back at him, noticing that his pupils are dilated, his face a little flushed.

Her gaze drifts down to his mouth before she slowly raises her eyes back to his, then whispers, shaking her head just barely, her eyes never leaving his: "I don't know."

He's not sure if the way she's staring at him is pissing him off or making him want her more -- maybe both -- but he's past the point of caring. His next question is direct, and he can see from the way she freezes that the words hit their mark: "...You sure about that?"

Again she's aware of the disconnect between her impulses and her actions; she's willing her feet to move, telling herself she needs to break eye contact...run away from this moment. But she feels absolutely transfixed.

The best she can do is murmur softly - unconvincingly - still unable to bring herself to look away, "What're you...talking about? I'm...."

His jaw clenches again, and the anger is quick, biting; the desire hot, sweeping over him in a wave that fades, then swells again. Unrelenting.

It's a few seconds before he can say anything, and when he does, it's a sharp whisper: "Don't do this."

Again her head feels heavy, time slowing as she turns to scan his face slowly before asking, her tongue feeling thick, "...What?"

When his jaw muscle bulges again, she feels that tightening in her stomach quicken, another flash of heat hitting her. He's so obviously struggling to keep himself in check...and it's completely intoxicating to watch him do so.

It occurs to him as he studies her expression that she's not looking quite so damaged anymore; no, she's looking almost as if she's drinking this in...enjoying it. The thought that she'd come here to toy with him just to get back at Roy sends a streak of anger right through him as he says through clenched teeth, "Don't...play with me."

His words seem to trickle over her in a cold shock as she realizes in an instant the magnitude of all she's done to him: the way she's encouraged him to fill the emotional void Roy leaves, even though she knows what it costs him to do so; the way she's deliberately pretended not to see that he wants her, because doing so would mean that she can't safely keep indulging her own attraction; the way she's given him just enough to hold onto, a smattering of small moments that are sufficient to convince him that there's a chance.

And he's calling her on every bit of it right now.

It's an involuntary reaction when her eyes slowly close, one of her hands clenching into a fist in her lap; even as she sits there - stock still, eyes shut tight - she can feel him looking at her. But she doesn't open her eyes, because she's afraid of what she'll do if she does; all she'll allow herself to do is sit here and silently will him to lose control...to just let go.

Because if he does, she knows she will, too; she's just not brave enough to make the first move.

He watches her, a tremor rising in him as he realizes what it is that she wants. There's a rustling of fabric when he slowly shifts closer to her; still she doesn't open her eyes, makes no move to indicate that she's unwilling or even apprehensive.

She doesn't hesitate when she feels his lips cover her own; there's no pretense of resistance, her arms immediately sliding around his neck, her mouth opening to the mellow sweetness of rum that lingers on his tongue. She's dizzy but absolutely aware -- of where this is going, of what she's about to do. She muses absently that this must be what falling through space feels like, her fingers sinking into his hair as she registers a conscious acquiesence. Whatever he wants...god, so much that I want.

As he shifts -- his lips not leaving hers even as she falls back, stretching out prone and pulling him down on top of her -- he has no fucking idea what this means or when it'll end -- much less what'll happen after that -- but he's beyond the point of letting anything give him pause. Because the way she's clutching a fistful of his tee-shirt -- her head tilting back as he trails his tongue down her neck -- is all he needs right now.

The fact that this is Jim -- that his lips and his hands and his hair and his scent are all so familiar yet absolutely shocking in this context -- seems to accelerate her reactions, amplifying the heat and the desperation and the ceaseless sensation of drowning. She's trembling beneath him, slipping one hand beneath his tee-shirt and feeling the lean muscles in his stomach go taut beneath her hand as his breath catches. There's more hair on his chest than Roy has, and she's not sure why, but the discovery makes her shift impatiently beneath him, almost desperate to know more of this side of him...to be privvy to it all.

He's stunned at the way she's responding to him -- feels almost dazed as he sits up for a second, taking her obvious hint and pulling his shirt off, tossing it carelessly to the floor. When he glances down at her, her eyes are roving over him, taking in the width of his shoulders and bare chest even as her hands drift from his neck, trailing down to hover dangerously near the waistband of his pajama bottoms. The sheer hunger shadowing her eyes hits him somewhere low, deep.

"Jesus." He whispers, then lowers himself again, her lips eagerly meeting his as his fingers glide over her waist, seeming impossibly small beneath his hands. She's moving against him now, pressing close -- clearly impatient; he groans, then slides his hands cautiously beneath her shirt.

Her breath catches, and for a second she freezes -- but it's shock, not fear or regret -- the dizzying realization that this is Jim. And god, he's driving her out of her mind.

He feels her hesitate, forces himself to pull back a little, scanning her face quickly. "Is this...?"

He's fully expecting her to tell him to stop - to freak out like she had the weekend before. But she doesn't.

She looks him in the eye, arching her back so that she's pressed even closer against him, then whispers, "Don't stop."

It's then that he realizes what's happening here --- that she's letting go, that she's not running anymore...that maybe this really doesn't have anything to do with Roy.

There's a moan caught in her throat when he slides her shirt up, his breath hitching, lips warm on her stomach. The sound of their labored breathing fills the room, punctuated by the occasional gust of wind that sends slashes of rain pelting against the window. She's moving beneath him impatiently, unable to be still as it all unfolds in a blur: his tongue tracing her belly button as he eases her jeans down her hips; vein in his neck throbbing, his head falling back as he groans when her hand moves from his bare chest to his pajama bottoms, slipping purposefully beneath the elastic; the shock of pressing against him, the hair on his chest soft against her breasts, the feel of him hard against her sending a rush of heat, all pretenses just gone....

He forces himself to pull back, gasping for breath, struggling desperately not to register the fact that Pam's lying beneath him wearing nothing more than a pair of bikini panties -- that she's not looking away, but rather, is staring at him with a hunger that's both shocking and utterly unmistakeable. He's fighting to clear his head, struggling to remind himself that she's tipsy -- if not drunk -- that she's probably just upset because of Roy...yet none of it rings true.

But he's got to try, for her sake, so he takes a breath, then meets her eyes -- immediately realizing his mistake. Before he knows it, he's kissing her again, her breasts warm against his chest, her nails digging into his back as if she wants him every bit as much as he's dying to have her.

Still...there's more to this; there's more at stake, and he knows it.

So he draws back again, his breathing ragged, eyes unfocused. "Listen, I need to...I mean, is this-- "

She's almost distracted by the sharp stab of emotion that hits her because he's forced himself to stop, wants to be sure she's okay -- when god knows he'd have been beyond justified if he'd been unrelenting, not caring whether or not she's all right. It's overwhelming, this -- to be staring up at him, very much aware that this man loves her, even as the hunger's gnawing. Seeing him out of control is nothing other than exquisite...mesmerizing -- worth any price, no matter how high.

And beneath the glaze of the alcohol and the magic of his hands on her bare skin, it's easy to rationalize all the reasons why this can happen: Roy slept with someone else, and if she's ever going to forgive him, she has to even the score, right? And maybe this is a good thing; maybe she needs to sleep with someone else. Maybe she needs to do this for the sake of her own future; maybe it'd be stupid to marry Roy without having experienced any other man.

Even in her haze, she knows the logic is dangerously, recklessly flawed -- that what she's feeling right now has nothing to do with Roy and everything to do with Jim.

Still, she's not willing to stop.

So she moves beneath him, deliberately shifting her hips so that he's right there, the only barrier between them the thin cloth of their underwear. Then, her eyes holding his, she whispers, "I just want to...once."

His eyes close for a second, and she watches as that muscle in his jaw bulges. It's second nature to raise her arm, trailing her fingers down the rough stubble on his jaw. When he suddenly reaches up, catching her hand in his own, she feels her breath hitch, realizing that this is really happening -- that she's about to have what she's wanted for longer than she cares to admit...what she's been unable to stop thinking about since the weekend before.

He stands, extending his hand toward her, his eyes not leaving hers; she takes it, letting him pull her to her feet, her knees actually trembling a little as he leads her toward a darkened hallway, into a room that's lit only by the pale glow of a street lamp some yards away. His bedroom.

The fact that he doesn't do the predictable thing -- push her back onto the bed and jump on top of her -- is just one more reason to want him. Instead, he stands still in front of her for a few long seconds, and she can feel his gaze in the darkness. Then his hands are on either side of her face, his lips on hers; she presses close, her fingertips bringing goose bumps to the skin on his back as he moans a little. And then he eases her back onto the bed, falling to rest on top of her, his mouth finding hers again.

It's both unfamiliar and heated -- she's so used to Roy's touch, Roy's body; at first, the newness takes her off guard.

At the same time, though, it's nothing short of amazing to feel his mouth against her ear as he whispers, "Are you on...?"

The rest of his question is lost, forgotten as his lips trail her neck, her throat.

"The pill - yeah." Discussing birth control ought to dull the sharp edge of her hunger, she knows, but somehow, the knowledge that it's Jim asking her -- never mind that the question is merely a prelude of what's to come -- makes her feel as if the bed is swallowing them both, like she's falling through air even as she presses closer against him, needing to feel him.

He hears her answer with a shudder: This is really happening.

He's not sure who moves first -- whether it's his fingers tangled in the elastic of her underwear as he shoves it impatiently past her hips, or whether it's her hands almost clawing at his boxer briefs, her fingertips gliding over him and making him seize up, his breath catching, hand covering hers. Their eyes meet, and he tilts his head ever so slightly, as if to warn her; she shocks him by meeting the look with a piercing stare, one eyebrow lifting.

When he presses forward, her breath catches on a deep gasp; he hesitates, but before he can ask her if she's all right, she moves, shifting so that her hips are more aligned with his. His eyes close for a second, and as she watches his profile in the dim light, she feels that sharp edge of emotion all over again, her hand finding its way to his jaw, the stubble there surprisingly soft against her fingertips as he tilts his head back -- a gesture that's her undoing.

She hears the words leave her throat in a rush of breath and adrenaline: "God, I've wanted this...."

He freezes for a second -- attempting to regain control even as he tries to register what she's just said.

All he can do is whisper hoarsely, his breath catching on a gasp, "You have...no idea."

There's something maddening about whispering to her even as he moves inside her -- something incredibly intimate...raw. So unlike their usual parlance.

It's so completely new to her -- no shadows of Roy hovering anywhere as she whispers back to him, her breath catching on his name, one hand clutching his hair, the other on his shoulder. It should be weird, but it's just not -- instead, it's a blurry, delicious haze, the surrender complete, reality a foreign god she'll never have to worship.

Hearing her moan his name as she clings tightly to him is enough in itself to drive him out of his mind; opening his eyes to see her clutching the edges of the sheet - her eyes holding his - prompts him to gasp, then: "God, Pam....you're so fucking...amazing."

Their eyes meet, and her breath hitches -- because the desire in his eyes is punctuated by desperation, marked with a very palpable heartache, as if he knows this is all they'll ever have.

The storm has reached a crescendo, hail hitting his bedroom windows so hard they rattle, ice beginning to gather in the corners of the frame as the minutes slowly pass. Her head rests on his bare chest, one hand against his shoulder - as if touching him isn't a luxury she can't afford...as if this can actually end well.

His cheek is against her hair, one of his hands heavy and warm on the small of her back, the other absently stroking her arm. He's almost dozing, the scent of her hair hauntingly familiar, her skin like satin beneath his fingertips as he continues to lazily caress her upper arm. For a few minutes, it's as if he's within reach of all that he'd long since considered impossible: She's here with him; they've broken through all the pretenses and the walls and the purely platonic facade that they've been clinging to for so long. Roy has given her undeniable proof that he's not right for her -- can't possibly really love her -- and she doesn't even seem all that shaken by it.

More than that, she's curled against him in a way that makes him almost believe that by some miracle, this is going to be all right...almost.

She's disconcerted -- the initial sense of discomfort quickly escalating to full-on panic -- by how right this feels, how unlike anything she's ever really experienced before. It seems stupid to feel safe right now, in the face of one of the most impulsive and surely destructive things she's ever done, but that's the emotion that's dominating at the moment; she feels protected here, nestled against his chest...because for the first time she's allowing herself to acknowledge - appreciate -- that he'd do anything for her, anything.

But drumming beneath the surface of her consciousness is the swelling realization that this isn't her life -- that this is stolen time, not even real; it's too good to be real. A life with Jim isn't what she's meant for, and she knows it; a life with Roy is where she belongs. She's believed it for so long that it's woven into the very fabric of her being; seven years -- history, stability, practicality, and oh my god, what have I done?

Still she can't bring herself to move; instead, she closes her eyes, feeling an all too familiar tingling in her nose as the tears well, quickly sliding down her cheeks, one dripping to his bare chest, followed by another that streams down the same path as the first. She knows even before he moves or speaks that his reaction is only going to make this that much more difficult, which only makes the tears come faster.

But he doesn't say anything at first; he simply pulls her a little closer against his bare chest, and she feels his lips pass over her hair.

When - in spite of her best efforts to regain control - a sob catches in her throat, his arms again tighten as he whispers, "Shhh, don't; it's okay...."

He's not sure why he said such a thing, when nothing could possibly be farther from the truth, but it was all he could manage in the moment, the lump in his own throat making it difficult to even breathe, much less hold it together and offer up consoling words. This is entirely new territory to him; he's never been here before -- on one hand, feeling a tranquility that seems as if it's radiating from the very marrow of his bones, so solid that he's certain he's finally found what most people spend their whole lives looking for; that his instincts had been right all along: she's the proverbial one. And he's lucky, really lucky, that the woman of his dreams actually does exist.

But a nagging panic - a looming dread - pierces that inner calm; the realization that she's not going to be able to follow this through is as sure as the certainty that she is simply it. He feels shredded -- dismantled, out of control, desperate -- and totally helpless, because it's all in her hands right now; they both know it.

And he's fucking terrified that she'll run from it again.

As if to punctuate his pulsing fear, she whispers, her throat sounding clogged, as if she's got a cold, "I really should go."

He closes his eyes, inadvertently tightening his grip on her -- noticing the way she leans into him, her cheek on his chest, the tears she'd shed drying stiff and salty on his skin. He's not sure what she means -- or rather, what she plans on doing. Is she saying she should go because she needs to settle things with Roy -- break it off? Or is she telling him that she's going to convince herself that this was a mistake and slide backward, settling back into her life with Roy just because it's predictable, planned...expected?

Right now, what matters most to him is preserving this moment -- no matter how aware he is that if she chooses to run back to her old life, it'll take him a long, long time to come back from this; that maybe he won't ever be able to come back from it if this is all there is, and it just fades into oblivion. Still, though, being here, now, holding her close, feeling her nestled against his skin, the intimacy so startlingly immediate -- however new it may be -- is all that matters.

And he's clinging to the hope that it won't be so easy for her to run now that they've broken down so many walls.

So he whispers back, his voice hoarse as he again pulls her a little closer, "C'mon...it's a pretty nasty storm; you don't need to drive in that."

His mind is working too quickly for his drowsy consciousness to keep up; he's desperate to figure out a way to convince her to stay -- to really stay -- but he doesn't want to scare her or push her. She's here; she's in his arms, and that's enough for now. He tries to tell himself that she won't run right back to Roy, that this wasn't just her stab at getting revenge. Because this spark started a long time ago, had ignited full-on a week earlier, well before Roy's confession.

He tells himself that this will be enough to matter.

She lifts her head from his chest, intending to tell him she has to go, but when their eyes meet, she feels the tears threatening again. He notices, tilting his head with a pleading expression, one hand reaching to touch her cheek. He looks for a second as if he'll say something, but he doesn't. Instead she watches, feeling almost as if the room is spinning, as his eyes take on that familiar, slightly glazed expression, even as his fingertips trail from her cheek to her jaw, drawing her face gently down toward his.

Before she can even think, she's pressing her mouth back against his, her hand snaking instinctively up into his hair, then sliding down -- savoring the feel of his jaw, rough with stubble; the smooth skin of his neck, his pulse throbbing beneath her fingertips; his shoulders broad, taut.

The first time had been a frenzy of desire and impatience, but this is markedly different; it's slower, that raw ache closer to the surface now. The fear and hopelessness and desperation are reigning over them now: the way he fumbles for her hand in the darkness, their palms touching, fingers intertwined; the way he kisses first her lips, then her neck, her shoulder -- almost reverent.

Still she whispers, "We can't...it can't happen again...."

He stops, pulling back to prop on one hand as he gazes down at her, his lips slightly swollen, eyes holding hers fast. "Tell me you don't want this."

She's shocked by the pointed challenge -- so shocked that all she can do is lie there and stare up at him, blinking slowly, struggling to keep her gaze from wandering down to his mouth again. Her heart starts to thump a bit faster as the seconds stretch in silence, his eyes not leaving hers, his body pressed close, leaving little doubt as to what he wants. But he still doesn't move -- waits for her to tell him no, to give him a reason to back off. Yet she can't bring herself to lie and say she doesn't want him -- not while he's looking at her like this.

So instead she whispers, "Things can't...change."

Her choice of words is odd, she knows, but she can see from the way his expression darkens slightly that he knows exactly what she means -- that she's not strong enough to push him away right now, but she's not strong enough to leave Roy for him either; that she's not going to stop him now if he wants her again, but it'll be the last time.

It's weak and he knows it, but he can't bring himself to challenge her; all he wants is to drown in her again, to escape into the heat of her hands, her lips -- let their bodies press close as the world falls away to a distant echo.

His hands are shaking as he pushes the sheet aside, his fingertips gliding from her shoulder down to where her waist dips in, just above the slight swell of her hips. Even as he shifts, moving so that he's on top of her, he knows she's not his; he's resigned to the fact that she probably never will be. Doesn't matter. Because while the first time had been about trying to purge that relentless attraction, this...this has suddenly turned into his one chance to let her know how he really feels -- that it's not just physical attraction or even the residual pull of their friendship, but so much more. It's a connection that makes him suddenly aware of the void he's lived with for such a long time; it's the need to fill the gap, cover the chasm that life and routine and history and fate have thrust upon them. It's what those uber-romantics hope for about sex: fueled by a need to feel closer to her, driven further by the realization that nothing will ever be close enough -- except this.

Her tears start well before it's over, because she can't shake the sense that this is a very real kind of goodbye. He's moving slowly inside her, hovering above before he leans down to pull her closer; she's clinging to him now, her head buried in his shoulder.

And then he whispers, "You're all I want; you're just...."

His voice trails off, but it doesn't matter; she knows immediately what he means, and for a second she's gripped with the sudden need to say it back -- to just tell him once how much she's always wanted him, how amazing he is. But she doesn't say anything; she can't say anything.

Because she's struggling to make herself believe that this can't mean anything.

Still, when his breathing is labored, slowly returning back to normal even as she's shaken by remnants of the tremors that he'd sent all the way through her, she again lets him pull her close, her head finding his chest, one fist curled against his bare skin. The temptation to let herself drift off to sleep there in his arms is a little overwhelming, but she knows better; she's very much aware that this is stolen time, and the sooner she returns to reality and begins re-constructing the dreams she's clung to for years, the better off she'll be...the better off they'll all be: Jim, herself, even Roy. She tells herself that this was necessary - inevitable - the only way of purging the latent attraction they've been trying to ignore for so long now; she tries to convince herself that it's a purely physical thing, that their friendship will magically be restored now that they've taken this step, gotten it out of the way.

She blames the wave of nausea that follows that thought on the tears she's shed, the haze of the rum as it dissipates...anything to escape the fact that it's as if her own body is rejecting the false narrative she's trying to construct.

She knows better than to say anything this time, lest he talk her out of it again; instead, she slowly disentangles herself from his embrace, sitting up and clutching the sheet protectively across her breasts as she glances down at him. He's stretched out, still prone, his hair tousled as always, chest bare...eyes holding hers, tears hovering on his lower lashes. His expression is serious -- heartbroken, almost stunned, as if he knows all that's going to happen next -- her sad willingness to settle alchemizing into a sorrow that will eventually translate into his own kind of settling...for one night of catching his dream, fleeting and transient but branding him nonetheless (hers...us).

She picks up a throw that's in a pile at the foot of his bed, wrapping it around herself carefully, avoiding his eyes as she makes her way to the living room to retrieve her discarded clothes, taking them with her to the bathroom. When she emerges five minutes later, he's got his pajama bottoms on, but his chest is still bare. Her eyes immediately stray to his shoulders, that feeling in her gut tightening; now that she knows what it's like with him, the curiosity has been replaced by a hunger that makes her feel almost drowsy.

Neither of them says a word as she carefully picks up her coat, slipping into it before retrieving her purse from beside the couch. She can't look at him as she slowly makes her way to the door, her head down, ache in her throat growing by the second.

He's feeling the strangest disconnect -- like he's watching in slow motion, standing outside a plate glass window...able to see so clearly what's happening, but completely at a loss to do anything to stop it. His heart's beginning to pound as the panic escalates; he can't let her just leave like this -- because if he doesn't somehow convince her to face the reality of what all that's happened really signifies, she will in all likelihood run right back to Roy, force herself to forget this...convince herself that it was a mistake.

But he's paralyzed by the fear and the desperation and the raw emotion that he still can't quite seem to get in check.

