Chapter Title: Burning Eyes/Shaking Fingertips.

Summary: He forgot she was wearing an engagement ring.

Authors Note: Chapter two! Thanks for the emails and such; I hope you enjoy this chapter, my dears.

He sits in his desk. Well, he figures, it's not really going to be his desk anymore. It'll be the new MBA's desk, if the company doesn't go under after the shit he pulled.

Wallace walks by, shoots him a grin.

Ryan presses his forehead against the cool, oak wood of the desk. He doesn't know.

His fingers shake. Will the police come? He refrains from going into the bathroom and doing lines. If the police come, he plans on being sober because he deserves to feel the humility.

His phone rings and his heart nearly jumps out of his chest. "Ryan Howard," he manages, praying his voice sounds steady.

It's Grace. Her voice is gentle and normal. She doesn't know.

He really just wants to die.

"There's a Miss Pam Beesley out here for you."

His heart skips a beat, something he notices.

"Send her in." He sits up tall, trying to not look like the failure he knows he is.

Failure. The word aches. He should get used to it.

He barely has to look up to know she's at his door.

"So this is where you work now." She looks so sweet and young and innocent in her simple tank top and floral skirt. He can't even believe something like that can manage to fit itself into his fucked up life right now.

"Pam. Hi." He keeps his hands under his desk (the desk) so she doesn't see them shaking.

"You really aren't the temp anymore."

No, goddammit, he isn't. The pang of regret at that knowledge is unfamiliar.

"Guess not."

She cocks her head, pulling away from the bookshelf she was looking at.

"Shut the door," he says before she can talk. She does, her hips swaying slightly underneath her skirt.

Her hair is damp and she smells like something citrusy – oranges maybe? He clings to that. In an hour, maybe two, it's the only thing he'll remember.

"Hey, you here?" She clicks her tongue, smiling as she sits neatly down across from him.

His smile is more of a grimace. His face is pained looking, almost as if a puppy is being drowned in front of him.

God. He should have just stayed in the shower this morning and held his breath. Drowning is probably the most uncomfortable way to die.

Yeah. Well. Whatever.

"Ryan." And her eyes look scared, her face pale. "What happened?"

And his palms are sweating, pressed hard against his pants, his way too expensive pants. Why the hell did he fork over that much for pants? Fuck Armani.

"I think I might be going to jail." The words are whispered, not that it makes them any less real. Because it's real, holy hell it's real. The look on Pam's face confirms this.

"What?" Her voice is low but sharp and he cringes.

He buries his face between his hands, breathing in deeply. "I've been embezzling money," he says, hiccupping nervously, his foot tapping.

"Oh, Ryan!" But the look on her face isn't disappointment or disgust. Just fear. "Ryan!"

He groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, white spots appearing.

"I'm so scared," he whispers, his voice shuddering. She looks frozen, her mouth stuck in a 'o' shape. For some reason he wants to apologise over and over to her.

He doesn't get a chance.

There's a pound at the frosted glass door. He really wants to throw up. She's saying something. He can't hear her.

"Ryan Howard, you are under arrest."

"It'll be ok, Ryan."

"You have the right to remain silent…"

"Just breathe, Ry."

"…anything you say can and will be used against you…"

"Just…"

"…in the court of law."

"Breathe."

His arms are twisted behind his back, the cold metal cuffs digging into his wrists. He feels a finger prod him in the back, edging him forward.

She's standing by the doorway, her face scared. His eyes burn and he blinks quickly, looking away.

She smells like oranges.

xxxxx

The fingerprinting and processing went by quickly and he can't talk, even when Wallace is standing there tearing him down.

But it's not until the dim lights shut off completely and the doors clank shut and he's alone on the cold hard bed that his burning eyes finally overflow. And he's wearing his clothes from earlier today, his stupid 300$ pants. Tears drip down his face and he doesn't even give a shit that he's a total pussy for crying.

But he's in prison, man, prison.

He thinks of oranges and doesn't hyperventilate.

His head aches and he'd lie down but the pillows hurt, so he stays sitting up.

He has one phone call. He wants to call his mom but she probably all ready knows. Maybe she'll bail him out in the morning. Maybe not.

He thinks of her skirt and her damp hair sitting nicely on her collarbones.

Why the fuck is he thinking of her?

What about his apartment? How's he going to afford it now? How's he supposed to get a new job?

Business school didn't prepare him for this.

And what about jail? He gets out on bail for a few months, trial comes… what, 15 to 20 years?

He thinks of her face. She looked as scared as he felt. He hadn't expected that. He calms down.

He wakes up to the smell of oranges. She's nowhere near him.

His mom got him out on bail. She doesn't talk to him, just drops him off at his apartment. Says she's finding a lawyer.

His studio feels so different, like he's in a movie. He digs out his pajama bottoms, the ones he hasn't worn since college.

Sweat forms on his chest as he lies in bed at two in the afternoon. He ignores the baggy of cocaine in the nightstand drawer next to him.

His phone rings at six, waking him up. His mom found him a lawyer. He has a hearing in three weeks. His stomach churns when she hangs up with no words of comfort, no 'I love you'.

He thinks he's getting an ulcer. Can you die from an ulcer?

He has Christmas lights around his bed. Decorations supposedly. Ryan really does love Christmas.

He wonders how tight he would have to tie to string of lights around his neck before passing out.

Sleep isn't an option this time, so he flips the TV on. He turns to a baseball game, an Indians game. He lives in New York. His dad loved Cleveland.

