A/N: I don't even know where this came from. I just love this kind of thing. And I want to think about Pam and Jim's literary taste. That's all.
i.
She's ignoring him today, and it terrifies him. What they have—well, what he has, and holds onto—can flicker into ashes at a moment's notice. Every day, he's afraid she'll end his unspoken dreams. Stop looking over. Stop laughing.
Stop noticing him at all.
So he drifts over, heart in his throat and a smile on his face, and to his immeasurable relief, Pam is only reading. Her lips are parted, her curls swinging over her shoulders. Beautiful, and oblivious.
Jim leans one elbow on the edge of her desk, reaches down and flips the book out of her hand.
It's Little Women.
"Seriously?" he asks, cocking a grin.
Her cheeks flush pink, in that really adorable way that makes him weak at the knees. "Hey!" she hisses, a little guilty for being caught slacking, but not guilty enough to let him get away with it. "It's my annual Little Women re-reading week, OK?"
"Annual? Wow."
"It's an interesting book."
"I'll bet." He inspects the cover, then returns his gaze to her. "Probably has lots to say about several…small females?"
Pam's mouth falls open. "You seriously don't know about this book?"
"Please." He shuts it gently, and tilts his head. "I have two older sisters."
"Older sisters?" Pam stares at him, dangerously intrigued. "Oh my God. Did they dress you up like a girl?"
"Cruel and unusual, Beesly," he murmurs, pressing a hand to his heart. "Cruel and unusual." He leans in, conspiratorially. "No, they did not. But…they may have braided my hair."
Pam's eyes light up. "Ooh, I have to see those pictures."
"All such records have been destroyed," he says, in a kind of spot-on imitation of Dwight, and waggles an eyebrow. "No such luck. But seriously. The worst treatment I received was forced familiarity with girly books. Like that one." He flicks a finger at her book, and Pam spreads her hands over it almost defensively.
"Watch the trash talk, Halpert!"
"Well then." He smirks. "Make your case."
"It's a story about family," Pam says. She's serious, and damn, but he could just kiss her here and now—he holds himself back with difficulty, concentrating on her words. "Four sisters, struggling to make their way in the world. They get in trouble and fall in love, and it's just…it holds my interest, every time."
"Hmm. So. Four. Which one are you most like?" He'd peg her for a Jo, in terms of fascination. But she's kind of like Meg. And Beth. Of course, she can't know that he knows what she's talking about.
"Amy," she says, clasping her hands together. "Because she's an artist, and she's kind of misunderstood."
"Are you misunderstood?" Jim asks, lightly.
Pam's eyes shift away. "Uh." She props up her smile again, and he wishes she didn't feel like she had to. "Just like normal people feel, I guess. Anyway, I always liked Amy—she had a real passion for art, and so do I. It always frustrates me, in the book. I think that Louisa May Alcott—she's the author"—"Ah," Jim says, nodding—"I think that she didn't give Amy enough of her own life. She used her as a plot device towards the end, rather than a real person."
"I guess that sucks. Being a plot device."
The cameras are focused away from them, for the moment. Pam leans forward. "Do you ever feel like that? Here?"
"I'm the comic relief," Jim returns, cracking a smile. "So, that would be a yes."
"Haha, very funny." Pam traces her fingertips over the title and flicks her gaze up at him. "Um, I know I'm being bad. Reading at work. Don't tell anyone?"
"Of course not," he says. "Our secret."
ii.
"Green Eggs and Ham." Pam is staring at him. "Where did you find this? Or do you own it?"
"It was in Michael's office." Jim lifts his eyebrows. "There was this random stack of kids' books. I'm pretty sure I don't want to know why."
The corners of Pam's lips quirk up slightly, which is exactly what he wants. "So, why this one? Why not Goodnight Moon, or whatever else was in there."
"Because." Jim can barely hold back his grin. "Pam-I-Am."
Her mouth rounds into an 'O'. "You did not."
"C'mon," he teases, pushing his hair out of his face. "You haven't heard that before? You're telling me you got through all of elementary school, middle school—even high school, and never had someone call you that?"
"There was nobody as dorky as you in my high-school," Pam retorts, but there's that little glint in her eye that means she thinks he's funny.
At least, he hopes that's what it means.
iii.
It's kind of their thing now, ever since he interrupted Annual Little Women Re-Reading Day. He saunters up, dispenses a jellybean, eats it, and offers up another book title. Pam may be an artist, but she loved her English classes in college.
He'd give anything to have been with her in Literature 301, Poetry and Sonnets. They'd have—had some really good discussions.
