The fact that his head was currently encased by a cold, porcelain bowl had absolutely nothing to do with the amount of alcohol he had just consumed. As soon as Pam had left his embrace, left his home, his entire body began convulsing. He was lucky he had made it to the bathroom.
Now, forty-five minutes of kneeling on the hard tile in his jeans later, his body atrociously exhausted, he brought himself into a sitting position, back against the wall, and tipped his head back. Threading his fingers into his hair, he exhaled, and let the memories of last night wash over him like a cold shower.
He shouldn't have been drinking. Or, at least, shouldn't have been drinking as excessively as he had allowed himself to. Any normal person would certainly have some lost inhibitions under the canard of that much alcohol-but Jim didn't consider himself a normal person, not when it came to Pam. Even his friends-who hadn't known she existed until hours into their card game, when the pathetic in him had won out and demanded she join them-noticed that something was up.
They had been left alone, cloaked in liquid courage, guards torn down by an evening of empty bottles. His hands had been on her. Her legs tangled with his. But not in the ways that, on countless lonely nights, he had imagined they would be: bodies bare, sharing heat, exploring and tasting and consuming one another in a carnal expression of their love. No, not like that. The manner of their junctions last night were so much more intimate than he could have ever schemed by himself. Images flashed behind his eyes, thrusting fresh dizziness upon him.
Her body slipping on his kitchen floor, caught by his strong hands, her back trembling against the span of his grip. Her tiny digits grasping at his forearm. Had she lingered at the hair there? No, no she couldn't possiblyhave. But he didn't care. For today, in his version of what happened, she had. Because as he pressed play on the soundtrack to his 2006 Valentine's Day, those hooded eyes lingering up at him told a different story. The way she purposely-not once, but twice-had drawn his foot between hers. Had lain her head on his shoulder long before sleep had overtaken her petite frame. That was all intentional. He didn't care that she was drunk. She had made a choice.
Had fallen asleep on his shoulder.
Had woken up this morning undeniably wrapped around him.
And then, it was her face against his chest, her hands still wrapped around him when morning came, the smell of her hair as her head tucked protectively under his chin, that hit him square in the face. She hadn't been stiff, or pulled away; her arms were gripped tightly around him, her body cradled towards him, until reality had snuck up and stolen their quietude. She had reveled in those moments as much as he had, right?
In that moment, alone on his bathroom floor, he allowed those thoughts to consume him: that underneath all of her doubt and uncertainty, despite the handcuffs around her left ring finger, that she could possibly feel this, too.
The haunting of his own words kicked him back into reality.
You know what you should do? You should break up with him.
Rolled forward on his haunches, his face was back in the toilet. Bile raced up the back of his throat with a burning that was much less than the memory of his own fuck ups.
He doesn't treat you like you deserve to be treated. You...god, Pam, you deserve so much more.
Had he really said that? Out loud?
Of course, it was the truth. But what had possessed him to admit that, to her face?
A sense of dread washed over him, thoughts of Pam tangled in her own misery bringing fresh acidity to his throat. Was she upset? Was she pacing her house, trying to make sense of this, too? And then there was Roy and a whole new cloud hung suddenly ever-present above him.
She had spent the night here. On Valentine's Day.
Was he mad? Were they fighting? Was he yelling at her right now?
"Oh, god. Oh god oh god oh god," spilled from his mouth, echoing the same way in which remnants of last night's charade had washed down his drain not long before.
In a matter of twelve hours, he had not only ruined the chance of ever having the privilege to love her, but he very well could be losing his best friend. The thought didn't quite make him sick to his stomach, as much as it made his entire body ache from his heart on outwards. He found himself struggling to breathe for a moment, clutching as pain seared through his chest, strangled sobs escaping him as bitter tears clawed their way down his cheeks.
There was no way he was going into work today.
The word coward taunted him, but he didn't give a fuck.If he saw her, he would indubitably fall to his knees before her, grovel at her feet. But would he stoop in apologies, begging her forgiveness for ever crossing the line that, for years, he had danced so carefully around? Or would he pour out his heart and soul, giving one last ditch effort of convincing her that this was so much more real than she could ever imagine?
He couldn't fathom either of those ever coming to fruition. At least, not in the middle of the office.
As he peeled himself off of the cold, hard tile, indentations forming on his arms and cheek, he realized that he couldn't, in fact, avoid her altogether. Maybe for a half day, but not altogether. He had to drag himself into the office today, no matter how painful. He could take a half day, deal with an hour of incessant torture from Michael, undoubtedly riddled with questions like, "Ohhh, Jimbo! Get lucky last night?" and be done with it. But to fail to face his demons altogether would bring about an all new kind of torture.
For one, the questions would only mount with the rumors that his coworkers would inevitably circulate, and interrogation would only be doubly horrible if he surrendered to it on Thursday instead of today.