He doesn't care about the game, never has. But it's noise. He can pretend he's into it, if he lies to himself enough, which he does.

His dad would watch these games all the time. Ryan would sit by his feet, even after he graduated high school.

His Dad died last year. Ryan was high at the funeral.

His Dad's Indians hat sits on his dresser.

He watches the game because it's familiar.

The knock at his door isn't. He thinks it's probably the police.

He should have stayed in the shower this morning.

He thinks of oranges. (Is this the fucking Shining, or something?)

He picks up the golf club his mom bought him last year for his birthday. Jack Nicolson is probably standing outside his door. Maybe he'll take the deed off my hands and kill me, he thinks darkly to himself, because as of a few hours ago, he's a sick suicidal bastard.

That thought freaks him out, though. He rests the putter of the club on his shoulder, slowly peeling the door open.

Her hair isn't damp anymore. And she says his name. He sees the relief break over her face.

His mother couldn't tell him she loved him.

Pam looks like she's going to throw her arms around his neck but she doesn't. "Can I come in?" she asks breathlessly. And he steps back, allowing her entrance.

"Practicing your golf?" she asks, eyeing the golf club on his shoulder. He lowers it.

"No… I was just… " His voice trails off. His eyes sting.

"What happened?" she asks weakly, sitting down on the edge of his bed because there's nowhere else to sit.

He doesn't have people over often.

And he sits down next to her feet, facing the television he's never really watched.

"I have a hearing in three weeks. My mom got me a lawyer." He pauses. "She hates me." His voice is sickly thoughtful, pervertedly light,

"Ryan…" But she doesn't move.

"I think I might kill myself." Christ, he's loosing his mind.

She doesn't say anything; she probably can't decide if he's joking or not.

He's not. Unless this is all just a sick mutherfuckin' joke.

No. Even if this were a joke, he'd still want to kill himself.

"My Dad likes the Indians," she says into the quiet.

"So did mine." Past tense. That shuts everyone up.

But even though he's cold and snarky and rude, (which he always is anyway, this is just bumped up a few levels), she doesn't leave. And he really doesn't want her to.

He leans her head against her knee, the hem of her skirt tickling his ear.

They stay like that until after the ABC News Report, after the 11'o clock news, until after Nightline, and long after Jimmy Kimmel.

xxxxx

He pours the baggy of cocaine into the toilet, watching it flush down. The sound resonates around the small studio.

She left at three in the morning.

His blankets smell like oranges. He wonders if she like, hides them in her pockets, or something. He almost wants to go see her, say he's sorry for being a dick.

He wants to take her out to dinner.

This whole jail thing is making him crazy, because he starts to change his clothes. No point in wearing a suit. He's not going to work any time soon. So he finds his grey jeans and a soft white tee shirt.

After slipping into his Vans, he grabs his ever-present sunglasses, placing them on top of his head.

He wonders if she'll be in class. It's the middle of a Wednesday. So yeah, probably. His craziness blinds him as he walks through the courtyard of PRATT. Where should he try and look for her at?

He sees some guys standing underneath a tree. He smells the sweet smoke coming from the joint, but he keeps walking.

Eventually, he finds the dorms. And after asking around, he finds her dorm. He feels stupid. He knows he look stupid, sweat beading on his forehead, his feet probably looking too big for his body. Thank Christ there's no mirror. Otherwise he'd probably leave.

He's a train wreck.

There are voices on the other side of the door but he thinks of her feet swinging a few inches above the carpet as she sits on his bed, and he knocks.

She looks surprised to see him there, (God, she's not the only one) but she smiles sweetly all the same. "Ryan, hi!"

He awkwardly smiles back. That actually hurt his mouth.

"What are you doing here?" She doesn't wait for his answer. "Come in!"

He feels himself being pulled into the room. Blinking, he steadies himself, taking in his surroundings. This certainly feels like a dorm room. There are posters and a mini fridge and a TV and a set of bunk beds.

Two girls are here, only lazily lying across the top bunk, the other sitting Indian style on the floor.

And then, there's Halpert.

He looks out of place, awkwardly ducking his head as he sits on the bottom bunk. His eyes narrow slightly when they land on Ryan.

"Oh my gosh," she says, looking really happy. "Ok. Ryan, this is my roommate, Kara." She gestures to the girl on the top bunk who barely turns her head to look at him. "And this is Elizabeth." The girl on the floor looks up, giving him a small smile. He grimaces.

"And you know Jim, obviously." Her voice falters.

"Hey man," Jim offers, "what are you doing here? You seemed so busy earlier." He smiles like the cameras somewhere nearby and Ryan really just wants to punch that mutherfucker.

Ryan feels his shoulders tense up. "Yeah, I got your message…" He rubs the back of his neck. Shit, this was a crummy idea.

"So what's up, Ryan?" Pam asks, looking up at him.

He shifts awkwardly. "I was just… I remembered you went here."

He could say 'thanks for last night' or 'can I take you out?' but the idea of Jim knocking him out wasn't a nice one.

Everyone's kind of watching him now. He shoves the toe of his shoe into the carpet.

"Just thought I'd stop by," he says into the silence, looking up at her.

Her gaze softens. She knows why he's here. He hates that he's suddenly so vulnerable.

"But, I'm going to go now." And his voice sounds way too loud. Her face looks way too sad.

He offers a nod, turning on his heel, feeling her eyes on his back.

He stands in the empty hallway.

He forgot she was wearing an engagement ring.