Not my characters, just like 'em a whole lot. No copyright infringement is intended.

………………………

The course of true love never did run smooth.

………………………..

SIGH

"You look like hell."

She couldn't help it: it just came out. He was standing there in ragged jeans and a holey shirt and bare feet, unshaven and bleary-eyed with a bruise on his cheek, and she'd never seen Jim look that way before, and she just said it.

And immediately regretted it: his face was all blank surprise. Then he was frowning.

And then, thank God, the sides of his mouth were tugging upward. "Hello to you too," he said.

She stared at her sneakers. "Sorry."

A short laugh. "S'okay. I probably do look like hell. Rough night, you know?" A pause. He rubbed the back of his neck; his eyes wandered away from her. "D'you wanna…" He gestured behind him, into the darkened house.

"Can I? I mean, do you…" She took a deep breath. Why was this so hard? "Do you mind?"

He just stared at her, and her insides crawled, because his eyes were doing that thing again: that thing where he looked at her like he was looking past what she was saying, and he was hearing what she was actually saying. Finally he gave her another grin. "No, I don't mind." He stepped back and she moved forward, and her arm brushed his side and she flinched back. She didn't mean to, but the warmth coming off him was contagious, just like it had been the other night, and if she touched him again she wouldn't have the strength to…to what?

So she drew back, and the look on his face was enough to make her stomach feel like it had teeth, and was biting her from the inside.

He closed the door behind her, turning away, probably in hopes that she wouldn't see his face, and she knew she had to say something, anything, to fix this.

So, as usual, she said the wrong thing. "Listen. I just…Jim, I didn't want to leave it like that. With us. You know? Cause…" She had never been good at this. She wasn't the one who came up with the witty comeback right on the spot; she was the one who thought of it hours later while lying in bed. She'd been practicing what she was going to say to him from the moment she realized where her aimless driving had taken her, but now: now, she was standing in front of him, and he looked so flat and defeated, and she was looking into his eyes and they were so sad it broke her heart. When he got that look on his face, she always found herself picturing what he must have looked like as a little boy, a tall gangly boy with those same sad eyes and that sensitive mouth…

Focus.

"Because…" She couldn't go on. Just couldn't. Her breath ran out. Her hands came up in front of her and she was wringing them together, fiddling with her ring like she always did when she was nervous, and her mouth was hot and dry and she looked down at her feet because she couldn't, couldn't look at him and say what she needed to say.

"Hey." His hand was on her shoulder and she froze because it was burning her. She forced herself to stay put, to look at him. "Forget that for a second," he said, but the gentle yearning on his face told her that he had done anything but forget it. Put it on hold, maybe, but not forget it.

He was steering her over to the couch. She sat down; her legs were shaking, and she couldn't remember when that had started. All of a sudden she felt like crying, and she sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She looked down at her hands: they were clenched together in front of her.

He was sitting next to her, not too close, but not far enough away either. "You look exhausted," he was saying. "D'you get any sleep?"

She shook her head, the tears threatening just below the surface. They would break through if she said a word.

"Me neither," he said.

They looked at each other then and smiled, and for a second it was like old times, just the two of them sharing a grin, commiserating through mutual suffering.

"You want something to drink? Eat? Anything?"

And just like that, the tears welled up again. How could he be so sweet? After all that had happened, how could he still be worrying about whether she wanted anything? "Some tea would be great," she croaked.

"Comin' right up." He padded into the kitchen in his bare feet (long and lean, like the rest of him), and she sat motionless listening to him fill the kettle with water, get a mug and a teabag, set the burner on high. Just Jim, puttering around the kitchen like it was an ordinary day.

The tears came. And she buried her face in her hands.

She heard him come back in, pause in the doorway and then quickly walk over to her. She felt his hands on her shoulders, rubbing her arms and trying to comfort, but she shrugged him away and leaned back into the couch cushions and he drew back.

"Pam…"

And she knew, without looking, that that look would be on his face again. She couldn't look, so she spoke into her hands. "Jim, just…can we just forget what happened for a while? Because…" She sighed into her hands. It was coming out all wrong, but there was no stopping now. "Please. I just really need you to be there for me…as a friend, right now."

She heard him suck in his breath, and she could imagine the look that would be on his face right now: the hurt and disappointment. She wanted to tell him there was no need for that, but she knew it wouldn't come out right.

"I can do that," he said, his voice quiet and gentle and carefully free of expression.

