A/N: Okay, get this. I'm starting another one of these, but I actually have all of the chapters written out again -- just like I did with New York. Patience happens sometimes, I guess. This came into my head last night and I've been writing it for most of the day. It's going to be quite a few chapters, it looks like, but they aren't longer like my usual ones. But they just seemed like appropriate places to break. Really, though, this is the last WIP I'm started. Swear. It all happened so fast! Hope you like.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything here.




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She wonders if he knows that she's the one who gets the message. Well, he has to know. She takes all the call-ins. Listening to the messages on her phone is the first thing she does each morning when she gets to the office, which always kind of makes her feel somewhat out of place. When Jim or Dwight or Angela or even Creed or anyone else answers their messages each morning, it's because somebody called them. Needed to talk to them. And it's always much more important than the messages she gets.

She listens to people looking for Jim or Dwight or Angela or even Creed or anyone else, the caller simply not knowing their extension (because that's her job, connecting calls). She hears messages from people who want to do business with them -- and they always know they're talking to the receptionist first because they're friendly when they ask for an opportunity to talk with a salesperson. But again, she's merely the link. Or, there are wrong numbers. Or politicians or telemarketers with a voice message that's being left on answering machines all around the city, the kind with the first half second clipped off for some reason.

Or, an employee calls in. Which actually doesn't happen too often. Maybe a bit of a surprise if others could see how their staff behaved (or didn't) most of the time.

And in the time she's been here, long years by now, she's only heard Jim's voice on this machine twice. Once for his grandpa's funeral, whom he was pretty close to (in the days after that, when they'd been friends for a while, it was the first and only time she'd ever seen him cry; just a tear on his face, a smile soon after). The other time was this really bad snowstorm in a really funny coincidence. Something like, the plumbing was terrible at his place so he went to stay with his parents the night before, and they don't plow the roads for a few days, so he couldn't come in. Thinking back, she's not sure what was so funny, but it had brought on the first time she ever laughed so hard with him that she cried. It happened, somehow.

His voice is so strained, quiet and hard that she gets a chill and the urge to check over her shoulder. See if he's there. He explains that he has a fever and just doesn't feel... great, and that he doesn't think he'll be in today.

She's first in the office after Michael today. No one would ever guess, but Michael is remarkably quiet when it's just the two of them in the morning. He's just too tired and he makes the coffee as soon as he gets in, shuts himself in the office, and presumably drinks the coffee with a metric ton of sugar right before everyone else arrives. She made sure to try and switch his coffee with decaf a long time ago, thinking this could easily be the problem. Jim had been impressed with her clever thinking. She'd been completely wrong; Michael had been just the same.

Michael sighs as he clicks the mouse, the rate of each noise few and far between. Checking his email, or online shopping, perhaps.

She slumps her shoulders, still in her coat. It's just not warm enough in here yet. She balls her fists, brings one of them up under her chin, resting on the heel of her upturned hand. She looks out at his desk, the one that doesn't face her anymore. All day she has to watch the back of his neck, watch it dip down so she can see the curls more clearly, or turn to the side, so she can see his profile perfectly. Because he doesn't really turn around to see her anymore, not like he used to. And as much as she hates that, when he came back with someone else, she couldn't decide if it was better not having him around and assuming he was detached, or having him ten feet away and seeing him with her.

She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth. She just misses him, she thinks. And then Karen, Oscar, Angela, and Dwight all arrive. The early ones.

So. Solitaire, phone calls, and faxes.




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I promise they won't all be so boring. Bear with me.

A/N: See? Told you I wouldn't be slow on this one. I know it's a little dull right now, but things are moving. I promise.

Disclaimer: Not mine.




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Karen smiles and nods at Stanley, who gruffly agrees with her about something. Pam stops watching their conversation immediately, because Karen’s standing up and coming towards her end of the office, but still. Karen’s appearance makes her feel a little dejected. She can’t help but compare, which makes her feel like high school just hit her like a bus again. But, you know. She’s decided she shouldn’t do any of that, if she can help it.

Pam also decided about a week ago that if Karen and Jim were going to be dating, she couldn't just sit up at her stupid reception desk and be jealous of Karen. She was, of course, but she had to think of ways to counteract that. Mostly because she missed Jim. So, naturally (god...), she decided to be, maybe, friends with Karen? Or at least make it look like she was nice. Which she figured she was, really, but it was the first time she’d ever felt a shade of red on her like this. Snarky, maybe. And she wasn’t totally sure what being nice would do, but she did know that the doing the opposite would most likely push Jim very far away from her. So, the opposite of Jim being very far away from her…

"Hey," Pam says, raising her brow and shifting in her seat a little, as Karen approaches the copier.

Karen looks around for a second, back to Pam, silently making sure she's talking to her. Pam’s not totally sure why she does this, like they’ve never talked before. She’s actually talked to her quite a few times, which is surprising, given that Karen should be the one person she’s allowed to irrationally hate. Because she might think Karen’s another sane one in the office.

"Yeah," Pam nods with a smile that feels largely fake. "So, what's the matter with Jim? He says he has a fever?"

She raises her brow again as if she's feigning interest, which is just stupid, she thinks. Really, she knows he doesn't call in for any reason at all, so it has to be some fever, and it does make her a little nervous. Also, though, is this really the way to get to know your crush's girlfriend?

Okay, so that could be a headline from a Cosmo.

Pam refrains from rolling her eyes at herself, since she’s still watching for Karen’s reaction. Karen's eyes go wide as she taps the buttons on the copier and waits. She slides the paper from the tray and shakes her head rapidly, the hair shining and shining and swinging on her shoulders. "I, uh, I don't know. I'm sure he's fine." Her lips roll into her mouth with those wide eyes and she just shrugs and heads back to her desk.

All Pam can think is awkward and that maybe Karen can see right through her. Like, back off my boyfriend awkward see right through her. He's mine and my hair is, yes, naturally this beautiful.

Pam nods to herself and realizes she's been perched on the edge of her seat, her balled fists resting on either side of her legs. And her feet are pressed together and removed from her shoes, toes curled up in the tights she wears. So, basically, she looked ridiculous from head to toe during that exchange.

That's... great. And she continues to miss him. Her mouth falls open, unsure of what to say, especially when the camera lens is looking at her. Her glance darts over to Jim's desk, roaming over the blank white of his blotter and the gleam of the wood on his desk. The cameraman follows her gaze.

She rolls her eyes and picks up the phone. When she pretends to make a phone call, she actually just listens to his voicemail again.

Hey, this is, mmm, this is Jim. I don't think I can make it in. I have a fever and just don't feel... great, so I, yeah, I probably won't make it in. Hoping it'll be better tomorrow or, for sure, by Monday. But. Yeah. Let Toby know for me and I'll be there again soon.

She replays it once again, listening to the space between all the words, like she can read his temperature through the earpiece. He sounds worn down. He does sound sick. She imagines him curled up on the couch, with a mound of Kleenex scattered around him and bad television in front of him. Maybe a large bowl of hot soup in his lap.

Hey, this is, mmm, this is Jim. I don't think I can make it in. I have a fever and just don't feel... great, so I, yeah, I probably won't make it in. Hoping it'll be better tomorrow or, for sure, by Monday. But. Yeah. Let Toby know for me and I'll be there again soon.

It's a blessing, she thinks, that the camera can follow her all day long and follow her eyes every time she looks over at Jim's space in obvious longing, but they can't see or hear her do this. It's not a conversation, so she doesn't have to answer back. She sets the receiver back in its place and leaves her hand on top of it for a moment. She blinks and pretends like it’s just secretarial work; listening to all of the phone messages that weren’t really for her in the first place. Jim’s wasn’t either, she knows this, but she figures she’ll be listening to it again throughout the day. He hardly talks to her anymore anyway, and at least this way she can listen to his voice and, you know, there’s nothing to analyze. There’s nothing to watch between Jim and Pam. The cameras are across the room the next time she picks up the phone when it’s not ringing, setting it against her ear. And they just have no idea.




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Okay, I know it's slow moving. Things will get going in the next chapter, posted tomorrow, most likely.

A/N: This one is for Ang, who has commitment issues with WIPs.

Disclaimer: Not a thing is mine.




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Pam's starting to feel a little warm when the idea comes to her. Her desk is in the area that’s usually the coolest in the office, but she has long ditched her hot tea and is sipping juice with ice out of her mug instead. It's one of Jim's juice boxes that he keeps in the refrigerator. She's not sure why she felt compelled to sneak one, but she felt her cheeks redden when she squeezed the contents out of the straw hole and mixed in ice. It's really not that great, but it's cooling her cheeks down, and she thinks that she'll tell him she took one just to start a conversation with him one day when, suddenly, she thinks she could do it today.

Jim never really leaves her mind, but the fact that he's sick when he's never sick won't leave her alone. She always has felt a small part of her needing to take care of him, and even though -- maybe -- he's not hers to take care of, Karen seems less than concerned. Which is fine, because Pam thinks maybe she's being a little ridiculous. Maybe Karen stopped by this morning and left a kiss on his warm forehead. Maybe she said I love you, feel better and Jim said You take such good care of me. I love you, too.

Pam shakes her head and has another terrible sip of Boppin' Berry, or whatever the hell it is. She's not totally sure why she tortures herself like this. Her hands fall in her lap and she pulls on the blue shirt she’s wearing. She hates this shirt. This was the shirt she wore when she broke up with Roy. At the time she said she wasn’t going to do anything ceremonious and pointless, like burn it, because she figured she wouldn’t remember that detail at all. But she does, she remembers a lot about that day, and she remembers that days move slower when she’s in this shirt and no one seems to talk to her.

She rolls her eyes at that logic. She’s really not that desperate, lonely, all of the above… And now 11:05 seems like close enough to lunch.

She spends about three whole minutes waiting for the tingling to leave her legs so she can have the courage to stand and walk to Michael's door. Even Michael seems a bit subdued today. Maybe something's going around. She almost trips on the way around her desk, as if the counter extended to the left and inch while she wasn’t looking.

Before she’s there, her head is up for a moment and she catches Phyllis knitting at her desk. She smiles. Sometimes she kind of loves that the office can bend a little, slack off and make a baby blanket. Do a crossword puzzle. Put something in Jell-O.

The smile is only beginning to fade when she taps on the door jamb and he looks up, noticeable bags under his eyes. She doesn't acknowledge them, but maybe she worries about him some, too.

"Hey," she says, tilting her head to the side and letting her gaze stray to his cluttered desk. She can't really look someone in the eye when she's about to stretch the truth. "I'm not feeling the best, and I think I'm going to take a little bit of a longer lunch, if that's okay." She's hourly, so she thinks it will actually be fine, because the company's cheap and everything and Michael has to follow the rules. And he loves putting Ryan in her place. Just last week, she was about six minutes late, and Ryan had already been stationed in front of her computer. She’d had to practically argue her way back into her chair. With Michael, not Ryan.

"Okay, kiddo," Michael says, nodding. "You look paler than usual. Actually, you do look like hell. I didn't notice. You okay?"

At her side is the camera lens. She stares into it, hard, lips parted. A little disgusted but not surprised. She really doesn't feel that sick. But. Okay, Michael. Thanks, she thinks. "I just need a break, I'll be back."

"Take your time," he suggests, waving his hand. "I have a temp, you know the Ryan Howard -- Oh! I got a temp, you got a temp, Jim’s got a temp --”

Her eyes are too wide, she knows that she doesn’t have to always look like a deer in headlights. But she doesn’t fix it before she’s reflexively turning towards Karen, who looks over her shoulder at Pam. There eyes meet for a moment before Pam shakes her head away, but not before she catches Karen looking like she expected that. Expected Pam to look over at her, maybe, too. And she just looks tired.

But then he’s singing Ryan’s praises, and she's glad for once that Michael makes such a fuss about the possibility of Ryan taking over her job. She's not sure if he'd rather be staring at Ryan or her through his blinds all day. She doesn't care. His inexplicable crush on Ryan is doing her a favor right now.

"I'll be back, I won't take the whole day off," she promises with a shake of her head. She licks her lips, swallows, nods more resolutely. "Okay, see you later."

He's merging her name into the lyrics of a song before she's out the door and into the elevator, so he's probably fine after all, she thinks. Her coat is thick and too warm around her, her scarf is too much texture for right under her chin. As the elevator brings her down to the ground floor, she’s glad she didn’t take the stairs. She’s not sure what she’s going to do quite yet, with this extended amount of time. Maybe she won’t even take the full half-hour anyway. Maybe she just wanted a little breathing room earlier in the day. But the way her chest is tight and the hair on the back of her neck stands on end, she thinks she knows where she’s headed.

So she’s glad she didn’t take the stairs, because that’s the easiest way to change your mind.




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Ooh, I wonder where this (or Pam) is going. What do you think?! ;)

A/N: Thanks to Vampiric Blood for making time to clean this one up a bit. She's so... great.

Disclaimer: None of this is mine, as usual.




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By the time Pam's at her apartment, her new apartment that is actually on the way to his new apartment now, she feels everything hit her at once. This is a stupid, stupid idea. She's making him soup, for crying out loud. And not even, like, homemade and thoughtful soup. Soup that says I miss your friendship and I love you, okay? It's this stuff out of a can that has incredible amounts of sodium that Pam herself won't even touch because it makes her fingers all puffy. And it's not even Campbell's or something good. What is she doing?

She could’ve just told Karen to say hi to Jim for her. She could’ve been friendly and said, “Tell him I said hi, and that I hope he feels better soon!“ That actually would've been fine. Acceptable. Sadly, Pam kind of thinks the message would never get that far.

