A/N: So, chapter 2…I'm now thinking this will be a 3-parter. I'm playing around with format and tense a bit here, let me know if it works, doesn't work, whatever. Again, don't own the characters, just playing around with them, and having quite a bit of fun in the process. No copyright infringement is intended.

…………………………..

SLAM

Pam stiffens immediately, and Jim springs backward with his hands up, as though he is being arrested.

"Roy…" she begins.

But he doesn't even look at her. He goes straight for Jim, who continues backing away, bumping into his chair.

"Roy, wait…"

His face is completely red. His hands are closed in fists, his breath is coming in short, steam-engine huffs. He closes the distance between himself and Jim in a few seconds, his fist flying wildly as soon as he is in range. Only the fact that Jim is stumbling over his chair saves him from a broken nose; the fist grazes his cheekbone and he keeps his feet, but only barely.

"No…" Pam probably meant to scream it, but it comes out in a strained whisper.

Roy is breathing as if he's run a mile. His eyes are narrowed at the other man in the room, but Jim is standing firm, a red welt just blooming on his cheek, eyes locked with Roy. When Roy speaks, it is low and calm and deadly. "Stay out of it. This is between me and Halpert." She is behind him now, and Roy reaches back to push her out of the way.

She won't go. "No," she says. Her voice is stronger. She grabs Roy's wrist in both hands and holds on so tightly her arms shake. "Roy, this is between you and me. Jim has nothing to do with it..."

Roy blinks at Jim, his face twisting with mockery. "Nothing?" Then a small smile creeps onto his face, and he looks from one of them to the other, beginning to sweat. "Aw, I am such an idiot."

Everyone has forgotten the cameras; they are steadying, catching the beads of sweat (is it only sweat?) on Roy's face, the fact that Jim is still standing his ground, fists balled at his sides. Catching the fact that Pam is staring only at Jim as she clutches Roy's wrist in a death grip, her eyes wide and panicked.

Roy just stands between them, looking from one to the other. "How could I not have seen this coming?"

Pam steps forward, not loosening her grip on him. "Look, nothing has been going on here…"

"Oh yeah right!" Roy whirls around to face her, and as he does his hand flies out of hers wildly, just missing her face; she flinches backward.

Jim makes a movement toward her, opens his mouth to speak, then stops himself.

"…Until today," she finishes, backing up.

Roy steps forward so he's right in her face; she bumps into her desk and she has to lean back, away from his angry words, his clenched teeth. "Am I supposed to believe that? What the hell, Pam?" And he slams his fist down onto the desktop next to her.

She closes her eyes and flinches back again, her arms crossing in front of her, her shoulders hunching. On her face there is pain, and something uncomfortably close to fear.

And Jim has had enough.

You can see him decide: he closes his eyes and opens them again, very deliberately; his shoulders relax.

He steps forward. "Take it easy," he says, his voice low and calm and deadly.

Slowly, slowly Roy turns to face him. "Take it easy?"

Pam is glaring at him from behind Roy's back, shaking her head. Jim ignores her. "Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That's rich." He slams his fist on the desk again; the jelly beans fall to the floor and scatter across the carpet. Pam watches them rolling, all the colors on gray carpet. She's close to hyperventilating.

Jim holds out his hands, palms down. "Calm down," he says.

Roy moves quickly. His hand has not relaxed from the fist he used to bang on the desktop, and he uses it as he lunges at Jim and grabs him by the front of the shirt.

Behind them, Pam lets out a faint scream.

"Don't tell me to calm down." Roy pulls his fist back. "Don't you dare…"

"Stop it, Roy." Her voice is thin and scared.

"Shut up, Pam."

Jim grabs the fist that is holding his shirt. His fingernails dig into the knuckles. "Don't tell her to shut up." There is something hard in his eyes, in his voice. He doesn't seem to be blinking.

Roy's eyes pop crazily, and he half-laughs. "You telling me what to do?"

"I'm telling you not to talk to her like that."

"She's my girlfriend, I'll say whatever the fuck I want."

"Roystopit." Her voice is no longer thin and scared; in fact, she is close to screaming, her teeth clenched. She is standing up straight. She is crushing the jelly beans with her coffee-stained sneaker.

Roy relaxes his grip and faces her again.