Once she reaches the door, she pauses, then dares to glance up at him -- immediately regretting it, because the expression on his face, the way his eyes hold hers fast...oh god, what have I done? What am I doing?

She can see from the way his jaw muscle tenses, releases, then tenses again that he's struggling to hold it together; he's clearly intent on not pushing her...on letting her negotiate her own terms. The realization prompts a bitter smile -- because of course, Jim knows her well enough to know that when she feels pressured, she retreats. It's a truth about her that Roy has yet to learn.

It's completely ridiculous not to be able to bring herself to say goodbye, but she somehow just can't. Instead, she holds eye contact for a second longer - feeling too much to even begin to process any of it - then turns slowly so that her back is to him, her hand reaching slowly for the door knob.

His voice behind her is hoarse, almost broken: "Please don't do this."

She freezes, her eyes closing as the tears immediately flood her eyes, choking her throat. Still, she doesn't dare to look back at him as she whispers in return, "Don't...this can't...change anything; it was -- we shouldn't have...."

She doesn't finish, because she can't bring herself to call what happened a mistake; no matter how disastrous the consequences or how stupid and impulsive she'd been, she knows what this night will always mean to her.

When he hears her words - sees the way her head is bowed, her eyes on the floor, back to him - it hits him: This is it; this is all we'll ever have. It shouldn't surprise him -- after all, she warned him -- but he still feels almost blindsided, as if he's had the wind knocked out of him.

He's not sure whether it's anger or desperation that moves him to take a sudden step so that he's standing right behind her, leaning close enough for her to feel his breath on her hair as he whispers, "I'll never believe that...and neither should you."

She's tumbling into one strange dream after another: wandering aimlessly through what looks like a wasteland -- all desert and sand and emptiness -- only to look up and find Jim waiting for her with a familiar grin, as if they'll turn the corner and find the perfect opportunity to prank Dwight. She takes his outstretched hand - somehow expecting the barren scene around them to spring to life...but it doesn't.

So she glances up at him with a small, teasing smile. "Shouldn't it get prettier around here now?"

His grin in return is slightly crooked, colored by the sadness that lingers in his eyes. "Not yet."

"Why not?" She cocks her head.

He's slow to answer, his gaze sliding over her expression before he lowers his head so that he's staring at the dusty ground beneath them. Then he looks back up at her, meeting her eyes with obvious effort. "C'mon...you gotta -- "

He stops abruptly, his jaw clenching, then finishes in a throaty voice, "help me."

Then it's Roy and an altogether different context; he's got a small medicine cup in his hand and is extending it to her, those blue eyes holding hers fast. She knows that if she drinks the contents, there'll be no going back; she knows, too, that he desperately wants her to take it. So she tips her head back, the liquid burning as it slips down her throat and into her lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

She awakens with a start, bolting straight up in bed as she gasps for air, a veil of sweat cool on the back of her neck, dampening above her lip. For a second, she's disoriented, the clock on her nightstand piercing the darkness with a deep red 4:23 a.m. Out of habit, she glances over to Roy's side of the bed; when she sees the pristine pillow, the flat sheet, it all comes rushing back.

Her eyes close, images from all that happened earlier flashing behind her closed lids -- shockingly vivid, disarmingly distracting. Still, she forces herself to get up, literally shaking her head in a useless attempt at blocking the memories, willing her mind to just be blank, still as she falls back to rest her head on the pillow.

When the memories won't give her peace, she sits up again, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, then standing up and heading to the bathroom. She sits on the edge of the tub as it fills, the scent of the bath salts she'd thrown in filling the room -- stress relieving, the tub says.

She's not really counting on that.

She's just stepped out of the bath when she hears footsteps coming down the hall, instantly recognizing from the tread that it's Roy. In an absent-minded gesture, she draws her towel tighter, takes a deep breath, surprised that he apparently came home at some point and she didn't wake up.

When he appears in the doorway -- tall and imposing, his expression speaking of shame and desperation and regret -- she has to look away, feeling almost strangled by her own guilt.

He swallows hard, then: "Hey."

"Hey." She bows her head, stares at the cream-colored tile of their bathroom floor.

"I, uh...was gonna stay with Kenny, but I just..." He exhales loudly, and in her peripheral vision, she can see that he's shaking his head slowly. "I couldn't sleep; I just -- I had to come home."

All she can think of is how narrowly she must've escaped getting caught in her own lie -- because it had been shortly after 2:00 when she'd gotten home from Jim's, which means that Roy had to have arrived not long after that. For a split second she almost wishes he had gotten home before her -- because then she'd be forced to face it.

His voice brings her back to the present as he suddenly says - his voice gruff, the words halting - "I'll do anything -- anything -- to make it up to you, babe; I just -- Jesus, I fucked up, and I know that. And if I could just go back and --"

He stops abruptly, and she lifts her eyes, scanning his expression -- his head tilted to the side, jaw muscle clenching as he tries to maintain control. "...I feel like I'm losing my mind, Pam; I mean, I just...I need you."

She lowers her head as he continues: "I'll do anything to make it right; I learned my lesson, I swear, and it's just -- god, I can't...stand the thought that one stupid mistake could just wipe it all away...you know?"

There's something in the way he's looking at her -- the desperation in his eyes tempered only by a very palpable hope, as if he's so sure that their history will prevail here.

And he's not entirely off base; it's difficult for her to look him in the eye now -- as if something has subtly shifted, and he's not hers anymore. At the same time, though, the familiarity of his face -- kind blue eyes, endearing dimples, curls against his forehead -- hits her hard; she feels herself slipping under, wondering if maybe this past week has all been a huge mistake -- nothing more. She feels panicked again at the realization that she slept with someone else -- with Jim; that she's come this far unraveled over the course of just a week.

As if he can sense her weakening defenses, he takes a step toward her, his head dropping as he studies the floor, then: "You gotta give me another chance, Pam; I just -- I can make you trust me again, I swear...."

As soon as she hears the words, she's aware of their irony -- because it's not him she doesn't trust anymore; it's herself.

And then as she watches, stunned, his head lowers, his fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose as he begins to silently cry. The image of his vulnerability cuts her to the core -- because his tears doesn't come easily, and she's actually never seen him cry over her before.

In the face of their history and her own sharpening guilt, she can't bring herself to just disregard him; at the same time, though, she's so incredibly confused -- can't think straight, can't concentrate...has no idea what the hell to do right now.

She knows what she wants to do – tell Roy she’s sorry, get in her car, drive as fast as she can to Jim’s – but she’s terribly afraid that it’d be the wrong thing to do; that maybe she’d wake up in a week or a month and wonder what the hell happened to the life she recognized.

She’s not willing to accept just yet that that life is gone – that, after tonight, she’ll never find her way back there again.

"Roy...." Her voice is weak, faltering; again she tightens the towel around herself.

He looks up at her, tears on his cheeks, his jaw trembling. When she doesn't continue, he whispers, "I know it'll take some time to...to get through this, but please babe -- don't give up on us; I know we can work this out. We can."

She wearily runs a hand over her slick wet hair, tilting her head to the side and biting her lip as she considers what he's just said. He's surprised her with his vulnerability, with his willingness to beg – Roy, the guy who scoffs at the sentimental; the guy whose romantic side seemed to have dissipated six years ago.

It’s the shock of seeing him so obviously devastated at the thought of losing her, coupled with her own guilt (he's torturing himself, when what I did was so much worse because it wasn't random, and it didn't just happen once....) that leads her to slowly nod, feeling a little nauseas.

His immediate gratitude only exacerbates the guilt, the nausea. "Seriously...? Pam, I swear....you won't regret it -- I'll make it up to you; I'll -- "

She cuts him off. "Look, I'm still gonna need...space, some time to...."

He nods immediately. "Sure - I'll...I'll do anything."

An awkward silence falls, then he hesitates, something almost sheepish in his eyes as he asks, "You say you need space...what do you -- "

She doesn't let him finish. "I'm gonna sleep in the guest room for a while."

Their eyes meet and hold for a beat, then he quickly nods. "Okay...yeah, I, uh...understand; I honestly do."

She, too, nods, then turns away, struggling to ignore the voice in her head: But you really don't.

*******

When the phone rings, it's shocking and shrill, jarring him out of sleep, causing him to wince. It rings a second time, and he impatiently gropes for it -- less because he gives a damn who's on the other end than the fact that his head is pounding, and he doesn't want to have to hear the phone ring a third time.

"Hello?" He croaks, slowly opening his eyes to check the clock: 11:47 a.m.

"Hey." It's Jonathan. "You sick or something? You sound like hell."

"No, just...." He shakes his head, trying to think clearly...regretting the three shots of whiskey with which he'd consoled himself the night before after Pam left. "...Tired."

"Okay, please tell me you're not still in bed -- it's, like, almost noon, Jim."

"What do you want?" He asks impatiently, closing his eyes again.

"Wow...pissy, much?"

Jim sighs, rubbing his eyes with one hand, the other cradling the phone against his shoulder. "Okay, whatever. ....I'm hung over. Happy now?"

"Actually, yeah, I think I am." Jonathan sounds interested. "So I gather it went well...?"

"What went well?" Jim's struggling to sit up, regretting doing so almost immediately.

"What is with you? You still drunk or something? The date, obviously - what'd you think of Elizabeth? I guess you two hit it off pretty well....?"

"Oh, yeah...no. I mean, she's nice, but...."

"She's 'nice'? ...Then why are you hung over?"

"What does that have to do with Elizabeth?" Jim's feeling anxious to get Jonathan off the phone, because he's not up for the questions -- he himself hasn't even begun to process everything that happened with Pam the night before.

"Well...." Jon's sounding annoyed now, too. "I'm just assuming you were drinking with her -- unless you ditched her and went to a bar somewhere, which isn't exactly your style....I hope."

"Obviously." There’s an edge to his voice. "Of course I didn't do that; I had some whiskey last night after I dropped her off."

"Alone?"

"Jesus Christ, Jon." He's reached his limit now. "Do you not have anything better to do than pry like an old woman? Where's Keri, anyway?"

"Whoa." Jim can tell from Jonathan's tone that he's not going to let this go. "What the hell's your problem?"

Jim takes in a deep breath, debating silently whether or not to answer the question honestly. On one hand, he really has no desire to talk about it -- not with Jon, not with anybody. Except Pam, but he's pretty sure she's not going to be willing to discuss what happened the night before. …Ever.

But at the same time, he can't deny the fact that he could use some perspective, some advice...something, anything. Because his head is still spinning.

So he answers honestly: "I, uh....Pam came over last night after I got home."

"Seriously?" Jonathan's obviously shocked. "Why?"

Jim settles back against his headboard, attempting to shut out the realization that her scent still lingers on his sheets; that she was here not so long ago...no matter that it already feels like a distant dream.

"Roy cheated on her, told her about it."

"Oh my god." A silence falls as Jonathan digests the information, then: "So she came running to you....?"

Jim offers a bitter snort. "Yeah, something like that."

"So what happened?"

He doesn't answer right away, because he's not sure whether or not he really wants to answer; he has no idea what Jonathan's reaction will be, and he's not even sure what he wants it to be.

So he just settles for being honest. "I slept with her."

"Oh my god." Jonathan exhales loudly, again falling silent for a few long seconds before asking, "So...what's the deal?"

Jim's answer is unintentionally terse. "She said it didn't change anything, and then she left."

He's met with silence, then: "So wait a second...what, she said it was like a one time thing?"

"Apparently." His voice is flat. "And it wasn’t once -- happened twice, actually."

"Jesus."

"I know."

There's another pause, then Jonathan asks, "So if it's not gonna change anything, then why'd she do it?"

An unexpected flash of bitterness leaves Jim's voice gritty: "I have no idea."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Yeah, I know." Jim pauses, then: "Listen, I really don't...wanna talk about this."

"But - "

"Seriously."

"Okay." Jonathan concedes.

There's a brief pause, then Jim says, "So I'm gonna go back to bed."

Jonathan doesn't respond right away, then: "You sure you don't wan--"

"Yes."

"...Okay."

*******

She's doing her best not to be acutely aware of his presence as she sits across from him in the conference room, Michael droning on about the importance of clear body language. He eventually reveals that his dental hygienist had apparently violated that rule -- or more succinctly, had been the catalyst for his inventing it.

"She just...." He waves his hands in a gesture of frustration, his voice plaintive. "She totally draped herself over me; I mean, her breasts were at my eye level!"

"Awesome." Kevin murmurs, nodding emphatically.

"No, it wasn't, Kevin." Michael shoots him a firm, self-righteous glance. "It was anything but cool -- because now she won't even take my calls! Honestly, what kind of woman would lead a man on that way?"

Pam feels her cheeks burning as she steadfastly avoids Jim's gaze. It's been a week since she showed up on his doorstep -- since she allowed herself to just let go -- and they have yet to exchange a single word. She's not sure what he's thinking; she just knows that to indulge in memories of that night isn't something she can afford to do. The guilt owns her now, has skewed her perception so much that she's all but forgotten Roy's thoughtless indiscretion in the wake of her own betrayal -- which was anything but thoughtless or random...devoid of emotion.

The guilt is worsened by the inescapable realization that she aches far more deeply for the pain she caused Jim than for the possible damage she's inflicted on Roy. And that's as far as she'll let herself think.

Jim shifts impatiently in his chair, catching the distinctive scent of alcohol in the air; for a second he's distracted as he tries to place its exact derivation. Is that beer....? No, something stronger. Tequila? No.... Whiskey? Yes, that's what it is.

He casts a quick glance over to Meredith, who's sucking from a straw that stems from her Styrofoam cup; immediately the memory hits him -- Pam standing in front of him at the hotel, her fingers linked as she sways back and forth like a little girl, blurting, "Meredith said I have a nice rack."

Tilting his jaw slightly in an effort to stave off the memory of all that came after, he forces himself to focus on the speech Michael's so earnestly giving. After all, this is their first annual employee inservice (the term Michael’'s insisted they all use in lieu of "meeting"), and they're learning how to read body language.

"It's more apro…posic to call it an 'inservice'." Michael explains, pointing to where he's scrawled the word on the dry erase board behind him. "I mean, come on - all our meetings serve a truly valuable purpose."

Dwight appears behind his shoulder, asking gravely, "Then shouldn't we call it an 'inpurpose?'"

Michael tilts his chin to the side, his lips a thin line of impatience. "Shuu -- just -- you know what, Dwight? Maybe you should just stick to your...beets or whatever. You obviously don't know anything about motivational terminology."

Jim hears their voices in an echo, as if he's standing on the other side of a long tunnel, far removed from all that's going on around him. He’s felt like this for the better part of the week – strangely outside himself, numb.

Nothing has really evoked a reaction from him since the weekend before; even on Tuesday, when his car broke down on him in the middle of a busy intersection, smoke billowing from beneath the hood, he hadn’t felt much of anything. He’d simply dialed Jon on his cell, then called a tow truck as he waited for Jonathan to pick him up.

After seeing to it that his car was safely transported to the nearest shop, they'd stopped at Poor Richard’s for a drink.

"So...?" Jonathan studied his expression carefully.

"So...what?" Jim tipped his beer bottle back, taking a deep gulp.

"What's the deal with Pam? What'd she say to you on Monday?"

Jim's lips tightened into a smile that felt more like a grimace as Jonathan's innocent question hit him hard -- because he himself had fully expected her to say something...anything on Monday; he'd expected some reaction, given the magnitude of all that had happened. A few impulsive kisses at a resort were one thing; heated, out of control sex was entirely another - a mind-boggling departure from convincing Dwight that the people at M&M's wanted to use his beet juice as a replacement for their red dye, or relying on rock-paper-scissors to determine which one of them had to deal with Michael's latest personal crisis.

No, that night they turned a corner that he knows they’ll never be able to pretend away or tiptoe around.

But there had been absolutely nothing; she hadn't even so much as looked at him.

In spite of his will not to give too much away, his voice had been throaty, brittle as he'd answered, "Nothing."

"You're kidding, right?" Jonathan leaned forward, his eyes holding Jim's; something he saw there apparently answered the question for him, because he exhaled slowly, then rested heavily against the back of the booth. "Jesus, Jim."

"Yeah." Jim gripped the bottom of his bottle, staring blindly at the damp white cocktail napkin beneath it, his chest heavy, head starting to throb.

Jonathan was silent for several minutes, then: "So what're you gonna do?"

Jim's lips twitched, his eyes never leaving the well worn napkin; he struggled to sound normal when he answered, "Nothing -- I mean...what's there to do?"

Even though his head was bowed, he could feel Jonathan's eyes sweeping his expression. "You're not gonna confront her?"

Jim answered without looking up, offering a slight shrug. "Why would I do that? I think she's made herself pretty clear."

"Actually, no, she really hasn't." Jonathan took a deep gulp of his beer, and when next he spoke, his voice was strained with anger. "She makes out with you at a retreat, then makes you swear you'll forget about it -- okay, whatever. Then her fiance cheats on her, and her first response is to show up at your place? To sleep with you, then tell you it can't change anything? I mean, seriously, Jim...you're not pissed off?"

The question had struck Jim as strange, because in truth he'd been too drained to feel much of anything over the past few days. "What good would that do?"

Jonathan drew back, his eyebrows rising, his expression incredulous. "Are you seriously asking me that? It'd do a hell of a lot of good for you to just get mad for once. I mean, Jesus, Jim -- are you gonna let her treat this like it was just a...revenge thing? That she just used you to get back at Roy?"

"That's not what it was about." Jim's teeth clenched as he glanced up to meet Jonathan's eyes for a second before quickly looking away.

"Really?" Jonathan raised his eyebrows, drawing back, clearly challenging him.

"Know what? You need to let this go...now." Jim tipped his bottle back, draining the last of the beer before signaling to the waitress for their check.

"Fair enough." Jonathan nodded, pursing his lips, then looked pointedly at his brother. "But you don't."

*******

Michael's inservice has come to an end, and most of them return gratefully to their desks, the smile on Michael's face signifying his certainty that it was a success. Pam glances surreptitiously in Jim's direction -- sees that he's on a sales call -- and gets up, heading to the break room. It's been absolutely draining to be this vigilant, watching his every move while attempting to appear indifferent. But she's done it all week, because she's not about to risk being alone with him -- not that she's even sure he'd confront her if they were alone. Maybe it's just the haunting reverberations of all that they've shared hanging in the air around them that makes her frightened of facing him.

It hits her at the weirdest moments, the reality of just how grave the lines they've crossed truly are: When she watches from her desk as he gamely follows Michael into his office and listens to the latest dental hygienist story with a patience that masks the confusion and frustration Pam knows he's got to be feeling right now.

On Tuesday, when Phyllis had found out that her sister has breast cancer, and everyone was quick to gather around her -- but Jim hung back, waited until she went into the break room alone; then he stood, pausing for a split second before steadying himself with a breath, then striding through the door. Pam watched as he poured a cup of coffee, then joined Phyllis at the table; after a few seconds, his hand was covering hers. He'd given her a hug before they returned to the main area, and Pam had to look away, swallowing hard over the lump in her throat.

And then there was yesterday, when Toby had to bring in his two year-old daughter Sasha -- something about his wife having an emergency meeting that couldn't be rescheduled, and corporate mandating a conference call, which meant that Toby had no one to watch Sasha. Jim volunteered, extending a hand toward the little girl as if it was something he'd done before. Dwight scowled as Jim lifted Sasha onto his lap, opening a Word document so she could go to town on his keyboard, her belly laughs punctuated by Jim's own chuckles. When her eyelids grew heavy, he carried her to the sofa just adjacent to Pam's desk, averting his eyes as he lowered her small frame to the couch, then reached to take his coat from the coat rack, draping it carefully over her.

He'd been two feet from Pam's desk, yet not once had looked her way.

It's moments like those that make Pam very much aware of just how reckless she's been -- how cruel she'd been to him...how much he just doesn't deserve any of it.

The guilt is familiar to her now; she's become as adept at compartmentalizing it as she's gotten at avoiding his gaze, stealing glances at him only when she's sure he's not looking.

Jim is, of course, acutely aware of it when she slowly rises and makes her way to the break room, her head down; the impulse to follow her is as sudden as the sudden need to confront her. So he quickly ends his sales call, not thinking twice before he heads toward the break room.

Jim is, of course, acutely aware of it when she slowly rises and makes her way to the break room, her head down; the impulse to follow her is as sudden as is the need to confront her. So he quickly ends his sales call, not thinking twice before he follows her.

By the time he opens the door, she's sitting at the table, her head bowed, hands cupping a mug of hot tea; when he walks in, she’s slow to look up – jumping a little when she does, seeing it’s him. He knows from the panic behind her eyes that she's got no intention of really facing this. But no matter; he's at least got to somehow make her answer for it.

Because they can’t go on like this indefinitely. …At least, he can’t.

So he turns to face her, his back to the door, his fingers on the handle so that no one can come in. He lowers his gaze to the floor, breathing in deeply, struggling to remain in control...knowing that as long as they're alone in here, it'll be an uphill climb.

Without warning, his head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as they meet hers. "So are you gonna tell me what the hell's going on?"

She blinks, caught off guard; then she shakes her head slowly, averting her eyes. "I don't...."

