neverenoughjam

Fic: The Office, "Cham-Pain", Jim/Pam/Ensemble, Rated PG/T

2009-10-16T23:19:28Z

title: Cham-Pain
author: neverenoughjam
fandom: The Office
type: Humor
pairing: Jim/Pam, Ensemble
rating: PG/T
warnings: Alcohol use by adults and mild sexual innuendo
spoilers: Follows "Niagara" in Season Six.
summary: After all the pranking Jim and Pam have done to Michael over the years, karma pays them back at their wedding reception.
disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

"We should have rented the entire room," Jim said as soon as they entered the rear door of the hotel kitchen. Already they could hear the raucous beat of the music.

"Sure," said Pam. "All we'd have had to do would be to sell my car. And your car. And maybe one of your kidneys."

"Nah, I'm saving that for Junior's college tuition."

She looked at him, shocked. "Jim! I thought your kidney was our retirement fund!"

"I'm talking about the left kidney," he said, grinning. He held the door for her as she carefully gathered up her gown and entered the tiny kitchen.

Two young men in white coats hurried past carrying plates. A woman shouted into a cell phone propped on her shoulder as she chopped celery. A large man wearing a chef's jacket and a blue bandanna stood over a grill, wreathed in steam and the smell of frying hamburgers. He raised his spatula in a salute. "You the bride?"

"I knew this dress would give me away," Pam deadpanned.

The large man stared blankly at her for a second. "I mean, which bride are you?"

Jim blinked. "My first. Why?"

"'Cause there's two receptions here today. Are you the Statlers or the Scotts?"

"Scott?" Pam said, her voice rising dangerously.

"Halpert," Jim said strongly. "Mr. and Mrs."

The large man shrugged and pointed the spatula over his shoulder. "That door goes to the party rooms. Statler party on the right, the other one on the left."

Jim took his wife's hand and tucked it into his elbow. "Here we go," he said. Pam concentrated on holding her dress up off the greasy kitchen floor.

"Remind me why we came in through the kitchen," she said.

"To avoid Michael and Dwight catching us at the entrance," Jim said. He stopped at the door, straightening his shortened tie. "I just know they're planning to douse me with Gatorade or something. How do I look?"

She beamed up at him. "Radiant. The blushing groom."

A corner of his mouth turned up. "Ready?"

"Could we go to the Statler reception instead?"

"Only if you want to be married to some guy named after a Muppet." He pushed the door open. The room beyond was not very large, certainly not large enough for the forty or so people crowded elbow-to-elbow. Overhead were swags of white crepe paper, some silver paper wedding bell cutouts, and a host of white balloons.

"Balloons? Did we order balloons?" Jim said thoughtfully.

"Hey! There they are!" cried a tall, gangly looking man. He elbowed his way through the crowd. Actually, Jim thought, it was more like he was weaving his way through it. Stumbling, actually. He caught his brother right before he would have plowed into his bride.

"Steady on, there, Pete," he said.

"Congraludashuns!" his brother slurred. "Gonna kish the bride!"

"No, you're not," Jim said, strong-arming his sibling. "Why don't you go fetch Mom a drink?"

"Already got a drink," Pete said, waving the champagne glass in his hand. It sloshed, spilling champagne on Jim's tie.

"Thanks," Jim said.

"The happy couple!" Michael Scott bounced up to them, beaming from ear to ear. "I am so happy today! This is the happiest day of my life!"

"That's...sad," Jim murmured. "Don't--"

"Michael, I think you should tell my new brother-in-law all about how you brought Jim and me together," Pam said brightly. "I am sure he wants to hear every detail."

"What?" Pete said, looking from Pam to Michael. "Gonna kish the bride."

Michael, enthusiastically chattering to Pete, led him away. Jim looked down at his wife. "Good save," he said.

"Someone had to do it," Pam said smiling. "You just cannot handle those guys."

"Never could," he admitted. "I --"

"Jim! Pam! They're here, everyone!" Andy yelled. Heads turned, hands clapped, digital cameras flashed, voices rang out in welcome. Jim and Pam stood clutching one another's hands, smiling sheepishly. Jim looked down once at Pam and saw her glowing face, and felt his heart give that slow roll it still did.

Mine. Finally. Doesn't matter about the rest of them, as long as she's here with me.

So he waved and nodded and smiled, even when Michael started singing "Auld Lang Syne" and trying to get everyone else to sing along. Dwight sang fiercely along with him, but Tom leaned down and said something in Dwight's ear. Dwight stopped, looked around, spotted a dark-haired woman on the other side of the room, and stepped away from Michael. Michael, left singing solo, faltered and stopped.

Pam knew that look. He was thinking of something to put himself back in the limelight. Remembering Phyllis' wedding, she knew she had to forestall him. "Let's get seated so we can eat!" she said brightly. Her stomach gave a lurch at the very thought of eating, but she forced her smile to remain in place. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be anyplace in the world but here. She glanced up at Jim, and caught his look.

Mine. Finally. Nothing else matters as long as he's here with me.

People began searching for their seats among the round, white-topped tables. There was some milling and churning, with people looking at place cards. Meredith snatched up one card. "Millicent. Crap. You'd think after all this time Pam could spell my name." She plopped down on the white chair and reached for the open champagne bottle in the middle.

"Who are these people?" Angela said. "I don't recognize any of these names."

Kevin was looking at a card. "Stacy? Is Stacy here?" He looked a little forlorn.

Dwight steered the dark haired woman to the table. "Here we are." He pulled out a chair for her.

She glanced at the name card. "But that's not my name!"

Dwight whipped out a black marker from his jacket pocket and scribbled on her place card. "There you are. And this will be me..." He crossed out the name on his card and wrote in his own. Then he sat down, leaning close to the dark haired woman. "Are you really European?"

"What about the people who are supposed to sit here?" she said, looking around anxiously. "Won't they be angry?"

Dwight smirked. "Doesn't matter if they are. Naturally, I'm armed."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

Dwight reached a hand down to his ankle and came up with a wicked looking throwing knife. "Japanese hand made World War II commando knife, the commemorative set. Naturally, I bring my best knife to a wedding." He twirled the knife around his finger. It slipped, slicing across the back of his fingers before it fell, embedding itself in the floor with a thunk.

"Oh!" she cried, grabbing a napkin. "You're bleeding! Oh, you poor thing!" She wrapped the napkin around his hand.

Over her bent head, Dwight smirked. Couldn't have planned it better, he thought.

"Ice cream!" Standing next to the table holding the wedding cake, Michael grinned. "Cake and ice cream! This is better than a birthday party!" He picked up a plastic bowl and spoon.

"You can't eat that until the cake has been cut," said Penny. She smiled brightly at Michael.

"Oh, so sorry!" Michael put down the bowl and spoon. He picked up a large cake knife with a pink ribbon around the handle. He sliced the cake from top to bottom, cutting through three layers and a pink frosting rosebud. "Oo! I love these!" He stuck his finger in the rosebud icing and then into his mouth. "Yum!" He smiled at the aghast Penny. "See? All taken care of. Better get to the ice cream before it melts."

Jim pulled out Pam's chair and handed her into it carefully. Leaning down next to her ear, he whispered, "I called the limo. They'll be here in ten minutes. Can you fake an attack of nausea?"

Pam stared across the room at Andy, who was whispering to the DJ and passing him some money. "I don't think I'll have to fake it."

"That's my girl."

A tall man in a brown suit and waistcoat, wearing a carnation in his buttonhole, peered at a card over Oscar's shoulder. "Excuse me, does that say 'Oscar'?"

"Yes, this is my place," Oscar said. "Oh. Hello." He smiled.

The tall man looked Oscar up and down, and he smiled too. "My name is Oscar, too. What a delightful coincidence." He sat down and laid a hand lightly over Oscar's where it lay on the table. "Are you a friend of the bride or groom?"

"Both, actually." Oscar's smiled reached his eyes and he leaned forward. "I have to work with both of them."

The other Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Really? You work two jobs? You're a busy man, I must say."

Oscar looked puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"

Across from them, a matronly woman in jonquil yellow, accompanied by a medium sized man in a gray beard, settled into their seats. "I thought they were going with yellow decorations," she complained to her escort. "That's why I bought this hideous dress, so it would blend in with the yellow roses. But there's silver and white everywhere. Why did they change it?"

A waiter arrived, wearing a biker bandanna, five earrings, and a leather vest. "Hi. I'm Ed. I'll be your waiter tonight. Do you want to know the special?"

"There's a special? At a wedding?" Oscar asked.

The waiter scratched under his bandanna with a pencil. "Wedding? Oh, right. I'm in the wrong party room. Sorry."

"I asked for the low-fat chicken plate," the woman in yellow said, but the waiter was walking away. "Well! I don't like this reception."

Oscar II leaned onto his elbows. "I'll be sure to tell Mark next time we're playing squash."

"Who's Mark?" said Oscar. "You mean Jim's old roommate?"

Oscar II glanced at him. "Who's Jim?"

Jim glanced around the room, searching for his mother's face. He found her, standing next to Penny, looking sadly at the ruined wedding cake. "Hey, Mom. Can I show you to your seat?"

She looked up at her son. "Why are there two bobblehead dolls on the top of your wedding cake?"

"I know," Penny said. "I don't understand it. I was with Pam when she placed the order for the cake. It was supposed to have a bride and groom holding hands, with roses around their feet."

Jim closed his eyes. "Dwight." He opened his eyes, forced a smile, and thought about the limo on its way to rescue him and his bride. Eight minutes to go. "I think we need to get the toasts under way. Where's Dad?"

His mom waved a hand. "Over there talking to some guy named Andy. Don't worry about me. I'll find my seat. Next to Tom, right?"

Tom himself, as Jim discovered, was backing Andy against a wall in a very threatening manner, barely restrained by his father. "Take it back!" Tom said angrily, raising a fist.

"Come for the wedding, stay for the funeral," Jim muttered to himself. He caught his sibling's fist. "What's going on?"

Mr. Halpert shook his head. "This asshole made a crack about me wearing a dress to the wedding, and your brother decided to teach him some manners."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Can't teach him what he doesn't know," he said. "Come on, Tom, Marcie's waiting for you."

Actually, as they discovered when they reached the table, she was arguing with another woman. The table was full, and several people were standing behind the seated diners, arguing as well. As Jim came up, his sister-in-law turned to him angrily. "Jim, this ... this person is taking my seat."

"I am not," the woman said. "This is the second table. As a sister of the father of the groom, I was promised this table."

Jim, Tom and their father all stared at her. "What?" Mr. Halpert cocked his head to one side. "I don't have a sister."

"What?" the woman said. "Who are you? And why are you wearing a skirt at a wedding? Is that supposed to be funny?"

At the head table, Pete Halpert was downing the last of the beers he'd smuggled in. He looked up to see an elderly lady advancing towards him. Another of Pam's stupid grandparents, he thought. He scooted his chair closer to the table to let her get by. She looked perplexed. "Excuse me," she said. "Are you Walter's uncle? I thought I was supposed to sit next to him. You don't look old enough to be Walter's uncle Marty."

Pete burped. "Sorry. Who's Walter?"

Helene Beesly opened her compact and dabbed at her face. The bags under her eyes looked even worse than usual. That bastard across the room with his blonde cutie-pie, it was all his fault she couldn't sleep these days. It would serve him right if--

Suddenly a face appeared in her mirror, peering over her shoulder. "Powdering our curlies?" Michael chirped. He slid into the vacant seat next to her and handed her a bowl of ice cream. "This is good, but it's not mint chocolate chip. I can't believe Pam forgot that that is my favorite flavor."

"That's not your seat," Helene said edgily.

Michael dug his spoon into his ice cream. "So what? I'm the boss. Hey did you know there's pink champagne to go with the pink roses on the cake. That's just the kind of attention to detail that makes her such a great receptionist. She's always been good with the little things." He barked a laugh almost in Helene's face. "That's what she said!"

A waiter leaned in to pour champagne into their glasses. Helene waved him away from Michael's glass.

At a table near the back of the room, a waiter bent over Meredith. "Ma'am, there's no smoking allowed in here."

Meredith waved away her cigar smoke. "Crap. I don't want to go outside. If you let me smoke this, I'll give you an around-the-world after the party."

Shocked, the waiter took a step away. "No, oh, er, that would be..." He looked around quickly and leaned back down. "Parking lot, next to the dumpster."

"As always," Meredith said in a bored voice. She took another drag on the Cuban and laid it in the plate before her. She reached under the table cloth and drew out a case. Inside it were five bottles of champagne. The sixth stood empty in front of her.

The teenager across the table had watched all this with fascination. His suit looked new, and he needed a haircut. "Hey," he said. "Can I have some of that?" He nodded at the champagne.

"You're too young for it," Meredith said. She popped the cork expertly. Halfway around the table, Creed Bratton flinched and dove under the table. Ignoring this, Meredith poured herself a tumbler full of champagne. Setting the bottle down, she picked up the plate with the smoldering cigar on it. She handed it across the table to the young man. "Here you go, kid. Never too early to start, I always say."

"Thanks!"

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WELCOME TO--Oh, sorry." The DJ turned towards his volume control as people around the room covered their ears. An elderly woman at the head table said, "Finally, someone who speaks up!"

"What?" Penny leaned over to hear her grandmother better.

"I SAID, FINALLY, SOMEONE WHO SPEAKS UP!" said Meemaw. Penny winced and patted her hand.

Pam's cheek muscles were tired from forcing herself to smile. Blue spots danced in front of her eyes, thanks to some guy's over-enthusiastic use of flash photography. Come to think of it, where was the photographer? She didn't remember seeing him at the wedding, not that she ever wanted to remember that ceremony. The one on Maid of the Mist would be a cherished memory forever, but when she thought of watching Kevin shuffle down the aisle at her wedding wearing Kleenex boxes on his feet, she desperately wished there was such a thing as mental floss. When Jim slid into the seat next to her and took her hand, her smile relaxed into a real one.

As long as we're together, the rest doesn't matter.

"Pam, who are the people at that table next to the kitchen door?"

"I thought they were your family," she said, amused.

"They're Asian," he said.

"I figured it was the Hong Kong branch of the family."

"The only reason I noticed them was that they're the only ones behaving themselves," Jim said.

"They must be at the wrong reception."

"Pam, I think we're at the wrong reception."

Suddenly a commotion at the door leading to the restrooms caught everyone's attention. Kelly Kapoor stormed through the door, her mascara streaked. She stalked to the nearest empty seat and plopped into it, ignoring the man who had just been about to sit in it. Holding two glasses of champagne, he looked around for an empty seat and then wandered forlornly away.

"I hate Ryan," Kelly said in a voice all could hear. "I can't believe he wanted to have sex in a men's room with me. Honestly, couldn't he wait until after the first dance before he messes up my hair? It took me hours to get it to look like this." She became conscious of all the eyes on her, and blinked. She squinted at the man sitting next to her. "Hi. Are you one of Pam's uncles or something?"

The man looked her up and down with a distinct air of disapproval. "Who is Pam?"

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The DJ had finally gotten his microphone under control. He waved a hand in the air, and suddenly the lights dimmed, except for a spotlight in the ceiling, trained on the main door.

"What's going on?" Jim said. He glanced suspiciously at his brothers, but Pete was asleep at the main table with his head on his arms, and Tom was whispering fiercely to Andy. Pam closed her eyes wearily.

"Friends and family, young and old, from far and near, I give you MR. AND MRS. WALTER STATLER!" The DJ touched a button on his console, and music boomed from speakers in the ceiling.

"Hit the road, Jack/And don't come back no more no more no more..."

"No. Is that...?" Jim said.

Pam nodded slowly. "Yup. 'Hit the Road, Jack'. Did you do this?"

Jim scowled, shaking his head. "This has to be Michael. Does he never stop?"

"Really? You're asking this?" Pam said testily.

"Who is Walter Statler?" said Penny, next to Pam.

The doors swung open at that moment, revealing a pair linked arm and arm. They strode into the room, grinning from ear to ear. The man was tall and dressed in formal black; the bride wore a huge white wedding gown with puff sleeves and a silver lace veil flung back over her red hair.

"Who is this?" Jim said. "Why are they crashing our wedding?"

Half the people in the room had stood and now were applauding. Soon the applauding changed to a clap along with the beat of the Ray Charles tune.

The bridal couple advanced to the center of the room, then halted. As they moved out of the glare of the spotlight, they looked around the room. As soon as the bride saw Pam seated at the head table, she stopped. Her husband kept on going for a step or two, then brought up short as her arm slipped out of his elbow.

"What?" he said. Then he looked around. He leaned over to his wife and in a very audible whisper said, "Who are these people?"

Jim and Pam looked at one another. "Someone has mixed up our wedding reception with the others," he said.

"Someone? You don't know?" Pam's voice had an edge in it.

Jim shrugged. "Not even Michael could screw this up so badly," he said. "It's karma. Fate. Destiny. Years of pranking Michael have come back to haunt us."

"What do we do? Michael would tell us to sacrifice a live hamster or something."

Jim smiled. "If you can quote Michael Gary Scott on our wedding day, I can, too."

Her eyes widened in alarm. "Jim, no..."

Jim was already rising, glass in hand. The spotlight winked off just as he reached his feet, and Ray Charles cut off in mid-syllable. Into the murmur of the puzzled guests, Jim cleared his throat.

"Friends, thank you all for coming," he said. He raised his glass with a friendly smile to the befuddled groom in front of him. "Fellow grooms included. I know it's not the usual thing, but I'm going to break with custom and give the first toast. There are so many things I could say, should say. But I'll keep it short--"

"That's what she said!" yelled Michael.

"I'll just say, here's for never, ever, ever giving up." He raised his glass. Everyone who had one raised theirs; Meredith held up a bottle of champagne, with the liquid foaming down her arm. Across from her, the teenaged boy suddenly threw down a cigar, turned green and bolted for the men's room. Creed peeked over the edge of the table and then ducked back under again.

"For never, ever, ever giving up," the crowd echoed. For a moment all was silent as they drained their glasses. As he set his down, Jim saw the main door open a bit. A uniformed limo driver stuck his head in and caught his eye. Jim jerked his head towards the kitchen. The man looked at the door, looked back at Jim, and gave him a thumbs-up. He disappeared.

Mr. Walter Statler and his bride stepped up to the head table. "Uh, I think there's been some mistake," he said diffidently.

Jim sprang to his feet. "Oh, yes. This is so awkward." He reached down for Pam's hand and almost bodily hauled her upright. "But it's been such a wonderful party. It's only fair for you to take a turn." He backed away from the table, gesturing to his and Pam's seats. "Please, take our place. Your place. The bride and groom's place. I insist."

"But..." the new Mrs. Statler looked as if she were about to cry. "I don't understand."

"Joint weddings," Pam said gamely. "It's all the rage. Two for the price of one. We get to merge our guest lists and halve the costs."

Statler blinked. "What? That doesn't--"

Nick Lowe's voice boomed into the room. "I KNEW THE BRIDE WHEN SHE USED TO ROCK AND ROLL!" The song rolled over the crowd like a breaking wave.

Jim leaned down to Pam. "That's our exit cue."

Without a word, she gathered up her gown and put her hand on his arm. She nodded cheerily to the nonplussed couple before her. "Congratulations. Have a great time!"

"Where are you going?" Penny said. She put a hand out as if to stop Pam. "Are you leaving?"

"You bet I am," Pam said, her mouth a determined line.

"I KNEW the bride WHEN she used TO ROCK and roll..." The DJ frantically punched buttons on his console, trying to control the volume. Andy was leading a reluctant Erin out onto the dance floor. Michael was tugging on Helene Beesly's hand, trying to get her to dance.

"Time to go," Jim said to Pam. He led her off towards the kitchen door.

Michael rushed up. "Wait! Wait! You can't leave!"

Jim, looking increasingly desperate, swung Pam behind him. "Michael--"

"You haven't even tossed your bouquet!"

On the other side of the room, raised voices showed that matters were coming to a head between Kevin and some woman wearing a hat shaped like a bird. Jim reached up and jerked off his tie. He thrust it at Michael. "There," he said. "Better than a bouquet! You're a man, you don't want to catch flowers. You caught the groom's tie!"

Michael looked down reverently at the mutilated silk in his hands. "I caught the groom's tie!" He looked up, his eyes full of tears. "I will never, ever forget this!" he said mistily.

Jim pushed open the swinging kitchen into the door. Behind him, a loud string of firecracker pops broke out, overriding even the wildly varying volume of the Nick Lowe song. He pushed Pam through the door and paused to look back at Michael. "It's all yours, Michael. Have fun."

Michael's eyes got big and round. "Really!?"

The door swung shut behind Jim. Pam stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking glorious and happy and a little tired, smiling back at him. Around him the clatter and smells of a kitchen in full court press mode surged and receded. Their wedding day had been a farce, the pictures were ruined, her parents were on the outs and the wedding reception was a mess right out of Monty Python. And it didn't matter one bit.

As long as we're together...

"Come on, Mrs. Halpert," he said, and held out his hand. On it, a gold ring winked back at him. "Our life is waiting."

THE END

If I celebrated Christmas, which I don't....

2008-12-09T01:51:45Z

....this is what I would want from Santa.

(Requires a Flash player installed on your computer.)

Fic: The Office, Patience, Jim/Pam, rated T or PG

2008-09-17T12:40:58Z

title: Patience
author: neverenoughjam
fandom: The Office
rating: T
pairing: Jim/Pam
genre: romance
summary: Jim's odd behavior over the summer rouses suspicion in Pam.
disclaimer: These are not my characters. They belong to NBC and Greg Daniels.

Jim drove her home after Toby's good-bye party in complete silence. She sat tense and quiet in the passenger seat, her purse on her knees, wondering if he would bring up the subject lying between them. But he concentrated, with exaggerated care, on the lights and the turns and getting into the right lane to cross the bridge, as if he'd never driven to her place before. Once, she opened her mouth to speak, and he asked loudly if she needed him to turn on the AC or the radio. She shook her head, feeling her stomach go all heavy and dark with an all too familiar feeling.

