**~**~**~** 

She’s sitting in his car and she can’t stop tugging at her necklace.  He just reached out and grabbed it, held it in his hand like it was the most casual gesture in the world.   

Part of her is thanking whatever higher power made her decide to change out of the turtleneck she wore at the Christmas party and into a v-neck sweater, because it meant that his fingers brushed bare skin instead of red cotton.  However, another part of her is cursing the wardrobe change, because now she can’t forget the electric sensation of his fingertips skimming the spot just below her collarbone.  She can’t stop wondering what it meant, or if it meant anything at all.   

And then he had to go and say that thing about her couch.   

“We need to try out that new sofa.”   

What did that mean?  He couldn’t have meant it the way it sounded, right? 

She’s so caught up second-, third-, and fourth-guessing herself that it’s not until he puts the car in park that she realizes they’re back at work.  She makes a show of unbuckling her seatbelt, waiting for him to say something. Which he doesn’t. 

Finally, she clears her throat and asks, “So, you’ll just follow me?” focusing on the red button on her seatbelt buckle instead of on him. 

“Yep,” she hears him say. 

She’s free from the belt and she reaches for the door when suddenly his hand is warm and heavy on hers.  She looks back at him with startled eyes, because what is he doing?! 

Her hand is still captive when he speaks, a gentle smile on his face. 

“Don’t go blowing through any yellow lights, Beesly.  I don’t want to lose you.” 

I don’t want to lose you?   

What does that mean? 

Pam realizes that she’s just staring at him with a frown on her face.  She snaps out of it and tries to recover with a casual chuckle, but it sounds fake ringing in her ears. 

“I’ll go slow,” she assures him, allowing her hand to slip out from under his as she exits the car. 

“Don’t go too slow,” Jim calls out. 

She’s imagining things.  She is clearly being ridiculous.  This is like Dwight-level paranoia.  This is Michael listening to Jan’s voicemail and reading all kinds of crazy into her words.  She refuses to be Dwight or Michael, absolutely refuses.   

But she sort of needs to know if there’s the slightest chance that she isn’t crazy so she speaks again. 

“You in a hurry, Halpert?” she asks, shooting for casual again. 

“No,” he shrugs.  “But I can get impatient.” 

Then he grins. 

Grins. 

Okay, great.  That clears things up completely. 

Pam gives him a tight smile and goes off to her own car.  As she pulls out of the parking lot, she thinks about Jim and his impatience.  Yeah.  He can be impatient. In that, move-to-another-state-and-get-a-new-girlfriend-within-weeks-of-springing-the-biggest-declaration-imaginable-on-an-unsuspecting-friend sense.   

That sort of impatient. 

She glances in her rear view mirror to make sure he’s still following her.  The sun has long since set, so she can’t actually see him, just two headlights.  She tries to clear her mind, but it’s impossible.  

“None of it means anything,” she says firmly, because maybe hearing it out loud will convince her. 

This is Jim.  Nice, dependable, good-guy Jim.  Jim does not play games.  He does not toy with people’s emotions.  And most importantly, he does not think about her that way anymore.  He’s with Karen.  For one thing, his being with Karen shows that he isn’t still feeling whatever he was feeling on Casino Night.  For another thing, Jim is not the kind of guy to cheat on his girlfriend. 

Besides, the very fact that he’s throwing out these weird innuendos and touching her so casually makes it even less likely that it means anything.  It shows that he’s so comfortable with her that physical contact doesn’t faze him.  The double meanings probably don’t even occur to him. 

She feels embarrassed that she even suspected anything deeper.  He can’t think of her as anything more than a friend.  Otherwise there’s no way he’d be okay with the idea of coming to her apartment alone at night while his girlfriend sits at home. 

All too soon they’re at her building.  She puts her car in park and takes a deep breath.  She makes a firm decision not to read too much into anything that happens tonight.  Tonight they have the chance to reestablish their friendship.  She’ll settle for that, because it’s so much better than staring at the back of his neck all day.  She will not make this weird by reading something suggestive into everything that he says or does. 