He watches, feeling almost as if the bile's rising in his throat; the mere thought that she'd try to be evasive after all that's happened is enough to make him lose his temper -- which he rarely does.

It takes him a minute to collect himself, then he raises his head, piercing her with a direct stare. "So...what? It was just a revenge thing? Your way of getting back at Roy?"

She's shocked that he's even broached the subject -- to say nothing of the accusation he's making. She knows she should be angry -- furious -- at him for accusing her of just using him, but she's not; the overriding emotion is a sharp stab of guilt that he could possibly think he means that little to her.

But she can't say that -- isn't ready to face that. "What -- no!"

He draws back in surprise, their eyes meeting. She's never seen him like this -- desperate, angry...obviously so far beyond the point of pretending.

It's a realization that's nothing short of terrifying for her.

"Then what was it?" He can see that she's stunned and upset and above all else panicked, but he's not willing to let this go. "What, were you just taking the old get it out of my system approach?"

In spite of herself, there are tears hovering in her eyes now -- and not just because he's pushing her, but because she knows that she's pushed him to this point. She wishes she didn't pick up so clearly on the hurt and the fear hovering behind the anger in his expression.

Her voice is softer when she answers. "No, it wasn't like that...not at all."

He nods once, his jaw tensing; his grip tightens on the door latch as he places his other hand on the counter top, leaning heavily against it. His voice is hoarse, throaty when he asks, "Then what...was it?"

There's something intimate in his voice -- something desperate, raw -- that hits her hard; she lowers her eyes to the scuffed linoleum floor, swallowing once, twice, a third time in an attempt to stave off the tears. She can't answer his question, and she knows that; she knows, too, that the answer is buried somewhere in her consciousness...that to allow it to surface would irrevocably alter her carefully planned life.

So she whispers back, "I told you...I told you that things couldn't change."

His jaw muscle jumps as he nods quickly, then tilts his chin to the ceiling. He doesn't look at her when he asks bitterly, "So that's it?"

She feels a sudden flash of anger at the way he's pushing her -- even though on some level, she knows he's justified. Still there's a protective instinct that kicks in, replacing the raw ache with bitter frustration...because if she's learned anything from this mess, it's that bitterness and anger are much easier to handle than the raw emotion she feels whenever she looks at him, hears his voice...really thinks about all that's happened between them.

"What do you expect me to do?" She suddenly demands, then quickly holds up a hand -- because he looks like he just might answer – repeating in a hissing whisper, "I told you nothing could change!"

He doesn't move for almost a full minute -- doesn't flinch, doesn't blink, doesn't take his eyes off hers. She’s flushing beneath his piercing stare; it's as if he can see right through her -- as if he knows that she's doing all she can just to keep it together.

Because history and tradition and guilt bear a weight that's deceptively heavy in its urgency.

So she forces herself to stand her ground, staring back at him almost defiantly, wondering if he's noticing the way her lips are twitching, her eyebrows straining with the effort it's taking to stave off the tears.

He could swear she wants him to push her a little further; he's almost certain that she's flinching under the weight of hiding from him, lying to him -- if that's what she's doing.

But she's made herself more than clear, and he's not willing to gamble at his own expense again.

So he simply purses his lips bitterly, nods once, then turns his back to her. Just before he opens the door, he hesitates, glancing at her over his shoulder.

"You were wrong." His voice is gravelly as he meets her eyes one last time. "Everything's changed."

*******

She's washing dishes, staring out the window above her kitchen sink, ignoring the tears that are streaking her cheeks. It's a strange game she's begun to play in the three weeks since she and Jim obliterated the lines: she ignores the barrage of emotions that assault her throughout the day -- anger, shame, frustration, guilt, desire, emptiness, regret....

And so much more than that.

He hasn't looked at her or spoken to her since that day two and a half weeks earlier when he'd confronted her in the break room. She feels haunted, unable to even locate which ghost is the worst: the shredded look in his eyes as he'd said, "Everything's changed"; the feel of his mouth on hers, skin to skin, his voice a breathy whisper in her ear; or the spectre he presents as he walks in each day, head down, eyes heavy, mouth drawn as he steadfastly avoids her gaze -- avoids everyone's gaze.

So she's taken to doing the only thing she knows to do -- following his lead, keeping her head down, misery crowding her thoughts from the moment she steps into the office to the second she leaves it. And it's as if her body has some internal means of gauging when she can get away with breaking down; doing the dishes has, oddly enough, become her moment of solitude, when she can let go just a little without having to really answer for it.

Roy has been amazing -- kind, cautious, obviously attuned to her needs; he's particularly impressed her with his ability to discern when she wants to be left alone, when she needs her space, or when she needs his company, needs that familiar smile to offer her reassurance - however transient - that she's not making a huge mistake. She's still sleeping in the guest room, hasn't let him even come close enough to touch her; it's getting harder and harder to fool herself into believing that the complete and utter indifference she feels toward him have nothing to do with Jim.

She knows, of course, that Roy''s motivated by his own guilt -- that maybe this is all useless anyway, given the fact that his efforts to win her back are so horribly blind; that he has no idea about her indiscretion.

Still, it's remarkably easy to convince herself that the kindest thing to do -- the best thing to do -- is to keep it all to herself. She's meant to marry Roy; what she shared with Jim was a brief flash, an interlude from real life -- not a viable option in the realm of the everyday.

**

At Jon’s prodding, Jim asks Elizabeth out a second time, even though absolutely nothing feels right about doing so. They go to a quiet restaurant that she'd suggested, the candle on the table unnerving him almost as much as the way she’s so obviously trying to hold eye contact with him.

Worse than that is the fact that she's really a beautiful girl -- long dark hair that's an intriguing contrast to her striking blue eyes; cheekbones pronounced in a way that makes him almost want to reach out and run a finger along their contours; full lips and an amazing smile that's quick to appear as she laughs at his jokes.

She's perfect and he knows it; he'd be crazy not to capitalize on the momentum here -- he knows that, too -- but he can't shake the feeling of being oddly removed from her, as if he's in prison and she's on the other side of the glass, their conversation stilted by the palpable distance.

This time when they're at the stoop of her apartment building, he takes her cue -- the way she's looking from his eyes to his lips and back up again -- leaning in to cautiously press his mouth against hers. Again he's aware of the disconnect, as if this is a science project -- an experiment to see if kissing her will shake the haze of numbness that seems to have settled over him.

She responds immediately, slipping her arms around him as she shifts closer, her hands sinking into his hair. Her reaction sends the unmistakable message that she's more than willing to take this inside; his lack of reaction is utterly unnerving.

So he pulls back, fumbling awkwardly as he slips his hands from her jaw to her neck to her shoulders before resting them on her upper arms, gently urging her away from him as he forces a smile.

Because he can't think of anything to say, he simply sucks in a deep breath and murmurs, "Wow."

She giggles, ducking her head, then: "Yeah...wow."

He offers her a tight-lipped smile, then: "So...I need to get going."

"You don't have to." The words are quick, almost as if she hadn't intended to say them -- but at the same time, she really doesn't seem to regret what she said.

It takes him a second to to respond, and when he does, the words are slow, cautious -- because while he knows without a doubt that he just can't do this, he doesn't want to hurt her feelings. "Yeah...actually, I really do."

He watches as she struggles to process his reaction - her brows knitting for a second, eyes lowering; then she lifts her chin purposefully, looking him in the eye as she asks in a tremulous voice that doesn't match her confident smile, "So...can we just be honest here?"

He nods, feeling strangely panicked, as if her simple question has eradicated his tenuously constructed facade.

She, too, nods, then takes a steadying breath. "Is this happening, or...? Because I don't know if Jonathan told you, but...I'm not so much into wasting time. …So to speak."

He's surprised by how direct she is, then is immediately disgusted with himself for starting to think that if only Pam were this brave....

But he can feel her eyes on him as she waits for his response, so he forces a tight smile, his eyes on the concrete as he murmurs, "I'm really sorry, Elizabeth...."

The silence that follows prompts him to lift his head; she's nodding slowly, her expression colored with unmistakable disappointment.

Then she smiles brightly at him. "Hey – no need to apologize. I mean…I appreciate your being honest."

He doesn't even have time to respond before she turns, striding into her apartment building and closing the door behind her.

He knows what this means, is well aware of just what it signifies that he blew this opportunity and doesn't even feel the least bit sorry about it. It's weird, actually, because even though he’s gripped with that familiar numbness, there's a quickening sense of panic hovering beneath.

*******

Roy insists on making dinner for her - a gesture that makes her distinctly uncomfortable, even though she's reluctantly agreed. He even surprises her by producing a bottle of wine – quite the departure from his usual six-pack.

They eat at the kitchen table for the first time in literally close to two years -- their usual dining routine involving TV trays in the living room -- and he even lights the candles she'd long since put down as a centerpiece. His eyes meet hers throughout their stilted conversation, and on some level she knows that this is what she's ever wanted for such a long time -- for him to look at her this way, his hunger palpable; for him to really listen to her, appearing genuinely invested in what she has to say; for them to share a meal that's peppered with conversation and meaningful looks instead of ESPN announcers and commercials that blare far too loudly.

After dinner, she ignores the pull in her gut, letting him step up behind her as she stands in front of the sink rinsing their dishes. She has to force herself not to give in to the instinctive urge to jerk away when she feels his breath warm on her neck, his lips not far behind. It's the sudden revulsion she feels that panics her -- the completely alarming clarity of the realization that he's not Jim enough to make her squirm, turning in his embrace so that she's facing him.

But he misinterprets her move, taking it as her way of signifying that she’s feeling it, too; his lips find hers as he pulls her closer. For a split second she debates pushing him away, then reasons that it’s better to go with this – to give it an honest try. So she slides her arms around his neck the way she's done so many times over the past seven years -- yet she's distracted by the feel of his coarse curls beneath her fingers...so different from Jim's softer hair.

It's the guilt that spurs her on, coupled with confusion and a healthy dose of panic. She tells herself that the only way to get things to make sense again is to try to erase Jim's touch, his presence -- to go back to the way it had been before the very center of her world had dissolved in on itself.

It's not long before she's naked in bed with Roy...the man to whom she's still engaged, the first man she'd ever been with -- but no longer the only one.

She shuts her eyes, praying the tears don't slide down her cheeks, wondering how she'll explain them if they do. The guilt she'd seen coming; the regret, even, had been predictable. But this? The almost violently acute awareness that she feels almost violated by Roy's touch? That the reason why she feels that way is simply because he's not Jim...?

Totally unexpected, absolutely unwelcome...empirical evidence that Jim was right: What happened between them has changed everything; it's changed her irrevocably.

He's kissing her neck in a futile attempt at foreplay when she suddenly stiffens beneath his touch, twisting away from him as she emits a strangled, "No...no."

He pulls back, breathing heavily, his eyes unfocused. "Babe…what is it?"

She shakes her head, biting her lip to stave off the tears. All she can think of is the way Jim had reached for her hand in the darkness that night, his fingers intertwining with hers, his head bowing almost reverently, their eyes meeting.

It’s then that she realizes the magnitude of just how cruel she’d been to let it happen – to lead him on, give him false hope -- only to tell him to forget it all. For the first time she really sees just how and why he believes she used him to get back at Roy.

Just the thought that he might truly believe that -- that he does believe it -- makes her throat seize up, tears filling her eyes.

Her voice is choked when she answers, "I don't want -- I can't do this."

She doesn't finish, because the tears take over, sliding down her cheeks, choking her throat as she misses Jim with a ferocity that makes her feel so completely alone.

"Babe, c'mon...." Roy pulls back, his brows knit in concern. She has to give him credit for being patient with her; if he's feeling even a hint of frustration, he's not letting it show.

He shakes his head, takes in a deep breath, then: "We gotta...get past this. I mean, I -- I know it's gonna be hard for you to.... But we have to move on, baby -- and you gotta believe that you're the only woman I want. Are you listening? The only woman I -- "

All she can do is shake her head furiously; the last thing she sees before she suddenly flings the sheet back, jumping out of the bed, is Roy's expression -- so confused, so concerned.

Still she stumbles blindly to the bathroom, the reality of her life settling on her shoulders like brick and mortar: I've made a huge mistake; I can't marry him. He's not who I want...and he never will be again.

She sinks down heavily to the side of the tub, dizzy from the weight of the realization. Because she has to follow it through -- all the way; there's simply nothing else she can do...nothing else she's willing to do.

Ten minutes later she emerges to find Roy sitting on the side of the bed, his head bowed. He immediately straightens when he hears her approach, hope in his eyes tempered by a very palpable fear.

She sits gingerly next to him, clutching the towel she'd wrapped around herself while in the bathroom, pulling it tighter against her torso. Her eyes are on the floor, and she's acutely aware of her own breathing as she attempts to steady herself.

Then: "I can't do this."

He immediately exhales, shaking his head slightly. "Pam...don't say that; look, we can get past this -- I know we can. You just have to -- "

"It's not because of...that." She's still not looking at him, her eyes fixed on a well worn corner of the carpet.

In her peripheral vision she sees him draw back slightly. "Then what is it?"

Her posture doesn't change, nor does her tone as she answers flatly, her eyes fixed unseeingly on the carpet beneath her bare feet, "I slept with Jim."

It takes him a few seconds to process what she's said, and when he actually does, he seems almost delirious, shaking his head in disbelief. "What....?"

She slowly raises her eyes, scanning his face -- his cheeks flushed, chest heaving as she continues. "It happened, and I can't -- "

"Wait a second -- " He stumbles to his feet, shaking his head again as he holds up a hand. "What the hell are you....?"

She doesn't answer, because she knows the question's just rhetorical, a symptom of the fact that he's clearly still struggling to comprehend what she's just told him.

He's silent for a few seconds, then, his voice low, jaw tilted slightly: "Pam…this isn’t funny."

She stares back at him, ignoring the quivering in her stomach as she wonders dully if he could actually believe she’d make a joke like that – and then she realizes that it’s his way of delaying the inevitable.

So she turns to face him, the ache in her chest intensifying at how completely confused and devastated he looks. As she studies his expression, it occurs to her that what he’s feeling is probably a fraction of what Jim’s gone through in the last three weeks -- probably longer.

In the wake of her silence, he whispers, "Pam, I’m serious."

"So am I." She stands her ground, staring sadly at him, her eyes answering the silent question that lingers in his.

He stands there almost gaping at her in disbelief for several long, uncomfortable seconds, then he suddenly turns away, one arm lifting, his hand moving toward the back of his head before it drops again.

Then he spins to face her, his face flushed. "What - were you just trying to get back at me, or ---"

"No." She looks him in the eye when she answers. "It wasn't that."

He blinks slowly, his lips parting as another visible wave of shock seems to crash over him; he swallows hard before he asks throatily, "Then what was it?"

Her vision blurs in time with the twisting ache that's rising from her center to her chest to her throat -- because it's as if she knows the answer to his question; she's beginning to feel as if that answer is imprinted on the marrow of her bones...relentless, inescapable.

And she's almost afraid to let it drift to the surface.

"Pam -- "

"I'm in love with him." She blurts, the words shocking her as much as they apparently shock Roy. Her eyes flutter, one hand absently rising to finger her necklace, even as in her peripheral vision she sees Roy almost stumbling in a circle.

It's over now, and she knows it; the relief is tinged with guilt...because he's obviously reeling.

And Jim…god, Jim.

Then in the flash of an instant, Roy's shock morphs into full-on rage: "Are you kidding me, Pam!?"

He’s never yelled at her this way before, and it’s just another reminder of the difference between him and Jim. Because when she hurt Jim this same way -- running away that night a few weeks earlier, telling him it couldn't change anything -- he hadn't lost his temper, hadn't sworn at her or raised his voice like Roy just did.

He'd just whispered, "Please don’t do this."

She's jarred back to reality, feeling as if she's spinning out of control as she watches with wide eyes while Roy strides toward the dresser, yanking open a drawer and seizing a pair of jeans, then reaching into the next one to grab a few tee-shirts. Then he stalks to the closet, snatching a duffel bag, shoving random items into it in tense silence for what surely must be mere minutes, yet they seem to drag on interminably.

She knows she should at least offer up something -- a weak protest, a muffled apology -- but all she can do is stand there in the corner of the room, her fingers covering the charm on her necklace, watching and waiting, very much aware that in doing so -- in doing nothing -- she's dismantling the last vestiges of the relationship she's spent almost half her life cultivating

Still, when the door slams behind him, she’s grateful for the silence.

She’d envisioned herself approaching him as soon as he walked in the door Monday morning – catching his hand, leading him into the break room and telling him how sorry she is, what a mistake it was to be so cruel to him…to ask him to pretend it hadn’t mattered, when god….

It had changed her life, simple as that.

But courage has never been one of her strong suits, and she knows it; so she averts her eyes when he walks through the door, swallowing over the burning knot in her throat as in her peripheral vision he slowly takes his messenger’s bag from his shoulder, draping it across the back of his chair. The gesture is as familiar to her as the way Roy’s fists clench during a particularly intense football game, his body shifting so he’s literally on the edge of his seat.

She spends the day vacillating between gumption and hesitation – telling herself she needs to just stand up, walk over to his desk, and ask him if they can talk; that it’s as easy as getting him alone so she can apologize, tell him that she gets it now…how wrong she was to sleep with him and then expect him to act like it was nothing.

But she can’t escape the nagging fear that he might not be willing to even hear it now; that maybe he’s past the point of going back now…of granting her redemption for that night. After all, he hasn't even looked at her since that afternoon in the break room. So she remains silent, staring blindly at her computer screen, the cyber cards dealt before her evoking absolutely no reaction.

At the end of the afternoon she lingers, fumbling with her mouse, the folder of faxes on her desk unattended; all the while she's glancing at him surreptitiously, very much aware of how alone they are – only Toby remaining, sequestered somewhere in the Annex.

But Jim makes no move to leave, and even though she spends the better part of half an hour attempting to convince herself to say something, she remains silent, waiting for him to make a move.

Her heartbeat quickens when he suddenly stands – but then he disappears into the Annex, presumably in search of Toby. So she gives up, shutting down her computer and slinging her purse over her shoulder in a gesture of defeat as she reaches for her coat, her head bowed.

***

He’s chatting with Toby about nonsensical things – the weather, football, the recent price hike on card stock – when his cell phone buzzes. He glances down, relieved to see Jon’s text: on my way.

So he stands, gesturing to his phone as he tells Toby, "I gotta get going - my brother's on his way to pick me up."

"Is your car in the shop again?" Toby asks, looking up at him.

"Yeah - apparently what they thought was wrong with it before wasn't the whole deal." Jim shrugs noncommitally, because really, his car troubles have been the least of his worries these days. "I should be able to pick it up by tomorrow afternoon, they said."

Toby nods, then: "Well if you ever need a ride, don't hesitate to give me a call. Besides, I owe you for watching Sasha the other week."

Jim smiles back at him. "Thanks - and really, I'm glad to watch her any time; she's the coolest little kid. Did I tell you what she said when I asked her how old she is?"

Toby immediately grins. "No...what'd she say?"

Jim purses his lips, thinking back: "She held up both hands, all five fingers -- claimed she's ten."

Toby chuckles, nodding knowingly. "Yeah...we've been working with her on the whole how-old-am-I thing, but she's really more interested in farm animals."

Jim laughs. "Well, I did ask her if she wanted to try again -- and when she did, she held up three fingers. So she knows the deal."

They laugh together, and Jim's almost painfully envious for a split second -- because he can only imagine being where Toby is: settled and happy, fully realized in a way that he himself just glaringly isn't.

Still, he's grateful for the little things, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of Pam's empty desk when he steps into the lobby. Later it'll strike him as odd that he'd been so acutely aware that afternoon of the way everything was just as it always had been – the realization oddly comforting him as he'd taken the elevator down, stepping off, bidding Charlie – the wizened old security guard – good night, then pushing open the glass doors, striding out into the cold air, gray clouds hanging heavy in the sky.

Before he has time to settle in and lean against the wall to wait for Jonathan, he hears his name: "Halpert!"

He turns quickly, his eyes resting on Roy, his brain immediately registering what this means even as he stiffens, standing a little straighter. Something in the way that Roy’s striding purposefully toward him – jaw set, eyes holding his – doesn’t bode well. Still, all he can do is stand there and watch, feeling strangely as if he's suspended in time.

And then it's as if everything goes all too quickly from languid to erratic, as Roy’s suddenly in front of him, yelling, "What the fuck did you do?"

His eyes widen as he realizes that Pam must have told Roy what happened…all that happened.

He forces himself to stand his ground, averting his eyes as he moves to take a step forward - fully intending to head in the opposite direction, to walk away from this. Because it won't end well no matter what, and he knows that; after all, the sad fact is that she'll never leave Roy, regardless of who kicks whose ass.

Still, Roy takes a step toward him, his body blocking Jim’s in a gesture that only exacerbates the simmering anger in Jim’s gut.

"I'm not gonna do this." Jim's voice is gritty as he lifts his head, looking Roy in the eye. He's only been in one fight his whole life, not counting those with Jonathan, and it had been with Jason Greer in third grade, over a taunt involving the label "sissy" -- or something equally stupid.