And she couldn't stand it any more, so she moved into his arms, and she could feel him pull back for a second before his arms came around her, his hands in her hair and on her back, and he was so warm she couldn't stand it, but she didn't pull away. Just cried into the thin cotton of his shirt and into the warm skin underneath. He smelled like Boy, like sweat and muscle and the bottom of a long-unopened drawer, and it was so great and so warm and so Jim.

They stayed that way, her crying and he carefully not moving, until the kettle started whistling in the kitchen. He pulled away, then, and she wiped at her face with her sleeves, and he came back from the kitchen with a steaming cup and a box of tissues.

She could feel him watching her, but she didn't look at him. Couldn't. This was just too, too weird. After last night, and all that happened with Roy, to be sitting here in Jim's house being given tea and sympathy…too weird. Don't think about Roy. Not here. But how could she not? What would he say if he knew where you were? What would he do Suddenly she was shivering, thinking of last night, and Roy. How angry he'd been. This was just too, too much.

Jim's voice cut through her rambling thoughts before they could get really out of hand. "I really blindsided you the other night, huh?"

She looked at him, so surprised she forgot her resolution not to look. He was still wearing the sad-little-boy expression, but it had softened with concern. Balling up a tissue in her fist, she nodded. "A little." She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes, then looked down at her hands as she shredded the tissue with shaking fingers. "I mean…I knew how you felt, kind of, but I didn't know. And…I sure didn't expect you to say anything."

"Yeah." He was rubbing the back of his neck again; she could see his elbow seesawing back and forth, on the edge of her vision. "I'm sorry."

There was an awkward silence. She picked up her tea, cupping it with both hands and blowing across the surface, inhaling the warm fumes. She smelled mint and chamomile. Only Jim knew that she liked tea…

Then he said: "So."

"So," she answered.

He cleared his throat. "So what happened? Are you okay?"

She sighed and put down the mug, wondering how much he wanted to know. "Yeah. I guess. I mean, it wasn't pleasant, as you can probably imagine."

"Yeah." She noticed an edge of panic in his voice and caught him glancing toward the door.

Despite herself, she grinned. "Don't worry. He left around three AM." She sighed and picked up her mug again. "He went to stay with his brother at the shore."

"He left you alone?" Jim's voice was sharp.

She blew across the surface of her drink again. "Yeah, but believe me, it's better this way. We weren't exactly having the most productive discussion." She paused. "He was a little out of control. He…well, you saw."

Jim was silent. She took a sip of her tea. When she glanced up at him, he was staring at her, stony-faced.

"What?"

"Did you fight?"

"Yeah. I mean, obviously." Oh God, she thought. He can see it, he can see it on my face, he can always tell. He can see what happened.

Jim was silent for a few moments. Then: "Did he hurt you?" His voice was very low.

She blinked at him, mouth open. For a fleeting moment, she wondered, What would he do if I said Yes?

Then the ability to think came rushing back, and she shook her head. "No."

He kept looking at her.

"No. He wouldn't do that." Jim still wasn't saying anything. "Trust me. He wouldn't."

Jim sat back a little, still watching her but looking a bit more relaxed.

"Bad enough that he did it to you."

He grinned a little, fingering the bruise on his cheek. "Hope you gave him what-for on my behalf."

"I did, as a matter of fact."

She thought of Jim's face from the office window as she drove away, and a stab of queasiness rocked her; she laid down the mug and sat back into the cushions, mirroring Jim.

"So…you went home, argued, and he left. And that was it?" He was watching her so carefully; she could feel it without looking.

She nodded, but her conscience pricked her. That wasn't entirely it, was it Pam? She stared ahead at the wall. That's not really all that happened. She shifted around on the couch, drawing her feet up and tucking them underneath her legs.

"I worried," he said. "About you, about what he would do." She turned her head and he was gazing at her again, and she grinned and looked away to avoid having to meet his eyes.

"I was more worried about you." She leaned her head back, closing her eyes. This couch was entirely too comfortable. "I had to get him out of there before he…"

"Lost control?" His voice was angry again.

"Yup." Her eyes were still closed. There was another long silence, and she felt herself drifting farther and farther back. Such a long day and night and day since she had slept. Longer than that, if you wanted to be technical. She counted back…

"Hey." Jim was poking her in the side, and even the tip of his finger was warm.

"Hmmm." She didn't open her eyes.

"Am I losing you?"

She opened her eyes then, her pulse pounding, completely awake. "Huh?"