He's changed his mind. He doesn't want to marry me after all. What did I say? What did I do?

He pulled up to the curb, instead of turning into her parking lot. That said that he was dropping her off, not coming in. She had kind of hoped that they could be alone and quiet so they could talk about what had happened (Angela marrying Andy? Seriously?) and, more importantly, what had not happened. Or maybe they would skip the conversation and make love. But now he got out and walked around to her side of the car and opened her door. It should have felt chivalrous but it felt like he was ordering her out of the car. So Pam climbed out, and turned to face him when he slammed it shut.

"You, um, want to come up?" she asked in a small voice.

He flashed her a distracted half-smile, brushed his lips across her cheek, and shook his head. "I'm beat. Call you tomorrow?"

She shrugged, a sharp pang of disappointment closing her throat.

"Good night, Pam," he said, and his coat flared as he turned and walked around his car. As he pulled away, he gave a cheery wave but she couldn't return it.

How had everything gone so wrong?

She didn't sleep well that night, waking every few hours from some dream that immediately faded, but left her anxious and sweaty. When she did fall asleep, she overslept and didn't wake up until nearly noon. Before she was even fully awake, she called Jim from her bedside phone. There was no answer. Finally his voicemail kicked in, but she hung up. She couldn't think of anything to say. On the one hand, she could not think of anything that had gone wrong--no quarrels, the sex was good, they got along fine. But there had been a growing tension between them ever since Jim had hinted that he was going to propose to her...and then hadn't.

Maybe that had been a joke. It was hard for her to believe Jim could be so off in his sense of humor, that he, of all people, could joke with her about being engaged. Yet, if he really thought it was okay to tease her by dangling in front of her a proposal he was never going to make, well, Pam had to wonder how well suited they were to one another after all. If Jim really was that insensitive, did she want to marry him? She had once loved Roy Anderson to the point of overlooking his insensitivity and boorishness. She wasn't going to make that mistake again.

Pam bolted for the bathroom and threw up. When she stopped heaving, she slumped against the toilet, tears hot in her eyes. How could she have been so blind?

She had been afraid of this. She hadn't wanted to admit it to herself, but there had always been that tiniest of fears--that Jim was chasing her, claimed to love her, even believed it himself, only because she was unattainable. But now that he had her, now that there was no barrier between them, he lost interest. Tension gripped at her stomach and she heaved again, miserable and lonely and wishing she had someone she could talk to.

She cleaned up, got dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and padded into the kitchen. There were dirty dishes beside the sink, left over from their breakfast yesterday morning. She rinsed them and put them into the dishwasher. She picked up Jim's coffee cup, with one swallow of coffee left in the bottom. Tears stung her eyes as she emptied it down the drain. She closed the dishwasher and ran it. Then she made herself a cup of strong coffee and sat at her tiny table, staring into space.

Her feelings for him had not changed. She still loved him, the tall gawky adorable awkwardness of him, the humor in his eyes, the love in his hands on her body in the dark, the way he paid actual attention to what she said. If his feelings had changed, well, she would carry on as before and wait for him to realize it himself.

She spent the rest of the day making lists of things to pack for New York. If she spent too much time wiping her cheeks of tears, or listening too hard for the phone to ring or for a knock on her door, well, it was something she would have to get used to. She was used to patience.

At sunset, as she was wondering whether to bother cooking or just call out for pizza, Jim called.

"Hey," he said when she answered.

"Hey," she said. The silence stretched, no longer the comfortable closeness it had been.

"I, uh, just wanted you to know that I'm um going out of town tomorrow."

Where was on the tip of her tongue, but even as she opened her mouth the answer Utica flashed through her mind and she only said. "Okay."

"I just didn't want you to, uh, worry because I'm not here."

He sounded lame to her, but she only said, "I guess I'll see you Monday then."

Was that relief in his voice? "Yeah, Monday. Hey, you okay?"

She cleared her throat. "Yeah. I'm fine. Have a good trip."

"Yeah, I will." He sounded much more cheerful. "I love you!" He hung up before she could answer.

I love you. He says it so casually. As if it hadn't cost him years of waiting and hoping to say that. As if he takes it for granted now. Like Roy used to take it for granted.

She spent Sunday packing. The first things she packed were her art supplies and her books, her tiny camera and her portfolio. Only after those essentials were packed did she consider what to wear. Should she stick with her safe, conservative skirts and blouses? Or could she go "art school" with tights and black sweaters? Or would she look ridiculous, imitating students ten years her junior? She lay awake a long time Sunday night, listening to distant traffic sounds, to the ticking clock, thinking about her life and how by now she had wanted to have at least one child and a home of her own, not a tiny apartment and a dead-end job and a boyfriend who apparently couldn't commit.

"Been here, done this," she whispered to herself.

"Are you sure that's everything?" Jim asked. He straightened, his T-shirt showing sweat stains at the armpits, a smudge of grease on his forehead. The last of her boxes sat on a stack of similar boxes in the middle of her dorm room.

Pam looked around, at the big windows and the tiny room "Yeah, I think so," she said. A dorm room? At her age?

Jim nodded. "I'll go move the car. I can't afford a ticket." He loped down the stairs, banging the outside door shut.

She ran her hand through her hair, thinking. Better unpack the cleaning supplies first, then hang up her clothes in the joke of a closet next to the bathroom. And that bathroom--it didn't need cleaning, it needed an air strike. She had lots of work ahead of her to make this into a home.

"Pam? Seriously? We have to talk about this ... bed." He was glaring at the twin bed shoved up against the wall as if it had personally insulted him.

"It's not like you're going to be sleeping in it," she snapped. Then put her hand to her mouth. "I didn't mean, that is..."

Jim's mouth was a tight line. "I know. Roommate. We'll ... work something out. But what I meant was, that thing's too lumpy. I think it's worse than that mattress at Dwight's farm."

"It couldn't be. Not possible," she said, smiling a little.

"Come on, let's get you a better mattress at least. There's a Sears half a mile from here."

Pam looked down at the pillowcase she'd been twisting back and forth. He was offering to buy her a bed. He hadn't yet offered her a ring, but he was buying furniture with her. Didn't that mean something? "All right," she said. "But if you're going to do that..." She cleared her throat. "At least buy one extra-long. So your feet don't hang off the end."

"When does your roommate arrive?" His voice was low and sweet in her ear.

She grinned. "Monday."

By the time Jim left for Scranton on Sunday night, the new bed was well broken in, Pam's dorm room was neatly organized, and her heart was full and happy. The only cloud in her sky was that it would be three weeks before Jim could come up to see her.

#

"'Lo?"

"Jim? Oh, thank God! I've been calling you all night. Are you all right?"

"Pam? Uh, yeah. I'm fine. Just had the phone turned off. What's up?"

"You didn't call."

"What? Oh. Yeah. God, I'm sorry. Michael's working me like a cheap donkey, and I put in too many hours this week. I guess I just dozed off."

"At work?"

"Well, I wasn't at work."

There was a long silence on Pam's end. I won't ask. I won't be that girl. I won't be that girlfriend.

"Pam? You still there?"

"I'm here."

"Everything all right?"

"Yeah. It's just that you call me every night for two weeks and then suddenly you don't so I kind of wondered. That's all."

"Hey, it's no big deal, really. I was out driving around, by myself, just thinking. And then I went through the drive-in for a burger and was sitting in the parking lot eating it and before I knew it I was fast asleep. I woke up when the night manager knocked on my window. Scared hell out of me."

He was talking fast, and Pam wondered why he was so nervous. She thought she could tell when Jim was lying to her but maybe she was wrong.

"Yeah, well, I hope you're at home in bed," she said with forced jollity.

"You bet."

"Sleep well."

"You too. I love you."

As she hung up, she wondered at how meaningless that sounded.

She slept poorly, which meant she was sleepy during class, and her work suffered. Her roommate was in and out at all hours, likely to come in just when she had just fallen asleep. The noise in the dorm annoyed her, like a low-grade headache that wouldn't go away. She was forcibly reminded that she was nearly a decade older than some of her fellow students. It made her feel useless and cranky and alien.

The only time she felt like herself these days was her nightly phone calls to Jim, and those were hardly stress free. He tried to keep things light, talked about Dwight and Michael and the office, and never said a word about their future.

On a Sunday night in late July, she called Jim's apartment and a woman answered.

"Halpert residence."

"Uh. Is Jim there?"

"May I ask who is calling?"

"His girlfriend." Was that still true?

Noises, then Jim's breathy voice. "Pam? I thought you had a field trip."

"Rained out. Who was that?"

"That? Oh, the woman who answered? Oh, she's just someone from the apartment complex." He definitely sounded nervous. Evasive.

Something in her chest turned dark and cold. "Does your neighbor have a name?"

"Ellie. Her name is Ellie."

"Is she pretty?" Pam wanted to bite her tongue. Then she wanted to hit someone. Maybe Jim. She didn't like the way being mean to him made her feel, it didn't make the ache in her heart feel any better. But she sat silent through the ensuing pause, with the line crackling with interstate static, and refused to back away.

"I didn't notice," Jim said very deliberately. And then he hung up.

Pam stared at the phone in her hand. He had never hung up on her before.

It was three days before he called again, and neither of them mentioned the incident.

#

Jim didn't come up to New York that following Sunday, and the weekend after that, which should have been her turn to go to Scranton, she stayed home. They watched a movie on the oldies channel, phones parked in their ears so they could trade snarky comments, but the pauses were no longer full of that hushed expectancy, no longer full of a delicious tension only to be resolved when they were together. Pam felt tears rolling silently down her cheeks after Jim sleepily said goodnight.

The following Friday he showed up at her dorm, all smiles and hugs. He dangled a key in front of her. "The Palace!"

She blinked. "Jim, that's crazy! It'll cost the earth!" Her heart sped up, however, seeing his eager smile and his windblown hair and the tie all askew.

"You're worth it!" He drew her into a close hug. "Get packed," he murmured into her hair. "We have a lot of time to make up for."

Later, after a long, languorous re-acquaintance with one another that concluded in an outrageous dessert eaten in non-traditional ways, they relaxed against one another in the king size bed.

Jim wiggled his toes. "My kind of bed. Nice and big," he said.

She laughed into his skin, her doubts forgotten in this warm, lazy moment. "You're a freak of nature," she said.

"We should totally get one like this," he said, mock-solemn. "You and I can take this half, and rent out the other side. It would probably pay for itself in a year."

"Andy and Angela will probably be needing one," she giggled.

Jim squeezed his eyes shut. "Ow. Please. The mental image..."

She snorted and poked him. "Meet you at the southwest corner, big guy."

Later, as he was shaving and she was getting dressed, she picked his jacket up off the floor. When the paper fell out of the pocket, she almost didn't look at it. But when she did, the cold dark thing in her chest came back.

It was a return receipt for an engagement ring, dated the week before.

Numb, she said nothing, put it back in his coat, and forced herself to act natural through the rest of the evening. If it was over between them, it would be him to call it off. She would not reject him again. She'd done that too often.

As he dropped her off in front of her dorm, he reached an arm across the back of her seat.

"Something wrong?"

"No."

"Really, Pam, you're so quiet."

"I ... I don't know. I don't really feel well. Something ... "

"What?"

She took a deep breath. "Are we all right, Jim?" She made herself look in those eyes.

Love looked back at her. "All right? What's wrong? Did I say something? Of course everything's all right."

Then why have you changed your mind about marrying me? "Just ... a feeling."

He framed her face with his hands and kissed her. "I love you, Pam," he said.

I don't know what to believe any more.

It was her last trip home to Scranton before the end of classes. She'd taken the train down, and Jim met her at the station with kisses and a bouquet of flowers.

"I need to find an apartment," she said as soon as she got into the car.

Jim looked over at her, frowning a bit. "Didn't we say something about living together?"

"You know how I feel about that." Don't push him. But don't let him squirm out of this. If it's over, make him end it.

He nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly. He signaled for a turn, got onto the highway.

"This isn't the way to your apartment," she said.

"I know." He bit his lip, and looked over at her. "Pam, there's something I have to show you. I ... I know things have been a little ... weird this summer. I haven't told you maybe some of the stuff I've been up to. There's a reason for it. I ... you'll just have to trust me."

Trust. A hard word, that. A person could batter her heart to pieces on a word that hard. Pam took a deep breath. "Okay. So what's the big secret?"

"Just hang on." He accelerated up the on-ramp and was soon in traffic. Pam sat with her knees together and her heart beating fast. The woman who answered the phone. The late nights when he didn't answer. The receipt for a ring he sold back to the jeweler. She refused to think about what that all might add up to.

Soon Jim was exiting the freeway into a residential subdivision. The houses along these streets were old, World War II era bungalows of brick and stone, with small porches and a cozy, lived-in look. The trees were large, mature oaks and elms and maples. The yards were small but well kept, with roses and late-summer daisies in full bloom. One yard had a swing, another had a basketball hoop. A dog trotted along as if he owned the block.

"Did you get a new place?" Pam asked.

Jim pulled to the curb in front of a small house of yellow brick with white trim. "Here we are," he said.

"I thought your parents lived on the other side of town."

He opened her door for her. "Come on."

The porch smelled of new paint, and she could see sawdust where someone had made repairs to a step. Jim unlocked the front door with a key and ushered her in. "Tell me what you think of the place," he said. His voice sounded tense, foreign.

The living room had a hardwood floor that gleamed with new polish. A worn but clean rug softened the look; a red sofa and two matching chairs flanked a fireplace with a fire laid ready for fall. There were photographs on the walls, and a landscape over the fireplace that her painter's eye noted for its use of color. Jim crossed the open hall way to a dining room and threw his keys onto the polished dark oak table with the ease of long familiarity.

"Where are we?" Pam asked.

"Just tell me what you think of it," Jim asked. His voice was low and urgent.

"It's a wonderful house," she said. "Very nice. Kind of old-fashioned, but clean. Are you living here?"

He beckoned her to follow, and pushed through a swinging door into a tiled kitchen straight out of an antique show. Tiled counters, glass fronted cabinets, a pantry and laundry off the back porch. The appliances were all new, however, from the microwave to the stove to the refrigerator. Pam's bewilderment grew. It looked like a house from Ozzie and Harriet or some old Leave It to Beaver re-run. Nice, comfortable, but what was the point?

"I don't get it," she said, standing in the middle of the kitchen. "Jim, is this ... is this your house?"

He took her hands in his. "My grandmother's, actually."

"I thought she died last year."

"She did. She left this to me and my sister."

"So you're sharing it?"

Jim shook his head, his eyes solemn. "I bought her half. It's all mine."

Pam's eyes widened. "You bought--but how did you afford it?"

He smiled. "It didn't look this good three months ago. I spent most of this summer fixing it up."

The long weekends when he didn't answer the phone. The distracted air. The evasions. "You were out here painting all summer?" Hope began to revive in her.

He laughed. Sunlight through the kitchen window shone gold in his brown hair. "Painting. And roofing. And plumbing. And polishing that damned hardwood floor. Ownership is hard work, Pam."

She felt ashamed of asking, but couldn't stop herself. "And ... Ellie?"

His brow furrowed. "Ellie? Oh, the real estate lady? Yeah, I wasn't completely honest about that. But if I'd told you she was helping me with escrow, it would have kind of given the whole thing away. And I wanted this to be a surprise."

She smiled. "It is a surprise, that's for sure."

He tugged on her hands. "There's more. Come on." His voice was softer now.

He led her out of the kitchen, down a hallway, past a bedroom (glimpses of a quilt hung on a wall, a daybed, an old chest) into the master bedroom.

The floor was polished so brightly she could see faint reflections in it. The bed was a high, brass-trimmed king size bed. Pale blue curtains at the window matched the comforter on the bed, the small area rugs on either side. It looked homey and comfortable and safe.

Unexpectedly, Pam felt tears. Did he mean this for me?

Jim took her hands and folded them into his. "It cost a lot to re-do the place. I ... I had to sell some stuff, had to cash out my 401(k), although God knows there wasn't much in it. But the house is mine, free and clear."

I had to sell some stuff. The ring.

Her heart thundered in her chest. "Free and clear," she whispered.

He brought her hands up to his mouth, kissed them, lingered. Then he dropped them, jerked his head towards the old fashioned dresser and mirror on one wall. "Take a look."

Slowly, she walked to the dresser. A large jewelry case sat in the center of it.

"Open it," he whispered, standing behind her.

She put out a trembling hand oh God this can't be maybe it is I was wrong and lifted the lid. Nestled alone in the center of the jewelry case was a single ring, an old fashioned solitaire gleaming in white gold.

She looked up and caught his eyes in the mirror, looking at hers. "For me?"

"That's the other thing my grandmother left me. It's her engagement ring."

She turned, and his chest was right against her face. Say it say it say it damn you will you finally just say it?

"Pam," he said hoarsely. "There's a wedding ring that goes with that engagement ring. Please marry me and live with me in this house. Please."

When it happens, it's gonna kick your ass, Beesly. Stay sharp. She should have listened to him. She giggled softly.

Jim's eyes met hers, full of questions, full of hope. "Pam? Is that a yes?"

There's room for a studio in that first bedroom, she thought. Or a nursery. Or both.

"Pam?" Jim's voice was in a slightly higher register.

She looked up at him, and the cold dark thing in her chest was not even a memory. This is how he shows his love, she thought. He doesn't blow the wedding money on a jet ski, or postpone the date forever. He just quietly goes and makes a home for me. For us. A future. She slipped her arms around his neck, and the relief flooding his face was almost funny.

"Promise me we won't invite Michael to the wedding."

THE END

Fiction: "Superheroes", The Office, rated K or PG

2008-06-19T20:15:33Z

title: Superheroes
author: neverenoughjam
fandom: The Office
pairing: ensemble
rating: K or PG
spoilers: Through end of Season Four.
warnings: none
summary: During a lazy afternoon, the Dunder Mifflinites kill time by deciding which superpowers they'd like to have. This is pure fluff, no angst or drama involved.
disclaimer: These are not my toys.

"Invisibility. Also, the ability to fly. Also, flamethrower eyes." Dwight's voice was firm.

"It's scary to think about how much you've considered this question," Pam said. She was perched on the corner of Jim's desk. She swung a foot back and forth. Michael was out, the afternoon was drawing to an end, and a lazy, slacker feel pervaded the atmosphere at Dunder-Mifflin Scranton.

Dwight looked up from his monitor. "We should all be prepared, in case our mutant genes finally express themselves when we're not looking."

Entering from the kitchen, Jim handed a cup of coffee to Pam and then sat down in his chair. "Mutant genes?" he asked. "Dwight's talking about his family again?"

Pam waved a magazine at him. "There's this article in TV Guide, about Heroes. There's a questionnaire about what superpower you would choose if you could pick one." She squinted at Dwight. "One superpower, Dwight."

"What if my superpower is to develop any superpower I want?" he shot back triumphantly.

Jim shook his head. "Doesn't work that way."

"Why not?"

"Just doesn't. Article Seventeen of the Marvel Comics Convention. Right, Pam?"

She nodded solemnly. "Clause Four, Subparagraph Twelve. No superhero shall develop ... shall develop ... "

"Megapowers!" Jim said, nodding his head thoughtfully. "That would be a superpower that trumps all superpowers."

"But that's not --" Dwight started.

Jim cut him off. "How about you, Andy? What would your superpower be?"

Andy pushed away from his desk and grinned broadly, fingering his tie. "Why, super-awesomeness, of course."

Pam shook her head. "No. That falls under 'megapowers'."

"Besides, 'awesomeness' is not a power," Dwight snapped.

"Sure it is," Andy said, his grin vanishing.

"It's neither supernatural nor paranormal," Jim said. Andy stared off into the distance, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

"Maybe it's paranatural," said Pam.

"Or supernormal," said Jim. "That would be my pick. Pam, put me down for 'supernormal'."

"Will do," she said, pretending to write on the page.

"Supernormal is an oxymoron," Dwight said, frowning. "That's not allowed."

"What do oxen have to do with superpowers?" Jim said. "Unless we're talking about super BS." Pam's hand flew up to cover her mouth, but her eyes danced with laughter.

Dwight, suspecting he was being mocked, frowned even more ferociously. "Some people take this seriously."

"Way too seriously," Jim said under his breath.

"Super strength!" Andy cried, coming out of his reverie. "I want super strength."

"Right," Pam said firmly. "That's a good one, Andy." She wrote on the magazine.

Jim cocked an eyebrow at her. "Are you taking orders for superpowers?"

She returned his look deadpan. "Michael will have them shipped in from Schenectady."

"Why would he ship them in? Why not have Superman fly them directly here?"

Dwight sighed. "Really, Jim. As if Superman doesn't have better things to do."

Phyllis turned around in her chair. "Anyway, he spends all his time in Metropolis, chasing Lex Luthor."

Dwight dismissed her with a glance. "Smallville. Not Metropolis."

"Oh, you mean that teen soap opera?" Phyllis asked. Her sideways glance at the reddening Dwight told Jim the question was not as innocent as it seemed.

"What would your superpower be?" Pam asked brightly.

"I'd love to have X-ray vision," Phyllis said. She glanced at Jim, then looked away with a tiny smile. Jim's cheeks turned pink and he swiveled his chair away from Phyllis. Pam's cough sounded suspiciously like a smothered laugh.

"Right," Pam said. "I'll put you down for X-ray vision."

"Then put me down for lead foil underwear," Andy said, laughing at his own joke. Everyone looked at him blankly. "You know. So she can't see me naked." The blank looks continued. "I mean, who wants a ... I mean, nobody would want Phyllis looking at their... "

"Secrets?" Jim finished for him.

"Uh, yeah. Secrets." Andy was scowling now. "Okay, maybe my superpower should be invisibility. Then her X-ray vision is no good."

"I wouldn't be looking at your ... secrets... anyway," Phyllis huffed.