Even as he eyes Roy steadily, he's pretty sure Roy's got more experience than he does in this arena. But at the same time, the anger is enough to give him confidence, his gaze not wavering from Roy's.

"You fucking prick." Roy's teeth are clenched, his cheeks flushed.

And then it's as if his conscious, rational thought patterns are replaced with a bone-scorching anger that catches him off guard in its intensity.

He exhales through his nose, the rush of breath culminating in a half-scoff, half sneer as he remarks sarcastically, "Interesting. So what the hell do you consider yourself? I mean, if you hadn't fucked around on her in the first place, she wouldn't have -- "

Just as it occurs to him that it'd probably be a good idea for him to shut the hell up, Roy’s fist slams into his face – hitting his jaw so hard that his teeth sink painfully into his bottom lip, his head snapping violently to the side as the salty, metallic taste of blood fills his mouth.

And that's all it takes for him to let the unadulterated frustration and rage take over -- because it's absolutely infuriating to him that Roy would dare to come after him, when Roy had done nothing for years but ignore her, treat her like an afterthought. Jim's angrier still that she would choose to stay with this guy instead of just being brave enough to take a chance on him...to have the guts to go with what he's almost certain she really wants.

Without even thinking twice Jim swings, landing a punch squarely on Roy’s upper left cheek, his knuckles grazing Roy's eye. Roy stumbles back a few steps, one hand covering the left side of his face as he swears under his breath; it only takes him a few seconds, though, to shake it off -- and then he's staring at Jim, his body dangerously tensed before he lunges forward, one of his fists ramming painfully into Jim's ribs, knocking the breath out of him.

As he gasps for breath, wondering how in the hell this thing is going to end - when one of them is unconscious? - Darryl appears from the front door of the warehouse - breaking into a jog when he realizes what's happening. In no time at all, he's caught up to Roy, grabbing him roughly by the arm and dragging him back. "Roy! What the hell you doing, man? You wanna get your ass fired?"

Behind them, Jon's car pulls into a parking place. Jim watches warily as Jonathan steps out of the car, squinting in their direction; when he ascertains the scene, he - like Darryl had - slams the car door behind him, rushing to where they're standing -- Darryl still holding Roy, Jim breathing heavily, swiping intermittently at the blood trickling from his rapidly swelling lip, his sleeve stained a deep crimson.

Just as Jon approaches, a little out of breath, Roy points at Jim. "It's not over!"

Before Jim can respond, Darryl tightens his grip on Roy's arm, leaning close to say in a firm voice, "It damn sure better be over if you wanna keep your job. You listening to me? You can't be pulling shit like this on company property!"

Roy jerks free, waving a hand in frustration as he stalks to his truck. Darryl gives Jim a wary, slightly quizzical glance, one eyebrow cocked, before he follows Roy.

Jonathan waits until Darryl talks Roy into throwing him his keys, then gets into the driver's side of the truck while Roy heads sullenly to the passenger's seat before they quickly pull out of the parking lot.

Only then does he turn his eyes to his brother, who's cupping his hand beneath his bleeding, swelling lip, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. "You okay?"

Jim nods quickly, still struggling to get his breath, the pain in his ribs searing every time he tries to inhale.

Jonathan watches him quietly for a few seconds then: "Okay, so -- what the hell, Jim...?"

Jim's irritated - his lip throbbing, head pounding, ribs aching -- looking away as he snaps, "What the hell's it look like?"

Jon gives him a pointed stare. "Oh, I don't know -- like you're ten years old, maybe?"

Jim shakes his head, bending forward slightly as he again wipes the blood from his lip. "Shut up."

But Jonathan's not willing to let it go. "Seriously, Jim -- what the hell are you doing? Fist fights in the parking lot? I mean -- come on."

Jim straightens, looking Jon in the eye for a few long seconds, then: "Let it go."

"Right." Jon nods sarcastically, but Jim cuts him short.

"I'm not kidding."

Their eyes meet again; Jonathan shakes his head incredulously before shrugging, then saying hesitantly, "Whatever you say...."

They don't speak on the way to Jim's apartment, and when they arrive, Jim glances in Jon's direction without meeting his eyes, asking gruffly, "You wanna come in for a beer?"

"Sure."

The tense silence stretches on as they sit side by side on Jim's couch, absently watching a re-run of a 1995 Indianapolis Colts game on ESPN Classic, intermittently taking swigs from their bottles of beer.

"I forgot about Jim Harbaugh." Jon says, nodding toward the TV as the Colts' quarterback launches another pass.

"Yeah." Jim breathes in deeply, ignoring the fact that his lip throbs whenever he takes a drink. So he gives up, holding the cool bottle against his lip, closing his eyes as he murmurs, "He was really good."

Another silence falls, and Jim slowly becomes aware of Jon's eyes on his face, scanning his profile.

Then Jon remarks casually, "So...that was Roy, huh?"

Jim nods, opening his eyes and tilting his chin slightly as he answers bitterly, the words muffled by the bottle he's still resting against his lip, "Yeah...the one and only."

Jonathan smiles a little sadly, then: "He looks exactly like I pictured him."

Jim snorts, not quite able to muster a laugh, his eyes glued to the screen.

In the wake of Jim's silence, Jon hesitates before he asks quietly, "So...you okay?"

"Yeah. I think my ribs are just bruised."

Jonathan nods, then: "Good - but that's not what I meant."

Jim's eyes meet his for a second before he quickly looks away, nodding as he emits a long sigh. "Yeah....it's just...god, everything's so fucked up."

Jonathan nods sympathetically, lifting his eyebrows. "You could say that."

Jim chuckles, tilting his head and raising his bottle. "That you could."

They exchange a grin, then turn their eyes back to the screen; it's a pivotal shift in the game, but neither Jim nor Jonathan is really paying attention.

Instead, Jon suddenly asks, "So...what're you gonna do now?"

Jim responds without looking away from the television, his voice deadpan: "Start working out?"

Jon laughs as Jim smiles, then he waits for Jim to answer the question. When he doesn't, Jonathan prods, "Seriously."

Jim sucks in a deep breath, then shakes his head slightly, mumbling, "Nothing. ...There's nothing I can do."

Jonathan nods slowly, registering Jim's answer, then asks cautiously, "But aren't you curious about why she told him?"

"No." Jim takes another gulp.

"I'm serious, Jim." Jonathan leans forward, setting his empty beer bottle on the coffee table with a heavy clink. "What if she told him about it because she was breaking up with him? What if she told him because she wants to give it a shot with you?"

Jim chuckles bitterly, suddenly standing to lift Jon's empty beer bottle from the table and striding toward the kitchen as he answers over his shoulder, "Because if that were the case, I'm pretty sure she'd have said something. It's guilt, Jon - that's all. I know Pam, and I know how she thinks -- she felt like she had to come clean with him to really make things work."

He pauses, his steps slowing, then adds, "You want another beer?"

"Sure." Jonathan answers, mulling over all that Jim has told him.

When Jim comes back with two fresh bottles, handing one to him, Jon asks suddenly, "What if you're wrong?"

Jim's not sure why the question makes his chest tighten; all he knows is that he can't afford to go down that road. So he answers gruffly, "I'm not. ...Listen, I'm gonna go take a shower."

"You want me to stay and hang out?" Jonathan knows the answer before Jim even nods, looking away.

"Yeah."

*******

She's sitting on the sofa, absently clutching a throw pillow to her chest, a ratty old afghan covering her legs as she watches Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. It's become something of a welcome distraction for her, the episodes so engrossing that for those forty-two minutes, she can completely lose herself. And fortunately for her, it's not hard to find an episode at any given time slot, any day of the week.

The key in the lock startles her; she immediately straightens, shoving the afghan aside impatiently before she fumbles with the remote, shutting the TV off just as the door opens and Roy appears.

She stands to face him, prepared for an argument, an ugly confrontation - but instead she's distracted by the unmistakeable purple bruise coloring his cheekbone, swatches of color streaking beneath his eye as well.

"Oh my god." She blurts, prompting him to look at the floor, then shake his head in annoyance as she asks, "What happened to you?"

He waves her question off. "I'm just...here to get some clothes."

She watches as he stalks down the hall to the bedroom, then she sinks back onto the couch, aware of the faint sound of drawers opening and then slamming shut in impatience. So he and Kenny must've gone out and gotten into another of their bar fights.... It's strange -- kind of a relief -- not to have to worry about that anymore.

Roy emerges from the bedroom with a gym bag over his shoulder -- but he doesn't head straight for the door; instead, he moves to stand in front of her, those blue eyes piercing into her own, his lips a thin line.

She's caught off guard by the intensity of his gaze, but before she can even begin to figure out what's going on, he suddenly demands, "So why the hell'd you tell Halpert our business?"

The question sends a ripple of fear and shock down her spine as she suddenly realizes what's happened. When she responds, it's in a whisper, his question disregarded. "Oh my god...did Jim do that to you?"

He seems disgusted by her question. "What fucking difference does it make?"

His response clearly gives her the answer she'd sought, and her breath catches, her mind working too quickly for the thoughts to even really register -- oh my god, is Jim okay? How did it happen? How much did Jim tell him? Where is he now?

He's watching her face, obviously growing more impatient by the second, then: "Pam. I asked you a goddamned question -- answer it."

Something in his tone - or maybe it's the statement itself - hits her just so, evoking a flash of anger. "Don't fucking talk to me like that."

He draws back in surprise, even as she herself is shocked; it had been a gut reaction, totally uncharacteristic of her. But it feels good to be standing here staring at him defiantly in the aftermath.

She watches as he struggles to come up with a suitable response before settling on, "Whatever."

He slams the door so hard that she almost feels the reverberations in her gut. For the longest time she stands there in her living room, one hand over her mouth as she fully lets herself drown in the memories for the first time, really.

And then it hits her: What if he's not okay? What if Roy really hurt him?

She doesn't even hesitate before snatching up her keys, the door slamming behind her as she makes her way into the cold night air.

When she knocks on his door, the sound of her own knuckles rapping sharply against the wood is so unexpectedly shrill that she jumps, snatching her hand back and shoving it into her coat pocket, a plastic grocery bag hanging limply in her other hand. It's insane to worry that he'll actually be mean to her, she tells herself, even though he has every right to slam the door in her face. Or not even answer it in the first place, leave her standing out here beneath the sky that's heavy with clouds, threatening snow.

Her eyes close with the weight of all she can't escape now; one hand finds its way to her forehead as she concentrates on breathing in, out.

The door suddenly swings open, and she's face-to-face with Jonathan, who's obviously shocked to see her -- though his shock quickly settles into an almost resigned wariness. It occurs to her then that Jon might well be here because Jim really is hurt.

Her voice is breathless with panic as she asks, not even saying hello first, "Is he okay?"

Jonathan nods, scanning her expression as he takes a step back, opening the door wider. "C'mon in."

When she hesitates, he gives her a small, knowing smile. "He's in the shower, so it's just you and me for now."

She blushes furiously, wondering how much Jim has told him - or how much Jonathan has ascertained on his own. As she follows him inside, an unexpected deluge of memories sweeps over her, and she has to struggle not to let herself get lost in the current of all that had happened last time she was here.

She perches uneasily on the couch next to Jonathan, wishing he wasn't studying her so closely; it's unnerving, as if he might just read her mind.

"So do you know what happened?" She asks, her eyes meeting his.

He tilts his head slightly. "Which thing are you talking about - the fight or...everything else?"

She blushes again. "The fight."

It occurs to her then how utterly ridiculous it is to be sitting here asking him about a fist fight; it's like high school all over again.

"Mm." Jon nods, looking uncharacteristically serious; usually he's more effusive with her than this -- teasing her, making her laugh. She wouldn't go so far as to say he's being stand-offish, but he's most definitely reserved; she also gets the sense there's something he wants to say.

He gives a half-hearted shrug as he answers her question: "I got there at the tail end of it."

Then he shifts, sitting up a little straighter. "Actually, I figured you'd know more than I would."

Her eyes widen. "Why would I...?"

His gaze is steady, his voice strangely calm. "Well, apparently you told Roy what happened, so...."

She feels the heat in her face yet again, averting her eyes; before she can respond, he asks suddenly, "So why'd you tell him?"

"What?" She glances up in surprise, further caught off guard at the way his eyes are narrowed, his stare so pointed.

"Why'd you tell him?" He repeats, then corrects himself. "Actually, you know what? Forget that -- what I'd really like to know is why you let it all happen in the first place."

Their eyes hold for a second, and they both know that the "it" he's talking about isn't the fight.

She swallows, lowering her eyes again as she shakes her head slightly. "Look, Jonathan, I just -- I don't really...."

Her voice trails off, because she doesn't want to have to actually say that she's not entirely comfortable talking about this with him -- especially not when he's looking at her the way that he is: so serious, so controlled. And then she realizes it: He's angry at me for what I did.

As if to confirm her thought, Jonathan fires another question at her.

"What exactly is it you want from him? Can I ask you that? Because what you're doing -- " He waves his hands almost dismissively, as if to say he can't even begin to imagine how to articulate what it is she's doing. "...it's not right."

"What're you talking about?" The anger's creeping up on her now.

He pauses, his eyes sweeping her face - clearly picking up on her impatience, her frustration; still, he doesn't flinch, doesn't look away as he answers, "I'm talking about using Jim as your...I don't know, go-to guy whenever Roy -- "

"It's not like that." She cuts him off, her voice low as she glances in the direction of Jim's bedroom.

"It's not?" Jon tilts his head, eyebrows rising. It's the same expression Jim gets when he's skeptical -- when he's challenging her on something. "Then what is it, Pam?"

She shakes her head, tucking her bangs behind her ear when they fall in her eyes. There's another silence as she debates exactly how to answer that, then: "It's not.... I broke up with Roy over a week ago."

He's obviously shocked by what she's told him, then asks -- knowing the answer as soon as the question's out of his mouth, "Does Jim know?"

She shrugs, then, "Probably not; I haven't told him. ...Unless Roy said something earlier, when...."

She doesn't finish, and Jonathan murmurs, "No, he didn't say anything." He pauses, then: "So why'd you break up with him?"

The answer resonates in her mind immediately; she remembers blurting to Roy, "I'm in love with him." But she's not sure she's ready to be brave enough to admit that to Jonathan.

So she averts her gaze, answering evasively. "I just - Roy's not...the one."

It's a stupid, cliched answer and she knows it -- just as she knows he'll call her on it.

He surprises her, though, by instead studying her face closely, glancing over his shoulder before he leans forward, turning his eyes back to hers. "Look, if it has anything at all to do with Jim -- "

"It has everything to do with him." The words slip out of her mouth, and for some reason, just saying them aloud to Jonathan -- one step closer to Jim -- makes her feel like she's going to cry. Or maybe it's the look on his face -- he seems shocked at first, then it's as if a slow but startling realization dawns on him, his entire expression changing as she goes on. "And it's not like what you said - I'm not...just using him, and I don't -- "

She stops abruptly, because she knows if she keeps going she'll end up crying, and she can't do that, because Jim's likely to appear at any moment.

Jonathan's quiet for a few seconds, and when next he speaks, there's something gentle in his tone that matches the warmth that's settled over his features. "Pam, this whole...Roy's not the one thing -- is it because you think Jim...might be?"

The question is so direct - what he's inferred so true - that all she can do is nod, her brows knit as he exhales loudly.

"You need to make sure he gets that." His tone is firm, those eyes holding hers. "You've gotta start talking, because he doesn't -- "

He's interrupted by Jim's voice echoing from the hall as he rounds the corner: "Hey, you wanna order some Chinese? Soup actually sounds -- "

He stops short when he sees Pam, the immediate shock quickly giving way to a wariness that slips over his expression. She jumps to her feet, facing him only to see that he's wearing those all-too familiar plaid pajama bottoms, his chest bare. Her eyes stray from his split, slightly swollen lip, falling to the deep magenta-colored bruise that's situated on his ribs.

"Oh my god." She blurts, inadvertently covering her mouth with her hand.

He doesn't respond at first because he's not sure what to say; he feels strangely caught -- vulnerable, almost naked or something -- as he looks away from her, murmuring, "It's...fine."

She takes a step toward him, vaguely aware that Jonathan has stood and is moving around behind her. Even though she'd come here knowing Jim would've likely taken a punch or two, actually seeing the bruises is shocking.

She's still reeling even as she repeats, "Oh my god -- are your ribs broken?"

Without thinking first she reaches out, but he surprises her by drawing back, as if he doesn't want her to even touch him. The pain in her chest is quick, sharp.

He looks away, struggling to ignore the way her face had fallen when he pulled back, trying to separate himself from the reality that he's just hurt her. He tells himself he shouldn't care, that she deserves it -- but still, the guilt is immediate and heavy...inescapable.

It's why his voice is strained as he answers flatly, "No."

A tense silence falls, then Jonathan suddenly steps forward, saying, "Listen, I'm gonna get going. Pam, it -- "

Jim interrupts him. "You don't have to leave."

Pam's eyes lower again to the carpet, her head bowing as she struggles not to cry. He's never been cold to her before, and the thought that that's where this is headed is almost too much to take.

Jim ignores the pointed look Jonathan gives him -- his brother's lips pursed, eyebrow raised, expression so clearly saying Don't screw this up; give her a chance to explain.

There's an edge to Jon's voice when he responds, his eyes still holding Jim's, "Yeah - I do."

Then he turns, giving Pam's shoulder an affectionate squeeze as he says, "Good to see you, Pam."

"Yeah." She nods weakly, her arms wrapped protectively around her torso. "You, too."

When the door slams behind him, neither she nor Jim speaks for a long stretch, the silence growing more uncomfortable with every second that passes. She glances up at him, then looks away, because it's hard not to stare at his bare chest, his shoulders...that painful-looking bruise on his ribs that she may as well have given him herself.

He shifts, feeling self-conscious, then murmurs, "I'm, uh, gonna go put on a shirt. You can...have a seat if you want."

It occurs to him that putting on a shirt is really a pointless thing to do; she's touched every inch of his bare chest and beyond, pressed close, her skin against his. There are a precious few secrets between them in that regard -- though he's trying desperately to forget that right now.

She's caught off guard by how utterly painful this is -- seeing him quite literally bruised and battered, knowing it's her fault; watching as he avoids her gaze, indifference masking whatever it is he's really feeling; aware that he thinks she just used him, that he has no idea that she's in love with him -- that she knows that now.

He slips an old University of Scranton tee-shirt over his head, wincing as he does so; then he glances in the mirror - startled by the sight of his swollen lip, dried blood crusted over the painful split in the middle. But he's grateful for the shock, because it reminds him of all the reasons why he should be angry at her, all the reasons why he needs to get her out of his apartment before she can do any more damage.

He has to fight to ignore the way his stomach churns at the thought of having to be wary of Pam, when she's always been --

He doesn't let himself complete the thought, instead striding purposefully toward the living room, his footsteps slowing ever so slightly at the sight of her sitting on his couch -- her eyes wide as she bites her lip, looking as if she might burst into tears at any moment. He's praying she doesn't.

She glances up when he walks back into the room - again caught off guard by the ugly gash in his lip, the guilt quickening. It occurs to her then how completely broken he looks -- disillusionment coloring his expression, his eyes looking tired, everything in his posture conveying sheer weariness.

He sits down in the battered old easy chair that's a safe distance from the sofa, unsure of what the hell to expect from her now -- maybe an apology for what Roy had done. He probably told her about the fight, and now she's feeling guilty, wants to create a false narrative to explain this away as well. It meant nothing; it was just a silly misunderstanding, and Roy's really sorry for making too much of things....

Even though he's struggling to prepare himself for that type of speech, he can't help but feel like a complete idiot to be sitting here in front of her with a lovely red bruise and a busted lip, courtesy of her fiance; he's never been one for the macho-man competitions, yet he can't help but wonder if she isn't looking at him as less than right now. The very thought only makes that edge he's feeling a little sharper, the anger pressing in closer.

She's incredibly uncomfortable -- agitated, nervous -- damn near petrified at the cool veneer he's presented her with; she's never seen him quite this...detached before. It's as if he's already let go, is well into the process of moving on. The immediate urge to just run away almost overwhelms her.

But then she remembers what Jonathan had said, the intensity in his eyes when he'd told her, You need to make sure he gets that.... You've gotta start talking.

So she swallows, embarrassed at the audible gulp that surely gives her away, then: "So what happened?"

He dares to steal a glance at her -- sitting there so small and vulnerable, her eyes wide, her expression an amalgam of concern and guilt and....so much more that he's sure he's imagining. Still, it softens his defenses enough for him to answer dryly, "You tell me; you're the one who obviously...told him. I mean, what, was it a game of 'Truth or Dare' gone awry or something....?"

She can't help but smile softly to herself, feeling relieved enough to cry -- because if he can make a joke, there's a chance. And god, at this point, she'd do almost anything just for the promise of a chance to make this right. It's impossible for her to look at him without feeling an overwhelming urge to go to him, put her arms around him, touch his bruised lip, run her fingers along that painfully raised spot on his ribs...tell him it can all be over, this nightmare they've suffered through, if he'll just give her one more chance to make it right.

The thoughts are so engrossing that she doesn't even answer his question, asking instead, "Does it hurt much?"

