Title: Jam fluff
Series: The Office
Theme No.: 3; laws of variation
Pairing: Jim/Pam
Rating: PG-13
Notes: I have mixed feelings about this chapter. I love some of the bits -- Rule Four, for example, is the single best thing I think I've ever written in this genre. But I'm a little sketchy on Rule Five, and Rule Three makes me nervous because it's a step outside of my comfort zone. So treat this chapter kindly, please, and review. (Oh, and they're not in any specific order, so if you want to skip around, feel free. As I've said, I very much like Rule Four.)
By the way, thanks so much to all the reviewers of Chapter 1, who made my life a very happy place!
This takes place on a varying timescale… but it's all after Season 3; in other words, all of these take place while Pam and Jim are already dating.
Rule One: The first rule of dating Pam is, you don't talk about dating Pam.
When Pam accosted him later, in the elevator away from the prying eyes of the office, he explained to her that it had been her own fault. If she hadn't been giggling with Kelly in the break room, then he wouldn't have peeked into catch a glimpse of her smile, which was always so adorable when she was happy. And if she hadn't looked at him with that mischievous glint in her eye and that wicked grin, he wouldn't have gotten suspicious and decided to exact revenge (after all, how did he know that she wasn't gossiping about him?).
"You're always suspicious," she growled, frustrated by his Jim-logic, but there was still a smile in her eyes.
Jim grinned down at her, that roguish grin which he knew she couldn't resist. "How could I survive dating you if I wasn't?" he teased, idly pressing button after button until they were all lit up and blinking. The elevator shuddered and slowed, opening its doors on an empty floor; Pam raised an eyebrow at him, but he just grinned a little wider. He didn't mind making eight stops on the way to the ground floor if it meant more time alone in the elevator with her.
"You're a dork," she muttered; then her brow furrowed and her eyes grew stormy as she remembered that she was mad at him. "So you had an attack of paranoia and decided to get revenge on me by lying to Dwight?"
"No. Of course not." The relief on her face was palpable for a moment; then Jim stretched lazily, and shattered her security by saying calmly, "What makes you thing I was lying?"
"What?" She had been leaning against the wall of the elevator, pointedly not looking at him; now she whirled around to face him, flushed a bright red, whether from embarrassment or rage he couldn't tell. "You told him? I can't believe you! I thought we agreed on this – you promised! Jim Halpert, you – you –"
She trailed off, lost for words, her voice lost in her anger. Immediately Jim's roguish smile disappeared; all seriousness, he reached out and gripped her arms, pulling her closer.
"Hey, hey, calm down," he muttered, soothing. "I know what I promised. I didn't tell him, okay? I would never do that." Her expression of outraged betrayal softened, and Jim pressed his advantage. "Trust me, I don't want Dwight to find out about us dating any more than you do. You don't have to sit across from him and listen to him mutter to himself all day."
Pam was more sullen than enraged now; she regarded him mistrustfully, still leaning back against his arms, refusing to let him pull her into an embrace. "I don't know, Halpert," she growled; the elevator ground to yet another unnecessary stop, and her voice echoed out into an empty hallway. "How do I know I can trust you? What exactly did you tell Dwight? I saw you – conspiring with him by the vending machines, and next thing I know he's following me around and trying to sneak a look at my faxes." She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring up at him with an expression that brooked no argument.
Jim sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "So nosy. Fine, fine!" he said hurriedly, warding off Pam's wrath. "I just – I thought you and Kelly were talking about me, so I told Dwight you were talking about him."
Pam's expression didn't change; if anything, it grew fiercer, and Jim's desire to kiss her was overwhelmed only by his instincts of self-preservation. The unspoken question was clear: what else?
"Okay, fine," he grumbled, trying to hide his trepidation. "So maybe I told him that you and Kelly were in on a conspiracy by the women of the office to rebel and overthrow him and Michael, and maybe I told him that you had tried to seduce me to get me to tell you his secrets…"
"Jim!" Pam shrieked, forgetting her anger at him in the sudden flood of extreme embarrassment that drove her to hastily bury her flushed face in his shirt. "I can't believe you!" Suddenly she was in his arms; Jim chuckled and rested his chin on the top of her head, reaching out behind her to jab the Close Door button as the elevator ground down to the third floor. After all, she'd nearly eviscerated him for hinting to Dwight about their relationship. He couldn't imagine what she'd do if they were accidentally discovered because of an indiscreet elevator.
"I can't believe you said I'd seduced you!" she whimpered, her words muffled by his chest.
"I told you I didn't lie," he said laughingly, earning himself no more than another outraged squeal and punch on the arm.
"I hate you," she muttered, and under the embarrassment and the laughter and the false rage, Jim heard a note of genuine unhappiness.
"Look," he sighed, holding her at arm's length and meeting her gaze with as much certainty as he could muster. "I'm sorry about Dwight. I promise I'll hide his bobblehead tomorrow so he'll forget all about us, okay?" That earned him a smile, albeit a guarded one. "I'm sorry," he said again, "but I just can't help it. I mean, I'm going out with the greatest girl on the planet. How can I not brag about it, especially when Dwight's being all obnoxious because he's a blackbelt num-chuck master or something?"
"We agreed that we would keep it a secret," Pam reminded him, as the elevator settled down the ground floor with one last defeated groan. "How do you expect to keep it a secret if you're dropping hints to Dwight, of all people?"
"Oh, don't worry," Jim assured her, trying the roguish grin again for effect. "Dwight's learned not to believe a word I say."