"You can't have invisibility. I claimed it first," Dwight said peevishly.

"Share it," Pam said. Everyone looked at her.

"How can you share invisibility?" Andy said.

"Monday, Wednesday and Friday, Dwight is invisible. On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, Andy is invisible."

"Can't do it," Dwight said immediately. "I need to be visible on Thursdays when I work out at the dojo."

"And I have a capella practice on Thursdays," Andy said.

"That doesn't make sense," Phyllis said. "You can sing when you're invisible."

"You don't know anything," Dwight sneered at Phyllis. "The absence of a larynx would completely change his voice."

Jim looked at Pam, with a what-have-you-started question on his face. She shrugged, eyes twinkling. "Fine," he said loudly. "Thursday is a no-invisibility day. Anyone not appearing in the office that day will be counted as an unexcused absence."

"Even if they have a good excuse? Like saving someone from a fire?" Dwight challenged.

"Or X-raying accident victims on the scene to determine how badly they're hurt?" Phyllis added roguishly.

Jim shook his head. "As Assistant Regional Manager, I'm putting my foot down on this. On Thursdays, no one in this office is allowed to be invisible."

Dwight squared his shoulders. "Very well. But you should order Phyllis not to use her X-ray vision on that day."

"That's true," Pam chirped. "It's only fair."

Jim shot her an I'll-make-you-pay-for-that look as he looked at his three co-workers. "Phyllis? They have a point. If you're going to have this great power, you must use it responsibly. You may not use your X-ray vision on Thursdays."

Phyllis frowned. "Oh, okay. But I don't think it's fair."

"But that still leaves Tuesdays when she can, you know, peek at us," Andy whined.

"Guess you'd better order that lead foil underwear," said Pam, straight faced. "Jim, isn't there a website for that?"

"Probably the same place you bought my Gaydar," said Dwight.

"What?" Andy said. He looked from Jim to Pam, both of whom were poker-faced.

"Do you think we could actually get some work done around here?" Stanley rumbled. His scowl took in all four of the others. His phone was caught between his ear and his shoulder.

"What's your superpower, Stan the Man?" Andy said heartily.

Stanley glowered. "Supersilence?" Creed walked behind Stanley and bent down to dispense water from the water cooler into a paper cup.

"That would be a terrible superpower," said Dwight. "How could you possibly sell paper if you can't talk?"

"Right," Jim said firmly. "I'm banning supersilence as well. Stanley, you must talk in the office."

"What?" Stanley said, confused. Behind him, Creed squinted at the thermostat on the wall. Angela picked up a sheaf of papers and sharply rapped their edges. Her frown could have fried an egg.

"You have to choose a superpower," Dwight said patiently. "And it has to be a real one. I never heard of supersilence."

"Although some of us could wish for it," Angela said. Oscar looked at her, startled.

"Very well then, I want to be able to control the weather. Specifically, the temperature in this room." Stanley turned around ponderously and glared at Creed. Creed started, his hand on the thermostat.

"What?" said Creed.

"Don't touch that dial," Stanley boomed.

"It's cold at my desk," Creed said.

"Put on a sweater. It's hot over here."

Heading off this perennial argument, Jim spoke up. "Hey, Creed, what superpower would you choose?"

Creed shook his head. "I can't handle another one. Immortality is enough." He walked back to his desk. Pam and Jim looked at one another. Jim shrugged. Pam looked at her list.

"Okay. I've got Dwight down for invisibility, the ability to fly, and flamethrower eyes--"

"No fair," Andy said. "He only gets one."

"That's what she said," Jim said, gesturing at Pam.

Pam looked at him out of glowing eyes. "Yes, I did. Dwight?"

Dwight scowled. He swiveled in his desk chair, toying with a pencil. Finally, he said. "Okay. I'll pick flying."

"But not in the office," Jim said immediately. "Because of the danger to, uh, company property."

Dwight looked solemn. "I swear."

Pam scribbled a moment. "Then I have Andy for super strength, Phyllis for X-ray vision, Dwight for flying, Stanley for weather control--hey, Stanley, can you make sure it doesn't rain this Sunday? 'Cause I've got a picnic planned."

Jim looked at her. "You do?"

She kicked him. "How about it, Stanley?" Stanley ignored her, talking to a customer. "Okay. Then we have Creed with immortality. That still leaves Oscar, Kevin, Angela, Meredith, Kelly and Michael."

Hearing his name, Oscar glanced up. "What?"

Pam explained the questionnaire. "What superpower would you pick?"

Oscar paused, thinking.

"How about shapeshifting?" Kevin snickered. "Then he could be a girl."

Oscar frowned. "Why would I want to be a girl, Kevin?"

"What's wrong with being a girl?" Angela shot at him.

Kevin's snicker disappeared. "I mean, Oscar likes guys, so I thought Oscar would want to be a girl."

Oscar looked at Pam. "Can I get that cool body armor like Iron Man wears?"

Pam nodded. "Sure, why not?"

"Hey!" Andy, Dwight and Jim protested all at once.

"Body armor isn't a superpower," Jim said.

"Yeah, otherwise Batman would be a superhero," Dwight said.

Pam looked at Jim. "Jim? You realize Dwight is backing you up?"

Jim blanched. "Oh God."

"You're totally geeked out," she said.

"Oh, no," Jim mock-wailed.

Andy rotated his chair. "No way body armor qualifies as a super power."

"Not even when it's stored in the hollows of my bones and emerges with a telepathic command?" Oscar shot back.

Silence greeted this. Stanley hung up his phone.

"You've read the whole canon?" Dwight said reverently.

"Yeah," Oscar said, on the defensive. "Ever since he got the Extremis treatment, Tony Stark has mental powers. I used to read Iron Man all the time, growing up. He's a hero of mine."

"Totally the richest Avenger," Andy agreed. "He's on the Forbes list."

"Forbes has a list of which superheroes are the richest?" Jim said skeptically. Andy and Dwight looked at him.

"Of course," Dwight said. He looked at Oscar. "You should just claim the telepathic power to move stuff--"

"Telekinesis," said Pam and Andy simultaneously. Jim stared at Pam as if she'd turned green.

"Right, telekinesis," Dwight continued. "That's a legitimate superpower, right, Jim?"

Jim dragged his gaze from Pam. "Uh, what? Oh, yeah, telekinesis."

"You're telekinetic anyway," Dwight said. "I saw you move that coat rack that time."

Pam coughed and Jim looked away. "I have given up those powers."

"What?" said Andy.

"You can't give them up," Dwight protested.

"Telekinesis," Pam said loudly, writing on her magazine. "Okay, Oscar has telekinesis. But you can't use it in the office. No picking people up or moving their desks around."

Oscar grinned. "Ah, come on, Pam!"

"Yeah," Jim chimed in. "It might be a useful thing to have. Imagine how useful Oscar would be in the warehouse."

"No, that would give them an unfair advantage," Dwight said immediately.

"Advantage? In what?" asked Pam.

Jim looked sternly at Oscar. "He's right. Oscar, you are only allowed to use your telekinetic powers in the office."

"And the Annex," said Dwight. "And if you get out of line, Jim can always re-activate his telekinetic powers and fight you to the death."

Oscar grinned, sketched a half-salute at Jim in acknowledgment and turned back to his computer.

"I want a superpower," said Kevin loudly. "I want to be able to time travel. That way I can win the Powerball lottery."

"You already said that," Jim said immediately.

Everyone looked at Jim. "What?" Dwight said.

"Fifteen minutes ago." Jim looked back. "What? Nobody but me remembers? Kevin, are you using your time travel abilities to erase our memories again?"

Dwight looked alarmed. "Erase our memories?"

"Not everyone's," said Pam. "I remember. Jim, didn't Kevin ask to be a time traveler yesterday?"

"And he will again tomorrow," Jim said. "Since he already told us he traveled into the future to get the winning number for Powerball."

"What?" Kevin said, befuddled. "What are you talking about?"

Andy stood up. "Dude! You never told me! You have the winning number? All right!" He started a little victory dance and reached for his wallet. "Who's in? I can get a ticket down at the corner."

"Wait. I never said I knew the number," Kevin said, confused.

"Oh, man!" Jim said, his eyes wide. "I knew this would happen! Kevin, I told you, over and over! You can't abuse that memory erase thing. It'll come back to haunt you."

"You forgot the winning Powerball number?" Dwight said angrily. "That is so irresponsible!"

"Serves you right for gambling," Angela sniffed. Kevin stared at her in complete confusion.

"What superpower do you want?" Pam said to Angela, an edge in her voice. Jim looked at her with a faint expression of alarm.

"I would never want one," Angela said primly. "Magic is abhorrent to a Christian."

"Sainthood," said Dwight flatly. "That's what she wants."

Andy tapped a pencil thoughtfully on his teeth. "Mmm. Not a superpower, really."

"How about martyrdom?" Pam said quickly. Her smile had more teeth in it than usual.

"Still not a superpower," said Jim quickly. "Hey, you like animals. How about if you're a Parceltongue. You know, able to speak to snakes?"

"It's in Harry Potter," said Dwight maliciously. Pam grinned at Jim.

Angela's lip curled. "Harry Potter? No thanks."

Jim put his chin in his hand. "How about being able to see in the dark? Like a cat?"

Angela opened her mouth, frowning, then hesitated. "Hmm. Very well."

Pam scribbled. "Okay, Angela is a night-vision cat. That leaves...Kelly?" She slipped off Jim's desk and headed for the Annex. Jim was right behind her, followed by Dwight and Andy.

Jim edged close to Pam and leaned down. "Which superpower do you have?"

She glanced upward at him. "You don't know?"

Jim coughed and nearly collided with the door she was opening to the Annex.

"Hey, guys, what's up?" Kelly said, looking slightly alarmed at all the people filing through into her area. Pam began explaining the questionnaire, but was interrupted by her squeal. "Ooo! I want a superpower! I want a superpower!" Kelly said. She bounced around the divider, clapping her hands together. Jim blinked at the wild assortment of colors on her today: pink sweater, green scarf, white jeans, blue shoes, and a yellow bow in her hair. She looked like a bowl of jellybeans, he thought.

"Which superpower?" Andy said, hooking his thumbs in his belt.

"Oh, let me think. I would totally want to be Michelle--from Heroes, you know? 'Cause she had this totally awesome power of illusion. I would love to make myself look like Madonna, only much younger, or maybe that girl Ramiele on American Idol only she got voted off. Or I could look like Mushy Fartone 'cause she has those eyes--"

"What? Who?" Jim said, but Kelly rushed ahead like a waterfall of celebrity gossip.

"No, wait, I don't want to be Michelle because Sylar killed her and she turned into this totally fugly overweight girl and ew. So I guess I want to be Jennifer Love Hewitt on Ghost Whisperer."

"That's not--" Dwight began. Jim laid a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"Sounds good."

"What about me?"

Everyone turned around. Meredith stood at the door to the kitchen, a large thermos in her hand. She blinked a little unsteadily.

"Oh, sorry," Pam said. "Meredith, what superpower would you want to have?"

"Super what?"

"Like a superhero," Dwight said. "You know, Wonder Woman or Supergirl or --"

"Wolverine," she said firmly.

"Wolverine is a man," Dwight sneered.

"He's not a superhero," objected Andy. "He just has those steel claws--"

"Adamantine claws," Dwight corrected. "Besides, he has super healing powers."

"Adamatic claws," Andy said, annoyed. "Whatever. They're not supernatural."

"Or paranormal," said Pam.

"Or supernormal," said Jim.

"What?" said Meredith.

"Oo!" Kelly clapped her hands. "Meredith, you should totally be the Incredible Hulk! Because that would be so cool when you exploded and got huge."

Pam dissolved in a fit of laughter/coughing, while Jim hid his grin behind a hand.

Andy said, "That's what she--" but Jim kicked him and Andy yelped.

"Tell you what, Meredith," Jim said to the bewildered woman. "Why don't you take superspeed? You can be The Flash."

Meredith brightened. "Really? That would be--"

"Wrong," Dwight said firmly. "She's in Supplier Relations. She should be an empath."

"A what?" said Andy.

"Someone who empathizes with someone else," said Pam. "Meredith's job calls for her to be a good listener. That would be a good power for her to have."

Meredith smiled at Pam. "Why, thanks, Pam, that's--"

"No, no, no," Dwight said. "An empath is a being with mental powers. We already have a telekinetic. Two, if you count Jim. If there's three of you, your advantages would outweigh everyone else put together."

"I'm sorry, is this a war?" Jim said.

"Of course!" Andy snorted. "Figures. You couldn't even figure out Call of Duty."

Jim glared. "Yeah. Okay. Pam? Put me down for SuperSniper powers."

Meredith looked puzzled. "Guys?"

"SuperSniper isn't a power."

"It depends on what he's shooting," Dwight said. "Maybe he's like Cyclops, in X-Men. He shoots optic blasts with his eyes."

Pam was busy erasing an entry on her list. "Okay, Jim, your telekinesis is out, and eyeblasting is in."

"What? Eyeblasting? No, wait--"

"But you have to wear the protective shades all the time, like Cyclops," Dwight warned. "Otherwise you risk hurting your fellow co-workers."

Jim's mouth made a tight line. "Right." He still glowered at Andy, who took no notice.

"So if Meredith can't be an empath, what is she?" Andy mused.

Kelly bounced up on the balls of her feet. "I know! She can be Sylar! You know, from Heroes!"

"Who?" said Meredith.

"Perfect!" said Kelly. "She can kill everyone else and steal their superpowers!"

"I'm down with that," Meredith said, taking a long sip from her thermos..

"Awesome!" said Andy.

"No!" said Dwight, bristling. "That's a megapower!"

Meredith looked from one to another. "What's a megapower?"

Pam turned to Jim, eyebrow cocked. "A ruling, Mr. Assistant Regional Manager?"

All eyes turned to Jim. "I thought Sylar lost his powers."

"He got them back," Dwight and Pam said together. Jim looked from Dwight to Pam with thinly disguised disbelief.

"Okay. Well, if you can lose and then regain a superpower, it's not a megapower."

"Is that in the Convention?" Dwight said.

"Subchapter 21," Pam said solemnly.

Dwight straightened. "Very well. I shall take a lesson from Hiro himself, and go home and get my katana."

Meredith looked up with alarm. "What?"

"Whoa, whoa," said Jim. "No swords."

"But that is how Hiro disabled Sylar and kept him from taking his powers," Dwight protested.

"No swords."

Meredith cleared her throat. "Toby explained to you several times. You cannot bring weapons to the office."

Dwight's eyes narrowed as he looked at Meredith. "Of course Sylar would say that."

Kelly giggled and clapped her hands again.

Meredith drank from her thermos again. "You know what? Invulnerability. That's the superpower I want."

Pam looked at her for a long moment, saying nothing. She nodded and wrote in her magazine.

Jim straightened. "So. Is that everyone?"

"Everyone but Michael," said Dwight.

"Oh, he's easy," said Jim.

Pam arched an eyebrow. "Pheromone manipulation?"

Andy chuckled. "World's Worst Boss?"

"Fartman?" Jim suggested.

"KaraokeMan!" Pam said.

"Roaming hands," Meredith said brightly.

"You are all on report for insubordination!" Dwight said, his face white with anger.

Ignoring him, Pam led the way back into the larger office. Stanley was on the phone, Angela was sorting papers, and Oscar was typing into his computer. Phyllis hummed to herself as she knitted something woolly and blue. Creed flinched guiltily as they came into the room, stuffing a tinfoil hat hastily into his upper desk drawer.

At that moment, the outer door swung open and Michael Scott breezed in, his coat over one arm. "My peeps! My peeps!" he said heartily, spotting the group. "What's this? A parade? Hah! And every parade needs a Shriner on a motorcycle!"

Flinging his coat onto the couch, Michael crouched down and started shuffling around the reception area, making scooter noises. Dwight immediately crouched down in imitation, making louder scooter noises. Andy, not to be outdone, began marching in place, pretending to beat a huge bass drum.

"Seventy six trombones in the big parade, and a hundred and ten cornets right behind..." he sang.

"Stop that!" Angela cried, hands over her ears. Andy subsided, looking hurt. Jim, Pam and Meredith simply stood staring at Michael and Dwight zooming around in circles, bent over like hunchbacks. After a few moments, the lack of applause finally penetrated and Michael stopped. He stood, straightening and looking around. Dwight ran into him, knocking both of them onto Jim's desk.

"Dwight! What are you doing!" Michael cried.

Jim steadied his rocking monitor, while Pam discreetly retreated to her reception desk.

"Just following my leader," Dwight said excitedly.

"Well, don't be such an idiot about it!" Michael said.

"Be careful," Andy warned him jovially. "He might just zap you with his eyeblaster!" Andy made "zapping" motions with his fingers at Michael.

Dwight shook his head. "I don't have eye blasting abilities. That's Jim. I can fly, you idiot!"

"What?" Michael said.

"Well, it's Tuesday, so I'm invisible," Andy said archly.

Jim rubbed one hand over his face. "Dwight--"

"Invisible? I can see you just fine," Michael said.

"We were all talking about what superpowers we'd like to have," Dwight said.

Michael's face lit up. "Oh, of course! I want to be ComicMan! Everyone would laugh at me!"

Jim's face covered his mouth but not his laughing eyes, as he met Pam's equally convulsed look.

"That's a metapower," Andy said seriously. "You can't claim one of those."

"Well, what can I be?" Michael sulked.

"It depends. Pam, what was that list again?" Dwight said imperiously.

Pam cleared her throat; her cheeks were pink with amusement. "Um. You have the power of flight, but you are prohibited from using it indoors."

"Quite right," Michael said seriously. "You'd look ridiculous."

Dwight looked hurt. Pam read on. "Andy is invisible on Tuesdays. Phyllis has X-ray vision but cannot use it in the office on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Stan controls the weather but only in his part of the office. Creed is immortal, Angela can see in the dark and Oscar is telekinetic."

Michael looked at Oscar with awe. "Wow. You can read my mind?"

Oscar looked over. "Only with a magnifying glass, Michael."

Pam continued before Michael could react. "Kevin can travel through time but is prohibited from using his powers to erase other people's memories. Kelly is ... well, I guess she's a shapeshifter but she's confined herself to copying only B-list celebrities. That leaves Jim with the aforementioned eyeblasting abilities, and Meredith, who may or may not have superspeed."

Michael looked around, wide eyed. "Wow. I am so impressed with you guys. You could have been working all afternoon, but you came up with this? So awesome!"

"What's your superpower, Michael?" Dwight said.

A visible shudder went through the room. "Plaid Man?" Oscar whispered to Phyllis. "He'll have the power to clash with any wardrobe."

"I'd like superhearing!" Michael said brightly. "That way I can hear everything everyone says about me!"

Several people looked away, or covered their mouths to hide smiles. "I don't think that's a good idea," Pam said solemnly.

"Why not?"

"Because it would clash with your other superpower," Jim said swiftly. "The power of SuperSpeech!"

"SuperSpeech?"

"Uh, yeah," Jim said. He threw a help-me-out-here glance at Pam. Her grin told him he was on his own. "Uh, it's the power to, uh, overcome all sales resistance! It makes you the greatest salesman in the office!"

Before Michael could react, Dwight pumped his fist in the air in a victory salute. "Yes! And I will be his loyal sidekick."

"No, Dwight, what would you be, NotSuperSpeech?"

"No, I--"

Michael turned towards his office. "I have to think about this."

"Absolutely you do," Jim agreed. "This is a very important decision."

Dwight followed so closely behind Michael that when Michael turned back to answer Jim, he found himself nose to nose with his assistant. "Dwight! What are you doing!"

"Helping you," Dwight said in a hurt voice.

Andy stepped up right behind Dwight. "You need the best advice on this question," he said. "You need..." He paused for dramatic effect, which no one paid attention to. "You need Cornell Man!" He beamed at his boss.

"You can't be here," Dwight said. "It's Tuesday. We can't see you."

"But--"

Dwight ignored him. "Michael, we have to figure this out right away," he hissed.

Michael opened his mouth to speak to Andy, but Dwight forestalled him. "You can't speak to him! He's invisible!"

Shaking his head in confusion, Michael walked into his office. Dwight was on his heels. Without looking directly at Andy, he managed to cut him off, and slammed the door in his face.

"Well, of all the--!" Andy said. He looked around. No one else in the office was looking at him. "Can you believe that?"

No one answered him.

"Hey!"

Jim was facing away from him, typing on his computer. Andy stepped up to him. "Hey, Tuna, did you see what he....Tuna? hey?" He waved a hand in front of Jim's face.

Jim looked past him at Pam. "Hey, Pam? Do you hear something?"

"Yes," she said, straight faced. "But I don't see anything. Must be an illusion."

"Yeah, that's what it is," Jim said. He reached down suddenly and yanked out his lower drawer. It banged into Andy's shin. Andy howled and hopped away. "Must be an illusion."

Clutching his knee, Andy limped over to his chair and flopped into it, glaring at Jim.

The door to Michael's office swung open. Dwight stood in the doorway, a look of bright anticipation on his face. Jim and Pam exchanged looks of extreme apprehension.

"Fellow Dunder Mifflinites!" Dwight said in his most overbearing tone. "I give you .... SexMan!"

Jim groaned. Angela gasped in outrage. Kevin giggled. Michael appeared in the doorway, wearing his dress shirt with a huge heart cut out of red paper on his chest. He arched his eyebrows and turned slowly one way and the other. Finally he grinned at Pam. "Well? Can you feel my power, Pamalama?"

"I certainly feel something, Michael," she said, with as straight a face as she could manage.

Michael strode out into the room--or rather, he strutted. "I'll bet even Phyllis can feel me."

"Hah hah!" Dwight crowed excitedly. "That what she said! Or wait. What he said."

Michael, unfazed, strode over to where Angela sat glaring. "Surely even a frigid woman can feel the power of SexMan!"

"Michael!" Angela said, nearly speechless with fury.

