Silly, I don't own these characters!

……………………………

SCREAM

Three strikes and you're out, Halpert.

He is twelve again, and playing Little League. It is still a few years before he'll discover basketball, and his gangly limbs are awkward liabilities when standing at the plate: he is all elbows and knees. He's always gotten nervous when stepping up to bat; unlike basketball, where you play in synch with the rest of your teammates, baseball relies more on individual performances, and that has always made him uneasy. He hates that bottom-of-the-ninth, bases-loaded, three-and-two, it's-all-up-to-me feeling. It always brings out the worst in him. Basketball is a higher-scoring game; more opportunity to come back from a foul or a missed shot. More ways to bring it all back after you've messed up.

Baseball: you have just three chances.

He is really hoping that Pam isn't counting strikes, because he just used his last one. She asked him to be there for her as a friend, and he failed her because he couldn't help himself. He stands at the door and watches her run off into the night and thinks, This is the third time she's run away from me.

This is it.

He leans his head against the doorway; he watches her struggle with the car door and finally get in and lay her head on the steering wheel and just bawl. He wonders how many more times he can stand having his heart ripped out of his chest after…kissing her.

Which is…so great. If he'd had any idea how great it was going to be: how soft her lips are, how her eyelashes tickle his cheek as her eyes flutter closed, how she touches him with just the tips of her fingers at first, her nails barely grazing his skin. How her skin tastes like salt and cinnamon. If he had known, he would not have waited so long.

Too long. She's gone now. Not quite gone, but going: any second, she's going to start the engine and drive back to her apartment and sleep for a while, and wake up and think it was all a bad dream. Maybe she'll quit Dunder-Mifflin, maybe he'll never see her again, maybe she'll finally marry Roy.

Maybe he'll take that transfer, even though he promised her he wouldn't.

Maybe he'll die.

That last one is sounding more and more attractive, the longer she cries. He can see her in the yellow glow of a streetlight, her head shaking against the steering wheel. Her silent sobs cut through him. He did this. Him. If only he hadn't kissed her again, if only he'd stopped to think.

But. But, she'd come downstairs dressed in his shirt, and God, how many times had he sat there and imagined her dressed just like that, smiling at him from the doorway with her hair all wild. Well, she hadn't been smiling tonight, and if he'd been paying more attention to reality and less attention to the dream-Pam turned real-Pam, he might not have missed that. She'd just been looking at him with something in her eyes that he'd never seen before, something that he thought might just be a scrap of the longing he felt, and he'd had this crazy thought that maybe now, it would be okay, maybe now he could kiss her and the rest of the world really would go away.

Yeah. That didn't work. And now, here he is, watching her run away again. Having chased her away. The thing is, he can still see her, and as long as his eyes can see her he can't go back into the house. As long as she doesn't drive away, he's stuck here in this doorway limbo.

Maybe she's not going to drive away. It sounds like his sister, in his head: the one who's always given him the best advice. The one he never listens to.

So, as usual, he argues with her: That's ridiculous.

She's not starting the car, his sister counters.

I'm grasping at straws. And I'm talking to myself.

Maybe she wants you to go to her. Wants you to stop her.

No way. I've had my three strikes.

You men and your sports analogies. This is not baseball, idiot. This is not a game at all. Now get your ass over there.

He starts walking across the grass before he realizes he's moving, and before he's really ready he's reached her car, and he's crouched down beside her door, his sneakers crunching on pavement, and the glass is fogging from her crying. The door is open just a crack and the dome light is on. He edges the door open wider and he kneels on the pavement next to the car and he reaches out and smoothes her hair, and even now he's registering how soft it is, even as he says her name.

She pulls a hitching sigh and her chin trembles, and then she says, without looking at him: "Jim, I'm sorry."

She's stolen his words, said it before he can. "Why are you sorry? I'm the one who…"

"This is not," she starts, but has to choke off another sob. Her knuckles are white where she's gripping the wheel. "This is not because of you."

"Then what?" he asks.

"It's…" And she looks at him then, and her tear-stained face tells him volumes. She has one of those faces you can read, and right now he's reading pain and fear.

Anger floods into his head and he makes a fist with the hand that is resting against the car's frame. I knew it. I knew she was lying before, when she said he didn't hurt her. "What did he do to you?" It comes out through clenched teeth.

