-1Jim stood in the ocean, the cool water stinging his toes. The sun was still high in the sky, and he could already feel his shoulders burning. He took a sip of his beer and ran a hand through his hair.
True to custom, Michael had somehow found a way past the 'NO ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES' sign posted prominently on the beach. Toby, of course, initially resisted , but had eventually just sighed and gave in. He was now drinking a wine cooler and holding one end of the broomstick/limbo pole.
In the beginning, Dwight insisted on holding the other end of the pole because he had to sing the limbo song (which had consisted of Dwight singing "Limbo, lim-bo, liiimbo," to the tune of "Happy Birthday"), but he had since decided that he needed to conquer the game. Dwight made Toby give up the other side to Kevin, who took the pole so they could begin 'tackle-limbo'. The objective was to keep anyone else from going under the pole by any means necessary. At the moment, Michael lay prone on the beach as Kevin and Dwight hit him with the limbo stick. Michael was swearing at them, telling Dwight to stop. Jim pulled out his cell phone, which he was keeping at hand, in case an ambulance needed to be called. At this point, that wasn't an unlikely scenario.
Jim felt the sand sliding out from beneath his feet, pulled back out by the waves. He took another swig of beer, squinting his eyes against the glare of the sun on the water. Pam wasn't here yet and he was restless. He didn't like how things had been left between them, how awkward it was. At least he knew Packer wasn't coming today; according to Michael, Packer was riding out a hell of a hangover in his room.
Jim felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder and he jumped slightly, surprised. He turned to see Pam standing there, smiling from ear to ear.
"Hey, you!" she giggled. She seemed to realize how she was laughing at nothing, and she tried to compose herself. Her botched attempt at seriousness made him smile.
"Hey, yourself -- wait, what are you wearing?" he asked, looking her up and down with wide eyes.
She smiled, forgetting her effort to be serious. "What, you don't like it?" She spun around in the sand, stumbling a little bit. Her hair fanned out as she twirled with childish delight.
Jim rolled his eyes. "I don't know, Pam, you couldn't have found a nice burqa to wear? I mean, this is just… way to revealing." He looked her up and down again; she was wearing an enormous, long-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants. "Seriously, Beesley. Where did you find these clothes?"
Pam stopped spinning, although it was obvious that her mind hadn't as she began to lean dangerously to one side. Jim caught her forearms in his hands, steadying her. "Whoa," she laughed breathlessly. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes. "Okay, I'm good." Jim let go of her arms cautiously and she tucked her hair behind her ears. "Um, the sweatpants are mine, the shirt is Phyllis'. I guess she packed warm clothes too in case we went skiing. Which is rather optimistic of her. I mean, skiing is more expensive than Florida, right? Plus, I broke my arm skiing once, did I ever tell you that?"
By now Jim was well aware that Pam was tipsy; she only really rambled like this when she was tipsy or had a lot of sugar. "Yeah, you told me," he said, smiling. "You were six and you broke your arm. When your parents saw how you colored all over your cast, they enrolled you in art classes."
Pam linked her arm in Jim's, turning to face the sea. "You remember everything, Jim. That's part of what I love about you. You remember everything. I don't think anyone else in the world knows me like you do."
Jim's mind was trying valiantly to sustain two trains of thought at once. One was: Well, I couldn't seem to remember shit about French verbs in high school, but I can remember everything about you, and the other just kept going: 'Part of what she LOVES about me'--? 'That's part of what I love about you'--! Love? Love? Oh my God. Jim tried to keep his face pleasantly neutral while a riot of thoughts made a mess of his brain.
"Pam!" a voice cried from behind them, and Pam whirled around. "What are you doing wearing that circus tent?" Kelly came flying down the beach, two bright-pink drinks in her hand. Jim only had to think for a moment of who would think to bring everything needed to mix drinks at the beach. Then he realized that Meredith probably kept a portable bar on her at all times. (The woman had an already-opened bottle of bourbon in her car, after all.)
Pam blushed, wrapping her arms around her stomach. "Kelly," she whined in a very un-Pam way. "I don't know, I mean -- I don't really --"
"No, no, no!" Kelly pushed her drinks into Jim's hands, and he tried frantically to juggle the two drinks and his beer. Kelly began plucking at the shirt Pam wore. "I did not lend you my eighty-dollar, amazing bikini for you to hide it under a burlap sack!"
Pam's eyes widened and she leaned forward, shushing Kelly loudly. "Kelly!" she said, "This is Phyllis' shirt! Don't say that!" Thankfully Phyllis was further up the beach, trying her hand at limbo. Who knew Phyllis could bend like that, Jim thought abstractly.