Jim looked at Pam, panicked. We have to stop him, his look said.

"Wow, Michael," Oscar said. "I can feel your power."

Michael grin vanished. "What? No, wait."

Andy limped up, half-smiling, hoping to get in on whatever game was being played. "SexMan?"

Michael recoiled.

Oscar stood, smiling. "Would you like to grab some lunch, Michael? We can discuss our super powers. Somehow I feel so ... attracted to you. In ways I've never felt before."

Michael backed away. "No, that's not ... I mean, I understand that you might ... This isn't...."

"What?" Dwight said, glancing from Michael to Oscar. "Oscar, are you turning into a girl?"

Oscar frowned. "That's shapeshifting. That's Meredith. I'm telekinetic, remember?"

Jim, catching Oscar's eye, came up behind Michael. "Oh, wow. Michael, you seem so ... manly today. So ... I don't know. I just feel something different about you right now."

Michael's face went white. He looked from Oscar to Jim to Andy, then at Kevin, who was giggling uncontrollably. "I ... I ..." He turned and ran into his office. He slammed the door.

Oscar and Jim high-fived one another, smiling.

From inside Michael's office, they heard him yell, "Dwight! Get in here!"

Chuckles echoed around the room, as everyone headed back to their desks. All except Jim. He came up to lounge across Pam's reception desk. As his fingers shuffled through her trove of jellybeans, he winked at her. "So that's your superpower."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "What superpower is that?"

He popped a green jellybean into his mouth. "Chaos Woman. One little magazine survey, and a dull workday becomes sheer farce."

"You found me out."

"Your secret identity is safe with me," he said.

"Good," she said, deadpan. "I'd hate to have to get rid of my superhero costume."

Several expressions crossed Jim's face at once. "Costume?"

She smiled at him. "Oh, you have no idea."

THE END

Survey says! (Yeah, I know. It's a sad habit.)

2008-05-16T01:45:28Z

Once again I am stealing an interesting survey from my friend laslohollyfeld , who stole it from others. I think these are fun, even if only for me.

10 things currently on your desk
1. Cowboy hat
2. Pyramid made of empty diet Coke cans (earthquake detector)
3. Small yet surprisingly ineffective fan
4. Lava lamp. Really.
5. 8-ball (oracle)
6. Stacked boxes of tea
7. Compressible exercise ball in likeness of President Dubya
8. Bobblehead (3 eyed alien) from Toy Story
9. Spool of blank CDs
10. Bamboo back scratcher

9 favorite ships/couples
(not necessarily in order)
1. Jim/Pam, "The Office"
2. Mick/Beth, "Moonlight"
3. Tony/Ziva, "NCIS"
4. McGee/Abby, "NCIS"
5. Booth/Brennan, "Bones"
6. Ned / Chuck, "Pushing Daisies"
7. Chuck/Sarah, "Chuck"
8. Josef/Sara, "Moonlight"
9. Tony/Pepper, "Iron Man" (hey, nobody said it was confined to TV)

8 of your current favorite songs
1. "If I Didn't Care", Amy Adams/Lee Pace, from "Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day"
2. "Gravedigger" by Dave Matthews
3. "Girl" by The Beatles
4. "I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You" by Colin Hay
5. "Your Move" by Robert Downey, Jr.
6. "Without You Here" by the Goo Goo Dolls
7. "Vanished" by Front Line Assembly
8. "Forever" by Vertical Horizon

7 people you talk to most
1. My husband
2. My mom
3. My younger daughter
4. My older daughter
5. My boss
6. My dog
7. God

6 favorite kinds of candy/chocolate
1. Gummi bears
2. Sour worms
3. Applets
4. Milk Duds
5. Salt Water Taffy
6. Hershey's kisses

5 favorite bands/artists
1. Brad Mehldau
2. The Beatles
3. Chris Botti
4. E. S. Posthumus
5. Yes

4 websites you visit daily
1. LiveJournal
2. Bitter But Brilliant
3. SFScope
4. TWoP
5. My personal website

3 items on your wall
1. Police concert poster
2. Decembrists concert poster
3. Poster of Jack Keroauc and Neal Cassady

2 favorite sayings
1. Dude!
2. No

1 favorite movie
1. Shakespeare in Love

More fun and useless surveys

2008-05-08T20:06:27Z

I'm ridiculously addicted to surveys like this. I stole today's survey from my friend laslohollyfeld, who says he stole it from swayinisdancin .

THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
1. Neverenoughjam
2. Mom
3. Hey, lady!

THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
1. Neverenoughjam
2. Sphinx_aeternam
3. Hussinski

THREE THINGS YOU LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. I write well. I think. I'm pretty sure. I guess.
2. I have an incredible and pretty much useless memory for celebrity and/or media trivia.
3. I am a very good cook, if you like exotic food. Mac 'n' cheese, not so much.

THREE THINGS YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. I speak when I should not.
2. Narcissism (like posting surveys about myself?)
3. I don't exercise enough.

THREE PARTS OF YOUR ETHNIC HERITAGE:
1. English
2. English
3. Texan

THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
1. Mullets (the hairstyle, not the fish)
2. Heights
3. Knee operations

THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
1. Intarwebz
2. Fanfic
3. Chai tea

THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. Dunder Mifflin T-shirt, yeah, 'cause it's Office Thursday
2. Jeans
3. Vans (So comfy! Thank you for introducing me to them, John Krasinski!)

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS (at the moment):
1. Brad Mehldau
2. Kings of Convenience
3. Beatles

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS (at the moment):
1. Man Like Me (Robert Downey, Jr)
2. Siberian Khatru (Yes)
3. Chained to the Blues (Creed Bratton)

THREE NEW THINGS YOU WANT TO TRY IN THE NEXT 5 MONTHS:
1. Surfing
2. Weightlifting
3. New novel

THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
1. Excellent sex
2. Trust
3. A sense of humor that survives every fight

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE
1. I was once on Jeopardy!
2. I went to college with the guy who played Zathras on Babylon 5.
3. I can read/write C## code.

THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX (or same) THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
Opposite sex.
1. Shoulders
2. Mouth (preferably smiling)
3. Hands

Same Sex
At gunpoint, I can admire
Skin
Hair
Figure

THREE OF YOUR FAVORITE HOBBIES:
1. Writing
2. Quilting
3. Surfing the 'net

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
1. Get this project off my schedule
2. Plan my weekend (looks crowded)
3. Go to lunch.

THREE CAREERS YOU'RE CONSIDERING:
1. Novelist
2. Screenwriter
3. Environmental scientist

THREE PLACES YOU WANT TO GO ON VACATION:
1. Washington DC (specifically, the Smithsonian)
2. England
3. New York

THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE:
1. See my book at Barnes and Noble
2. Kiss all my grandchildren (don't have any yet, just lookin' forward)
3. Accept an Oscar for Best Screenplay

THREE KIDS' NAMES:
1. Alexander
2. Richard
3. Ossimus

THREE WAYS I AM STEREOTYPICALLY A BOY:
1. *burp*
2. *snore*
3. Watch sports

THREE WAYS I AM STEREOTYPICALLY A CHICK:
1. Addicted to pedicures
2. Never satisfied with my weight/looks/wardrobe
3. Bitchy

THREE CELEB CRUSHES:
1. John Krasinski
2. Alex O'Loughlin
3. Robert Downey, Jr.

Software for writers: a recommendation

2008-04-29T06:22:14Z

I am not crazy about the idea of paying for expensive upgrades every few years for the software I use to do my writing. I'm even less enthusiastic about the idea of those upgrades making it impossible or difficult to open and edit files I created only five years ago. So for a long time I've been using open source software, bypassing Microsoft and Adobe and other big software developers. I don't even use much of Apple's software, mainly because Apple has stopped maintaining Appleworks, which used to be a pretty good little package.

However, I'm also spoiled. I don't want to give up those features I like. So I don't want to use some piece of software that does maybe five of the fifty things Word can do. What do I turn to?

Until this week I was an enthusiastic devotee of OpenOffice. This open source software works just fine on Windows and Linux, and pretty well on Mac (I use, in one typical business day, all three of those operating systems). OpenOffice contains a word processor that works almost identically to Word, can open, edit and save Word .doc files with ease, and includes an Excel spreadsheet clone, a drawing program, a database program, and a presentation program that can open PowerPoint files just fine. There are a few things it does not do well--master documents are a mess, for example, and the List Number function is as screwed up as Word's. But for the money ($00.00), you can't beat it.

Or so I thought. The one thing I didn't care for in OpenOffice for the Mac is that you have to have X11 running in order to use OpenOffice. Not a really big deal, since X11 ships with all flavors of Mac OS X. Install it from the DVD, and you're good. To run OpenOffice, you doubleclick the icon just as you would any other application. It loads the X11 window and then loads OpenOffice. Piece of cake. However, having to wait while it loads the X window, and having the menu bar in the window instead of at the top of the screen, Mac-style, can start to grate after awhile. It's not a big deal, more like having a stone in your shoe, but it's annoying.

So I was delighted to find NeoOffice. It's a port of OpenOffice to the Mac OS X platform. It has an Aqua-like interface, with all those little touches I come to expect on a Mac: 3-D, colored icons, the menu at the top of the screen, etc. Best of all, you don't need X11 to run it. Doubleclick the icon, and it launches. It's a clean, pretty, functional interface, and has a few features the bare-bones OpenOffice does not. For example, there's a grammar checker. This is a feature of Mac OS 10.5 (Leopard) that Apple added, and this release of NeoOffice uses it. I haven't used it yet but it's a great idea.

Anyway, for any readers who write on a Mac and are on a limited budget, I can heartily recommend NeoOffice. It is a free download, easy to install, and as easy to use as Word or OpenOffice. And since it is an open source project, the file formats are not proprietary and will be good for years to come. Good news for those of us who are slow writers. :)

Fun with sticks

2008-04-27T04:43:02Z

This dog just kills me.

Friday surveys are fun and useless!

2008-03-08T00:04:52Z

Stolen from laslohollyfeld, who stole it from somebody else. Go blame him.

1. Have you ever taken a shower while you were drunk?
Does standing naked under a waterfall while stoned count? No? Then, um, no.

2. What your relationship status?
Married to a great guy.

3. When was the last time you got in trouble with your parents?
Yesterday, when I refused to drive my mom to the male strip club. I say twice in one week is enough for anybody.

4. What were you doing 15 minutes ago?
Researching Linux kernel distributions.

5. Are you any good at math?
At math, yeah. At calculus, no. I'd like to be, if the schools weren't so dedicated to not teaching it.

6. What was going on in your life, one year ago today?
Pretty much what's going on right now, but I was skinnier and had more money.

7. Do you have any famous ancestors?
Yes. Also some famous people to whom I am related collaterally (i.e., cousins). Alas, none of them are rich. Or alive.

9. Have you ever been in love?
Yes. However, the courts insist on defining it as "stalking".

10. Where is your mom at?
Probably out on the highway, hitching a ride to the male strip club.

11. Have you ever kissed in the rain?
About that waterfall...

12. What's one thing you wish to change about yourself?
Plz to be being taller. Much taller. Like, as tall as Angela on The Office would be nice.

13. What were you doing a week ago today?
Picking my mom up from the male strip club.

14. Do you write your name in the sand when you go to the beach?
No. I write the names of people I do not like and then watch with great satisfaction as the waves erase them.

15. What's the most painful dental procedure you've had?
A root canal that went bad. It knocked off several years in Hell.

16. What is outside your back door?
My dog. Begging to be let in. (Wipe your paws!)

17. Do you have any plans for Friday?
Shabbat services, as usual

18. How many brothers/sisters do you have?
Two sisters.

19. Do you have a secret crush?
No. The restraining order is public knowledge.

20. Do you keep in touch with your exes?
Only via spirit mediums.

21. Do you dislike anyone right now?
Overinvested fanbrats with a sense of entitlement? No, wait, that would be me.

22. Are you excited about anything?
New scripted TV shows!

23. What is your favorite flavor of Jello?
Kosher.

24. Are any of your great-grandparents still alive?
No. Nor am I certain they ever were.

25. When was the last time you spoke in front of a large group?
"Hi, my name is NeverEnoughJam and I'm an Office-aholic!" No, wait, I only dreamed that. Okay, last time I spoke in front of a large group was seventh grade, when I read an original poem and got booed. My first critique!

26. What kind of winter coat do you have?
Blonde. In really cold years sometimes I get this ruff around my neck, but mostly it all falls out by early May. Really itchy until then, though.

29. What do you wanna do with your life?
Write great fiction and get paid lots of money for it.

30. Do you go to church?
No. I attend a synagogue, however.

31. What did you eat for dinner yesterday?
Steak, baked potato, broiled tomatoes, salad.

32. Who was your first best friend?
Gail, third grade.

33. What is your least favorite class?
Mercedes S

35. Have you ever snuck out of your house?
Not since I was in high school, and then only to go next door to the neighbors to watch TV 'cause I was grounded.

36. What was the last compliment you received?
On my fanfiction.

37. What extracurriculars are you in?
Wow. Is this survey written by twelfth graders? I'm studying a foreign language. Does that count?

38. Do you wear contacts or glasses?
Glasses. And they have special X-ray adaptations so I CAN SEE YOUR UNDERWEAR.

39. When was your last kiss?
This morning. Unless dog kisses count.

41. Are you on any medications?
Yes. They shut up the voices in my head STOP SAYING THAT.

42. What's your favorite thing to do?
Snooze in front of the TV with a book and a cat on my lap.

43. Do you regret dating someone?
Yeah. That guy with the tongue. Long time ago. I think he's dead.

44. What are you doing tomorrow?
Discussing the Bible, eating lunch with a friend, planning my spring garden.

45. When did you stop believing in Santa Claus?
Last year.

46. What annoys you?
Mean girlz. They set civilization back by millennia.

47. Whats the next vacation you're going on?
What's a vacation? I think we'll be visiting my in-laws. Does that count?

48. Favorite TV show?
Moonlight. Alex O'Laughlin rocks my world.

49. Last injury?
Threw my back out digging in the garden.

50. Does your myspace song have any significance?
It masks the spell being injected into your subconscious. You will send me all your money NOW.

Moonlight "Hope", Mick, rated PG-13

2008-02-21T23:49:03Z

title: Hope
fandom: Moonlight
author: neverenoughjam
rating: PG-13
warnings: None
spoilers: None
summary: Mick muses about Beth and his own nature
disclaimer: These characters belong to CBS, not me.
author's note: My attempt at a little Moonlight fic. Just some of Mick's thoughts on who he is, and the devastating effect of having Beth in his life.

He can smell her, even miles away. The night air speaks to him in ways it never did before he was Turned, in ways he can't even understand. It sings to him, seductive and wild, and part of him responds on a level too deep to really understand. He's not sure he wants to understand it.

Blood calls him. Its perfume anoints the wind, distracts him from everything else. He thinks this must be what it's like to be an animal, at the mercy of instinct and the moment. It gets right under the civilized veneer and pulls at him. Most of all, she pulls at him--not necessarily on the level of blood, but just as strong nonetheless.

"It's not just blood," Josef once told him. "Most humans don't know that sweat and tears and semen are all blood products. They all taste of the singular, the individual, as different as fingerprints. You know what I mean."

He'd nodded, looking out of Josef's loft over the lights of the city, a glass of red in his hand. Josef swore it was from the blood bank; Mick tried to believe that. He didn't want to think about what might be in Josef's refrigerator. Or bedroom. He drank again, feeling the thick red liquid slide down his throat, cold and lifeless. He remembered the hot gush and pulse of living blood and for a moment felt the fangs sharpening in his mouth. He pushed that thought away.

"She tastes like no one else," he whispers now. He knows for sure. He touched her, sank his teeth into her, even hurt her. He's smelled her sweat and wiped her tears, and licked his hand when she wasn't looking. She tastes new, erotic, singular. She's a raindrop in an ocean but he's so intensely aware of that one drop he can pick her out on the wind with ease.

"Can you fly?" she'd asked him. He laughs. Yes, he can leap higher and run faster, and he has the reflexes of a predator. But there's always a price to pay--exhaustion, weakness, and always, always the hunger for the sun that he cannot slake.

Blood carries the warmth of the sun, the naked clarity and simplicity now lost to him. If he'd chosen this life, maybe he'd have been able to come to some kind of accommodation, but now, no. He struggles so hard against it, denies himself, fights even his own kind. Fights his own nature. Nothing has hurt so much in fifty years as the shame and guilt of admitting to her, "I am a vampire". That memory still sears him.

From the first time he saw her as an adult, wading through a fountain at midnight, he has wanted her so fiercely he feels the leash slipping, the control eroding. He wants her as fiercely as he once wanted the blood. And he's ashamed of that. If he can't be a man any more, he should be a vampire, as cold and remote and damned as Josef. To love your prey is perverse.

Sometimes he almost thinks he can do it, can detach himself from this ... wanting. Then the breeze drifts her through his apartment and his head, and all he can think about is soft skin and warm blood and the sweet surrender under his hands. He wants to feel her warm, living self against him. He's been so, so cold for fifty years; she would warm him from the inside out. He remembers what it was like to delight in breast and thigh and hip and the inside curve of the elbow, the soft skin under the ear, kisses that went on and on and on. He remembers the wild, breathless revel of sex--sweaty and close and so human. Connection. He aches to connect with her, to feel that life.

He balls his hands into fists and clenches his jaw. No. No. He can't. He mustn't. They can't. It's not right, not right for her. She would be hurt, devastated.

He tells himself the look in her eyes is compassion, curiosity maybe. Not desire. Not longing. Not wanting. He takes a deep breath and wishes he still believed in God, or that if he did, that he could somehow be redeemed from what he is. He never wanted this life, has regretted it every day since that awful he woke up in his marriage bed drenched in blood, but never before has he so truly, deeply hated what he is. Hated it enough to launch himself from a high building and splat himself all over some sidewalk for the dawn to find and incinerate.

Because she gives him hope, and that hurts most of all.

THE END

"Lullaby", Pam/Jim, T

2008-02-15T23:39:07Z

title: lullaby
author: neverenoughjam
fandom: The Office (US)
pairing: Jim/Pam, Dwight, Cousin Mose
word count: 3900
rating: T (teen) for suggestive situations
complete: yes
warning: spoilers through episode 4 of Season 4
spoilers: through episode 4 of season 4
summary: Jim, Pam, a Bed and Breakfast, and things that go beep in the night. Humor, snuggling, and singing ensue.
disclaimer: These are not my characters. They belong to NBC, Reveille Studios, and assorted other entities. I am only borrowing them for the sake of some fun entertainment. No infringement is intended.

They'd spent the day reining everything in. Not just that flickery, fiery feeling he got at the base of his stomach when he looked at Pam. It was the laughter that threatened to bubble free when Dwight checked them into the "bed and breakfast", in a "lobby" that looked like Norman Bates' bedroom.

And the food. Good God, the food. Jim figured Dwight's cooking must be some kind of affirmation of his support of Darwinism--survival of the fittest and/or those with cast-iron stomachs. He'd seen Pam go pale when presented with the undercooked beets, the limp green beans, the mystery meat that Dwight boasted of having skinned himself. When Dwight left to bring in their soup (chicken flavored water), Jim had quickly swapped his plate for hers. Since he'd already managed to dump most of his food into the closest bureau drawer in the overcrowded "dining room", that meant he'd only had to eat one helping of food--hers. It had been worth it for the grateful look she shot him.

And then there was the hot water problem.

"Hey, Dwight, do you know that the hot water's off in our bathroom?" Jim had said. The floorboards were cold against his bare feet. He'd come downstairs in his pajamas, to find Dwight in long johns, locking the windows and doors.

Dwight looked at him sternly. "We only turn on the hot water heater in December."

Jim closed his eyes. "Can you heat some up on the stove or something? If not for me, then for Pam. She wants a bath."

Dwight frowned. "Pam needs hot water even less than you do. Being female, she is more than adequately equipped with an extra layer of subcutaneous fat."

"Dwight. You had us shoveling manure all afternoon, but there's no hot water for a shower?"

"A little honest sweat would do you good, Jim," Dwight said.

Jim fought the urge to laugh in Dwight's face. "Okay, how about some heat in our bedroom?"

"You have a fireplace."

"Yeah. With a blocked chimney. Our room is full of smoke. We had to open the window. Which made it even colder."

"Your chimney is blocked?" Dwight scowled. "Mose!" He stomped off into the dim interior beyond the kitchen. Jim had no desire to follow him.

Jim climbed the stairs to the second floor. What had he been thinking of, bringing Pam on this excursion? It was too soon to be testing the strength of their relationship like this. Besides, he was tired. Shoveling shit was harder than it looked.

In the "Irrigation Room", Pam had already changed into her tank top and pajama bottoms and slid into bed. He looked from his single bed to hers and back again, and cocked an eyebrow. "Twin beds? Seriously?"

"I think Dwight thinks these are two double beds," Pam said, straight faced.

"For him and Angela, maybe," Jim said dubiously.

Pam put her hands over her eyes, shutting out the mental image. "Jim, don't. I'll never sleep again."

He stepped over to her, sat down on the edge of her bed and took her hands in his. He tugged them gently down, and leaned over to kiss her. It still took his breath away that he could do that, that no one was going to yell at him to stop. He'd never made love to Pam except in her bed or his. His head had been filled with erotic images of her ever since they arrived at the farm, anticipating making love to her in the woods or the barn or somewhere, anywhere they hadn't done it before.

Pam smiled under his mouth and pulled away, shivering. "If I can't get a hot shower, can I get a foot warmer?"

Jim grinned. "You bet. Stay where you are."

It should have been easy to shove the beds together, but Jim quickly discovered that they were made of very solid wood. After five minutes, he'd only managed to shove his bed a few feet closer to hers.

"Are you sure they aren't nailed in place?" Pam giggled.

Jim wiped his forearm across his face. "You could help, you know."

She grinned. "Okay, but you have to do something for me."