"Maybe he's on to something," Pam teased, as they left the building two paces apart, carefully not touching. "Still, I think it's time for an ultimatum. I can't go out with a man who tells all my secrets to Dwight K. Schrute."
They strolled across the empty parking lot to where their two cars were parked, side by side. Pam stopped and turned to face him again, and for a moment Jim forgot the people who might see them out of the office windows, their co-workers who would be coming out shortly and had the collective maturity of a kindergarten class. The whole world narrowed to the dimensions of the elevator; just the two of them, apart from the office, from Michael and Dwight and everything else.
"Okay, fine," Jim conceded. "I'll accept your ultimatum. I promise I won't rat us out to Dwight. After all, a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."
Pam grinned a wicked grin and pressed up onto her tiptoes to kiss him, to test him. It was a brief, chaste kiss; but Jim wrapped his arms around her, pulled her closer, deepened the kiss and held her as she squealed against his lips and tried to squirm away.
When he finally released her she hit him, and tried her best to glare at him without smiling. "You don't even need to tell anyone to get us caught," she accused. Jim's puppy-dog pout mollified her somewhat, and she sighed. "We have to be a secret," she said again, patiently, as though trying to explain something simple to a stubborn child. "We have to at least be a secret at work. It's –" she checked her watch. "It's four fifty-one. We need to be a secret for nine more minutes. After that –" she smiled up at him, and Jim realized that he no longer had a monopoly on the roguish grin. "After that, we can do whatever we want."
Jim took a step back and opened her car door for her, holding it like the most genteel of knights bowing for a lady of the court. Pam snorted, but climbed in and rolled down the window, allowing him to close the door and peer in to check the clock on her dashboard; four fifty-two.
He grinned down at her and said, "I think I can live with that."
Rule Two: A tie goes to the girlfriend
"One, two, three, four, I declare – ow!"
"What?"
"You jabbed me with your thumbnail!"
"I did not."
"Yes, you did! Look, there's a mark."
"You're a big boy, Jim, I think you can handle it. Now stop being such a baby."
"Jerk. Do over, then. You start."
"Fine. One, two, three, four, I dec – hey! What was that for?"
"That, Beesley, was my revenge."
"That hurt!"
"Hah. Now who's being a baby?"
"Still you. Oh, don't give me that look, Halpert. You're the one who spent all of Saturday morning watching cartoons."
"A timeless American pastime!"
"Sure, for six-year-olds. Now quit stalling; we've got a bet to settle. Unless you're scared, of course…"
"Yeah right, Beesley, don't make me laugh. Ready? One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war!"
"Hah! I win!"
"What? You did not win! You have to count to three! If anything, it was a tie."
"Tie goes to the girlfriend."
"Since when?"
"Since forever, Jim. Where have you been?"
"You're making that up. You made that up just now."
"I did not! Ask Dr. Phil. Or Michael. Or anyone. That's the rule."
"You get your relationship advice from Michael and Dr. Phil?"
"Oh, please, as if I need relationship advice. You couldn't get rid of me if you tried."
"That's what she said."
"Yes, that is what she said. She just said it. Weren't you paying attention?"
"Sorry. Your radiant beauty must have distracted me."
"Don't change the subject, Halpert."
"Right. What was the subject again?"
"Um… how pathetic you are, I think."
"Ah, that's old news. I got a better subject."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"Look over there."
"Okay..."
"Now, tell me what you see."
"Okay. Well, Darryl's giving Kelly a present… which is… a stack of pink cardstock with a ribbon around it. She'll probably use it to decorate her computer screen."
"What else?"
"Kevin's eating a Cup o' Noodles. And adding it the stack of empty cartons, which is starting to resemble the Giza Pyramids."
"Nice comparison, Beesley. What else?"
"Michael's yelling at Toby. And threatening him with a fork… and a carving knife? Who the hell gave Michael a carving knife?"
"Probably Dwight. But that's not important. You see the turkey that Michael snuck in under his coat and hid under his Ferris-Bueller-esque dummy?"
"Yes. What about it?"
"I'll bet you five dollars that there's not just stuffing inside."
"You're insane. Okay, fine, I'll take that bet."
"Oh, my God. What's Michael doing now?"
"At least he let Toby escape with his life. The last thing we need is another felony in this office."
"Shut up. Moment of truth. He's sticking the carving knife in the turkey…"
"Wow. Michael screams like a girl. Why doesn't that surprise me at all?"
"And now he's got something… he's waving it around… oh my, what could it be?"
"Don't be smug, Jim. It's not good on you. Okay, so you put a rubber chicken in Michael's turkey -- don't let it go to your head."
"That'll be five dollars, Beesley. Ah, yes, thank you. Now, would you care for another bet?"
"Why do I put up with you? Fine, but just because I'm bored."
"Excellent. I am more than happy to exploit your boredom. Now, five dollars says that the rubber chicken is not just an ordinary rubber chicken; it is not empty."
"What is an ordinary rubber chicken, anyway? … Oh, God, Michael is coming over here. Jim, why is Michael coming over here?"
"Shush, Beesley. Wait for it – yeah, thanks, Michael."
"What did he give you? What's that? What are you up to, Halpert?... oh. Oh, my God. That is… wow. I don't…"
"It's okay. You don't have to thank me. I know how awesome I am."
"Jim, I… I don't know what to say. Is that… are those diamonds real?"
"Happy Thanksgiving, Pam."
"Jim, you dork… you wonderful, wonderful dork."
"That'll be five dollars."
"What? No way, you rigged it! I'm not paying, it wasn't a fair bet! You didn't win!"
