Summary: Seven different ways to say I love you.1. Sign Language by Paper Jam
2. Elvish by Paper Jam
3. Foul Language by Paper Jam
4. Australian by Paper Jam
5. French by Paper Jam
6. Latin by Paper Jam
7. Body Language by Paper Jam
After The Merger, there was a general cry for fluffy Jam. This is my contribution. In preparation for warm and fuzzy, I watched Love Actually (because Emma Thompson listening to Joni Mitchell and straightening out her duvet is somehow less heartbreaking than the words “You can do whatever you want. We’re friends.”) More to the point, this was inspired by the scenes between Jaime and Aurelia and how they fell in love without being able to speak the same language. Spoilers up to the end of The Merger.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
It’s their first talking head together. Pam schools her face into a mask of seriousness to hide how giddy she is about being his accomplice in mischief. She concentrates instead on helping him exhibit each ridiculous sign they have discovered in Dwight’s trash can. Sitting so close to him, she has to be very conscious of not constantly brushing her hands against his arm and carefully accepts each sign from him without touching his fingers. The heat radiates right through his coat sleeve, though, so it’s enough.
As he pulls out the last crumpled piece of paper, she smiles over at him and for one heart-stopping moment, he beams at her so warmly she forgets the camera is there and just shines right back. For the rest of the confessional, she can’t stop staring at him; adoration written across her face, because it’s suddenly occurred to her that no one has ever looked at her like that, ever, and she can’t believe she’s never noticed before how tempting his mouth looks when he knows he’s being funny. Pam has to press her lips together and turn back to the camera so she can regain her composure.
“Dwight Schrute. Privates. Tough to say.” Jim finishes, with a glance at her that makes her breath catch and wish they were alone.
The cameraman finally lowers his equipment and leaves them to their own devices. Her smile escapes again and now he’s looking at her like she’s lost her mind. Maybe she has. His hands graze hers as they reload the garbage can and she leans towards him a bit until the scent of his clothing fills her lungs, overpowering the faint odor of the nearby ashcan.
“What?” His voice cracks under the strain of a smirk that no longer reaches his whole face.
She can’t take her eyes off the curve of his mouth. “Nothing. You’re really great, you know?” She exhales quickly, afraid of how that sounds. “In front of the camera.”
His lips part with a sharp intake of breath, all traces of amusement vanished. “Uh… thanks. You, too. In front of the camera, I mean.” She shivers slightly. “Are you cold?” he asks, covering her icy hands with his own.
She thinks she shakes her head, although it’s possible she just stares instead, roused only when the door to the office bangs open suddenly and a harried looking Michael bursts out, no doubt hiding from the rest of the staff and their health care complaints.
Michael pulls up short, doesn’t fail to notice their proximity. Jim tugs his hands back as Michael tries to form some sort of appropriate comment, offering only: “Heeehhhhhhhaaaahr…” before abruptly dashing back inside.
Jim stands and extends his hand to help her to her feet. “We should get back before Dwight declares Martial Law.”
Her answering laugh is weak, because all she can think about is how his fingers are squeezing hers, before letting go to hold the door wide.
It’s a rainy Monday in early December. Michael has gone to New York for a meeting with corporate, leaving Dwight in charge and it’s promising to be a pretty fun day. Pam has had the phone on automatic voicemail all morning, helping Jim with a side project that involves stealing Dwight’s car keys (no small feat, considering Dwight’s healthy sense of paranoia) and loading his Trans Am’s sun visors with the leftover paper dots from every single three-hole punch in the entire office. They’ve been saving this one up for days and there’s a sort of bubbly happiness surging through his body as he and Pam kneel on Dwight’s front seats, picking up all the loose confetti so he won’t suspect the booby trap.
His forehead is almost bumping Pam’s as they clean up around the gear shift. It’s getting hard to focus with the intoxicating smell of her shampoo filling the car. His big fingers keep squashing the tiny circles instead of collecting them.