He grinned back.

"Not that," she said immediately.

"No?"

"Eww. Jim Halpert, we both smell like...you know."

"I don't care."

"I do!"

Exasperated, he shoved at the bed again. It scraped across the floor--one whole inch closer to Pam's bed. "If you come help me, I'll tell you a bedtime story."

"We already got a bedtime story," she said.

"This one doesn't include Cousin Mose rocking on the end of the bed."

Pam brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. "How about a lullaby?"

"A lullaby?" Jim straightened. His head banged into one of the pipes overhead. "Ow! Son of a--"

Pam was out of bed in a flash, reaching up to his head. "Ooo. Looks painful."

Jim bent lower. "Kiss it and make it well?"

She brushed her lips across his forehead. "Better?"

His hand slipped down her back to cup her bottom, feeling her warmth through the thin cotton of her pajamas. She chuckled softly and pushed him away. "First things first."

"That is a first thing...oh, all right." He turned back to the bed-shoving job, crouching low to avoid the pipes above him. "Who uses sewer piping for decoration?"

"Same guy who thinks inviting guests to spread manure is a treat," Pam said.

Jim shoved at the bed again. "You gonna give me a hand with this or what?"

"What do I get out of it?"

"You get to sleep with me."

"That's your best offer?"

Jim sighed. "Okay. A lullaby." His eyes roamed over her bare shoulders, the gleam of the low light off her collarbones, the tousle of hair slipping down her back. Jim suddenly felt very warm indeed. He swallowed. "You push from that side."

Soon they had the two beds aligned in the middle of the room. A few practiced flicks of her wrist, and Pam had re-made them into one large, if lumpy, bed. "Which side do you want?" she asked.

Jim grinned. "Top?"

"Hah. And hah. Get in, mister." She lifted the gray sheets and slid in. "I need you to warm my feet."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. Eagerly he slid in next to her. His feet thumped painfully against the foot board. "Ow!"

They both looked woefully at his feet for a moment. Jim half-sat, half-lay in the bed, his shoulders scrunched up against the headboard and his feet firmly against the foot.

"Would you say this bed is too short, or that you're about a foot too tall?" Pam asked innocently.

"Not a problem," Jim said resolutely. He turned sideways, drawing his knees up and sliding down. He caught Pam in his arms and tucked her against him. "See? I'm very adaptable."

"Positively bendy," she agreed. She squirmed against him in a very nice girl-way, and he wriggled back at her, and soon they were nicely entwined, heating up. Jim began to think about ways to wriggle her out of that tank top.

Someone knocked on the door.

"What now?" Jim groused, and threw the blankets off his freezing feet.

Dwight stood at the door, his arms full of colored rags. "You said you were cold," he said, almost accusingly. "What have you been doing to those beds?"

"Oh, are they beds? I thought they were tombstones."

Dwight handed Jim his load. "I brought you some extra quilts. My grandmother made them herself, out of her own underwear."

Jim heard a muffled giggle behind him and bit his tongue to keep a straight face. "Wow. That is so ... Schrute of you."

"Thank you," Dwight said proudly. "Are you ready for your tea?"

"Tea?"

"All guests are provided with complimentary beet tea, to ensure a good night's rest."

Jim felt a warm hand on his back. Pam stepped up beside him. "Beet tea?" she said. "Is this part of the turndown service?" Jim hoped Dwight couldn't hear the ripple of amusement under that simple statement. Then he didn't care if he did.

"From our best beets," Dwight said.

"I think we'll pass," Jim said firmly, and shut the door in his host's face.

Pam looked at Jim, then at the quilts in his arms, and put her hand over her mouth.

"Shh!" Jim said. He jerked his head. "He's right outside the door."

Pam winked at him. "Gosh, those sure are nice quilts," she said loudly.

"Yeah, they'll make great fire starters as soon as I clear the chimney," Jim said just as loudly.

Pam pressed her face into his upper arm, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

In the end, they decided to pile all their clothing onto the bed, and used Grandma Schrute's lingerie quilt to block the draft from the window, which didn't quite fit its frame. They climbed back into bed, and she curled into his arms again, and Jim concentrated on finding some way to fit between the headboard and the foot board without actually tying himself into knots.

A gurgling noise sounded overhead.

Pam shifted. "What's that?"

The gurgling noise repeated itself.

"I know what it isn't," he said. "It's not hot water." They lay quietly for a moment, contemplating the pipes crossing the ceiling overhead. "Beet juice?"

"Some day we'll look back on this and laugh," Pam said.

"Not me," Jim said. "I plan to erase it from memory at the earliest opportunity." He reached over to turn off the light.

Now they could get cozy, he thought. The thought of sex with Pam, right under Dwight's own roof, made him feel just a little bit dirty. And very horny. Maybe it was all the years when he'd had to hide the way he felt about her, maybe it was in-your-face to Dwight, whatever. All he knew was that her body curved against his was going to keep him awake all night, unless he did something about it.

And he knew just what he wanted to do. Jim lifted the hair from the nape of Pam's neck and placed a kiss there. She squirmed nicely against him. He kissed her neck again, and started working his way down her shoulder--

A banging noise sounded from outside.

"What's that?" Pam whispered, tensing.

"Nothing," Jim said, and kissed her just under her ear. He slid one hand up her side, curving it around to cup her--

The banging noise continued. Louder.

Pam sat up and reached for the light. Jim blinked. Frustrated, he watched her swing her legs out of the bed, searching for shoes. "You're going out there?"

"Coward."

He bit back his response as she tiptoed out the door. The banging noise continued. Jim wondered if this was Dwight's revenge on him and Pam for years of pranks. It was, he realized, exactly the kind of thing he would do to Dwight if he'd ever had the chance--invite him to spend the night someplace weird and then keep him from sleeping. Jim had just about convinced himself he wasn't being paranoid, when Pam slipped back into the room, eyes wide.

"You won't believe this," she said, climbing in.

"Wow. I don't believe how cold your feet are," Jim said. "Here, put them up on my legs."

Pam slid her feet next to his as he tugged the thin, burlap-textured sheet up to her chin. "That banging sound? Was the door to the outhouse."

"What?"

"Mose."

"And the door was--"

"Open. Banging in the wind."

"Oh my God."

"Yeah. I'm scarred for life."

"Hey, you know there's nothing keeping us here," Jim said. "We can sneak down to the car, we'll be outta here in ten minutes. We can go to a real hotel."

"What, and miss out on our all-you-can-eat beet breakfast? Where's your sense of adventure?" she laughed.

It was her laughter that undid him, every time. Feeling her whole body laughing against him was more erotic than just about anything he could imagine. Swept by sudden passion for this wonderful woman, he turned her in his arms and planted a long, lingering kiss on her mouth. "Pam..."

She stopped him with a kiss of her own. He loved it best of all when she kissed him. It was like a gift from the universe.

A long, low moan sounded through the room. Jim and Pam froze in mid-caress.

"Um. Was that you?" Pam whispered.

"No." Jim lifted his head and scanned the small room. It looked empty, but the moan had sounded so close. "Is it one of the pipes again?"

"I don't think so. It sounds like a person."

"Probably someone who ate Dwight's cooking," Jim said.

"Could it be from outside?" Pam cocked her head, listening.

"Maybe Mose fell down the outhouse."

"Eww, Jim."

"He can stay there for all I care," he said.

The moaning sound came again.

Pam sat halfway up in the bed. "It sounds like someone in trouble."

"We're the only guests, Pam." He traced a finger down her neck, down her collarbone, heading for her cleavage.

Pam was paying no attention. "Could it be an animal? Maybe something got out of the barn?"

Jim sighed, realizing that Pam was not going to be distracted back into his arms. "I suppose one of us has to go find out?"

"Your turn," she said.

Jim closed the door behind him and listened. The long, low keening sound was very close. So close that he stepped across the landing and listened. It was definitely coming from inside the room. Could Dwight be ill? An uneasy thought crossed Jim's mind: Dwight was obviously missing Angela. Could he have done something ... violent ... to himself? He knocked again.

The keening sound stopped. "Come in."

Jim turned the handle and went in.

"Did you have another nightmare?" Dwight asked. He was sitting hunched on the side of a narrow bed under a sloping ceiling. He seemed to be caressing a small cherub figurine. "Oh. I thought you were Mose."

"Does Mose have nightmares?"

"Since the storm," Dwight said. "What do you want?"

"We heard a noise." Jim stared. Were those tear tracks on Dwight's face? What the hell?

"Oh." The embarrassment in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. "Thank you for bringing it to the attention of the management," Dwight said with dignity. "We'll look into it in the morning."

For one tiny moment, Jim thought about offering Dwight his sympathy, or some advice, or even asking him if he needed to talk. Then, horrified, he recoiled from that thought and closed the door.

As soon as the door was closed, the mournful sound started up again.

Jim paused, a familiar feeling washing over him. Despair. Yeah. He may never have made that actual sound that Dwight was making now. Not out loud, anyway. But he'd heard it in his mind more than once.

With a firm step, Jim crossed the landing, went through the door to the Irrigation Room, and closed it firmly behind him. He turned the old fashioned key in the lock and dropped it into the antique basin and pitcher sitting beside the door. Pam was sitting up against the headboard, her expression curious.

"What was it? Did you--"

In two strides he was across the room, his mouth on hers. She gasped, then instantly returned his kiss. He climbed into the bed, fumbling his way under the pile of sheets and clothes. He kissed her mouth, her neck, her mouth again, drowning the memory of all those lonely nights without her.

When he came up for air, Pam laughed breathlessly. "Jim? What--"

"I love you, Pam," he said passionately. "Don't ever leave me."

"What? Why would I? What was that noise?"

"Dwight."

"Oh, my God." Pam looked at him, stricken. "Crying? About..."

"Yeah." He didn't wait for her answer, but gathered her up in his arms, kissing her mouth, her hair, anything he could reach.

She pushed him away, very gently. "Jim. Oh, Jim, I'm so sorry. All those years..."

"Yeah." His mouth sought hers. "Let's not talk about it." The moonlight caught her hair and highlighted it and he wanted nothing more than to bury his face in it, in her, and forget the pain of all those nights, the nights when his heart had howled the way Dwight was howling now. "Pam...."

She came into his arms, her head under his chin, holding him close. They lay silently together in the darkness, his head stroking her hair over and over. They listened to the moaning sounds, saying nothing. The cocoon of sheets began to warm a little.

"Hey," she whispered.

"Hey?"

"I can't sleep," Pam said.

Jim shifted his bent knees, still trying to find a comfortable position in the too-short bed. "I know," he said.

"This place spooks me," she said.

"I can't imagine why," he said. "What with Dwight moaning like a ghost down the hall, Mose sitting in the outhouse with the door banging--"

"Let's just not mention Mose," Pam said firmly.

"Yeah," Jim said. He shifted again.

"Ow. Your elbow--"

"Oh, sorry," Jim said. He kinked his knees up behind hers. "I think this bed was made for munchkins."

"Thanks for shoving them together, though," she said.

He hugged her more tightly against his chest. "I spent enough nights without you in my bed," he murmured against her neck. Her face was turned away, but he could feel her smile anyway.

Another faint moan from Dwight's room drifted through the room.

"You still owe me a lullaby." She didn't say, but he knew, she wanted something to counteract the sound of agony down the hall.

"I don't know any."

"Tell me you haven't wasted all those years listening to your iPod and didn't once sing along."

"You're serious about this."

"You promised me a lullaby," she said. Her voice held that teasing note she reserved for him, and him alone, private and alone and the two of them naked. It promised secret, wonderful things.

Jim cleared his throat. Lullaby. Lullaby. Jesus, what could he...oh. Oh yeah. "Okay," he said. "But no going all Simon Cowell on me."

She giggled, and squirmed against him, and Jim drew a deep breath. Here goes.

"Everything's gonna be all right," he sang softly. "Rockabye, rockabye..."

"Ooh! Shawn Mullins. Good choice," Pam murmured.

"Hush. Everything's gonna be all right. Rockabye, rockabye, rockabye--"

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

"What now?" Pam said grumpily.

Jim closed his eyes. "Sounds like a fire alarm."

"No way we're that lucky."

Banging sounds from down the hall. Footsteps.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

"Could be someone breaking into Dwight's barn," Jim said.

"Rustlers after the goats?"

"Werewolves," Jim said.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

"Should one of us go check into this?" Pam said.

"By one of us, you mean me," Jim said. Resignedly, he pulled the covers off his feet. He figured by morning they'd be frozen anyway.

Pam snuggled down further into the covers. "Watch out for booby traps."

"If I wander into the crossbow range, tell Mother I loved her," Jim said, shrugging into his jacket and jamming his feet into his sneakers
.
"You did remember to change your will in my favor, right?" Pam said as he went out the door.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

The sound got louder as Jim went down the stairs, two at a time. By the time he reached the front of the house, it was clear what was making the noise--his own car.

"Halt! Who goes there!" A voice in the darkened living room. A shadow against the half-drawn curtain. "Stop or I'll shoot!"

Thinking of pepper spray and throwing stars, Jim halted and raised his hands. "It's me, Dwight."

"How do I know you're not a pod person pretending to be Jim?"

Banging sounds from the front yard.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

"Your Second Life avatar is named Dwight Shelford. You can raise and lower your cholesterol at will. You have a purple belt in karate. Your favorite movie is The Crow. You know how to skin a deer. It is so, so scary that I know these things. Maybe you had better shoot me after all."

The shadow moved. "You would know all those things if you had taken over Jim's body."

"Dwight--"

BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

"Oh, hell," Jim said. He walked to the door and tried to open it. "Dwight, come unlock this."

"I have you covered."

Jim pulled on the knob. "Dammit, Dwight!"

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE EEEEEEE EEE BEEEEEEEEEEE

Jim peered out of the peephole set in the front door. "Dwight, what is your cousin doing to my car?"

Dwight moved into the light, lowering his paintball gun. He wore a World War II GI helmet on his head; a gas mask hung around his neck. "Mose is out there? He's supposed to be manning the water cannon on the roof."

"That's my car alarm, Dwight," Jim said. "I think Mose is doing something--"

BEEEE--BAM BAM BAM ....

In the sudden silence, they looked at one another.

"Open the door, Dwight," Jim said grimly.

It took Dwight five minutes to undo the several locks and chains. As soon as it swung open, Jim was loping down the front steps. Sure enough, Mose was standing over Jim's car holding a baseball bat. There were several large dents in the hood of the car.

"Oh, for crying out..." Jim let out his breath in a rush. "Oh...kay. Just...did you really have to hit my car?"

"It was loud," Mose said solemnly.

"Yeah. But I could have ... you know what, never mind."

"Your car alarm was triggered by the cold weather," Dwight said sharply. "You should have adjusted for that. I reset my car alarm every night."

Jim rubbed his eyes. "Yeah. Sorry. What was I thinking?"

There were faint noises from the barn. "You woke up the chickens," Mose said accusingly.

Jim climbed the stairs back to the Irrigation Room, which he now thought of as the Irritation Room. His feet were cold, and he had the beginnings of a headache behind his eyes. Downstairs, he heard the sound of locks and chains going back on the front door. All he wanted now was some sleep.

Which was a good thing, he decided as he locked his bedroom door and leaned a chair against it. Pam's quiet, steady breathing told him she was asleep. He sat on the edge of the bed, taking his shoes off quietly. He wondered what her life with Roy had been like, to teach her to sleep through car alarms in the middle of the night. Groaning, he slid his icy feet back under the thin covers.

Sounds from below--bumping, a crash like breaking glass. From the barn, a low mooing sound and some squawking.

Overhead, the irrigation pipe gurgled mysteriously.

From the woods beyond the field, a weird hooting noise.

The wind whistled in the window, and Jim heard a stealthy creeping sound out in the hallway.

Something thumped heavily onto the roof over his head.

The laughter that had been simmering under the surface all day bubbled up into a soft chuckle. Jim wrapped his arms around Pam and grinned into the darkness. Bring on your beets, your werewolves, your rabid pygmy ninja cousins. It doesn't matter. Everything I need is right here. He buried his face in Pam's hair and sighed.

"Goodnight, Bates Motel."

THE END

Fic: "The Office", Breathe (Jim/Pam) rated T or PG-13

2008-01-16T01:28:48Z

title: Breathe
author: neverenoughjam
fandom: The Office
rating: T or PG-13
warning: Mention of a terrible disaster; does not directly involve the characters.
pairing: Jim/Pam
word count: 2545
summary: Jim has a bad dream. Pam comforts him.
disclaimer: These are not my characters.

Hot.

It always begins with heat, and even in the dream he knows this is wrong but it has always been like that, the feeling of heat and pressure. Then there's the darkness, pressing in all around him like a woolen blanket, only this blanket is miles thick and hard, because it's rock, and it won't move no matter how he pushes at it. Finally, there's the soft, insidious dusty airlessness that sucks hope and cunning and energy out of him, until it all merges into one long struggle, lungs laboring for that last miniscule sip of air, the coal dust swirling into his lungs along with the emptiness, the terrible tightness as he gasps and gasps uselessly, every muscle and nerve screaming for air ...

Jim wakes, wheezing, fighting, sitting bolt upright in the bed, eyes wide and his whole body shaking. It takes him several long, sobbing breaths to come fully awake and realize that no, he is not buried half a mile underground in the bowels of a coal mine, dying an inch at a time. He's covered in sweat, the sheets are damp with it, and he's shaking like a leaf.

Beside him, Pam stirs in her sleep and he holds himself very still, hoping not to wake her. He doesn't want to have to explain himself to her. He rubs his face with his hands, feels the wetness, tastes the salt there.

The fire started in the shaft, the only entrance and exit from the mine, and in seconds it became a roaring column of fire, so intense that it shot out of the mouth of the mine for thirty feet, like a colossal flamethrower. Inside, dense clouds of choking smoke and a fog of white-hot gasses rolled through the mine faster than a man could run. The housing above the shaft caught fire and collapsed, adding to the flames even as the men trapped below ground ran for their lives, deeper into the darkness, praying that something, anything, would douse the inferno before it caught them...

He swings his feet out of bed, stands, walks to the windows. He knows it's January outside, colder than hell, and the recent snow is piled up in the corners of the window. Even so, he wants to fling open the window, let the air in. He compromises by easing it open, just an inch, just enough to feel the bite of the cold air. He tells himself he is not, could not be smelling smoke on the wind. It's just his imagination.

He slides the window open a little more. The slow-stirring air barely moves the white curtains, just enough to make them puff into the room, then get sucked against the screen, then puff again, as if the world were breathing. He pulls a long slow breath into his lungs, pushes it out again. He braces an arm on either side of the window frame, not caring that he is naked, and stares up into the night. It's overcast, a blanket of cloud against the earth like a layer of white smoke. He could close the window, turn on the heat—but he wants fresh air right now. He needs it. Nothing recycled, nothing ... stale.

"Jim?"

He tenses, not turning. "It's okay. Go back to sleep, Pam."

She stirs, and he hears the mattress creak. Hears her soft barefoot steps approaching. Then her arms go around his waist from behind and he feels her naked body pressing up against his back. The electric feel of her against him sets his skin to humming, distracts him. He puts his hand on hers to still her.

"I'm too hot for that," he says. He tries to make his voice kind, to tell her that it isn't personal, that he needs room around him right now. He hopes she won't be put off by it.

"Too hot to sleep?" She releases him but stays close. She understands, somehow. He should have realized that she would.

He's tempted to say yes, to let the little white lie explain him to her in a safe, harmless way, to keep this drama inside his head and not burden her with it. But he can't lie to her, was never any good at it. He half-turns, looks at her, the goddess of his dreams.

"No, not really," he says. He drapes an arm across her shoulders, brings her close, skin to skin. She feels almost clammy against him. He wants to let her go but he doesn't want to hurt her feelings.

"Bad dream?" she asks.

"How do you always know?" he whispers, half-laughing, resting his chin on her head. "I swear you read minds."

"Only yours," she says back. "I speak 'Jim' pretty well now."

"Yeah, you do." He rubs a hand absently up and down her arm, still looking out over the dark city. Streetlights glow pink and amber, arcing off into the darkness, growing smaller in the distance. "This happens to me now and then," he says, reluctant to get into it.

She moves out from beside him and laces her fingers through his. They are cool and strong, and he knows without looking that there is charcoal dust under her fingernails because she was sketching earlier that evening, before he came up behind her and put his arms around her and seduced her into bed with one long kiss. Maybe it was seeing that charcoal pencil fall to the table from her fingers that triggered this memory.

Although it's not really a memory. A memory of an imagined scene, really.

Black damp, the miners called it, a combination of carbon dioxide and nitrogen, a deadly mixture that took the place of true air as a fire burned, and left nothing for a man's lungs but black smoke and a quick death. Racing away from the fire down the long east gangway, the miners slammed shut the gangway doors behind them, hoping they would keep the insidious poison cloud out and trap the few precious square feet of good air in with them. At the end of the thousand-yard gallery, they came to the end and turned, at bay. They built a hasty barricade and used everything--their own clothing--to cram into every nook and cranny, barring the deadly gas, trying to keep whatever fresh air was left from escaping. Then they smelled the rotten egg smell that told them the coal itself was burning...

"I was fifteen," he says. "Junior high. The Pennsylvania Historical Association had this big memorial they were putting up, to commemorate the Avondale mine disaster."

"I remember that," she says quietly. "We studied it in school."

"Yeah. Hard to grow up in coal country and not hear about it," Jim says. He looks down at the top of her head, sees her hair is a little tangled from the bed. He catches a handful of it, stroking his fingers through it. Silky. "My great-great-grandfather was one of the victims."

She looks up at him, her eyes dark. "Oh, Jim. I'm so sorry." A world of compassion in her voice. Her generous heart and quick empathy never fail to move him.

"Hey, I never knew him," he reminds her, trying for some emotional distance from the nightmare, not her.

"But he keeps you up at night. You know him that well." As always, she goes right to the heart of it.

