Hey there, thanks for the reviews! My goal is always to keep the characters in character, which can be difficult when the subject matter is so far from anything that's been dealt with on the show. So reassurances that I'm in the ballpark are much appreciated. I hope you enjoy this chapter. If you do, please let me know. Shameless though it is, reviews will guarantee a quicker update, because telling a story is no fun unless someone is listening. And liking.

She had expected the talk to turn serious the moment he stepped into her apartment. She thought she would offer him a beer and he'd say sure, thanks, and when she brought it to him and settled next to him on the couch he would give her That Look and she might even start crying again, and this good feeling would go away like it had never existed. That's what she expected—but then, when it didn't happen that way, she remembered that this was Jim.

She tossed him a beer—one of Roy's, which Jim noted but didn't comment on—and poured herself a glass of wine before joining him on the couch. They sat in the dim living room on opposite ends of the couch, the TV tuned to some inane sitcom that really served as background noise.

"So what ended up happening with Dwight's Rolodex?" she asked.

Jim smiled. "You wouldn't be suggesting that I had something to do with the vanishing contact cards, would you, Beesly?"

"Oh, of course not. I wouldn't dream of it."

"Well, thank goodness, he found them." Jim paused for effect. "Alphabetized, all around the office. Connor, in the conference room; Valdecki, in the vending machine; Edwards, taped to the elevator doors. My personal favorite, Uriel—in the urinal."

Pam laughed, applauding appreciatively. "Well played, Halpert."

He shrugged modestly. "Eh, not one of my best."

"By whose standards?"

"If a prank on Dwight doesn't even get a few giggles out of the receptionist, I have to chalk it up to a loss."

She frowned at him. "I'm surprised at you, Jim. You've lost the mission. Driving Dwight crazy is its own reward."

"Oh, don't get me wrong, that's still a perk. I'm just sort of hopelessly addicted to making you laugh."

Pam felt a warm rush as her cheeks colored slightly, and was glad she hadn't bothered to turn on the lamps. "Well," she said, "Lucky for you, you're funnier than Michael."

"Come on, really? 'That's what she said?' Comedic gold."

"True, that never gets old no matter how many times a day I hear it. Twenty-six is the current record, in case you were wondering."

"You counted," he said, grinning. "I love that you counted."

Pam shrugged. "The job is multifaceted. Not just anyone is fit to be a receptionist at Dunder-Mifflin Scranton branch, you know."

"I should say not."

They both fell momentarily silent, and Pam felt the seriousness creeping in. "Wanna watch a movie?" she blurted out, desperate to keep that subject at bay for now, forever. "I rented Fargo, and Roy ref—refuses … to watch it again …" She bit down on her lip as her sentence trailed off weakly, wanting to erase the words, to banish the elephant that she had just ushered into the room.

Jim did it for her. His face breaking out in a wide, easy grin, he hopped off the couch and knelt next to her DVD player. "You don't have to ask me twice," he said. "Toss it."

She giggled and threw the movie case, Frisbee-style, toward him. He ducked and caught it over his head between his fingers at the same time.

"Hey, you trying to decapitate me?" he asked.

"You said toss it!"

"I didn't mean at my face."

"Sorry. You know I'm not that coordinated."

"Yeah, lucky for you I have good reflexes." He put the movie in, slid the pocket closed, and rejoined her, this time sitting close enough to put his arm on the back of the couch, vaguely encircling her shoulders. It was distracting, this almost-touch, in the best possible way. She kept stealing sidelong glances at him as the movie played and both of them added their commentary to the events unfolding on the screen. She could feel him doing the same, when her eyes were trained on the TV. She wished the movie had a longer run time. A couple of years, conservatively; or maybe forever.

Of course, nothing is forever. The sudden, violent knock at the door didn't even make her flinch, and Pam knew she had been expecting this, deep down, the whole time. Jim pressed the Pause button and looked over at her. His jaw was tight, all traces of his trademark good humor gone from his eyes. She had to force herself to meet them.

"I—I don't know what to do," she said weakly.

"I do," Jim said, standing up.

She caught his hand and tugged at it until he sat back down. "Jim, please. You can't. I can't let you." Her urgent whisper stabbed him in the heart. She was afraid, and her fear did strange and overwhelming things to him. He ran his hands through his hair, frustrated.

"Pam!" Roy's voice, between barrages of knocks. "Pam, let me in. I just want to talk to you. Please baby. I'm not going anywhere until you let me in."

"Jim, will you please go in the bedroom for a minute?" she asked on impulse. "He means it, he won't leave. My neighbors—"

"Let me talk to him," Jim said, his voice strained with suppressed emotion. "Pam, I won't do anything stupid, just let me open the door."

"No," she said. "I can't."

Jim stood there for a long moment, his eyes locked on hers, an unreadable expression clouding them. Then he turned and walked into her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Pam put the chain on before opening the door to its full allowance. "You woke me up," she said through the crack. "Go home, Roy."

"Not until you talk to me. Come on, Pam, open the door."

"We talked already, Roy. I told you how I feel."

"Yeah, and you said you don't know. I'm trying to help you know." He was drunk, his words slightly slurred and his eyes bloodshot with what might have been equal parts tears and alcohol.

"I said I need time," she said, trying to keep her voice even, and low. She was very aware of Jim's presence in the next room. "I said I'm not ready. I don't know when I will be, but this—you showing up at my apartment in the middle of the night and yelling at me through the door—that's not helping your case any. Okay? Just go."

"I'll go if you promise to see me tomorrow," he said. "We can meet for lunch; I'll take you to dinner, whatever. Just … I need face time, Pam. You owe me that much. You owe us that much."

She sighed, wanting to tell him about all the things he owed, but too spent to even begin. "Okay," she relented. "Call me tomorrow; we'll meet somewhere. I'll hear you out, and you'll hear me."

He took a deep breath. "That's good," he said, relieved. "That's good, that's what I want. Tomorrow, then. And Pammy?" He pressed his palm against the door so she couldn't close it the rest of the way.

She kept her eyes closed. "What?"

"I love you. You know that, right?"

And in spite of herself, she nodded. "Yeah, I know. Good night, Roy."

Several moments went by before she heard his heavy footsteps fading down the breezeway. She leaned with her back against the door, trying to compose herself. The bedroom door opened and Jim came out. He didn't look directly at her as he picked his coat up off the back of the couch and shrugged into it.

"You're going?" she asked softly.

"Yeah, I think I should."

She nodded, but tears were filling her eyes. "The movie wasn't over…"

His smile was thin and brittle, not a Jim smile at all. "It's okay, I've seen it a million times. I'll, ah, get out of your hair. Let you get some sleep or … whatever."

"Jim?"

"Yeah?"

"Um. Are you—are you mad at me?"

He answered too quickly, too lightly. "Of course not, why would I be?" Going to the window that overlooked the breezeway and beyond that, the parking lot, he pulled one slat of the blinds up with his finger and peered out. "Looks like the coast is clear," he said. "See you Monday?"

"Jim." A note of desperation, of pleading, crept into her tone.

He shook his head. "I'm not mad at you, Beesly," he said, still not looking at her, not really. "But I can't pretend that this is okay."

"I don't know what I'm going to do," she said. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

Finally, he met her eyes, pausing in front of her. His hand brushed softly against her temple, moving a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, so, so gently. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye as she looked up at him.

"I want nothing more than to help you figure that out, Pam. But as much as I hate it, it has to be your decision. You know where to find me."

He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, and then he was gone. She sank to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, and allowed herself to cry again.

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