There are very many people. More than he imagined, and more than he actually knows. Jim tried several times to count how many guests there were, but by the time eight o'clock rolled around, he lost the number.

It didn't really matter, though. Despite the crowd, his efforts to entertain himself, and Karen's fervent joking at his side, he couldn't stop his gaze from wandering toward the one guest that had primarily kept him occupied throughout most of the evening.

He replays their entrance again, how his hand had barely met David Wallace's own before his eyes were going on autopilot and he was scanning the perimeter for those familiar gold-red curls.

Car games and teasing were suddenly the farthest things from his mind when he finally did catch that first glimpse. His mouth went dry and he thought of the Sahara or Mojave and dear god, he still needs a drink.

Pam's wearing this blue number with straps and a cut down the center that does amazing things for her and to him. He doesn't think she's seen him watching her yet; he's been playing it careful, since Karen's practically super glued herself to his arm for the night. But their eyes had caught a few times, and in a particularly powerful moment, Pam glowed when she smiled under the chandelier and it took all of his conscious power to prevent any outright gaping at her loveliness.

Grins and chuckles were actively forced when Karen would joke about dating other guys at the party, or when Marty from the Albany branch made some wisecrack about C.K.'s latest sales pitch.

He couldn't focus. She was there, and he was there, and fuck it all, she was beautiful.

--

Pam prays he hasn't seen her staring. But it's got to be obvious to everyone who has bothered to look, and that's probably why Karen's been attached to Jim's shadow almost the whole night. She wishes they'd break apart – not "up", no, that's not what she—- but anyway, she really just wants to get a moment to go over and say 'hi' and not have to worry about confusion or dirty looks or suspicion.

But Pam settles and she waits by the buffet table, making awkward conversation with people she barely even knows, ever vigilant for her chance to steal that spare instance with Jim. However, each little interview she suffers through brings her down notch after notch. Almost all of them ask the same questions – which department are you in, oh I'm at the Scranton branch, are you a salesman, no I'm the receptionist … and then they grab an h'ors d'oeuvre and bow out because she's not that important after all.

She doesn't blame them, honestly. Pam doesn't think she's that fascinating, either. But seeing Karen and Jim avidly interacting with everyone else – hell, even Michael is off in another room with Jan and some other guys – just makes her feel that much more out-of-place here and she's seriously considering just making an escape already.

"Pam, right?"

She startles and twists, finding David Wallace there beside her with his hand extended and the politest smile on his face. She returns it in kind and accepts his handshake, trying to be feminine-yet-firm in her squeeze. "Hi, yeah! Uhm, Beesly, Pam Beesly," she offers her full name for some inane reason, rolling her eyes at herself as she does.

He grins and withdraws his hand from hers, stuffs both in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. She immediately likes him. "Thanks for coming out with Michael. Nice to see some new faces at these functions."

"Oh, well," she laughs a bit deprecatingly, her head bowing to mask her blush. "Thanks for having me. I kind of feel like a party crasher," she gestures out toward the milling crowd and earns a chuckle from Wallace. "I mean, I'm sure you don't get many receptionists, besides Grace, right?"

"Uh, no," David concedes with a mutual nod. "But, I promise we're not snobs here. Everyone's attendance is appreciated, including the receptionists'."

"No, I definitely can see that!" She inclines her head to the table nearby and flashes him a quick grin which he reflects for her. "I'm impressed, really. I mean, those little crab cakes? Talk about pulling out the stops." They both chuckle off her teasing, and Pam gets a momentary high from making her boss' boss' boss laugh with easy ribbing.

"So. How's Michael doing over there in Scranton?" David poses the question and Pam knows that this is going to be the nicest question-and-answer regarding Michael she's ever been put through. "I mean, is he a good boss, or…?"

"Oh, Michael's…" Pam hesitates and grits her teeth behind folded lips, cautiously going over her options. "He's … I mean, he's a nice guy and, uhm … he's just a nice guy, y'know?"

David's got a kind smile when he nods his understanding. Pam's grateful for that. "So, he's comfortable with where he's at, huh?"

"He's … okay," Pam allows herself that stiff response.

He gives another quiet laugh, and she's proud that he thinks she's funny. She wonders if Jim would be proud, and that's when David tips his chin in the direction where she knows Jim is standing. She doesn't even have to look, but she follows his gesture anyway, finding Jim engrossed in some funny conversation with Karen. It makes her chest hurt. "And how about Jim? You guys known each other for a while?"