"Well, you didn't win either. Fine; we'll call it a tie."
"A tie goes to the girlfriend…"
"What, isn't a beautiful necklace enough for the girlfriend? The girlfriend sure is greedy."
"Oh, you ain't seen nothing yet. Come here, Halpert."
"Whoa, hey! Careful. We are in public, you know."
"Oh, they're all too worried about the turkey to care about us."
"In that case, you still owe me. You lost the bet."
"It was a tie…"
"… that goes to the girlfriend, I know. So what does the boyfriend get?"
"Oh, stop whining. Come here, and I'll show you."
Rule Three: All's fair in love, war, and flonkerton
It had started off as so many things in their life started, with a prank. They had been having a harmless discussion about the good old days, reliving some of their greatest past capers, because the office had been quiet for a while, and if that wasn't bad enough Andy and Dwight had caught Jim in the crossfire of their snowball fight in the parking lot that morning, so of course Jim needed revenge. But Jim claimed to be in a creative dry spell. He said that looking at his past successes would inspire him; so Pam had dutifully dug out the pictures she kept clipped together in her bottom drawer, the memos and faxes and emails she still held on to, and of course the yogurt-lid gold medal that still twirled gently at the end of its paperclip chain hung from a thumbtack stuck in the wall.
It was the gold medal that had started it all. That had, of course, been their finest hour, and the mere memory of it made Jim's eyes light up, as he met Pam's gaze and the same thought sparked between them like a lightning bolt. Without a word, Pam darted off to the storeroom to get together the necessary materials, while Jim very casually and calmly walked over to his desk and pulled the gloves he'd worn to work that morning out of his coat pocket.
With an experienced prankster's eye, he sized up his fellow office workers, recalling what he knew of their quirks and personalities. Immediately, he zeroed in on Andy and Dwight; neither of them had been present for the original Office Olympics, and both were spectacularly dependable when it came to rising to bait.
Jim grasped his glove in one hand and sat down at his desk as though nothing unusual had happened. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Dwight, who was to all appearances working industriously. The click and clatter of his typing was momentarily drowned out as Andy, who was engaged in a vicious struggle with the vending machine over a stuck candy bar, let out a wordless growl of frustration.
Jim sighed and shook his head. "Such a shame about you and Andy," he commented, low enough so that only Dwight could hear; he tried to sound as genuinely regretful as he could. "I mean, really. I was just shocked."
Dwight didn't look up, and his voice was the monotone he used when he was trying not to get involved in what he called 'Jim's antics'. "I do not know what you are talking about, but I am sure it is irrelevant," he said curtly. "It is your job to sell paper. I suggest you return to that job, or I shall have to report you to your superior."
"All right, hey, that's okay," Jim answered, shrugging. "I understand. Losing is tough. If you don't want to talk about, that's fine by me."
There was a long moment of silence, devoid even of the clatter of Dwight's fingers on the keys. He finally said, with a voice as strong and cold as steel; "I do not understand this talk of losing. I have lost nothing. You are hallucinating."
"Ah, you mean you don't remember? Andy kicked your butt this morning in the parking lot. In the snowball fight. He murdered you."
Dwight went rigid, and for the first time he raised his eyes from the computer, fixing Jim with what could only be called a predatory stare. "Andy did not 'kick my butt', to use your slang. I was completely victorious over his weak and ineffective defense."
"I don't know, Dwight," Jim said doubtfully. "From where I was standing, it sure looked like he beat you. If you're fine with it, that's great, but I know that if it were me, I would want to get him back. Save some face, you know?"
"Ah. I understand what you are up to now, Halpert. You are trying to get me involved in one of your juvenile, irresponsible 'pranks'. It won't work. I am not a childish slacker like you, and I never will be."
Jim had been resting his hands on his keyboard, to give at least the flimsiest semblance of work. Now he leaned forward across his desk, his face a solemn mask. "I'm serious, Dwight. This is way beyond pranks. I mean, Andy insulted your honor. Are you really going to let something like that go? I thought you'd stand up for yourself, like a real regional manager. Instead, you're just going to let him get away with it… but then, I guess I shouldn't be surprised." He sighed and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "I mean, what did I really expect from a manager's assistant?" He returned to his game of Spider Solitaire, with a defeated sigh.
"Andy Bernard cheated," Dwight snarled between gritted teeth.
Jim didn't look up again; he only shook his head. "All's fair in war, Dwight," he said, resigned. "Even if he cheated, that doesn't change the fact that he won."
At this point, several things happened at once. Andy managed to shake the vending machine violently enough that it discharged his candy with a defeated groan; his shout of victory echoed throughout the office. Dwight's head shot up and his nostrils flared; his gaze fell on the pair of thin black gloves which Jim had quite deliberately left lying on the corner of Dwight's desk.
Andy came out of the break room, the candy bar clenched in one fist, bright-eyed and breathing hard; in that moment, while the whole office turned to look at him out of mild curiosity, Dwight leaped up from his desk, seized Jim's gloves, and used them to slap Andy across the face.
There was a ringing silence, as Dwight stood with the gloves held high and his chest puffed out, and Andy's hands clenched very slowly into fists. The whole episode might have turned very ugly very quickly, but then Jim was on his feet, pushing his way in between the two nemeses and speaking in his best stadium-announcer voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, Dwight K. Schrute has issued a challenge to regain his honor! Andy Bernard, do you accept?"
"Hell yeah," Andy growled, curling his lip to bare his teeth; interested now, anticipating a piece of good theater or at least a break from boredom, the whole office broke out in whispers of approval.
