Chapter title: City Girl.

Summary: Because no matter what she thought about art school, or what she told Jim, she as staying for him.

Author's Note: Hey there. Hope you all enjoy this chapter. Comments are appreciated. Chapter title taken from a Tegan and Sara song.

She knows she should talk to him. She knows she'll have to grovel and cry and beg for forgiveness. She could try to explain, but he'll never understand. Why doesn't he understand?

She flips open her phone, curling up against the array of pillows on the bed.

The bed. They never call it his bed or her bed, or their bed. Just the bed.

She presses redial quickly; she's called three times this morning.

He answers on the forth ring. His voice sounds faint.

"Jim. Jim, you answered." She hates how desperate she sounds; this feels like last year.

"Yeah." He lets out a sigh. "I'm sorry I didn't answer before, I just…"

"I know. I know. Jim, I'm so sorry. I should have told you I moved in with Ryan," she says, her fingers nervously bouncing along her thigh.

"Yeah, you should have." He doesn't raise his voice, but shit, his tone is cold. She's never heard him so angry.

"You didn't have to punch him, though."

"You're defending him?" His voice sounds truly incredulous.

"Yes," she says meekly. "But Jim," she rushes on, "you don't understand. He… He's probably going to jail."

"Because he's a fraud!"

"Jim!" And she feels herself becoming genuinely frustrated at him. "He doesn't have anyone. And he's so scared. He wasn't going to be able to afford his apartment anymore, I had to help him! I…" Her voice breaks and goddammit, why can't he just understand her?

"Do you love him?"

The question is so radical, so random, she finds her heart catching in her throat.

"What?" she whispers. "Do I- Jim, what the hell is wrong with you?"

She can hear his frustration miles away.

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you'd be pissed and I needed to do this. I'm sorry I lied to you, I really, really am."

He exhales, his breathing muffled against her ear.

"Come home," he says, sounding weary.

"Come home?... Jim, I still have three months of school, I can't come home right now."

"But you can stay there with Ryan?" He has a defiant, stubborn tone.

"I would be here either way," she snaps. "I'm not coming home."

"Fine."

"Jim—"

"I'll talk to you later, Pam."

She hears the line fall dead. She wants to throw the phone across the room.

She presses her face into the mattress and cries instead.

Ryan wakes her up an hour later. He jumps a little when she lifts her head.

"Christ, what happened?"

She bursts into tears. Sad, pathetic, noisy tears.

"Shit, Pam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" He sighs. "Shit," he says again, sitting down next to her.

"Hey, it's all right," he murmurs, touching her shoulder gently. "Come on doll, don't get sick over it."

"He wants me to come home," she moans into his shoulder.

The hand that was patting her hair stops. "What?" And his voice sounds high pitched and she pulls away, looking at him.

"He wants me to come home," she repeats, blinking.

"You're… You're leaving?" His eyes look so sad and the look on her face must have looked pitying because he blushes, looking away.

"This is my home now." And the words come so naturally, it scares her, because she never realized how much the past two weeks had affected her.

His arms wrap around her and she rests her chin on his shoulder.

"Thank you," he says in her ear.

Because no matter what she thought about art school, or what she told Jim, she as staying for him. She was sleeping in a cramped studio apartment for him.

God. She kind of sort of loves… the city. The city. Of course.

xxxxxxx

He makes her breakfast every morning. Or afternoon. Depending on how early they wake up.

His omelets are the best it just makes her crazy. And he makes instant pancakes, but they just melt in her mouth, holy hell.

Not to mention he wears an apron when he cooks. That never gets old.

He's changed since the morning she found him drunk. He isn't as rude as he used to be (though he's still sarcastic. But she can be too.). He's more… aware of her feelings. And he's careful about what he says to her.

She finds it charming, how gentle he can be.

They sit on the bed eating omelets and watching golf.

"Ryan?" she asks, pushing a mushroom aimlessly around on her plate, "You don't even like sports. Why do you bother watching these games?" Pam had wondered this since the first night she's come over here.