"Uh, about five years?" Pam throws out there, not at all wanting to have actively kept an accurate count, and she shrugs her shoulders as indifferently as possible. She's content on just watching Jim grin and shake his head at Karen anyway, as masochistic as it certainly feels. "I was there about a year before he got hired on." The smile Karen beams up at Jim is too much to take in that second, so Pam turns and looks at Wallace with what she hopes is a neutral smile.

"You guys get along?" David queries and Pam hates finding nuance where she rationally knows there's none. "Jim's a good guy?"

"Oh, yeah, totally," Pam bobs her head earnestly and her hands clasp together down by her hip in a moment of anxiety. She wants to hold it together, but the urge to gush is almost overwhelming. Even thinking of him has her smiling inching wider. "Jim's … great, you know? He's funny, a hard worker … y'know, everyone loves him, yeah, he's great," she keeps on nodding, like the motion means something, and Pam averts her eyes toward Jim again.

"Would you think of him as being successful in a higher position?"

David's question sinks in her stomach like a bowling ball, and she feels pale when she looks back at him. He implies so much in that simple question, and Pam isn't sure what a panic attack feels like. "Like, corporate?" David nods and Pam swallows and shrugs again. Her muscles feel tight. "I … I mean, I think so," she admits with a slow nod. "Jim is … well, he's really smart. And he's really capable, you know? I mean, you could give him something really awful or boring," Pam looks down at her new shoes and notices a scuff, and she doesn't know why that makes her throat clench, "and, uhm … and he'd just make it into something worthwhile."

She lifts her head, glances over toward Jim, and they have that second where he just naturally looks up at her and smiles, and she smiles back. He gives her a wave of recognition and it comforts her, makes her voice grow a bit when she speaks again. "When Jim really puts his mind to something or really wants something enough, and when he's on his game, he can really make, like, anything work. He's just … he's got a natural talent for that, I guess."

When she turns back to David, he's watching her with much keener interest, and Pam wonders if this is what he found her for. That she's just a reference point. Wallace nods slowly at her conclusion and she sees him gaze over at Jim, quirk a half-smile, and then settle his attention back upon her.

Her cheeks burn when she thinks she's said too much, that maybe he wants even more than that, but David extends his hand and glances down – this interview is done, apparently. Pam manages up a tip of her mouth and returns his handshake as he says, "Well, that's very insightful, Pam, thank you. You know, we're, uh … we've got our eye on Jim, I'm not gonna lie. We're looking at him to be one of our star players here in the near future, so hearing that from one of his coworkers is just really great news."

"That's … great," Pam fumbles and kind of gestures upward cluelessly with her hand when Wallace releases her. "Yeah, he's— Jim's— he's really good, definitely. For whatever."

"Well, I'll keep all that in mind. You, uh, keep having a good night, alright?" Wallace points at her and Pam smiles delicately. "See you around, Pam."

"Thanks," she offers quietly enough that she knows he can't hear, as David turns and meanders through the crowd again.

Her chest seizes up abruptly, like a bubble got stuck somewhere in the middle. Pam doesn't want to look at anyone, because irrationally she frets that maybe everyone in the room heard her when she climbed up on her soap box, took up some invisible megaphone, and read aloud her speech entitled 'Jim.'

She needs to find Michael now, because she really wants to go home.

--

David Wallace invited him to play basketball outside. No, no – David Wallace invited him to "shoot some hoops" out in his back-friggin'-yard.

Now, Jim's not one to brag, but … holy crap, he cannot stop grinning. Also, for the record? Wallace is actually pretty damn good on the court.

They talk small talk, a few cracks about rival teams, but mainly they keep it relative to business. How's the people from Stamford, what's up with Michael and Jan. Jim alludes that there's too much in that question for him to succinctly describe their situation, and that gets a good laugh out of David. He feels ten feet tall when David compliments him on a particular shot, and high-fiving one of the highest ups in a company he tells himself daily he really doesn't care about is … way better than he imagined.

"So, I had a good talk with, uh … Pam Beesly? Your receptionist?" David poses and shoots, scores. "I really like her."