"I told you that he has absolutely nothing to do with any problems you and I might have. And I meant it."

"Pam, come on…"

"If you care about me at all or have any respect for me whatsoever, you will put him down right now and come outside with me."

The scene would be comical if it were not so awful. Both men are frozen, Roy still clutching Jim's shirt, but their heads are swiveled in the same direction and they are both staring open-mouthed at Pam; Jim is slightly fearful, Roy only confused.

Confused, then angry again. "Jesus Christ, Pammy," he whines, his voice rising again. He releases Jim's shirt and shoves him backward. "You're supposed to be my fucking wife, for God's sake…"

"No. I'm. Not." She is staring at him as she's never stared at Michael or Dwight, those who annoy her but don't really touch her. She is ferocious. "Not yet." She whispers this last, and she looks into his eyes with a blazing anger so complete that you wouldn't need to see her clenched fists or see her breathing so hard her nostrils flare to know what she's feeling.

And just like that, all the fight goes out of Roy. He sags visibly; he takes half a step toward her, then away again. "What…"

"You heard me." She nods toward the door. "Get out. If you don't want to talk about this, if you just want to fight, then fine. You can fight me. But not here, and not now."

Roy chuckles and covers his sweaty face with his hands. "You're mad at me? Oh, that is great."

"Well, you're being an asshole. So why shouldn't I be mad?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're cheating on me with this loser…" And he slams his fist down on the desk once more before continuing. "…Who you swore up and down was 'just your friend.'"

She doesn't flinch this time. "We weren't…"

"Bullshit!"

"Roy, just get out!" She's close to tears again, and she's stamping her foot like a child, but her gaze on Roy is steady and she doesn't let up.

"Fine, but you're coming with me and we're going to find out just what's been…"

"I don't think so." Jim steps forward, his jaw locked. Looking like he might be ready to fight again.

Pam's eyes flash at him, and she shakes her head again. "No. I'm going."

He stares at her. "Pam…"

"I'm going. Okay?" Her face is hard, and you would have to look very carefully to see the strain. It shows, around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, how hard she is trying to hold it together. These corners of her face tremble, and the camera sees it.

And then she turns and stalks out of the office, limbs straight and stiff. The door slams behind her.

Without Pam, they are just two guys hanging around awkwardly after a fight. Roy takes a deep breath and steps away first, following Pam out the door. In the doorway, he turns and stretches one arm out to point back at Jim, like the ghost of Hamlet's father.

"You're dead, Halpert."

The door slams. And then, silence.

This would be a perfect moment for a close-up of Jim's face, for a reaction shot, was the cameraman not still frozen in fear.

A beat or two of silence passes. Then Jim is in motion again, weaving slightly as he rocks forward and props himself up with his hands on his desk. He's leaning forward and his head is bowed. He reaches up to touch his reddened cheekbone.

"She left with him," he says, speaking to no one in particular.

He stands and wanders into Michael's office, pushing open the door and heading straight for the window. The camera follows, panning sideways and catching Michael, flattened against the far wall and staring, frightened, at Jim. Michael glances at the camera and mouths, What's going on? Jim ignores him, stands at the window and watches the parking lot in the gathering dusk, watches as Roy clutches Pam's shoulders and she leans into his chest, sobbing into her fists. Roy lowers his face to hers and says something, and she nods. He reaches up to stroke her hair, tucking back that one loose strand that's always falling in her face.

Jim touches the glass with his fingertips; his mouth opens, then closes again.

"What's going on, Slim Jim?" Michael says. His voice is high, thin and nervous.

Roy slips his hand around Pam's shoulder and guides her to the passenger door of the truck. He unlocks and opens it for her. She climbs in and turns back to face him, saying something to him, shaking her head. Roy nods back, then leans in and kisses her softly before shutting the door on her and trotting around to the driver's side.

Jim leans his forehead against the glass, presses his palm into the glass. "He's right," he whispers, the tears starting to come. "I am dead."

"What's that, good buddy?" Michael inches toward the door with the air of trying to humor a crazy person.

The truck's engine starts with a roar. Pam glances up at Michael's window, just once, only to see Jim with his head pressed to the glass and a fist beside it, his eyes closed. She turns away quickly, lips pressed together, and stares straight ahead.