And his face flushes slightly, crawling up his neck, reaching his ears. "I just… my dad used to watch games all the time and I never really got it. It was boring to me. But, I dunno, I would just sit with him and listen to him go on and on about things I didn't understand, but it's like we managed to connect over it."

He pauses, taking a bite of his food.

"He used to fall asleep to the Twilight Zone or whatever other crap was on. He was always watching TV. When he was reading, or doing balancing the checkbook, or whatever. It was just noise to him. And when I left for college, I realized it wasn't there anymore so I bought a TV and an antenna for my dorm."

She grins widely. "Ryan, that's so sweet."

"No, it's dorky." He smiles, taking her empty plate and kissing her forehead before crawling off the bed to wash the dishes. He does that a lot.

No one's kissed her forehead in ages.

Maybe she should call Jim.

"Do you want to do something tonight?" he calls over the running water.

She doesn't think about Jim. "Yeah, sure."

She listens to him finish the dishes and wipe off the counters.

He's been a lot cleaner since she moved in.

"What do you want to do?" He walks back towards her, wiping his hands on the faded Nirvana tee shirt he usually wore to bed.

She considers for a moment before her face lights up. "Ryan. Ryan, I want to see a Broadway play."

And he stares at her. "Who the hell are you? Kelly?"

She tosses her head back, laughing. "Mm, no, I just want to go to a Broadway play with you."

He glares. "Get the laptop out, see what's playing."

"Thank you!" she calls as he walks towards the bathroom.

She hears him mutter something darkly, but she ignores it.

She's never been to a Broadway play before.

xxxxxxx

She wears a simple blue dress that kisses her knees in the most gentle of ways. He wears his nice black pants and a white button up shirt with a skinny black tie. His sport coat is tucked over his arm, an Ohio University sweatshirt hidden underneath it.

The air is humid when they step out of the theatre. She's wearing his sweater, because it was cold in the theatre. She keeps it. It smells like him. She feels all right.

"I can't believe you cried!" she laughs, linking her arm with his as they walk down the street.

"I didn't cry," he says rather stiffly, his face reddening all the same.

"You cried at RENT! I really should call Kelly," she taunts, reaching for the clutch hanging from her wrist.

"Not funny," he says, but smiles weakly. "It was a good play."

And her face is red as she tries to not burst out laughing. "Mmhmm, oh yeah." She pauses, looking up at him. "Thanks for taking me."

And he smiles his smile, the one that crinkles his eyes and lights up his face. She loves that smile. "Of course. It's nice to get my mind off of things." And he doesn't offer anymore, but she knows he's talking about the hearing because his face pales slightly and his eyes start to dim, like the morning she found him.

So she squeezes his arm, resting his head against his shoulder. "It'll be ok."

And he looks at her with a smile that just maybe might agree.

"Come on, I want to take you somewhere," he says, tugging on her hand, his face relaxing once more.

She follows along after him. "Ryan, where are we going?" she asks, breathless after walking for the past 20 minutes, the sweater clinging to her dress, making her body warm.

"You'll see," he promises, pulling her around the corner.

And she does.

The river is black and gleaming and the moon reflects so brightly, she has to squint a bit. He's still walking though, and the area's a bit sketchy looking, so she clings tighter to his fingers. They aren't sweaty like Jim's and they aren't rough and calloused like Roy's. They're smooth and cold and long, and they fit perfectly with hers. So she holds them, trying to push the guilt of holding someone's hand who isn't her fiancé.

Ryan finally comes to a stop, stepping in front of a crumbling brick wall. "I like coming out here sometimes," he says, turning towards the water, the lines of worry that are usually etched on his face now gone.

"Wow," she breathes. Their hands are tangled together, sitting in the space between them.

"I know," he says, "it's great. I've never been here with anyone else before," he adds thoughtfully.

She smiles at him. "I'm honoured."

His eyes shine under the moonlight and he pulls her to him, his hand resting on her hip. She's smiling against his shoulder and they're dancing, she's dancing with Ryan Howard. And it's not because he used to be the youngest MBA at Corporate, or because she feels bad for him.

