She spent two hours getting ready and has been standing in front of a wall with her name on it for about half that time. Her sleeves are beginning to itch and her forehead is damp under the fluorescent lights and her ears are burning because people are talking animatedly all around her but … no body’s talking to her.

Except the camera crew. They came. She gives them a look that’s somewhere between “thank you” and “I know why you’re really here” and they smile back from behind their lenses with “I’m sorry, don’t feel bad”.

Lisa, one of the documentary girls, told her she liked her painting of flowers – specifically, she liked the pink watercolors she used. It was the nicest thing she’d heard all day.

Pam swallows, and it doesn’t quite make it all the way down her throat. There’s something stuck there. She’s pretty sure it’s her pride.

--

“Are you going?” Karen asks him in a voice that tries to be uninterested, but comes off sounding clipped. She lifts the blue flyer from his counter for reference, pinched at the top corner between her forefinger and thumb, held away at arms length. Jim almost wants to glare at her.

He opts to duck his head from her and shrug, his hands finding his back pockets. “Uh, well, I thought about it. D'you want to?” He feels like he’s obligated to ask her, even though he knows when he looks up, she’s going to have that look on her face.

Jim takes a chance and—yep. He was right. How did he get so good at reading people? Or maybe it’s just women. Karen’s got her mouth folded to the side, like she’s considering the option, but he’s almost 83 percent sure she’s really debating the best way to tell him ‘no.’ She shrugs and deposits the slip back on his counter, her eyes following as it floats its way back down to the surface.

“Not really,” she tells him frankly and with no hidden meaning. “I kind of just wanted to curl up and watch something on television. Or maybe go to the movies?” Now, there’s hidden meaning. It slips in like a thief, snatching up her honesty and replacing it with guardedness and suspicion. She says in so many words and with a flicker of her lashes, You should agree with me.

He hefts his left shoulder noncommittally and starts for the bathroom. “Maybe,” he mutters, as his fingers hit the light switch and he hears her open the fridge.

--

The art show closes at 10 and it’s about 8:30. Pam’s fingers are sweating and she hasn’t quite figured out that he’s not gonna show up – she’s still got that last little leg of hope to stand on. She pulls her wrist up to her face to examine her watch face, and when she drops it again, Roy is standing in front of her.

He’s cleaned up and he looks good. Shaven, smelling like Old Spice, and wearing a nice overshirt she remembers buying him like two years ago that, at the time, he had said, "C'mon, I'll never need anything like this, babe." He obviously took his time and had specific intentions; it’s a lot like the last few times she’s seen him, but something about this encounter feels … different. Pam sniffs in deeply and fights off a wiggling reminder of what she put 9 years of effort into.

Still, even she can’t deny the surprise that flourishes abruptly in her stomach at realization that Roy is here at her art show and she didn’t even tell him.

A real smile cracks at the corner as she accepts his large hand and gives a warm shake, allows herself to be drawn in for a one-armed embrace. His hand is hot like her cheeks when he tells her complimentary things like “you look … great” and “wow, look at that” when he sees the wall of watercolors behind her, like he appreciates them.

--

9:38.

Jim’s about worn a hole in his jeans from drumming his fingers at his knee, and he’s almost certain he’s developing an ulcer in the shape of Pam’s face. Karen’s settled up beside him, tucked underneath his arm as much as he’s allowed her. His other hand, however, is frantic and anxious at the cap of his knee, and when he hears the clock click that second tick into 9:39, he pushes up quickly from the couch.

Karen startles and fumbles to right herself, looking more than a bit miffed at his haste. “What? What’s wrong?”

He’s shaking his head wryly as he rounds the couch and reaches for his coat at the hook by the door. Her face, when he sees it, has morphed into a quieter expression, something patient and cool. He’s worried she’ll figure it all out before he has time to set up a white lie between them.

“I just remembered I’ve gotta grab some milk and coffee from up the road,” he jerks his thumb behind him as he paces backward to the portal. “I really don’t want either of us to be a zombie tomorrow morning.” She hints that she may smile, but he puts up his hand to ward such a terrible thing away. “I’ll be back in a couple minutes. Order pizza?”