His throat feels tight; he clears it. "Anyway. Avondale. A fire in the mine killed over a hundred men and boys, in September of 1869. One of them was Alan Halpert, who had just come over from England the year before with his family."

Her fingers, still in his, squeeze gently. He squeezes back. "My dad insisted on going to the dedication of the memorial, all the way to Plymouth, other side of Wilkes-Barre. All the way there, and then all the way back, he kept telling us the story as it had come down in the family."

She puts her head against his shoulder. "How awful."

"Yeah. In a car, you can't get away, and unfortunately no one had invented iPods yet. So I had to hear every damn detail."

She is so silent he can hear her breathing, feels her breath on his arm. It feels warm, which he doesn't need, but it's her so it's good. He rubs his thumb over her fingers absently.

"Anyway, I had nightmares for months afterwards. Couldn't sleep without a light on, kept dreaming about being trapped, buried alive..." He breaks off, feels his chest heaving. Imagines the blackness closing in. He can't help it.

She rubs her head back and forth on his shoulder. He feels her hair against his skin, sleek and glossy. Being naked with her still amazes him. He's never been with a woman who still made him dizzy after so many months, a woman who can still make him lightheaded just taking off her clothes. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to that, hopes he never does.

"You didn't tell anyone about it," she says. She doesn't ask, she knows.

"No one until you."

He knew it was hopeless, knew as soon as the rotten egg smell of burning sulfur-laden coal seeped into the dark and airless room. He heard the men around him praying, then going silent as they realized that praying aloud only used up their air faster. He heard someone call his name, realized with a breaking heart that it was David, and then felt his son's seeking hand. Even as his breath came short, he pulled his twelve-year-old son close, feeling the tears fall as he realized that he would never see daylight again, see this son's face or any of his children again, never see grandchildren. He cradled his dying, choking son in his arms as he had when the boy was born, trying to shield him from death, feeling the cold rock around him draining the life heat from them all even as the fire at the other end of the shaft ate the last of their air.

Jim feels a tear on his cheek, the only cool spot on his body as it evaporates into the air. He tenses, wondering if she knows he's crying, but then relaxes. She's seen his tears before.

"I know it's not real," he says, to himself as much as to her. "I know it's just my ... uncontrollable imagination."

"But what you feel, that's real," Pam says quietly.

"Yeah."

She says nothing, just stands and breathes with him, quiet in the still, soft night.

"Maybe it's just something that gets into you, living in coal country," he says, very quietly. He's not usually given to this sort of talk, but it's five in the morning and he's ready to say things he doesn't normally say. "You know, subconsciously, that you're walking over tunnels and shafts, that there's black seams and empty galleries under Scranton and Wilkes-Barre and Plymouth and other towns."

"I was ten before I knew that not every town had a mine in it," Pam says. She's quiet again, lets go of his hand, slides an arm around his waist. She presses up against him, and he forgets about the cold night because she's soft and comforting and he needs that to push the darkness back into the corners of his mind.

"He didn't die completely," she says.

He frowns a bit, looking down. She meets his gaze solemnly. "What do you mean?"

"Your ancestor. Great-great-grandfather, you said? He left someone behind, obviously, or you wouldn't be here."

He nods. "My great-grandfather was three when his father died in the mine. My great-great-grandma took the family and moved to Scranton. She never went near a coal mine again. She wouldn't even use coal to heat her house. The kids didn't understand it for a long time."

Pam shivers and he knows it's not because she's cold. "I understand."

He puts an arm around her shoulders, draws her against him just for the comfort, not even -- or not mostly -- a sexual gesture. Just for the alive feel of her. "Of course you do."

He feels her lean into him, feels her strength and her softness and the quiet solidity of her and wonders how he ever got this lucky.

"So now you know," he says, trying to be light. "I avoid basements, caves and Dwight's root cellar."

She pulls back a little, looking up at him. "Claustrophobia?"

"No, no," he says quickly. "Not full-blown. I have no problem with, say, cars. Or elevators."

They share a smile.

"Or supply closets. Definitely not," she says. A tiny flicker of flame at the back of her eyes, a banked heat he has come to know and appreciate in an otherwise demure Pam. He tightens his arm around her possessively.

She looks away, out the window, lifts her hair off her forehead with one hand. He looks down, watching her move, so quick and smooth and graceful. He loves it that she can be naked with him and not be self-conscious.

"It's cold," she says.

"Yes," he says, meaning something else. She catches his meaning, meets his eyes again, laughter in hers.

A cool puff of air floats in through the open window, billowing the curtains. The night whispers at them. He circles her into his arms, pressing her close, not caring that their skin sticks to one another. He feels her moving against him, feels her breasts against him as she inhales, feels her breath on his skin as she exhales. He buries his face in her hair, smells her skin and soap and shampoo and the fabric softener from the sheets.

"Thanks," he whispers. He doesn't have to say what for.

She twines her fingers in his, steps back, pulling him away from the window. "Come back to bed." Her voice is soft as moth wings in the night.

He remembers that darkness and pressure and heat don't always spell death. He remembers that all of his ancestors, and all of hers, all of everyone's, are underground now, that someday she and he will be too, and it's not a morbid thought. It feels like connection, a link to a long line of bones of people who lived and loved and worked, who would be glad to know their line survives in him. He remembers that his great-great-grandfather died with his son in his arms, sheltering him even in his last breath, a gesture of love, defiant. Death always wins, he thinks, but only temporarily. Love and memory live forever.

She pulls him down into the bed, and night closes in silent and calm around them. The heat in his mind is still there, but charged differently now.

She always leaves him breathless, in a good way.

========================================================================

Dedicated to the men and boys lost in the Avondale Mine Disaster: http://www.minecountry.com/homemine/dispart.cfm?id=95

Among the 110 men and boys who died in the mine were fathers and sons; they were found clutching one another in a last embrace. I hope this story in some small way honors that love and sacrifice.

"Chuck vs. the Eavesdropper", Chuck/Sarah, Teen

2008-01-12T01:15:53Z

Title: Chuck vs. the Eavesdropper
Author: neverenoughjam
Rating: Teen
Fandom: Chuck
Pairing: Chuck/Sarah, Casey
Spoilers: None
Warning: Sexual situation.
Summary: Casey bugs Chuck's bedroom, but can he believe everything he hears?

It was, John Casey decided, the only good thing about "working" at the BuyMore. He settled into the video game chair and let its padded contours surround him, support him, relax him. He had already adjusted the armrests to accommodate his height, and the footrest was now tilted at the perfect angle. He tilted the chair back slightly, and relaxed into its comfort. Now this was a chair a man could live with.

It had been a long day, and he had had to do everything by himself. He couldn't trust Agent Walker; her attachment to their subject was too obvious. He shook his head, unwrapping the sandwich in his lap. Sarah Walker was almost an embarrassment--unprofessional, emotional, weak. Casey was glad she wasn't NSA. The NSA would have tossed her pretty little butt a long time ago. Still, he was under orders to work with her, so he did.

Casey took a huge bite out of his pastrami sandwich and closed his eyes. Oh, man, that Lou could make a sandwich. The pastrami was just right--pink in the middle, crusty on the rim. The horseradish was perfect, the tomato ripe, the bread fresh and soft. He couldn't have made a better sandwich himself.

A tiny buzzing sound--an alarm. Casey opened his eyes and checked the console. An LED blinked at him: someone had opened the front door of Chuck Bartowski's apartment. What the hell? Was it a glitch? He'd spent the whole day re-bugging the apartment, but it was too early for Chuck to be home from work. And he knew that Chuck's sister Ellie was at the hospital. Could it be a burglar breaking in? It would be just Casey's luck if all his work this afternoon merely turned him into a monstrously overpriced alarm system.

A second LED lit up--someone was in Chuck's bedroom. Someone after the intersect? Casey put down his sandwich and reached to the side. His sidearm was on the TV tray next to his chair, never out of arm's reach. He picked it up and checked to make sure there was a round in the chamber. Just in case. You never knew. He laid the weapon down and picked up the headphones. Top of the line Bose, and even with the BuyMore employee discount they'd cost him over $250, but they were worth every penny. He settled the ear cups on either side of his head and switched the console over to "Audio".

Sarah Walker giggled in his head. "...telling me now?"

Casey blinked. What? Walker was supposed to be at work, watching the Intersect, that is, Chuck. What was she doing here?

"It just seemed like the right time," Chuck said.

Casey frowned. What were the two of them doing in Chuck's house, in the middle of the day. Had they been fired?

"Well, you waited long enough," Sarah said. Good God, Casey thought. Was she cooing?

Casey sat up straight as he heard a door close softly. His console LED shut off; the two were now in Chuck's bedroom with the door closed.

"Hey," Sarah said softly.

Casey leaned over and turned up the volume. It sounded as if Chuck and Sarah were right there in the room with him.

"Hey," Chuck said. Casey had never heard that tone of voice in the Intersect before, but he recognized it. Any man would recognize it.

"Come here," Sarah said. There was a sigh in her voice, and a warm undertone.

Oh, this was going to be good, Casey thought. He picked up the sandwich again.

There were soft, wet noises--kisses. A giggle, and a soft laugh from Bartowski. More soft kissing noises. They got softer; the pair were moving away from the bug Casey had placed near the door. Casey switched over to another bug, one on the lamp next to Chuck's bed.

Bedsprings creaked. "Mmm," Chuck was purring. "How do you get this thing off?"

Casey bit into the sandwich. He bit his tongue. "Dammith!"

"It unzips down the back. See?" Sarah said.

"Oh, yeah. Hold still," Chuck's voice said. There was a long metallic swish of a zipper. "Mmmm." His voice sounded muffled.

Sarah giggled. "Your tongue tickles."

There was some muffled response from Chuck. Casey didn't care what it was. His imagination was showing him Chuck and Sarah wrapped around one another in Chuck's bedroom. He should really shut this down, Casey thought.

Yeah, like that was going to happen.

More giggling. "Ooo," Sarah sighed. "That's nice. Does this come off?"

"Sure," Chuck's voice said. There were slithering noises. A clinking sound. Casey figured Chuck was unbuckling his belt. "Oh!" Chuck's voice was breathy, short. "Careful there. That's a ... a tight fit."

Sarah giggled again. "Oh, it is! Mmm. Nice."

The bedsprings creaked again. There were soft rustling noises, like bed sheets and bedcovers being moved, rearranged. "Hey!" Chuck laughed. "Don't push! What's your hurry?"

More wet, sloppy sounds. Grunting noises. A soft whimper, and the sound of skin on skin. Casey felt the hairs on his neck stand up. He'd heard a lot worse--or better, depending on your views on eavesdropping--but for some reason this felt more intrusive than usual. Had Walker been ordered to seduce her subject? If so, why hadn't he been notified? And if she wasn't acting under orders, well, he'd better be fully informed of what went on in that bedroom.

He'd planned to install cameras tomorrow; right now Casey wished he'd hurried up.

On second thought, maybe he didn't want to see what was going on in that bedroom right now.

"Oh," Chuck moaned. "Oh, yeah. Yeah. Like that...right there."

Sarah moaned softly in response. "Touch me," she said.

Casey's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Yeah, this was going to be ... interesting.

"Like that?" Chuck's voice was soft and heavy, full of lust. "Oh, yeah. God, you're so beautiful."

"Taste me, Chuck. Yes, right there..." More slurping sounds.

The sandwich was gone. Casey picked up his dill pickle and bit the end of it off with a crunch. Was it warmer in here, or what?

"Here, help me take this off," Chuck said. "Girls have such complicated stuff." There were slithering noises, rustling noises A thud, as something (a shoe? A brassiere?) hit the floor.

"Ooh!" Sarah made a surprised sound. "Surprise, surprise!" She giggled. "Who knew you had it in you?"

"I'd rather have it in you," Chuck murmured. "Oh my God, did I say that out loud?"

Sarah laughed. "Yeah, you did. Whoa, watch your elbow..."

"Sorry. Here, let me scoot over..."

The bedsprings squeaked again. And again. There were sliding sounds--skin on skin? More moans. Casey couldn't tell who was moaning, but it didn't matter. Obviously, things were coming to a head over there. He briefly thought about getting up, going over to peek through the blinds, see if he could get a look. But did he really want to see Chuck Bartowski having sex with Sarah Walker? Something in Casey shuddered.

The noises coming out of Chuck's bedroom were louder, but less comprehensible now. Moans, gasps, sliding noises, the soft sound of flesh on flesh. A groan of pleasure, a sigh. "Hey," Chuck panted. "I'll bet ... Bryce couldn't ... do this!"

A giggle and a sigh from Sarah. "Oh, my!"

Not classy, thought Casey. Comparing himself to Bryce? Chuck sounded jealous and insecure. Not that he didn't have reason to.

The gasps in Casey's headphones were coming faster now, more frenzied, more passionate. Casey could hear Chuck gasping for air. The bedsprings creaked furiously in an escalating rhythm. Sarah was gasping rhythmically, harshly. Casey flashed briefly on an image of her, flat under Chuck, her blonde hair spread across the pillow. Resolutely, he closed his eyes and shook his head. He ate the last of the dill pickle.

"Oh, God..." Chuck panted.

"Yes!" Sarah echoed. "Yes, right ... there!"

Casey felt his whole body tense up. He suddenly remembered that he hadn't turned on the recorder. He had to get this on tape. It never hurt to have leverage, especially over someone in CIA. He reached for the recorder just as Sarah cried out.

And everything stopped. Dead silence in his headphones.

"What?" Casey said. He checked the console readout. The power readouts on the listening devices read zero. Damn! How could every bug in Chuck's room die at the same time? And now, of all times? He shook his head, angry.

* * *

In Chuck Bartowski's bedroom, Sarah Walker sat fully clothed on the end of Chuck's bed. In her hand she held a small black box. "Did it work?"

Chuck, also fully clothed, looked under the shade of his bedside lamp, a matching small box in his hand. The tiny screen on its face showed a jagged line that flattened to a point. "Yeah, they're all dead. That jammer really works."

Sarah smiled and slid the box into her pocket. "Casey's probably going nuts about now." She leaned over and picked up her shoe off the floor. She stood up as Chuck picked up his belt off the bed. "Hey, you were pretty convincing," she said.

He grinned at her, teeth flashing. "You, too."

Sarah bounced once on the bed, making the springs creak convincingly. "You think he bought it?"

His smile faded a little, becoming wistful. "I know I almost did," he said.

But she had turned away, and didn't hear him.

THE END

neverenoughjam

"Everyday", (Jim/Pam), PG

2007-10-25T18:53:00Z

title: Everyday
author: neverenoughjam
pairing: Jim/Pam
spoilers: none
warning: none
summary: Vignette of Jim and Pam in the future. No angst, no sex, just fluff.
disclaimer: These characters belong to NBC, not me.
author's note: I posted this a while ago on another site, and for some reason forgot to put it here. I wrote this before "The Job" aired, so parts of it don't quite connect with current canon. Maybe this should be labeled AU? Let me know what you think.

Some days are worse than others.

Michael is driving him out of his mind. First it was the monthly sales meeting, which for reasons known only to Michael Scott now has to be held in the break room rather than the conference room. There isn't enough room for everyone to sit so Jim stands for the entire hour, squeezing against the wall every time someone comes in for candy or soda.

Then Michael decides that today would be the perfect day to "strategize" the annual performance reviews, which are coming up in a month. Michael's idea is to base performance reviews on musical ability rather than sales figures, performance goals, or productivity. He asks Jim into his office to help him practice on the steel drum. It takes Jim a full hour to talk him out of that idea; it would take only half an hour but Jim knows that would have involved Michael in tears and he just wasn't ready for that.

Andy decides that today would be a good day to sign everyone up for golf lessons. He goes from desk to desk trying to talk everyone, including Phyllis and Creed, into learning how to putt. A little probing by Jim reveals that Andy is counting on kickbacks from a golf pro who gave the lessons, and Jim has to almost threaten Andy with banishment to the back room before he reluctantly desists.

And then there's Dwight.

"What are you today, a teenage mutant ninja turtle?" Jim asks tersely.

Dwight looks up from his monitor. The camouflage face paint makes him look like a deranged house cat. "The paintball tournament begins at exactly 6:00 PM today, Jim. I don't have time to go home and change after leaving the office."

Jim rubs his eyes. "The samurai swords are scaring me."

"These katanas have been passed down from my grandfather to my father to me," Dwight says fiercely.

"They're plastic, Dwight."

"But they're heirlooms! That means something in my family!"

Jim grits his teeth and wonders if he can slip some Exlax into Dwight's soda to keep in the men's room for the rest of the day. Probably not. Dwight, through long experience, guards his food and drink like a hawk.

Lunch time comes and he's hoping to get up to the roof for a little solitude, but no, here's Toby asking him to talk to Kelly about the excessive sick days she's taking. So he spends lunch with her in the break room, watching her mascara roll down her cheeks as she talks about how depressed she is since Ryan took that job in Philadelphia. He listens to the sound of his carrot sticks crunching in his jaw and wonders if there's anything on earth that can stop Kelly when she's on a roll.

After lunch, Angela corners him and demands that he justify a three-page order he put in over two months ago. He no longer remembers why he needed fourteen boxes of extra large paper clips, but he makes something up on the fly. Her scowl bores holes in him.

Finally five o'clock rolls around and he's free. He waits until Michael is on a phone call, slips his messenger bag over his shoulder and grabs his suit jacket off the back of his chair. Thank God it's spring and he doesn't even have to swing by the coat rack for his overcoat; three steps and he's outta there.

The car is hot from baking in full sun all day. He rolls down the windows as he exits the lot. His CD player is on the fritz but that's all right; he hums an old Travis song as he navigates through rush-hour traffic. Over the bridge, three streets down, and a hard left at the corner. The day slips away from him, and he senses the rising bubble of expectation and excitement in his chest.

Then the quiet street, the brick house (mortgage payments for the rest of his life plus ten years), the green yard (needs a trim again) and the driveway (really needs a patch on that cracked cement). He knows better than to try to park in the garage; between the still-packed boxes from the last move and his bicycle from Stamford, there's no room for the car.

He slams the door, slings his bag on his shoulder, and almost bounds to the front door. It opens before he can grab the doorknob and she's there.

"Hi..."

They say it at the same time, like always. He folds her into his arms and her hair smells like sunshine. Her arms around his waist are small but strong. The house smells like apple pie and meatloaf and macaroni and cheese. And turpentine.

"How did your painting go?" he asks.

She takes his hand. He drapes his messenger bag and suit jacket over the back of the recliner as she leads him through the living room, to the kitchen, out the back door to the patio where she set up her easel last weekend. He stops and stares at the explosion of brilliant reds and blues spattered across the canvas. The smell of turpentine and oil paints is strong.

"Wow. A self-portrait!"

She pokes him in the side, where she knows he's ticklish, and he flinches, grinning.

"I woke up this morning with an idea for a series of studies. Color studies, really, two colors at a time. This isn't quite what I had in mind--"

He stops her with a kiss. "After dinner, okay? Feed me, woman, and I'll listen to anything you have to say."

She kisses him back, her hands in his hair (she's always done that, and he loves it, but he wonders if she's leaving red paint in his hair and what the hell, he doesn't care) and for a long sweet moment he thinks maybe dinner can wait.

Then she pulls away and grins and walks off into the kitchen. He keeps telling her that it's okay if she feeds him take-out or TV dinners, or he'd be happy to take her out to dinner. She doesn't have to cook for him if it would interfere with her art, but she ignores him. "Cooking is an art, too," she says.

His stomach growls and he decides to let her win the argument.

"Dinner in ten minutes," she says.

In the bedroom, he changes into a T-shirt and jeans, kicks off his shoes. One of the things they used to argue about was his habit of sitting down to dinner barefoot; for some reason she thought it was barbaric. He won that argument but knows not to let it go to his head; she can be damned persuasive at times.

When he washes his hands for dinner, he notices that she didn't do the laundry today. There are no clean towels. He makes a note to do it after dinner, without telling her.

He strides back into the kitchen. She's just setting the dish of macaroni and cheese (which smells like heaven) on the table. He catches her from behind, sweeping the hair off her neck as he places a long kiss at her nape. She sighs, leans back into him. His hands drift down to her waist, circle it, barely reaching around the bulge of their son in her belly, soon to arrive. He pats them both and plants his nose in her hair, inhaling deeply.

Michael, Dwight, Andy, Kelly, Angela...they disappear from his mind. This is the real world. This is where he really lives.

"I love you," he whispers into her neck. He has said it every single day since their wedding.

"I love you," she murmurs back. She has said it every single day since their wedding.

It's still new, still amazing, still warm. He stands with her in his arms, holding the two of them and closes his eyes.

Some days are better than others.

THE END

Fic: "The Office", Eclipse (Jim/Pam) rated T or PG-13

2007-08-28T21:34:34Z

title: Eclipse
author: neverenoughjam
rating: T or PG-13, depending on your system
fandom: The Office, US
pairing/characters: Jim/Pam
warnings/spoilers: none
word count: 2521
summary: Pure, undiluted Jam fluff. Jim, Pam, the moon, and a decision that will surprise no one.
disclaimer: These are not my toys. I own nothing but a burning desire to write about them.

"Pssst. Pam?"

"Mrrg."

"Pam, come on. Wake up."

"Blrphg mnrdbp."

"Pam, seriously. Wake up."

"Nrb?" Pam blinked and opened her eyes, but the room was too dark to see much.

A large, warm hand shook her shoulder gently. "Hey, wake up, sleepyhead."

"Jim? What time is it? Did I oversleep?"

He was a breathing presence in the darkness. She could smell him (warm skin, a little sweat, a hint of soap) but she could not really see him. He seemed to be kneeling beside her bed. That confused her. "No. There's something you should see."

Disoriented, Pam yawned and rubbed her eyes. Automatically, she checked the clock beside her bed. "It's after five thirty, Jim. What's wrong?"