This is the start of The Halpert/Beesly Friendship, version 2.0.   

She steps out of her car feeling much better than when she entered it, because at least now she has a clear direction.  She gives him a big grin as he approaches.  He grins back, squinting like he’s confused.  Or suspicious. 

“So, do you want to see Casa De Beesly?” she asks, dangling her keys in front of him like a treat in front of a puppy. 

He smiles earnestly this time. 

“Absolutely I do,” he replies. 

It’s just an old house about a mile from the city center.  Her landlord is nice, but she doesn’t really like her apartment all that much.  She’s renting the top half and her downstairs neighbors are a young couple who are apparently big fans of listening to their emo CDs at top volume.  But it’s her first time living alone, and there’s nothing like having her own place.   

She can’t prevent the giddy skip in her step as she leads Jim into her building and up one flight of stairs to her door.  She pauses with her keys in the lock and turns to face him. 

“Okay, I’m just gonna warn you,” she says.  “This is probably the most impressive 800 square feet you’re ever going to see.” 

Jim’s eyes drift up to the ceiling, as if he’s picturing what lies beyond the door. 

“Okay,” he says.  “I’m thinking that Cirque de Soleil acrobats roam free in the living room. And that maybe you have a Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through window actually in your kitchen.  How are my expectations?’ 

She pauses to consider. 

“Too low,” she concludes. 

He grins, an honest-to-goodness-can’t-hold-it-back grin, and she convinced her feet don’t touch the ground as they step inside her apartment.   

She takes his coat and she’s hanging it next to hers in the hall closet as he takes a few steps into her living room.  He takes a slow spin, giving everything a preliminary glance.  She closes the closet door and waits expectantly for his assessment. 

“You lied,” he says. 

She frowns. 

“Your walls,” he says, pointing, “are not leopard print.” 

She holds back a laugh. 

“For your information, this is just step one of a multi-step faux-finish process,” she says haughtily.  “Step one is your basic coat of tan.  Step two is squiggly brown spots.  Then step three, outline spots with black.” 

“Step four, blind all household members with the wooden end of paintbrush so as to protect them from sight of walls,” he adds helpfully. 

“Exactly.  Have you tried this faux-finish before?” she asks. 

“Not the leopard.  It was a mural.  Of beet fields,” he explains. 

She tries to hold back the smile that’s threatening the corners of her mouth. 

“Oh, nice.  I’d love to see pictures, if you could email them, or…” she trails off. 

“Oh yeah, sure,” he says, nodding like it’s no problem. 

“Great,” she says.   

She tries to maintain an expression of sincere interest, but the corners of her mouth mutiny, and she smiles before she can stop herself.  She bites her lip and shakes her head, because this is so them, and she can’t believe it’s like this again.  

The Halpert/Beesly Friendship, version 2.0, officially rocks. 

“So, I’m ready for my tour,” Jim announces, and she looks at him in anxiously.   

It’s not like she expected company, and things are definitely not as tidy as she’d like, but of course you give people a tour when they come over to see your new place, right? 

“Okay.  Uh, well this is the living room,” she says unnecessarily. 

She follows his gaze as he more closely examines the framed art on the walls.  Then he shifts to the old coffee table she’s had since she and Roy got their first place.  It’s barely visible underneath the mass of junk scattered on top of it.  His eyes move on to take in the tiny TV that used to sit on the dresser in the bedroom she and Roy shared (Roy took the big screen), and finally her computer desk. 

“Is this your computer?” he asks. 

She nods. 

“You should get a Mac,” he muses. 

“Why?” she asks. 

“Because they’re awesome,” he proclaims matter-of-factly. 

She smiles and puts her hands on her hips. 

“Just because you want to be cool like the hipster dude in the Mac commercials doesn’t mean we all do, Jim,” Pam says teasingly. 

He indulges her with a ‘you got me’ smile before addressing her seriously. 

“No, I mean, you’re getting more into graphic design and Macs are supposed to be great for that sort of thing, so…” 

He’s perfect.  Well, of course he is.  Obviously he was going to say something thoughtful and supportive of her new aspirations within his first minute in her apartment.  He’s Jim. 