She wonders if Karen thinks she can kiss the fever out of his body, if she hasn't tried it already this morning. Maybe Karen's the one that woke up, tapped him on the shoulder, Maybe you should call in, you're so warm. Maybe he kept protesting until she laughed and said, Seriously, I'm worried about you. Stay home and rest.

She stops herself again. Pam doesn’t understand where she should stand, which side of the line or at what proximity. Is she supposed to hate this woman? Because she can’t. It’s embarrassing to Pam that the only reason she even knows Jim’s new address is because she had to ask him so she could help him peruse Craigslist for apartments for Karen. And she distinctly remembers apartment number eight because she copied paperwork with his new address when he came back (back is a concept). He was suddenly one of those people who writes the number to look like a snowman with a missing piece. They used to be quick and sloppy, ugly twists of ink. She wonders if Karen changed his eights, lit up his life, and inspired that.

God, what if she is going to go to his apartment during her lunch break? Which she knows Karen won’t take until 12:30, like everyday.

Pam presses the back of her hand to her forehead and closes her eyes, methodically stirring the soup with her other hand. She could be in and out within an hour, right? Definitely.

She rolls her eyes and abruptly turns off the burner. Why in the hell is she heating this? She’s going to dump it in a bowl and put a lid on it! She closes her eyes, thoroughly embarrassed in front of no one, and pours the soup into a clear bowl. She sticks on a red lid, snaps it shut and puts her hands around the bowl.

Pam closes her eyes as the heat spreads across her fingers. It’s starting to snow outside. That light kind that looks like the world is doomed, because after Christmas, doesn’t it all just end up looking gray? Just something else to make your car stuck at the end of the driveway into the parking lot. This might just be the stupidest idea she has ever had.

Because Pam knows that she made a whole line of mistakes, right in a row, and Jim suffered through each of them. And now that’s he’s back, she sees him everyday. Pam had realized she’d missed it more than she knew. But it’s different, because Jim’s nowhere near the hers that she wants him to be. He’s further away from that than he was before he left. He has someone else now, and Pam doesn’t know how to bump into him, how to just let him know. If Pam would ever get the courage to start, she wouldn’t know where to stop with him. Jim had made his move when she was unhappy and engaged, pulling her out of something she needed to be removed from. She doesn’t know anything about his happiness, what he wants to be removed from, if anything.

Maybe he’s just happy.

Pam sighs and turns toward the window, opening her eyes and watching the snow fall as the soup continues to warm her hands.

Pam thinks that the only reason she'll really go through with this is that she's been quiet for this long, missing opportunities, that maybe this is her one chance to do something very unlike her. Something necessary. She thinks a few things could happen. Maybe he’ll eat her soup and they’ll be friends again, or he’ll tell her she needs to leave because Karen might get the wrong idea. Maybe Karen will be there and she will get the wrong idea. Perhaps Pam will show up and Jim will be dead on his couch.

Even though it's meant to be just the blunt, sardonic end to her train of thought, the image gives her a shock up her spine and she starts. She takes her hands away from the bowl and wipes them on the front of her skirt.

Skirt. If Pam’s going to do this, which she decides she maybe needs to, she's not going to go over there in a skirt. She wants to look like an un-officed version of herself. But when she's pulling clothes out of her drawers, she has no clean jeans. But really comfortable sweats. Like, cute girly ones. And, after all, it is cold outside and he's probably not going to be wearing anything different.

She changes into the sweatpants in the middle of her living room while she looks outside to check the progress of the snow. She realizes she's never been anything close to naked in any part of her apartment, except for the bathroom and her bedroom. She had never lived alone in her life until after Roy and she still hasn't done anything like walking through her apartment naked. Old, very old Jim from months ago may have said, Some artist you are.

Except, Pam thought as she pulls the drawstring into a bow and peers out the window, Jim would never say that because they definitely don't talk about each other naked. She blushes, chucks that damn Roy shirt over her head and pulls on a plain gray t-shirt. She likes to think some men think girls look cute in sweats like this. Maybe.

The fabric of the sweatpants glides up her legs. Roy always loved that Pam shaved her legs every night before bed; she’s obligated, since all she wears is skirts. It brings her down a notch, considering that at night when she’s out of the shower and her legs tangle in the sheets and they’re smooth, no one’s there but her. And the only place Jim has ever had his hands on her is her back, her shoulder, and a few times hooked into her hand.

Pam closes her eyes because it feels like her chest is collapsing in on itself. She's getting hopeful again, just like she was the morning she woke up at about five to wash, straighten, and curl her hair when she knew he was coming back. She could hear her mom again, the same words she would say to her, Oh, sweetie... The virtual arm around her shoulder that she had to visualize on the phone that night.

She thinks about crying, just for a split second. She’s not wearing any makeup that crying would ruin. Pam can’t bring herself to schedule crying time into her driving time, though. It just feels pitiful. She tucks the bowl of soup against her chest, against her thick and padded coat. She kicks aside a pile of sketches that lie on the floor, the hands of someone that doesn't love her anymore, and grabs her purse, and she's gone.

A/N: Long wait, but updates will be coming more regularly now. Hope you haven't forgotten about this one! :)

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.




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The way to his apartment is nothing but snow, chilly toes, warm soup on her thighs and this cloud in her head. Pam feels like the car might as well drive itself, because she can't believe she's doing this. She has a terribly clear picture of what might happen in the next fifteen minutes -- she could knock on his door, Jim could answer, she could present him with soup. He probably wouldn't even invite her in. He would probably thank her and she'd say, Yep, just felt like checking up on you real quick. And then she would leave. That's a definite possibility, the fact that this might not be either hot or cold -- great or awful -- because it might end before it, what she really wants, begins.

When the car slows and stops at a red light, Pam's in the middle of a pool of minivans and she rests her chin on the top of the steering wheel. She peers ahead and frowns at the rhythmic run of the wiper blade's half circle across the back window of the vehicle in front of her. She accelerates when they do, automatically watching for the blink of brake lights like her father taught her to do in this weather.

Can’t ever be too careful in this weather.

Pam is there before she knows it, and she has second guessed herself too many times to count, but it‘s a bad habit. Easily, she figures, she could go home and eat the soup and go back to work. She could leave the soup on his step and put a note on it. She could dump the soup in this sloshy new snow and cry the whole way home and take the rest of the day off, like Michael offered. It soon comes to her that she doesn't really know what the goal of this visit is. Part of it, Pam knows, is that she misses him and is even genuinely worried about him because this isn't his norm. So there's that. Otherwise, maybe she's just not used to a Thursday without him. She figures weekends are long enough to go without him, she doesn't want to do a four-day stretch.

Pam feels like Karen didn't seem concerned, and she wonders if Karen had acted that way towards him. Instead of persuading Jim to stay in bed and rest, like Pam had thought previously, maybe Karen had said, Really? Maybe you should just take some Tylenol and see if you feel better.

Karen, Karen, Karen. It‘s difficult to admit to herself, but Pam knows she‘s jealous. It's an ugly thing to be, especially when she has no right to be. She practically handed Jim and his dignity to Connecticut and all the girls that come with it.

She shuts her car door softly, juggling her purse and the bowl of soup. She tucks her chin against her chest and hopes the noise didn't draw his attention, hopes he wasn't staring out his living room window like she was earlier.

Pam remembers apartment number eight, and steps over collections of snow in the parking lot. She's looking down with each step and sees that her pretty, girly pink sweatpants are being dipped into this ugly snow with each step. Groaning, she tries to pick up each pant leg, but it's too much work and she's already carrying enough. She sighs, drops them, and lets them soak with every step.

God.

She looks up at the panel next to the front door, and it's a collection of apartment numbers and their corresponding doorbells. This makes it significantly less spontaneous. Or, no. More awkward. Pam isn't going to risk walking back to her car now with pink pants and a bowl full of cooling generic soup. This is humiliating, she decides, as she squints and hits the button next to number eight.

It feels like five minutes could've ticked by and she refuses to ring it again. If anything, she isn't going to try and interrupt his sleeping. Which is probably what Jim's doing if he's not answering. Or at least she hopes (what if he looked outside and saw her stupid little car and it wasn't Karen's, so...).

Pam is about to dejectedly pick up the legs of her pants and just chuck the bowl of soup in frustration when the door unlocks. The buzz is this raggedy, broken motor-sounding rattle that makes her nearly jump out of her skin. For such a nice-looking building it sounds terrible. She quickly handles everything and struggles through the heavy door and into the heat of the building.

She scuffs her shoes against the mat and leans back into the door for a minute. Her arms feel like they're stretching to their limits, burning.

Which actually feels good, Pam considers, as she chooses to go up the stairs. Not literally. So, they do actually burn and it does not actually feel good. But, for the past year, maybe longer, she feels like her body has been encased in steel. Like, she needed to stretch out her limbs and feel how far the tips of her fingers and toes could reach, just to make sure she could touch whatever she wanted. And the steel would just stop her, keep her in limits that she didn't want. But how do you get through steel?

Or even worse. Maybe she's encased in something like an eggshell, and if she ever broke through, wouldn't that make a horrible, horrible mess?

Pam slips into another door and looks down the hallway. Apartments three through six. She sighs. Seriously?

She heaves herself up the next set of stairs and ends up in front of another door. It's the second to last floor, so, it kind of has to be it, right?

The dingy brass of the number eight sitting on the dark wood of the door might be the most intimidating thing she's ever seen. She rocks on her feet, takes a deep breath, feels a little ridiculous because he could easily be standing on the other watching her through the peephole.

Pam knocks timidly and waits. There isn't an answer. She shifts the things she's carrying and it makes it no less uncomfortable. She raps again, just as softly. Pam’s good at pretending like the second time is better, like she spoke a little louder or stood up a little straighter one day. And she likes to think she knocks harder, but she really doesn’t. Pam thinks it’s stupid, but she’s almost afraid he’ll answer.

She feels the dashing threat of tears again but shakes her head. Pam pretends she's right in front of Jim, because there has been plenty of times since she's come back that she's wanted to cry and held it in, anyway. She stoops down for a second, acting like she'll just deposit the soup and get the hell out of here.

She shakes her head. Pick up your sorry bowl of soup and get your act together.

Pam’s whole body feels so tired from the cold and carrying all of this crap that she jiggles the doorknob before knocking again, but as she does it, she realizes the door is unlocked. Turning the door knob slightly and knocking on the door has pushed it open, and everything in his apartment comes into view. The room is empty (and there are no corpses on the couch), and everything lies perfectly still. For some reason, part of her brain assumes it would smell like Karen, like maybe she had left her mark here.

It doesn't.

She steps inside, gingerly slipping out of her sneakers and pushing the door shut. It's louder than Pam anticipated, and when her bag slides off her shoulder, she’s standing on his rug next to her shoes with a bowl of soup in her hand.

Like she's welcome here or something.

Pam is ready, again, to drop off the soup and just leave when she hears a noise from the hallway. Her teeth clench and she looks down at the bowl in her hands helplessly. Her head twists to the side and her pulse speeds up.

This... this sucks. Make me disappear, she thinks, but instead she’s looking up, he’s right there. blinking, and then,

"Pam?"




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Slowest introduction to the story ever, I know.

A/N: Okay, this story can get moving now that there's enough characters for a conversation at least! Thanks to Vampiric Blood for the help on this one.

Disclaimer: Still own nothing.




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Jim’s voice is low and sad. Pam’s head angles up and she catches the sight of him. The first thing she notices is that he's standing -- you know, breathing, living, and conscious -- and she realizes how much of a relief it is to see him. Not that she thought he was actually dead or anything, but she...

Well, she loves him. And she was worried about him. And seeing Jim makes her feel better. So.

He's wrapped in a comforter, he has one eye open, and he's clearly been lying on only one side for a long time. His hair is completely matted and stuck to his face. It’s is ridden with creases from sheets and pillows, pink and flushed and warm-looking. His lips look pale and dry.

Pam thinks he's beautiful with an ailment.

"Hi," she says, squinting, grimacing. Her head drops to look at the bowl in her hands.

"Uh." Jim uses one foot to run over the top of the other. She's never seen his bare feet until now. "What are you doing here?"

Terrible, stupid mistake.

"You have a fever?" she asks dumbly, raising her brow.

He nods and it looks like it pains him. "Um. I think so." He stirs again, pulls the blanket around him more tightly, and she realizes it's because he's not wearing a shirt. God. "Is that why you're here?"

Pam’s face gets really hot, and she feels a blush spread down her neck under the collar of her t-shirt. She stutters, "Well, um, yeah? I mean, I got your message, so... And I was worried, because you don't really call in a lot or anything."

Jim nods, and again looks like it's the worst thing he could think to do. He reaches up to press a hand to the back of his neck where it meets his hair, and she sees a flash of his bare chest.

She tears her eyes from that and looks up at his face. She thinks it's ridiculous how far apart they're standing from each other while they have this conversation. A good ten feet, with her at the door next to her shoes and Jim close to the arm of the couch.

"Yeah, I don't know," he says slowly, "Just dizzy and really warm. Since last night." He licks his lips, noticeably dry from his heavy breathing, and tries to open his eyes but it doesn't work. It's like he just can't wake up, and Pam feels so bad for doing this now. Instead of awkward, she just feels bad. No – both – and uncomfortably so.

"What's in the bowl?" Jim asks, but she's ready to go. It’s too much.

"I'm sorry," Pam spits out, turning towards the kitchen. She finally puts down the soup and shakes the strain out of her arms. She fists her hands in front of her, feeling useless and defeated, as she marches back to the door. He watches her every step. "You shouldn't have even buzzed me in, I feel so bad for coming here."

He coughs. It's the saddest sound she's ever heard. He sounds broken in two. "I didn't buzz you in."

She purses her lips. "I pushed number eight?"

