"Hey, Pam."

She tilts her head and smiles through the door. "Hey, yourself. How was the trip?"

Jim shrugs. He doesn't smile back. The muscles in his face have forgotten how. "It was… trippy. I made good time."

He remembers what it was like to be normal, to be happy–or at least capable of happiness–but he isn't either of those things right now. Hasn't been for a while.

It really hasn't been all that long, he reminds himself. No longer than a gnat's eyelash, on a cosmic scale. But in so many ways, it feels like a lifetime ago.

She smiles though, and… of course it helps. She helps. She's been helping. Besides his lawyers, she's the only one. His best friend. His only friend, now.

His entire world.

So when Pam smiles, he breathes a little easier. His expression softens from granite into something more closely resembling flesh. At least he guesses that's what happens. It's not like he has a mirror handy. Even if there happened to be one nearby, he'd avoid it.

For probably the thirty-seventh time today, the realization strikes that he doesn't exactly know what's coming next. Jim Halpert is not in control of his life anymore. For too long, he's been dealing with one catastrophe after another at the whim of Fate.

And Fate has been a merciless bitch, handing him one shit sandwich after another. Metaphorically-speaking.

Being unsure of what's coming next, he's really not sure how he's going to get through whatever it is. But there's no question that, whatever happens, he will. A little existential uncertainty won't kill him.

He's survived far worse.

He's survived, period.

He wonders if he'd have made it that far without the woman in front of him. Drinking in the sight of her, he really... really doubts it.

He wants to reach out and brush Pam's mouth with his fingertips, to lean down and press his lips against her smile. To taste her happiness, or at least to see what her happiness feels like. Possibly it would infuse into him a little, osmose a bit. Then, maybe, he could smile again.

He hasn't earned the right, of course. He never will, and he knows it, so he keeps his hands and his lips to himself.

Jim is insightful, he's good at people, he always has been. So naturally, he's very well-aware of all the ways in which he's no longer a good person himself. It used to be his blessing… now, it's his curse.

Anyway, there's glass between them. There's always glass between them. He's used to it.

He despises it.

Clearing his throat, Jim adjusts the backpack on his shoulder and shifts a little, from one foot to the other. He figures he probably looks about as uncomfortable as he feels, but he's used to that, too.

He pulls off his sunglasses, revealing his eyes for all the world to see. If anyone besides her had been nearby, he wouldn't have. He'd only picked them up that morning, but he hasn't taken them off all day.

The woman in front of him suddenly transforms from muted grays into mind-blowing technicolor. Jim reminds himself that it's weird to stare, but he can't help himself. "Thanks for… you know."

He slowly sucks in a deep breath and blows it out in a hurry. "Everything."

It's weak and inadequate, but what wouldn't be under the circumstances? It's the best he can do. There are certain debts that can never be repaid–not with words, not with actions, not with all the money in the world.

Not that he doesn't intend to try, of course. He doesn't think thanks is a bad place to start.

Pam beams wider and sort of shrugs, as if to say of course. As always, she's not upset at Jim's inability to smile back. There's understanding in her eyes. He hopes she can see the appreciation in his.

She opens the door and holds out a key. "Welcome home." 

Just like that, the glass is gone.