She bites her lip, looks away. "He didn't, really." Her voice is raspy as if she's been screaming, and her chin still trembles. "I mean, it wasn't all him…we both kind of…"

Her face goes bright red and suddenly she is turning away, twisting around in the seat so she doesn't have to look at him, and he is thinking, Oh, my God. Please, please don't let her be talking about what I think she's…

"We screamed at each other for hours, after we got home. I don't even know what I said, but eventually we were…" She shakes her head. "And he kept asking me, pleading with me, asking me what it was he did wrong."

Jim closes his eyes. Please don't tell me, please don't say it, please don't make it real. Please. I love you, and I can't take it.

"And finally I just…and we…"

He bows his head and squints down at the pavement, at the cracks in the cement, and works his jaw from side to side. Grinding his teeth hard enough that his jaw hurts.

"And I knew it was wrong. I knew it was a mistake, but I just couldn't think of anything else, and I was so tired of screaming and fighting. And he kept asking me. Pleading with me. He wanted to…"

Of course he did. Of course he'd want to. Jim squeezes his eyes tighter shut, even as he reaches for her hand. He's an idiot. Of course he'd think that's the way to win you back. He opens his eyes and looks at her, and sees all the hurt and confusion and fatigue of days without end. And now you're sitting here thinking you're the one who caused all this, while he's off drinking with his brother at the shore.

The fist that is balled up against the side of the car tightens so that the knuckles crack. With his other hand, though, he gives her small, warm hand a squeeze, and she heaves a shuddery sigh. "And then when we…when you and I started…I just, I mean I couldn't."

I hate him for making you feel this way. All he wants to do is find Roy and rip him to tatters, but instead, he squeezes Pam's hand again and touches her on the shoulder, the way a friend would. When that is not enough—and when has it ever, ever been enough?—he brushes her cheekbone with his knuckles, very gently, and makes her look at him.

"I'm sorry," she squeaks, and her green eyes are wide and sad and her face is red and puffy and her nose is running.

And she still looks beautiful.

He shakes his head, and his insides are molten lava, but he swallows it down and makes himself say, "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"But…" Her head drops, and she picks at the seam of her pants. "But I…God, how could I let him…talk me into…so stupid…"

"Hey. Stop." He makes her look at him again; he likes that she responds as soon as he touches her, that she kind of leans into his hand, probably without realizing she is. He could get used to that.

Then he asks her a question that makes the molten lava in his stomach boil up to hair level. He doesn't want to say the words, but it's like a bad accident: he can't stop them. "Do you love him?" he asks.

Her eyes widen and slide off to the side. "I…" She sniffs. "Yeah. I do."

And his insides hit rock bottom. His voice is a little hollow when he tells her, "You didn't do anything wrong, Pam."

She watches him, mouth open. "You don't…"

"And you were right before. It's none of my business. I have nothing to do with you two." He hates saying it. He wants, more than anything, to claim ownership, to step in between the two of them. But he's not That Guy.

And she's not That Girl. She's shaking her head at him, now. Speechless.

"Listen," he tells her, and she does. He's still got hold of her hand, and it feels damp and hot and fragile and he's not letting it go. "I'm not asking anything of you. The last thing I want, the very last, is to make you not happy." He takes a deep breath. The lava in his gut is churning and bubbling, merciless. He shifts on his knees a bit, so that he's sitting on his heels on the pavement beside her. "I just want you to be happy, okay? And if that means that you marry Roy, then I will get out of the way." He closes his eyes, can't believe that he's said it and lightening hasn't struck him. "But I can't stay here in Scranton if you marry him. I know I promised you I'd stay no matter what, but…I can't do that. I'm sorry."

He opens his eyes and she's frowning at him, thoughtful. She looks away after a minute, looks out through the windshield, stares into the night, sniffs, wipes at her cheek with the flat of her hand.

She says, "You don't know how hard it was, for me to walk away the other night." Her voice is slow, measured and calm.

He's not sure he's heard her correctly, so he cocks his head to the side and frowns at her.

When she looks back at him she's almost smiling, almost. "That's the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Walk away from you."