It's because she's comfortable, but he keeps her on her toes and it's never dull with him. It's because sometimes when he says the wrong thing, it's really the right thing. It's because even though he thinks she saved him, he saved her a little bit too. Because she isn't the quiet little receptionist who lets people push her around and walk all over her. She's a city girl, now, and she's actually starting a new life, outside of Scranton, away from Dunder Mifflin. And he's only supported her through that.

And he's humming under his breath, so quiet and gentle it makes her melt.

Maybe she's falling for him a little bit. Just- just a little bit.

"What are you humming?" she asks, her heart fluttering in the most peculiar and beautiful way. She feels the heat crawling up his neck.

"El Scorcho by Weezer. It's been stuck in my head all day." He glances down at her, flashing an apologetic grin. "Sorry. I'll sop. I'm a terrible singer."

But she presses her ear against his chest, swaying in time to the beating of his heart. "Don't stop," she whispers, "please."

And he doesn't and by the time she falls asleep that night, she's singing the song too.

xxxxxx

She smells smoke when she walks into the studio. And she starts to panic, but when she starts sniffing the air to find out where it's coming from, she finds that she's inhaling a sweet scent.

Not a forest fire smoke smell. She pauses. Incense? Did Ryan buy incense? God, he is so weird.

She sees the pale white smoke drifting through the open window, the one that leads to the fire escape. Furrowing her brow, she carefully tiptoes across the room, (because, you know, maybe a robber broke in then decided to light incense on the fire escape) and peers out the window.

"Ryan?"

He doesn't even jump, just lifts his head to look up at her. The expression on his face is calm and lazy looking.

"Hey, dahling," he drawls, hiccupping in laugher. She spots a join between his fingers.

"Ryan, honestly," she says, attempting to gracefully crawl out the window. She stumbles, almost falling into him.

"Careful," he warns, holding her elbow. She steadies herself, dropping down onto the top step while he sits on the landing.

She watches him inhale, his eyes falling shut, contentment fixed over his features. He slowly exhales, smoke wrapping around his face before floating off towards the city.

"You look so pretty today, Pam," he says, his voice slow and smooth. "You always look pretty, but today you look doubly pretty." He giggles sheepishly.

She stares at him before blinking and turning away. She hates this fire escape. It's old and dirty and littered with cigarette butts.

Ryan loves it.

Go figure.

"Try some," he says, holding the joint out to her. She stares at it, edging away as if it'll attack her.

"No thanks," she says stiffly, reminding herself irresistibly of Angela.

"C'mon honey, just try it. You're an artist. It's basically the law that you smoke every so often." And he waggles his eyebrows in such a stupid way that she has to laugh.

"Fine. Just once, though," she tells him sternly, scooting forward.

His grin is triumphant and he leans forward "Mmk. Hold it between your lips," he instructs, slipping the joint in her mouth, keeping his finger and thumb a few inches from the cherry. "And you need to inhale, but don't just hold it, it needs to, like, be in you."

"That's what she said."

He laughs for, like, ten minutes.

"All right," he says, placing a hand on her chest, right over her heart. "Inhale."

He's like two inches from her face and his fingers can very easily sidle down her shirt. And he wants her to focus on breathing right?

Fuck that.

But she does and it's probably too big of a breath for her first try. Her head feels light and her lungs burn.

Coughing, she bends forward, clutching his knee, and gasping for breath.

"Shit!" she whimpers, her eyes watery.

He's laughing and she'd hit him but her limbs feel too heavy to move. Christ.

"Thatta girl!" he says, pressing his hand against the back of her neck gently. She leans into his palm.

"It's your first time," he says suddenly. "You need a song to remember it by." He fishes through his pocket, clumsily pulling his iPod and headphones out.

After shuffling through songs for a moment, he finally makes a pleased sounding noise in his throat, shoving a headphone in her ear. She giggles, taking the joint from him and inhaling once more, this time not as heavily.

"Is this Bob Dylan?" she asks, looking at him. And he nods, laughing. She starts laughing, too, she just can't figure out why.