He's thrown by her choice of words, hesitating, his eyes meeting hers and holding them as a palpable tension stretches, the subtext of what she'd said reverberating off the walls around them. She swallows hard, but she doesn't look away; neither does he.

Then he answers in a gruff voice, "I'm okay."

She nods, suddenly embarrassed at having shown up like this; he's obviously not in the mood for company -- or at least, not for her company. It's a disconcerting thought, makes her falter.

Again she thinks of what Jonathan said, and it's enough to give her the courage to reach for the plastic grocery bag at her feet. She feels incredibly stupid as she says with obviously forced nonchalance, "I, uh...brought a first aid kit."

One of his eyebrows quirks. "...Because you just happened to have one lying around?"

She laughs nervously, and in spite of himself, he starts to smile -- immediately wincing slightly as the split in his lip separates again, a rush of air stinging the cut.

And then she's on her feet, fumbling with the bag and pulling out a small, white plastic box with a bright red cross on the top, the Johnson & Johnson logo in one corner. She's not even really sure she'll have the nerve to actually try and touch him after the way he flinched away from her earlier, but she knows she can't muster the courage - yet - to say everything she's come here to say. Because he's given her every indication thus far that he wouldn't be interested in hearing it anyway.

He watches as she kneels beside his chair, his breath catching as he wills himself not to give in to that familiar, almost soporific feeling that seems to kick in at the scent of her hair, her perfume...her. He's not sure what she's about to do, though he has the distinct sense that he should stop her.

Instead, all he does is swallow hard, his eyes the small white box in her hands.

She peels off the clear plastic, then opens the latch and peers inside. She can feel him watching her, but he doesn't say anything, so she digs until she finds a small packet of antibiotic ointment.

Her voice trembles at little as she begins to ramble just to fill the thick silence. "I think this stuff is what you need -- for your lip, anyway. You should probably put a compress or something on your side...."

She tears open the ointment, then reaches for a clean piece of gauze, squeezing the ointment onto it -- and then she hesitates, because she's not sure what to do now. On some level she knows she needs to tread carefully -- that the smartest thing to do would be to hand him the gauze with the ointment on it, let him do it himself.

But she has to know just how much damage has been done here before she can start talking to him...really talking to him.

So she rises so that she's on her knees in front of his chair, the gauze in her hand. For a second she wonders just what the hell she's doing -- after all, he's already made it clear that he doesn't want her touching him -- but she's not willing to back down.

Because fear isn't the emotion that's guiding her now.

Their eyes meet, and he quickly looks away -- yet he doesn't move to stop her when she lightly dabs at his lip, bracing herself on the arm of his chair. She's attempting - in vain - to muster the courage to follow Jon's advice and just say it. But it's the possibility that he'll tell her it's too late that silences her, makes her continue to doctor his lip in what's becoming an increasingly obvious ruse just to touch him -- to avoid facing the chasm between them.

He's telling himself he needs to ask her to stop, should make her leave; he knows it's not going to end well if they go down the same road again, that she'd likely react the way she has every other time they've let the attraction and the emotion get the best of them.

So he pulls back slightly, and when she doesn't stop - still inanely trying to touch the gauze to his mouth - he reaches up, his fingers closing over her wrist. She stops, her heart pounding in her throat as she pulls back, then slowly raises her eyes to his.

Only then does he let go of her wrist, whispering throatily, "I can't -- I'm not willing to...do this anymore."

Her lips are twitching as she tries not to cry, nodding, telling herself she deserves this -- that he has every right to tell her it's too late, that she blew it. Her cheeks are flaming, and she feels like an absolute fool as she hastily drops the gauze in the kit, snapping it shut before she shifts on her heels, standing up slowly, then walking toward where she'd left her purse. She hears the rustle of fabric behind her, knows that he, too, is standing -- obviously to walk her to the door. It strikes her as ironic -- painfully so -- that even when he's had enough, been pushed too far, he's still every bit the gentleman.

Her purse is on her shoulder, and she's fully prepared to leave when again she thinks of his brother's words: You've gotta start talking.

So she turns to face him, forcing herself to look him in the eye as she says in a faltering voice, "I broke up with Roy."

His eyes widen, his lips parting as if he'd say something, but nothing comes out. The hope that flares in him is both warming and disconcerting; it's a constant, conscious struggle to make himself believe that she's not to be trusted...that it doesn't matter whether or not she's with Roy now -- she'll always go back to him.

He avoids her eyes, his voice gruff with exhaustion: "I'm sure you'll...work it out."

She feels his words low in her stomach as she shakes her head. "No...no, we won't."

It's strange the way he feels as if it's hope that's threatening to crush him, but he's very much aware that he's got to let it go somehow -- has to let her go, because she'll never be his, never really has been.

He stares absently at a frayed thread on the carpet as he murmurs, "Never say never, right?"

At first she's shocked at what he'd said; then the trepidation she'd felt earlier seems to just evaporate, desperation in its place -- an urgent need to make him understand, make him believe. "No, I'm saying never; I mean never."

He glances up at her, startled by the determined set of her jaw, the flint of her eyes -- as if he's offended her somehow in even suggesting she'll end up with Roy. Again he feels the too-familiar hope that's sustained him for years...but he's learned his lesson well.

So he looks away again, taking in a deep breath and regretting it instantly; the pain in his side is sharp enough to make him flinch, his hand reflexively moving to cover the place where the bruise is. Her eyes widen when he winces, and he notices that they follow his every move, watching as he puts his hand on his ribs.

He could swear there's something different in her now -- a discernible shift; it's as if she's either incapable or unwilling to run anymore. He's never seen her look at him quite this way, and there's a desperation all over her that he's not witnessed in the past -- at least, not when it was as close to the surface as it is now.

For a second, he wonders if maybe Jonathan's right -- that she told Roy because this is what she wants; that she wasn't just using him to get back at Roy, but was giving in to the same desire and emotion that he himself had been.

...But hope's a dangerous thing, and assumptions are even more precarious; that much he knows by now.

So he looks away, his gaze falling back to the floor as he struggles not to let it show that it hurts just to breathe. He has to work equally as hard not to ask her to stay.

The ache in her throat is swelling so painfully that she's almost afraid to move, for fear she'll end up sobbing right here in front of him -- and she can't risk that, not now; it's obviously too late. He's not even looking at her, and it's clear that he just wants her to leave.

It's also obvious that he's in pain, that his bruised ribs are bothering him -- which is one more thing that makes her want to just sink to the floor and cry as she wonders how in the hell they got from sharing a dance and laughing at "Careless Whisper" to here.

She bows her head and turns again to his front door, fully intending to do the graceful thing and just leave without looking back. But when her fingers touch the knob, it's as if she just can't do it - can't open the door, can't leave here when things are this unraveled.

Her voice is choked with the tears that she's praying he won't hear as she says quietly, barely above a whisper, her back still to him, "I don't want to go."

His breath catches, the ache in his chest rivaling the sharp pain that's wracking his ribs as she slowly turns to face him. She's obviously trying not to cry -- the tears welled huge in her eyes as she blinks too quickly, her lips twitching. She meets his gaze for a brief second before lowering her head.

As he stands there staring at her, he can see that she's visibly trembling, and he has to look away. Because he can't do this; he can't sacrifice himself again....can't save her at his own expense. He tells himself that it's better for them both that he walk away, that he just let her go back to Roy...because that's where she'll end up anyway.

"Pam - " His voice is hoarse as he shakes his head, lifting his eyes to hers, looking almost as if he's pleading. "C'mon -- just...don't do this."

She nods quickly, clenching her jaw as she tries to keep it together -- and then without warning, her expression seems to crumble as she bows her head, covering her forehead with one hand as she begins to cry, her shoulders shaking.

He tries to disconnect, does his damnedest not to really see her, because he knows he can't do this again; he's not even sure he'll manage to come back from the damage she's already done...knows he can't afford to slip under again.

...But he also knows he can't just stand here and watch her cry like this -- much less send her away when she's this upset.

He resists the instinctive urge to step forward and pull her to him, instead murmuring throatily, "What is it....?"

Her hands are shaking horribly as she wipes the tears from her cheeks, trying so hard to just stop crying -- which of course only seems to make it worse. "I don't know."

In her peripheral vision, she sees his head drop, so she dares to raise her eyes to look at him -- his lip bruised, shoulders slumped, everything in his posture speaking of heartbreak and disillusionment. And all she can think of is how different he looks from the guy she'd met a few years earlier, the guy she's worked with every day; that laughing, carefree guy is just gone, vanished somewhere behind the shadows that darken his expression all the time now.

The realization is a catalyst, prompting her to quickly add in a choked, thin voice, "That's not true."

He looks up in surprise, and this time he doesn't look away, even as she adds, "I know why I'm -- why I'm here, why I'm....like this."

She waves her hands, gesturing toward herself as if in reference to the fact that she's falling apart. But that's all she can manage for the moment as the tears come again, making her shake her head in frustration, covering her mouth with one hand.

He bows head, staring at the floor because he can't keep standing there and watching her cry without caving in. He murmurs reflexively, not even thinking first, "Don't -- it's okay...."

It occurs to him as soon as the words leave his lips that he's just told a lie neither of them believes.

Even as he thinks that, she emits a hysterical laugh that catches on a sob at what he'd said, swiping at her cheek with the heel of her hand as she chokes, "No...no, it's not. And you know it."

His breath leaves him, again sending that spiking pain to his ribs, but this time he doesn't care; he's too tired, too weary and overwhelmed and god, still so fucking in love with her that he can't think straight anymore.

He ignores the ache in his side as he runs one hand over his face a few times in a futile attempt at clearing his head. Then: "Just.... I mean, what do you expect me to do, Pam? It's not -- it's just not...."

He doesn't finish, turning his back to her as he hears her breath catch again on a sob. Again he raises a hand to his forehead, his thumb and forefinger pushing ineffectually into his temples.

The fact that he's reacting this way -- looking away, not moving to put his arms around her, totally unlike himself -- is enough to again scare her into wanting to just run away. But she's realizing as she stares at his back - his tee-shirt straining over his shoulders, head bowed - that there simply isn't anywhere to run now; all roads lead back to him, no matter what she tries to do. Even the predictable, safe path she'd made for herself years and years ago had crumbled beneath the pull she feels toward him.

The sound of her voice surprises her, the words themselves seeming to just tumble out: "I was wrong; I know that now."

He shakes his head, not turning to face her; because he's fully expecting her to tell him she regrets coming here tonight, that she should get back home to Roy....

But then she goes on: "Jonathan said...he thought I was just...using you as...I don't know, some kind of.... Like I don't really care about you; like all that's happened with us was all about Roy."

Jim's eyes close as he swallows hard; he's not sure whether he wants to hug his brother or throttle him for telling her. But then she goes on.

"And I mean.... God, Jim, I see now -- it's like I can...." She stops, her voice breaking as she again puts a fist to her lips, attempting to steady herself with a few deep breaths. She realizes as soon as she starts to speak that it was a futile attempt, because her voice is nasal, almost strangled. "I can see why you'd think that, but I -- you have to believe me...."

And then she's crying again, one hand curled against her forehead in an ineffectual attempt at staving off the tears. The fact that he's still standing with his back to her makes her feel incredibly lonely -- and so damned afraid. Because she's pretty sure that if there was even a sliver of a chance, he'd be facing her, holding her.

He's clenching his fists now, aware of a faint soreness in his right hand from when he'd hit Roy -- the realization only amplifying his sense of just how out of control this whole thing really is. It's damn near excrutiating to know she's right behind him, sobbing harder than he's ever heard her, while he stands here like a statue, as if it doesn't matter; as if she's not on the cusp of saying so many things he's been waiting to hear.

She steadies herself, taking in a deep, quivering breath even as she forces herself to look at him -- standing with his back to her, stiff and rigid -- his body language saying all the things that he isn't verbalizing right now. It's a daunting sight.

Still, she presses on, her voice soft, the tears having dissipated for now. "It had nothing to do with Roy."

She takes a step toward him so that she can see his profile, then: "It had everything to do with you."

It's what he's wanted to hear from her since that lost weekend at the retreat -- only now, things are irrevocably changed; he's tempted -- so tempted -- to believe her, to fall back into it again. But he can't escape the realization that he's been here before -- or at least, he'd thought he was here before -- and she had drawn him close only to push him away when all was said and done, offering only tearful admonitions: "We have to forget." "This can't change anything."

And even though she's not with Roy now, he can't shake the fear that if he lets himself fall here, she may well end up chalking it up to yet another mistake before she runs right back to Roy.

So he doesn't respond, keeps his eyes focused on the dull beige carpet as he struggles to convince himself that it's best to shut out what she's saying.

As she looks over at him - his head down, gaze averted - she feels a sudden, unexpected pang of anger, her pride aching. "Why won't you look at me?"

When his eyes immediately close at the question, his lips tightening, she has her answer...almost regrets the question.

He slowly shakes his head, the lump in his throat as painful as the throb in his lip, the ache in his ribs. He knows it'll only get worse when he turns to look at her, and of course it does -- her eyes red and swollen, her tears glinting in the light from the lamp.

Their eyes meet, and she watches with a sinking feeling as his lips twitch slightly, his jaw set. And that's when it hits her, the magnitude of what she's put him through in the past month.

She's still choking back the tears as she says softly, "I know it's not fair for me to ask you to -- "

She has to stop, and again he lowers his head, as if watching her cry is too much for him to handle, even as she continues. "I screwed this all up, and I know it; I know it's not as easy as.... I guess what I'm trying to say is that I just...god, it's been so awful -- you come in in the mornings and it's like you don't even see me. And the truth is is I just miss you so much that I...."

Her voice trails off, and he knows it's because she's trying not to cry again -- even as he struggles to keep his own emotions in check. He knows he should be glad that she's actually telling him how she feels for the first time ever, but he just can't; he can't give in to it...because he's lost the ability to discern whether or not she'll be able to follow through.

After all, she'd gone to bed with him, let down all the walls -- and still she hadn't been able to take that chance; still she'd run back to the safety and security that he instinctively knows Roy represents to her, in spite of all his shortcomings.

But she goes on, her voice barely above a whisper, her sentences disjointed, halting. "It wasn't a mistake, and I know it's maybe too late for me to say that now, and it's okay - I just.... I can handle it if we can't -- if you aren't willing anymore to.... What I can't handle is losing your friendship, because you're just -- "

Her voice breaks as she purses her lips, her eyes holding his steadily even as she sweeps the tears from beneath her lashes with her index finger. When she sees the tears hovering on his lower lashes, she feels her stomach quake. It takes all her restraint not to just reach out and touch him; all she wants is to make everything up to him...prove to him that she means it.

Because she can clearly see that he's skeptical. Her chin is trembling again, her brow strained as fresh tears trickle down her cheeks.

He swallows hard, feeling the strangest, bittersweet kind of ache in spite of his effort to remain indifferent. Because as he stands there watching her brush the tears away, he realizes that whether or not this ends the way he's envisioned it ever since the week he met her, she'll be in his life forever; the connection they share is just unbreakable...for better or worse.

It's a strange consolation; nonetheless, it's what moves him to shake his head quickly, then: "Hey, whoa.... That's not gonna happen; we'll...we'll figure out a way to get back to...."

His voice fades because he's not sure how to say it, then he swallows over that painful knot in his throat, and there's something almost fierce in his eyes when he looks over at her: "We'll always be friends, no matter what; I'm not...letting go of that."

Their eyes meet and hold, and for that split second she feels so incredibly close to him that fresh tears fill her eyes. In that brief instant, she almost thinks that she could satisfy herself with just this -- the mutual understanding, the unshakeable bond that's been there from the start. She damaged it; she knows that. She knows, too, that maybe she screwed things up for good -- that maybe he'll never be able to trust her enough to let down his guard in a romantic sense.

And while the thought of never having a real chance with him sends a tremor down her spine, she's at the same time feeling strangely calm - centered in a way that she hasn't felt since those brief moments three weeks earlier when she'd been in his bed, his bare skin warm against her own, his lips both calming and electrifying.

The tears threaten to fall all over again as she whispers, "I'm so sorry, Jim; I never meant to -- "

"C'mon...don't do that." He shakes his head again, feeling almost desperate to keep her from crying again -- because he knows he can't take much more of this; witnessing her tears seems to bring his own emotions closer to the surface. And he knows he risk that...not yet.

She nods, then a long silence falls, the only sound that of her sniffling as she tries to pull herself back together.

Then she says in a small voice that's congested with the tears she'd shed, "So I guess I chased Jonathan away -- sorry about that."

He waves the comment off, still not looking directly at her. "Don't worry about it. Before you showed up, our evening had consisted so far of sitting on the sofa watching a football game that happened almost ten years ago. So...yeah."

She chuckles, sniffling again as she nods, then silence slowly blankets the room, creeping up on them again. She wants to stay - in fact feels almost panicked at the thought of leaving. But she senses instinctively that he wants to be alone right now, and really, she understands why.

So she gives him a small smile. "Guess you're probably pretty tired, huh?"

His smile is tight, rueful as he raises his eyebrows, tilting his head as he glances away, then back at her: "Yeah...fist fights in the parking lot'll do that to you."

Their eyes meet and for a second she feels almost frightened -- and then he smiles again, warmth in his eyes. When the relief settles over her, she realizes how tired she herself is; she's got that limp feeling she gets only when she's exhausted herself emotionally.

"I'm pretty wiped out, too." She murmurs, then adds with a small smile, "Crying your head off for half an hour'll do it to you, too."

Though she chuckles, he can't really muster it; even though he knows he's probably an idiot for feeling guilty at having made her cry -- however inadvertently he'd done so -- the simple fact is that he does feel badly. Even after all she's put him through in the past month and beyond, he still can't escape the fact that he wants her to be happy as much as he wants her to be his.

There's a warmth in his eyes that gives her hope -- it's an amalgam of affection and sadness that just seems to speak volumes. It's enough to enable her to head back to the door, with him following close behind. Once there, she turns to gaze up at him again, feeling a slight flutter in her stomach at the nearness of him.

But he only holds eye contact for a second before he averts his gaze, his voice a little hoarse as he asks, "So...you okay?"

For some inane reason, fresh tears fill her eyes when he asks, and when he glances up and sees them, he's immediately alarmed. But she chuckles and waves a hand, then groans. "I'm sorry; I have no idea what's wrong with me...."

Their eyes meet in the silence that follows and she realizes that what she said isn't true - because she does know why she's feeling this undone, knows why she's feeling so vulnerable. She wonders if he knows.

She clears her throat, then: "Yes, I'm okay."

He nods slowly, then: "Okay."

There's an awkward pause as they're faced with saying goodnight. She contemplates stepping forward and kissing him on the cheek, hugging him goodbye, but ultimately she can't bring herself to do so. There's something in his posture that gives her the distinct impression that she needs to be careful, that she needs to give him time to come back from where they've been. It's where they've been, too, that's keeping her from hugging him goodbye; after everything that happened that night -- not to mention how impulsively it had happened -- she knows that they'll never again have that easy affection they used to share. Because they know now how quickly it can get out of hand.

Still she feels oddly lonely as he opens the door, leaning with one hand propped on the doorframe as she smiles up at him. "So I'll see you tomorrow, I guess."

"Yeah - bright and early." He grins.

She smiles in return. "Well, you know what Michael says -- " And then they repeat simultaneously, "The early worm gets the worm!"

It's strange how easily they can slip back into the old dynamic, how easy the laughter comes in light of all that's happened - even if it is only for a moment.

But she'll take it, and she'll figure out a way to ignore the fact that she wants more.

It's the worst possible day for him to be late to work, and he knows it; he'd hoped to get there before the others in the hope of avoiding questions and comments about his busted lip and the accompanying purple-streaked bruise that's on the right side of his mouth. But he'd been at Jon's mercy because his car is still in the shop, and there had been an accident in the intersection just outside of Jon's apartment complex; after that, they're caught behind a school bus.

So by the time Jim pushes open the door to Dunder Mifflin's suite, he's almost half an hour late.

Pam's been eyeing the clock and chewing on her lip nervously. He's never late, and she'd begun to seriously worry as she imagined all sorts of ridiculous nightmare scenarios - like maybe it hadn't just been a bruise on his ribs; maybe he's been bleeding internally, and now he's --

And then there he is, stepping in with his head down, bag over his shoulder. He glances up at her quickly, offers a small smile as he hangs up his coat; in spite of herself, her eyes rest on the bruise at the corner of his mouth, and she feels an errant pang of guilt at the sight of it.

But before she can ask him how he's feeling, Kevin appears, having just emerged from the kitchen with a mug of coffee, his steps slowing as he stares at Jim's face.

"What happened to your mouth?" He asks, prompting several heads to swivel in Jim's direction as he hangs his messenger's bag on the back of his chair.

"I ran into a door." He answers, sitting down without pausing or looking at Kevin. It's the first thing that popped into his head, and it seems as good an answer as any.

A slow smile spreads across Kevin's face, and then he starts to giggle - to which Jim murmurs, "Thanks, Kev."

Pam's immensely relieved when he glances up at her, shaking his head slightly with a small smile.

