She doesn’t know exactly how she got suckered into this.
But there is a copious amount of alcohol, and for some strange reason, Meredith was allowed to mix the eggnog, so it’s mind-numbingly stiff. Everyone is in the holiday “spirit”, so to speak, and Pam’s been having more fun than she would care to admit.
So after a few cups of what Andy’s calling “The Nog”, which is basically a cocktail of brandy and rum with the tiniest dash of eggnog mix, being Michael’s “little Christmas Helper” doesn’t sound like such a terrible idea.
Of course, she hadn’t realized that there would be felt involved. She thought that maybe she’d wear the elf hat that Dwight had sported in Christmases past, but not the ears. Definitely not the ears.
Apparently Michael had had a different idea, because now she was standing in front of the mirror in the ladies room dressed in an itchy green felt smock, the aforementioned hat, and the most ridiculous pair of green elf slippers with tiny gold bells on each curly toe.
Oh, she definitely wasn’t drunk enough for this.
Suddenly, a bang on the door startles her and she immediately flushes, embarrassed by the simple prospect of being seen in this.
“Shake a leg Pamalama!” Michael crows, “I need my little Christmas helper… those presents aren’t going to hand themselves out, you know.”
“Ugh,” she sighs, shaking her head in disgust at her reflection, “I deserve a raise.”
Uncurling her fingers from the death grip that they have formed on the counter, she turns, steels herself, and pushes the bathroom door open, only to have it collide with something solid.
“Whoa,” says a very familiar male voice, and Pam suddenly wants the earth to open up and swallow her whole.
Jim.
How could she have forgotten that he’d be out there? That he would see her like this? It was too much. It was just too embarrassing. She attempts to turn and dart back into the bathroom before he can catch a glimpse of her but the door has closed faster than she thought it would and instead of making a quick and stealthy escape, she ends up colliding with the door and smacking her forehead against the Ladies Room sign with a sharp thwack.
She wants to die. She stays very still for a second, just leaning her forehead against the cool plastic, willing him to just turn and go, to save her from the utter humiliation.
He doesn’t go. But he doesn’t laugh either. And Pam thinks that that’s almost worse.
“Pam,” he says softly, coming to stand at her shoulder, “Are you okay?”
There is such sweet, soft concern in his voice that she can’t help but turn her head to face him, still keeping it pressed against the door, as if that’s really helping the “Pam looks like an asshole” situation.
“Uh… yeah,” she murmurs, dazed for a moment, “I’m fine.”
After he is reassured that she’s not seriously hurt, he suddenly realizes what she’s wearing. He does a slow sweep of her attire, his gaze finally coming to rest on her face, which is flushed pink with embarrassment. He’s never seen anything more adorable than Pam at this very moment.
“Wow. Beesely… you… look great in felt.”
He is grinning, and suddenly, she can’t help it. She feels the tugging at the corners of her mouth and after a moment, she laughs.
It’s his favorite sound in the whole world.
“Shutup,” she sighs, finally detaching her forehead from the ladies room door and facing him, hands on her hips, “I didn’t know a costume would be involved when I agreed to help Michael. But that’s what you do at Christmastime, Jim, you help people.”
“Oh… is that what Christmas is all about Beesely?”
She looks at him leaning against the doorframe, tall and lanky and lean and smiling warmly at her – he’s teasing her, yes, but not maliciously. He would never do that. Because he would never intentionally hurt her.
And it hits her. That that is the most important thing in the world. Because God knows, Pam has spent close to ten years being hurt. Not a stabbing hurt, one that takes you by surprise and knocks you off your feet. No. A dull, gradual, ache that chips away at the soul and leaves behind a numbness that you think will never wear off.
She thinks she’s dull, like a spoon that’s been forgotten in the back of a drawer. But Jim makes her shiny. He makes her bright.
Suddenly the tears are shimmering in her eyes. And she wants to tell him no… that Christmas is about telling people how you feel. It’s about having faith and believing in miracles. And Pam believes in miracles. How could she not, when she has him in her life?
She wants to tell him what Christmas is really about, but she can’t form words right now, so she just opens and closes her mouth as a tear slips down her cheek.
He’s alarmed. She can see it in his eyes, in the way his shoulders tense and his breath hitches almost imperceptibly. He thinks he’s done something wrong – she can sense it.
Without thinking, she steps closer to him, their middles almost touching, and reaches up to touch his face. He’s so tall, and his skin is so warm and just a little bit rough from a day’s worth of stubble.
She touches his cheek, her ring finger tracing the line of his jaw, and tilts her head up to his.
He’s terrified. There was a time when he would have relished such attention from Pam, when he would have turned his face into her hand and pulled her close and kissed her senseless.
But that was before. Before he did pull her close and kiss her senseless. Before she let him walk away.
He swallows hard and his Adam’s apple bobs and his eyes are so, so wide. And now she can see that he’s scared. He’s terrified that she’s going to hurt him again.
Her heart throbs painfully and all she wants to do is take care of him. Take the pain away.
“Shh,” she whispers, her lips almost touching his, her eyes fluttering closed.
“Pam,” he chokes out, voice broken and tight with emotion, “What are you doing?”
God, she loves him. She knows she loves him. Just like she knows that red and blue make purple, that the “R” on her computer’s keyboard will always stick just a little bit, that the orange jellybeans are his favorite.
“Helping,” she murmurs without thinking, realizing too late that it sounds just a little strange, like she’s taking pity on him, or doing him a friendly favor.
“Pam… no,” he says, shaking his head and pulling away ever so slightly, “I don’t want --”
She doesn’t let him finish.
“I love you.”
And then there is such a long pause that she starts to think that he didn’t hear her. So she says it again, and this time she takes his face in her hands, as if touching him will make it more real.
“I love you, Jim.”
He’s holding his breath. He doesn’t want to breathe or blink or do anything to ruin this moment, because he would swear to God that this is just the most amazing dream he’s ever had.
But then he’s looking at her and her hands are so warm against his face and there are tears in her eyes and he has to do something. He has to make sure.
“What?” he manages, so softly that she has to lean closer to hear him.
The tip of her nose brushes his cheek and he knows then. She is real. This is real. And she loves him.
Then his lips are on hers, and his hand is on her face, and his arm is wrapped around her pulling her to him so, so tightly. She laughs into his mouth, her hand moving up to the nape of his neck to pull him even closer.
She knows that they’re in the office. She knows that Dwight and Michael and, God, even Karen, are in the next room. She knows that they’re kissing outside of the ladies bathroom. And she knows that she is still, most definitely, wearing an itchy felt smock, a silly pointed hat, and the most ridiculous pair of green elf slippers with tiny gold bells on each curly toe.
But she couldn't care less, because he still loves her.
And when she's there in his arms, she shimmers, and shines, and glitters, like the star on top of a Christmas tree.