“Yeah.  That’s what my all of my professors say too,” she replies, because blurting out ‘You’re perfect!’ does not pass muster with the Don’t Make Things Weird Plan that she committed to right before she exited her car. 

He seems to be done with this room (without any comments on the sofa, she notes, trying not to feel disappointed) so she motions toward the kitchen. 

“Through here is the kitchen,” she supplies. 

“Your one kitchen,” he adds, smiling adorably. 

She tries not to return his smile too dorkily, but the results are debatable.  She’s about to motion him on to the next room when she notices that he’s staring at something. 

The teapot. 

It’s sitting on the counter with the string of a teabag from this morning still dangling down off the side.  He looks back to see that she’s caught him staring. 

“You still have it,” he says. 

He’s smiling, but he sounds surprised, almost grateful.  Did he expect her to throw it out when he left for Stamford?   

“Of course I do,” she says, frowning. 

He breaks his gaze away from the object in question and meets her eyes.  There’s something magnetic in his look, and it feels impossible to look away.   

Of course, in the new Halpert/Beesly Friendship, this teapot is just an innocuous kitchen accessory.   

She manages to blink and turn her attention to the next room. 

“Um, and off of the kitchen is a tiny dining room, which I’ve never actually eaten in,” she supplies, gesturing toward the room but not moving. 

Jim takes a few steps toward the dining room and peeks his head in.  She can see him surveying the canvas propped up on her easel and the half dozen of squares of paper taped hastily to the walls and spread across the tiny dining room table. 

“What’s all that stuff?” he asks. 

She shakes her head dismissively. 

“Oh, it’s nothing.  Just—” 

“Is this all your art?” he interrupts, stepping fully into the room. 

She cringes.  

“Um, yeah.  This is some of it.  The stuff that I’m not working on in the studio I bring home,” she tells him, hoping that he won’t look too closely at anything.   

None of these pieces are done.  They’re all half-finished sketches.  No one should see them. 

“So this is like your home studio,” he says, smiling. 

She smiles in spite of herself. 

“I guess.  I get good light from the windows, so I just sort of prop everything up on the table here,” she explains, gesturing at the windows. 

He pulls his focus from her art to face her again. 

“That stuff hanging on the living room walls, is that yours?” he asks. 

She shakes her head. 

“No.  I bought some of my classmates’ stuff.” 

He looks back at her art, his fingers ghosting over a watercolor of a coffee cup. 

“You should hang some of your own work,” he determines. 

She feels her cheeks grow warm. 

“You don’t think it’s sort of… showy to have my own stuff up in my apartment?” she mumbles. 

He looks at her like she’s crazy, and her cheeks get even hotter. 

“No,” he says bluntly.  “When you spend time working on something you should take the time to enjoy it.” 

He’s completely unreadable, which is a new look for him.  His face is normally so expressive that it doesn’t take much to guess what he’s thinking.  But right now… 

“Okay,” she says, shifting awkwardly on her toes.  Because what else can you say to a statement like that? “So, um, back out this way is the bathroom.  And down there is my bedroom.” 

She gestures down the short hallway.  He rocks once on his feet, and raises his eyebrows at her expectantly.  She frowns, confused. 

“Well,” he says. 

“Well, what?” she asked, a nervous smile forming on her lips. 

“Well, don’t I get to see it?” he clarifies. 

Her heard skips at least two beats, maybe three. 

“You want to see my bedroom?” she asks. 

Well that’s… that’s just… 

“I showed you mine,” he replies matter-of-factly. 

Four beats, definitely.  It’s a miracle she’s not on the floor right now, requiring emergency resuscitation.  The way he said it, like he didn’t even notice the alternate meaning of his phrase, throws her off completely.  If he’d said it with a grin, they could both chuckle about it and move on.  But he didn’t grin.   

He is not complying with the rules of the new Halpert/Beesly Friendship. 

“Okay,” she says, trying to brush everything off.   