Jim chooses a jellybean. "The Great Gatsby," he murmurs. Intimacy and privacy at this office can only be achieved in terms of volume. Lately, too, the cameramen seem to have become more interested in him and Pam. He should probably be worried, but it's—nice. To think they're a thing, by any definition.
Pam makes a face. "I don't know. It's been a while. I read it in high-school." She rests her chin on her hand, and he mirrors her, not even sure himself if he's doing it to tease or her because he'll do anything to be closer to her, more connected with her.
After a moment, Pam shrugs. "I guess—I always feel like my stomach gets all twisted up, reading about people falling in love with the wrong people. Or the right people, at the wrong time. It's just—ugh. You know? Romantic complications." She grimaces, and he does too.
Yeah. Romantic complications.
No fun at all.
"What were you like in high-school?" he asks, because he really wants to know, has wanted to know for a long time, and now there's a proper(ish) segue.
Pam tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not telling you any of the embarrassing stuff, if that's what you're after."
He feigns innocence. "There was embarrassing stuff? No way!"
"Shut up! I was—whatever. Me. Quieter."
"And you're just so loud now," he says, shaking his head. "So loud. At least they had it easier in the old days."
"What were you like?" Pam challenges. "We should have gone to the same high school."
We should have, he thinks. He'd have taken a chance, then, awkward and gawky as he was. It wouldn't have mattered. He'd have gotten there before Roy, and he can imagine them now, studying sometimes and skipping class at others, never leaving each other's sides—he thinks of prom, and graduation, and college—
"Jim?" Pam's looking at him. "Um…"
"Sorry. Right." She'd asked him a question, and he'd spaced out, in another hopeless fantasy. "I was a super-dorky basketball player. That's all."
"Basketball? Roy plays too."
He should be flattered. She's comparing him to her fiancé. Actually, scratch that. Seriously, that's what he's going for? Comparisons with the man she's going to marry?
He recovers quickly. "Yeah, I was so sure the NBA would pick me up. But, you know. Paper-selling is a very underappreciated sport."
"If you ask Dwight," Pam whispers, "It's probably a martial art."
"You should see him with the shredder," Jim deadpans.
Hearing her laugh is enough, at least for the moment. Or it will be, maybe, if he keeps telling himself to believe it.
iv.
"Ok, ok, hold up," Pam says, waving her hands. He steps back, giving her his signature 'skeptical and confused' look that plays so well to the cameras.
"Is it this shirt?"
"No, your shirt's fine. New?"
"Yes indeed. Thirty-percent off, I'll have you know."
"Such a savvy shopper," Pam says, amused. "I was just—we've talked about books I like. What about books you like?"
"Not telling."
"Not fair." She glares at him. It's actually really hot, and he has his thirty-second Pam crisis of the day. "Come on, I've told you all of mine."
"You can't tell Dwight."
"Oh my God. Is it Harry Potter?"
"You can't tell Dwight. And no."
"Alright, fine." Pam raises her hand. "Pinkie-swear?"
He obliges, gladly. Somehow in the process he manages to wrap his hand around hers. She waits—he's sure of it—for an extra second before pulling away. "Alright, Halpert. Spill the beans."
"Lord of the Rings." He hangs his head.
Pam is silent for a long moment. Then, "Wow."
"Oh, hey—it's a good book!"
She bites her lip to hold back her laughter. "I know. I love it too. I'm just teasing you."
"Ah, so you share the same burden on your soul," Jim intones. "But don't worry. I won't tell Dwight if you won't."
Pam looks mortally offended "We pinkie-swore, Jim. Does that mean nothing to you?"
It isn't hard at all to look perfectly grave. "Oh, no. It means everything."
v.
He thinks of leaving something on her doorstep when he leaves for Stamford. Some kind of ironic wedding gift—Shakespeare's Sonnets, or maybe just a poem.
W. H. Auden's "Stop All the Clocks, Cut Off the Telephone." It doesn't fit, actually. Just that one line—
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
In the end, he just goes.
When Karen finally starts liking him, and they gang up on Andy, and exchanging eye-rolls and nods and significant glances in a general kind of way, he brings up books.
It seems a natural enough progression.
She's not much of a reader, though. "I like a few," she says, but doesn't care to elaborate much.
"What about Little Women?"
Karen pulls a face. "Ugh. No. Annoying, prissy crap."
"Huh." He chuckles, flicks his eyebrows up and down.
"Yeah, you know." She shrugs. "Not really my speed. And which one of them—Amy? She annoyed me so much."
Jim smiles, a little sadly, but she wouldn't know to catch it. "Nah. She's just misunderstood."
Karen shrugs again. "I guess if you look at it that way."
He does.
Even after everything, he does.