"Good. And, of course, there is only one way to settle such a serious claim. These two gentlemen must battle it out in the oldest, most dignified game of war ever invented by man." His face was still grave; with the entire office watching him avidly, and Andy and Dwight glaring past him at each other, Jim turned around to the conference room door and called, "Pam? Is the battle arena prepared?"
Pam appeared in the doorway, her face lit up with a triumphant grin. "All ready," she confirmed, and beckoned the office workers into the conference room. They rose as one and shuffled after her, mildly curious, with Jim and the two combatants bringing up the rear.
The conference room had been completely transformed. The chairs had been pushed out of the center and lined up along the walls instead, leaving a wide clear space with the unmistakable look of a stage. At each end of the 'arena' was a pair of paper boxes around which had been fashioned a thick cable, apparently a spare extension cord. Lying beside each pair of boxes was a yardstick with a clump of cotton balls taped around the end.
Pam waited in the middle of the arena, between the paper boxes, while the rest of the office filed into their chairs; she caught Jim's eye as he shepherded Andy and Dwight, and they shared a lightning grin. He nodded at her, Nice work, and directed Dwight to the far end of the conference room to await the start of the game.
"Welcome to the time-honored game of flonkerton," Pam announced, from her referee position in the center of the room. "Some of you may have participated in this sport before, but as you can see the setup has been changed. Flonkerton racing is just for fun. Flonkerton jousting, which we will see today, is a sacred ritual used by the ancient Icelanders to settle disputes of honor between kings." She indicated the paper boxes on the floor. "Dwight, Andy, please don the ritualistic… footwear."
They obeyed without a thought, too busy fixing each other with venomous glares to make any objections. "Pick up your flonks," Pam instructed, and they leaned over to grip their yardsticks; Dwight held his like a javelin, while Andy clenched both hands around his as though intending to use it as a club.
"Here are the rules," Jim trumpeted, stepping up to stand beside Pam. "No weapons are permitted other than your flonks. No punching, clawing, or biting is allowed. No blows to the eyes, nothing below the belt, and nothing you wouldn't do to Darth Vader. Ready?" He took several steps back, pulling Pam with him to a place of safety. He raised his hand, restraining Andy and Dwight, who were both straining forwards against the extension cords around their feet. "Ready… begin!"
Dwight let out a bloodcurdling shriek, Andy bellowed like an enraged bull, and their yardsticks met with a mighty thwack in the space between them. They lumbered forward, fencing furiously; Andy managed to jab Dwight's shoulder with the cotton-covered end of his yardstick, and yet out a yell of triumph as Dwight clutched the wounded area as though he had actually been stabbed. The office workers clapped and whistled, cheering on their favorites; Kevin and Creed were taking bets.
Jim and Pam leaned against the door of the conference room, watching the show. "I didn't know we condoned violence," Pam murmured; when Jim was satisfied that no one was looking at them, he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
"We don't," he answered; but he sounded far too smug and self-satisfied as Dwight smacked Andy on the top of the head, getting revenge for the shoulder wound. "This is just… giving them a creative outlet for their anger. All's fair in love and flonkerton, Beesley."
"Really? So you won't mind if I do this?"
She moved swift as a striking snake, darting in to tickle him; her hands found the sensitive spot underneath his ribcage, and he was forced to squirm away, choking back laughter. She came after him again; he had to grab her hands in his own before she would stop, and just when he'd manage to wrap his fingers around hers, the door to the conference room slammed open and Michael appeared, striking what he obviously thought of an impressive pose, in the gap.
The office workers immediately grew quiet, swallowing their cheers and encouragement mid-word. Dwight and Andy, who were now pushing against each other with their yardsticks held like quarterstaffs, continued on obliviously until Michael started yelling.
"Hey hey hey!" he shouted, waving his arms frantically at the gladiators. "No fighting allowed unless you're fighting over me! Company policy! What are you doing, anyway?" he asked, casting a critical eye over the paper boxes and flonkerton equipment.
"Ancient Icelandic sport of kings," Pam called from her spot against the wall; she and Jim both had perfectly serious expressions, and Michael didn't seem to notice Kevin's snort of laughter or Stanley's aggrieved sigh.
"Oh, come on, don't be stupid. Everyone knows that they don't have kings in Iceland," Michael sighed, exasperated with Pam's ignorance. "They have emperor… penguins. You know, Emperor penguins? They're called that because they rule Iceland. You guys would know that if you weren't stupid." He sighed again, and made a shooing motion with his hands. "Okay, break it up, break it up. We've got major sales to make today! Besides, Darryl's going to teach me how to shoot a slam dunk in here, and I need all this crap cleaned up. Andy! Dwight! If you could make a basket of some kind… and a scoreboard… oh, and a disco ball! Can't forget that…"
Jim and Pam turned to each other at the same moment, with the same incredulous stare; they shared a wicked smile, and slipped silently out of the conference room, closing the door behind them as Michael put the rest of the office to work converting the flonkerton arena into a basketball court.
"Well, that killed twenty minutes," Jim sighed, checking his watch as he followed Pam into the empty break room. "Now it's back to drudgery. What are you doing?"
Pam had a styrofoam coffee cup in each hand, and was busy trying to puncture the bottoms with a plastic knife. "Nothing," she muttered, distracted. "You don't think Michael would keep any string in his office, do you? Or maybe in the supply cabinet…"
"I don't know," Jim told her, but his mind was churning. She was busy with her project, completely unsuspecting; distracted, off her guard. And what sort of prankster would Jim be if he didn't take advantage of that perfect circumstance?