At around ten, Jim gets up for coffee, moving gingerly because his ribs are aching again, and he's found that the slower he moves, the less likely he is to have one of the sharp spasms that seem to strike out of nowhere if he's not careful. When he sits back down at his desk, Dwight's watching him with narrowed eyes.

Jim ignores him, but Dwight doesn't look away - just continues to stare, sizing him up and making no secret of that fact.

Finally Jim looks away from his monitor, turning toward Dwight in exasperation. "What?"

There's a satisfied little gleam in Dwight's eye as he announces, "You lied about running into the door."

Jim turns his attention back to his computer screen as he murmurs absently, "You think?"

"Uh - no, I don't 'think'; I know." Dwight's the picture of righteous indignation.

Jim nods once, squinting as he clicks on an email, his eyes trained on the screen even as he retorts, "Fascinating."

Dwight waits for Jim to make eye contact again, and when he doesn't, Dwight grows frustrated, asking, "So...don't you want to know how I know you didn't run into a door?"

"No." Jim answers, knowing Dwight'll tell him anyway.

And sure enough, it's as if Jim hadn't spoken at all: "Fact: You've had one hand on the upper portion of your ribcage for most of the morning."

Jim turns to glance at Dwight, twisting his lips as he sucks in a breath. "Always a dead giveaway that I'm lying. Dwight, you know me well."

"That's not what I was referring to." Dwight responds, then: "The fact that you have a bruise on your mouth -- coupled with the fact that your ribs are obviously bothering you -- would indicate that you got into a fight."

In his peripheral vision, he sees Pam, knows she's watching; just as he's about to look away, she nods slightly toward her phone, then picks it up and deliberately dials. His extension rings minutes later.

"Jim Halpert." His eyes are on her face for a second before he looks down at his keyboard.

"I figured I'd give you a reprieve." Her voice is hushed, her back turned, one hand over the receiver.

He has a hard time containing his smile. "It's no problem; I'll transfer you to the right extension."

He punches a button, then looks over at Dwight. "It's Ima B. Moraun for you."

Dwight's brows knit. "Who's Ima B. Moraun...?"

Pam hangs up the phone just as a huge grin breaks out on Jim's face while he watches the realization dawn on Dwight -- who glowers, slamming down the receiver he'd just picked up.

Jim glances up to meet Pam's eyes, and she gives him a small bow; he nods his head in return, though he's careful not to let his gaze linger too long before he looks away.

**

At a little after three, she's sitting in the break room poring over the newspaper, circling ads for apartments that are within her price range, when Jim walks in, heading to the drink machine. She looks up and smiles, noticing the way he's moving slower than usual.

But before she can ask him about it, he glances at the newspaper on the table in front of her before putting some coins into the machine. "What're you looking at there?"

She hesitates, heat rising to her face as she tucks her bangs behind her ear. "I was just...looking at apartments."

Their eyes meet for a second, and she studies his expression carefully -- searching to see if he betrays any discernible happiness at what she'd said. But his face is inscrutable beyond the initial surprise as he nods, then quickly shifts his eyes away from hers.

"Mm." He takes a sip of his drink, trying to ignore all the thoughts that immediately crowd his mind -- because it's pointless to get his hopes up; he's learned his lesson well.

She's watching him, picking up on the very deliberate way he's not commenting or reacting.

"So how're your ribs?" She asks with forced nonchalance -- as if he's injured from a basketball game, not from her ex-fiance's fist.

He looks surprised by the question, but he's quick to assure her, "Just a little sore, no big deal."

Their eyes meet again, only this time he doesn't look away as she asks, "Did you at least take something for the pain?"

When he shakes his head, she forces herself to give him a mockingly wide-eyed expression, then: "You know, Jim, there's this new invention called ibuprofen; it's an anti-inflammatory drug that actually makes pain go away. Now I know what you're thinking: Do I dare take a chance on this wild new experimental drug? But I'm here to tell you: it works. And I just happen to have some in my purse."

He's grinning in spite of himself. "Well, if you're sure it won't make me turn into a werewolf or something...."

She meets his eyes with a smile. "Only if you take it during a full moon -- and luckily, tonight's a new moon, so you're good."

He's clearly impressed. "Seriously? How'd you know it's a new moon?"

She looks away as she folds the newspaper, then grins sheepishly. "I didn't; I have no idea if it's a new moon. I was just thinking of that song 'New Moon on Monday.'"

He can't help but smile. "Ahhh.... Simon LeBon strikes again, I see."

She raises her eyebrows, splaying her hands wide, then: "What can I say? He's a force to be reckoned with."

He chuckles at her softly, his voice gentle as he retorts, "Apparently."

Their eyes meet again and hold for a beat; just as she's feeling the flush stemming from her collarbone upward, he turns away.

*******

They're crowded into the conference room, Michael standing front and center, the giant erase board mysteriously turned to face away from them. Jim had waited for Pam beside his desk -- just as he always has -- and they'd walked in together. He's sitting next to her now, and they've already placed bets as to what this is about. (Pam wagers five dollars that it has something to do with Michael's love life; Jim counters with the speculation that Michael has invented a new "funtivity" for them that he's about to unveil.)

It's Thursday - three days after the fight. They've inched back to their normal working dynamic -- exchanging the occasional IM, talking about nothing much over lunch, even executing a prank on Dwight involving cranberry sauce and several plastic knives. Even though she's incredibly relieved - and grateful - to be back to some semblance of their usual relationship, she knows that the return to the way things once were is surface-level only. She senses that he's still guarded, but there's a palpable warmth beneath the surface; she's sure she's not imagining it...hopes it means there's still a chance.

It's been strange terrain for him to navigate: On one hand, it's almost as if nothing has happened between them at all -- as if the retreat and the night that followed were just a very vivid dream. Still, he knows that much of the disconnect he's feeling is willful. Because while on the surface he relates to her in much the same way that he always has, he's always on the alert -- doesn't let himself linger too long at her desk, doesn't hold eye contact for very long...doesn't let himself even consider the fact that she's single for the first time since he's known her.

And as far as slipping into memories of what it had been like to feel her lips touching his, her bare skin like satin against his own, the sound of his name a hoarse whisper caught in her throat -- well, he's learning how to turn it off, how to think of something else, anything else.

Because much as he still wants her, he doesn't trust her not to slide backward.

He's brought out of his thoughts by Stanley's exasperated address to Michael: "What is it that's so important you had to rush me off the phone? And if it is so important, then why don't you just get on with it so I can get back to my desk?"

Michael clears his throat. "We're waiting for the warehouse guys to get here."

Jim straightens a little in his chair, his eyes immediately flicking to Pam - who's looking almost panicked - before he turns away, shifting his attention back to Michael. He's not seen Roy since the fight, and he's not all that eager to have a reunion in front of the entire office. But he's not afraid - just incredibly wary.

Pam swallows, her eyes lowering to the notepad in her hands as she silently prays Roy has cooled down enough to at least ignore Jim. He's still staying with Kenny, and the last time she'd seen him was the night she'd told him about Jim. She really has no idea what to expect from him, and that uncertainty is making her feel like she could jump out of her own skin -- because there's nothing she can do but wait until Roy shows up, see what happens.

Thankfully, Darryl strides into the room a few minutes later, Roy next to him, Lonnie and the others trailing behind. Pam looks up at Roy, startled by the bruise beneath his eye. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment, and there's something discernibly different in his eyes; he looks almost humbled...sad, really.

Then his eyes drift to where Jim's sitting, and Pam's breath catches in her throat as she waits.... But he doesn't say or do anything; Jim looks up, meeting his eyes silently, and then Roy turns, making his way to lean just inside the doorframe.

Jim's irritated at how rapidly his heart is pounding -- mainly because it's making breathing more difficult, which in turn sends that piercing pain to his side. He's not sure what Roy's deal is now -- though he'd made a point of meeting Jim's eyes, he hadn't seemed to do so in a threatening way; in fact, he'd seemed to Jim to be incredibly subdued, as if the anger had just sapped him of his energy.

Darryl's voice brings Jim back to the present. "Mike, seriously...we got a shipment to get out."

"Okay, okay!" Michael claps his hands, then rubs them together. "I have something very exciting to announce -- "

"We're getting our bonus checks early?" Kevin interrupts.

"Ju -- no, Kevin; just...shut it." Michael's thrown off for a moment, but then he turns and with a great flourish, shifts the dry erase board so that it's facing them all. The word "PRIDE" is written on one side of the board, the letters going down the length of the board vertically.

"Oh god...an acronym." Jim murmurs. Pam glances over and smiles, then tenses because she can feel Roy's eyes on her.

"So..." Michael surveys them all, clearly excited. "Does anyone know what this means?"

Darryl's hand is the first to lift, prompting Michael to point at him. "Yes, Darryl."

Darryl's voice is monotone, that eyebrow raised sardonically. "It's a noun for being proud."

Michael stares at him blankly for a few seconds, his smile seemingly frozen; then he nods and says in a voice fit for speaking to a toddler, "Yes, very good, Darryl. But I was referring to the fact that this stands for something else."

"Could you please get on with it?" Stanley is not amused, glancing up from his ever-present crossword, pen poised in his hand.

Michael lifts his chin, momentarily hurt. Then: "It's the name I've given to our latest morale boosting project."

Pam shoots Jim a dirty look; he gives her a smug expression in return, though he's unable to shake the awareness that Roy is standing just across the room.

"So here's the deal: Once a week, we'll all leave at 4:30 and head to Poor Richard's...spend some good quality time together. Because you know what they say about the importance of a family dining together."

"I am not going to that place." Angela's arms are crossed in defiance, her eyebrow cocked. "I don't approve."

"Well...that's just too bad; it's mandatory." Michael answers, not looking directly at her.

Stanley gets up to leave, shaking his head in exasperation; the rest of them are exchanging glances and murmurs as they realize that their initial, instinctive impulse to protest really isn't necessary.

Then Dwight raises his hand, asking, "Then what does 'PRIDE' stand for?"

"Oh!" Michael's thrilled that he asked, turning his back and scrawling on the board before stepping aside to display it proudly: "Poor Richard's Inter-weekly Drinking Extravaganza."

He grins at them, clearly anticipating an enthusiastic response, but only Meredith looks happy; the rest are simply confounded.

Then Darryl takes a deep, steadying breath, saying, "All right, then. Let's go."

Kevin returns from the bathroom just as Darryl's leading the rest of the warehouse guys out the door, his eyes falling to rest on Roy's black eye, his eyes widening as Jim watches with a sinking feeling.

"Heyyyyyyyyy...." Kevin says slowly, pointing to Roy. "You have a black eye...."

Roy doesn't respond, just pierces Kevin with a cold stare; Pam shifts in her chair, her heart beginning to beat a little faster as she realizes that all the others - none of whom had even paid attention to Roy's eye before - are staring at him expectantly.

Then Kevin turns to Jim, exclaiming with an enthusiasm that Jim's never seen him even come close to exhibiting before, "You didn't run into the door; you got in a fight with Roy!"

"I knew it!" Dwight pumps his fist in the air as Jim takes in a deep breath - regretting it immediately when the pain spirals in on him. He's not even sure where to look or what to say, because the entire office has gone silent, looking between him and Roy and back again as they wait for a response.

Just as Jim's pondering exactly how this could get worse, Michael steps forward. "Okay, okay...we can...dissolve our differences like the rational adults that we are. Jim, Roy - I'd like you both to come forward."

All Pam can do is watch in horror, her nerves on end; she should do something, but she has no idea what to do. Thankfully, Roy saves her the trouble of figuring it out, turning on his heel and striding out the door. Darryl and the rest of the guys don't hesitate before following him.

Jim's momentarily jealous that he hadn't thought of walking out first as he hears Michael breathe, "Oh my god.... Jim, is this true?"

Jim shakes his head slightly, then murmurs, "We'll, uh...we'll talk about it later."

Michael nods emphatically. "Cool, that's cool, man."

And then he holds up his arm, shoving his sleeve back to reveal his Live Strong bracelet -- which he wields in Jim's direction, his eyes holding Jim's purposefully. Jim squints, then nods, feeling Pam's eyes on his face but steadfastly avoiding looking over at her.

*******

The next afternoon, she's mindlessly playing solitaire, her eyes on her monitor, her hand on the mouse as she stares absently at the screen. She's catching bits and pieces of the conversation Jim's having; his direct extension had rung a few minutes earlier, and she's ascertained that it's Jonathan.

"How long do you think you'll be?" Jim asks, rubbing his eyes with his hand.

"No telling." Jonathan sounds exhausted and every bit as frustrated as Jim's beginning to feel. "Depends on how long it takes to get the server problem straightened out."

"You think it'll be before six?" Jim asks, glancing at the clock: 4:27. His car is finally ready, but the garage closes at six.

"Seriously, I've got no idea."

Jim nods, then: "Well, just...give me a call when you know more, let me know what's going on."

When he hangs up the phone a few seconds later, he's startled to hear Pam whisper his name.

He glances up in surprise, unable to keep from smiling when she tilts her head back, gesturing for him to come to her desk. He shoves his hands in his pockets as he makes his way toward her, then removes them to lean against her desk.

"What's up?"

She's suddenly feeling nervous. "Nothing, I just...couldn't help overhearing. I mean, it sounded like Jonathan can't...pick you up till later or something?"

He's not sure where she's going with this. "Yeah, he's got some server problem at work."

She nods, her stomach fluttering, then forces herself to glance up and ask casually, "Well if you need a ride to pick up your car, I can...you know, drop you off."

"Oh." He's caught entirely off guard, and his initial impulse is to refuse because he's not sure he's ready to be alone with her again just yet. Too many chances for things to slip out of control -- too many opportunities for questions he's not prepared to answer...decisions he's not ready to make.

But he hears himself ask, "You sure?"

She has to work not to let the absolute relief show, nodding. "Yeah, totally - it's no problem, seriously."

"Okay." Their eyes meet, but only for a moment.

**

It's awkward for the first few minutes; he feels almost claustrophobic in her small car, but he knows he'd be feeling this way even if she drove an SUV. There's something about being in a confined space with her, alone...too many unspoken truths hovering just beneath the surface.

It strikes him as ironic that he'd spent the better part of the last few years desperately hoping she'd be brave enough to just face those truths -- and now she's given him every indication she's willing to do just that. But he feels almost frantic to keep her from broaching the subject, because he just doesn't know yet.

Then she launches into a story about an encounter she'd had with Angela in the break room, and the ease slips over them again, effortless as a Roman shade. The drive passes fairly quickly as they laugh, taking turns speculating about whether or not Angela makes her cats worship on Sundays.

When they get to the garage, he turns to her, a little unnerved by how close her face is to his -- or at least, how close it seems. He can't help but meet her eyes for a second, immediately feeling it in his gut.

So he shifts his gaze. "Thanks for the ride."

"Oh - no problem, really." She's shaking her head and smiling as she struggles to hide the disappointment that he hadn't parlayed this into having dinner together -- something, anything.

But she knows why he's so quick to look away; she knows, too, that she has absolutely no right to be frustrated at him for doing so.

He gives her one last tight smile before he steps out of the car, leaning down to say, "Hey - I'll see you tomorrow."

Then the door slams and she's watching him walk away, something about the set of his shoulders and the way his hands are shoved in his pockets making her want to cry.

*******

Two weeks later, they're sitting at a long table, Meredith and Kevin across from them, the noisy din of Poor Richard's making it necessary to either shout to be heard, or else lean close to the person next to or across from you. It's their second PRIDE meeting, and she's almost embarrassed by how glad she is that Michael instituted this little ritual; because mandatory or not, it's time with Jim outside of work.

Of course, it had been beyond uncomfortable for the first forty-five minutes, as Roy had shown up with Darryl and Lonnie, the three of them sitting at the far end of the table. When they'd walked in, Roy's eyes had fallen to Pam as he seemed to freeze for just a second; then his gaze wandered over to Jim before Darryl suddenly leaned close, murmuring something in his ear.

Pam couldn't be sure, but it seemed as if Darryl was doing a good job of keeping an eye on Roy, making sure he stayed in check.

Jim, too, had been acutely aware of Roy's presence, though he'd been careful to keep his eyes on his beer when he wasn't looking at Michael or Kevin or whomever was telling the most recent story. There's something in Roy's demeanor that leaves Jim with the distinct impression that he's not angry anymore so much as he's resigned.

He watches as Pam's eyes follow Roy and Darryl when they leave, her shoulders lowering a little as she seems to fully exhale for the first time since they'd gotten there. He isn't sure what to make of it -- should he be glad that she obviously wants Roy to go away? Or should he be bothered by the fact that Roy's presence has such an effect on her?

Somehow he can't manage to shake the feeling of unease that's settled over him; on one hand, he's glad they've managed to recapture something of the way things had been before...but he's also aware of his instinctive need to stay in control, not to slip into it all again.

Because even though he'd like to believe that her break up with Roy is permanent, he's not so sure; and no matter that she's made it clear that whatever happened between them that night weeks earlier meant something to her...he's not sure exactly what it meant to her, or how much.

Her voice interrupts his train of thought: "Hey."

He glances down at her, his eyes immediately straying to her mouth before he corrects himself, smiling awkwardly. "Hm?"

She notices the way he seems distracted, as if he's fighting the same conscious battle that she is -- struggling to appear normal, as if he hasn't touched her everywhere, his sweat slipping against her own; he's playing the same game she is --pretending that this is all there is to them: friendship.

Snapping herself out of it, she asks, "You wanna go play darts?"

His eyebrow rises, and she's hit by another wave of attraction that she tries to ignore as she waits for his answer.

"Darts?" He repeats, noticing the flush in her cheeks. She's had one beer, which is enough - he knows - to give her a slight buzz. He's not sure whether to be wary or grateful.

"Yeah." She holds her ground.

"Let's do it." He agrees, taking a quick swig from his beer bottle, then standing to follow her to the dart board.

Once there, she turns to gaze up at him. "Heads or tails?"

"What?" He's caught off guard at first because he'd been distracted by the faint scent of her perfume as she'd walked beside him -- familiar, haunting.

"Heads or tails?" She repeats, adding, "To see who goes first."

"Ah." He nods. "Heads."

"Okay." She doesn't flip the coin so much as toss it haphazardly in the air, eliciting a wide-eyed, exaggerated look of bewilderment from him, to which she replies, "Shut it."

He lifts his shoulders, struggling not to smile. "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to." She replies smoothly, bending forward to peer at the quarter before she announces, "Hahah! Tails - I go first."

He can't help but chuckle at her, watching as she steps back, narrowing her eyes as she focuses on the board in front of her. Then she suddenly moves, sending the dart sailing toward the board, which it misses by a good two inches, sticking with a thud in the wall.

Immediately she turns to point up at him, instructing, "Don't you dare laugh!"

"I'm not...." He protests, doing his damnedest to hold it in -- then he gives up, putting his hands over his mouth as he bursts out laughing.

She glares at him, but she's enjoying every minute of this. "Yeah, well you suck."

He's still laughing, totally charmed by her as he clears his throat and says in a mockingly serious tone, "Well actually, given the fact that I haven't had a turn yet and you...well, you hit the wall.... Yeah, I think it's safe to say that you suck."

Without thinking first, she reaches out to shove him playfully, and it's almost as if she's crossed some invisible, unforeseeable line: An awkward pause descends on them as his laughter slowly fades; then he takes a step back, lifting his chin to focus on the dart board, as if he isn't unnerved by his own reaction to her touch.

His response speaks volumes, tells her so much she's needed to know -- that he's willing to do what he'd promised and move past it all, be her friend; that he's still attracted to her...and nowhere near acting on it.

On a rainy Thursday the following week, he strides into the break room to find her sitting at the table, a mug of tea in front of her as she stares off into space, her brow furrowed as she absently slides the charm on her necklace back and forth.

He's almost afraid to ask, but he can't not somehow. "...You okay?"

She glances up at him in surprise, then shakes her head. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just...."

She doesn't finish, staring down at her hot tea as he studies her face closely, sensing instinctively that what's bugging her has nothing to do with him. So he pulls out a chair, sitting next to her before he prods, "You're just....?"

She's not sure why she's hesitant to tell him -- maybe because she doesn't want him to feel obligated to offer to help her. But he's sitting beside her, waiting for an answer, so she sighs, then: "I just...I'm just kind of frustrated; I found an apartment, but my mom's in Montana visiting my aunt, and my dad's just had surgery for a herniated disc."

He waits for her to go on, but she doesn't; he's not following what she's getting at, so he squints, tilting his head. "...And the lease is contingent on your mom not being in Montana and your dad not having a herniated disc?"

She smiles at him, grateful for his attempt at making her laugh. "Funny. No....it's just that...." And then she realizes that she really doesn't want to have to tell Jim, because she knows what his response will be - and he's already done more than enough for her...more than she deserves.

So she adds with forced brightness, "You know what? It's okay; it's really nothing."

Jim draws back, confused at her abrupt shift. "Wait a second.... Seriously, what is it? Are you worried about your dad?"

She shakes her head, her eyes on her thumbs as they slide down the sides of the mug. "No, it's not -- really, it's not a big deal."

And then it dawns on him, what she's too embarrassed to say: She doesn't have anyone to help her move.

He doesn't think twice. "Hey, listen, I can help you move; seriously -- it's no problem. And Jonathan can help, too. We can take care of it, no problem."