Because thinking that Jim is making sly sexual innuendo is not only preposterous, it’s also in direct violation of the new friendship rules.  And just because he’s not following them doesn’t mean she shouldn’t. 

They walk the few steps down the hall to her room, and Pam is relieved to see that, yes, she did remember to make her bed this morning.  She gestures for him to enter first, and lingers in the doorway, watching him.  He stuffs his hands in his pockets and makes a slow circle in the center of her room. 

He stops abruptly when his eyes land on her dresser. 

“Your Dundie?” he says, and he steps aside to reveal what he’s been staring at.  “Really, Pam?” he prods, gesturing at the plastic statue with a smirk. 

“What?” she asks defensively, but a blush is creeping onto her face along with a smile. 

“You keep your Dundies in your room?  In direct line of sight from your bed?” he presses on. 

“Okay, first of all, it’s a Dundie, singular—” Pam points out, trying to speak louder than him. 

“I mean, Dwight keeps his Dundies in his bedroom, Pam.  Dwight,” he interjects, his look of delight growing with each passing second. 

“—And secondly, it’s not like I placed it there because I could see it from my bed—” she continues, desperate to gain control of the situation and to wipe that smirk off his face. 

“Actually, this is worse than Dwight.  Dwight keeps his Dundies in a case above his bed, meaning that he can’t actually see them from bed,” Jim continues mercilessly. 

“—I just didn’t want to have it out in the living room or somewhere where non-Dunder-Mifflin employees could see it and—did you just call me worse than Dwight?” 

There is a sudden silence.  Jim is frozen for a moment, the grin still on his face, as he processes her question.  As the silence stretches on for another few seconds, Pam sees the smile slowly drift from Jim’s face.  She places her hands determinedly on her hips and gives him her best “you have some ‘splainin’ to do” look. 

Jim’s mouth falls open and he glances briefly around the room, as if he’ll get some support from Pam’s lamp or perhaps her laundry basket.  

“Um… maybe?” he finally admits. 

“Unforgivable,” she announces, crossing her arms across her chest. 

“Hey, the comparison was there.  It’s not my fault you—” 

“Unforgivable,” Pam repeats, cutting him off before he can mount his paltry defense. 

Jim squints at her appraisingly, as if trying to discern the level of her irritation.  She can’t stop the slight smile that tugs at her mouth. 

“You know what’s weird?” Jim says, breaking the standoff. 

“That you know the layout of Dwight’s bedroom?” Pam offers. 

He shoots her a dirty look, which she meets with her sweetest smile.  This is good.  This is normal for them.  Or what normal used to be.  Except for the part where they’re in her bedroom. 

“No, but thank you,” he replies.  “What’s weird is that you don’t have a TV in here.  Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who thinks it’s uncultured to have a TV in the bedroom.  Because if you’re one of those people, Pam, I’m going to have to seriously reevaluate our friendship.” 

“Isn’t that why we’re here?” she says with a smile. 

Her eyes widen as she realizes what she just said.  How did that slip out?  It was in inside thought, definitely not something to be casually muttered while she was standing around with Jim.  In her bedroom. 

She risks a glance at Jim. His eyebrows are raised so high up that they’ve disappeared behind the tips of his messy hair.  He’s staring resolutely at the carpet, his mouth open a little. 

Fix this! a voice in Pam’s head shouts.   

“Um, no.  I am not one of those people,” she stutters.   

Yes.  Excellent.  Pretend that you never uttered your previous statement.  Just answer his question like a normal, non-stupid person. 

“There were only two TVs in my old place.  I got the small one from our bedroom, he got the big screen,” she adds. 

‘He’ is Roy, of course, but she doesn’t say his name.  

There is a brief pause before he responds.  To Pam’s intense relief, the familiar smile is back. 

“I think I know what’s really going on here,” Jim says confidently.   

“Oh you do?” Pam asks. 

“You lie in bed at night and instead of watching TV you stare longingly at your Dundie and think of your dreamy boss, Michael Scott.” 

Pam smiles at him, arching an eyebrow. 

“That’s your theory, is it?” she asks.   