Kelly crossed her arms over her chest. She was already decked out in a white bikini lined with gold embroidery and faux-gold coins, a gauzy white sarong wrapped around her hips. The coins on her suit chimed as she tapped her foot. Or maybe that was the ankle bracelet she had on. "Nuh-uh," Kelly said firmly. "Pam, you have got to learn to be proud of your body! I read this in Cosmo, and you know they're totally right, don't you?"
Pam turned to Jim, her face pleading but he just raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "You did promise me that you would swim with me, no matter how cold it was." Pam's jaw dropped at his lack of support, but he just grinned and continued: "What were your exact words? Let me see… 'Halpert, I used to do polar bear swim every morning at camp. I will swim no matter how cold it is.' A verbal contract is binding, Beesly."
"There were no witnesses! No witnesses, no contract! I took law in high school!" Pam shouted. Her tone was desperate, but she was laughing at the same time.
Kelly began giggling too and took the glasses back from Jim, handing one to Pam. "Here, this'll help," she said, smiling wickedly, as they tapped the rims of their glasses together.
Pam held a hand to her forehead and looked at Jim, smiling. She raised her glass in the air and said loudly, "To Dunder-Mifflin!" Jim raised his glass obligingly to hers and they clinked together.
Meredith somehow heard them from farther up the beach and raised her shot glass in the air as well. "To Dunder-Mifflin!" she cried, throwing back her head as she downed the shot. Laughing, other office workers on their beach raised their glasses, "To Dunder-Mifflin!"
Jim saw Michael grinning widely, looking like he was about to cry. Dwight stood at attention, saluting, his sarong flowing in the breeze. Jim didn't know exactly what Dwight was saluting towards (probably Michael). Angela stood beside Dwight, in a navy blue, prim one-piece with blue shorts and a white bathing cap. She even raised her glass of sparkling water to toast.
Jim also thought he heard Creed call from the hole he had dug himself, "To Blunder-Wifflin!"
Jim looked at the motley crew that had assembled on the beach, raising their illegal alcoholic drinks in the air. These people had nothing in common, except that they were stuck at the same dull job at the same stifling office for eight hours a day. He was nothing like these people, yet he spent more time with them than he did with his friends. Jim was surprised to find that despite their flaws and quirks, he cared about all of them, a lot. Maybe some more than others, though, he thought, looking over at Pam.
As Pam met Jim's eyes, he raised his beer to the sky and said softly "To Dunder-Mifflin." She smiled at him, radiant.
A calm, unifying silence fell over the beach.
"Well, last one in the water is a rotten egg!" Michael yelled, stripping off his shirt as he ran towards the water, whooping.
Jesus, he looks like a bear, Jim couldn't help but think as he watched Michael run, his hairy chest thrust outward.
Dwight sprinted after him, fumbling with the tie of his sarong. "Wait for me, Michael!" he yelled.
Pam made a face. "I guess Dwight doesn't want to be that rotten egg. Because, you know, that would really suck."
Jim laughed and watched Dwight, who finally just ripped the sarong off, tossing it behind himself. "Oh, God," Jim murmured.
Dwight was wearing what was perhaps the smallest Speedo that Jim had ever seen (not that he had seen many). It was bright red and obviously several sizes too small. The size of it and the fact that Dwight was running, caused it to ride up in a most inappropriate way. It was as if time had gone into slow motion, like some nightmare version of Baywatch. Dwight tossed his head back as if flipping his hair, his eyes closed blissfully, his arms outspread.
Michael, standing in the ocean, had looked excited until he turned to see that only Dwight had followed him. When he saw what Dwight was wearing, he frantically began to swim out to sea. Jim could just barely hear him calling "Dwight -- get away! No, Dwight, what are you --?"
"Who wants to play 'chicken'?" Dwight called as he turned towards the beach, still only thigh-deep in the water. "Michael and I are a team! I call top!"
Kelly looked sick, holding a hand up to her perfectly lined lips. Pam gasped, turning towards Jim and shielding her eyes. "I -- I don't even --" Words failed her as she looked at Jim, her face ashen.
He swallowed, and looked down at Pam. "Well…" he began slowly, "if you've got it, flaunt it."
AN: For those of you who don't know how to play 'chicken', you require four people and a body of water at least shoulder-deep. There are two teams, with one person sitting on their teammate's shoulders. Then, the people on top try to knock the other person down (the person on bottom can help with this, but they're usually trying to stay standing and keep their heads above water).
Also, I don't own Baywatch. In case you don't know by now, I really don't own anything except this laptop.