She glances up in surprise, struck by the kindness in his eyes, painfully aware of just how little she really deserves it. "Are you sure? I mean, it's a pretty big pain."

He waves off her concern. "Eh, no big deal - besides, Jon and I kind of ran a small-scale moving business when we were in college."

She draws back, surprised. "Seriously?"

He grins sheepishly. "No...just seemed like a good thing to say."

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at him as he chuckles softly. Then she looks up at him, meeting his gaze squarely as she says, "Seriously, though -- thanks. I mean, it's a huge favor to ask, and I know you don't...."

Here she stops, averting her eyes, because she's not sure how to complete her thought without delving into forbidden territory: ...have any reason to want to help me after what I did to you. But if you'll give me a chance, I'll make it up to you, I swear....

He's watching her closely, clearing his throat before he says, "Seriously - it's no big deal."

There's something in the subtext of his statement that nags at her for the rest of the afternoon.

*******

She's standing in her brand new kitchen -- a chaotic flurry of half open boxes and mismatched tupperware -- watching as Jim and Jonathan wrestle with her couch. It's an open floor plan, the kitchen looking into the den, her bedroom down a hall to the left.

Her sofa is the last thing to be unloaded from the truck; the fact that they're finished already is a little surprising, even though it's nearing six, and they'd started at nine that morning. She's almost sorry, no matter how exhausted she is, because spending the day with the two of them had been an unexpected treat; listening to them banter back and forth has kept her laughing all day long.

Jonathan falls to rest on the couch as Jim leans against it, one hand on the back cushion as he wipes his brow with the other. He glances up to find Pam standing in her kitchen staring over at him as if she's lost in thought, a forgotten stack of plates in her hands. When their eyes meet, she blushes furiously and turns away, standing on her tiptoes to carefully place the dishes in a high cabinet. In spite of himself, his eyes rove from her small waist and beyond, the faded jeans she's wearing fitting her as only very old, very worn jeans can.

"So listen." Jonathan's voice snaps him out of it. "Why don't I go pick up a pizza and some beer?"

Pam turns to face them, but before she can say anything, Jim shakes his head. "I can go -- why don't you stay here and work on putting the entertainment center back together?"

Jonathan's back is to Pam, and he gives Jim a pointed stare and a slight nod before he says with forced deliberation, "No...you stay and put the entertainment center together; I'm going to get food."

Before Jim can argue, Jon grabs his keys off the counter, bids Pam a quick goodbye, and disappears out the door.

She's feeling weirdly nervous to be alone with Jim, because his eagerness to go in Jon's place wasn't lost on her. But she's not sure why he'd so obviously tried to avoid being alone with her -- is it because he wants something to happen, or is it because he's afraid of something happening?

He offers her a tight, slightly uncomfortable smile before he sits on the floor in front of her dismantled entertainment center, trying to think of something to say. He finally settles on, "The glass doors and the balcony are pretty awesome."

She nods, arranging her silverware. "Yeah...I really love that -- even if the view is ugly."

He snorts, and she's relieved that the tension has been alleviated, however slightly. Their conversation seems a little stilted until Jon re-appears, a brown grocery bag in one arm, huge pizza box in the other.

Jim excuses himself, heading to Pam's bathroom to wash his hands, leaving Jonathan alone in the kitchen with Pam. He surprises her by reaching into the grocery bag and producing a bottle of champagne.

"I thought you were getting beer...?" She's caught off guard -- pleased, no doubt, but still surprised.

He shrugs, and to her practiced eye, he looks like he's trying to be nonchalant. "I did get beer; I just got this, too. Consider it a housewarming gift."

She knits her brows, prompting him to laugh. "What? They were out of plants -- what was I supposed to do?"

She laughs at him, and he puts the bottle in the fridge, then sets about helping her open beer bottles. The three of them eat the pizza straight from the box, sprawled on the floor in her living room as they chat about silly things - laughing as they recall the weird old man across the hall who'd opened his door and sat in a chair watching them move almost all day long; alternately pondering the exact origin of cobwebs -- the kind of nonsensical talk that makes perfect sense at the end of a very long, very exhausting day.

When Pam disappears to the bathroom, Jonathan glances over at Jim, leaning forward to whisper, "Listen, I'm gonna leave as soon as she comes out."

"What? No -- " Jim starts to protest, but Jon throws up his hands in exasperation.

"Jesus - what the hell is wrong with you?" He shakes his head, his eyes holding Jim's. "Seriously, you're being ridiculous with the whole afraid of being alone with her thing."

"Whatever." Jim's not interested in debating this now.

Jon glances over his shoulder down the hallway at the closed bathroom door, then turns back to whisper, "Seriously...what's the deal? Why're you afraid of being alone with her?"

"I'm not -- afraid; I'm just...." Jim shakes his head, his voice low. "Look, things tend to get a little out of hand when we're alone; that's all."

Jonathan's eyebrows rise, his eyes widening. "Yeah...and that's a good thing, Jim."

"No, it's not." Jim shakes his head again, then he exhales in frustration, giving up and explaining, "It's not worth it, trust me."

"What're you talking about?" Jon's clearly not following him.

So he takes a breath, then: "Look, I'm not sure what she...wants, or what she's -- "

"Okay, you're kidding me, right?" Jonathan draws back, splaying his hands wide. "What are you, blind? You expect me to believe that you haven't noticed the way she stares at you? The way she laughs every time you open your mouth? The fact that - hello - she left her fiance for you?"

"She didn't leave him for me." Jim answers tersely, eager to put an end to this conversation before Pam gets back. "Listen, Jon.... It's just that -- god, I don't know, okay? She was with Roy for a long time; she was gonna marry the guy. And until I know for sure that she's not going back to him, I can't...."

His voice trails off, then he finishes in a low voice, "I know what it's like to just...I don't know, let it happen, believe that this is really it. And coming back from that when she says it didn't mean anything, that we've got to forget -- "

Jon doesn't let him finish. "I really don't think she'd do that again, Jim. Seriously - she has no reason anymore to do that."

Jim gives a skeptical shrug. "Whatever -- I just can't... Believe me, it wouldn't be worth it."

Jonathan's about to say something else when Pam suddenly appears, striding down the hall. Her footsteps slow as she makes her way into the living room, because they look almost like they're arguing about something; Jim's clearly tense, and Jonathan seems frustrated.

"...Everything okay?"

Both of them immediately nod, Jonathan standing and saying, "Yeah - I was just telling Jim I've gotta head out now."

"Oh." She feels a thrill low in the pit of her stomach at the prospect of being alone with Jim. Even if he won't meet her eyes for more than a few seconds at a time, and even if he's still hiding behind that damned wall he's put up -- still, it's time with him.

She and Jim watch as Jonathan slides into his coat, then makes his way to the door, Pam close behind. He turns to face her, giving her a big smile before he sweeps her into a warm hug, murmuring, "Big day - congratulations."

She squeezes him tight for a second before she lets go, tucking her bangs behind her ear, then gazing up at him. "Listen, thanks so much for helping; seriously, I couldn't have -- "

"Eh, no big deal." He waves her off, then looks over her head at Jim. "I'll see you later."

Jim nods, murmuring goodbye, then lowering his eyes to the carpet as Pam closes the door behind his brother. When she turns around, he slowly raises his eyes to hers, and for a second, he can't make himself look away.

It's strange how just holding eye contact with him quite literally makes it difficult for her to breathe, but here she is -- unable to turn her eyes away, willing him silently to give her a cue, a sign. But he doesn't; instead, he looks away suddenly, pursing his lips in obvious discomfort.

And then she realizes that that's his sign.

So she asks, "So hey, you want something to drink?"

He's glad she broke the silence, grinning at her. "Do you actually have something to drink, or are you just saying that to be polite?"

She rolls her eyes, ignoring the sharp stab to her gut at the way his eyes rove over her face, his lips pulled in amusement. Then: "For your information, Jonathan brought a bottle of champagne."

She's interested in his expression as it slowly dawns on her why Jon had simply put the bottle in the fridge without suggesting they open it right away. A slow smile spreads across her face as the realization strikes her; it's almost enough to make her chuckle warmly, but she doesn't.

Instead, she says nonchalantly, "Yeah...he got it when he picked up the beer."

"Oh." Jim nods, then smiles wryly. Jon's diligent; he has to give him that.

"So...?" She's watching him expectantly.

"What? Yeah, sounds good." He nods, then there's an awkward pause as she stands there staring at him as if she's waiting for something. He stares back at her, his eyes wide before he asks hesitantly, "...What?"

Without thinking she rolls her eyes and retorts, "You know I can't open champagne."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she realizes the error -- because the reason he would know that is because they'd had champagne that night at the resort, the night they'd crossed into a territory that still leaves her feeling breathless when she thinks about it. She can see from the look on his face that he's thinking about it, too.

But he snaps out of it, saying, "Right - forgot."

He follows her to the kitchen, where she reaches into the fridge and produces the champagne, handing it to him. He takes it with a smile, then sets it on the counter to peel off the foil around the top before he reaches for a dish towel, covering the bottle with it. She draws away, ducking and putting both hands on her ears as he starts to twist it -- then he notices the way she's cowering.

So he stops, unable to resist the urge to tease her. "You do know it's just an urban legend that one in every three champagne corks turns into a monster once it flies out of the bottle, right?"

She tilts her head, dropping her hands as she struggles to suppress a smile. "Shut up."

"What?" He shrugs earnestly. "I just wasn't sure you knew that."

She's trying not to smile, but it's impossible not to as she returns her hands to her ears, then orders impatiently, "Go - do it, get it over with."

"Wow." He studies her expression as he slowly puts pressure on the bottle, taking care to be subtle even as he informs her, "You're kind of bossy tonight. Just because you've got a fancy new apartment doesn't mean -- "

"Jim -- "

There's a loud pop followed by a prolonged whooshing sound; she jumps, and then he whips the dish towel off the bottle, extending it toward her. "Voila."

"Thank you." She gives him a little bow as he hands her the bottle, then reaches into her cabinet to take out two newly washed and dried champagne glasses that she'd just unpacked a few hours earlier. When their glasses are filled, they stand facing one another in her kitchen, that all-too familiar tension beginning to build as the silences stretches just a little too long.

He's the one to break it, lifting his glass as he says, "To your new place."

She hoists her glass, repeating, "To my place" before she clinks her glass against his. It occurs to her when the sparkling liquid passes through her lips that she knows what it's like to kiss him when the taste of champagne lingers on his tongue.

The impulse to experience it again is enough to compel her to raise her eyes to his.

She's staring boldly at him over her glass of champagne, and he knows what she's thinking about, because he's thinking about it, too. He can also see so clearly that she wants him to make a move, her eyes straying to his lips before slowly rising back to meet his gaze. His stomach tightens as he stares down at her, lost in the moment -- not smiling, not even bothering to deflect the intensity; his mind is racing as he wrestles with the impulse to press his mouth to hers, to just let go all over again, fear and hesitation and the past be damned.

He's reminded then of what Jon had said: She left her fiance for you.

And ironically, that's what makes him snap out of it, looking away as he takes in a deep breath. Because he's realizing the magnitude of what this move represents for her -- that she's on her own, truly, for the very first time; that she's just walked away from a seven year relationship, leaving behind the guy she'd been planning to marry for almost as long.

He knows that whatever her intentions, he'd be a fool to rush into this with her -- or rather, to let her rush into it with him. It'd be all too easy for this to turn into a rebound, for her to feel guilt or regret or fear or just plain apathy in the wake of all the changes she's gone through over the past few months; there are just too many possibilities for things to go wrong if they move too quickly.

She's watching his face, wishing she could find the courage to just start talking; she knows that all it'll take is just to get out the first few words, and surely it'd be easy from there. But she doesn't dare, because he's obviously not open to it, and she's beginning to wonder if he ever will be.

And then she's reminded of the night they'd made love, when she'd lain with her head on his bare chest afterward, unable to stop the tears; she's lost for a moment as she recalls the way his lips had passed over her hair, how he'd whispered to her. ...How broken his voice had sounded, hoarse and throaty, when he'd stood behind her as she prepared to leave: "Please don't do this."

She knows it shouldn't be possible for her to find herself shocked and aching anew at the realization of just how much she'd hurt him, but somehow, she is. And god, what she wouldn't give to have the chance to do it all over again, but so differently.

She forces a smile, asking with forced lightness, "So...you wanna play Yahtzee?"

"Yahtzee?" He repeats, slow to break out of the haze he's in. Then he cocks his head: "I'm sorry....what decade did you grow up in, again? Was it the 40s or the 50s? I can never seem to remember."

The familiar banter is like salve on an open wound -- such a relief; and even if it's not the cure, it's enough to satisfy her...for now.

"Oh, I'm sorry." She affects an exaggeratedly apologetic tone. "Should I have asked if you want to play Madden football?"

He grins at her. "Would've been cool, yes." Then he adds, "But yeah...Yahtzee sounds good."

She nods, and then it dawns on her: "So I'm not entirely sure where it is -- there's a box labeled 'games' somewhere...."

He laughs, and then they begin sorting through the various boxes stacked along the walls.

An hour and a half later, they're sitting on the floor across from one another, the game board between them; they've played three games -- Pam winning the first two, Jim the last. They've both been yawning intermittently for the past half hour, and even though she's completely exhausted, she's hoping he'll stay longer. She wishes she could ask him to just stay, spend the first night with her here, even if it's on the couch and not in her bed.

But she has no right to that, and she knows it.

So she surveys her living room yet again, marveling that this space -- however unfinished, however humble it might be -- is hers.

He glances over, seeing the wonder in her eyes, and in spite of himself, he smiles softly at her, indulging in the warmth that courses through him at the sheer happiness on her face.

She looks up, catching his prolonged stare and flushing beneath his gaze as she asks self-consciously, "...What?"

"Nothing." He answers quickly -- too quickly. Their eyes meet and hold for a second before he looks away, fixing his gaze on a pile of her clothes that's draped across her desk chair, then: "This must be pretty...amazing for you, huh? Your first place...."

"Yeah." She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear. "It's really weird...like, I can't believe I can paint it whatever color, make it as girlie as I want...."

She'd spoken without thinking, betraying a bit too much; she's made a concerted effort not to allude to her time with Roy. But when she glances over at him, he's watching her with a small smile, his head tilted slightly as if he's truly basking in her enjoyment of this moment and all it means.

The expression on his face in that moment is so incredibly open and warm that she has to look away, because she knows that if she stares too long, she'll start to cry. It occurs to her then: He deserves to be happy; he deserves so much better than I've given him in the past few months...the past few years.

It's with a pang of remorse that she realizes - again - that she'd do just about anything to have one more chance with him.

His voice startles her out of her thoughts. "So are you telling me you're planning on painting this whole place pink?"

She looks up at him with a smile. "Maybe."

He nods slowly, unable to look away from her; there's something about seeing her sitting there in her faded old jeans and well worn sweatshirt, her face glowing in the lamplight. It strikes him then that she's very much in her element; that this is where she belongs. This is what she's needed for years now -- a place to call her own, a place she can fully inhabit without Roy or anyone else holding her back.

They exchange another smile, then he says reluctantly, "I really should get going; it's pretty late."

She nods, glancing at her watch. "Yeah...it's almost midnight."

"Really?" He's surprised; he'd known it was late, but he'd had no idea it was that late. Something about the fact that they managed to lose track of time makes him feel oddly hopeful.

She nods as they climb to their feet. He takes his coat off the back of the sofa, slipping into it as she watches him, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes sleepy. For a second he's loathe to leave her; she looks like a little girl standing there bleary-eyed in front of him, and he feels a tug in his gut at the thought of her being all alone here tonight.

But he shakes it off, gazing down at her with a smile. "So...I guess I'll see you Monday."

"Yeah." She nods, her eyes holding his for a second. It's stupid and she knows it, but she feels almost as if she could burst into tears -- she doesn't want him to leave, doesn't want to keep going like this anymore; she's suddenly not sure she'll even be able to keep doing this -- letting him hold her at arm's length as they try to forget that they've passed the point of no return.

But she has no right to make demands of him; she's well aware of that fact.

Her voice is soft as she says, "Hey...thanks so much for...helping; if it hadn't been for you and Jonathan -- "

"Don't do that -- it's okay." He gives her a crooked grin. "Besides, we had fun."

She smiles back at him, nodding. "Yeah...."

There's silence then, and without thinking first, she suddenly steps forward and throws her arms around his neck, her eyes shut tight. He hesitates for a split second - no more - then slides his arm around her, his eyes closing as he inhales the familiar scent of her hair...positively assaulted by the certainty that this is what he wants; she's everything he wants, probably always will be.

Just before she lets go of him, she whispers in his ear, "Thank you."

He can't look directly at her when they pull apart, because he's not sure he could look her in the eye right now and manage to walk out the door. So instead, he offers one last smile, then turns to reach for the doorknob.

It's only when he's stepped out into the hall that he dares to turn around to face her. When he sees the tears welled in her eyes, he feels the breath leave his body, his head tilting. What he wants most to do right now is stride back inside, pull her into his arms, and press his mouth to hers.

Instead, he gives her a sad, small smile, tapping gently on her doorframe a few times before he says softly, "Good night."

To: jonathan.halpert@matria_hollowell.net

From: pambeesly@dundermifflin.com

Date: 17 December 11:27 a.m.

Re: A Thank You Dinner

She’s not sure why she feels a tad nervous when she hits the send button, but somehow she just does; still, she sends the email anyway, biting her lip before she turns to join in the circle that’s gathered around the rather sad Christmas tree. Jim’s waiting expectantly, having saved a seat for her; she slips into the chair, turning to give him a quick smile.

She's also not entirely sure yet why she sent the email to Jonathan without inviting Jim at the same time -- or first; maybe it's because she senses it's safer to start by inviting Jon....

But she doesn't have much time to contemplate it, as there they all sit in a circle before the dimly lit tree, Michael vacillating between proud father and hyperactive child. He's got a candy cane sticking out of his mouth, a camera in his hand as he watches them open their gifts – which tend to be randomly selected and lame, at best. Still, his enthusiasm is oddly contagious.

Dwight’s in charge of handing out the Secret Santa gifts as Angela glowers from her chair, clearly feeling as though he's somehow usurped her duties as Party Planning Committee Chair. Stanley is, as usual, working furiously on a crossword, only glancing up occasionally. Toby’s sitting next to Kelly, who claps every time someone opens a gift, and Phyllis, Kevin, and Oscar are engaged in a conversation about how they’ll pass the time during the week they have off. Creed and Meredith had disappeared into the kitchen some time ago and have yet to return.

Pam, in the meantime, is feeling oddly anxious as she sits beside Jim. It’s been three weeks since he helped her move in, and even though he’s been over twice in the interim – once to help her hang pictures, the second time to watch an episode of House when his cable had gone out unexpectedly half an hour before the show started -- both times he’d been careful to tread that increasingly impossible line between warmth and distance.

But now that she’s got the apartment decorated to suit her tastes, everything finally unpacked and put in its newly rightful place, she’s finding it incredibly difficult to sit still. ...Because in the silence and stillness -- the solitude she's never really had before -- the truth seems to crowd in on her: They're wasting time; she's being a coward, and he deserves better. She needs to take a chance, let him know what she’s feeling, whether or not it’s too late.

Even as she sits thinking about it, the main line rings, prompting her to jump from her seat, hurrying to her desk. "Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam."

"Hey." It’s Jonathan.

"Hey." She greets warmly, twisting the phone cord in an absent gesture.

"I just got your email." He says, then pauses. "Listen, Pam…I’m gonna just be honest – is that okay?"

His question catches her off guard, but she manages to answer, "I'd rather you do that than lie, yes."

She can almost hear him smile. "Okay, so maybe it's not so much honest as...I dunno, rude, maybe…."

"Still fine." Her confident tone masks the fact that her stomach is starting to twist now in anticipation of what he might say.

"Or maybe it's just nosy -- "

"Jonathan." She says firmly, prompting him to chuckle softly.

She's laughing quietly, too, until she hears his question: "What’s the deal with you and Jim?"

She blinks, feeling almost blindsided as she casts a nervous glance toward Jim, who’s smiling (a forced smile, she recognizes) at the book Creed’s given him – Tom Wolfe’s Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.

"I’m not…." She begins, ignoring the fluttering in her stomach. She’s met with a silence that stretches so long she almost asks if he’s still there.

But just before she does, he suddenly asks, "So are you in love with him, or what?"

Her immediate response is to shake her head as if she’d deny it, even though he can’t see her. But her body betrays her: her eyes close, her throat constricting as a familiar pressure builds in her chest. Even though she’s known for a long time that yes, she’s in love with him…it’s still an entirely different thing to consider admitting it out loud to his brother, of all people.

So she doesn’t say anything, just turns so that her back is to the rest of the staff, and most importantly, Jim. She has every intention of answering Jonathan, but somehow she can’t seem to manage to open her mouth and speak.

He hesitates in the wake of her silence, then gently prods, "…Pam?"

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s speaking in the same timbre she’s heard from Jim more than once that breaks her; or maybe it’s just that she’s been struggling with this for far too long on her own.

"Yeah, I think I am." She murmurs, clutching the phone cord, the tears in her eyes finding their way into her voice.