The other half of that battle was that alcohol didn't necessarily erase memories. Or at least, not altogether. Pam would at least remember waking up in his apartment, if nothing else. If he avoided her entirely, he would admit cowardice, or remorse, or the undeniable amount of fear that had taken ahold of him. He couldn't do that to her. Not after everything he'd already done. He had to at least face her, show solidarity in their fight against whatever had transpired last night. Whether or not she reciprocated his overwhelming turmoil, he would be there.
He called work, leaving the message about coming in after lunch for Toby, knowing full well that he did notwant her to hear the pang of utter sadness in his still gravelly voice. Dragging himself into the shower, he willed the suds to wipe away the negativity that cloaked him, while simultaneously getting lost in thoughts of her feet on his, her tiny hands clenched around his waist, the smell of her shampoo so closely pressed into his nostrils. It took everything in his power to keep from putting his old t-shirt back on. It was still riddled with her scent. Instead, he buried it under the pillows on his bed, willing the mattress to absorb it by the time he got home and sulked there all night.
He busied himself that morning with cleaning the disaster area that his kitchen had become, knowing that he should just face the memories head on right away. His cheeks burned as he wiped the puddles that remained on the floor. His toes tingled when he snactched the pizza box off of his living room floor. But none compared to the way his heart positively ached when he discovered the small pink and red sock that was hiding under his couch.
She must've lost it somewhere in the middle of the night, their feet intertwining and peeling the garment off, rendering it helpless and forgotten. He knew that bending down and retrieving it would ruin him.
A sock.
A fucking sock.
He needed clinical help.
He toed it back under the couch, knowing he'd need to deal with it later.
Today was going to be rough.
Ten o'clock came far too quickly. She hadn't gotten to spend enough time crafting what she was going to do, say, when she saw Jim this morning. She had gotten as far as starting with his valentine that still sat in her desk drawer before she realized that she was going to be late for being late. Despite the bitter temperatures, she was overheating in her coat and scarf as the elevator ascended, the thumping of her heart certainlyaudible by Hank the security guard. As sweaty palms reached the door, perspiration gliding down the back of her neck that had not accumulated due to heat, she suddenly felt like she was going to throw up. That discernment only intensified as, after taking a deep breath and doing a bit of self-talk, she crossed the threshold, only to discover his desk empty, messenger bag missing, coat not on the rack.
He had called in.
The onslaught of Where is he? and Is he just hungover, or was he freaked out too? and What if he's avoiding me because he thinks it was awkward? and Oh god I can't do this with him gone assaulted her from all sides. She was going to be sick.
"Pamela." The frank voice shook her from the tribulation. "You are late."
"I know, Dwight," she mustered, taking a few slow steps towards her desk, willing the faintness to subside. "I called Toby. It's all been taken care of."
"That does not excuse you from failing to take your work duties into consideration before spending your holiday engaging in heinous activities." The words shot dully from his lips, his eyes never wavering from the paperwork that flipped between his fingertips.
She couldn't think of any plausible response, knowing that he was right, and that she wasn't even in the mood to mess with him today. God, what did that say?
"Apparently flagrant avocations were quite common last night. A young Jim Halpert has also called in late today. I wonder, what sort of circumstances could have put out two Dunder Mifflin employees on the same night?"
She sputtered a simple, "I need to get to work, Dwight," craving the canopy of her desk to shield wandering eyes from the red hue in her cheeks and the tears that threatened to spring from her eyes.
Jim had called in late. He was coming in after all. She could breathe.
But now, her questions were more persistent.
Why had he called in late?
Was he just hungover?
Or had he spent all morning questioning the implications of the words he'd said, the way they had woken up together?
Was his head spinning with liquor or uncertainties?
Would he even be able to look at her upon his arrival?
The racing of her mind was brought to a screeching halt when she finally turned to enter the password on her computer. Lain across the keyboard was one single rose. No card, no note, just a single rose. She plucked it carefully from where it sat atop her keys, twirling it slowly in her fingers.
Another appeared twenty minutes later when she disappeared to get a soda. A third at eleven o'clock when she was summoned into the conference room to take notes for Michael's meeting.
This obviously wasn't Roy. But they couldn't be from Jim, could they?
He felt it, too? Had orchestrated this whole "coming in late" ruse to make this elaborate gesture?
When he came in after lunch, would he be holding the last of a dozen, tears in his eyes, sheepish grin on his face, as he gathered her into his arms?
No, you psycho; snap out of it!
Her notepad had been unconsciously filled with doodles of roses and basketball hoops and heart-shaped pizzas. What was wrong with her?
Pulling on the top drawer of her desk, she ran her fingertips over the gift and card that she had stowed away for Jim yesterday afternoon. Did she leave it on his desk for him to find? Pull him aside later on, and give it to him as an ice breaker to the inevitable uncomfortable discussion that they needed to have?