He shakes his head. "Those... Those don't really work. Karen always said she would hit mine and I'd never answer. I think they're wired wrong or something."

He didn’t even let her in? Didn’t even know anyone was coming over? She just walked into his apartment. And she definitely woke him up.

And... Karen's name was in there, too.

Pam half covers her face with her hand and really, really feels like crying. She won't. "I'm sorry! Oh my God, go back to sleep. I'll just go."

He nods, running a hand over his hair. He seems to realize how bad it must look and starts to pluck at the side that's fallen flat. "Uh, okay. What's in the bowl?" he repeats.

She looks over, frowning. "I made soup."

Jim looks at her through the one eye that's still open.

"From a can," she clarifies.

"Oh."

"Yeah," she breathes, looking around. "Really, I should go."

"Mmhmm."

She twists slowly on her heel and starts to close her coat. At least Jim wasn't dead on the couch, Pam reasons sadly. She's starting to just think about putting her shoes back on when she whips around.

"Hey, I just..." She shakes her head, and closes her eyes for an instant. "I just wanted to say that... I'm glad you came back."

He waits with a blank look on his face.

"That's it. I'm glad you came back. From Connecticut."

She exhales slowly. That broken sentence took some serious guts, but Jim doesn't look satisfied. She's not sure he has to be; it’s not like he was supposed to wait around for her. He already did that once and it didn't work out well for him.

"It's nice to be back." He clears his throat and shifts.

He's lying. It hits Pam like a blow in between her ribs. She can tell this is awkward for him. Not just nervous, but he really doesn't want to see her. She thinks about how she wanted to push her fingers across his skin and through his hair and heal him, and he doesn’t even want her in the same room.

"You're welcome to stay, but I need to lie down," he says suddenly. He’s lying, she repeats to herself. He’s not going to tell her to leave, even when he’s sick and dating Karen. She blinks and nods, looks up to see the color rushing into his cheeks as he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but I've never felt like this in my entire life. I don't know what's wrong with me."

She forgets a lot of things about crying and Stamford and apologies and weddings and takes a step closer to him. "Are you okay?"

Jim shrugs. "I don't know, my head is just... throbbing and I'm really hot and standing here in this,” he shrugs with the blanket, “is killing me. I'm just going to go lie down. You can stay here if you want, I don't care, it looks like it's snowing pretty hard --"

He looks over toward the window, but the white of the world hurts his eyes, and he squeezes them shut and turns away.

Pam takes another step towards him and hesitates for a half-second before she touches the inside of her wrist to his forehead. Jim closes his eyes like that's more painful than anything. She thinks maybe he leans in a little, but suddenly she's not thinking about any of it. She doesn’t worry about him possibly lying, not even wanting her here at all, the fact that he’s nearly half-naked. All he feels is the heat of his skin on hers, and all she sees is the image of him ill and vulnerable, and she can’t take it.

"Jim," she says, looking at his nose because she's covering his eyes. "You're burning up."

He doesn't say anything, just inhales and it makes a small grunt in the back of his throat, like it's too much effort.

Pam pulls her hand away and points toward the kitchen. "Do you have Tylenol? Did you take some?"

"A while ago, like early this morning, but it didn't help with my head and... God, it's like this shooting pain down through my neck, too..."

"Okay, well, even if it doesn't help with the pain, it's going to help break your fever." This she can do, she supposes. She backs towards the kitchen. "Where?"

He falters as he tries to stand up straighter and pull the blanket around him. "I don't think I have anymore. I took the last two."

She nods and goes to her purse, pulls a small bottle out and shakes a couple of the extra-strength pills into the palm of her hand. She's quick to get him a glass of water and hands him her efforts.

"Girls always know these things," Jim says without humor, downing the pills and grimacing at the effort it takes to swallow.

She nods when she takes the glass from him, setting it next to the sink. "Well, my mom is a nurse."

"Oh, yeah."

She points at the sweat collecting on his forehead. "You're really warm?"

Jim wipes his fingers across his forehead and frowns at the moisture he sees on their tips. The world is quite possibly the most silent it's ever been, because all she can hear is his rough breathing and the pulse in her ears. She's never missed Jim’s smile more than she does now, even while he was miles and miles away.

"Yeah, I'm trying to be modest with this blanket and everything, but I just don't... care..." His words come out slowly and he lets the blanket drop and then he's shirtless and trying to fold it into fourths in front of her. Before Pam can even look down and take in the sight of his bare chest -- discreetly, of course, but come on she's never seen this before -- Jim wavers on his feet and has to reach his palms out against the couch.

The blanket pools at his feet and he buckles, folds in half as he holds onto the back of the couch. His face contorts roughly as she lurches forward and grabs his wrist, the closest thing to her.

"Jim?" She panics. This is why she couldn't be the nurse her parents wanted her to be. "Come on, let me help?"

He nods, and while she has a hold on his wrist, he still moves his other hand over and grips her arm. It's the weirdest way to hold onto someone, but his eyes are all but shut entirely and he looks pathetic with just his pajama pants on, tripping over his feet and nearly bumping into walls.

"I've never felt like this in my entire life, Pam, I feel like --" Jim pauses, shaking his head, "I hurt everywhere."

“Okay, come on,” she says gently, ushering him down onto the messy heap of sheets on his bed. He collapses there, groaning because it was too fast, and doesn’t let go of her arm. His breathing is quick from the effort of walking to the bedroom, rushing out over his parted lips. Pam still feels useless, attached to him by their fingers, now linked, and stares down at his sick form with wide eyes.

When she tugs and he doesn’t let go, she nods. He’s not looking at her. She shifts uncomfortably on one foot and touches the sheet with her free hand. “Do you want me to cover you up?”

"Mmm," he groans. He moves and doesn't let go of her hand. "Pam, I've never felt like this in my life."

The way he keeps saying that scares her. "Did you drink last night?"

"No," he says in a low voice. "I don't know where it came from."

She shrugs, but he must think she's pulling away because he pulls back on her hand again. "I guess it's just a bad fever, then. Keep up with the Tylenol, and it'll break it. I'll leave the bottle for you, so you can have it, okay?"

She feels like she just needs to get out.

"Are you leaving? Or are you going to stay?"

Jim doesn’t open his eyes. She lets the shock of his words run through her, weighing them in her mind for any chance of misinterpretation she could run into with them. He sounds neutral, ill. Pam watches his chest rise and descend and gazes toward the window. She feels the sweat between their fingers and watches the snow fall.



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And it's not even a cliffhanger, really, because what do you think Pam's answer is going to be? Really, now.

Thanks so much for the reviews! Let me know what you think of this one? =)

A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews on this story, guys. :) This is one of the funnest stories I've written so far. I hope you guys enjoy the angst as much as I do. Next chapter should be up within the week, easily (I'm looking at you, Ang).

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.




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It would be stupid to stay on his couch, although Pam really wants to for some reason. She wants to make sure he's okay, first and foremost, but she also feels like she would never get to do this. Be in his space like this and be so close to him outside of the office. She thinks it might be nice to clean up his living room a bit with the television humming behind her, wipe the crumbs off of the countertop in his kitchen, and watch a healthier version of him wake up later on.

But, that name bites her again.

"I don't think I should," she murmurs, the fingers tightening into a fist on the hand he has a hold of. Still. "I don't think that would be right."

Jim turns his head and looks up at her. She thinks that that one eye has been closed the entire time she's been here. She tries not to dream of another life, when she's standing in Jim's room and he's holding her by the wrist, asking her to stay. This day doesn't make any sense.

"Why? Wha..."

"Um," she starts, unsure, "Is Karen going to come by later?"

He regards her carefully, seeming confused. She meant it in a pointed way, a reminder of Karen. But he swallows, blinks, and keeps his eyes shut. "Will you stay?"

She's genuinely lost because he doesn't answer her and doesn't act like she mentioned his girlfriend's name at all. She feels like she's in someone else's territory. Like Karen's going to spring the door like some deranged jungle cat and it will all go to hell. Because Pam likes taking care of him. She kind of wants to do it for a lot, lot longer than just today, right now.

"You don't want me to stay," she whispers, her hand going limp in his. It sounds like bait, and she didn't mean it to be, but he takes it.

"Please?" Jim’s grip strengthens. "I can't really talk for much longer but... I don't know. If you want? You don't have to... But you can just lie here."

What?

She backs up. There has to be distance, suddenly that's all she can think. "I probably, um... I probably shouldn't do that--"

He pulls on her hand again and Pam kneels next to him on the bed. He lets go, and she feels like he might've been holding on there forever, all of his fingers and thumb wrapped around her perfectly. It feels cold where he was.

When he shifts and faces away from her, he murmurs to the pillow, "Karen and I…" He swallows. “Well, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Jim stops talking and she senses there‘s so much left. That maybe she should ask a few more questions before she makes any decisions. And this still doesn't feel totally right but it also feels like maybe the greatest thing she's ever heard in her entire life. She imagines all the weight of the past year and a thousand pounds and a bowl of soup coming off of her shoulders at once and she stares at the back of his messed hair. She thinks of the solid and silent weight that the snow outside packs onto the earth, how the whole world outside is quiet and simple away from the office and all of this. How aside from the chill on her shoulders, maybe this apartment and the space between the two of them could be simple, too. One day, or at least, just for now, in only these minutes.

"Oh." She tries to be another version of herself, but she guesses not very many parts of her know how to just lie down in a bed with Jim Halpert without thinking about any of it too much or for too long. "Okay."

When Pam starts to lower herself to his sheets, it's sad because she's imagined it too many times. She doesn't know how she'll act around him on Monday, or when she'll leave or if she'll even return to the office today. She tries not to think of anything but the now, but that's so hard, because her mind has been speaking in what-ifs for so long and digging through her regrets in the past.

"Did you take your temperature?" she asks, feeling useless, lying parallel next to Jim, speaking across an awkward and friendly distance.

"No thermometer," he whispers, and his voice sounds so broken and beautiful. "I have to stop talking, I'm sorry, but everything hurts and --"

"Okay, sorry," she says hurriedly. "Go ahead and sleep. I'll just be... Right here." She pats his shoulder good naturedly and he nods, barely shifting against the pillow.

"Thanks, Pam."

She's not sure what he's all thanking her for but she nods genially and whispers, "You're welcome, Jim."

She doesn't know what to do with any of that.

But he's slowly slipping away, and when he's officially asleep, Pam gets carefully gets out of the bed and draws the curtains closed in his room. She jogs out to the living room quickly and picks up the blanket, because she's freezing. She lies back down on the bed and tries so, so hard not to wake him up but he turns over.

"What did you --?"

"I just went to get a blanket," she offers, "I'm sorry. Just cold."

Jim opens both of his eyes, which she figures must be easier to do in the dim light of his room now that the windows are covered. She can feel the heat radiating off of his body and she's never been like this with him. Horizontal (most importantly) and so close to him that she can feel him breathing on her, can feel how warm it is. She thinks if she touched his forehead with her fingers, he would be relieved by how cool they were. The temperature difference between them is so significant, she wonders if she were to press her body against his, if the equilibrium, the balance, would heal them both.

The warmest thing she sees though, are his eyes. Even if they do look haunted and a little hollow, they're looking at hers shamelessly.

"I missed you," Jim slurs. He looks delirious. His eyes are glassy and his words are soft and spoken like he has a mouthful of something.

"What do you mean?" Pam says quietly, lowering her face some more, so she can look right at him. The fact that he seems somewhat out of it makes this easier.

She keeps shifting until she's mirroring him, lying perfectly on her side and staring at him.

"When I wasn't here," he says, nodding and closing his eyes. "And I missed you when... I thought you were gone."

It's vague, and maybe no one else would recognize this, but it hurts so much because it rings right down her body from head to toe. She closes her eyes, it's too agonizing to keep blinking hard and looking at him.

"I'm so sorry," she says, shaking her head, frowning and bringing one hand up awkwardly to cup her own shoulder. "I'm so sorry I married him, Jim."




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A/N: Still moving slow, but this chapter will answer another question, I think. Next update should be later this week or earlier next, since this one is just a little filler, maybe... but come on, don't act like you're not impressed with how fast this one was posted. ;)

Disclaimer: Nothing here's mine.




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"I'm so sorry," she says, shaking her head, frowning and bringing one hand up awkwardly to cup her own shoulder. "I'm so sorry I married him, Jim."

He lets his eyes close and wipes at his nose, pressing his knuckles into its tip and pushing in frustration, satisfying one of those itches.

They're silent for a long time, because she hadn't anticipated apologizing for this today, or that he'd ever give her the chance to. They lie on his bed with their heads bowed, she wrapped up in the puffy comforter and him bare and folded. The urge to cry settles deep down in the back of her throat again, and she wonders if he's asleep yet, so maybe she can just let it out for a while. She's long overdue today, she thinks.

But he's not because when she swallows, he reaches up and covers his face with his hand. He looks like he's in agony, and she thinks she's probably selfish in thinking she put it there. It's likely that he's really, really sick even.

She touches her fingers to her lips and notes how cool they feel. She closes her eyes, knowing that everything she's doing right now just isn't smart. Her fingertips land on his forehead before she has a clue and he visibly tenses. Feeling like it was a predictably colossal mistake, she starts to retract, but he brings the hand away from his eyes.

Though they're still closed he says in his low, feverish voice, "Oh, can you? That felt good."

She thinks he's delirious. The last time she had a fever it felt like an out of body experience and her mom was constantly prodding her to take in more fluids and rest. And all she remembers is the tunnel vision to her hand pushing a glass of water away and muffled voices.

So she wonders if he even knows what he's doing. Because she's so painfully aware of what's going on, the fact that she's hardly ever really touched Jim, save for tapping him on the shoulder, and now she's lying here next to him in his bed with her fingers on his forehead.

