He's not quite drunk enough to be sick.

Jim stands in the front lobby of their ancient hotel, his shoes lit gold by the tile. He holds his coat draped in one arm. Dwight was right; the place does sort of smell like a basement. His shoes and hair are wet. Damn cab driver, wanting to get home by midnight, had let him off at the corner in a fierce cold drizzle. He wipes his feet on the rug, steadying himself on a marble table pushed up against the wall. His stomach is calm and he's still coherent, of course, and able to walk (sort of) but he's definitely drunk, had much more than he would down on a given night, for sure.

Jim wants to laugh; he can't focus his eyes in the mirror. He realizes he's been standing in the hotel foyer in the same spot for a good minute. The place is mostly emptied, a few stragglers left enjoying the fireplace, dealing cards. He wonders if he knows them. The clerk at the front desk is starring at her computer when he approaches, blue light illuminating her face. She is not the one who checked them in earlier; this woman is older, edgier, more lined.

He needs to see Pam. More than anything right now, this is what he wants. He's been floating since he left the bar, his mind turning over tomorrow. The musty air is blissful, a bubble, the night perfect, watered down. He's got puppy love all over again, he is drunk and drunk on love for her because tomorrow they're getting married and this is the reason he's here, really, right? To get married, that's all he's ever wanted with her, out of his life, this is why he is here, to be with her so goddamnit, why isn't he right now!

He can't remember her room number.

Jim slaps both elbows onto the counter. He is a clean drunk, he really is. He doesn't hit on people. He mellows out, gets sleepy. Right now he feels on top of the world. He stands a million feet tall. Six, at least. He realizes the clerk is waiting for him to speak.

“I'm getting married tomorrow.”

She half-smiles. “Congratulations. Where's your wife?” She looks a little skeptical, admonishing.

Can't she tell by looking at him, he's not that kind of guy? Screw her.

“That's where I'm hoping you can help me,” Jim says. He tucks one leg behind the other to get down to her level. His dress shirt is soaked, especially around the cuffs. There hadn't been time to change. He is charming, he thinks. He can be.

“We're in separate rooms tonight but I can't exactly –” he pauses. “I can't exactly remember what her room number is.”

The lady looks over her glasses, almost like a challenge. “Name?”

“Jim Halpert. Oh – her name! Right.” He laughs to himself. “Pam. Pam Halpert. I mean Beesley. Pam Beesley.” He pauses, certain he's going to be swallowed by his happiness, his love. He's getting married tomorrow! Married! To Pam!

“Tomorrow she'll be Halpert,” he says to the woman, who sort of smiles again but doesn't really seem to care. Why isn't the whole world as happy as he is? If the world could feel like this, there'd be no wars, no sick babies.

“She's in 203,” the woman says.

He drums on the desk. “Thanks a lot. Appreciate it.”

The stairs he takes sloppily, halting occasionally, skipping a step or two.

He vaguely recalls being upset about screwing up their night, her night, an evening that should have been categorized under perfect. It had still been good, of course. He wouldn't tell Pam, would cast a bad light, but the wine had been great, her dress had been great, what gorgeous blue. He'd held her hand under the table and barely been able to take his eyes off her. His dad had only cried, what, three times? That was good for him. But then he'd gone and fucked it, of all people, of all the efforts they'd made to keep it underwater. He has never been good at keeping big secrets.

But these thoughts are no more than a buzz in his mind now, softened by the alcohol, put gently to bed under fine white mist. Everything he'd been worried about earlier seems to have melted, his thoughts in warm, gooey puddles, the lights of the hallway low and quaint and filling him .

It had been sort of an accident, going out with Michael and Dwight. He hadn't meant for it to happen, really, but it had and it wasn't awful. Beers at a low-slung bar on the border half-hour away, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, tucked into a booth and feeling the leaden stress lift a little more with each sip. Michael bought more rounds and he had clutched the light-weight glass tumbler (a cheap bar, cheap beer, low lights, fake glass), talking about marriage with them and wishing Pam were there so they could make fun of it all. Had she been mad when she called? He wondered if she was annoyed with him. She sort of had a right to be. He was going to figure this all out, make it up to her. Had she ever seen him this drunk? There had been some crazy nights. Of course she had. Had she?

Jim is at the top of the stairs now, a bank of elevators coming into view. Such an idiot, why hadn't he taken the elevator in the first place? He lights up the button on the corners, the edges of the world hazy, trembling slightly. He feels as though he is walking without walking; floating, getting from point A to point B more on luck than anything. As though while he moves, he's not really in the space but already out of it.

What the hell. He wants to see Pam.

“Come on, elevator, come on.”

He takes off his shoes while he waits. They were up in her room earlier; he came to help her get settled. They joked about how there should be mints on the pillows, a bigger bathtub just in case they decided to take a bath at the same time, by chance. Her little gray bag sat on the bed and they marveled at how they were finally here, making jokes and being serious at the same time, the way they always talked. He loved how they could be both. He had opened the blinds and the windows for her, to let in the sea and her mom had come by to hang the dress in her closet. It just barely grazed the floor.