Completely nonchalant, he took a few steps closer, meandering over as though to look in the refrigerator. He shuffled past her, peering over her shoulder – and struck, fingers flying to her navel, tickling her mercilessly. She shrieked, dropping the cups as her hands flew to his, trying to push him off, but he was too quick; in a moment he'd backed her up against the counter, trapping her with his arms as she squealed with laughter and tried her best to squirm away.
Then he leaned down and kissed her, and she was already pressing up onto her toes to meet his lips, not struggling anymore; she tasted like warmth and laughter, and they might have stayed like that for hours if they hadn't been interrupted by Kevin, who came into the break room looking for food to console himself over the loss of the flonkerton fight.
Jim and Pam broke apart, flushed and breathless, and did the best they could to feign small talk until he had left. When the door was firmly shut behind him, they gave up talking and just grinned at each other, burning smiles that put the sun outside to shame.
"What was that for?" Pam chided, wrapping her arms around herself as insurance against another unexpected tickle attack.
"I was just getting you back," Jim protested. "If you can sneak up on me, I can sneak up on you. All's fair, remember?"
"You know what this means, don't you?" Pam asked wickedly, her eyes glinting.
Jim matched her expression, a grin spreading slowly across his own face. "This means war," he answered. There was the seed of something in Pam's smile; and he knew that it was true. War had been declared. From now on, nothing and nowhere would be safe; she would sneaking up him whenever she could, to get him back for that last tickle fight, and then he would get his own revenge, and so on and so on until something better distracted them. This was war; they would spy on each other, sabotage and corner each other. Every kiss would be suspect, every embrace would be a battle. Every street corner would be a hiding place from behind which a snowball could be thrown.
They stared at each other for a moment, their smiles edged with cunning now, their eyes flickering, sizing each other up.
"Truce?" Jim asked, warily, and Pam nodded her agreement. Truce meant keeping hands out in the open; and keeping hands to yourself, as painful as that was. Truce was a white flag, under which Jim could turn his back on Pam without fear, long enough to walk over and open the door. He held it open, motioning for her to precede him out into the office proper. And then, as she walked past him with a challenge in her eyes, he feathered his fingers against the back of her neck, just enough to make her jump and turn around with a warning glare.
Because all was fair in love and war…
Rule Four: All suspects are guilty until proven innocent
The spring sunshine had mostly taken the chilling edge out of the air, but Jim and Pam well knew that it would still be cold on the roof of Dunder Mifflin after the sun went down. So when Pam caught his eye across the crowded conference room and motioned surreptitiously upward, he snuck out and vanished first into the storage room; when he finally reached the top of the ladder, five minutes later, it was with a blanket slung over his shoulder and a cardboard box clutched between his hands.
Pam, who was waiting for him on the pair of lawn chairs that now sat permanently near the roof's edge, raised her eyebrow in question; but he only smiled that mysterious smile and trotted over to join her, setting down his burden between them.
"Well, someone came prepared," she teased, peering over the edge of the cardboard box and ruffling through the various junk inside.
"Hey, once a Boy Scout, always a Boy Scout, Pam," Jim chortled, pulling open the plaid folds of the blanket. He kicked the box out of the way and pulled his lawn chair towards her until there was barely room between them; then he threw the blanket over Pam's shoulders and climbed in next to her, pulling the box up onto his legs and sorting through its contents.
"So, how did we do this year?" Pam asked, trying to tug the box away from him; he swatted at her hands, and finally resorted to the simple expedient of holding the box out of her reach as he finally pulled out what he had been looking for.
"No way, Beesley. Business later; pleasure first." As the expression on Pam's face clearly wondered at the kind of pleasure he had in mind, Jim let the fold of the blanket drop forward over his shoulder so that he could brush it dramatically aside, revealing a smaller cardboard box decorated in pink and yellow and green.
A broad grin lit up Pam's face, and she grabbed the smaller box from him, tearing at the top. "You got us Peeps?" she chuckled, sliding the first of the marshmallow chicks out of the wrapping. "Very classy, Jim. Very appropriate."
"I thought so," Jim agreed, peeling the head from her Peep and popping it into his mouth. He grinned flagrantly into her expression of outrage; she was speechless, her mouth gaping open, her hand tightening around the decapitated Peep so that the marshmallow stuffing leaked slowly out of its neck. Then, so fast he could barely comprehend it, her shock turned into that just-you-wait-I'll-get-you-back-for-this smile, and she threw the rest of the marshmallow chick at him, sticking her tongue out in triumph as it left a sticky pink stain on his shoulder and bounced away onto the concrete floor, where it was quickly forgotten.
Jim shook his head in resignation as Pam settled back in her chair, munching contentedly on the next Peep in the box. With her curious eyes scrutinizing his every move, he slowly reached under his own chair and drew out a pair of tall, thin glasses, quickly followed by a bottle of champagne.
This time the shock in Pam's eyes lasted less than a moment; in no time her crooked smile was back, and she accepted her glass with all the grace of a queen, raising it up so that the liquid inside glinted frosty and golden in the light of the stars. "A toast," she proposed, "to a day spent not working."
"And many more to come," Jim answered. The clink of their glasses echoed in the still-frozen air, and Jim let a few minutes of contented silence pass before he set his down on the roof beside his chair and pulled the last few items out of the large cardboard box; a notebook and a pair of pens. "Okay," he said gravely, passing one of the pens over to Pam and balancing the notebook between them. "Now, down to business. I counted a grand total of twenty pranks today." He drew the number in large print at the top of the first crisp page of the notebook. "What about you?"