The truck pulls out into traffic.

Jim spins, eyes still squeezed shut, and slams his fist down on Michael's desk, sending a Matchbox Ferrari and a mini Union Jack clattering to the floor.

…………………………….

He doesn't remember how he got to his car. He knows that he told Michael to go screw himself, or something along those lines, that he pushed his way out the door without picking up his briefcase, that he fumbled around in his pocket for his keys for what seemed like an hour. He knows he is driving now, driving aimlessly, driving anywhere and nowhere, but the events are jumbling in his mind, so that it seems he slammed his fist into the glass and not the desk, and he cannot remember if he's had a drink already or if he badly needs one.

She left with Roy.

He's outside his house, though he was sure he didn't remember how to get there. He pulls up sloppily in front of the curb, not having the energy for the driveway, and rests his head against the steering wheel, the engine still running.

She looked straight into his eyes, and then left the building with Roy. She looked into his eyes and told him, No.

He thinks he might cry again. He thinks he might scream. He throws open the door and is halfway across the lawn before he remembers the engine is still running. He goes back and yanks his keys out of the ignition, slams the car door so that it echoes down the street like a gunshot.

The driveway is empty; Mark is away for the weekend. Good. He remembers Mark telling him he was going away, telling him as they stood in the kitchen that morning, munching cereal and staring out the window, a million years ago this morning.

Jim hadn't told Mark about Casino Night. He hadn't had the heart. When you finish kissing a woman and she stares at you, then covers her mouth with her hand and mumbles that she has to go, and pushes past you as you reach for her again and practically runs out the door and is gone, gone by the time you get downstairs…well, that's not something you brag about to your buddies. When she does the same thing a second night in a row…well, that's when you're lucky if your buddies aren't home.

Especially if she's the love of your life.

He fumbles with the doorknob and trips over the doorway. Great, Jim. He slams the door behind him, just a little too hard, and falls onto the couch, his hands over his eyes. He sniffs loudly.

What do you do, after the woman you love walks off with someone else? After you've poured your heart into her lap and she's just stood up and brushed it off onto the floor?

What he ends up doing is sitting on the couch for another hour with his hands over his eyes.

At the end of the hour, his hands drops to his lap, and his bloodshot eyes blink slowly around the dark room. He glances toward the kitchen, considers getting a beer, then dismisses the idea out of hand. He stands.

……………………………...

When you pass out on your bed fully clothed, it's never for a good reason.

Jim wakes up in the early pre-dawn of Saturday, face down on his drool-soaked pillow, to find that he has not undressed or pulled back the navy blue bedspread. He has not, in fact, even taken off his shoes. He has a raging headache and a wool-filled head and all the confusion of a hangover, and he's done nothing to earn it.

And then he remembers.

He stumbles downstairs in bare feet and boxer shorts, having belatedly undressed, and stares at the answering machine on the coffee table. No messages. He's not sure he would have heard it ring last night during his clothed, comatose sleep, and he's even less sure if she would have left a message if she had called. He feels stupid for thinking she'd call.

He thinks maybe he'll have a beer or two. Or ten. Maybe earn this hangover fair and square.

Because the pathetic reason he slept on top of his bedspread last night is because he wanted to be touching something that she'd touched, something that she'd sat on with her leg tucked under her while giggling about his yearbook photo. He's replayed that night, the night of the party, so many times in his mind, because it's all he has, really. All he has of her is a spot on his bedspread that he always finds himself touching, and a chair in the corner of his bedroom that he never though about, not until she decided to sit in it and mime typing and smile that warm smile that he'd die for, a thousand times over. He always finds himself glancing over at that chair when he's sitting at his desk, and replaying her words, her movements, in his mind. She should be…right about…there. Yes, that seems right. God, he is pathetic.

……………………………

Five hours and ten beers and two movies on Spike channel later, his mom calls.

"Hi, honey," his mom sings into his mouth. He's picked up the phone so quickly—dived for it, really—and with so little drunken coordination that he's holding the handset upside-down. Not a good sign.

He rights the handset and, blinking rapidly, speaks. "Hey, momma," he says, inadvertently using Momma from back in preschool instead of the more grown-up Mom. He flinches, then waits for It.

"Jimmy, do you have a cold or something?"