His hand slid down from her shoulder to her arm, raising goosebumps as it did, and settled around her hand. "Nothing's wrong. Come with me."

She yawned, a little irritated. "Jim, I'm not really in the mood."

He chuckled. "Not what I had in mind. Get up." He tugged on her hand, and she came with him, and he pulled her to a standing position against him. Automatically, his arm came around her, and she rested her head against his chest. Her hands, moving on their own, found him wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. He was warm. "Hey, don't go back to sleep," he said. "Not just yet."

"Jim," she whined. "I wanna go back to sleep."

"In a minute. This won't take long."

"That's what she said."

"Funny. You'll pay for that later, Beesly. Here, put your shoes on."

"Why am I putting my shoes on?"

"Because we're going outside."

"What?"

"Trust me."

Too sleepy to argue, Pam thrust her feet into her slippers and felt Jim raising her arms. He slipped her oversized sleeping shirt onto them, then pulled it onto her over her head. When it fell around her hips, he patted her bottom affectionately.

"Where are we going?"

"Not far. Just to the veranda." He took her hand, leading her. As they passed the foot of her bed, he scooped up the quilt folded at the foot of it.

"I don't have a veranda."

"Well, whatever you call that thing that opens off the living room. Gee, Pam, how did you manage to snag an apartment with only one kitchen, but with a veranda?"

"It's a patio."

"No, a patio is at ground level."

"No, it's not."

"Okay, tonight, for one night only, it's a patio."

They were into the living room now, its furniture shaping the darkness in lumps of black and gray. Something about their arrangement bothered her. She hadn't realized before just how dark the night could be in her apartment. She stepped closer to Jim and trod on his bare foot.

"Sorry."

"It's okay. Here, open the door while I get something." He stepped away, a large, comforting shadow moving in the night. She slid the glass door open. The air was cool but not uncomfortable, with a fresh scent to it that told her dawn was not far away. It sharpened her senses, bringing her more awake. Why did Jim want to go out on the patio at this hour?

He came up behind her, his big body solid and warm at her back. "Go on out," he said.

"Who did this?" Pam said, as she stepped out and found her easy chair in the middle of her patio.

"I did, before I woke you up. I just hope I didn't wake your downstairs neighbor."

She yawned. "Pete's a security guard, he works at night," she said absently. "Why did you put this chair out here?"

He chuckled again. "Always with the questions, Pam. No, don't sit down just yet." He turned, closed the glass door, holding something between his body and his left elbow. Then he stepped past her, settled himself in the easy chair and set the object down on the floor beside him. He looked up and extended his arms. "Come on."

She smiled and folded herself into his lap. His arms circled her, pulling her in against his chest. They shifted together a few moments, getting comfortable. He pulled the quilt he'd taken from her bed up around her, snugging them into a warm cocoon that smelled of him and her and a hint of fabric softener. He pulled on the release that brought the footrest up, and Pam felt them tip backwards. He grunted a little as he took more of her weight.

"I've got to stop feeding you at all those expensive restaurants," he murmured teasingly.

"Shut up. I'm not the one who ordered—and ate—two plates of ravioli last night."

"Comfortable?"

"As much as I can be, lying on this extremely bony mattress," she said.

"You didn't complain a couple of hours ago." His voice had a smile in it.

"I wasn't sleepy a couple of hours ago. Why are we out here, Jim?"

His right arm rose, long bicep muscled gilded in faint light, and pointed. "Look at the moon."

Low in the west, she could see the full round disk of the moon, glowing softly. But there was something wrong with it—a shadow lay across half the surface. Yet it didn't look like a half moon. Pam blinked, and it slowly came to her.

"An eclipse?"

"It started about half an hour ago," Jim said. "We won't get to see all of it, but I thought you'd like to see the start of it, anyway."

"It's red."

"Yeah. The moon won't get completely dark because some light still reaches it around the edges of the Earth. The light is refracted as it passes through our atmosphere, scattering blue light --which is why the sky is blue--but sending reddish light onto the moon."

She turned and looked into his eyes. "Is there going to be a quiz after this eclipse? Should I be taking notes?"

He grinned. "Sorry. My dad used to take us out stargazing when I was a kid. He'd tell us all kinds of stuff about the stars and the moon. I guess it stuck with me."

She kissed his cheek. "It's okay. I like it. Tell me more."

"Sorry to say we won't get full totality with this eclipse. The sun will be rising in less than an hour, so we'll miss the big show. But this is nice."

"Yes." She sighed and snuggled closer. "Thank you."

His arm tightened, and she felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the breeze go through her. "You're welcome," he whispered. His lips brushed the back of her neck; she knew he knew she liked him to kiss her there.

"So when does the moon turn blue?" she asked.

"Mmm. What? Oh. The moon won't turn blue. That's just a saying." He nuzzled her hairline again. "Sometimes during a full moon pollution can make it look light blue. But that has nothing to do with a lunar eclipse."

He kissed her shoulder and she felt her heart speed up. She sank down into his arms even further, surrounded by him, warmed by him. "What made you think of this?" she asked.

She felt him shrug. "I've always liked eclipses. They remind me that, well, the world is bigger than we are."

"There's a Michael joke in there, but I'm too tired to find it."

He was silent a long moment. "We get caught up in the details, Pam. We get caught up in sales targets, production quotas, the gas and electric bill, worrying about the stock market. We focus on the little things." He kissed her hair.

"Sometimes it's good to look up from that. I know."

He took in a deep breath. "Kind of puts things in perspective."

"Makes me feel small."

His hands slid up and down her arms, under the quilt. "Ah, no, Pam. You're just the right size." He kissed the back of her neck again.

"It's redder now. There's more shadow," she said.

"Mm-hmm," he said, lips against her neck.

She twisted, laughing softly. "Hey, I thought we were watching the moon."

"I can multi-task," he said, his voice low and gravelly. She felt her pulse quicken, hearing that note. She'd heard so many variations on that note, from blissful moans to gasps of pleasure.

"Well you can multi-task us right back inside, mister," she said smartly. His hands slipped up her arms, slid to her waist, slid higher. "I'm not doing this in public."

He chuckled again. "Hey, we're under a quilt."

His hands found a good spot and she squirmed. "Jim, seriously!"

He sighed and stilled his hands. "So shy. How am I ever going to get you out of your shell?"

Remembering the naked romp that had ended their evening, Pam chuckled. "This, from a man who won't even kiss me in front of his co-workers."

"Do not bring Angela Martin into this."

"Ew. No. Look, the whole moon is covered now."

The lunar disk shone as red as a copper penny. The breeze died down; Pam heard a dog bark a couple of blocks away. So quiet.

"So, Professor," Pam said. "I've seen eclipses before. They were darker. Why is this one so red?"

Jim shifted a little, moving her to a more comfortable position in his lap. "Depends on the angle at which the moon enters the Earth's shadow, the amount of dust in the atmosphere, a lot of things. The moon is always red, but the shade of red varies. A really, really dark red looks black during an eclipse."

They lay in silence, watching the moon creep lower in the west, darkening as it went. Distantly, a car horn honked, and then another.

"Someone's trying to scare away the dragon that's eating the moon," Jim murmured.

"Should I go get some pots and pans so we can bang them together and drive off the dragon?"

"Shoulda borrowed some of Dwight's fireworks." His hands cupped her, large and warm and sensitive. She felt as if they were in a world apart.

She turned so that her cheek was against his chest. "Jim?"

"Mm-hmm?"

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. Are you cold?"

She shrugged. "A little. But I don't want to move."

She felt him stir, felt him reaching to his left. He brought up his left hand and she saw now that the thing he'd brought out with him was a Thermos. She watched his long fingers unscrew the top and caught a whiff.

"Hot cocoa?" She straightened a little.

"Yeah. Mandatory at all my dad's stargazing parties." He poured cocoa into the cup and handed it to her.

"Your father is a wise man," she said, sipping. "Oooo."

He took the cup from her and sipped. "The sun's coming up."

It was true. The eastern sky was lightening now, going from indigo to pale blue near the zenith. Pam glanced at the moon, which now touched the western horizon. "I hate to miss the rest of it."

"If I'd known that, I'd have booked us a flight to California," Jim said lightly. "They'll get the full show out there."

"Don't we need passports?"

He sipped chocolate and handed the cup back to her. "Maybe we can go as diplomats. Or smuggle ourselves across the border disguised as movie stars."

"I'll be Angelina. You can be Brad."

"No way. I'll be Keanu, dude, and you can be Sandra Bullock."

She laughed as she finished the chocolate. They sat watching the moon set for several more minutes. "You know," she said quietly. "Of all the many things I love about you, Jim Halpert, I love your sense of whimsy the most."

His hands had been absently roving her arms, her hands, her upper thighs. They stopped moving. "Wow."

She turned to face him, and this close they were almost nose to nose. His eyes were wide and dark, his expression caught between grave and smiling. "Yeah," she said. She kissed him, and his hands slid up her back, spreading out across it, supporting her.

When she pulled free at last, he slid his hands into her hair on either side of her face. "I love you, Pam," he said softly.

"I love you," she said simply, resting her forehead on his. Then she wriggled around to sit sideways in his lap again, encircled by the quilt and him.

They sat there in happy silence until a door banged across the street. Pam sat up and looked around. The shrouded, red-orange moon was halfway down the western horizon, the sun was rising in the East, and a car started down the street. "The world is waking up," she said.

He had eyes only for her. "You know, there's another lunar eclipse in February," he said.

"February? You want to get me out here on this patio—"

"Veranda."

"Whatever. You want to do this in the dead of winter? With a foot of snow on this patio?"

"Veranda."

"There's not enough hot chocolate in the world to get me to do that," she laughed.

"We don't have to see it from here," he said.

"You want to go to an observatory or something?" She shrugged. "But I like this viewing platform better." She ran a hand down his chest. "Much more fun."

He put his hand over hers to stop her. "You know, we can always go to Florida or California or someplace warm to watch the next eclipse."

She looked at him. "Really?"

"It's a big world, Pam. Bigger than Scranton. We can make the world as big as we want." His tone was unusually serious.

She went still. This was about more than an eclipse. "What are you saying, Jim?"

He swallowed, slid his hands down to her hips. "Pam, you know, there's ... another moon made just for us, so to speak."

Her breath slowed, she felt excitement rising in her like a bubble through champagne. "Jim?"

"A ... a honeymoon. We can ... we can spend the next eclipse celebrating our ... our marriage." His voice was very quiet.

Through sudden tears, she saw his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. His eyes were large, dark, solemn as they'd been on a May night two years ago. Open, showing her everything, hiding nothing. "Are you asking me...?"

He grinned suddenly, teeth white in the dawn light. "I know, it's too soon. And I haven't even asked your fath—"

Her kiss cut him off. Then she pulled back, eyes shining, and said, "Hawaii."

"What?"

"Hawaii. For the eclipse. And the ... the honeymoon."

Joy lit in his eyes as he pulled her to him. "Hawaii it is."

The rising sun found a half-empty Thermos of tepid cocoa, a discarded quilt, and an open sliding glass door.

::THE END::

Note: The next lunar eclipse visible in the Americas will be on February 21, 2008. It should be visible just about anywhere, although Hawaii may catch only the edge of it. Maybe by then Jim will have persuaded Pam to settle for Mexico...

Fic: The Office, "Positive", (Michael/Jan), PG-13 or T

2007-08-04T01:04:30Z

title: Positive
author: neverenoughjam
rating: PG-13 or T
fandom: The Office, US
spoilers: Through "The Job"
pairing: Michael/Jan
disclaimer: Not mine. Never were. Never gonna be.
summary: Jan ponders the result of a medical test.

She watched the little window obsessively, trying not to squeeze her fists too hard so her nails wouldn't dig into her palms. The butterflies-on-steroids flutter in her stomach was enough to make her glad she was in the bathroom, with something handy to throw up in. She shifted on the toilet lid, tapped a foot impatiently, glanced at the watch lying beside the sink, tried not to worry.

But then there it was, the stark red plus sign in the window. Positive.

I'm pregnant. Oh, my God. What now?

She took a deep breath. Don't panic. Don't panic. With trembling fingers she wrapped the plastic stick with its tell-tale window in toilet paper and buried it in the trash can.

What now? What would he say? What should she … they … do now? Get married? Split up? Get an abortion?

Think. Think rationally, dammit. Don't panic. What are the options?

Of course she could get an abortion. But as soon as the thought crossed her mind, she felt a twisting, swooping feeling in her stomach. No. Just, no. She'd wanted a family, had been hoping for one all these years, waiting for the right time, waiting for a husband who would be a good dad…

Would he be a good dad? He was a good lover, and very sweet, but really, was he ever going to leave Dunder-Mifflin? Was he ever going to be anything more than a paper salesman? Could they raise a child on his salary alone?

Would he want to?

She felt a chill go down her back. Of course, it's one thing for him to say he loved her, for them to be together. But a lot of men ran when children came into the picture. Would he back away, turn away from her?

Demand she get an abortion?

Think. Got to think about the options.

But she found herself wondering what a child of theirs might look like. Would it have her eyes? His? Would it be a boy or a girl? She thought about the changes her body would go through, wondered whether she could breast feed it. He would love that, she was sure. Would he teach their child to throw a baseball? Operate a computer? Fish? Not that she was sure he could actually do any of those things. Most of all, would he be there for the colic and the flu and the temper tantrums and toilet training, or would he spend more and more time at the office? She remembered other times she'd seen men she'd worked with, with a new baby at home, staying later and later at work even though there was no real reason to, just because of the pressures of parenthood.

Well, maybe she would be strong enough for both of them. He liked that in her, leaned on her a little. That was okay, she had decided a while back that while he may be a lot more outgoing and funny and friendly than she was, still, she was the one with the strong back to carry this relationship.

A knock on the door jolted her out of her reverie.

"Hey, did you fall in?" His voice held both humor and concern.

She could put off telling him. She could delay for a "better time". But that wasn't her way. Better to get it over with now, deal with it. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe he'd reject her and the child. She would just have to be strong enough for the two of them.

She took a deep breath, stood and smoothed her skirt. She opened the door, and he stood there, half smiling, handsome, a little confused looking.

"Michael, we have to talk."

Office fic: Operations (Jim/Pam) PG

2007-06-05T20:02:11Z

title: Operations
author: neverenoughjam
fandom: The Office, US/Scrubs
characters: Jim, Pam, Michael, Andy, Dr. Cox, Laverne, JD, Elliott, Janitor, Ted and the a capella group, Todd.
rating: PG
warnings: medical humor
spoilers: through "The Return"
author's note: This story takes place after "The Return" in season three.
disclaimer: These toys are not mine.

"Ow! It hurts!" Andy Bernard hugged his hand to his chest, bending over it protectively.

"Don't be such a baby," Michael Scott said, annoyed.

"Michael, he may have a broken hand," Jim Halpert said soberly. He glanced over at the Emergency Room admitting station.

"Well, if he does, it's his own fault!" Michael said. "I mean, slamming his hand into the wall! Do you have any idea how much it's going to cost to fix that wall?"

Jim closed his eyes. Michael. What could you do? He glanced up at the silent television on the wall of the waiting room. He jigged his knee up and down impatiently and shifted in the uncomfortable waiting room chair.

"Where the hell is the doctor?" Andy moaned. "I thought this was an emergency room. DOCTOR!!"

A large black woman in scrubs walking past them stopped and looked down at them over her glasses. "Honey, you'd better calm down before I ... Oh! Hi, Michael! Did you burn yourself on your grill again?"

Michael scowled. "Oh, hi, Laverne. No, I'm here because I'm Andy's boss. Kind of like his dad, you know? I had to come with him."

"No, you didn't," Jim said.

"Well, you sure didn't have to," Michael shot back.

"I drove him."

"I told you I'd do it."

"Michael, you can't drive a guy to the hospital in a snowstorm while your convertible top is down," Jim said.

A perky blonde in scrubs bounced up. "Laverne! Can you get these orders to Pathology for me?"

Wearily, Nurse Roberts took the papers out of her hand. "Sure, Elliot. I got nothing better to do today." She walked away, sighing heavily.

"Thanks--Oh! Michael Scott!" Elliot beamed at Michael, then looked concerned. "Oh, Michael, tell me you didn't try to re-wire a lamp while it was plugged in again. Did you? I thought you promised last time that you would--"

"I'm fine!" Michael said quickly. "I'm not here for me! Can you look at Andy here?"

Elliot shook her head, smiling. "Sorry, Michael. I'm not on staff here any longer. I'll tell JD you're here, though. Nice to see you again." She walked away with a bounce in her step.

"Can somebody get me a freakin' DOCTOR!" Andy rocked back and forth.

"Or at least a sedative," Jim said sourly.

A pretty Hispanic nurse came up to them, holding a clipboard. "Hey, Michael! Did you close the garage door on yourself again?"

"No! I'm...it's not me!" Michael snarled.

"Are you a doctor?" Andy said weakly, looking up from his hunched-over position. "Oh, of course not. Donde esta la medicin?" He pronounced the Spanish loudly, slowly and badly.

Carla looked at him strangely. "What do you mean, of course not?"

Andy snorted. "Hottie like you could never be a doctor."

Jim crossed his arms and sighed. "Andy..."

Carla put one hand on her hip. "I'll have you know there are three Hispanic female surgeons at Sacred Heart--"

"There you are, babes." A tall black man in green scrubs came up behind Carla. "My splenectomy in 312 needs his stitches checked and ....oh, hey, Michael! How you doing? Don't tell me you stuck another Popsicle up your--"

"It's not me!" Michael said loudly. "Hi, Dr. Turkelson."

"Oh, thank God. A doctor," Andy said. "Please, my hand..."

Carla turned to Turk. "He called me a hottie and said I couldn't possibly be a doctor."

Turk gently took Andy's hand in his, looking at it closely. "Of course not, babes. Listen, can you get this guy some ice?"

Carla looked daggers at her husband and stalked off. Turk, oblivious, gently rotated Andy's hand. Andy winced and closed his eyes.

"Pretty nasty bruises and maybe a sprained wrist. Better get an X-ray, too. Have you been admitted?"

"Not yet," Jim said. "We've been here a couple of hours already."

"Yeah, we've totally missed the end of the party," Michael groused.

"I think this a little more important," Jim said.

"It's Dwight's first day back!"

"Yeah. I know," Jim said wearily. "Doctor, can you see him pretty soon?"

"I'll send Carla back with some ice," Turk said, straightening. "And I'll make sure the attending sees you as soon as he can."

"Aren't you going to fix this?" Andy said plaintively.

"Not until you're admitted. And anyway, JD's on call tonight. I'm off shift."

Andy snarled and drew his wounded hand back into his chest. "I told you guys to take me to All Saints. This place is a pit."

Turk turned to Michael. "Hey, listen, when JD gets here, could you tell him that you're in for that 'inner ear problem' again?" He crooked his fingers in air quotes as he talked. "We had this bet going, about how long it would be before you showed up."

"A bet?" Jim looked from Turk to Michael, amusement in his eyes.

"Yeah, I said three weeks, he said five. I win. Hey, if you tell him you're here for an injury or something, he'll have to air kiss Dr. Kelso for one whole week."

"Air kiss?" Michael said.

"Just do it, will you? Thanks." Turk slapped Michael on the back and walked away.

Jim looked over at Michael. "Popsicle? Seriously?"

Michael looked away. "Never mind. Just..." He looked at his watch impatiently. "Where is JD?"

"It bothers me that you know the staff here so well."

"Not that well," Michael said defensively.

"Michael, they know you by name."

"Get. Me. A. Doctor." Andy spat through clenched teeth.

"He's really in pain," Michael said.

Jim winced. "Let me go talk to that nurse again." He stood and walked over to the nurses' station, smiling at Laverne Roberts, who studiously ignored him.

* * *

"Michael," Andy said weakly. "You're so good to me."

"Don't you ever stop?" Michael said.

Andy leaned over and vomited on Michael's shoes.

"Hey!" Michael jumped up and backed away, shaking his shoes. "Oh, that's just gross!"

Andy heaved again, carefully avoiding his own shoes.

"Nurse!" Michael called. He waved frantically.

Jim looked over and turned pale. "Yeah, I think he's really in a bad way," he said.

Nurse Roberts shook her head and punched a button on her phone. "I'll call the janitor."

A jaunty young man with dark hair and unremarkable features swung through the door and plopped a clipboard down on the station. "Carla! Can you get a CSC blood draw from Mrs. Reiff before the guys in Pathology get too drunk today?"

"Sure thing," Carla said. "Right after I give Mr. Hennesy his sponge bath, prep Mrs. Whitehart for her colonoscopy, and help deliver three babies--one breech, one C-section and one wedged sideways."

Both JD and Jim winced at the same time.

"Oh-kay then," JD said, plastering a fake smile on his face.

"Hey, doc?" Jim said. "Can you take a look at my friend with the possibly broken hand, here?"

"Bad idea," said a voice behind him. Jim turned around and saw a tall, sandy haired doctor wearing a cynical expression. "Jessica here is the last guy you want looking at anyone's hand."

"Jessica?"

"That's really not fair, Perry," JD said. "That whole thing with the juggler was a mistake. Could have happened to anybody."

"You sewed his thumb on backwards, Suzie Q."

"He makes twice as much money now! Did I mention he sent me tickets to his new show?"

Jim looked from one doctor to the other. "Backwards?"

* * *

Michael was holding his nose, backing away from the mess on the floor, when a tall man in a brown uniform walked up with a mop and rolling bucket. "Oh, thank God you're here."

"Nice," the man said. "Usually it's just the ladies who say that, but I'll take what I can get."

"Can you clean this up?" Michael gestured vaguely at the mess on the floor.

"Sure I can. It'll cost you twenty bucks."

"What? It's your job!"

"Not really," the janitor said. "The hospital pays me to clean up messes made by the doctors. Your pal here ain't a doctor."

Michael caught sight of an older man in a doctor's long white coat, passing by. "Hey! This guy is trying to charge me to clean up this vomit!"