"Are you going to sleep?"

"Oh." She shook herself. Get a grip. "Um."

"You look exhausted."

"I kind of am."

He was watching her again, his lips pressed together. This time she caught his eye and held it. She heard him sigh, a long sigh through his nose, and then he stood.

"C'mon." He tossed his head, indicating the stairs.

"Uh." She stiffened and sank further into the couch cushions. "What?" Panicking. "I should really go, actually, I don't even know why…"

He grinned at her. "I'm giving you my bed, Beasley. Like I said, you look exhausted." He raised his eyebrows at her. "Where did your mind go?"

"Oh, shut up," she mumbled. She stood, biting her lip. "I can't do that. I'll just go home…"

"No way. You're not driving when you're this tired. I'm surprised you made it over here in one piece."

So am I, she thought. Come to think of it, I don't even know how I got here. I wasn't planning on coming here. She eyed the stairway, her eyelids pulling closed again. I shouldn't have come here. And I shouldn't stay. But she heard her mouth saying: "Are you sure you don't mind?"

He shrugged. "Nope."

She didn't move. "I shouldn't."

"What am I gonna do, make you sleep on the couch?" He was grinning at her in that old playful way, and it was difficult not to grin back. Too difficult, so she did. "And it's obvious you're gonna sleep, and I can tell you for a fact that's the lumpiest couch on the planet."

"I don't know," she said, beginning to smile a little. "You sure this isn't just an elaborate plot to get me into your bed?"

He grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "It's not that elaborate."

Giggling stupidly, she followed him upstairs. She was glad for the laughter and the light banter, glad that they were at least making a show of acting normally. As they reached the upstairs hallway, he said over his shoulder, "Don't worry. I promise I won't use any moves on you."

She placed a hand over her heart in mock relief. "Oh thank God. I thought I was going to have to use some of Dwight's martial arts to fend you off."

He stopped in his doorway, wheeling around to face her. "That's the second time you've mentioned Dwight in the vicinity of this room. I'm gonna have to insist that…"

"You're right." She held up her hands. "Never again."

"See that you don't," he said, turning back.

So here it was. The bedroom. Again. He flipped on the wall switch and she saw that the covers were rumpled: either he was a really messy bed-maker or he didn't crawl under his covers when he slept. He frowned down at the bedspread for a second, then held up a finger.

"Wait a second."

"Huh?"

"Stay right there." He ducked out of the room again and jogged down the hall. She heard him open and close a couple of doors, then come jogging back. He was carrying a fresh pillowcase.

"Oh, you don't have to…"

"Trust me. You want a clean pillowcase."

She raised her own eyebrows at him. "I don't want to know."

"You're right. You don't." He fitted the new pillowcase on and balled up the old one, tossing it into a corner. "It's a sordid tale."

"Glad to see you're such an impeccable housekeeper," she said, glancing after the old pillowcase.

He turned back, his mouth open for a retort, and froze.

At the same instant, they both realized where they were. In his bedroom, together, alone in the house. Not like last time, when there was a cameraman in there with them and about twenty other people downstairs besides. Now, they were alone, and she felt the silence of the empty house pressing in on her ears. The ringing filled her head.

"Um," she said, blinking stupidly up at him. Brilliant, as always.

"So." He was rubbing the back of his neck again. "Sleep as long as you want, obviously. I'll be around if…" He trailed off.

If you need me. It hung there in the air between them, exactly as awkward as if he'd really said it.

"Well," he finished. "Have a good…" He backed out of the doorway, pulling the door closed behind him.

"Jim," she called. Just his name, just once.

He pushed the door back open so quickly that it banged against the wall, and he grabbed the knob tight in his hand as it ricocheted back to him. "Yeah?" He sounded a little breathless.

"Just wanted to say thanks. You're being really great about all this." Stupid. So, so stupid. Just shut up, Beasley.

He shrugged, staring at his hand on the doorknob. "Yeah well. Sleep well." And then he was gone. The door drifted in his wake, tapping on the doorjamb but not quite closing.

She decided she liked it that way.

………………………

It took a long time to get to sleep. Number one, because of the past 24 hours and all the implications thereof, none of which she wanted to think about, but all of which kept popping into her brain nevertheless. Number two, because today was the day she was supposed to have met with the florist to make some final decisions, and she hadn't; she hadn't even called, just hadn't shown up. Number three, because today was also the day she was supposed to have gone with Roy to get his tux fitted and get the final alterations done on her gown, and she hadn't done either of those things.