She tilts her head back some to allow better observational space between them. He’s squeamish on what she may determine, but whatever it is, she grants him a nod. “Kay, but I’m choosing where we order from. No more of that local crap.” Karen starts for the phone book, unaware that he’s already halfway out when she adds, “Ooh, pick me up some gummy sharks, too?”

Jim doesn’t have time to holler “okay” before he’s all but slamming the door and sprinting to his car, set of keys already in hand.

--

Michael’s jabbering on about picture frames as he walks her out to the parking lot. He’s saying, “My god, look at it! It really looks like a photograph! It’s going right by my office. I wonder if Linens and Things is open at this hour…”

His sincerity is all that’s keeping her afloat.

Pam feels Michaels’ hand touch her elbow in a way that reminds her of Roy’s niece and she smiles over at him. “You really got it, Pam,” he tells her with a voice that sounds ages away and not at all like the Michael Scott she thinks she knows. “I’m proud of you.” For the second time that night, and probably second time ever in her years at Dunder Mifflin, Pam willingly accepts a hug from Michael and returns it in kind.

He pats her back a little lower than she’d prefer and so she draws away with a bashful, nervous laugh. “Uh, thanks, Michael. I’m really glad you came out, I appreciate it,” she pats his arm and smiles fondly at his wave goodbye, parrots his goodnight. He practically skips to his car, the folder with her painting in it held tight under his arm.

She stands in the parking lot long after he’s pulled out, considering his enthusiasm, and the multitude of confliction prickling from inside. This overwhelming sense of disappointment, in herself, in her colleagues, in her life: it’s smothering. She strains to breathe above the pressure of it, already feeling tears pooling under her lashes, and she really wishes she hadn’t bothered getting so prettied up if this is going to be the end result.

A nearby vehicle opens and she startles into action, because Pam’s the kind of girl who doesn’t really like to hang out too long in parking lots by herself - especially not when she's on the verge of some kind of emotional display.

Her keys nearly tumble out of her fingers when Jim calls her name, and Pam turns sharply at the hip. Her heart buckles in on itself as she watches him jog across the lot with his coat pulled tight, his hair a little more rumpled than usual. Part of her pangs horribly at the notion that he maybe just thought to come last minute, that he forgot, and so what does that mean?

“Hey,” she acknowledges his presence with careful study of his stiff limbs, not allowing herself the opportunity to see his friendly attempt at a smile. When she gives it two seconds, Pam glances upward, finding him pale and uneasy under the single lamp light. He’s guilty and she doesn’t want to feel better about things just right now. “What are you doing here?”

Jim coughs into his shoulder before he really looks down at her, his chest still burning from the impromptu dash over and from much, much more than that. “I, uh … wanted to see your show,” he admits lamely, well aware of the momentary flash across her face, the tightness in her shoulders. “Obviously, I’m ... a little late for that.”

“Yeah,” Pam just agrees, a chill racing down her arms and to her fingertips when she feels him stealing glances at the portfolio case in her hand. “Don’t worry, though,” she offers him a quick look, her head jerking harder than she’d like. “You weren’t the only one. I mean, it was just Michael.” She pauses, very much disliking his look of offended surprise. “Oh, and Roy.”

Instantaneously, there’s a fire lit under him at that name, at Roy, and almost automatically Jim’s dissecting what that second-long syllable could mean coming from her. His consideration doesn’t last long, as he recognizes the rejection clearer than the break of dawn written on her face and in her suddenly heavy limbs. She’s being honest with him – she really did do this alone. Swiftly, it shifts, and the flare isn't so much about Roy anymore. “Wait, so … so nobody else? Are you serious?”

The painful furrow of his brow has her turning back to her trunk to unlock it, her head shaking involuntarily to fend off his concerns. “Yeah, but it’s fine, I didn’t really—-it’s not like I expected anything. It's totally cool.”

“Pam…”

“No, really,” she turns her head, throws him a weak smile that feels bitter as she forces it out. “It’s okay. I mean, at least you tried. So, that’s…” Her throat clogs up and she has to turn back to her interior to discreetly clear it.