And there It is. He closes his eyes and leans back into the couch cushions, muting the TV. "Naw, Mom. Just tired."

A pause. "You sound funny. Is something wrong?"

"No," he says, a little too quickly. He sits up straighter, trying to make it sound convincing. "No, I just…just tired. I just got up."

She clicks her tongue. "Oh, Jimmy. It's after ten o'clock."

He sighs. "Yeah, well. I had a kind of long night last night, so…" He runs his hand absently over his bruised cheek.

"Well, I just called to remind you that your father's birthday is next Sunday. We're just having a small get-together at the house, and he'd love it if you could come."

He sighs. "Sure, Mom." He's sure he's slurring his words, but most of him doesn't care.

"And you can bring Mark and his girlfriend along if you like, you father likes them. He hasn't been feeling well lately, so…"

Jim loses her. He doesn't mean to stop listening, but suddenly there's a woman on the TV who looks just like Pam: same hair, same big eyes, same smile…and he's lost. And after a minute or so he jolts back to reality and his mom's gone silent and he's half-dropped the phone, and he realizes the woman looks nothing like Pam at all, that he has been grasping at straws, again.

"What? Sorry, Mom."

A pause. "Jimmy, what's wrong, honey?"

I want her, he thinks. I want her and she's run out on me twice, and I promised I wouldn't leave her but I don't think I can stand it if I stay and she's with someone else, married or not. That's what's wrong.

"Nothing, mom," he says.

"Are you having girl trouble again?"

"Mom…" he says. How did you know, he thinks. How do you always know?

"You know I never thought that Katy was right for you."

"Yeah, you've said. But it's not…"

"Good. Is it…is it Pam?"

God. God God God. He can only sit, frozen, and think: Where did she get that name? It's as if she's reached into his heart and pulled out the one name he didn't want to hear. The one name he's been dying to hear. Just how did she come up with Pam? How? He's mentioned her a few times, true, but just in passing, right?

"Is she still getting married? Or what?"

"I've gotta go, Mom."

"Honey, I think you should talk about this…"

"I'll see you next weekend. Tell Dad I said hi." He hung up quickly, hung up before she could say the name again.

He stood and staggered into the kitchen, pulled open the fridge. Closed it. Nothing in there looked good any more. He wheeled back through the living room, flicking off the TV with a sharp jab and jogging up the stairs and down the hall to his room. To the bed where she had been. He curled on top of the bedspread and ran his hand over and over the place where she had been. He closed his eyes.

…………………………

Five more hours later, he opened his eyes again.

His head pounded and his vision swam, and he jogged, groaning, back down the hallway to the bathroom, where the inevitable happened. At least, it was inevitable if you drank ten beers in one morning on an empty stomach and then listened to your mom, of all people, say the name that you couldn't stop thinking of, and then fell asleep, drunk, on the bed where she had once sat and smiled at you, and you did nothing but dream of her. It really was inevitable. One stomach couldn't hold all that.

After, he brushed his teeth and rinsed his mouth with Listerine and popped four Advil and a couple vitamins (too little, too late) and wandered back into his room and stared at his clock radio. 3:36, it said.

Perfect.

He pulled on a pair of jeans and a holey white t-shirt and slapped on some deodorant and considered shaving but then figured, what was the point? He padded downstairs in bare feet and glanced at the answering machine. One message. He no longer even hoped it would be her, and of course it was not her, only his friend Keith wanting to know what he was doing that night and whether he wanted to hang out. He considered calling back.

He wandered into the kitchen and munched on a few handfuls of dry cereal that tasted like cardboard, and he stared out into the backyard and reflected on the irony that was great weather at the worst of times. It was a perfect goddamn spring day.

And he was staring out at the green hills and the blue sky when the doorbell rang.

He dropped the cereal box. No one ever rang the doorbell. His friends just came in, and visitors usually knocked. He'd forgotten they had a doorbell.

He walked to the door, treading softly so as not to make a sound, although he didn't know why. His mouth was dry, his hands were numb. He had no expectations, none. But he opened the door anyway.

She stood there wringing her hands and looking absolutely beautiful, even with dark circles under her eyes and mussed-up hair, even in ratty drawstring pants and a sweatshirt. Even after no sleep, he found her beautiful.

Pam.