Number four, because the covers and the sheets and even the clean pillowcase smelled like him: that Boy smell, that mixture of Old Spice and sweat and mint and red jelly beans that she always associated with Jim.

During the hour of that afternoon when she was lying there in the bed that smelled like Jim with her eyes closed and trying not to think, she heard him come back to the doorway at least once. She never opened her eyes or moved or gave any indication that she was awake, but she was somehow sure that he stood there watching her. For a very long time. She could feel it, but she didn't move, just lay there and listened to him listening to her breathe, and eventually he walked away.

……………………………..

She woke up soaking wet. It took a few seconds to place herself in space and time, and as she blinked herself awake she could have sworn that she'd just heard her alarm going off, that she had to get up and shower and get breakfast and wake Roy up and drive in to work and see…

But no, there it was. The smell, the Old Spice and sweat and mint and red jelly bean. She was in Jim's house, in Jim's room, on Jim's bed—Tell me you didn't want to do this the night of the party, tell me this wasn't in your mind—and she was drenched.

It was completely dark, and she stumbled up onto her feet and almost tripped over the covers fumbling for the light switch, and when she found it the world was a painful white blur because her contacts were completely dried out. The wetness was coming from her: she had been sweating in her sleep, and it had soaked all the way through her T-shirt.

What did I dream of? Probably better that she didn't remember. She had an idea, though, and the shiver came involuntarily as she peeled the damp shirt off over her head and dropped it onto the pillow. More importantly, what was she going to wear now?

Her eyes drifted over to Jim's closet. I couldn't…but which would be worse, going downstairs in one of his shirts, or going down topless? She gave a hysterical little laugh as she opened the closet door. A blast of Jim-scent greeted her, and she steadied herself against the closet doorway and pressed her fingers against her closed eyelids. What am I doing? What am I doing?

She opened her eyes again. Better. At least she could see now, although her dirty, dry contact lenses were still suction-cupped to her eyes and giving the world a fuzzy white sheen.

The clock radio by the bed said 10:39.

Perfect. She had slept for several hours in his bed, and his roommate was probably home by now and wondering who this crazy girl was who had parked too far away from the curb outside and was now taking over Jim's bed. With Jim not in it.

She grabbed a shirt from a hanger. It was white. An ordinary work shirt, probably, one that wouldn't seem…Oh, hell. She pulled the shirt on over her head and found herself swimming in sleeves that were many inches too long. Once she had them rolled up, and the shirt buttoned all the way to the top, and her pants straightened out, she was ready.

She crept down the hall and down the stairs as quietly as she could, expecting to run into the roommate (what was his name?) or his girlfriend any second. But she ran into no one. The house was still as quiet as it had been when she arrived, save for the soft strains of TV-sound coming from the living room. She walked on tiptoe, as though trying not to wake someone, and peered in the living room doorway.

He was on the couch, an open pizza box in front of him and half the pizza gone. He was staring at the TV without seeming to see the Colbert Report rerun; one of his legs was jiggling up and down and the remote was balanced on his knee. The remote kept almost-falling, but then he would catch it just before it did. He stared and stared at the screen. He didn't notice her.

She cleared her throat and he lost his grip on the remote and it fell to the floor.

And then he was staring at her.

She wasn't prepared: not for the warm flush that came over her when he looked at her, and not for his expression of utter disbelief and yearning and…something else.

"You're up," he said, and his voice was cracking like a teenager's.

"Yeah." She looked away, at the TV, into the kitchen, out into the dark back yard. "I borrowed one of your shirts."

"I know," he said. "I mean, that's cool." He shook his head and picked up the remote, muting the TV. "I got some pizza, if you want. It's kinda cold now, but…"

"No, that looks perfect," she said. She walked stiff-legged over to the couch, tugging at the rolled-up sleeves of the shirt, and sat down beside him; he shifted his legs a bit, but didn't move over. They were much too close, but she decided not to notice. "What is it, pepperoni?" She was going for normal. Normal was good.

"And sausage," he said.

"Perfect," she repeated, tugging out a slice of cold pizza and not looking at him. "Papa John's?" She lifted up the box lid.

"Of course."

"D'you get dipping sauce?"

"Garlic."

"Awesome." She dug into the pizza, surprised to find that it tasted wonderful. She hadn't eaten in…well, not since lunch Friday, probably. If you could count that as lunch.