He nods. 

“Well, it is a very special Dundie,” she continues.  “But if I’m thinking of anybody when I stare at it, it is most definitely not Michael.” 

Wait a minute.  Did she just suggest… 

“Yeah?” Jim says.  He sounds a little breathless.  

Yup.  She definitely accidentally suggested that she lies in bed, staring at her Dundie and thinks of Jim.  Well, that was just… not at all part of the Halpert/Beesly friendship plan! 

She realizes that he’s waiting for her to confirm that suggestion, and knows that a quick diversion is needed. 

“I demand an apology,” she blurts out. 

His eyebrows draw together in confusion, although the smile on his lips lingers. 

“Excuse me?” he asks. 

“I demand an apology,” she repeats. 

“Um, okay.  It helps if I know what I’m apologizing for,” he points out. 

“Comparing me unfavorably to Dwight Schrute,” Pam supplies. 

Jim tilts his head to the side. 

“Can one be favorably compared to Dwight Schrute?” he asks. 

Pam will not be deterred. 

“This is not helping your case,” she says. 

Jim adopts as serious an expression as he can muster. 

“You’re right.  That was wrong of me.” 

“Yes, it was,” she agrees. 

“I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for that,” he says, mock-seriously. 

“It might take time,” Pam replies, without missing a beat. 

“Well, I think we’ve established that your lack of a TV in here is more of a problem than the presence of Dundies anyway.” 

“Dundie!  Singular!” she protests. 

“Please, Pam. This is serious,” Jim chastises.  “How are you supposed to watch America’s Next Top Model marathons into the wee hours of the morning if you can’t do it in bed?” 

He knows her so well.  How many times did he tease her when she came into work exhausted because she stayed up until two in the morning watching trash TV?  Memories of those mornings come flooding back to her, and she feels warmer somehow.   

“Sometimes I crash on the couch,” she admits. 

“Your new couch?” he questions.  “Is it sleepable?” 

“I’m sorry, is it what?” 

“Sleepable, Pam.  Sleepable.” 

“Well, I have yet to test drive this one, but I think it’s pretty comfy,” she replies. 

He gets a look on his face.  It reminds her of the face he made when she told him there was a KISS cover band among her wedding band demo tapes. 

“Come on,” he says, starting for the door. 

“What?” she asks. 

He steps out into the hallway and then pokes his head back in the door to address her. 

“We need to go judge this new sofa’s sleepability,” he says, as if this should be obvious. 

“What?” she repeats dumbly. 

“If it’s not sleepable then we’ll have to hit up a futon store ASAP,” he says, not bothering to turn around as he makes his way back to the living room. 

She follows him out into the hallway, calling after him as he goes. 

“Do they have entire stores devoted to the retail of futons?” 

“Pam, I don’t like how lightly you are taking this.  America’s Next Top Model is at stake here.  Not to mention late night repeats of The Real Housewives of Orange County.  And Conan! My god, think of Conan!” 

“Jim—” 

“Conan, Pam.  He’s on after 12:30.  Sometimes it’s just too late.” 

“Well, you know futons are very popular with girls my age.” 

“So I’ve heard.” 

She trails behind him as they reenter the living room.  He stops with his feet at the edge of the new sofa and turns back to her.  Without so much as a word, he energetically plops himself down and stretches out, swinging his feet onto the cushions.  He grabs the pillow resting behind his back and repositions it on the arm of the sofa.  Crushing his face against it, he lets out a deep sigh.  His entire lengthy frame seems to melt an inch or two into the cushions. 

“Oh yeah, this passes muster,” he says into the pillow, his voice muffled. 

“Oh?” Pam asks, slowly moving toward the couch. 

“Very sleepable.  In fact, it’s better than my own couch,” he confirms. 

Pam feigns shock. 

“Wow.  This coming from the expert on sleepability.  I feel like Martha Stewart just told me that she loves my decor.” 

Jim grins, but quickly manages to adopt his serious face again. 

“You know, that is like the third time today I’ve been compared to Martha Stewart,” he tells her. 

