TG/N: For those of you who still remember this story, I say bravo! And also that I hopefully quench your Office withdrawal. It's only been a couple weeks, and I'm already starting to hurt . . . physically and emotionally. No Dwight, no Andy. No Creed. And who am I supposed to rely on for sarcastically biting remarks when Stanley is nowhere around? No one, that's who! Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for taking almost an entire year to update this. Although, maybe it's kind of better because this is supposed to be a summer story, and now that summer is reapproaching, everyone's in their 'summer moods'. Ignoring my complete incompetence, I give you what I hope will be an adequate addition to Paper Palooza: The Convention:

-DM-

"Oh, my God, Roy, did you hear . . . that . . ."

The grin on Pam's face faded as she realized Roy was asleep. Not that she had been able to tell immediately. She had to peer over the seat in front of her to get visual proof, but the signs were all there. Even Darryl had passed out.

She collapsed back in her seat and stared out the window. Truth be told, she didn't mind sitting by herself or that Roy didn't want to sit with her because she might "blow some chunks." After all, she did get pretty bus sick. For once, though, it would have been nice if he had insisted on sitting with her just because he wanted to. Who else was she supposed to share her Michael-confusing-the-bus-driver-for-a-man story? She was a woman, by the way.

Even Oscar was sitting next to Toby. If that wasn't a weird combination, she didn't know what was. She sighed. It was like the high school cafeteria all over again, and once again, she was forced to sit by herself amongst a sea of people who didn't even acknowledge her existence. If she had wanted to be by herself, she would have stayed home, which brought her thoughts, full circle, back to why she had even agreed to come on this stupid trip in the first place.

"So how's the bus ride so far?"

"Oh, um, the bus ride's been fine." She pushed her bangs behind her ears, but they didn't stay. "I finally took Dwight up on his offer for some Dramamine, and I think it's finally kicking in. I'm feelin' pretty good right now . . . but, um, that's probably the drowsiness talking."

"Have you talked to Jim yet?"

The question surprised her so much, she choked on her own spit. The cameraman offered to help, but Pam signaled against it. She hadn't even realized Jim was on the bus. "No, I haven't gotten the chance yet," she responded, having calmed her coughing spasm. Her palms had suddenly gone slick and she wiped them on her capris. "I just—I just didn't want to come off as annoying, you know?" she covered for her ignorance. "He's probably still adjusting to the time change since Australia is really far away, so . . . he's probably, like, really tired, and I don't want to disturb him." Even to her own ears, her excuse sounded lame. Plus, she was obviously rambling. "Um, you'll have to excuse me; I really need to use the ladies' room."

She excused herself and began walking down the aisle towards the back of the bus. Through her peripheral vision, she watched as the cameraman turned his attention towards Stanley and his wife, who was sleeping. He complained about how she forced him to come along, but he only got through the beginning before Pam was out of hearing range. She glanced down at the lock on the bathroom door and observed the brilliant "OCCUPIED" sign. Hopefully the wait wouldn't be too long. Although, if it was, at least she'd have an excuse to stay away from Roy.

-DM-

Ryan agitatedly pulled the ear buds out of his ears, mid-Foo Fighters, in response to being jolted by Kelly in the seat beside him.

"What?"

The smile on Kelly's face faded, and she looked hurt beyond belief. "Geez, Ryan, if I knew you were gonna be such a jerk, I wouldn't have ever come to sit with you in the first place," she complained, her brows furrowed. She crossed her arms over the hot pink halter top she was wearing. Just the sight of that color made Ryan's head hurt. "God, I even let you have the window seat, even though you fully know that natural sunlight brings out the golden hues in my skin."

Ryan was barely listening, as he had learned to tune her out whenever he possibly could. He hated being rude to her, but she just couldn't take a hint. He was hoping she would eventually just get sick of being treated like dirt and break up with him. So far, no luck. Instead, he sat in an uncomfortable bus seat overhearing Creed's morning ritual, which included doing yoga nude on his front lawn and listening to Kelly ramble off about something or other. He groaned. Why had he even agreed to come along?

"Sorry," he finally said, eager to get her to stop talking. "I'm just not feeling well."

Kelly pouted. "Aww, Ry-Ry!"

She began nuzzling his neck, and he had to admit it was much more preferable to her talking, so he let her continue. Eventually she stopped and rested her head on his shoulder. He was just about to pop his ear buds back in when a camera was shoved in his face.

"So how's the trip so far?"

"Oh," Ryan admitted, rather acidly, "it's everything I thought it would be."

They could decipher that however they wanted to, he decided.

-DM-

"Why did you change seats?"