Pam impatiently swats his hand away and finishes the job with a secret smile playing across her lips. “You’re so useless, Halpert. Get out of my way.” He sits back on his heels, and watches her instead, intently collecting every last piece, a strand of hair caught in the corner of her mouth.
At last she looks up and he lifts his hand for a triumphant high-five. “We should go back inside before Dwight notices we’ve been gone and gets suspicious. You know how he can be when we disappear together.”
Her fist clenches tightly around the evidence of their prank. “Yeah. We should go, before…” She stops without finishing, bites her lower lip, and then reaches for the door latch to escape into the wet parking lot.
Back in the office, everyone’s in the conference room and Dwight is waiting impatiently at the door. “Where have you been? We can’t start Movie Monday without all the staff. This is a group exercise.”
Pam cuts her eyes towards Angela’s desk. “Why doesn’t she have to go?” She asks, in her most innocent tone.
Dwight puffs out his sternum. “I have asked Angela to keep a vigilant eye on everyone’s workstations.” He casts a sly glance at the camera. “For safety reasons.” Without warning, he suddenly slaps his hand against Jim’s chest, leaving behind a stick-on label covered in some illegible markings.
“What. Is this?” Jim asks. Dwight tries to do the same to Pam, but she blocks him before his palm connects with her breast, the white sticker landing crookedly on her forearm. Her face is twisted with ill-concealed disgust.
“It’s your name, Jim. In Elvish. Today’s movie is The Fellowship of the Ring. Classic. Totally relevant to today’s society.” Dwight turns to head back in to his helpless victims, pressing a name tag to his own short-sleeved shirt. Jim reads it as he goes past, swallowing a burst of laughter when it appears to say, in a swirling script, “madwTr”. There are two empty seats in the corner and Pam sinks down beside him with a groan of resignation. She has placed her label carefully on her cardigan, which reads as some version of “Rm” and they simultaneously fight a case of the giggles.
The movie is starting and Jim tries very hard to give his full attention to the opening sequence as Pam fingers his Elvish name thoughtfully, and then unceremoniously dumps her fistful of leftover confetti in his lap. He struggles not to react, scared if he looks over, he might try to kiss her in the dim light of the make-shift movie theater.
She leans against his shoulder. “So, wim. What game do you want to play?”
He rubs his face. “Ugh. Is there a Lord of the Rings drinking game? Surely that’s the only way to survive this.” Surprisingly, he is shushed by Oscar. “Sorry, man.” He bends his lips closer to Pam’s ear. “I guess we better keep it down. People seem pretty excited to have a break from Night at the Roxbury.”
Pam muffles her laugh by turning her face into his bicep and he wills his body to relax. “I prefer the third part of the trilogy myself. It’s more romantic.”
Jim risks a severe glare from Oscar. “You are such a dork!”
Her smile is slow and intimate against the thin cotton of his upper sleeve. “I have all the action figures, you know.”
“Shut uuuuuup. I might have to rethink our friendship.”
Pam is quiet for a few minutes and he thinks she’s watching the movie until she raises her head, lips dangerously close to his own. “Don’t do that.”
The rest of the room disappears as she curls her fingers into the crook of his elbow and lowers her cheek back down to his shoulder with a satisfied sigh. By the time all the Hobbits have arrived in Rivendell, Pam is snoring gently, her nose pressed into his arm. With a quick glance around to check that no one is watching, he allows his head to drop to the top of hers, her hair warm and soft against his cheek.
“Fuuuuuuck!” Jim leaps out of his chair, left hand cradled protectively against his body. “God, Dwight. What the hell, man?”
Dwight doesn’t appear to be sorry at all. In fact, he casts a glance across the room, where Angela is watching with an almost approving smile. “I didn’t mean to close the drawer that hard. Don’t be such a baby, Jim.”
Jim looks over the reception desk for back-up, and then remembers that Pam had been sent out earlier on some mission for Michael. This was turning into the best day ever. With a final glare at an unrepentant Dwight, he heads into the kitchen, pulling old, yellow ice trays from the freezer. Jim had broken a finger playing basketball before and now has first hand knowledge that getting your index finger slammed in a drawer hurts about a thousand times more. The back of his throat is stinging from the effort of containing manly tears of agony.