That was what today was all about: They needed to have this conversation. Needed to figure out what the hell was going on. Did he feel it, too? Was she in a relationship with no plausible end?
Two more roses came before lunch, joining the collection in the vase that she pulled out of the kitchen. Kelly had gushed with, "Ooooo's!" and, "Oh my god, Pam's!" while Angela's retorts of, "Is there one from every man you've slept with?" were less than encouraging. As she rifled through the fridge for something to eat-having forgotten to pack a lunch on her way out (must have been too much on her mind or something)-she came across a Cugino's take-out bag with her name scrawled on the front in black Sharpie. Inside, she found a plastic container of baked ziti and a filmy bag of garlic bread. The scrawl was obviously from a worker at the restaurant. But who had left it? Presumably the same mystery flower man (it had to be a man, right?). Grateful for the sustenance, as the growling of her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten since the pizza last night, she dug in, eating at her desk as to not miss Jim's entry to the office.
But it had come when she had gone to the bathroom. She saw him before she saw the next rose perched on her keyboard. She stood in the doorway, warmth brushing over her, watching him interact with Dwight. Despite the bantering that was going on, he looked absolutely, positively deflated. The bags under his eyes resembled the aftermath of a playground scuffle. His color was undeniably grey. Choking down a sob, she hid behind the door, peeking through the shades as he went about his business in stark contrast to his appearance.
He didn't want to enter the building. Didn't want to open the door to Scranton Business Park, ride in that elevator, and step into his office.
He didn't want to see her.
He didn't want to face rejection, disappointment, words and tears that would ultimately tear him apart. He could already hear her words, You're my best friend, Jim. I don't want to lose you rattling in his head. He would put that off for as long as possible if he could help it. Body tense, he braced himself to see her warm smile, the soft glow of her cheeks, her honey curls that framed her face.
But she wasn't there.
Is she okay? Did Roy do something? Oh god what if something happened to her?
Heart thudding out of his chest, he crossed the floor to her desk in three long strides, exhaling loudly when he saw her computer booted up, purse under the desk, lunch leftovers in the trash can.
"Fact: You are late."
God, he didn't think he'd ever be so happy to see Dwight as he was right now. If there was ever a day where he had needed a distraction more, today was definitely the day. Draping his coat, scarf, and messenger bag over the back of his chair, he responded to Dwight's accusation.
"Actually Dwight, I'm right on time. I called Toby and told him I was going to be starting after lunch today."
"Jim, I'm over here." Dwight waved his hand furiously at the lanky man whose body was deliberately facing Creed's desk.
"What are you talking about? I know you're right here. We're having a conversation."
"No, Jim, look at me when you're talking to me!" He continued to wave his hands, moving his body into Jim's line of sight, which Jim blatantly avoided.
"Dwight, I'm looking right at you. Seriously, did you party too hard last night or something?"
His gestures were all directed towards Creed, who had at this point turned his attention to the commotion occurring at the front of the bullpen, as had several others.
"This kind of behavior is inappropriate, and I will notstand for it. Michael!"
As Dwight spun on his heels, charging towards Michael's office, Jim's body collapsed into his chair, wanting nothing more than to become buried in his work, avoiding any and all contact with Pam. As soon as he was settled into his desk, Michael returned, beckoning him into the conference for some kind of pointless sales meeting. He pushed his lean body up from his desk, and it was as he stood up that he finally made eye contact with her from across the room.
She was still standing behind the door to the kitchen, glaring through the blinds like a child trying to peer through the slats in the banister to see Santa Claus. She looked so goddamn adorable that the pain in his chest was almost subdued. But as their eyes met, he could only offer her a tight-lipped smile before turning sharply on his toes and darting into the conference room. If he had held her gaze any longer, he would have surely come apart.
Silently, head down, she padded back to her desk.
She closed the drawer to her desk, tucking away the Valentine's Day gift. There didn't need to be a conversation. His eyes had said everything, answered every question that had been brewing inside her that day.
This is awkward, Pam.
I didn't mean for it to happen.
Let's just forget about it, okay?
Of course there didn't need to be one. He was her best friend. She was engaged. There was nothing more to it.
But god dammit, she needed a why. Neither of them had intended for it to happen. But it did. She needed to know what was going on in his head. Was it eating him up the same way it had done to her? They needed to talk about it, if nothing more than to clear the air that he didn't have those feelings for her. Because if he had felt it too, and she let this go, she would never be able to forgive herself.
Hours ticked by, roses filled her vase, but Jim was seemingly doing everything in his power to stay away from his desk. It was only when he had gone to the restroom, no one else occupying the rest of the kitchen, that she had decided to essentially trap him there. With her heart pounding, nails digging into her clenched fists, she positioned herself casually outside the bathroom door.