Pam glances back at him, and he’s this huge, lanky package of grief and pity and woe for her. He rarely looks happy anymore, she thinks. And what she must appear to him most days? Whatever happened to the grinning, laughing, pranking Jim? And what happened to her, what broke them?

Was it really love that ruined them?

Good god, she needs to get home.

She sighs thoroughly and lifts her portfolio up, starting for the trunk, but his hand comes out to stop it. Pam stares at his intrusion, bites her lip at the new way he’s studying her now.

“Can I still see them?”

Her breath comes up a little short at such a seemingly insignificant question. It sounds just like a thousand other questions she’d wish he’d ask her, but he never ever seems like he will. And now here it is, blatant on his face as she nods and he unfolds her portfolio in her dry trunk and opens up her work. Her watercolors feel so much less than they were this morning, but now Jim’s looking at them with something akin to wonder, his mouth hanging slightly open and his eyes sharp as he considers each detail.

She wants to understand what he’s mouthing to himself, but she doesn’t have the courage to duck down and look at his lips as they move of their own volition.

After he delicately flips to the last piece, examines it, fingers it like it’s priceless, Jim turns to her with a half-smile, and he seems almost winded. “That’s … I’ve never seen this kind of stuff from you, Pam.”

“It’s newer stuff,” she demures, her head bowing. “I’m still working on it; I’m not that good.”

“No,” he shuts her out firmly, and it almost knocks her down. “This is … it’s amazing. I really can’t believe you can do this.” She looks up at him, and he’s staring at her closed portfolio with wide eyes. He sounds so sure, that his awe is absolutely proper in its place, and like he can’t imagine why she’s so humble about it. Jim turns to face her, his features having contorted the moment he meets her eyes.

“Pam, I am really, really sorry I didn’t come earlier.” He’s wounded all over; she can see it nearly as potently as she feels it. Even though she’s shaking her head, denying him, he still goes on looking like he’s going to break in half.

Pam cants her head and offers him a dewy smile of her own, conscious of the wetness behind her eyes. She’s certain he can see it under the soft glow above, and maybe that's why he looks so desperate. “Oh, don’t be,” she assures him in what she thinks is a breezy tone. “It’s silly, Jim.”

“It’s not.” She rights herself at the rigidity in his voice, it's so brittle coming out. That staring now, it levels her heart, and she’s reminded at once of choppy seas, biting wind, and the smell of fresh water all around her – and that look, burning right through her.

It's quieter around them this time; the soundswitch for nighttime has been turned on low and Pam can distinctly make out her heartbeat in between her ears. She knows this moment better than she should. She's stood here so many times with him; they've got to have treaded a hole in the ground beneath them by now.

"It's late," she disengages from his gaze, her breath shaking out. He dips his chin down to where she can't see him, but she knows he saw it coming. What else could it have been?

"Uh, yeah," Jim finally musters and weakens a smile at her. The same one he's given her for years and years on nights just like this. They've done this way too many times, she thinks. "I should, uh, probably get going, too. But, hey," he points to her trunk, and then lifts a thumbs up. "Great work, Pam. Seriously. You done good."

She laughs, because it's what she's supposed to do in this situation. Her hand waves somewhere at her side and she turns-- then stops, because if she doesn't say it, she's made a loss, and what good is it making changes if you're just gonna--

"Jim, hey?" He pivots at her timid voice, his eyebrows cinched together in silent query. "I, uhm--" Everything feels so dizzyingly familiar with him, she's said it all a hundred times before. "I just wanted to say thanks. For stopping by, I mean. It really ... it means a lot." She hopes that he can see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. She hopes he knows what she's really trying to say. She's trying desperately to force it out in every way her body possibly can, because she just doesn't know if she can say it all out loud.

What sliver he may have intercepted, however, brings a smile to Jim's lips, and her heart relaxes and flushes peace throughout her when he nods his understanding, no matter how minimal it may be. "Anytime, Beesly," he tells her with what she is positive is the utmost affection. His eyes crinkle (she can see it from here, and it makes her fingers tremble) when he gives her a little wag of his open palm.

Pam climbs into her car, makes unnecessary adjustments until she can find the strength of mind to put the key in the ignition. When she glances in the rearview, she sees him sitting in his car, just like her. Waiting.