Toby looked up from the Rolling Stone magazine he had been perusing. He adjusted the baseball cap on his head. "Well . . . to be honest," he admitted shyly, "Oscar sort of snores when he sleeps and after awhile it just started to get on my nerves, so I moved back here."

Toby had to wonder why they were filming such a stupid question, as he often did. It wasn't as if he were fascinating or anything. He just worked in Human Resources after all. "The only sound I have to deal with back here is Dwight telling anyone who will listen his theories concerning Snape. I don't really mind it, though. I mean . . . in comparison, it's no worse than telling the bus driver, Hank, the story of how I slept in my car that one time after the divorce." He cleared his throat. "Sometimes . . . I really hate Michael."

-DM-

"Okay, Dunder Mifflinites, let's play a little game," Michael said from the front of the bus. He looked more tanned than usual, and his hair looked shorter as if he had just gotten a haircut. His left hand grasped one of the seats for support, while his right hand hung freely by his side, occasionally gesturing for emphasis. "I'm going on a picnic, and I'm going to bring with me an . . . apricot. Stanley? Your turn."

Stanley didn't even look up from his crossword puzzle. "No."

Michael's smile faltered somewhat as he struggled to keep his composure. "What? No, you—Stanley, just . . . do it. I order you to play the game."

"We are not even going on a picnic, Michael," Stanley challenged, his one eyebrow raised in possible annoyance or frustration. If his wife weren't sleeping and hadn't been so good to him for the past twenty-two years, he might have killed her right then.

"Yeah, Michael," Phyllis chimed in from her seat next to Meredith. Meredith had passed out far earlier on in the trip, a tiny metal flask sticking out of her windbreaker's pocket. Surprisingly, she hadn't taken a drink from it . . . yet. "I thought we were going to a paper convention." She brightened. "Are we going to go on a picnic when we get there?"

Under his breath, or at least, what he thought was under his breath, Michael muttered, "Shiuuuuuuuut it," before he took a deep breath and massaged his forehead. "Phyllis, why don't you just go back to your woman's troubles and wait your turn, okay? And no, there is no picnic." He sighed. "Stanley. Please? C'mon! It'll be fun."

Frowning so hard, his forehead hurt, Stanley scowled. "Fine," he surrendered. "I am going on a nonexistent picnic and I'm gonna bring with me a human tranquilizer gun with unlimited ammo. Does that suit your liking?" Without waiting for an answer, he added, "Good. 'Cause I don't care."

"That would be unwise, Stanley," came a superior voice from the back of the bus. It was Dwight, and he had finally resurfaced from his Snape debate. "You'd most likely want to stick with small artillery when—"

"Dwight, shut it!" Michael called from his spot callously.

Dwight's heart sank. The cameraman turned his device towards him, but Dwight quickly sank back into his seat, not wanting his moment of weakness to go televised. "Sorry, Michael," he apologized loudly enough so that Michael could hear it. Dwight didn't realize it, but Michael just rolled his eyes. "It must be the Dramamine," he explained. "I will not fail you again."

"Yeah, okay, Dwight, whatever." He turned his attention back to Stanley. "No, see, you need to bring something that starts with 'b,' then you—"

Jim groaned and sank back into his overly stuffed chair, blocking out Michael as much as he possibly could. This, he decided, was on his top ten list of worst decisions ever made. Not number one, but definitely three or four. He glanced out the window, and watched as a yellow Mustang sped by in a blur. Despite the smeared gray of the highway, it looked gorgeous outside. At least if the day sucked terribly, the weather would be great. It wasn't raining, the sun was shining brilliantly, and hardly any clouds hung in the crystal clear blue sky. He brushed a piece of hair out of his eyes and couldn't help thinking how much greater the trip would go if he had ultimately decided not to come. It's a free trip to Chicago, Halpert, he reminded himself as he moved over to give a sleeping Kevin more room. You'd never get there otherwise. Plus, what would you be doing at home anyway? Watching old Golden Girls reruns? Don't shake your head 'no,' Halpert! That's exactly what you would be doing.

"Oh, my God. Jim, hey!"

The voice filtered through his ear canals until it spread out to the tips of his fingers and toes and sped the rate of his heart which pounded beneath that maroon tee he hadn't washed since two days ago. His hands became slick with sweat. He hadn't heard that voice in over two months.

He was at a loss for words. "Wow . . . Pam. Hey." The furthest his mind had processed was his trip to Australia and June tenth. The thought of speaking to her after the wedding had never even crossed his mind.