He blinks. "Not quite as hard as watching you go, I'm thinking." He feels like he's missed a step somewhere, fallen asleep and woken up in a different conversation, on a different night. What does it mean? Is she trying to let him down easy? If so, why the playful smile? Why is she so damn confusing?

She swipes at her face again, looks away into the night. He's still holding her hand. A car passes, swerving to avoid the open door, and the passenger stares back at the two of them, but they don't look up. She hugs herself with her free arm, staring after the taillights of the car. "It's late," she says absently. They could be back at the office, getting ready to leave on a Friday.

"Yeah, almost midnight." It's all he can say.

She smiles at him then, just the corners of her mouth tugging upward, and he is more confused than ever. "Isn't it funny. I slept practically all afternoon, and all I feel like doing now is…sleeping."

"You're not going home, are you?" He narrows his eyes at her.

"Well…" She screws up her mouth, seeming to think about it. She fingers the key ring, lying on the dashboard.

"To an empty apartment? No. I don't think it's a good night to be alone. What do you think?"

She peers at him thoughtfully, again. Squeezes his hand, slowly. "I don't think so either."

He clears his throat. "Well, you're welcome to stay here. My roommate's gone for the weekend, so…" He really can't think of anything more to say. Anything that she won't take the wrong way, that is. But…what is the wrong way, exactly? What is she doing?

For now, she's just sitting in her car, holding his hand, leaning her head back against the seat and gazing at his face like she's trying to figure something out. She's biting her lip in one corner in that adorable way she has, and if this keeps up for one more second he might just be forced to—

"Okay," she says. She whispering, and he's not sure if it's that or if it's the breeze sweeping across the road, making the neighbors' wind chimes tinkle and making a few strands of hair fall across her face, or if it's the thought of her with Roy and the fact that he doesn't even have the right to be angry about it…but he's shivering as he stands up and helps her out of the car and shuts the door behind her. She's still holding his hand as they walk across the lawn, as he opens the door and as they cross the room and head toward the stairs. And it feels so good he thinks he might scream.

He finally lets her go as he starts climbing the stairs, and it's not until he's about halfway up that he realizes she's not with him any more, that she's still standing down at the bottom. He pivots on the sixth step and turns, grabbing the banister, and there she is, in his shirt with the sleeves rolled up and bare feet and hair spilling down over her shoulders, and he catches his breath.

"What am I doing?" she whispers, and in the darkness of the stairway she is looking up at him but he can't see her eyes.

"I have no idea," he answers. And turns, and continues up the stairs. He waits for her in the doorway of his bedroom, and in a moment she joins him. They face one another in the doorway.

This would be the time, he realizes. This would be the perfect time. To tell her everything, everything he's ever thought and hoped and dreamed about her. But he can't. It's not right. And he can't forget it. So he lets the moment pass, and she ducks her head and turns away and she's walking toward the bed, plopping down on it like she did that other night; and like that other night, all he can do now is watch her, bemused and waiting.

"Okay, so," he says, and walks over to his dresser, grabbing a shirt and a pair of shorts at random. He heads toward the door again. "Um, I'll just…"

"Don't go." Again, it is almost too soft for him to hear.

Again, she's not looking at him, but down at her clasped hands.

Again, he stops in the doorway, then slowly turns.

"I mean," she says, twisting her fingers together. "I don't mean…not…" She looks up helplessly. "You know what I mean, right?"

Sadly, he does. He takes a few steps forward. "You don't wanna be alone?"

She shakes her head, pouting slightly and batting her eyelashes, using his heart as her own personal punching bag.

He forces himself to smile. "Gotcha. Just give me a few seconds to change."

She nods.

Damnit, he thinks, screams to himself. Why can't I say no to her?

He makes it all the way down the hall to the bathroom, closes the door softly but firmly behind him and presses his back flat up against it before letting out the breath he has been holding. He drops the shorts and shirt to the floor and clutches his hair in his hands, and tries to remember all he has ever known about distraction. About being just friends. About not thinking about the beautiful woman who is about to be in bed with you, whom you cannot touch but desperately want to…

This line of thought is not helping. Okay. Baseball? No, that got me in trouble before. Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day? Worked for Austin Powers. Oh, but she'd probably get that reference, and then she'd laugh, and I'd be a goner. Um. Um.