One of the ice trays slips away as he tries to crack some cubes loose one-handed. It lands upside down on the grey carpet. “Fuck!” he shouts, at nobody in particular.
The kitchen door swings open. “Nice, Halpert. You kiss your mom with that mouth?” Pam bends to clear up the scattered ice and when she stands, her cheeks are flushed the color of her pale pink cardigan. For a second, he forgets his injury.
He holds up his rapidly swelling finger. “I think it’s broken. Dwight tried to amputate it.” When she giggles, he fakes a frown. “It’s not funny, Beesley. This is a very serious matter.”
She fails to wipe the smile entirely from her face and he gets caught up by the sparkle of amusement in her eyes. She’s the first one to look away and holds out her hands. “Let me see.” He lays his hand in hers, palm up, thinking of the time she read his fortune, lazily drawing her fingertips across the creases. “Can you move it?” Words elude him, the way she’s holding his wrist. He shakes his head and she continues her examination, accidentally jarring the fracture. He doesn’t say anything. Her eyes flick up to his and he would swear her breathing is a little shallower than a few moments ago. “Is it painful?”
He licks his lips, briefly can’t remember what they’re supposed to be talking about. “I don’t mind. It’s not too bad.”
“Oh.” she says, thumb gently rubbing the heel of his hand, sending shocks of pleasure through every nerve in his body. “Maybe I should drive you to the hospital. You’re going to need an x-ray.”
He can’t stop watching the movement of her thumb across his skin. “It’s okay. You just got back.”
“I don’t mind,” she echoes.
“I… uh…” He has to stop and clear the sudden huskiness from his voice. “Sure. I mean, if you don’t mind.”
She releases his hand, his flesh still burning from her touch. “I don’t. Let’s get out of here.” He nods; slowly at first, then more quickly to clear his head. When he follows her out, he sees that her coat and purse have been flung carelessly across her desk, as if she had been in a hurry to get to the kitchen.
“It can’t be that bad!” Dwight calls after them. “You’re still smiling!”
When Pam finishes at the skate rental counter, Jim’s nowhere to be seen. Michael is already on the ice, having provided his own embarrassingly new “blades”, as he liked to call them. She still hasn’t figured out why he’s wearing hockey equipment for a casual skating party. Just being Michael, she supposes.
Disappointed Jim has left her on her own, after such a great day together, she sits heavily on a nearby bench and begins the long process of lacing and tightening. Dwight totters by eagerly, a clumsy giant in a hideous navy blue snowsuit, and she glances at the camera in delight. “This should be good.”
Reluctantly, she joins the rest of the staff on the rink, tentatively shuffling across the ice. She hasn’t done this in years and she wishes she had Jim’s arm to hold onto. He wouldn’t let her fall. Her feet are pinching already and her eyes search the bleachers for a blue and black striped scarf. Finally, she spots him, back against the wall, observing the proceedings, iPod in hand. Ignoring the “No Skates Beyond This Point” sign, she lets herself out into the stands and awkwardly climbs the stairs to his row. “What are you doing?”
He shrugs and moves over so she can sit. “I didn’t really feel like skating. I can’t stop thinking about Kevin.”
She deliberately misinterprets his comment and grimaces. “I didn’t realize you were serious when we were playing ‘Who would you do?’ Do you want me to leave you alone with those lustful thoughts?”
He shakes his head, but he’s laughing, ribs quaking under her elbow. “You have a filthy mind.”
Pam smiles and holds out her hand for an ear bud. “I know what you meant. He’s going to be okay.”
Jim nods. “Yeah.”
A change of subject is in order. “What are we listening to?” she asks, as she accepts the still warm ear bud.
“Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough.” She looks up in surprise and he laughs again. “I’m serious. It’s pretty funny when you’re watching Michael zip around the ice like a maniac. Try it.” He skips the song back to the beginning and they’re both chuckling happily by the time the intro has finished. She bops along quietly for awhile, warm inside her winter coat, his left knee bouncing against her right one, in time to the music, until the song finishes.
The next song on shuffle is a complete departure and she feels his frame draw up stiffly. “What’s this? It’s nice.”
He clears his throat. “It’s, um, his name is Xavier Rudd.”
“Is it new?” She glances over at the screen on his iPod to read the title: Where Do We Fit? Her heart gives an unexpected little lurch.
Jim hides the player into his pocket, leaves his hand in there with it. “I bought it over the weekend. He’s Australian. I came across it doing research for my trip.” He ducks his head and picks at some lint on his scarf with his free hand. “Not all his stuff is this depressing. I’ll change it.” Before she can protest, the song abruptly stops and a familiar Lemon Jelly song replaces it. She has this one on her computer at home because it reminds her of Jim.
They sit quietly for a while and her muscles begin to ache from the tension. Her feet are freezing. He breaks the silence at last, like she knew he would if only she waited patiently enough. “I’m sorry I can’t come to your wedding.”
Pam’s chest constricts painfully when she sees the sadness settled over his features. “It’s okay, Jim.” She touches his left sleeve fleetingly, then drops her hand back into her lap. “I understand.”
His head snaps up, a puff of vapor escaping from his lungs into the chilled air. “You do?”
It’s almost impossible to restrain herself from kissing him right then, so she reaches up to straighten his scarf instead, to distract them both from her blushing cheeks. “I do.” Their eyes lock and he smiles slowly. She gives his scarf another tug. “Come skate with me?”
With a deep sigh, he rises and offers his arm. “Sure.”
In Stamford, Jim is looking on as Karen speaks to a corner store in Montreal, and all he can think about is how Pam has always wanted to go to Paris, how he wants to be the one to finally take her. Neither of them can speak French, but it doesn’t matter because he knows the way she’ll taste when he kisses her next to the Seine. He’s being saving it up in the back of his mind with all the other little things he’s catalogued about her. Like mixed berry, and how much she loves hearing Edith Piaf sing La Vie En Rose, even though she doesn’t understand the words. The song is still on his favorite playlist and he can’t quite bring himself to delete it.
When he returns to his desk, he stares out the window and conjures up the feel of Pam’s mouth on his, how the tip of her tongue had briefly touched his while he kissed her against his desk in the dark. He imagines brushing his lips against hers in the Louvre, while everyone else jostles to see the Mona Lisa.
He suddenly notices the camera has zoomed in on his face and he scrambles to make it appear as though he’s busily working. Still, he can’t stop the smile that creeps across his lips when his thoughts return to the most romantic city in the world.
On the drive home, he hits the repeat button when Edith Piaf comes up and shakes his head. “Jim Halpert,” he says aloud. “You are such a girl.”
The day before the new people arrive from Stamford, Michael calls Pam into his office. She resists, already half-crazed with nervousness, not eager to compound the situation.
"Here's the thing, Pamalama." He starts without waiting for her to sit down. She's caught off guard by how serious he is, how tenderly he says the ridiculous nickname.
She folds herself cautiously into the chair pulled up in front of his desk, wringing her hands. "What is it, Michael?"
He fusses with a few of the toys spread out around his keyboard. "I wanted to talk to you about Jim."
She's glad the cameras haven't arrived for the day yet, since she's pretty sure her mouth falls open incredulously. "Michael, I don't think..."
Michael waves his hand in her face furiously. "Stop right there, Pam. I think I can safely say I understand the situation a little better than you do."
She crosses her arms, kind of interested in where this might be going. "Really?" she asks sarcastically.
"Ha. Really. Jim and I had a good talk in Philadelphia."
Pam almost swallows her tongue. Jim discussed them with Michael? "You did?"
Michael looks very pleased with himself for being ahead of the game for once. "I did. And I feel it's my duty as your fearless leader and one of your closest friends..." he continues without noticing her look of horror, "to give you a piece of advice."