She smiled brightly and held onto the bench across the aisle for balance. "You look . . . different," she admitted; her smile faltering slightly. It was just as she feared. He was no longer on her level, in Scranton, PA. He was now the worldly traveler. He even had facial hair.

Pam couldn't help that her smile faltered. Jim was her friend, and yeah, she should have been really happy for him that he got to fulfill his dreams, but secretly, she couldn't help being slightly jealous. What dreams had she followed? She had never traveled out of Scranton, and what did that town have to offer? Sure, when she was younger her family would go to the Jersey shore during the summers, but ever since she had been with Roy and he had proposed, her main focus had been on saving money for the wedding.

There was that one option, she reminded herself glumly. Jan had offered her not only foreign travel (for her, anyway), but an opportunity to hone her art skills and to shed her title of receptionist once and for all. But she had decided against it. Well, Roy had, but he was only looking out for their future, and really, he did have a point. It wasn't as if she could really afford it, and the choice didn't really have that much security.

Still, sometimes when she was alone, and things got deathly quiet, she wondered how things would have turned out had she chosen the option to go. At least she would have followed her dreams. At least she wouldn't have been stuck in Scranton where the only things she had were Roy and the Steamtown Mall. At the moment, neither of those things seemed too appealing.

"Different 'good' or different 'bad'?" Jim asked, pulling her from her thoughts. His lips deceived him and tugged upwards in a grin.

Pam thought about it for a minute. "Um . . . different hairy," she finally decided on, sitting in the seat opposite Jim as a sort of exclamation point. "When did you decide to grow a beard?"

Jim forced out a grin and laughed uncommittedly. How did you explain shower protest to your coworker, especially a coworker like Pam? The answer, of course, was simple: you didn't. "I am insulted," he cried in mock indignation. "Asking about a man's beard is like asking about a woman's age. Shame on you."

Pam threw her hands up into the air in feigned surrender. Maybe he hadn't changed as much as she thought. "I'm sorry," she pleaded, giggling. "I'm so sorry; I had no idea!"

Jim smiled, lifting his cap so he could see her better. "I'll let it slide this time, Beesly, because you're my friend. But for future reference, just know that beards and-or mustaches are forbidden territory. Do you think Sean Connery lets people even mention his beard?" He shook his head ardently. "Definitely not. Sideburns, on the other hand, are different. Sideburns are almost like a medal of a guy's awesome factor. That's why Conan O'Brien is pretty much the coolest guy to walk the planet because he has some of the greatest sideburns ever. They're pretty much the king in the hierarchal system of facial hair. In fact, talk about sideburns is definitely encouraged."

"What about mustaches?" Pam wanted to know, fully enjoying the turn the conversation had taken. "Where do they fall on the hierarchal system?"

Jim seemed to think about it for a long time before he explained, "Well, mustaches are like the scribes of the kingdom because they're definitely above peasants, but they don't hold a candle to the sideburns' nobility. Beards are like the queen to the king, and the peasants are goatees and 'soul patches' like Apollo Anton Ohno's because those are just lame. It's like, 'I'm going to grow a beard, but only one eighth of one!' Please. If you're a real man, you'll take the dive."

Pam nodded fervently, "Okay, I get it!" Kevin stirred from his sleep, and automatically she clamped a hand over her mouth. When he stopped moving, and it appeared that he wasn't going to wake up, she added much quieter, "But since we're good friends, and we've already brought the subject up . . ."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Jim said, "You never give up, huh?" Pam shook her head sweetly. He sighed dramatically. "Fine . . . actually, to tell you the truth, there's not much of a story to tell about ol' Bessie Lou—that's what I call it—" he added, stroking his beard lovingly, "—except that I got lazy and carefree in Australia, hence the lack of shaving."

A small glimmer crossed Pam's eyes at the mention of Australia, but it was gone just as fast as it had appeared. As a matter of fact, if he hadn't looked in her direction at that moment, he would have missed it. "Oh, yeah," she stated, pushing her bangs behind her ears again, "I forgot to ask you how your trip went. So tell me: how was the beach down there? I thought about you a lot this summer." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, and she saw Jim's eyebrows rise slightly, she regretted them instantly. "I—I mean," she restated, "like, when I was stuck in the office, sometimes when I would get bored, I would think of, you know, 'Fancy New Halpert' sunbathing on the beach, and, well, you know how often boredom goes around Dunder Mifflin."

Jim only knew too well. "Australia was great," he said without elaboration. The last thing he ever wanted to do was go into detail of all the dark time spent in his hotel room. Nothing could be more embarrassing than that low he had reached, but he was over that now. And that's how it was going to stay if he had anything to say about it.

