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It wasn't like him to drink alone, but here he sat in his now-rumpled work clothes, his second Scotch on the rocks sweating away on the bar counter in front of him. He'd come straight here from the office, having given in to Pam's tearful request for a few minutes' head start—he knew that if he saw Roy any time in the near future (say, the next 75 years or so) he wouldn't be able to control himself. This seething rage, hot and searing and all-encompassing, wasn't like him either. He just couldn't shake it.

Because he kept seeing her face behind his eyelids. Her beautiful face, delicate features, sweet, shy smile. Her hand trembling like a leaf in a strong breeze as she reached for her purse. The shiny and puffy bruise marring her otherwise-flawless skin, the tears glistening in her eyes as she begged him to—what, accept this? Is that what she wanted him to do? Look the other way? Let it go? He took a sip of his drink and set the glass down so hard on the counter that a little of the amber liquid splashed out onto the bar. He couldn't do that. He would do anything in his power for Pam Beesly, and quite a few things beyond his power, but he couldn't do that.

But, really, what could he do? What right did he have to tell her what to do? As the friend, little. As the man who was not-so-secretly and soul-crushingly in love with her, none. She was stubborn, that girl, deceptively tough when pushed. If Jim pushed her too hard right now, no matter that he was pushing her toward freedom, she was apt to fight him. To give Roy another chance. Jim shuddered at the thought, and at her words from two hours before: "…we're just having a little disagreement, we're going to go have coffee and try to work it out, okay?" That slight edge of hysteria in her voice, a dead giveaway that she knew he knew but hoped in spite of herself that she could convince him he was mistaken.

And then something occurred to him that froze his blood in his veins. Chilled, he sucked down the last of his drink in one swig, tossed a tip on the counter, and walked stiffly to his car. This time it was his hands that shook as he fumbled to put the key in the ignition.

What if this wasn't the first time?

She had told herself she wouldn't cry in front of him. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Knowing Roy, he'd probably mistake her tears of anger for tears of regret, as if she had a damn thing to be sorry about, as if he shouldn't be on his knees right now on the floor of this dirty diner, begging.

The waitress paused by their booth and nodded toward Pam's empty coffee cup. "Refill?" she asked.

"No, thank you," Pam said.

"Yeah, she'll have another cup," Roy said.

Pam's eyes flashed up to him, and he looked momentarily uncertain. The waitress filled Pam's mug and moved on.

Roy cleared his throat again. He kept doing that. It was irritating, and she felt like telling him so. But it seemed to be an outward sign of his nervousness, and God help her she wanted him to be nervous. "Pammy. I know I messed up. I know. You just, you have to understand why it happened that way. Can't you see it as proof of how much I love you?"

The spoon Pam was using to stir her unwanted coffee clattered loudly to the table. Her mouth had fallen open in mute disbelief. Finally she found her tongue. "First of all," she spat, poking a finger at him across the table, "you did not 'mess up.' 'Messing up' is forgetting Valentine's Day, or falling asleep during sex. Coming home drunk and picking a fight with your fiancée because she doesn't want to sleep with you while you smell like a brewery is not messing up. Slamming your fiancée into the wall so hard she has a bruise on the back of her head is not messing up. This," she touched the skin under her left eye, "is not messing up. You didn't mess up, Roy, you beat me up!"

He looked horrified, stricken, as his eyes swept the noisy diner for witnesses to her outburst. Then his teeth clenched, and he grabbed the thin wrist that was still outstretched, her finger still pointing and accusing. "Pam, cut it out. Keep your voice down," he hissed through his teeth.

She paid no attention. "And for you to tell me to take it as proof that you love me? What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Listen to me," he gritted out, aiming for something that was not anger but failing. "It won't happen again. I swear. I'm not some kind of monster, Pam, you know that. You know me."

She tugged at her hand until he opened his fist and released her. "I have to go, Roy. I'm not ready to … I'm not ready to forgive you yet. I don't know when I will be—if I ever will be. I just know that right now, I can't. Okay? I just … I have to go."

She grabbed her coat and slipped out of the booth, relieved that she'd insisted on following him over to the diner from the office. In the parking lot, tears flooded her eyes as she fumbled with her keys; she had cried more in the past two days than she cared to admit, and she just wanted to stop. To go back to the day before Roy had used her as a punching bag, before she had ever had occasion to see Jim look at her as if she were drowning right in front of him, to planning her stupid wedding and laughing her way through the workweek with her best friend…

She half expected Roy to appear behind her. Part of her was just waiting for it as she stood there like an idiot beside her car, trying to find the right key with cold and shaking hands. He would grab her arm, pin her against the car, she would see the blind rage that had possessed him that night, made somehow more terrifying in a public place and without the smell of liquor on his breath.

Then she was in the car, doors locked, backing out of the parking lot, heading home. She turned up the radio, found the first song she knew the words to, and sang along at the top of her lungs. It kept the tears at bay, and she was so tired of crying.

She stayed in the car until the song was over, even though by then she was already parked in front of her apartment complex. Only when the last strains of the song had faded did she turn off the engine and get out.

"Toto—an underappreciated band if ever there was one."

Pam gasped and spun around. Jim was two parking spaces away, leaning against his car and giving her a small, crooked, apologetic smile. "What can I say?" she asked seriously, not missing a beat in spite of being startled. "I do miss the rains down in Africa."

His smile widened. "Oh, God, who doesn't?"

It was weak banter, but it was closer to normal than their last encounter had been, and Pam welcomed it. She started for the stairwell that led to her apartment, calling back over her shoulder, "You coming in, Halpert, or you just gonna stand there scaring my neighbors?"

"Both options sound tempting," he said, but she heard him fall into step behind her. For the first time in days, she felt safe and warm.

TBC ... review please!