“Jim?”Monica, one of the second cousins from Florida, gets out of the elevator.

“Hey, Monica.” He gives her a hug. He can't focus much.

“What have you been up to?”

He stands, blocking the doors from closing. “Oh, you know. Relishing my last night of freedom.”

She laughs a little too loudly. All he remembers is knocking over her sandcastle in the second grade.

The next hallway looks exactly the same, a twin of the floor below. The lights blind him. If someone were to walk past, they would see some tall, wet, suited man walking around in sock feet. Would Pam be asleep? The baby is starting to keep her up. He isn't sure how late it is. He's a jerk, he needs to apologize, he needs to tell her that she's wonderful and perfect and he can't believe they're getting married tomorrow but it's about damn time. And wasn't there something about Andy's scrotum?

That part he can do without. What was the number? He laughs out loud again, cursing himself. 202? 201? Nope, hers is the one by the portrait, now he remembers them talking about what an ugly painting it is, a picture of an old gray man riding a horse in pastels.

He knocks once, softly, then again a little louder. “Pam?” he says loudly and hears a slight scrambling from inside, a hushing sound and a man's voice, what the hell?

“Pam?” he calls again and suddenly there she is in the doorframe in her glasses and summer PJs, only a slight bump to her belly – if you hadn't known, you'd barely be able to guess.

“Oh, it's you,” she says. She looks tired, a little frazzled, curls thrown up in a quick ponytail.

“I'm so sorry,” he blurts. His common sense is gone; his tongue surrenders quick to alcohol. He comes close. “I'm so sorry about everything and I missed you and I love you and I hope I didn't wake you up but I just had to come and say hi and god, you look so cute right now.”

She smiles a little now, smirks at him, she can't help it.

“Okay, babe?” she takes his wrist, as though he's a child. “You need to be quiet. You're talking about twenty levels louder than you need to and people are sleeping. Get in here.” She pulls him toward her, shutting the door behind them.

“I'm drunk,” he says, slurring a little. He wants to look at her properly, the way he should. She looks so sexy right now.

“I know,” she says. “More drunk than I've seen you in awhile. You need to sit down?”

“Maybe, yeah,” he says and sloppily kisses her forehead.

He walks around the corner and there's Andy sprawled out on a blow-up mattress, holding a plastic bag to his crotch.

Pam comes up behind him. “We've got a little situation.”

“Hey, Tuna. How was your big night on the town? Don't worry, man, I'm staying down here.”

Jim can't quite remember how to close his mouth. “What what what what what is going on?”

“Yeah,” Pam says, as though there isn't more to explain. “This is what you missed.”

“I can't believe this is happening,” Jim says softly to Pam. Andy grins wide-toothed from the floor.

“Yeah, well. Wasn't exactly on my list for tonight.”

Jim wobbles a little, feels her hand on his back.

“Sit down, babe,” she says and then rubs her belly absently. “Hey Andy? Would you mind giving us a minute?”

“If my balls are up to it, I would kindly move, however --”

“Andy.”

“I'll be in the hallway.”

Jim watches Pam help Andy up and is struck again by how great she is, even if this situation is fucked. Andy keeps the ice firmly pressed to his crotch, waddling as he walks out the door.

“Don't be too long guys. Take your time but I don't really think you're supposed to get it on the night before the wedding, it's not very traditional --”

“Bye, man,” Jim says, wanting to kill him. She doesn't need this, and on the night before her wedding, for god's sake. He doesn't even get to sleep with her.

“At least now he's not sleeping in our suite. Silver lining, right?”She sinks down beside him, bed creaking softly. The buzz is beginning to fade a little; he think she might cry.

“Rough night, huh?” He pulls her closer, snagging an arm around her waist, letting his fingers play with the hem of her yoga pants.

“God, just...not what I expected.” She lets her head fall against him. “First – you know, the dinner, everything, and then you're out having fun and I'm stuck here like a loser in my room, on this night that's supposed to be fun and special and then on top of that, I have to take Andy to the hospital and sit around searching magazines to find special underwear for torn scrotums and I'm just...” she sighs. “I don't know.”

“I'm an ass.”

“No, you're not.”

“Yes I am.”

“Okay, maybe a little. You don't need to talk so loud, I can hear you.” She smiles at him, he can feel it through his shoulder. He draws circles on her back. The TV is flickering against the wall, on mute. “I just need to get to bed. I want this weird night to be over.”

“You have full permission to be mad at me until tomorrow.”

“I'm not mad.”

“You're annoyed. I know. You should be.”

It's quiet for a few minutes, just them on the bed, him kneading her shoulders, listening to her breathe, wishing he didn't have to go back to his room.

She reaches for the remote in the middle of the covers, turns off the TV, then leans back so her head is resting in his lap.