Pam shook her head and leaned over him to cross out the zero and replace it with a one. "Remember Michael's whole end-of-the-world thing?" she asked, reproachfully. Jim nodded, but the expression on his face was doubtful.
"I don't know, Pam," he said slowly. "Are you sure that counts? I mean, I'd hardly call it a prank. A lame joke, maybe, at best. But not a prank – I mean, he didn't fool anyone. Not even Dwight."
"You know the rules, Jim," Pam replied sagely. "Any attempt to mess with one or more people in the office counts as a prank, even if it's a failed attempt. Otherwise, we wouldn't be able to count your little rubber bat in the ventilation duct that gave Meredith a panic attack but didn't fool anyone else."
"Hey! What makes you think that was me?" Jim protested. "That could have been anyone. I mean, Dwight was really into the whole bat thing. Maybe he did it."
"I know it was you, Jim," Pam sighed, and without looking at her Jim could hear in her voice that she was rolling her eyes. "I know you're the only one who can find the loose ceiling panel. Not to mention you're the only one tall enough to reach it with just a chair and not a ladder."
"Fine," Jim grumbled. "I admit it. So that's one for me." He scrawled his name on the left hand side of the paper, and under it scratched a tally mark; Pam wrote her name on the opposite side of the paper. Jim watched her out of the corner of his eye as she brought the pen back to her mouth, gnawing on it absently as she lost herself in her thoughts; the sight of her jogged his memory, and he poked her in the side to get her attention. "What about the exploding pen?" he asked.
Pam grinned at him, clearly delighted at the memory of Michael with blue ink streaked across his face. "That was me," she confirmed, and Jim added a tally mark underneath her name. It was her turn now; her eyes narrowed, and after a moment she came back with, "The lamp glued to the ceiling?"
"Me," Jim confirmed, earning a delighted giggle from Pam, who gave him another point. "I had to come in early, too. The things I do for this job… Okay, okay. Um… how about the jack-in-a-box in the microwave?"
"That was me," Pam bragged, and she and Jim were both forced to stop for a moment, savoring the look that had crossed Stanley's face; a fleeting hint of expression that had been enough to startle them into paroxysms of laughter.
"Okay, good. And I guess you were the gnome in the refrigerator, too?" Jim prompted, his pen hovering above the paper. He was stopped by Pam's shake of the head; surprised, he raised a questioning eyebrow.
"That wasn't me," she corrected him with a rueful smile. "That was actually Toby."
"You're kidding," Jim stated flatly; it wasn't a question. Pam shook her head.
"I swear to God," she answered seriously. "I saw him sneak it in under his coat this morning. I guess he was trying to get revenge for all the stuff Michael's done to him over the years. And he knows about Michael's deathly fear of gnomes, so…"
"Wow. I guess I knew he'd always snap someday." Jim shook his head, but awe and admiration filled his eyes. "Well, they say it's the quiet ones you have to watch out for, right? Man, I was so sure that was you. Michael stayed under his desk for half an hour!"
"I know," Pam giggled, but then regained control of herself and tapped the notebook. "Come on, Jimbo, back to business. That's five down, sixteen to go."
He gave her an odd glance at the use of the nickname, but shrugged and returned to the paper, adding a third column titled Toby with a single point. "Let's see," he muttered, ruminating. "Playing the train noises on the iPod was you… putting all the calendars back two days was you… convincing Dwight he was a werewolf was me… convincing Dwight you were a werewolf was me…"
"Hey!" Pam yelped, and hit Jim on the arm; he ignored her, too busy sorting through the day's madness and tallying up what mayhem he could remember.
"Convincing Michael that the toys on his desk were alive was a team effort… so we both get a point for that one." He paused. "What else?"
"Making Andy think he'd been accepted to American Idol," Pam reminded him; she had scooted closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder, the better to see the score sheet. "That was mine, thank you very much."
"Fine," Jim conceded, "A point for Pam, for warping Andy's already-delusional mind. I'd say about ten verbal pranks, jokes, and white lies; two each for you and me, then six for everyone else combined. Sound about right?" Pam nodded, her cheek rubbing against his shoulder, and he quickly rationed out the appropriate points. "And now, of course, there's the biggest one of all," he announced, peering down at the top of Pam's head; she glanced up to meet his gaze, her expression the very picture of innocence. "Who do you think it was," Jim asked slowly, "who covered my desk in a pile of pink paper hearts three feet deep, so that it took me twenty minutes to get them cleared away enough to work?"
Pam didn't so much as bat an eyelash. "Why, I haven't the slightest idea," she said airily, clasping her hands under her chin her very best sweet-little-Pammy routine. "Maybe it was Kelly? She's never really understood that Valentine's Day is over. And you know how much she loves pink."
"Oh, Kelly. Right. I should have thought of that. Except – I just have one question – why do you think Kelly would have written 'PB&J' on every single heart?" Jim was doing his best to look fiercely interrogative, but he had a sinking feeling that it wasn't working very well, not with Pam pouting at him and melting the more important bits of his brain.
"Maybe it was Kevin, then," she suggested. "You know how much he loves sandwiches. Maybe he was just… so overwhelmed by his love for sandwiches that he had to express it in some ridiculously romantic way."
"Oh, yes, I'm sure that's exactly what happened," Jim snorted, giving up on her and turning to doodle in the margins of the score sheet. "I'm sure Kevin was just dying for an opportunity to demonstrate his commitment to his three great loves – sandwiches, pranking, and me."
