Title: Come Home.
Summary: Sitting in the summer air, she feels so young and innocent.
Author's Note: I wanted to get this all posted before Christmas but that didn't happen. I have an epilogue that will be posted this weekend, hopefully. I hate how rushed this feels but I don't have the time to go back and fix it. But I'm going to be working on a Ryan centric story soon, I think, and I've been working on a Ryan/Pam Office horror story since like, last spring. So wait for that. Anyway. Sorry for keeping all you dears waiting. Hope you enjoy.

She failed art school. She fuckin' failed. Art school.

Jesus, she wants to throw up. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. How in God's name do you fail art school?

She's going to be sick. So sick.

Fingers shaking, she stumbles through the apartment, sticking her head out the window, heavily breathing the late summer air. She clumsily sticks her legs through, pulling herself through the window.

A packet of cigarettes and a lighter sit on the window sill, but she ignores them. She carefully sits, everything distorted behind her blurry eyes and how the hell did she fail art school?

God, she's embarrassed. Humiliated. Mortified. Her face burns, even as she sits alone.

She swallows hard, lifting her head, her body now shaking with sobs.

She was alone in a huge city, living in an apartment she could barely afford. She managed to fail as an artist, something she was supposed to be, something she wanted to do for her career.

The thought of working in her sketchbook depresses her.

She pulls her phone from her pocket, flipping it open and glancing at the date. Ryan was coming home in almost two weeks.

This manages to make her feel a little better. Well, she doesn't vomit, anyway.

She remembers the letter on the kitchen counter, the one she received this morning but set aside before rushing out the door.

The thought of seeing his handwriting and reading his words is the only thing that forces Pam to her feet. She feels a nail in the window sill dig into her skin as she tries to crawl back into the apartment as quickly as she can. "Fuck!" she cries out, warm blood dripping down her ankle. The tears resurface as she limps into the kitchen, her breathing shallow.

She hops onto the counter, sticking her foot into the sink and running cool water over the gash. She sniffs, pulling the envelope to her, setting it on her lap.

He doesn't call her ever and she keeps her word and doesn't visit, although if he ever asks, she would. It's not like she's afraid. But she knows how humiliated he probably feels.

Humiliated.

Her eyes burn and she carefully slides a finger underneath the envelope flap, ripping it open. She unfolds the leaf of notebook paper, so thin in her hands. The ink is dark against the white paper, popping out at her.

But instead of his full page of writing, this letter is simple, each word scripted carefully:

Home soon. You're still there, aren't you?

-Ryan.

She feels her heart tug, the previous anger and frustration at this day crumbling away. She holds the letter tightly, her fingers almost causing rips in the page.

Just a few more days and this apartment won't feel so empty.

xxxxxxxx

She tries to find a job the week leading up to Ryan's return. She isn't picky or snobby about where she applies. The idea of returning to graphic design pisses her off so she doesn't even bother looking into those ads. There's a flower shop at the corner of her street she applies to, and the deli she and Ryan went to on 6th.

She tries retail, but the high end spots give her disapproving looks and the children's clothing store a few blocks away from PRATT kills her nerves because of all the crying kids the employees and shoppers bring in.

There are other art classes avalible at PRATT, but she wouldn't be going on the company program, so it'd have to be paid for out of her own pocket. Maybe in a few months, but for now, she needs a break.

The anticipation of seeing Ryan again is building up, along with a sense of anxiety. She doesn't know where they are, if she's his girlfriend, or whatever. The thought of them being together, though, draws a sense of reasoning and ease from her, a big change from the shitty rollercoaster she had been riding lately.

Life with Ryan wouldn't be easy, and she knows that. It's probably not going to be much different then life with Ryan is now: sarcastic, unpredictable, random, and the most real thing she's ever experienced.

God, it's amazing how right being with Ryan felt, even through all the arguments, even though it should be wrong.

She sits on the fire escape the morning he's to come home. She has his iPod in her hands, flipping through songs and pausing every to often to listen to one of them.

It's become a morning ritual, sitting out here with tea and the iPod. He had made at least twenty different playlists before leaving and she listened to everyone like it was a story he was telling.

Though it's September, the summer air sticks around, the morning sun turning the back of her neck pink.

He has a playlist called 'morning' and oddly enough, she hasn't listened to it yet.

And it starts with a song by Brand New, a band she had become familiar with over the past few weeks. It was so Ryan, and she is so happy that he was coming home today because otherwise, she'd loose her mind missing him.

She hadn't even heard his voice in two months.

Christ.

After finishing the playlist, she stands, walking back into the apartment. She showers, allowing herself to take an extra five minutes then usual. She stands in front of the mirror, trying to figure out what to do with her hair.

She leaves it straight, simple.

Everything just feels so significant. Everything she does, it's like she needs to remember it.

And God, her heart is racing as she pulls her yellow dress over her head, straightening the skirt of it out.

And his taxi will be here soon, so she paces back and forth across the kitchen floor, and she wonders if he'll kiss her, if maybe it'll be better then the first time he ever kissed her, that evening on the fire escape.

Fuck, she's nervous. So nervous she barely registers the knocking at the door. And she doesn't really expect him to knock but its better then him randomly walking in and giving her a heart attack.

Jesus, she might just have a heart attack anyway.

Her fingers are slippery with sweat as she grasps the doorknob and pulls the door back.

And he stands there in the black v-neck and jeans he left in, a light sweater over his shoulders.

His face looks a lot tired, but a lot more relieved to see her there.

To see she didn't leave.

And she gasps as his arms wrap around her waist and she doesn't think she's ever been this close to him, like close close. Even when they had sex.

Every emotion she's had the past two months just lifts off her shoulders and she's blinking into his shoulder, trying to hide the tears, because fuck, that's cheesy.

But the closeness and realness of him is so overwhelming, she's just about to loose it. And then she does when his mouth finds hers and he's leading her backwards into the apartment, pressing her gently against the wall.

His face is wet from her eyes and she's gasping between kisses. Because even though he was gone and she flunked out of art school and she doesn't have a job or money, he was still there for her.

And now he's here, and God, that sounds so right. And this shoe box apartment and this ginormous city has never felt more like home with his hands tangling in her hair and his breath hot on her neck as he mutters 'I love you' over and over.

And she laughs between her tears, her hands pressed against his face, her fingers feeling his familiar skin.

"I love you, too," she whispers, hiccupping softly. "God, I love you so much."

And his smile, so boyish and shy, God it kills her.

And she's holding his hand as if this is new, as if they're just young and innocent.

Sitting in the summer air, she feels so young and innocent.