"You know, you don't have to. Please..." She checks again to make sure there are no cameramen outside the open blinds.
He can't be stopped, no matter how much she wishes the floor would just gulp him down whole, chair and all. "Carpe Diem." He announces the words like a royal decree, his Latin shockingly accurate. "I read that on a t-shirt, once. In a tackle shop." He lowers his voice and whispers conspiratorially. "It's not really about fish, Pam."
Despite her humiliation, Pam has to stifle a bark of laughter. "Um. Thanks? I'll definitely take that into consideration, Michael. Is that everything?"
He sighs dramatically. "Yes, Paaaaaaaaaam. That's all." She leaps to her feet and almost makes it out the door before he speaks again. "Maybe you should do something sexier with your hair tomorrow. You're not getting any younger."
With great effort, she manages to keep from slamming the door behind her.
************************************************************************
The next morning, Pam heats up the curling iron and pulls it through her hair, tugging gently at the cardigan her mother made her. It makes her feel calmer. Her mom was the only one who really knew about everything that had happened with Jim; the grey wool was a talisman of sorts.
The new people trickle in, and Pam is thrilled when a woman her own age comes in and compliments her sweater. It'll be nice to have another young person around. Michael embarrasses himself constantly, naturally, but she can't take her eyes off the glass door and when she sees that blue and black scarf, she remembers how it felt under her fingers at Michael's skating party and smiles at the camera, unable to keep the relief and excitement from spilling out.
In a rare moment of perception, Michael beats a hasty retreat to leave her alone to greet Jim. She's vaguely aware that he's making some kind of joke to break the ice and she couldn't care less, actually runs to throw her arms around him. It's like second chances and winning the lottery and falling in love, all at the same time. His smiles and his hugs are exactly like she recalls and when he says the place looks great, she knows for sure that his eyes haven't left hers and he's not talking about the desks and motivational posters.
Eventually, he steps away to set his stuff down. Ryan arrives and there's a small misunderstanding about seating arrangements. She kind of wants to challenge Ryan to a fight in the parking lot because now she won't be able to see Jim's face while she's pretending to work. After the dust has settled from the orientation, she sees him push back his chair and wander back to the break room. Michael passes by with what she suspects is meant to be a meaningful glance and she climbs to her feet muttering under her breath: carpe diem, as a kind of mantra. She promises herself she'll be nicer to Michael from now on.
When she walks into the room, Jim's pulling a bottle of water from the vending machine instead of a grape soda and her confidence falters. Maybe she doesn't know him as well as she used to. When he says I'm evolving, Pam, it sounds slightly accusatory. She brushes it away and forges ahead, determined to make the most of this opportunity. No more hiding or double speak. She asks him out for coffee, only stumbling once or twice, tries to keep it light. Michael walks in on them and when Jim denies there's anything to interrupt, her heart gets crushed into oblivion by a steamroller of defeat.
Pam sees him with Karen later that day as they head inside after the tire incident and it's like a physical blow. She looks to the film crew for confirmation, not quite capable of catching her breath. She can't really believe what's happening and she lingers by her car for a while, putting things together in her mind. At the end of the day, Jim is pulled in for a confessional and she drums her fingers nervously on her desk, dying to know what they're talking about in there.
As she walks to her car that night, thinking about the unopened bottle of red wine on her counter, fully intending to drain every last drop, her thoughts are disrupted by a familiar "Hey." She slows, dreading what Jim might have to say to her. Has he been waiting in the parking lot to tell her he's moved on? She can feel her cheeks flushing red already.
"Hey," she answers, hoping her voice sounds steadier than she feels. She wonders if it would look too weird if she just ran for her car and drove away.
Jim stops in front of her, clearly trying to gauge the mood. "I thought you had already... left."
Play it cool, Beesley, she thinks. Calling herself by her last name is a habit she never quite broke after he disappeared. "I just had some other stuff I had to do." She's not about to admit she was sitting in a dark bathroom stall waiting for the tears to stop so she could face the cameras.