She has to bow her head, praying to god Jim’s not paying attention right now…wondering how in the hell she’s going to get herself back together. On top of that is the shock – the panic – that she’s just confessed to his brother of all people that she’s in love with him.

Jonathan goes silent for several long moments, then: "Yeah...I'm so not coming over for dinner."

She bursts out laughing at that, shaking her head as he continues. "Seriously - I appreciate the invitation and all that, but...you wanna thank me for helping you move? Quit wasting time and just tell Jim how you feel and what you want."

Just the thought sends a knot to her stomach. "...Seriously?"

"Seriously." He answers.

**

"So...big weekend plans?" She tries to sound nonchalant as she takes a sip of punch from her plastic cup -- immediately making a face and setting the cup down on the table.

Jim grins at her, having himself tasted the sharpness of the rum lacing the punch. "Nothing, actually. Sad, isn't it?"

His answer makes her nerves start to buzz again, and she's careful to avert her eyes, keeping a light tone as she remarks, "Well actually, I was gonna ask if you'd be interested in coming over for dinner tomorrow night -- after all, I owe you for helping me move."

Their eyes meet and hold for a second before he says quietly, "I told you -- you don't owe me."

She nods, trying not to lose her nerve. "Okay, fine. So you're turning down my invitation...?"

"No." He's quick to answer, wondering what the hell's going on...if she's up to something. Still, there's no way he's going to say no to her. "I didn't say I was turning it down; I just said that you don't owe me."

"Fine, whatever." She rolls her eyes at him, struggling to quell that tiny ball of excitment that's whirring in the bottom of her stomach. "So...six thirty?"

"Sounds good." He nods. "What can I bring?"

Again she rolls her eyes, feigns indignation. "You really don't listen well, do you? It's a thank you dinner, Jim; that means you don't bring anything."

"Not even bread...?" He's trying to look bewildered, but he's not quite pulling it off; the grin on his face is giving him away.

"Not even bread." She answers, then: "God help you, Jim Halpert, if you show up at my apartment with so much as a stalk of celery...."

"Wow." He draws back, pretends to be intimidated. "Yes ma'am."

Their eyes meet and hold for another beat before he looks away, then stands to return to his desk. She watches him go, feeling that knot tighten and swell at the prospect of taking a chance again, of putting herself out there and risking him telling her no, that it's too late; of potentially putting their friendship at risk by dredging it all up again.

Because for the life of her, she really can't read what he's thinking these days -- whether he's any more willing now than he was a few months ago to take steps forward. But still...she has to find out.

He knocks on her door, rocking on his heels nervously as he waits for her to answer. It just feels wrong to have shown up empty-handed, but she'd been so insistent that he not bring anything. He'd wrestled with the urge to pick up some flowers, but he didn't dare, for fear of...well, he's not sure exactly. Maybe of complicating things all over again.

Her door swings open then and she's suddenly standing in front of him, her eyes bright, cheeks flushed, hair a cascade of smooth waves. For a moment all he can do is stand there and stare at her in something akin to stupefication, because he's never seen her look quite so incredible before. She's wearing a form-fitting white sweater that looks impossibly soft, her faded jeans looking almost equally as soft and twice as compelling.

"Uh, hey." He forces himself to snap out of it, feeling the heat in his face and cursing the fact that he blushes so damned easily.

"Hey." Her voice is a little throaty, her breath having caught in her throat at the sight of him standing there, so tall and lanky and gorgeous in a white button down shirt and jeans, his hair brushed a little to the side, curling at his collar in the way that always reminds her of what it had felt like to run her fingers through it.

The fact that he's just standing there staring back at her, something almost visibly weakening behind his expression, only makes that flutter in her gut accelerate. But she forces herself to ignore it, looking away as she takes a step back, opening the door wider and inviting him in.

He steps inside, and when she moves to close the door behind him, he catches the faint scent of her perfume, reminding him of too many things he's trying to forget right now. In an effort to keep from standing there leering at her, he glances around her apartment, astonished at how much she's done in the two weeks since he was last here.

"Oh my god...." He turns in a circle, taking in the tidy bookshelves, knicknacks nestled in corners; the gauzy curtains that seem to float over the window panes; the newly painted walls a rich mocha with the faintest pink undertones to it. She's even lit several candles that are scattered about, adding to the intimate feel of the room. "This looks amazing....."

"Really?" She's watching him take it all in, nervously twisting her fingers even as she steals the chance to let her gaze sweep over him again. She's not sure when, exactly, the harmless guy that was her best friend alchemized into a man who literally makes her breath catch in her throat...but here he is.

"Yeah." He answers, nodding, then turning to look at her. It takes a concerted effort for him not to look her up and down; he's so unused to seeing her in things like that sweater -- soft, fuzzy material that clings to her waist, cut low enough in front that there's the tiniest hint of cleavage, her delicate clavicle bare but for the thin gold chain she always wears.

"I'm really glad you like it." She tells him, their eyes meeting and holding as a beat of silence pulses.

Then he forces himself to break it, gesturing to his empty hands. "You see that I obeyed your orders -- but I gotta tell you, coming here with absolutely nothing just feels weird. And so wrong."

She bursts out laughing at that, one hand over her mouth -- prompting him to ask, "...What?"

She shakes her head, gasping out, "I don't know...it was just funny."

And then she's giggling again, leaving him with nothing to do but stand there and watch her - loving the color in her cheeks, the glint of her hair, the fact that right now she looks so obviously alive. "Beesly...have you been drinking?"

"Ooh - no, but I do have wine." She gestures for him to follow her into her kitchen, which he does with a strange feeling that's permeating through him -- almost like a low hum beneath the surface of his skin. She turns to produce a bottle, which she hands to him along with a cork screw, adding sheepishly, "...Wine that I need you to open."

He takes the bottle and the cork screw with a lopsided smile. "Well at least I get to do something...."

"Shut it."

"Very nice." He retorts, bracing against the counter as he opens the wine. "You talk to all your honorary dinner guests that way?"

"Only the ones who're smartasses." She replies, reaching to pull something out of the refridgerator as his eyes widen, his mouth hanging open.

"Wow!" He takes a step back. "Are you actually talking smack now?"

She's trying not to laugh, finding it increasingly difficult. "What does that even mean? Talking smack?"

He pauses, setting down the now-opened bottle of wine. "No idea, actually."

They exchange a grin as she pours the wine into two glasses, handing him one before holding her own aloft. He follows suit, raising his glass as he watches her expectantly.

She's feeling nervous again as she meets his gaze. "To you, for being...." Here she falters, a blush staining her cheeks.

Flustered, she finishes quickly, "...such an awesome friend and, you know, for helping me move...."

He's caught off guard by both the toast, as well as by how completely nervous she suddenly looks. Still, he manages to touch his glass to hers, taking a drink as he averts his eyes, struggling to ignore the fact that he's more than a little disconcerted that she'd toasted to their friendship.

She'd regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth, so she's eager to move on, start talking about something else as she hopes to god her toast won't set the precedent for the evening ahead.

**

Two and a half hours later, the dishes are cleared away, the kitchen lights turned off. He'd insisted on helping her clean the kitchen immediately after dinner, arguing with her when she waved it away, saying she could do it later.

"Seriously - why don't we just do it now?" He'd entreated. "I mean, the two of us can do it in half the time it'd take you by yourself."

She'd groaned, pretending to be annoyed, when in reality, the gesture itself made her feel oddly desperate -- as it was just another thing about him that underscored what an amazing guy he really was.

Now they're sitting side by side on her living room floor, their backs against the couch, remnants of the one game of Yahtzee they'd played shoved off to the side. It's nearing eleven now, and they're working their way through their third glasses of wine, a surprisingly comfortable silence stretching between them.

That's one thing about having tiptoed around each other in the two months since the night they have yet to really talk about: They've gotten fairly adept at ignoring what they're not ready to face, carving out a comfortable space for themselves in the only realm they'll allow themselves to inhabit.

He marvels again at all she's done to this room: the candles she's placed in various corners flicker on the walls, and her i-pod rests in its docking station on her entertainment center, Ryan Adams' "La Cienega Just Smiled" beginning softly behind them.

Yes, she's made it truly her space, and it occurs to him just how comfortable he is here -- when really, he shouldn't be, given all the things they haven't said.

She takes a sip of wine, then rests her head against the couch, her chin tilted toward the ceiling as she closes her eyes. Then: "I got a sympathy card today."

Jim turns to stare over at her, distracted momentarily by the curve of her neck, the sight of her with her head tilted back and her eyes closed -- something startlingly intimate in her posture. And then he realizes why; he's seen her in that same position before, just in an entirely different context.

He forces himself to shake off the memory, asking, "What?"

Her smile is slow as she opens her eyes, but she doesn't lift her head. "I got a sympathy card from a lady who goes to church with my mom. It was a 'Sorry Your Engagement Imploded' kind of thing."

"Oh." He nods, stealing another glance at her profile as he wonders what she's really thinking. "So I guess that was weird...?"

"Yeah." She takes a deep, slow breath. "But it wasn't weird for the reasons you'd think it'd have been weird...you know?"

She lifts her head to look over at him; his brows are knit, his lips pursed. "...No, actually."

She smiles, laughs softly to herself as he, too, chuckles. Then she lowers her head back to the couch, her eyes on the ceiling as she starts to talk -- not really thinking about what she's saying or is about to say. "What I mean is that it was weird just because.... I don't know; everyone's being so...nice to me, like they feel sorry for me. Like...I don't know, something terrible has happened."

She shakes her head as he watches her, riveted. "And it's like I feel guilty because those people feel so sorry for me."

When she doesn't continue, Jim asks softly, "Why do you feel guilty?"

She takes a sip of wine, then answers without looking at him. "Because they think I'm...feeling this huge loss right now, that I'm devastated because things didn't work out with Roy."

She shakes her head, then shifts, turning to meet his eyes as she lets the words just tumble out of her, feeling almost breathless. "But what I feel most lately is just...I don't know, weirdly grateful. So grateful."

He can't move his eyes from hers, the pressure building in his chest because he really has no idea where she's going with this. His voice cracks slightly as he asks, "For what?"

She doesn't answer right away, letting her head fall back again, her eyes on the ceiling, then: "For you...for this. I can't explain it, but...."

He's reminded again of her toast earlier, and his heart starts to thud in his ears as he realizes that he may well have been misreading her all this time -- thinking she was waiting for him to be willing to try it again, when in actuality she was just re-building their friendship with no real intention of ever taking it any further.

The very possibility weighs on him so heavily that he's reeling inside, struggling not to let it show on his face even as she continues talking in that low voice.

"It's why I don't feel like I've lost something...why I kind of feel lucky." She stops abruptly, emitting a short laugh that catches in her throat in a way that makes him raise his eyes to her face, his stomach tightening a little when he sees that she's close to tears now, her chin trembling a little as she goes on. "It's stupid, actually -- "

She shakes her head, staring at the wall absently. "I mean...I completely screwed things up with you, with us."

He feels the tremor of a shock flicker throughout his body; just the fact that she's addressed them is stunning. He's so caught off guard, in fact, that all he can do is sit there staring at his hands, his head bowed.

A long silence passes before she suddenly says, "It's so weird, so...ironic. I told you it was a mistake...freaked out about it because I was so afraid it would ruin things."

She shakes her head, glancing over at him; he's sitting stock still, his head lowered.

Just the sight of him makes her ache all over as she finishes, "But god...now I see that I'm the one who made a mess of everything. I mean, the mistake wasn't what happened with us; the mistake was me freaking out about it, asking you to act like it never happened...telling you nothing could change. I mean -- "

She stops abruptly, putting her hand to her lips as she swallows hard, struggling not to cry, and when she goes on, her voice is a sharp whisper. "When I think of...of what I did to you, I just...."

She bites her lip, watching his profile as he slowly lifts his head, turning to stare into her tear-filled eyes, his jaw muscle jumping at the sight of her tears. He's aching all over, his head spinning because he can't figure out what the hell it is she's trying to say here -- that she's sorry she slept with him and told him to forget it? That she's glad they're friends, but they won't be anything more than that, ever? Or something else entirely....?

Her eyes rove over his face as she lets herself just slip down into it all, allowing everything she feels for him to envelop her in a warmth that seems to stem from her very core. And she can see that he's visibly struggling - jaw tensed, brows knit, looking so completely vulnerable and weary, as if she has the power to wound him deeply -- as if she already has.

Without thinking further, she leans toward him, moving slowly, carefully, her eyes never leaving his as she draws closer. She lightly brushes her lips against his mouth, startled at the immediate heat that sweeps over her, even though he doesn't respond -- doesn't stop her, but doesn't move either.

So she pulls back again, beginning to tremble -- whether from the nerves or just the emotion, she's not sure. He averts his eyes, staring absently at the carpet, his chest beginning to rise and fall more quickly as his breathing becomes labored.

His name is soft on her lips, barely above a whisper: "Jim."

He slowly lifts his head again, seeing that her lips are twitching, her hands shaking slightly. She feels her courage wavering slightly in the wake of the fact that he hadn't really responded to her kiss...in light of the way he's sitting here staring at her right now, his expression so pained, so serious.

But she forces herself to be brave, to just say it -- and when she does, the words catch on a sharp edge: "I'm in love with you."

He doesn't hear her words so much as he feels them, trickling slowly down his spine, leaving him in a stupor. He can't even react because he's struggling so hard to wrap his brain around what she'd just said -- and the repercussions those words will spark -- no turning back. At first he can do nothing other than sit there in a daze, staring at her as she wipes the tears from under her lashes -- and then he realizes that she's crying because she thinks it's too late.

So he starts to shake his head, still unable to manage to speak, the tears crowding his throat in a painful lump that's expanding by the second. When she sees him shake his head, tears standing out in his eyes, she feels her stomach fall -- too late.

Fresh tears fill her eyes as she bites her lip, nodding slowly as she tries to get herself together, lowering her head and looking away from him. Only then does she hear the rustle of his shirt as he moves closer, and then his fingers are warm on her chin as he tilts her face, lowering his mouth to hers. She doesn't hesitate, propping on one hand, her other hand resting against the rough stubble on his jaw. She's still not entirely sure what this means - if it isn't too late, or if this is just goodbye - but at this point, she can't care anymore; she just wants to be close to him again, wants to just let go and fall.

He has every intention of stopping, of telling her that he's in love with her too, that he has been since the week he met her - but he can't bring himself to pull back long enough to do so; instead, his lips keep finding hers, even as he shifts, one arm underneath her as he eases her back to the floor, moving to rest on top of her as she draws his mouth back down to hers impatiently, her hands on either side of his face.

Five -- maybe ten -- minutes pass before she manages to murmur against his lips, "I need you to -- "

He immediately forces himself to pull back, propping on his hands as he gazes down at her, struggling to catch his breath. For a split second, he feels that all-too familiar dread...but then she finishes in a whisper, "I need you to...know that this is real."

Their eyes hold, and he feels a lump rising in his throat again at the impossibility of it all -- that this is happening, that maybe all he's wanted ever since he met her is about to actually be.

She sees his lips twitch, and she trails her fingers down his jaw before she whispers, "I want this to matter; please tell me it's not too late."

He swallows hard, immediately tilting his head to the side, those eyes never leaving hers. There's a split second of hesitation as he hovers over her, his eyes roving her face as she lies beneath him, her hair spread out like a fan against the carpet, her cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling because her breathing is as labored as his. And in that instant, he feels the last vestige of his defenses slipping away...but he's happy to let go.

He almost flinches as he whispers, "I've been in love with you since...."

He doesn't finish, instead shaking his head again, his eyes meeting hers, his voice throaty: "...It's not too late."

She nods slowly, her eyes never leaving his, and for a moment neither of them moves or speaks; there are a few seconds of silence that seem to stretch on interminably as they simply stare at one another, both basking in the fact that they can. He could swear that she's reading his mind right now -- that she knows he's staring down at her, almost reeling with the realization that this is it; he's face to face with his future, and the promise it offers is absolutely dizzying.

It's a strange, intense moment, the emotion interrupting the heat for a brief flash as they stare at one another in wonder, realizing the sheer impossibility inherent in the miracle that they're here.

And then he lowers his head, his lips meeting hers as he shifts so that their bodies are flush against each other. Her hands find their way around his neck, sinking into his hair before sliding down to drift over his shoulders, his back. She presses closer against him, feeling somehow dizzy even though she's lying down. Then she blindly reaches for the buttons on his shirt, not moving her mouth from his as she slowly frees one after the other, even as his hands slip beneath her sweater, his palms warm against the skin on her stomach.

When she's undone the last button on his shirt, she nudges him gently; he takes her cue, sitting up and starting to move as if he'd take the shirt off, but she surprises him by rising to her knees in front of him, her eyes on his as she whispers, "No...let me."

He feels the words somewhere in the pit of his stomach, realizing all over again what this means -- where they are, what's about to happen...that this is it.

All he can do is nod once, his eyes never leaving hers as she leans forward, slowly pushing the fabric of his shirt off his shoulders so that it falls in a heap behind him. For several long seconds, all she can do is just kneel there across from him, her eyes traversing his shoulders -- almost startlingly broad, the muscles taut beneath her fingertips as she trails her hands across them. And then he's nudging her sweater up; she raises her arms so that he can pull it the rest of the way, dropping it on the floor behind her before his skin is deliciously warm against her own again.

His lips are pressed against her neck, her fingers twined into his hair as she whispers, "God, I want you so much...."

Much like before, he feels the words more than he hears them; his eyes close, and for a second he's still, his cheek against her chest as he struggles to manage the swell of emotion. Then he feels her arms tighten around him, one of her hands finding its way to his face; she traces his jaw, then draws his head closer against her in an almost protective way.

He's aware then of just how much he really believes, how certain he is that she won't try to run away again, ever; how he just knows things have changed irrevocably...for the better this time. Her name is the faintest moan as he shifts, moving to cover her mouth with his own as he draws her body closer.

They don't bother making their way to her bedroom; they're too caught up in the hazy blur of damp skin and tangled limbs, of sweat and heat and muffled moans. It's markedly different this time; she doesn't even try to temper her desire, her lips against his ear as she whispers breathlessly just how much she's wanted this, wanted him. He, in turn, lets the defenses slide away, murmuring her name without breaking his rhythm, cradling her head against his chest as she shakes almost spasmodically in his arms, his name somewhere between a scream and a gasp...just enough to send him over the edge, plunging into an abyss of darkness spiked with brilliant colors before all dissolves into blissful stillness.

**

They're lying side by side on her living room floor, both looking at the ceiling. She glances over at him, smiling softly to see that he's still breathing heavily, sweat dampening the hair around his face and neck. As if he can feel her gaze, he turns to look at her, and when he sees her expression, he can't help but smile slowly back at her.

She props up on one elbow, looking almost shy. "Hey...will you stay with me tonight?"

Without thinking, he reaches out, gently pushing the hair from her eyes before scanning her face; his voice is hoarse when he answers, "Are you seriously asking me that...?"

For a second she looks embarrassed and he feels immediately guilty; before she can respond, he catches her hand in his own. "Yes. Of course I'll stay with you tonight."

Their eyes meet, slow smiles spreading across both their faces. She clears her throat, then: "So...my bed's way more comfortable than the floor."

He grins. "Okay. ...Though I have to tell you: I don't have any complaints about the floor right about now."

He meets her gaze again, one eyebrow cocked mischeviously. She laughs, her head falling back; then she's looking at him again, unable to keep the smile off of her face. "Wait 'till you experience the wonder that is my bed."

He chuckles softly. "Sounds intriguing...."

She moves, sitting up, then rising to her feet, grabbing an afghan off the couch and swathing it around herself before extending a hand to him. He takes it, rising to stand next to her, gazing down at her for a moment, sheer wonder all over his face.

For a second, neither of them speaks, then he whispers, "We're really gonna do this....?"

Fresh tears sting her eyes for some inane reason, and all she can do is nod furiously, her eyes almost imploring him. He takes in the expression on her face, then nods slowly before he reaches down to trail his fingers along her cheekbone again, marveling that she actually loves him -- that he can literally see it in her eyes.

She leads him to her bedroom then, situated at the end of a hallway to the left of her living room; she's painted it a dusky mocha that's a few shades lighter than the living room, with the same pink undertones. He's staring, startled to find himself in this, her most personal space; but when he thinks about it, he realizes that he belongs here...that she wants him to be here.

It's like another dream to fall into bed with her, nestling under the covers, his body curved against hers, their hands intwined. They talk for a while - about nothing, really, just the mindless conversation punctuating a day that's been nothing short of a revelation. Sleep comes quickly, his fingers loosening their grip on hers, though their hands remain linked.

She wakes up at some point to the warmth of his lips on her neck, his naked body flush against her own; she's not sure just how conscious he is of what he's doing, because he doesn't say a word, just draws her closer against him. There's something slightly intoxicating about giving in to him without saying a word, following his slow and languid lead, his breath warm against her ear as she moves with him. It's hazy and slow and surreal; when it's over, his lips pass over her hair as he whispers throatily, "Love you...."

Climbing as we fall

We dare to hold onto our faith

And steal away our destiny

To catch ourselves with quiet grace