Like she means something to him, even if it's just relief for his heated body. She feels like this transfer of her fingers from her lips to his forehead could've easily been an intimate thing, but he didn't notice so it just doesn't count.

She slides her hand down to rest on his cheek, an awkward collapse of her palm there. He parts his lips and breathes out. He appreciates her here, maybe. She tries not to think about he and Karen, whether or not they're together anymore. For some reason, it hurts, this dull and hard pain inside of her. There's always a reason why they're not together in her mind: she's about to marry the wrong one, she does marry the wrong one, he comes back with another girl. But when he might be unattached and she's right here why isn't it working?

It's a very real possibility that he just doesn't want her anymore. That even though her heart has stretched and worked and beat for him and she still isn't all worn out, she'll still wait for it, his could've reached its limit sometime ago. Maybe even while he was in Stamford.

And he's so gone, maybe delirious right now that he basically wants a temperature change for his face; doesn't care that it's her fingers as long as she's cold when he's hot.

She uses the word "delirious" in her head about every five seconds, wants it to be an excuse for a lot of things she wants to do. She honestly doesn't mean for it to, but her thumb falls to the corner of his lip and lies over the junction. She feels a jolt run up her arm to the tip of her shoulder but he never moves so she doesn't either.

She breathes a little more heavily. She can't help it. She can't pull her hand away right now, what if he opened his eyes?

A warm breath escapes his lips and she feels it run down the inside of her forearm. It wakes her up some.

“I probably shouldn’t be here,” she says, slowly flexing her fingers, distracted and dizzy with the complications of all of this. “I mean, if Karen --”

He sighs audibly, maybe irritated, mostly sick. “That’s… that won’t be a problem.”

It feels like she has her fingers around the a thread, and it‘s the slowest, most agonizing game of tug-of-war ever. "Why?" she chokes, startling herself as her half-closed eyelids flutter.

"Hmm?" he grunts.

She licks her lips and shivers because, really, other than her entire left arm, she's so cold. "You and Karen. Is there... why?"

He licks her lips when she does and it makes her shiver, because if they were closer to each other and both licking their lips, it might be like kissing.

"She asked me," he sighs, and her brow furrows, "and I couldn't lie. I guess."

All she can think about is watching Karen sulk around Oscar’s party, but they still left together after that. They were still side by side when Jim opened the car door for her and folded himself in on the opposite side. And they went back to his place, she's sure, because there was two cars between them for the most of the ride back to her place, before she veered away to her own home and they went on.

His answer is so vague, and she’s not one hundred percent sure that it’s what she wants to hear, but he's in obvious pain, so she decides to let him sleep. To stop torturing him with this. He's had enough today without her here.

"Okay," she says, sliding her hand away from his face. He winces as the last inch of her hand leaves his cheek but she isn't going to be convinced to keep holding him like that. She tucks the hand under her own face and it feels warm enough.

Even if he's not someone else's, he's still not hers.

She can't sleep. It would be too perfect for her to feel so comfortable in his bed lying next to him, like she's wanted to so many times. It would be a little too right for this to feel right. It makes her entirely too keyed up to rest, even though she came into work feeling limp and tired. She lies on her side and listens to him breathe, even feels him at some points, and keeps her eyes closed. It's a fitful way to lie there, because it feels like she's only closing her eyes to hide the open version of them from him, in case he wakes up.

She's ridiculous.

Though all of this feels a little unnatural and odd, she still tries to imagine what it would be like if this was all okay. If she came over and used her key to get in, because he loved her and gave her one. If she smiled at the sight of him, rumpled with sleep and sickness, and lowered herself to the bed. If she could run her cool hand over his forehead, fingers pushing his hair back and her voice could be so gentle.

I brought you some soup. Out of a can, because I'm fancy.

Maybe he would muster a pathetic smile, and that would make her heart leap and they would be so in love that a fever would just ignite it all and watch it burn. In the best way.

Her toes feel stuck together because she's so chilled -- she always gets cold so easily -- and they curl together as she lies there. She's surprised when one hot tear slides out and into the dip next to her nose. She lets it go because she knows he's sleeping and she knows that it's the only one that's coming, but still. It strikes her again how much she just wants to be with him.

She blinks the tear away and when she closes her eyes, she wishes and wishes.

A/N: Crazy how this is chapter nine and still the same day in the story. Huh. We'll have a change of scenery soon enough. Sometime... This chapter answers a question, and the next ones will elaborate. Enjoy, and let me know what you think. :)

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.




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She opens her eyes because the bed shifts and he's settling back in carefully. She sees her outstretched hand on the pillow looking so white in the dark room. He's still shirtless. And it's so dark in here.

"What time is it?" she croaks, sitting up and feeling the bones in her hip crack.

He jumps and then looks sheepish. "Um, like five something." He holds up a glass of water. "I just went and got some more Tylenol, hope you don't mind."

His voice doesn't sound any better and she can still feel the heat coming off of him, but she sees both eyes when he talks to her now.

"No, no," she insists, bringing her knees to her chest and curling her arm around them. The other hand cradles her forehead as she shakes the sleep away. "Are you feeling better?"

He reaches over her to set the glass on the nightstand. He ends up so close that she thinks he probably miscalculated something here and he purses his lips awkwardly as he draws away.

"Not really," he mutters, itching the back of his neck. "My head isn't, like, throbbing anymore..." He illustrates this with his hand in a claw shape, his fingers pulsing, "But it's like... So heavy that it's hard to hold up. Does that make any sense? You know what I mean?"

She thinks she would really like to be the one to take care of him.

"Yeah," she says, half-lying because she can picture it, but she doesn't know if she's ever felt that way. She leans forward and presses the inside of her wrist to his forehead again.

He looks surprised when she does it this time, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes and rolling his lips into his mouth. She feels stupid, maybe the "delirious" phase has passed in the last five or so hours. Maybe that's the contagious part, her thinking she has the right to do any of this.

"Sorry," she says quietly, pulling her hand away.

He shakes his head as she looks up and whispers, "You're still really warm."

He nods and rests a hand on his stomach. When he looks down, he seems to only then realize he's not wearing a shirt. She blushes and looks away as he murmurs, "Yeah, I'm really, really hot." He stands on shaking feet and steadies himself with one hand against the wall.

"Do you need something? I can get it." She moves to stand but he waves a hand at her.

"No, I just," he laughs gruffly and rolls his eyes, looking down at the floor and running a hand through his hair. "I just realized that I'm not wearing a shirt."

"Oh, I don't --" She starts to say something that could be extremely embarrassing. She thinks about slapping her palm against her forehead. "I mean..." She stops, takes a deep breath and actually smiles up at him. "You don't have to do that because I'm here. You just said you're warm. It's getting late and I should leave anyway."

She's impressed with her ability to force three consecutive sentences out, even if she's slightly wincing through each one.

"You don't have to leave," he says, eyeing her carefully before he pulls a white undershirt out of a drawer. He slides the drawer shut and tugs it over his head, seeming momentarily disoriented once it's on. He rests his palm against the wall again before climbing back in bed. "I haven't seen you in a while, so..."

"You're sick," she reasons, looking down at him while he gazes up at her with eyes that are nearly crossed. He looks beautiful even if he looks like death. She feels like she’s convincing herself that there’s no way Jim would actually want her to be here, that she’s going to end up confusing his kindness to be pleas to stay.

"Right," he breathes, closing his eyes and exhaling through his lips, controlling himself. "I've missed you."

She wonders how he is always taking chances with her, even when it should be her turn. Even when he is ill and practically bedridden and embarrassed. Even when her clueless, indecisive self moved him across state lines and twisted his poor heart. She doesn't know why she always gets another chance from him, but both of their roads are clear now, so she needs to figure out how to do this.

She tries her previous response again. She can't be emphatic enough about it.

"Jim, I'm so sorry," she says, her words clinging to still air. It's so quiet, that all she can hear are his slow respirations and that weird buzzing noise you imagine when it's that still. She wonders what the snow looks like outside, how much lies on top of her car. "I'm so sorry that I married him, Jim."

He looks pained by her admission and he purses his lips. She can't stop the words from coming out of her mouth, and she means every one of them and everything just slides away from her.

Her hands dance together nervously as she trips over her words. "I hate that I made you leave and I hate that you're... I hate that I didn't figure it out and I hate that it took me too long."

His chin heads towards his chest and he looks away.

"Jim, it's just..." She's at a loss for words. She just wants to take care of him, and be taken care of. "I hate that I married someone else, and I have a whole wedding on my record." She thinks back to her nerves on her wedding day, standing there in front of everyone, the way she kissed Roy while she shook. It seemed like it should be normal. The shaking never really left until she'd confronted him a month later. "I want to erase it... Just get rid of it. And I hate that I didn't tell you anything."

How could she? She already knew he wouldn't come to the wedding, and when he'd never even called or emailed her about it after the fact, she knew it like a boulder sitting in her stomach. There was no way that she and Jim could even be friends if she'd gone off and married Roy. And while she gazed at Roy one night as he slept beside her, she realized that the thought was choking her. It was too much of a threat, to think that she might never see or talk to Jim again. Her marriage to her husband, something that should last forever was going to be the cause of never seeing her best friend again. It was unbearable.

She's feeling like crying again, thinking back to lonely months without him and fights with Roy and resolutions that didn't really feel like solutions to much. She still doesn't know he found out about it, but she figures he knew somehow. He never acts surprised, and Michael's made a few "shortest marriage" jokes at her expense, so she knows he knew somehow.

"And I knew you probably hated me --"

He stops her, his hand in the air. "I never hated you."

She's still, watching his hand, palm flat, seeming to strike the air with each of his points.

"I was mad for a while, upset with you," he says quietly, "And then I worried about you. But I never... No. I never hated you."

Her heart seems to work harder to beat, lodged in her throat and with a less than gentle rhythm. Like kicking sludge off of her car where it collects around the tires.

"Oh."

His hand falls onto his stomach again, resting on the t-shirt and wrinkling the smooth fabric. "Pam, at the party, Karen asked me if I had feelings for you. And I just told her yes. That's... That's why we're not together anymore."

She swallows, because this comes out of nowhere. She thought it would take more than that. More of her thoughts, because she has more to say. She could apologize to him for days straight, and she’s imagined doing so in her head with a number of outcomes.

“Oh,” she repeats, feeling stunned, her body vibrating with a subtle shock. She tries to let it set in slowly, but it’s making her anxious. What does it mean?

“I don’t want to talk about this. Well. I --” He stops and looks over at her, directly in the eye, but only for a moment before dropping his gaze to her mouth. Jim fixes his eyes there until she feels self-conscious, touching her fingertips there without thinking, and he looks away. “Never mind.”

When he shrugs, her body aches with go on, but he doesn’t. She feels herself sitting up, straining a bit, but he doesn’t finish. He eases a slow breath out and looks frustrated with himself suddenly, blinking his eyes heavily and shaking his head pitifully. He takes noisy deep breaths and contracts, relaxes his fists against his stomach.

“Jim?” she says, unsure.

“Let’s… let’s not.” He says this too darkly, and is turning away from her, fiddling with the controls on his alarm clock when she has another fleeting thought.

“Okay, but,” she twists her bare ring finger against the palm of her right hand. “Maybe I could take you to a hospital? You don’t know what your temperature is, and I don’t know --”

“I’m fine,” he says, rolling his eyes when a splitting cough rocks his body. “I don’t need to go a hospital or anything.”

He’s turning away when she nods, defeated.

“You would let me know if you needed to… or if you wanted to, though, right?”

Jim coughs again, nodding fiercely against his pillow. The room fills with the sound and it makes her heart do something like skipping a beat, and now she feels like she wants to stay for him. Not for herself, not to be near Jim and be close like this in the same bed. She needs to watch him now. Scary things like temperatures and chills and sweats and medicine fill her head. Pam figures she could call her mom about something like this. It’s early enough.

As she grabs for her phone on the floor, he turns and faces the ceiling, speaking with his eyes closed, one hand over his face.

“Are you staying?” There’s almost a hint of annoyance, maybe, in his voice. She thinks, if there’s any time during her own fucked up year, now might be a time to grow some kind of backbone. Or at least stand up a little straighter, for God’s sake.

Her palm closes around the phone and she rises from the bed. “Yeah… I will.” She’s quiet and the words feel funny in her mouth, but all he does is turn away from her in bed.

Pam frowns, because it’s not what she was going for. None of this is, really. She attempts a subtle glance over her shoulder at him at the door and dials her mom’s number at the same time. She cringes, closes her eyes, hangs her head in the hand at the counter while the phone rings.

A/N: Sorry this took so long! I am insanely busy lately. It's kind of uncool. I hope no one forgot about this little story. Thanks for all the encouragement and reviews. I'm very flattered! I know it's short, but I hope this chapter lives up to the wait. I hope to have another one up soon.

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.




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She sits in the kitchen with her head in her hands, leaning against the counter. Her toes stay stiff and cold on the tile. Her mom’s voice, quick and in-between errands, swiftly tells her to just relax, get him to the hospital if his temperature is over a certain number. Maybe one hundred and three.

“He doesn’t have a thermometer, Mom,” she sighs. She’s weary with this, the frustration of trying to love and take care of something she doesn’t feel the right to. Something that she doesn’t feel really wants her back right now. Jim’s admission of feelings resonates almost emptily under her skin because the last admission he made had different sentiments after the fact. The way he’d kissed her after the last time he’d said so much had left her with thoughts she couldn’t detangle in time to save herself an unfortunate wedding.