“I believe it,” she replies with similar earnestness. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“It’s the sweaters, probably,” she suggests, pointing at his attire.  

He looks appraisingly at his sweater and Pam realizes that she’s just standing over him and that’s sort of weird.  And then he pulls himself upright and stares into her eyes. 

“I like your sweater,” he says suddenly. 

She feels a blush rising on her face. 

“Oh,” she breathes.  “Thanks.” 

“And that turtleneck from earlier today.  You look good in bright colors.  I like that you’re wearing more of them now.” 

Pam feels like she’s back in high school and the cute boy just complimented her.  And that is not at all what this night was supposed to be about.  She’s about to crack a joke to break the tension (tension that she’s sure is only in her head).  Something about how she and Andy have a secret competition to see who can wear the more obnoxiously bright sweaters, but she doesn’t get it out because…  

Because oh my god why is he holding her hand? 

This is decidedly weird. 

“Come on, Beesly,” Jim mumbles, and Pam is so dumbfounded she just sort of falls when he tugs on her hand. 

She lands right next to him on the sofa, their legs touching. 

“Go ahead.  Try it out,” he urges her. 

Heart hammering in her chest, she gently twists her body so that she can lay her head on the pillow on the opposite arm of the couch.  She’s trying to do this without jarring Jim in the slightest, but apparently that isn’t a problem for him, because before she knows what’s going on he’s got two hands on her shins and he’s swung her legs up onto the couch too. 

“Gotta get the full effect,” he chides her. 

Well, if he honestly expects her to focus on the couch while her legs are splayed across his lap, then he is either vastly overestimating her concentration or vastly underestimating his effect on her.  She hopes for the sake of her own pride that he hasn’t even considered the latter. 

“Pretty good,” she says distractedly. 

“Right?” he agrees. 

She can’t sit up fast enough.  When she looks at him, he’s sitting with his head back against the cushions, peering up at her ceiling.  Curious, she does the same.  

“Something fascinating up there?” she asks. 

“Just thinking,” he murmurs. 

She feels a little anxious at his response, but she doesn’t move and neither does he.  They both stay there, outside edges of their legs still touching, staring up at the ceiling.  A few seconds pass as Pam examines the faint brush strokes visible in the dried white paint above them.  She feels oddly calm, even though Jim’s behavior has become distressingly unpredictable. And Jim is usually nothing if not predictable. 

“What are you thinking about?” she asks, finally. 

There is a pause before he answers. 

“About how awesome my Christmas present was.” 

She can’t keep from smiling. 

“I’m glad you liked it.   Although I should just come clean now and admit that it was as much a present for me as it was for you so… I guess I’m sort of like Kevin in Secret Santa.” 

She hears him snort with laughter. 

“Yup, after Creed, Kevin is usually the person I get you mixed up with the most.” 

She smiles again but doesn’t reply.  It must be a full minute that goes by in complete silence before he grabs her hand again.   

Well, grabs is probably the wrong word.  Her hand was just resting on her thigh and suddenly his fingers graze the top of hers, like he’s testing the water.  When she doesn’t pull away (“Why don’t you?” her brain demands) he lets his entire hand skim over hers, fingertips curling underneath so that they brush against her palm.   

She swallows, but doesn’t move.  She keeps her eyes trained on a spot on the ceiling.  What is that?  A squashed bug, or— oh! 

He’s gently turning her hand over so that it’s palm-up and she lets it happen.  He starts to trace delicate circles on her palm with his thumb, and she hears a rustling sound.  She knows he has tilted his head to the side. She can feel his eyes on her, but she can’t bring herself to move an inch.  It might break the spell, and she really doesn’t want to think about what is happening right now or what it means.  She’s selfish.  She doesn’t want him to remember that he has a girlfriend or that everything got screwed up last year.  So she just stares at the ceiling and lets her eyes drift shut so that all she can focus on is the feeling of his hand on hers. 

And just then, when she honestly can’t remember why she ever thought the Halpert/Beesly Friendship, version 2.0, was a good idea, he says something that jolts her out of the moment.