And then: a flash of brilliance. Dwight! If there is anyone who can kill a mood, it's Dwight. We have our distraction for the evening. He undresses slowly, telling himself, Think of Dwight, just think of Dwight.

………………………….

Ten minutes later, he is telling himself: Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

And he is telling himself: You are such an idiot.

He'd come in to find her already curled up on her side under the covers, with her eyes closed and her pants balled up at the foot of the bed. At which point he'd completely forgotten about what he was supposed to be thinking about (Dwight) and instead begun thinking about Pam in his shirt and no pants, lying in his bed exactly ten inches away from where he is about to be.

He's managed, somehow, to flip off the hall light, leaving the two of them in darkness, and to stumble back over to the bed and fumble his way around to the far side and sit, awkwardly, beside her, less than a foot away from the mound of covers and curly hair that is Pam. And now he has no idea what to do. He can't get under the covers with her, just can't. For one thing, she probably wouldn't let him. For another, he wouldn't be responsible for what would happen if he did that.

He can't lie down either. Well, he could, but the thought of being stretched out next to her…well, it's still way too dangerous. No, the safest thing to do, really, is just to sit here and wait for morning. Who needs sleep, anyway? Overrated. In fact, studies have shown…

She's moving. He freezes, but can't help turning to watch her, wondering what she's going to do. It turns out she's just shifting around to lie on her back; she throws one arm up over her eyes and he wonders if she always sleeps like that. There is filtered moonlight coming through the shades and he can make out the white of his shirt on her body and he realizes he's staring but he can't look away.

She's just so beautiful.

Her arm is shifting. "You're not gonna sleep?" Her voice is bleary and she is so tired, he doesn't want to keep her awake talking.

"Nah," he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "Not tired."

There is a pause; she is very still. "So…you're just going to sit there all night?"

He smiles. "Well, you told me not to go."

"You're right, I did." She lowers her arm and begins to fiddle with the comforter. "I don't want to keep you up, though."

"Told you, I'm not tired."

She sighs. "Do you want to talk?"

He shifts around so that he is facing her more fully. "What about?"

"About…stuff." Her hand is drifting lower, over the comforter, in his general direction. He re-shifts himself, scooting a bit further away from her, toward the edge of the bed. Torture. This is torture.

And suddenly, her hand is there, on his. She's taken his hand in the dark and is holding it, and her skin is warm and dry and soft. Their fingers are entwined, and it's really hard to think of anything else. "Uh, stuff," he says.

"Yeah. Stuff." She rubs the pad of her thumb against the base of his thumb, her nail just grazing his skin. He could die, really, right now. "Like…shoes and ships and sailing wax."

"Cabbages and kings," he replies, without even thinking about it. She begins to giggle, shaking the bed softly, and he laughs along with her, shifting so that his legs are up on the bed but not letting go of her hand. One of his knees grazes her leg. Yup, he could die.

"Hey," she says.

"Yeah?"

"I want to try something."

Oh god oh god oh god. His body's near-immediate response to that comment would be mighty embarrassing if the lights were still on. He realizes he has to say something in response, so he says, "What?" It comes out all strangled-sounding.

"Lie down," she says.

"Um," he says. His voice is cracking like he's a teenager.

She laughs again, sounding slightly hysterical. "Don't worry, I'm not going to try any moves on you," she says, throwing his earlier words back at him, and this time he has to laugh along with her. "I just want to fall asleep."

"Oh."

"With you."

"Okay."

"And it'll be easier if I know you're comfortable too."

"Uh-huh."

So, because he can't say no to her, he slowly unfolds his long limbs and stretches out next to her on the bed. He is on top of the comforter because he still can't quite bring himself to crawl under the covers with her, and he thinks that he was right to try to avoid this position before: he has never been more comfortable, or more uncomfortable, in his life. He wants to avoid touching her, but he doesn't want to make it seem like he's avoiding touching her, so he ends up stiffening his entire body into an unnatural curvature not apropos of sleep.

But really. Sleep is overrated.

It gets worse. She scoots over toward him and rests her head on his shoulder. So now he has not only the warm weight of her entire body taking up one-half of his bed, he has her soft head on his shoulder and stray wisps of her hair brushing his neck and her soap-and-powder scent filling his lungs, and he's still not going to sleep.

It's going to be a long night.