"Oh, well I'm glad you had a great trip," Pam said. She sounded genuinely happy about the trip and the whole conversation they were sharing. Even though he couldn't admit it to himself, deep down he knew he had really missed Pam. She was, after all his friend.

The two sat in silence for a moment or two, not mentioning the one topic that was on the top of each of their minds. Pam kept quiet out of not wanting to stir up trouble, and Jim because he knew he could not handle the inevitable. Things were a lot less complicated when they could hide behind the friends' façade.

"I didn't marry Roy," Pam finally blurted, breaking the silence, at the same time as Jim commented, "You look really nice today, Beesly."

Jim's eyes widened as realization finally poured over him. "Wait—what?"

Before he could get an answer out of her, Kevin finally did wake up. He lifted his aviator sunglasses and rubbed his eyes with the heals of his hands. "Hey, Pam," he greeted, more slowly than usual, probably due to sleep.

"Hey, Kevin," Pam replied, almost as if it was difficult to spit the words out. She avoided Jim's gaze at all costs. "Where's, um . . . Stacy?"

"Oh." Kevin's brows furrowed slightly, and he didn't look too pleased. "She couldn't make it on account of—" he used air quotes, "—'work related' time consumptions." He shook his head and sighed. "Really, I just think she didn't want have to deal with Michael after what happened at the Dundies. I can't really blame her though . . . Hey! Did you get a look at Jim's beard? It's pretty awesome."

Pam nodded quickly. Never in her life had she ever wanted to get out of a situation more than she did then. "Yeah, Dwight will probably be pretty jealous since his mustache never worked out."

"That's exactly what I told him," Kevin admitted with a slight grin. He fished in his pockets before producing an iPod.

I didn't marry Roy. The words kept repeating themselves in Jim's mind over and over again. Was she being serious? Was it all a joke? Had she even meant to say it? And more importantly, why? He wanted an answer so badly, but before he could get anything out, Pam stood up abruptly.

"Well, I should probably get back to my seat," she explained, jabbing a thumb towards the front of the bus. "Roy's probably wondering where I am—" Lie. "—so I'll see you later, Kev. It was nice talking to you, Jim."

"Yeah," Jim called after her. Kevin, beside him, was lost to the world in his own iPod. He could just barely make out the sound of Grand Funk Railroad's 'Some Kind of Wonderful'. "Feelings mutual."

-DM-

"Where's Michael?"

Angela rolled her eyes and turned to look at the pandemonium wreaked on the drop off zone of the Hilton hotel the group was apparently staying at for the duration of their week in Chicago. All of her coworkers were scattered out on the concrete platform, their suitcases strewn haphazardly. Large spot lights shown down on the hotel, breaking through the night in thin beams and various insects buzzed loudly as they gathered in front of the light. As for Angela, she turned her attention back to the cameraman.

"You would think he would have gotten one thing right on this trip," she said loudly, trying to speak over the clatter of car horns beeping. "You would think that, but you would be wrong. Apparently, he assumed that because this was a Hilton hotel, he could convince the manager that he had personal connections to that harlot Paris and that she gave us permission to stay our week for free. Obviously, the manager didn't buy it for a second, so now both he and Michael are trying to contact Corporate so they can sort this whole thing out. We've been waiting for over an hour, and most of us are really tired." She shook her head furiously. "I don't know why they keep giving Michael responsibilities. I just don't."

"So do you know the reason for all the honking horns?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she asked, leaning against one of the large columns on the concrete platform. Her hair blew slightly with the slight breeze that passed. "The cars want our bus to get out of the way since it's parked in a no parking zone. We would move it, but our bus driver, 'Hank,' took a smoking break about ten minutes ago, and we have not seen him since."

The cameraman was about to ask Angela something else, but was interrupted by a hurried Dwight, who gave him a suspicious glance even though he had been filming for a little over a year now. "Good evening . . . Angela," he added quickly, after giving a furtive glance to the camera. "Michael has sorted everything out, so he has asked me to gather everyone and tell them to meet up on the third floor."

"Thank you, Dwight," Angela said courteously, short of actually curtsying. She watched him as he walked through the automatic doors before gathering her own belongings. Turning towards the camera before she left, she added, "When 'Hank' goes to hell from smoking all those cigarettes, I hope God allows me to personally slap him for this and that terrible bus ride." She paused before adding, "I don't even think he's a legal U.S. citizen."

-DM-

Jim hated elevators.