"Can you blame him?" Pam sighed contentedly, though still with a hint of a giggle in her voice. "I mean, I can definitely see where he's coming from. Sandwiches are pretty wonderful things." Jim nudged her in the ribs, and she added as an afterthought, "So are you, of course."
He looked down at her, and she peered up at him, and for a long moment their eyes met; and then they couldn't take it anymore, they both burst out into hysterical laughter, clinging to each other to keep from collapsing as they laughed like misbehaving children and gasped for breath.
When they could speak again, Jim managed to choke out, "You – are in so much trouble!"
"Innocent until proven guilty, Jim," Pam retorted; she had had more success at getting her breath back, and though she had managed to swallow her laughter she was still grinning a mile wide, her eyes bright with mirth and her cheeks flushed from the excitement and the cold.
"Oh, right," Jim panted, flashing his own dazzling white grin to match hers. "I forgot. Of course. Because there's no proof to show that you buried my desk in a pink paper avalanche. And you'd never do something that silly and frivolous, because you're a very professional receptionist who is just so dedicated to selling paper."
"Right," Pam agreed, inching closer to Jim, as they stared straight into each others' eyes and neither one backed down. "That's exactly it. Plus, you know, you're great and all, but I don't like you that much. I mean, I'd have to be crazy to do something that stupid just for you."
And then they were less than an inch apart, the steam from their breath mingling in the still-crisp end-of-winter night; and just before their lips touched, they murmured soft and low, in unison, "April Fools."
Rule Five: There is no Rule Five, or The Law of Variation
And the most important law was the law of variation.
Jim had learned that the hard way, but it was a lesson he held dear; that no matter how ordinary Pam looked, no matter how boring their life together appeared on the surface, well, you just never knew, did you?
Because she would eat Mixed Berry Yogurt every day for a year, and then one day he would playfully steal her lunch and the yogurt flavor would not be any kind of berry at all, but peach. And then the next day it would be strawberry, then green apple, then mixed berry again for six months, and so on; without pattern, without cease.
Because she said she hated horror movies, but he found Alfred Hitchcock on her shelves, and when he accused her of lying she had explained very patiently that those were classics, and it wasn't the same thing. Because she seemed like the kind of person who would be a fan of romantic comedies to the exclusion of all else, but when Jim let her pick the movie on date night she wanted to see Beowulf, despite the monsters and blood and gore.
Because she was a founding member of the Finer Things Club but still laughed when Jim played pranks like the most childish and immature of six-year-olds; because she went to art classes at the community college twice a week, but was still up for drawing in chalk on the sidewalk, and would probably try finger painting if she ever got the chance.
Because even after a year and then a year and a half together, there were still times when he didn't know exactly what she was thinking; because she had so many different smiles, one when she was shy and one when she was bold and one when she was lost in thought and on when she was just about to unveil a trick, a great big gotcha that would derail reality as Jim knew it and pull some huge rabbit-from-the-hat disappearing act that he didn't expect. Because she could still play pranks on him, the master of mayhem, the prankster king.
Because she would take frustration and abuse, take it for weeks and months and years, suffer silently and patiently and then explode with a temper more vicious and wounding than anyone had ever thought her capable of. Because she cried during documentaries when baby animals died, and then teased Jim mercilessly when he his eyes watered because he had gotten dust in them and he tried to surreptitiously wipe it away. Because she was dependable, but still full of little inconsistencies that sometimes made Jim feel like that by going out with her he was exploring an unfamiliar country, a far off fairyland where surprises waited around every bend and the maps said only here be dragons.
Because Pam looked average enough, and from the outside their romance and their lives were as predictable as any dime-a-dozen TV show and movie plot, but things were never as they seemed; it was because of all these things that Jim had added to the rules of their relationship, expect the unexpected.
For example: Pam had art classes every Tuesday and Thursday night. So on the dreary and rain-drenched third Tuesday of September, Jim expected the apartment he and Pam shared to be empty; he drove home slowly, made half a dozen stops, because he thought that only darkness and dust were waiting for him, and he could let them wait. He loaded up the trunk of his car with things that were to be kept secret at all costs, because he didn't expect there to be anyone at home to see him unload them.
But, of course, his luck and his fiancée conspired against him and when he pulled into the parking lot of their apartment building, the sight of Pam's car filled him with a very real, icy, knife-edged panic.
It took several minutes of gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands and staring at the dashboard as though hoping to burn through it with only the venom of his glare before he was able to get himself under control again. He took several deep breaths, climbed out of the car, and clenched his hands into fists to keep them from shaking; then, with one last desperate glance at his trunk, he slowly and deliberately walked into the building, entered the elevator, and jabbed the appropriate button with a finger that hardly trembled at all.
Usually Jim and Pam ate leftovers, sandwiches, or pizza during the week; elaborate meals were for the weekends, when they took turns cooking and making fun of each others' cooking, or else they went out for real dates, which could consist of anything from dinner at a fancy French restaurant to a night at the nearest amusement park. So he was surprised when the warm smells of something roasting spilled out around him when he opened the apartment door; not only because Pam was cooking, but because she had apparently managed to use the oven without setting fire to anything vital. He only had a moment to wonder if she had set fire to herself instead, but then she appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing an inexpertly tied apron, a foot-tall chef's hat cocked at a jaunty angle, and a brilliant grin.
"Wow." He was stunned speechless for a moment, and could only look up her and down, smiling his approval. "Nice outfit, Beesley. Maybe you should give up selling paper and get your own TV show instead. I know plenty of people would pay for the privilege of seeing you in that hat."