“Pam,” her mother sighs, complaining as she juggles her wallet and her purse -- she tells Pam this much -- and continuing quickly, “He should be able to tell you if he wants to go to the hospital, right? Who are we talking about? Is it -- is it Roy?”

Pam closes her eyes tightly, the colors forming behind her lids and she shakes her head in her palm. Her voice is a hard whisper, “It’s not important.” Her mom waits. “It’s not Roy, but. Just… Mom, I’m not good at this stuff. I don’t know what to do.”

The tears are burning again, and she wonders when they’ll just fucking stop burning and trace her cheeks. She wipes them away, always does, and rocks her forehead against her the palm of her hand. For a moment, she tries to forget complicated situations, and instead of a better life and full circles, she only wants simple relief. She wants heat against her cold, and she imagines his body and his bed, and all the wonders it could do to her chilled skin. Just to lie beside him, and nothing else; what it would do to just the temperature of it all.

“Then maybe you should just take him in, Pam,” her mother says resolutely, the kind of thing that makes Pam jealous. It’s the kind of tone that her mother has that Pam feels like she missed out on picking up when she was becoming an adult. “Unless you want to head out and just buy a thermometer, but… Oh, and if you do, buy him juice. Like, electrolytes. Gatorade. Make him some soup or something.”

Pam groans, deep inside, at the thought of a bowl of soup. Her sideways glance confirms its position, like a boulder and constant reminder of something she ruined, sitting on top of the table now.

“Maybe I’ll just walk down the street and see if they have one,” she murmurs, thinking of drugstore she passed on her way here.

“Where are you?” her mother laughs. “Pam, you’re so cryptic about it all.”

She sighs and mother chuckles again, and for a moment, it’s warm and it is relief. She realizes how much of her time has been wasted on being serious and thoughtful, less action and less quest for this kind of thing -- just the desire to feel good, however it happens. If Jim is tired of her, at least her mom will always laugh with her. It’s all a little pathetic, but she pushes it aside like a breeze to answer her mom.

“It’s… oh, it’s a mess, Mom.”

“You’re making me nervous,” she answers lightly.

“Don’t be,” Pam smiles. She really loves her mom, when she thinks about it. It’s comfort, and it’s absolute. It always works. That’s love. “Don’t worry about me.”

The tears burn again and she makes a decision to walk down the street. She’s not going any further than that, because she’d have to get into her car, and she doesn’t want to see what kind of small hill it may be buried under right now. She clicks her phone closed when she says goodbye and turns around to gauge the snowfall from the living room window, when her eyes meet his and she freezes mid-turn.

“Oh,” she says, closing her eyes. “God, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” he says, head to the ground and feet overlapping. “Who was that?”

“My mom,” she answers immediately, biting her lip. The snow still falls behind him, she sees. She prays he didn’t hear anything, even though she really can’t remember if there were any parts that he shouldn’t have heard.

He nods when she moves across the room and finds her shoes. She sticks her feet into them one at a time and shivers at the dampness leftover that leaves her even colder than before.

“Are you… are you leaving?”

They don’t look at each other. “I think I might go down the street. Buy a thermometer because you shouldn’t be, you know, not at a hospital if you’re really sick.”

“Don’t… No, you don’t need to do that. Plus, you can’t drive in this. I bet your car is buried.”

“I’m walking.” She picks her coat up and scans the room for her purse as she slides her arms into sleeves.

“What?” She looks over at him to catch his expression, exhaustion with a raised brow. “It’s freezing, and that drugstore -- is that what you’re talking about? -- is, like, way down there. You can’t walk there now… Don’t worry about it, Pam. Come on.”

She feels things shift in the room. Or, she thinks she does. Maybe she puts it all into motion. Because she’s frustrated with him. Not for the first time, and sometimes it’s fueled by her own frustration with herself, but nonetheless… she’s frustrated. With him. Because she’s feeling obligated to be here and take care of him, make sure he’s okay. And it’s not like, he had his heart broken and she has to make sure he’s okay. Because she’s already failed at that. He is sick, physically unstable, and she’s afraid of those consequences. And he’s standing here, looking sick because he is, and fighting on her this. Just slightly fighting her, maybe because he doesn’t want the attention, but maybe because he doesn’t understand her like she doesn’t understand herself. She won’t tell him that she loves him even though he might just tell her those words back again, if she would be so lucky. She’s not ready to break anything else, she’s done enough damage.

She’s frustrated because he doesn’t want her to leave and she doesn’t understand that. She wants to stay so she can make things better, just for once. She wants to come from where she’s at and go all the way this time. She doesn’t want his help halfway because it’s her turn and it’s all her mistakes that made this. She’s in the middle of these thoughts when she walks across the room and presses her wrist to his forehead again.

He closes his eyes in disappointment, and his skin burns against hers.

“You’re so warm,” she says slowly, to get it to him. “You could be really sick.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but she stops him. Her voice feels louder to her than it probably is, she imagines it’s still meek and soft and everything she really doesn’t want it to be right now.

“You keep telling me you’ve never felt like this in your entire life,” she says, rolling her eyes. If he’s sick and he still has feelings for her, why won’t he let her take care of him?

He hangs his head and runs a hand over his face. “I feel better.”

“No you don’t,” she says, surprising herself but trying her hardest not to show it. “Jim, I’ll be back in a little bit.”

“Will you just stay here?” he says, taking another step towards her. “I don’t want to go to the hospital either way, so it won’t really matter what my temperature is, and I don’t think you have to go… parading through the snow to go and buy one just because --”

She balks. “Why don’t you want to go to… God, Jim, you’re sick. You told me you would go if you felt like you had to. Why do you even want me here?”

“Why do you want to stay here?”

“I never said I that --”

“Not out loud, you didn’t.”

She twists her lips into a frown, looks up and realizes he’s been holding her by the wrist.

“Let me go,” she says quietly without a trace of affection left. The worry she feels for him turns into something fierce, because she forgets all she wants to do -- kiss him, marry him, hold him and heal him -- and she just knows to get outside and get to a drugstore and bring home a thermometer. She doesn’t care what it reads right now, she just wants to stick the stupid thing in his mouth and go from there. Her instincts tell her that he has a fever, maybe even a serious one, and that he’ll need to go to the hospital. But she doesn’t think about that. Thermometer. At the drugstore. Okay.

She watches each of his fingers fall away from her wrist, and is momentarily entertained because this is the second time she’s had what she’s wanted from him -- his touch on her -- and told him to stop. The first was a kiss in their office months ago. She instantly hates both situations, but just like that kiss from before, she wonders how many times she’ll replay just the feel of it back in her head.

“I’m leaving, I’ll be back.” He doesn’t say anything, just throws one hand up in the air half-heartedly and drags himself over to the window. “Why don’t you go lay down?”

He doesn’t answer, and she feels like grunting in disgust when she slips out the door. On her way down the stairs, the tears finally come and are enough to blur her vision. She slumps against a wall and looks up at the ceiling, wondering why she came here with her hands full and in love with the man upstairs, and finds herself leaving now almost pissed off in search of a thermometer. Her feet make quick work down the stairs, all the stairs she was slow to walk up hours ago, and she meets the front door.

The snow is piling up, and she can tell it has to be covering the steps and most definitely her car and any other out in the parking lot. It flutters and flies in the air around the lamps outside, the kind that’s so thick and wondrous you can’t even tell where it begins in the sky. She slips gloves over her fingers and waits for the last of the tears to come, but she knows they’re not stopping now. She knows that the wind will sting her face and make her eyes water anyway, and when she gets to the store, everyone will know this and no one will wonder why she’s crying. They’ll simply comment on the weather.

She pushes the heavy door open and lets it fall shut behind her. Jim, he wouldn’t be fooled. But he isn’t here, he’s upstairs, sick and warm and hopefully tucked back in bed. And that’s her last thought as her foot meets the second step, thick with ice, and her eyes close with the impact that follows.

Wherever she fell asleep, it isn't comfortable. This is her first thought.

Then the world shifts and she opens her eyes to see his hands. And they're wrapped around in a steering wheel and they're in a car and Scranton in the wintertime is a rolling scenery outside of the window.

"Why am I here?" is, for some reason, the first thing she says. She swallows and doing so hurts her head so much that she brings a hand up behind her neck, which hurts her shoulder, too.

Jim's head has already turned to the side at her voice, his lips parted. "Hey. Hey. You okay?"

She remembers being angry with him suddenly, and the pain's wrapped around her skull so she doesn't try and care about why she's angry. Just knows it's something to do with how stubborn they both are so she closes her eyes. Things remain cold in the car, and all she wants is to lie down. She opens one eye, ignoring him because she's still breathing (it's not like she's dead), and they're at the hospital now.

"What?" she asks to herself, low and confused.

He pulls into a stall by the emergency department and she sighs. He reaches over to grab her purse off the floor and hands it to her. She doesn't take it at first because the pain in the back of her head is slightly overwhelming, and he jerks it at her, to remind her. She's too slow reaching for it because he drops it in her lap and sighs.

Pam closes her eyes and feels another deep, thrumming kind of pain and takes a deep breath. She unfolds herself from the car and Jim waits for her, but the whole time he's silent. He doesn't want to talk to her, she gets it. She gathers, by now, that she fell and bumped her head and Jim's taking her to the doctor to fix it all up. Even if they don't really want to see each other.

Because at this point things seem beyond repair just a tad. They seem like it's time for her to move on because she's an okay-looking woman and she's nice enough and maybe she can find someone that's uncomplicated. Simple "Can I take you out for coffee?" kind of start instead of years of wanting someone with distance and an ex-husband because you can't get your act together, kind of start.

He walks slightly behind her and she doesn't know why. While she's walking, her legs feel shaky and her body feels sore, and when she closes her eyes because she's frustrated, something tips her backward. Jim immediately has her, because he's right behind her.

"We're almost there," he says. She knows if they weren't like this and less awkward, Jim would be soothing and sweet, all hands on her shoulders and smiles and easy jokes. Instead it's cold and the wind bites her skin again, her shoes are sopping wet -- which she doesn't understand, the snow's not that thick on the ground at the hospital -- and the tension between them is hard. Unfriendly and still, so she just trudges in her wet shoes towards the door.

He catches her twice more before she gets there. When they're at the door, she puts a hand up to the wall and faces the bushes, immediately feeling like whatever is in her stomach needs out.

"What?" he says, and as gruffly as he says it, she feels just a little concern from him.

She swallows, though, and doesn't think about it. Blinks and prays she won't end up throwing up in front of Jim. Or anyone, really, in the icy shrubs in front of the ER entrance. "Nothing," she says, taking a deep breath. "Nothing."

"If you need to throw up...?" He shifts his body so his back is towards the door, so no one could see if she did puke everywhere. "Do it out here, unless you want to do it in there --"

"I'm fine," she says, swallowing again and setting a hand on her stomach.

He sits her down in the lobby, and someone is helping her into a wheelchair because she doesn't have the energy to say that she absolutely won't need one. He's a young, nice enough kid and Pam smiles weakly at him. He's nice because he puts his hand on her shoulder and says, "You'll be okay," with a learned, good-boy kind of smile that his mother probably taught him. Pam's sure he gives it to all the patients, everyday.

She thinks about nice guys all the time. How she just wants a nice guy in her life and how there are guys who aren't nice and guys who are. She's sure this boy, whoever he is, is a nice person. But then there are guys like Jim, who want to be best friends with you and make you fall in love with them, and are so nice on a level deeper than a sweet smile, that she doesn't understand... She really doesn't even understand why she thought she should get him, instead of someone else. Why she tried to carve out her place in his world this morning by bringing him soup.

And, damn it all, because she's in pain and she wants to throw up when the kid wheels her up next to Jim, who's waiting at the desk. And she's been waiting to cry all day, and she doesn't want to, but she does anyway because this is a fucking hospital and it should be expected. Maybe people will think that she broke her leg and it just hurts and no one will have to know that she's crying because she just wants Jim and it's not going to happen. It's not mathematical. She's here because it's common decency to get rid of someone who's knocked out on your doorstep, right?

"Does your head hurt?"

Jim asks this is in a simpler voice than he's had for the entire trip here, and she appreciates it, but her mind and vision is too clouded with dusky tears to listen. She just nods and starts sobbing, actually sobbing, which she really hasn't done in a while. She knows her face is red and soaked, and she's hoping that she wouldn't normally do this even by herself. Her life is still okay most of the time; she doesn't feel the need to let loose like this on a regular basis. Right?

Jim's voice is tired but concerned as he explains to the nurse at the desk that Pam slipped and fell. They try to brush him off a bit and tell him that it'll be a minute, but he presses, gently, and mentions that she feels nauseated, dizzy and is in pain. He says these things once more and she can feel a smile in his voice -- not a salesman, "come on, pretty lady" kind of smile, but something that's sticking up for her. He's still in her corner, she guesses, even if she's a crying mess on wheels right now. Eventually the nurse tells him room seven is where they belong.

Someone else takes her down the hallway and gets her situated, hands her a gown. She takes a hold of it and looks up at a new person, a woman, and asks why she has to be in a gown. The woman goes through the motions of grabbing a Kleenex box, pulling the curtain and murmuring, "It's protocol" over her shoulder as if she does it a dozen times a day.

She slips into it as quickly as she can without making herself sicker and stands in the room, useless. She hears Jim's voice in the hallway when she wipes her eyes.

"Could you tell me what room my fiancee is in?" She sighs at his voice while someone mumbles something back. "Um, she's in a wheelchair... Concussion. Okay, thanks."

She'll admit she's pleasantly surprised that he's going to stay here with her, apparently, because they're definitely anything but engaged at this point. There's a small knock at the door and he coughs.

"Can I come in?"

She shrugs and bunches the gown behind her. "Yeah."