Jim's throat gets a little clogged and he strives to clear it and find something believable in his arsenal of Neutral Responses Regarding Pam. He settles on the tried and true: "Uh, yeah. Pam's a nice girl."

"Yeah, she seems really sweet," David nods along and passes the ball over to Jim. "She was pretty complimentary about you, too."

His intense scrutiny of all the tiny dots on the basketball face screeches to a halt when curiosity and the thirst for anything she might have said about him springs into fruition. "Oh, uh … yeah? Well, we get along, so," he goes for nonchalant and tries to sink this shot, but the ball barely misses and skims along the rim. David goes under the hoop and catches it, while Jim tries to slow his heart rate.

"She said as much. Said you were really good at what you do, that you're really talented," David rattles off-handedly and shoots. It swooshes through the net. "Really good stuff to hear. Makes me think this company's making some right choices."

Jim wants to dive in head first and beg Wallace for a transcript; he saw them talking, and he realizes now what was going on. Was that why she smiled? Is that why she was blushing? There's a million things in his head that she could've said, would she have said, and he hasn't been this hungry for her words – for any crumb or vowel or any drop of his name from her – for almost a year.

His pulse races as he offers a handshake out to Wallace, calling it 'game.'

--

The text on her phone from Oscar invites her to Poor Richard's.

How's the party? Inquiring minds want to know. Swing by PR later if you can.

She smiles and her thumbs set to work on a reply, but a shadow falls across her screen. Pam looks up and Jim's standing there with an awkward smile and he looks so much more handsome close-up than faraway. Pam's heart stutters.

"Hi," his voice is gruff, and it's a soothing sound, but she wonders why he smells like fresh grass and why his cheeks are so pink. "Bringing out the phone, Beesly? Really? At David Wallace's?" He clucks his tongue while she giggles. "Have you no shame?"

Pam smirks a little and clicks the case closed, slipping the device back into her clutch. "No one's talking to me," she admits with a tiny laugh and a shrug of her shoulder. "I'm just some boring receptionist."

"Oh, yeeaah," Jim drawls like the memory just struck him, and he grimaces at her. "Well, I have got to be going…" He pretends like he's going to turn away, but her tinkling laugh has him about-facing with a cheeky smile.

"So, uhm, where's Karen?" Pam asks what feels like the most natural question, but it seems to make Jim stiffen up. She notices now that he's got his jacket on, and her heart descends a little further into her belly. "Are you guys leaving?"

"Uh, yeah," he reaches around to itch at where she assumes his shirt tag is. She wonders if it's sticking up, if she should tuck it back, but with a blush she disregards such ventures of the imagination. "Actually, that's why I'm—"

"Oh, right," Pam rises up and though she assumes there's a hug or a handshake to present, he drops his head to better look at her. She tilts her head curiously, obviously misunderstanding. "What's up?"

"Well, see ... Karen just mentioned it to me, and …. How … are you getting home?"

"Oh, well, I was just gonna get a ride with Mich—"

Jim bites his lip and squints off to the left, and Pam follows his gaze toward Michael and Jan. Michael seemingly can't keep his hands or eyes off her, and even from afar Pam can make out the hazy fog of intoxication surrounding Jan.

It clicks in her head and she feels sick almost at once. "Oh, god," she blanches, her hand slipping over her mouth in horror. She whips her head up to stare pleadingly at Jim, and he's already smiling down at her.

"Thank you, " she hisses and pulls her clutch close to her heart. "I really almost got in the car with them."

"Did your life just flash before you eyes?” Jim teases with an infectious grin that makes her tingle right down to her toes.

"Seriously," she laughs on a relieved exhale, her feet moving as she follows along behind him, watching as he cuts through the dwindling crowd of guests. "That car ride would've been even better than the first, I'm sure.”

“Are you kidding, Pam? That would've easily been the best three hours ever spent," Jim swings an arm to beckon her along as he sets on a path for the front door, his hand reaching into his back pocket where she sees the outline of his keys. He looks back with a smirk and raises both eyebrows. "Now, are you sure you don't want to reconsider?"

They share a laugh as they crunch across the lawn and the gravel drive, with Jim's car parked close by. Karen's already in the passenger seat, and Pam can see her fiddling with where she knows the radio to be. The woman looks up through the window and at first, her expression is surprise, but it levels off into something not entirely recognizable to Pam. Nevertheless, both women attempt tentative smiles as Jim rounds the car for the driver's side and Pam is the last to climb in.