It wasn't so much the contraptions themselves as it was standing in a confined space with total strangers standing right on top of you. Jim had a thing about his personal space. He enjoyed it most when people were nowhere near it. Normally, he would have taken the stairs, but there he stood, on the elevator with his belongings rationalizing that it would take too much out of him to haul his suitcase, plus a duffle bag, up three flights of stairs. He was in shape, but not that in shape. Especially since his summer had mainly consisted of lounging in front of the TV. Admittedly, his stomach had gone a little softer than it had been in a few years, but it was nothing a few games of basketball couldn't fix. To be honest, he didn't touch his basketball the entire summer. He sort of missed it.

C'mon! CLOSE! The only person in the elevator was him since a group of his coworkers had just gone up in the previous trip. The door was taking its grand old time, but if he could time it correctly, he'd be riding up in no time, happily alone.

The door slowly crawled shut, but not before a hand shot through the slim opening. Damn. "Wait!" the voice called from the other side. The elevator door was sliding open again. "Wait, a minute, I—what are you doing?"

Jim stared at a disheveled Dwight who was carrying at least three suitcases, two pillows, and what appeared to be a large, green military backpack. He raised his eyebrows incredulously as if it were not the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm attempting to take the elevator to the third floor, Dwight," he casually replied, not taking note of Dwight's rigid stance.

Dwight opened his mouth to say something before clamping it shut again, his brow line furrowing. "I—no, Stupid, I get that. What is that? What is that on your face?"

"Oh," Jim brightened, realization dawning. He stroked his chin. "You mean my beard? I grew it over the summer. Do you like it?"

Dwight, obviously seething with jealousy, gathered his things and ungracefully dragged them into the elevator with him. His lips were set in a thin line, and he positioned himself on the opposite side of Jim. "Average," he announced before pressing in the button labeled '3'. "It's a little sparse by your chin, so technically, not really a beard."

Jim frowned, silently pleased as the door finally shut, and he felt the jerk of the elevator, signaling its ascent. He let out a jagged breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Unscathed. For the most part, anyway. He turned his attention back to Dwight. "Well, yeah," he agreed, leaning against the wall of the elevator and crossing his arms over his chest, "but it's still more hair than you have."

Dwight watched as the elevator dinged in recognition of the second floor, and the tiny circle above the door lit up. His shoulder ached from all the bags he was holding, but he didn't wince. Schrutes didn't wince. They didn't sing bass either, he thought absentmindedly. "I had a beard when I was thirteen, Jim. Don't need another one," he said shortly. "Schrutes happen to have excellent hair distribution."

"Whoa, thirteen?" Jim said in surprise, his lips twitching. He let out a low whistle. "That's a tough one to beat . . . . Did you know I was five when I grew my first pair of mutton chops?"

He suppressed a smile when Dwight opened his mouth and then shut it, his face turning a violent shade of red. The elevator dinged once again, only this time, the door opened, and outside stood the rest of the Dunder Mifflin employees, their things strewn miscellaneously across the hallway. Jim grabbed his things and bypassed Dwight, adding, "It was nice talking to you, Dwight. I hope we're roommates."

Dwight scoffed, struggling as he attempted to grab all of his things before the door shut again. "You are the last person on the planet I would ever want to share a room with. Except for maybe Kelly," he added as an afterthought, having fully exited the elevator.

-DM-

"How is the rooming situation?"

The camera focused on Dwight leaning against the wall next to, what was presumably the door to his room. His hair was tousled as if he had run his fingers through it numerous times, and the scowl on his face didn't exactly emanate happiness.

"The rooming situation is terrible," he stressed, glaring at the cameraman as if he were to blame. "Do you know who I got stuck with? No, you probably don't because you don't have the superior deduction skills of a Schrute, so in that case, I'll tell you. Jim Halpert. That is who I am stuck with for this entire week. Apparently everyone else paired up before we got up here.

"You know, this is exactly what happened to Buffy Summers during her first year of college in episode 402 'Living Conditions,'" he went on to say. "I was disappointed that a vampire slayer couldn't figure out 'Kathy' was a demon. Not very comforting to us mortals, since I knew from day one 'Kathy' was a demon. Nevertheless, I can relate to Buffy since we both have, or in her case, had, annoying roommates." He grabbed a plastic Ziploc out of his bag. "Can't be too careful this time. If you happen to notice Jim clipping his nails more often than usual, alert me immediately. I'm the only one in this God-forsaken group who could take out He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, let alone a demon."

-DM-

"Tell us: who is your roommate?"

Darryl looked over his shoulder and was prepared to answer, but was, unfortunately, interrupted.

"Ooh, ooh, Mista Rogers, I call right bed!"

Darryl mimed shooting a gun off in his mouth. "No," he added sadly, his head hung low, "that would be too kind."