Jim slides around the curtain, keeping his eyes on the floor and his palm making red marks on the skin of his neck. "You're crying. You okay?"

She nods and shivers, looking around the white room. Feeling useless.

"You're cold," he states, just as chilled, and steps out again. She rolls her eyes at the course of events that started with a bowl of soup and gingerly sits herself on the cot. There's one blanket, standard scratch and stiffness of a hospital, and she unfolds it and pulls it up around her. She hears Jim's laugh outside the door and another woman's voice. Well, he would make friends with the hospital staff.

His smile is gone when he's next to her again and he unfolds more blankets and covers her completely.

"Thank you," she says quietly. Another shiver runs down her body and she lets herself shake while she closes her eyes and rubs her sore head into the pillow.

"Yep." He sticks his hands in his pockets and surveys the room. He watches her shake again.

"Still cold?"

"I'm warming up. I'm fine."

She tries to keep her eyes closed, because she doesn't know where she's going to look if she keeps them open.

Another pain strikes her and she sits up slowly and reaches to her feet. Her soaking wet socks are still on.

"What?" Jim says, lurching forward. "Lay down. What do you need?"

"No," she says, swatting him away lightly, "My socks are still on."

Pam is too weak to say anything when he gently pushes her shoulder so she'll lie down again, instead just resigning to it and burying her head in the pillow again. She hears him drag a chair across the tile to the end of the cot, and he lifts up the blankets and reaches for her. It's sad how much she falls in love with the feel of his fingertips on her legs. How smooth he is when he hooks his fingers under each one and pulls it off slowly. His hands are warm on her feet, which he grips lightly before letting them go, covering them up again. He holds onto them through the blanket.

She sighs and throws an arm over her eyes.

"Bright?"

She nods, and in a second, the lights are off and he's sitting by her again. Only this time, the chair is scooted up closer to her head instead of her feet and he's slouching, resting his elbows on the cot next to he waist and keeping his chin in his palm.

"What happened?" she finally asks, sliding her arm to her forehead and off of her eyes, finding his dark eyes watching her already. He seems unashamed of the way he's looking at her, so she tries to be like him. She wipes away the last tears and lets her hand fall limp against the pillow above her head.

He blinks and sighs heavily. "I went into the kitchen... and when I got back to the window, your car was still there." He shrugs and readjusts his arms so his chin is in a different hand. "It was buried, so I figured you were just sitting down there because you couldn't get it out, but you didn't want to see me, so I walked down there -- I was just going to tell you to come back inside or something -- and..."

She rolls her eyes. "I must have slipped."

"Yeah," he agrees, nodding slightly. "It's always really... really icy right there, so, I think you did." He nods again. "You must have been out for at least ten minutes, though. And you looked dead. Scary."

He bites his lip and lets it go right away, shifting again, back to the other hand.

"How'd you get me into the car?"

Jim's eyes get big and he shakes his head. "I probably should've just called, like, an ambulance or something... In case you broke your neck, or. You know. Whatever. But I picked you up. Went and got my car and put you in it. I don't know."

She feels warmth between her cheeks that wants to be a smile, wants to be a kiss and a hug so badly, but she stills herself. "Oh. Well. Thank you."

He nods, keeps his lips in a firm line.

When the nurse comes in a short time later, she asks Pam a few questions and Jim tries to be out of the way. They both explain what happened, smiling uncomfortably because they both know it'll be grounds for teasing soon, and Pam enjoys just being civil right now. Being somewhat friendly. She steps lightly because this could be the last time something like this happens. Maybe he's taking her to the hospital because it's only the right thing to do but then he's off and out of her life again after tonight. She's going to soak this up.

"Any chance you're pregnant?"

Pam shakes her head and Jim looks own. Awkward. Jim moves out of the way again and off to Pam's side, which is sweet, the way he won't stay too far away, when the nurse moves to take her blood pressure and her temperature.

She can feel the warmth radiating off of Jim again, and in a rush everything comes back to her. The fever, his sickness. His sickness, the real reason that any of this happened.

She sits up a bit and points at him before the nurse can leave. "Jim! Oh! Excuse me, do you think you could take his temperature quick? He's been sick all day and he gets so warm..."

The nurse nods and before Jim can protest, she's handing him the probe to go under his tongue. She feels so selfish, how she'd barely noticed how weak and how ill he still looked, how his skin seemed flush and warm still. The rushing feeling of wanting to soothe and heal him comes back and she forgets about the pain and the nausea and the world tipping back and forth and remembers why there was a bowl of soup in the first place --

"One hundred point four." The nurse smiles and jets out of the room.

Jim shrugs and seats himself next to her again.

"That's it?" Pam croaks, a slight smile. "You were acting like that for 100.4?"

"What? It's above 98.6," he says, somewhat defensively.

"Jim, you were acting like... you were going to die." She smiles and closes her eyes. Relief.

He's quiet. "Well," he reasons. "I took a lot of Tylenol. Wouldn't that break it a bit?"

She smiles, still. He's fine, right? She doesn't have to worry about him? And if his body decides to try and die, they're already at a hospital because of her stupid head. That works. "You're right."

They're silent again and he puts both of his hands down on the cot and grunts. "I really, swear to God, have never felt like that before."

Pam lets her hand slip down, and by chance it lands on top of his. She doesn't tug it away. She lets it stay there. She's going to soak this up as much as she can. "I'm glad you're okay, though."

She squeezes his hand a bit, and the silent stretches on in the dark. She only knows it's late, doesn't know what time it is, and wants to fall asleep. Jim does, too, she thinks, because she watches him slowly lower his head to the space on the cot between his hands, turning his face away from her and resting as much of his upper body as he can there without getting too close.

In the process, his hair covers her fingers, and she can see the places where it was damp from falling snow. The dull pain returns in various places, all the areas she must have struck on her way down, but she ignores the sensation and trades it in for her fingers in his hair. She lets them rest there lightly, moving back and forth. He sighs.

"You scared me," he says quietly, like he's reminding her.

"You scared me, too."

Her fingers keep moving, barely there and back and forth. Jim plants one hand on the sheet, then, and suddenly his whole body is twisting and facing her, closer to her until he's kissing her.

She's so surprised that her hands are out on either side of him without anything to do, and the only thing she knows is that she wants to kiss him back. It's not enough to make her sick or anything, because all he does is brush his lips over hers a few times. They're soft and warm and it makes her put her hands on either side of his face, her cold on his warmth, and it's something like that balance she's wanted all night.

Jim's lips are off of hers before she hardly registers they were there, and he plants slow kisses on her cheeks and her nose. Pam's mind doesn't even know where to start. All she can think of is years and years, and she's dizzy enough as it is. She's glad the room is dim, so she's brave enough to interrupt his tender kisses to her forehead and reach up to wrap her arms around his neck, briefly. She rests her forehead in his shoulder, closes her eyes, and feels Jim rubbing the chill off of her arms.

She's tired and she wants sleep to sweep her away, but when he pulls back and quirks his lip into a half smile, she smiles, too.

"You taste like soup."

He shakes his head and looks exhausted. "It had a film on it, Pam."

A slow, sure grin spreads across her face. She feels the flush off his face, and she feels warm.




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A/N: Well, I don't know how well it turned out, but at least there's no terrible cliffhanger like the previous chapters.

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.

A/N: Wow, no update since July 12? I suck. Want to hear the worst part? This entire story is pretty much written out to the end (with small parts missing, and notes to add in). But still. You guys make my day with your feedback, and I love this little story. I hope you let me know what you think of this chapter. I was unsure about the ending, but it wasn't going to do anything different, so .. hopefully you'll see the next chapter before Christmas. ;)

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine here.




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About an hour later, she's looking at Jim's eyes when he puts his hand out for her. Her time spent in the emergency room has made her slightly distracted with dizziness and a pounding between her ears, and she's focused less on Jim and more on avoiding light and sound. She sees now a familiar concern in his expression.

"You okay to walk to the car?" He asks this to her as if he's looking for something on her face. She closes her eyes in a mix of embarrassment and nausea. "Or... Hey, should I just pull it up here?"

She steadies herself by slipping a hand down his arm and clutching onto him somewhere near his wrist. She doesn't even think about touching him, just finding something that will help her stand and walk across the icy parking lot. "No. I can walk. Just help me, 'kay?"

He nods and covers his hand with her, gently taking it to wrap around his arm so she's holding on more tightly. Pam thinks more clearly then, only for a moment, about holding onto and leaning into Jim, and how he's so quiet and soft and kind with her right then. They've barely said a word between kissing about an hour ago, because as soon as it had began it was over and then the doctor wanted her to go have that scan done, and then she had spent the time waiting for the results with the garbage can close by.

The doctor suspected the scan would be negative for any abnormalities, he said so as he read it back to her. She didn't care, she just wanted to be out of that little white room. She had sat up on the cot so her legs dangled over the side because lying down felt too uncomfortable. Her elbows rested on her thighs and her face in her hands when Jim had appeared in front of her. He shielded more light from her covered eyes and it felt good.

"Do you need anything?" he had asked softly.

She'd shaken her head and he remained there, so close to her bent head and occasionally placing his hands on the cot, on either side of her thighs. Pam had thought it was strange how the two of them could come to know each other in such a lighthearted kind of friendship, a love born of trying to make each other laugh everyday... and spend so much time in their past hours together tonight being so deathly serious. He had been sick, not feeling his best earlier, sure... And, of course, suffering a concussion wasn't a walk in the park, but didn't they have anything to laugh about anymore? Or was it all this tension just pulling them that much tighter? Making it all that more serious?

She falters for a second on the ice, and he grasps her hand. "You good?" he asks when she is on her feet again.

She nods and looks down at her feet. It's easier to walk with one foot in front of the other in plain view. "Yeah." She frowns at the ends of her sweatpants, her favorite and most girly, most comfortable sweatpants, being so dirtied and drenched in all the slush.

"Do you like girls in sweatpants?" She wonders aloud, her dizzy state of mind taking her words. "I mean, do guys like that? Girls in sweatpants."

She swallows another wave of nausea in her throat and closes her eyes, distracted again. He's quiet, and it seems to startle her, makes her hyper-alert of what she's just mumbled. Her eyes flash open again and he catches her smiling, barely smiling, as he glances down at her legs.

He gains something like composure and his face looks serious again. She's too tired and bruised to try and figure out what he was thinking. "Um, I think so. Some do. Sure." He pats her hand and opens the car door for her, waiting for her to step inside.

She nods and forgets about talking. All of her energy is focused on how awful a car ride sounds now, how it sounds like it'll end with her puking in the snow on the side of the road.

"I'll try and go slow," he says quietly when he starts up the car. A blast of hot air hits her face and without thinking, she reaches over and turns on the air conditioning.

"Oh," Pam whispers and leans into the vents.

Jim uses the brakes and laughs a little. "What?" He smiles at her, unsure. "It's, like, eight degrees out..." His hand hovers over the controls as he waits for her.

"I know," she says, opening her eyes and glancing at him. He looks so earnest and genuine and Jim again. Something breaks and explodes and melts in her, something good and deep and warm. Like memories and stupid meetings and kisses that she wants to finish. "I know, I know. But it feels so good."

"Oh, okay," he says and puts the car into reverse. "Crazy," he whispers, grinning. It's pronounced, she can hear it clearly in the word.

She smiles and turns her head lazily from side to side. She's feeling better with the ride, and eventually lays her cheek against the cool glass. The darkness of Jim's car and the silver and ink blue of the scenery outside is soothing her head and her stomach. She starts feeling better and thinks about the kiss at the hospital. It was nothing like the one the night of the casino fundraiser. It's different. In some ways it's more desperate, but it felt better. More promising. She wasn't so afraid this time. This time, she thinks and wishes there will be more. Maybe tonight or tomorrow or soon. She wishes he would put his hand on her knee or lovingly push the hair out of her face or press her up against the cool window and kiss her again, but he doesn't do any of those things.

When they're back in his parking lot, he finds a stall and says, "Oh, I wasn't even thinking. Did you want a ride back to your apartment or...?"

She glances at the sea of cars to her side, absolutely blanketed in snow. "Oh, um, if you want me to." Her heart sinks a bit. "I mean, I don't even recognize which one of these is mine," she says on an empty laugh.

He toys with the key in his hand as he looks outside with her. "Yeah, and it's still coming down... You're welcome to stay here, I just didn't want to make you if you didn't want to, because... Yeah. I could always give you a ride back here in the morning if you wanted me to or -- But, no, it's up to you. I don't care. Really."

She takes all of that in and tries to decide what he's really saying and thinking. "I wonder what the roads will look like in the morning." It's a diplomatic answer right? And it's true; these roads are already awful. The ten-minute trip to the hospital took thirty minutes instead. She doesn't want to go home, and it's not really logical anyway. She doesn't want to go into work tomorrow and she wonders if they'll even open the office park, or if he'll even feel good enough to go tomorrow.

"You're right," he says, his voice rough with exhaustion and winter. "Why don't you just stay? You can take my bed if you want." He adds the last park quickly, but it's still Jim, and he's smooth enough to say that without faltering.

"Okay. Thanks." She smiles up at him briefly and lets her heart fall another degree again. She knows it illogical to sleep in the same bed, and maybe just unnecessary, but he kissed her tonight and she wants to know why.

They make their way across the parking lot together this time and up the stairs, through the door. When they're inside and Jim's walking towards the bathroom, she clears her throat.

"Hey," she says softly, and watches him turn around. She puts one shoeless foot on top of the other and feels the dampness of her pants seep through a sock. "I just wanted to say thanks," she says, absently gesturing outside through the window. It's dark in the living room, except for the old glow of the parking lot lamps and the bathroom light he's turned on already. "For... picking me up, unconscious and everything and... taking care of all of that." She nods and wrings her hands together.