His face went ghostly white as soon as the bathroom door flung open. With a slight nod and another one of those tight-lipped smiles, he had fully planned on passing her by. What he hadn't expected was for her tiny frame to step in between himself and the door, and the wave of overwhelming emotions that came with it.
She hadn't really anticipated having to do this. Really, she thought he would have at least said hi. But instead, he was literally trying to run from her. Her body was pressed up against the door, his own lanky frame now mere inches away. Her entire axis had been thrown off. She had to speak soon, or he would surely ask her to move.
"Um, hi," was all she could squeak out, eyes fixed on his chest in the same spot that she had lain hours ago. Suddenly, cheeks now hot, she was closing her eyes and swallowing in anticipation.
"Hello yourself." His eyes, also avoiding, were focused on the doorframe, far above her head. You can do this, Halpert.
"So, uh, you came in late today, too?"
"Yup, nothin' gets past you, does it Beesly?" He allowed his eyes to drift to the top of her head. Don't be a dick. She's not an alien life form.
At least he's cracking jokes. That's a good sign, right?
"Party too hard last night or something?" Her eyes dragged slowly up, resting on his cheek. The same cheek that had been nuzzled against her head. She had to close her eyes again.
"Yeah, I guess you could say my friends like to go all out on Valentine's Day. Had a bit of a rough morning."
This is your chance, Beesly. Don't blow it.
"Oh really?" She gulped down the tears, willing her knees to stop shaking. "Why's that?"
The air between them was palpable. Thick. If she stuck her tongue out, she could taste it. How long did she allow this pause to last before she spoke? Did she dare make eye contact? She didn't have to, really. From where her gaze was fixed on his cheek, she could see the gleam of a tear forming in his green eyes.
"Pam, Iā¦Listen I can't...let's not do this, okay?"
Her head dropped, body sagging, as a small, "Oh," escaped her. Whether it was a response to his defeating blow, or the tail end of a sob that she had been suppressing, she didn't quite understand.
He was back to his desk before she was able to respond any further.
She waited until he had left on a sales call before asking Michael if she could leave early. She wasn't feeling well. She needed to rest.
She had her answer.
The door to the car was barely closed before she finally released the sobs that she had been caging.
She really, really was not looking forward to finishing this argument with Roy. After the emotional hell she had been through today, she couldn't take another round of this. Reluctantly, she fished her keys out of her pocket, taking as long as humanly possible to remove her shoes and coat, and hang up her purse. She was almost across the living room when she began to notice the environment that surrounded her.
Candles. Everywhere. Soft, classical music was playing in the background. Roy was standing in the middle of the room, wearing-a suit? When was the last time he had worn a suit? He was freshly shaven, clutching a rose in his hands. It was the last of the bouquet. With eyes wide, she approached him, reluctantly at first, hands shaking, knees trembling. He closed the gap for her, tentatively at first, but after gulping, he gained more confidence.
"For you," he offered, smiling shyly as he hesitantly offered her the flower. "Did you like the rest?"
She was choking back tears, but this time, for a different reason. She had too much swimming in her head to decide which of the reasons it was.
"That-that was you?"
"Mhm," he nodded, offering a pursed smile. "Listen, Pammy, I royally screwed up yesterday. Honestly, I don't even know where to begin. You said 'no big gifts' and I decided for myself that that meant I could kind of push Valentine's Day to the wayside this year. I shouldn't've gone out last night, Pam. I shouldn't've gotten mad when you asked me to stay. I should have spent time with you and showed you how much I loved you. You deserve so much more than that. I know the flowers and the candles don't necessarily make up for all of that, but I hope you know that I truly am sorry. I wanna make it up to you."
This. This was where she belonged. With this man from her childhood, the one with whom she had grown up. Everybody made mistakes. Comfort and security warranted sanctuary for a reason. She didn't need to press the issues with Jim, didn't need to continue wondering why he had blown her off, had shoved her feelings away. This was her answer.
They embraced, his stocky figure absorbing her whole.
As they lay in bed that evening after making love, Roy spooning her petite frame, he whispered softly against her curls.
"God, Pammy, I don't know what I would've done if something had happened to you last night."
"I know, baby. I'm sorry that I didn't call you."
"It's okay. I'm just glad you're safe." He hugged her tighter around the waist, almost rendering her breathless. "Listen, you should feel free to have fun with your girlfriends whenever you want. But if you're gonna spend the night, just give me a head's up, okay?"
She nodded slowly against his chest, feeling his breathing slow as his Love you, baby vibrated against the back of her neck.
Hours later, in the quiet hours of the middle of the night, she awoke with a start.
Something was wrong.
Or rather, something was off.
The hands clasped around her waist were too wide. The beard at her neck scratched, irritating her skin. The body wrapped around her was a hot box, uncomfortable.
She had made a choice today.
But was it the right one?