--

When they're pulling up to Karen's street, Jim's pretty sure this trip could've rivaled Pam's first, and he thinks in some ways maybe she was better off hitching a ride with Michael and a borderline-drunk Jan. But when he looks in the rearview, he finds her looking fairly content as she gazes out the window, and maybe it's not her that he should worry about, after all.

It's Karen that he's truly getting the aggression from as it ripples outward from her in waves. She hasn't been too chatty, only responding when necessary, and Jim hasn't exactly made completely eye contact with her. Honestly, he can't help but wonder if she's just still mad about the stuff from before (she seemed okay at the party, but Karen's not a stranger to putting up a front, right?) or if it's because Pam's nestled in his backseat.

A notable feeling strikes him lethally in the pit of his stomach and further below as he reconsiders his phrasing, keeps his eyes on the road, and promises to never again think of 'backseat' and 'Pam' in the same sentence.

He stops next to Karen's duplex and finally brings himself to look over at her, his eyes having avoided her throughout most of that three hour duration. Karen grudgingly returns his gaze, pops a cheap smile, and doesn't even spare a glance back to Pam as she departs with an overly cheery farewell. Jim sighs heavily and looks down at the gearshift, contemplating the paths etched in his mind and to what ends they might lead. He eventually hefts a deep breath and he ruefully peers around his headrest to spy Pam observing him in silence. "I'll, uh ... be right back."

Pam nods and he can't make out if that's a smile or a frown on her face. He feels kind of queasy at the idea of dissecting it.

He's out of the car and dodging up Karen's drive anyway, and he catches her by the elbow to turn her around. She's wearing this mean look that he doesn't think he's seen on her, caught somewhere between hurt and infuriated, and Jim worries suddenly and very much so about his choices tonight.

"Is ... something wrong?" It feels like a cop out, and he feels like a jerk.

"No," Karen spits out bitterly and scrounges up her set of keys, ticking off the metal pieces until she finds the one to the front knob. "Oh, no, Jim, it's all just great. Really great."

Jim heaves and shuts his eyes, and he runs his flat palm across his face. Already, his chin and cheeks are feeling stubbly and rough. "We will talk tomorrow, okay? I swear--"

"Yeah, sure," Karen brightens in a way that insults him and he glares at her. "Or, you know, whenever's convenient for you." She waves toward the car and grins acid up at him. "Why don't you tell Pam I say goodnight?"

"Karen…"

She doesn't dignify him with a response, and he's unsure which floods stronger at this reaction: relief or shame. Karen stands there for a second longer, hesitating on his behalf, to give him a chance he knows she wants him to take … but he only blinks at her helplessly, his mouth just sitting open.

When she disappears into her duplex, Jim lingers on her porch, waiting for the light to click on above him. It doesn't. He turns to look over at his car parked by the mailbox, and even though it's very dark, he can see Pam and all her luminescence tucked within the backseat. He's not sure what it means, or how he feels about it - he just looks, and there she is.

He takes his time getting back into the car, and Pam doesn't move to take the passenger seat. Jim sits there after he's closed the door, the key still hanging in the ignition and the dark pressed all around them, and he's just listening as both of thembreathe within the same tiny metal box.

Finally, Jim clears his throat and looks back around to find her eyes wide in the dark. He struggles to find an appropriate follow up. "So, home, then?"

Pam could jump at the sound of his voice, he wouldn't blame her; it's louder than he intended. But he sees her shake her head instead, and he's confused and a little anxious by the motion. "Uhm, actually, Oscar and some of the guys are down at Poor Richard's?" Her tone is lower, softer. "I was thinking a drink sounds good right now."

He considers her and the hedging of her smile, and Jim is pretty sure he knows an invitation from Pam when he hears one. His palm pats the steering wheel and he twists the key, revving the car to life, and it feels far less heavy around him now. "I think … a drink sounds amazing. Mind if I tag along?"

His eyes reach the mirror and his gaze hits hers. It takes a few muddy seconds, but when he sees the slow crinkle of her eyes, it's all he needs to go on. "Only if you promise you won't cramp my style," she warns with a lifted index finger.

They both smile, and Jim sets the car into motion in a new direction.