He taps his hand against the bathroom doorframe and nods down at his feet. "Oh. Yeah, no problem. Hey, I should've -- earlier -- but..." He nods some more. "Thanks for coming over earlier and everything. I think I've kind of been an ass today," he raises his eyebrows while still looking at his feet, then looks up at her cautiously. "But, I promise it's just because I felt like shit. I appreciate all of it."

She feels the start of something burn in her, between her ribs and through her muscles and soft inside her injured head. A look of realization crosses her face. "Hey," she says, gazing at the wall next to him and jutting her thumb towards the sofa. Pam's face meets his again. "Do you want to just, um, talk for a minute?"

She watches his breath catch a little before he nods. "Yeah. Let me just --"

Pam sees him nod at the bathroom and shakes her head. "Yeah. No! You do that and I'll be... in here. Over there."

They keep nodding until the door is closed between them and Pam finds herself on his sofa. She crosses her legs carefully and feels the shock of the cold water on her thighs again from the ends of her pants. She's still just freezing cold here. She doesn't get it. She starts to think of what she might say when she hears the door open and his slow, steady steps come up behind her.

When he's rounding the arm of the sofa and lowering himself to the cushion, she folds her hands in her lap and stares out at the opposite wall.

"I kind of wonder how," she looks down and gulps. Come on. "I kind of wonder how two people who can act so... hurtful to each other, still want to turn around and take care of one another. Without... anything in return or being asked or..." She shrugs.

He's absolutely still. She takes a deep breath.

"It's like we keep coming back to each other," she says quietly, unfolding her hands with her fingers all stitched together. "It feels like it's always going to be like that."

The words burn on her tongue before she even says them, or formulates them into a full thought. "And I've felt that way for a long time. I got divorced for me, because I needed that. Because I didn't deserve that, and neither did he, obviously, but... I mean." She shakes her head. "I got divorced for me, but I did it because of you."

He hangs his head slightly and she pushes the bangs out of her eyes.

"Do you know what I mean?" In her head, she's had this conversation a million times, and even though she's thought of different scenarios and different endings and beginnings, she's never had less of a plan. He doesn't answer because she keeps going. "It's like tonight. I can't... not care about you the way I do. Even when I think you hate me or I think I hate you, I can't. You're..." Her eyes get big when she looks at her hands for the rest of her speech. "You're something in my life that never changes, even if where you are changes or who you're with changes or who you want to be changes, or, just... whatever --"

She sighs and waves her hands a bit, as if to clear it all away. "You are, like, the only way I know how. I guess I don't know how else to put it." She curls her toes. "I don't know what else to say, I guess."

Pam waits for a load to fall of her shoulders, but only feels halfway relieved. The uncertainty after her baby steps is the worst part. He's leaning his chin into his palm and looking ahead to the wall like she was moments before.

"What are you thinking?" she asks boldly, timid and more comfortable in the dark, sure, but she's trying to get him to go somewhere, so that's something.

"You know how I feel, right?" he asks the wall ahead of him. "I've..." He smiles emptily to himself. "I've told you before." He squints at her and breathes out, unsure. He tilts his head and shrugs.

She blinks and she tries. Their faces are close enough, their angles are right; she closes her eyes and is barely leaning in when he meets her halfway. There's nothing hurried about it like their history suggests, but instead, it's like they fell into the slowest kiss. It's like something melting, and once again she feels the relief of warm against cool, his lips against hers. His warm hands rest on her arms and run down to her hands, holding lightly. The only noises are the howl against the window pane and the soft noise of their kissing.

She doesn't pull away, she just bows her head to end it. He's not finished. He dips lower and touches his lips to hers again, which makes her nod and move into the kiss. Pam grips his fingers and sighs against his mouth.

When it ends again, there's another soft sound and they're apart with their faces inches from each other. She's gripping his hands because the room is spinning, even though the ache in her head is almost forgotten.

"Guys love girls in sweatpants, by the way," he says, charmingly missing some of his ordinary confidence.

Her face is another soft smile at him. She leans in to catch his lips between hers again and kisses him sweetly, there and at the corner of his lips and at the height of his jaw. "Is that how you feel?" she asks, full of careful hope from last year.

He avoids saying it, she thinks, and kisses her instead but she's okay with that. She understands holding back some things. For as long as it's been building up, it's happening quickly, she thinks. He's warm around her again, and she can make out the sweat on his forehead if she opens her eyes. She touches her fingertips to his shoulders as if to test it out, and then rests her arms lightly around them.

"Stay just like that," he says quietly, indulgently. She scoots her body closer to his and does as she's told, feeling his arms steal around her waist. He surprises her, she doesn't expect him to stop kissing her. He pulls away and folds into her, presses his hot lips to her cheek and then puts his forehead into her shoulder.

"I missed you."

A/N: Happy New Year! Here's something from waaaay back in 2010. =) Hope you guys haven't forgotten about this one, it's been quite a while... Thanks for all the reviews so far!




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Pam falls asleep against Jim on the couch, and she's sealed in his warmth and the things they've said to each other. They're modest admissions, but the two of them know what it means. It's not really for anyone else, anyway.

She falls asleep long after he does because he's still sick and she's afraid of falling asleep after a concussion and not being able to walk or speak when she wakes up or something. But thinking about everything he's said to her and the touching and kisses, and the way he sighs in his sleep and doesn't leave her side, it all eventually lets her go.

When Jim wakes her up, the clock in the living room says five and he's sitting next to her on the couch with his hand on her knee. She glances down at it before she even says anything, and he moves it to his leg instead. Pam nods when he suggests they go to bed and sleepily gets on her feet.

She's not alert enough to realize that he's slipping his hand into hers or that he just brushed some of the hair off of her shoulder like an afterthought. And he catches himself, that is what she sees, just out of the corner of her eye. She smiles a bit, but it becomes a yawn instead and she balls her fists and tugs on her sleeves to shield from the cold. Which is really just a lack of Jim, considering how cozy she had been on the couch minutes before.

"Oh, it stopped snowing." His voice is rough and from somewhere deep in his chest. He takes a step closer to the window and rests one knee onto the seat to look down at the parking lot. Pam comes to stand by his side as he points to her car. "I think that one's yours."

When he looks down to laugh, it's short and quiet, but she feels it. Because his grin is so wide and his eyes are shining even when he's tired, and his face is so close to her hair she can feel him breathing. Pam opens her mouth and nods. "I think you're right. Maybe we'll have a heat stroke... fifty degrees tomorrow could melt it all away for me."

Jim sighs and she can hear all the effort it takes for him, because she's so close. And it's just the two of them in his living room here, and it's so soft and smooth the way they can wake up in the middle of the night and just be without having to worry about much else. Even if it's been prefaced with one of the most... whirlwind days of her life.

Jim seems transfixed by the picture outside so she doesn't try and pull him towards his nice, warm bed. Which is where she really wants to be. Again. "How are you feeling?"

He shakes himself a little bit and shrugs. "Kind of the same. A little better. Just warm and achey and stuff."

Pam rolls her eyes and looks up at him. "No impending death, then."

"I think I'm gonna make it." He nods and exhales another weakened sigh.

Pam sits on the window seat carefully and backs up to look at him. He's illuminated by the scene outside, and the rest of his living room is nearly pitch-black. He's beautiful.

Jim rocks his head to rest on his shoulder and looks down at her, watching her look up at him. They both smile. Pam figures maybe they both want to go to sleep and yet, here they sit.

"What?" Jim's voice cracks through his grin and her heart swells. She figures no one else will ever be like Jim. No one will ever say "What?" to her so perfectly, no one will ever be able to make her feel like this. No one would ever, ever be able to keep her in such close proximity with something that is surely very contagious. Not like Jim does. Because all he has to say is what?, and Pam feels like everything -- Roy, the divorce, Dunder-Mifflin, nearly peeing her pants in fifth grade at the talent show, months and years of waiting -- has been worth it and then some.

Pam just shakes her head because she doesn't know how she'll ever be able to say this to him without just opening her arms and mumbling nonsense, watching her poor, tired heart explode, and it doesn't matter now, because Jim rests each of his warm hands on the sides of her face and she loses her smile. He bends to kiss her again, and she falls back against the window. She's instantly chilled but she doesn't care, doesn't care because Jim's calf is aligned with her thigh on the seat and his lips are on hers and she can feel his eyelashes, and all they do is kiss.

Her tongue wanders and it seems to ignite something in Jim. His pinky finger falls to the skin on her neck and she shivers. Jim stops, and she watches as he pulls away from her licking his lips and considers their arrangement. For a split second, it's awkward as Pam's hands sit in the air uselessly. Jim motions for her to get up, whispers something she doesn't hear. She's puzzled until he sits in her place and pulls her to his lap and then it clicks.

She smiles at him as he leans back against the window, tilts his head back and sighs, sounding so satisfied.

She turns up her lip sympathetically. "I bet that feels good."

Jim opens his eyes and looks down at her lazily. "Well, you were shivering, I just figured."

A different shock runs up her body as she gets comfortable on his lap and feels his hands fall to her waist. "No, it makes sense." She nods a little and touches his arms with her fingers. She feels a little sexier on top of him like this, a little bolder, even if, if she's being honest, she still doesn't feel the greatest. "Feels good, though?" She stoops to touch her lips to his, to hear that sound again. She can feel it in her toes.

She stays close while he answers her. "It does. Still not enough, though." Jim doesn't seem to mind because he touches her chin to pull her back down, and they're kissing again, and it's lazy and warm and wonderful. She takes another step.

Pam puts her hands on his shoulders and pushes herself back to look at him. He looks at her like he just chose her and no one else makes sense. She loves it so much she sighs and lets her hands fall to the ends of his shirt. Before she can question it or stop herself at all, she sets her gaze on his, and pulls up.

When his face is visible again he stares at her for a second before he closes his eyes and rests his bare back on the glass.

"Oh, man," Jim breathes with a smile. Pam laughs warmly, quietly and catches herself folding the t-shirt and their side before shaking it loose and pushing the hair off his forehead. She's finding herself acting like his girlfriend or something, and it's new, but it's nice. She likes taking care of him. She loves him.

"Better," Jim says, but Pam barely catches it. She's unaware of how her back arches as she rests her eyes on his neck, the low part of it that a tie and a collar usually hide, and how she's free to look at his bare chest now. He doesn't look anything like Roy, which shouldn't be her first thought, maybe, but she's never been with a half-naked man besides him, so naturally, she compares. And Jim wins. His leaner. It's not bulk or muscle or anything overwhelming, except it is, because Jim doesn't have a shirt on and he has chest hair that she didn't know about until eighteen seconds ago. Her eyes move down and she sees how narrow his waist is, how thin he looks compared to the way he was before he left Scranton, she thinks. But then again, she's never seen him like this. Without a shirt on and all.

She tears her eyes away from it and blinks hard, dives in for another slow kiss before she can see Jim's face, because she knows she's blushing. His lips are soft and moist, and tucking in-between hers and she squeezes his shoulders for it because it's so just what she needed.

Pam's content kissing him just like this, wondering what details she's missed on his half-naked body that she'll hopefully have a chance to survey later, when Jim deftly tucks his fingers under her shirt and pulls up. Suddenly, she's parting from him in surprise and then her shirt is off and she's freezing, but none of that matters... Because even if she was content before with the way things were, now her and Jim are both topless, and he's kissing her in a way they haven't yet, all quick and frenzied and now all Pam wants to do is get more.

His hot arms and big hands are spread all around her. Her mind is busy, racing with thoughts and wondering where any of this is going, and wondering if Jim knows that his thumb is touching the spot right below the clasp of her bra. And, God, her breasts are up against him so tightly, she wonders if they're even still contained. He's devouring her and she wonders how she ever got by without it. All of the thinking she's done about Jim over the years, and she's thought about them in many situations... Somehow she missed half-undressed on a window sill.

He detaches his lips from hers, and kisses down her neck. Pam opens and closes her mouth, small sounds emitted into the space between them as she bows her head, rests her lips in his hair. Jim seems to slow his pace as he gets more cautious, and as his hands slide up her waist. He comes to a complete stop when he has both of his hands on the cups of her bra and his lips on her chest. He parts his lips and Pam becomes aware of how much they're both heaving and panting, and how her back is so definitively arched.

She wonders if he's going to stop and apologize, retract like a small animal and make her feel like she should've stopped this a while ago. Because she feels like maybe she should have. But she doesn't finish the thought because he tilts his head up just a bit, his left ear falls hot on her clavicle and his lips on her throat, his thumbs brushing over her nipples through the fabric. Something between her legs tightens and she wonders, but she knows she won't find out, not tonight, she can't. Still breathing heavily, she rests back onto her heels, and feels him hard underneath her. She had managed to miss it before, and when they touch, they both hold on a little tighter. Pam's hands squeeze his shoulders and she sighs.

"Sorry," Jim breathes. She doesn't know how to answer, so she doesn't. His hands leave her chest, which is both a disappointment and a relief, and travel to her back instead. He pulls her to him and she lays her head on his shoulder. His fingers run up and down.

"Probably should stop." He sounds pained to say this.

"Good idea." She notices that since this has all started, no matter what they still have left to say, Jim is so careful and kind with her, and affectionate. His hands are running up and down her back and stroking her hair, he kisses her cheeks, like they've been together all this time. It inspires her; she touches her fingers to his chin and turns his face toward her, gives him a slow, closed-mouth kiss and stares up at him. "We have a lot to talk about," she says when she bows her head.

Pam feels the words in his chest when he agrees. She hugs him with the arm looped around him and although she knows that they really do have a lot to talk about, and that they need to slow down, she can still see her car if she turns her head just an inch, and it's buried; she's not going anywhere tonight.