"Oh. Good." His response is nonsensical, like he hadn't absorbed what she said at all.
She wants to leave so badly, it's making her hands shake. She can't stop picturing his arms wrapped around Karen's tiny, well-tailored waist. "What's up?" Fearing the reply.
Suddenly, he gets that look, the one she remembers so well from six months earlier. Like something important is about to happen. "Oh, nothing. I just..." He pauses and it's absolutely like that other night, the one she thinks about constantly. "Do you still want to go for that coffee?"
Her heart skips so quickly she's scared she'll have a heart attack before she can react. "Yes." She breathes the word like a sigh and there's that grin again, the one he'd been wearing when he came through the doors that morning and looked at her like a man finding an oasis in the desert.
"Okay." Jim nods crisply. "Good." He gestures towards his car. "Should we, um...?"
Pam sucks in some much needed oxygen. "I don't care. Let's just get out of here. I have so much to tell you."
Coffee turns into dinner, dinner turns into drinks and soon Pam is tipsy and watching Jim fold and refold a cocktail napkin at Poor Richard's while she gulps her third gin and tonic. She's trying to pinpoint the exact moment he changed from her adorable best friend into a desirable lover, has a hunch it may have been across the poker table during the casino fundraiser, when he was smiling at her so unguardedly she felt a bit naughty.
The check comes, and they're both at a loss for words. He's waiting for her to outline the next step and she's paralyzed by the fear of screwing it up again. So they just end up staring across the table at each other hungrily. When his eyes lower to her mouth and his own twitches involuntarily, she lurches ungracefully to her feet and grabs his hand. "Come on."
"Where are we going?" He asks, not sounding like he really cares. His fingers are on the small of her back and it feels like a dream come true. They reach his car and she backs him against the door before she can lose her nerve. He's too tall for her, though, and she can't kiss him unless he bends down to meet her half way. Her hand clutches the front of his shirt, maybe harder than she would if she were totally sober.
"Pam." His tone is warning and wanting at the same time. "What are you doing?"
She tries to draw him closer. "I need..." She lowers her voice to a whisper, her voice full of honey and promise. "I need to get this off the table so we can concentrate on other things. Right now I can't think about anything else but relieving the tension." She bites her lower lip in anticipation and sees she has won this round. "Is that okay?"
His pupils are so huge his eyes appear black, but he still won't lower his head. "I think you're drunk, Pam."
"I'm not drunk, Jim. I'm... relaxed." Her courage fades slightly and she looks away. "Why won't you kiss me?" Before she can turn back, his hands are on her face and his mouth is finally, finally lowering to hers. He exhales, very faintly, just before their lips touch and she shivers, melting against his chest. He's as delicious as she remembers. Jim's car keys clatter to the pavement and it's not long until they're making out like teenagers. She can't stop laughing as his arms wrap around her waist, because it's like she was sky diving and her parachute opened at the last possible second.
Pam is the first to pull away. Now that she's gotten a taste of him, there are other matters to take care of. Like explanations. "Thanks for that."
He laughs. "Sure. Anytime, Beesley." He runs a hand through his hair. "So. Now what?"
"Now we talk."
"Now we talk? I think we've already blown past that part."
She sighs. "I need to tell you how sorry I am. And how much I missed my best friend."
His grin spreads as he gestures to the very narrow space between their bodies. "Like I said, I think the kiss pretty much covered those things."
"Jim..."
"Pam. Seriously. It doesn't matter." His fingers are suddenly doing marvelous things to her spine. "I knew you'd come around eventually." He catches her hand in his as she goes to smack his chest in indignation, lifts it to his mouth. The tip of his tongue slips across the pulse in her wrist and she grips his forearm so she won't crumple to the ground. "Is it too soon to ask you to go home with me?" A lazy smile plays across his lips as they brush her skin.
"No," she breathes, her eyes falling shut. "Not too soon. About time."