He picked up a cold slice too, and they both ate and gazed at the silent TV and did not look at one another.

Well, she looked. A little. Only when he was turned the other way. He had showered and shaved, and was wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a nicer shirt. She wondered if he'd come into his room to get the clothes, while she was sleeping. She wondered if…

"You were hungry."

"Huh?" She glanced down and saw that she was currently demolishing her third slice of pepperoni and sausage. She, who normally went for the veggie toppings only, and drew the line at two pieces, because anything more was, well, too much. "Yeah, I was."

"So was I." His mouth pulled into a wry smile and he tossed his pizza crust into the box.

She looked at the crust, then frowned at him. "You don't eat your crusts?"

He blinked. "No." A pause. Then: "Why bother? All the good stuff's gone."

"Are you kidding?" She stared at him. Then: "Mind if I eat yours?"

Another pause. Then: "…Sure."

She grabbed the crust and wolfed it. Really, she'd never been this hungry.

The pizza was gone, and the lights were off in Jim's house, and they were illuminated only by the flickering light of the TV set, and his eyes were so sad. Sad and with a tiny scrap of hope, because he would never give up hope, she realized. He'd always love her, just a little, no matter how long...

She stared into his eyes and realized she didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, licking her lips and tasting pizza grease. She told herself she should really look away. She didn't want him to get the wrong idea. She opened her mouth to say something.

"My breath stinks now," she heard herself saying.

"Mine too," he said.

"We really shouldn't be…" She was only whispering it. She had no idea what she'd intended the end of that sentence to be. He looked so sad.

"What?" He leaned closer.

"Um," she said.

She saw his chin quivering. She heard him say, "Oh, God, Pam." She felt him come closer, felt the heat radiating off of him. And then…

The kiss was slow and cautious, not like last night or the night before. At first.

And then his hands were in her hair and she was clutching the back of his neck and the pizza box was on the floor and he was so close, so close that she could see the tears in his eyes as he whispered, "I love you. I love you."

"Jim," she whispered back. Just his name, just once.

And then, again: "Jim."

It was enough, and they were lying half-on, half-off the lumpy couch with her arms twined around his neck and his hands creeping up her back, and they were so warm. I could just let this happen, she thought as his lips drifted down over her neck and brushed the knob of her collarbone. I could just…not say no.

Just like I didn't say no to Roy last night. Not in so many words.

"Wait," she said.

"What?" He sounded breathless; one hand rested on her bare waist and the other was twined up in her hair.

"Stop," she said. It was stupid, but she felt like crying, looking into his eyes again and seeing the fear and the hurt. "I can't…" And she couldn't go on.

"Pam, what?" He was sitting up now, and the look on his face was crushing her.

"I…can't do this right now," was all she managed. Then she was up and out, and she didn't close the door behind her and she was still wearing his work shirt but she didn't care, and she didn't have her shoes on but she didn't care, and she was stumbling across his lawn before she could change her mind.

"I'm sorry…I'm so sorry," she heard him saying behind her, and she knew he was coming to the door and that he'd probably follow her all the way to her car, and she couldn't deal with that right now, so she started running.

Because she was remembering what she had dreamt about: last night, and Roy, and how she hadn't been able to say no to him, not even after everything, not even with all that she felt and didn't feel and didn't know any more. She hadn't stopped him, hadn't said no. She'd gone along with him, like she'd been doing for ten years now.

And afterward, when she'd cried and told Roy it was all a mistake, just a big mistake, he'd gotten madder than she'd ever seen him and he'd pounded walls and slammed doors and thrown the phone across the apartment and cracked a window and gotten into his truck and driven to his brother's. And she'd sat there with a sheet wrapped around her and cried, and cried.

All because she wouldn't tell Roy what he wanted to hear. Couldn't. And now…now she couldn't tell Jim what he wanted to hear, either.

Pam reached her car and tried to unlock the driver's side door for a good five minutes, cursing and sobbing and stamping her foot, before she realized it was unlocked already. She fell into the seat and didn't close the door all the way and laid her forehead on the steering wheel and let out a long, ragged sigh and didn't drive away.

………………………

A/N: Told you guys you were gonna hate me. But I did some thinking and…anyone who's ever been through an affair/breakup like this one knows that it's NEVER simple, that it's ALWAYS messy and painful and back-and-forth. So, I kind of applied that here. Yeah, um, this one got away from me. You know how I said this was going to be a three-parter? Yeah, I lied. Just go with it. The torture will not continue forever.