"Tomorrow, um." Jim scrubs his face with his hand and she burrows further into him. "Tomorrow, we'll dig the car out."

" 'Kay." She doesn't care. She does, somewhere, but she can smell his skin right now.

He gives her a quick hug before Pam reluctantly slides off of his lap, feeling acutely aware of her bare body. She reaches for her shirt, and as she shakes it loose, realizes it's Jim's. They're halfway to his bedroom when he sees it and laughs loosely.

"I'll get you a sweatshirt."

Pam glows with how her night has turned out. Although it really, really doesn't at all... a small part of this feels like they've been doing this for a while. It still feels new enough and uncharted enough that she's excited about the possibilities, and that makes her feel like the ice over her soul is melting or something, because for so long she's been certain it wouldn't happen... And she wouldn't consider anything else, and not because of her hope for her and Jim, but simply because she didn't care about or want anyone else. Even thought she knows how much work it's going to take, she doesn't care, because the end result is going to be this and amazing.

He hands her a soft, worn shirt and she pulls it on, gratefully clothed and hidden now, as he shuts the light out. Pam pushes her bangs away from her face as he walks around the bed in the dark to her and puts his hand on her arm, kisses her warmly and smiles as he backs up and onto the bed. She rubs his hand before he takes it off of her arm; she's glad that he kissed her good night. And she's glad that he did it before they did it horizontally.

"Good night," Jim says quietly, roughly. Almost cautiously, with a quick smile. Pam repeats it and watches as he turns over and pulls the blankets up to his waist. When he's turned completely away and still, Pam bites her bottom lip, grins and presses a hand to her chest to keep herself in check. Her left foot sits on top of her right and it takes her a full minute before she can lie down next to him.




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Okay, so it's kind of filler, but they need lots of tension. This is season three after all. I do have a question, though -- while looking over the next chapters, I wanted your opinion. Is the steam vital? And by steam, I mean what's to come (which would be a level up from what was in this chapter, enough to earn the rating). Because I didn't like what I had written so I started to rewrite it, but it feels I write them doing it all the time (shameless), and I didn't want it to be... overkill. So for this story and their scenario here, what do you guys think? Yes or no? Let me know. It's looovely to be back. I have a lot of reading to do, I see!

Kate

A/N: Thanks for the opinions and reviews, guys. I'm thrilled that people still care enough about this story, considering I've been so bad about updates! There is an end in sight, though. While I'm editing the last chapters they seem to stretch and multiply, so I couldn't say how much is left, but at least these two will figure it out, guaranteed. Let me know what you think of this one. Pam has some thinking to do, she can't seem to get herself together, can she?

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine!




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She wakes up when the gray light is spilling into the room through the dusky curtains and the entire bed seems to shift on one side. She's piecing parts of the night together when she puts her arm across her forehead, squinting in the new light and turns around completely to the other side of the bed.

Jim's back is covered in his winter coat, his hair disheveled like last night. He's bent over the side, sitting with his back to her. He turns his head slightly to glance at her over his shoulder. He barely makes eye contact.

"Hey, you up?"

Pam can't help but think he sounds distant, although she really just woke up, so she doesn't think about it.

"Yeah." She says it through a yawn as she pulls herself up in bed, yanking on the sheet to cover her, as though she wasn't fully clothed. She looks down and remembers Jim handing her the sweatshirt she wears now. Pam lowers her face so her nose rests in the plush fabric and closes her eyes, before she's awakened by the sound of his voice again.

"I was thinking I'd head outside and see if I could start digging your car out." Jim pulls on the laces of his shoes and stands abruptly from the bed, walking into the living room before she has a chance to answer him. She swallows and sighs, defeated again, hopeless in this situation with Jim.

Pam is trying to wake up her body, trying to clear her mind and remember that she can't be a whiny mess about this, or jump to conclusions when she's been awake for only thirty seconds and they've said about thirteen words combined... But she is. It feels hopeless. She swings her legs around and tries to be... assertive. Chill. Appropriate. Something better.

She walks quickly into the living room and almost runs into him while he searches for something. He offers her a passing, tight-lipped expression as she opens her mouth.

"Well, I could help, too... obviously." She feels like the words are too big for her mouth.

He waves her off a little bit, finds his hat on the couch and roughly pulls it over his ears. He tugs on it when he speaks. "Nah, it's okay. I only have the one shovel, so."

She's quiet, contemplating and quickly comes back. "Oh, well I can do it then. You're sick, Jim."

He shakes his head. "I feel okay." He stops moving and searching and avoiding for just a second and turns to look at her. His face is soft and considerate, and it makes her chest tighten. She doesn't understand him like this, polar opposites like this. Inconsistent. "How's your head?"

She smiles a little, albeit not so confidently, and presses her fingers to the base of her skull. There's tenderness, and that's all that's left. "It's good."

His eyes watch her hands and then he nods, his gaze returns to hers. "Good."

Pam loses her smile and only breathes while they look at each other. She thinks maybe she could dart across the room right now, jump the couch, throw the lamp out of the way, grab his coat and kiss him. Tell him everything she needs him to know and give herself over to him.

She doesn't do any of that though, she just stares at him as he stares at her and her heart beats quickly, until he nods and she has to tear her eyes away. While she's looking down at her feet, one on top of the other, she hears his pace pick up again.

"Are you... looking for something?" Pam ventures.

Jim scratches the back of his head and coughs. "My gloves."

He watches as she quietly stoops to pick them up. They're plainly sitting on top of a stack of magazines under a coffee table. She offers a simple smile at him when she hands them to him and he smirks.

"Thanks."

She nods and steps to the door, toeing around for her shoes before he stops her again.

"Seriously, I'll just do it. It's early, I called and said we'd be late --"

"Both of us?"

Jim stops talking and looks confused. "Well, yeah..."

Pam shakes her head. "I mean, you called in for both of us?"

His eyes glance to the side and back to her, his brow creased. "Yeah?" He slips his gloves on and pulls the collar of his coat up. She thinks for a moment that he looks adorable and beautiful, messy hair from under his hat and his puffy coat, but she's distracted by this other thing right now.

"Okay," she says, nodding and looks away.

"What?"

"No, it's just that..." She's lost for words. How does she say what she's thinking without... saying what she's thinking? "I don't want the office to, you know --" Her hands shift around in the air, until he continues for her.

His head rocks back knowingly and he sticks his hands in his pockets. "Ah, you don't want everyone to think that you, spent the night here or anything?"

That might be what she was thinking, but Jim looks like if she were to agree with him right now, he'd be awfully annoyed. He already looks annoyed, actually. Her mouth slacks and she looks at him with an attempt to apologize and he just shrugs, nods, awkwardly places himself further away from her.

"Okay. Well. I'm just going to go out and..." He coughs to clear his throat, and he looks so pained and disappointed and slightly annoyed, all at the same time. It's only seven something, she knows neither of them are fully rested, but she's pretty sure that has nothing to do with his expression. "I'll clear you out so you can get home and change. You can take a shower here if you want."

She nods and murmurs a thanks, all he does is nod before he shuts the door behind him. She can hear his footsteps for a while and the door down the hall swing and shut, and then she waits at the window for him to appear in the parking lot. She nearly gasps at all the snow on the ground. She can see the black of her tires and where the mirrors protrude, but other than that, her car could be an igloo. Someone must have already cleared a good part of the lot. There are other people outside clearing off their cars, but a good number of them look abandoned.

When she sees Jim moving through the snow in the lot towards her car, she knows that this is a good enough excuse to call in for the day. They're effectively trapped in, the roads can't be good at all, and they both have justifiable medical reasons not to go to work today. However, if either of them follow that idea, that means that they're stuck here for another eight hours at least, and there must be a reason why Jim doesn't want that to happen if he's outside trying to get her car out of the snow.

He had looked so disappointed in her, and she can't figure it out. She watches him work to get her car cleared away, and before she's full of appreciation for it, her mind clouds with doubt instead and wonders if he's just doing this to get her out of there. He wasn't warm and easy this morning like he was last night to her. Pam's eyelids feel heavy and her body gets warm when she thinks about Jim taking her shirt off and pressing her skin to his right next to this very window, and how far away any of that feels now. It could've happened last year, given how distant it felt between them this morning.

She thinks it could've happened ten years ago and she would still feel it like she does right now.

She wraps her arms around herself and purses her lips together. She can't just watch him shovel all this snow. It pains her to think he's doing something for her and refuses her help, so she surveys his apartment for something to do. She collects herself enough to remember an unmade bed, and that's something she can do. She tidies his room, straightening things and tossing extra clothes in his hamper. When she makes his bed, she stops on his side and doesn't even care; she presses her face to his pillow, and the scent of him and the memory of his weight against her brings her down like gravity, and she ends up with her cheek against his pillow, staring at the wall.

Pam knows, it's obvious to her, that she can't take a shower here. She can't be without anymore clothes in his apartment, especially somewhere where he has been, too. She's lying, practically in fetal position, against all of his Jim-smelling sheets and breathing deeply and wondering what changed since just a couple of hours ago, so early this morning. It doesn't come to her. She doesn't have it.

She knows that she could go home and call into work for the day, but she decides not to for the same reason that she won't lie on his bed all day; she's done enough sitting around and thinking about sad things. Even if they talk and sort things out and the two of them aren't going to work, what can she do differently? Nothing's going to wait for her to get her shit together. It's hopeless and it's sad, because it really feels like Jim is it. When she would think about Roy, and if there was better out there, even before Jim, she knew she was lying to herself when she would deny anything better. When she thinks about Jim, she thinks there's nothing else. She knows that happy, warm, wonderful Jim is what she wants.

Pam swings her feet onto the floor. The motion makes her dizzy, and she frowns before removing herself from the bed and pulling the sheets and comforter taught across the mattress. She fluffs the pillows and probably spends too much time making the bed considering they didn't move much. She thinks briefly that other women have been in this bed before her, and she's met a couple of them (at least, she's assuming she has). And it weirds her out, but only for a moment, because she's old enough to know that you have to go through the bad to get the good and all of that nonsense. So she pushes Karen's face out of her mind and doesn't think anymore about his bed.

She spends the next forty-five minutes trying to keep busy. She's doing dishes in the sink instead of the dishwasher to take up more time, unloading the dishwasher, organizing the stack of magazines alphabetically, lining up his shoes... She only rolls her eyes at herself when she's opening a cabinet under the sink to see if there's anything to scrub the sink with. She puts her hands on her knees as she's stooping down and decides to just stop. She closes the doors resolutely, silently, and walks to the window again.

Pam cranes her neck and notices that Jim has her car cleared away for the most part. The spaces behind her tires are cleared and all of her windows are visible. And he's leaning his back against the side of her car, the driver's side door, and staring at his feet with his arms crossed across his chest. The shovel is propped up next to the car.

She wants him to come inside so badly. She wants it to be like yesterday, like healing and moving on and starting again. She wants to dust the snow off of his face and make him something warm to drink and rub his shoulders or something. She has all of this inside of her and she just wants to put it on him. She feels love in her hands when she thinks of him, and that should be enough, right? It is enough, isn't it?

Her mind is cloudy, cloudier, now and she walks into the kitchen again and she does make him something warm to drink. She finds hot chocolate and makes him a cup of that and dresses to go outside. She grabs everything she came with except for the soup bowl (she doesn't care about it and she wouldn't know where to carry it anyway). She picks up her purse and carries the hot chocolate, soup 2.0, outside with her.

It's cold, the kind that bites at your skin and sinks into your shoes so she hurries across the parking lot, and surprises him when she's close enough.

"Here," she says quietly, because he doesn't even say anything when she's close enough. He thanks her quietly, and she thinks he still looks distant. Distant. Less angry with her, maybe, for whatever reason he was angry with her... but he looks tired, now. And far, far away.

He sips and she folds her hands together and stands next to him, leaning against the car. It's so, so cold outside. January cold, the kind that never feels good or clean or Christmas-y or anything. She looks up at him and his face almost looks like it did after the fundraiser in May. She has to look away.

"Are you... okay?" She doesn't know how to phrase it. She knows she can't say, "What did I do?" or something. If she did something, he'll probably let her know somehow, or maybe he is now. And then she'll figure it out on her own, she supposes, but she shakes her head to dissolve her over thinking and watches as he detaches his lips from the side of the mug.

Even watching his lips is painful. She looks at them and she doesn't understand why things aren't simpler for them. Couldn't she have fixed this, prevented this? If she had listened to him in May, or all the months before that, if she had never married Roy? If she had never let him leave?

He looks down at her, first to her shoes, then all the way up until his stony impression meets her and she feels herself sway in the wind. She doesn't know, she just doesn't get it, and she looks back at him, silently asks for help. Anything. He looks away and takes a deep breath.

"Hey," he says, looking way past her, out to the street. "So, I'll see you at work?"

Pam is so unhappy in this single moment that she looks down and her mouth opens and she can only say, "Yeah," before she feels that same burning again behind her eyes and instead of succumbing to it, she straightens up and pushes off of the car. "Yeah, yeah I'll see you soon. Thanks for all of this."

Jim smiles, kind of, and picks up the shovel. "No problem." His eyes meet hers, fleetingly and she watches him walk away. She's in her car with the keys in the ignition as he takes his time towards the door, never stopping to look back at her. He takes the shovel and the mug of hot chocolate inside with him, and she feels like they're back to where they started.

Her car starts easily and the snow crunches under her tires. It's 7:47. The roads are slick. She's tired, and her muscles ache, her toes are like ice. She tries to put an outfit together in her head, tries to remember what's clean and what isn't too similar to what she wore yesterday.

And then she thinks, what else?