“How was clubbing with Michael?”

“It was...exactly what you'd expect. He tried to give me marriage advice. Played pool with himself. Asked for pancakes at the bar.”

“I wish I could have been there!”

“Me too, Bees!” He realizes his eyes are closed. “Oh my god, why weren't you there!”

“How you feeling, Drunkie?”

“So good, good.”

He runs a hand through her hair. She notes the way his head sort of droops, fighting sleep, each words lazily melding into the next. He pats her back thoughtlessly.

“You gonna be able to get up in the morning?” she says.

“What, am I going to miss something important?”

“Haha, very funny.”

“No really, am I?”

“Oh didn't you hear? I'm getting married tomorrow. I'll be the one down the aisle with the long veil.”

“That's really exciting. What's the lucky guy like?”

“He's a cutie. He holds his liquor like a pro.”

“Course he does.” Jim throws up his hands in defeat. “Am I invited to this wedding of yours?”

“I'm still considering. We don't generally accept tattletales but I think you might want to make it a priority.”

“If I'm not busy, I'll try. I'm sure it will be beautiful.”

“Lame,” she grins and gets off his lap, arching her back like a cat. The bedside lamp falls on the curve of her bare shoulders, skin white and milky smooth from fall hours indoors. She yawns.

She stands up, gets a tube of toothpaste from her bag. She refuses to squeeze from the bottom.

“We're getting married tomorrow,” she says aloud, and he's not sure if she is saying this for herself or to him. “Jim. We're getting married, tomorrow.” He gets up, stumbling, and she kind of catches him. He almost hesitates before kissing her; he isn't sure if she's in the mood but he is also drunk and he really has no willpower right now. The kiss is long and slow, her lips everywhere, on him, in him and he feels golden, the fire building in his stomach. He brushes his fingers over her bare belly, the visible skin, wishing he could feel what's inside.

“I love you,” he says against her teeth.

“Mmm,” she says, pulling away. “I'm still pissed at you.”

He holds his hands up. “I'm leaving now.”

“Really?”

“You've got another man in the hallway, remember?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“Ew,” Pam says, smacking his shoulder. “I'm going to purposely step on him when I get up to pee.”

“Drink some water before bed. Can you find your room okay?”

“On second thought, maybe I'll stay. Can I sleep with you?” he says.

“On any other night, I would say yes.”

He swings around to kiss her again. “Hey. You're the best. You really are. I love you so much. You are the hottest pregnant woman alive. You --”

“You are drunk!” she chuckles. She does look really really tired. “I'm kicking you out.”

She opens the door, fiddles with the knob. “By the way,”she says. “If I haven't told you before, you're an undeniably cute drunk.”

His smile is lopsided.“Oh my god! Get some sleep.”

“I'll try,” she says. “Hot date tomorrow, don't be late.”

“I'll try to cancel my plans.”

“Officially not funny anymore,” she pushes him out into the hallway. “Good night, Halpert.”

She leans on the frame, her glasses resting on the end of her nose. He sobers up for this moment, when it's her on the night before the rest of their lives, her in her pjs still a little angry, with a wedding dress in the closet, a toothbrush in her hand, a coworker sleeping on the floor beside her. They'd begun as only that. She is ordinary and beautiful tonight, both at once, carrying their child, real life in the midst of a time so profoundly unreal, exactly right.

He wonders if all the night-before-weddings are like this.

He almost wants to cry from sheer happiness, looking at her. “See you tomorrow,”he says, his voice thick, wondering if she'll guess it's from the alcohol or see his emotion for what it is. He needs to sleep.

She wiggles her left hand at him, the last thing he sees before she shuts the door. He stands starring woozily at the closed white block before realizing he needs to leave.

He needs to sleep. He's getting married tomorrow.

Andy is sprawled in a pink chair by the elevators, his bag of ice melted clear.

“Tuna,”he says, sitting up straighter when Jim walks by. “Good talk with the missus?”

“So good,” Jim says to the wall, grinning.

“Hey, Tuna, would you mind giving me a hand? I can't really get out of this chair by myself.”

“How did you do this anyway?”

“Tearing up the dance floor. Sometimes I'm too good for myself.”

“That makes sense.”

He presses the button, watching it light up. He feels Andy's hand on his shoulders.

“I just want you to know that your bride is perfectly safe with me. I may be sleeping with her the night before your wedding but I promise, I will turn her over to you tomorrow, completely rested and ready for action. I've got your back, bro. You'll get to wake up with her every morning for the rest of your life.”

“I might hit you, man,”Jim slurs but he thinks of white sheets and gray skies and her hair spread out across the pillow, her legs wrapped around his own and he needs to marry her now, he can't wait for the morning.

He wants to make it official so they can leave these creeps behind and sleep in beds where torn scrotums will hopefully never exist.

Did he really just think that?

They probably won't be doing a lot of sleeping, anyway.