"Oh, shut up, Halpert," she said happily, darting forward and pulling him into the apartment so fast that he barely had time to shut the door behind him; then, as he turned back to ask her what the hell she was doing, she caught him off guard with a well-timed kiss. He snatched the hat off her head with one hand, to get it out of the way; with the other hand he caught her around the waist and pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, and it took all of her strength to squirm away. "Focus," she told him, the mirthful glint in her eyes belying her firm tone of voice. "We're celebrating tonight." She pointed over her shoulder, to the kitchen, from which enticing smells were still drifting, and her message was clear; they would be celebrating a different way from the one Jim had in mind.
He followed her back into the kitchen, twisting the white fabric of her hat between his large hands. "Okay," he said dismissively, shrugging away her rebuke. "But what are we celebrating? Your birthday isn't until next week, and mine's in three months. Not that I don't love celebrating," he added quickly, as she returned to the complicated things she was doing with the oven, pausing only to point to the occasional piece of cutlery which he quickly fetched for her.
"I'm graduating next week," she informed him, her grin growing a little wider with the words. "First in my class. That's why the teacher let us off early tonight; he said we'd all earned a break, especially me."
"Seriously? Wow, Pam, I'm really proud of you." He pulled the plates from her hand and spun her around for a congratulatory kiss; this time she was the one who had to be gently pushed away, though they were both beaming. "That is a cause for celebration," Jim announced, retreating across the kitchen to pull out a bottle of wine.
"And after the graduation ceremony, my teacher's rented space at an art gallery downtown to show the student's best pieces," Pam continued. "He said that I'll probably sell everything I show. Can you imagine?"
He almost couldn't. He didn't know how much art went for these days, but they could put the extra money towards planning their wedding… and he suddenly realized that this was only the beginning, that Pam would probably go to more art shows, maybe even become famous. The very thought made his heart swell with pride; and they could put the money towards planning their wedding next spring, and after that…
After that his mind reverted without his consent to the insane, impossible package sitting in the trunk of his car. And amidst all of his pride for Pam, all of the warm currents of love and affection and appreciation, he felt a small pinprick of ice in the pit of his stomach, a marble of lead that weighed heavily on his soul. Because the art shows, and the wedding, and the thing in the trunk of his car… when he put them all together in his mind, he knew with an irrevocable certainty that nothing in his life would ever be the same again.
"Jim?"
Pam's voice was quiet and concerned, a far cry from the golden exaltation it had been only a minute before. Jim realized that he had stopped in the middle of the kitchen and was staring blankly at the wall, with one hand holding the wine bottle and the other hanging limp at his side. He shook his head to clear it and summoned a smile again, as a defense against Pam's eyes, which had suddenly turned piercing.
"I'm really proud of you," he said again, and it was true, but it was a weak defense. Jim, who had been working as a salesman in a dead-end job selling paper for seven years, was suddenly beset on all sides by changes; and yogurt flavors be damned, these were big changes, real life-altering changes. And Jim, who had always sort of drifted along wherever life saw fit to take him, was suddenly not quite sure what to think.
Then Pam was holding both his hands in hers, and looking up at him with the love in her eyes suddenly turned fierce, turned strong. "What's wrong?" she demanded, somehow managing to be suspicious and compassionate all at once; slowly, without speaking, Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded-up sheet of paper. He handed it to her wordlessly, and she let go of one of his hands long enough to take it.
A moment passed in silence as she scanned the close, typewritten words and the columns of figures that filled the paper and even spilled out into the margins. When she glanced up again she was dazed, glassy-eyed, and looking just as secretly terrified as Jim felt. Slowly, carefully, she walked over and set the paper down on the kitchen table, smoothing the creases away with her fingers as though the sheet of paper was in fact made of engraved glass.
"Jim," she said carefully, "This is the deed to a house. And it's for us." She looked up at him, still in awe. "Where did you get this? What's going on?"
"It was supposed to be a wedding present from my parents," he sighed. "They made the down payment – they didn't buy the whole thing. But I didn't want to wait for our wedding, so I was going to give it to you for your birthday, next week." He walked over to join her next to the table and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into an embrace. "And then, just now, I was thinking – your art career is taking off, you'll probably become world famous, and we'll get married in May, and it just hit me; it won't be the same, will it?" He was overawed, unsure. "From now on, I mean. Pretty soon nothing will be the same, ever again. And I'm not just talking yogurt flavors and movie genres anymore…"
"What?" She looked up at him, puzzled, but then her bewilderment cleared and she smiled at him, which was always reassurance enough to drive any trepidation from this thoughts. "Of course things won't be the same," she chided him. "Things will be really different – things are always changing, always different. But we'll be the same." She kissed him again, soft and chaste, just pressing her lips to his. "And even if we change, us being together won't change. The fact that I love you won't change." And she kissed him again, kissed him for endless minutes until the smell of something burning filled the kitchen and they had to break apart, Jim running for the fire extinguisher while Pam opened the oven door and got out of the way.
And as they laughed and talked about the future over pizza, Jim reminded himself of his own rule; expect the unexpected. The law of unexpected turnabout and sudden, constant variation; it was a law of life and their relationship, right up there with gravity and buying roses on Valentine's Day. And, after he had brought up the house paperwork from the trunk of his car, he and Pam watched The Princess Bride and feigned swordfighting with pillows and kissed in all the romantic places.
(Because some things, at least, never change.)
(Do you think I should split this chapter up into five smaller ones? It would make rather a mess of the prompt scheme, but it's something that I toyed with, briefly. What do you think? And, of course, what do you think of the chapter in general?
A hearfelt plea, from me to you;
Gentle reader, please review!