Dr. Kelso turned, faced the janitor with a stern look. "Is this true?"

"Of course it's true! He said I had to pay him twenty dollars!" Michael fairly simmered with outrage.

Kelso squinted at the janitor. "Get the money up front. And remember my cut."

"Right," the janitor said, nodding.

Kelso walked away. Michael looked from him to the janitor, and reached for his wallet. "Andy, I'm taking this out of your next paycheck."

Andy groaned.

* * *

Jim ran a hand through his hair, watching as JD spoke into his cell phone.

"And I wuv you too, you widdle cutie," JD was saying.

"Doc, really, can you look at--" Jim said.

JD slapped a hand on his cell phone. "Do you mind? I'm on the phone to my mother!"

Dr. Cox took Jim by the elbow. "Come on, I'll see what I can do."

The janitor pocketed Michael's twenty, then pulled a small digital camera out of his breast pocket and took a picture of the vomit on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Michael said.

"For my collection," the janitor said. He dipped the mop in his mobile bucket and started swabbing. "You'd be surprised what people cough up around here. Like that time you threw up all those olives. How many was it? Forty? Fifty?"

"I lost a bet with Todd Packer," Michael muttered.

"Yeah, well, anyway, there was this one kid who ate a hundred gummi bears in one sitting. Would you believe they came back up looking exactly like --"

"Stop," said Andy weakly. "Please."

"Oh, okay." The janitor finished swabbing and put his mop in his bucket.

Michael eyed the mop and stuck out his shoe. "There's vomit on my shoe."

The janitor looked from his shoe to his face. "Yeah? So?"

"So wipe it off."

"That'll cost you another dollar."

Dr. Cox walked up as the janitor finished swabbing Michael's shoe. He cocked an eye at them. "I thought your shoeshine service was strictly offsite."

The janitor glared at him, stuck the mop back in the bucket and trundled away.

Andy looked up with hope as Dr. Cox bent over him. "Well, let's see. Yes. I see you've been punching drywall. Most people use a hammer but what the hey. Sometimes you just have to do something stupid and self-destructive, n'est ce pas?"

Michael looked at the doctor in awe. "How can you tell he hit drywall?"

Cox rose to his feet. "Years of experience, Daisy May. Plus, he's got plaster dust embedded in his knuckles." He scribbled on his clipboard. "Okay, we'll get him to X-ray. Come with me," he said.

Michael stepped up. Dr. Cox gave him a look. "You know, much as I'd love to X-ray your head to show the next meeting of The American Society for the Study of Abnormal Brain Development, we really don't have the time for this dance. So if you'll just take a seat here, Peggy Sue, I'll let Newbie get this guy to X-ray. How about it?"

"Oh. Okay." Michael flushed and looked away. Dr. Cox wandered away, smirking.

JD helped Andy to his feet. "Wow. He called you Peggy Sue. Dr. Cox must really like you. He never calls patients by nicknames."

"Really?" Michael said, smiling.

"No." JD walked away with Andy. Michael sat down.

"Wow." Jim walked over and sat next to him.

"Don't step on that part of the floor," Michael said, pointing. "Andy threw up there."

Jim moved his feet. "Oh. Gross. Uh, I don't see any--"

"The floor has cooties," Michael said. His face was pale.

"Cooties?" Jim looked at him. "Michael, this is a hospital, not a playground. Hospitals have germs, not cooties."

"I hate hospitals."

"Yeah, I can tell that. It sounds like you practically live here."

"Oh, fine, you can joke. You've probably never been to a hospital."

"There was that time Dwight hit his head," Jim pointed out.

"I mean you, personally," Michael said. His tone was sullen.

"Well, let's see. There was that time in Cub Scouts when I stuck my hand in a fan on a dare."

Michael winced. "Why would you do that?"

"On. A. Dare."

"Oh, yeah."

"Then there was the Peanut Butter In the Ear Incident in sixth grade."

Michael blinked. "Why did you--"

"Trying to impress a girl. Don't ask." Jim scrunched up one side of his face, thinking. "Oh, yeah. The time I ate a bunch of worms."

"Ewww! Why?"

"My best friend's brother paid me fifty bucks. I was okay until I chased them with fish eggs."

"Oh, gross! Please. Don't tell me any more about stuff you ate!"

Jim grinned at him. "Okay. How about the time I dislocated my shoulder at a sex club?"

Michael's eyes went wide. "Wow!" He laughed and punched Jim's arm.

"It wasn't what you think," Jim said. "I was going in the door when I slipped and fell on something somebody had spilled. I never got past the entryway."

"Oh, that's..." Michael looked disappointed and sighed. "I dislocated my shoulder once."

Jim leaned back in the flimsy plastic chair, thought better of it, sat straight. "Yeah?"

"Me and Packer were out on the road. I was carrying all the luggage up the stairs of the motel and I slipped and fell."

"You were carrying all the luggage? His, too?"

"Yeah. He had this girl with him so I didn't mind. Anyway, he drove me here the next morning to get it fixed up."

"He made you wait until morning to drive you to the hospital?"

Michael looked at him. "I said he had a girl with him."

Jim closed his eyes. "Yeah. What was I thinking?"

* * *

Andy sat on the edge of a hospital bed clad only in an examination gown.

"Okay, put your hand on this plate right here," the X-ray tech said. She was a pretty blonde with a ponytail and a curvy figure.

Andy smirked. "Sure. You know, I went to Cornell."

"Yeah, so did my ex. He was a jerk. Here, put this lead apron on." She helped him slip his other arm through the sleeve hole. "Okay, hold real still."

"That's what she said," Andy said woozily.

Ignoring him, she stepped behind the partition.

Suddenly the sound of several male voices in harmony floated through the door.

I was feelin' so bad

I asked my family doctor just what I had

I said Doctor Mister MD

Now can you tell me what's ailing me?

Andy blinked and looked around. "Where's that music coming from?"

The X-ray tech scowled. "Please hold still, sir."

Honey please squeeze me tight

Don't you want your baby to be all right

I said baby it's for sure

I got the fever you got the cure...

Andy started to hum under his breath. "Good lovin', good good love..." His hand started to tap in time to the music.

"Sir..." the X-ray tech said with exasperation.

Andy started singing.

All I need is love

Lovin' early in the mornin'

Lovin' late at night

Love, good good love...

"Oh, for the love of..." the tech said. She stormed out of her partition and opened the door into the hallway. "Ted! Guys, can you knock it off?"

A balding man with a sad expression stood in the hallway with three other men, singing "Good Lovin'" by the Rascals. When the X-ray technician interrupted them, they simply smiled. And segued to another song:

I'm looking through you, where did you go
I thought I knew you, what did I know
You don't look different, but you have changed
I'm looking through you, you're not the same

Andy came up behind the technician. "Oh, hey, that's the Beatles!" He cleared his throat and sang in a clear falsetto:

Your lips are moving, I cannot hear
Your voice is soothing, but the words aren't clear
You don't sound different, I've learned the game.
I'm looking through you, you're not the same

The a capella group came to an abrupt halt, staring at Andy.

"Hey, guys!" Andy said enthusiastically. "I used to sing a capella at Cornell! You ever hear of it?"

One of the quartet looked around, then at Andy. "Yeah. There was this really awful group. What were they called?"

"I think they called themselves 'Here Comes Treble'," Ted said. "God, they were terrible."

Andy scowled and turned back to the X-ray room. "You guys are flat anyway."

* * *

"Hey, Carla, who's on surgical rotation today?" JD asked, leaning over her desk.

Carla didn't even glance up from her monitor. "Bambi, I'm busy. Can't you just check the listings like everyone else?"

"Oh, but you know everything," JD said. "Remember that time I lost my favorite pair of socks? And you knew they were behind the sofa?"

"Because all of your stuff is behind the sofa," she said.

"Oh, yeah? I bet you don't know where I left my boxers last night." He wore a very please expression. "Or in whose room, hey?"

Carla closed her eyes, tired. "You left them at the gym."

"Oh." JD's face fell. "I thought I left them at the apartment of that really hot chick I met at the bar last night."

"No, those were your Scooby-Doo briefs with the red elastic," Carla said. She looked up and blinked. "It is so sad that I know that."

Someone coughed behind JD and he turned around. Jim stood there with his hands thrust into his pockets.

"Hey, Doctor, uh, Bambi? They tell me there's some problem with Andy's insurance?"

Nurse Roberts looked over at him. "He didn't have his insurance card, and the insurance company is declining him. Are you sure he's covered?"

"Well, he recently moved here from Connecticut," Jim said. "Maybe it hasn't caught up with him yet."

"Well, he's going to have to come up with some form of payment," Nurse Roberts said.

Jim pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. "Okay, I'll just call our HR--"

Carla frowned. "You can't use a cell phone in here."

"Oh, sorry." Jim put the phone away. "I'll step outside then."

* * *

"Toby Flenderson."

"Hey, Toby," Jim's voice sounded in Toby's ear. "I'm at the ER with Andy. There's some problem with his insurance."

"How is he?"

"Don't know yet. They're taking X-rays. He may need surgery."

"Oh, that's awful. Do they have a fax number where I can send the insurance form?"

"Hang on...."

Toby listened to muffled sounds, then Jim came back on. "Uh, their fax machine is down. Someone tried to fax an X-ray and the film jammed it. Can you drive it over here?"

Toby glanced at the clock on his desk. "I'm already late to pick up Sasha. But I'll make sure it gets to you."

"Okay, thanks," Jim said, and hung up.

Toby pressed the disconnect, then dialed an internal number. "Hey, Pam? Can you do me a favor?"

* * *

"Okay, Mr. Bernard, it looks like you have a minor dislocation in your third knuckle," JD said, looking at an X-ray film. He glanced over at Andy, whose face was a pale shade of green.

"Is that all?"

"Well, no. It appears you may have a break in the small finger metacarpal. It's an injury we call 'Boxer's Fracture'. Usually caused by hitting something with your fist."

Andy looked away. "They stole my cell phone."

JD blinked. "Okay. Well, we'll schedule you for surgery in a couple of hours."

"Can you give me something for the pain? Please?" Andy's eyes pleaded.

"Sure." JD slipped the X-ray film back into its envelope. "And I'll get you on the surgery list."

* * *

"Hey."

Jim turned and saw Pam standing behind him clad in her pink coat. She clutched a manila envelope. "Oh, hey. What are you doing here?"

"How's Andy?" She looked around the emergency room waiting area. Michael was slumped in a chair against the wall, asleep with his mouth open. "I brought his insurance forms from Toby."

Jim shrugged. "They're probably going to have to operate on his hand."

Pam slumped. "I feel awful. It's our fault for teasing him."

Jim nodded, looking at his feet. "Yeah. But...you know he totally had it coming."

Pam smiled, then the smile disappeared. "Still..."

"Pig latin," Jim reminded her. "Cigars. Kermit the Frog impressions."

"'Rainbow Connection'," Pam said, smiling.

"'I went to Cornell--'"

"--'Ever hear of it?'" Pam finished.

"And 'Rockin' Robin', in his very own four part harmony," Jim said with finality. "Oh, yeah, he totally had it coming."

A young, heavily muscled man in scrubs with the sleeves torn off stopped in front of Pam. "Oh, hello!"

Pam smiled. "Hi."

"Are you the next of kin for this ... Mr. Bernard?" the doctor asked. He glanced at his clipboard.

Jim looked skeptically at the doctor's surgical cap, which sported images of half-naked women posed provacatively. "You are?"

"I'm the Toddster! Surgeon to the stars!"

"Toddler?" Pam said.

"No, no! Todd-STER!" Todd looked faintly annoyed.

"Of course."

"Anyway, I've got the surgical consent form here, but Mr. Bernard has been given some pain medication and has passed out."

"Can I get some of that for future use?" Jim asked.

Todd ignored him. "I need his next of kin to sign this consent form...oh, crap. Where's the procedure number?"

Pam held out a hand. "Can I help?"

"Are you next of kin?"

"Yeah, I'm his... sister," Pam said.

"Me, too," Jim said solemnly.

Todd looked him up and down. "Really?"

"Sex change operation," Jim said, straight-faced.

"Wow," Todd said admiringly. "Mind if I take a look later? Your surgeon did a helluva job."

Jim's smile slipped as Pam fought not to smile. She accepted the clipboard from Dr. Todd. "I have his insurance stuff here, too." She held up the manila folder.

Todd's beeper went off and he glanced at it. "I'll be right back." He nearly skipped out of the waiting area.

Pam quickly went through the insurance forms, scribbling an indecipherable signature on every line. Jim looked over her shoulder. "Michael Scott?"

"Yeah." She turned over a page on the clipboard and several papers slipped to the floor.

Jim bent to retrieve them, glancing through each one. "All done?"

"Yeah."

"May I see that for a moment?"

Pam handed him the clipboard and he scanned it quickly, scribbled an addition to one line, and smiled.

"What?"

Before he could answer, Dr. Todd fairly bounced up. "All set?"

"Yeah," Jim said, handing the clipboard to the doctor. "Thanks."

"No problem. We'll keep him overnight for observation, but you can pick him up in the morning."

"Maybe," Jim said. Pam looked at him strangely.

Dr. Todd walked away jauntily.

"Better wake Michael up," Jim said.

Pam helped him lift their somnolent boss to his feet. "Jim, what was that last thing you wrote?"

Jim draped Michael's arm over his shoulder. "Get the door? Thanks." They emerged into the night air. "I'll drive Michael home."

"Sure," Pam said, taking his keys to open the door. "But you didn't answer my question."

Jim settled the half-awake Michael in the back seat of his car. Michael immediately slid sideways across the seat and fell back to sleep. "Yeah, well, it's just a minor procedure I added to his surgical orders."

Pam handed him back his keys. "Oh, my God. A Cesarian section? A lobotomy?"

"Nothing that drastic. Something he'll never miss." Jim grinned to himself.

"You're killing me, Halpert. What did you sign him up for, an appendectomy?"

Jim opened the door to his car. "Nope." He slid behind the wheel and closed the door.

Pam slapped her hand on the window. "Jim! What did you sign him up for?"

Jim turned the key and his engine roared to life. He punched a control and his window slid down. His grin covered half his face. "He'll think Michael signed him up for it."

"What?" Pam was ready to explode with frustration.

"Circumcision," Jim said.

He put the car in reverse and slid out of the parking space, leaving Pam speechless with astonishment and laughter.

::END::

About FanLib

2007-05-23T20:14:57Z

There has been a tremendous disturbance in The Force lately, stemming from the outrage of some fanfic writers and fans over the debut of FanLib, the new fanfiction forum. A lot of heat and angst is being generated over the idea that a) someone is making a profit off of fanfic writers and b) this is making those writers more vulnerable to copyright infringement suits. I was invited to join FanLib and accepted their invitation. I'd like to respond to these concerns.

First, I've never been under the illusion that I could make money off my fanfic, so I'm not upset at the idea that someone is "stealing" my profits. There were never going to be any profits to steal. As far as I'm concerned, it was a straight-up business proposition: FanLib hosts my stories and gains me a wider audience, and they make a few pennies off of banner ads. It's not like I was going to be making any money anyway, or that FanLlib is going to be rolling in dough. They're not Google, they're a tiny little Internet startup.

Second, I don't care what FanLib's Terms of Service say, I am not afraid of a copyright infringement suit, because lawyers file lawsuits to make money or stop someone else from making money. Period. Since I am not making money, I have no "deep pockets" to go after. By the terms of my agreement with FanLib, I don't make a dime. So while some folks are saying that I'm being "cheated" out of the fruits of my creative endeavors, it might also be argued that I am actually protected from copyright infringement suits by virtue of the fact that I am NOT making money. Given the choice of suing FanLib or suing me, the lawyer will go after FanLib, every time. Despite the wording of their dubious TOS, FanLib is actually taking all the risk, IMO. Although FanLib's TOS says they'll pass on their attorney costs to me, so what? I have nothing. I risk a copyright infringement suit with every fanfic I post; FanLib's TOS does not change that.

So if I'm not making money, why did I accept FanLib's invitation? As a writer, I welcome an opportunity for more readers to find my work. I considered that FanLib, with its high profile and wide advertising, would make it easier for readers to discover stories that they would otherwise have to search the nooks and crannies of the Internet to find. We may think it's child's play to find fanfic online, but for newbies it is not that easy. FanLib is a high-profile portal.

Like any other commercial endeavor, FanLib will stand or fall by how well it has judged its audience. Some say it is wildly off target. Maybe it is. Only time will tell. In the meantime, why not treat it as the experiment that it is? Fanfic fandom usually supports experiments, even those we don't initially agree with.

For other reactions to this controversy, I like hossgal's discussion of fan reaction on her LJ site; she is not a defender of FanLib but has interesting things to say about the kerfluffle.

Office fic: Compass (Jim/Pam) G

2007-05-19T05:30:46Z

title: Compass
author: neverenoughjam
fandom: The Office
characters: Jim/Pam
rating: K or PG, whichever one you're going by
spoilers: through end of Season 3
summary: Obligatory first date fic.
disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. They belong to NBC.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

-- John Donne, A Valediction Forbidding Mourning

"So. You're staying."

Jim shoved his hands in his pockets. This was not how he'd expected her to answer her door.

"Yeah."

She smiled, a radiant smile that set his heart on fire. "I'm glad."

He smiled back. She looked different. It wasn't the rose colored dress that showed off her cleavage (although he deeply appreciated it). It wasn't the hair falling in curls past her shoulders. It wasn't even the hint of lip gloss that made her mouth so kissable in the light spilling from her apartment. It was something else--a new confidence in the way she stood straight and looked him in the eye. The set of her shoulders, a quiet assurance. She's crossed a threshold, he thought.

So had he. "So, you hungry?"

She nodded and stepped forward, closing the door behind her. He heard the lock click, and felt her hand slip into the crook of his elbow. "I hope you have something more than grilled cheese sandwiches in mind," she said.

He looked down on the top of her head. "There's this new sushi place over on--"

"Yuck!" she said, making a face. Assertive. "Bait? No, thanks."

He led her down the sidewalk to his car, opened the door for her. "Okay, you win. Pizza and beer it is."

He closed the door on her giggle, walked around his car with a light step. There was a feeling in his chest like whipped cream or a rising balloon. Something that threatened to veto the law of gravity and send him rising on a slow arc into the stratosphere.

"Mind if I turn on the heater?" she said as he got in.

"Go ahead."

She reached over, fiddling with the controls as he started the car, turned into the street.

"I thought spring was here, but it looks like we have one more cold night ahead."

So right, so natural. As if they'd been dating forever. Why wasn't he more nervous? He'd prayed for this night for so many years, given up in despair on the thought it would ever happen, but here he was. And when it came, it felt as comfortable as an old shoe.

"Thanks for coming out with me on such short notice," he said.

She laughed. It had an easy note to it he wasn't used to. "Creed's used to me cancelling our dates at short notice."

"Oh, God. Don't even joke about that."

She reached over and patted his hand on the gearshift. "Relax, Jim." She left her hand on his and he decided he didn't really need both hands on the wheel. "What happened in New York?"

"Wallace found out I'm a Phillies fan. That was the last straw."

"So you think Karen will be Michael's boss?"

He shrugged, turning the wheel one-handedly into a left hand turn. "I don't think so." He looked over at Pam. Her profile was serene, quiet. Beautiful. "You haven't asked about Karen."

"Do I need to?"

"No."

"You just ran a stop sign, Jim."

"Oh. Sorry." He put both hands on the wheel. "I think you knew that I wouldn't take the job. Before I did."

She turned her head, looked at him. "I knew you wouldn't go. Or if you did, you'd come back."

"You knew that?"

She nodded. "Deep down, yes. I knew it."

"I should be alarmed that you know me that well, but I'm not." He smiled. Pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. "Here we are."

She looked through the windshield. "Wow. I don't think I've been here before. For a guy who just turned down a raise and a promotion, you're spending big."

He grinned as he pulled into a space and shut off the engine. "Reckless spendthrift, that's me."

In the restaurant's dim foyer, he murmured his name to the host and they were shown to a table overlooking a park. It was quiet, hushed. Candles burned in frosted glass, and a single yellow orchid in a tall crystal vase graced every table. Jim held her chair, looking down at her hair as she sat. So slender, he thought. So graceful.

He sat across from her, looking at her face. He could do that now, without guilt or reservation. Nothing to stop him now, or to stop him letting her see in his eyes what was in his heart. He reached for her hand at the same time she was reaching for his, and they met halfway. Her eyes were warm, her grave smile an admission of the importance of the moment.

"Hello, Pam Beesly," he said.

"Welcome back, Jim Halpert," she replied easily.

The waiter came up with menus. Jim took his and set it down without looking at it. He watched her open the menu, scan the prices, saw her eyes widen. When she looked up to meet his gaze, he shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Pam," he said.

"I knew it. You're blackmailing Michael, aren't you?" she said. "That's why you're rolling in dough."

"Busted," he said cheerfully. "I can recommend the partridge in puff pastry."

"You've been here before?" she asked. And then bit her lip as she realized who he'd have been with.

He reached for her hand again. "Don't let her memory be between us," he said.

"I won't." But she looked down at her menu, avoiding his eyes. "Maybe the crab cakes."

"Good choice."

When the waiter had taken their orders and gone away, Jim leaned forward. "Pam. I don't want to mess this up."

She nodded. "Me, too."

"I don't know what this will be..."

"It'll be new," she said. "Not ... not what it was."

He held his breath. "Maybe ... more than it was?"

A faint pink tinge climbed her cheek, but she looked him in the eye. She was doing that more lately, he thought. "Maybe. I mean...probably. Yes. I think so."

More than he'd ever had, he thought. The law of gravity was definitely being repealed, just for him. His mouth felt very dry. "Good," he said, almost whispering. "Good." It was all he could manage past the tight feeling in his throat and the lightness in his head.

"I'm glad you're back," she said. "All the way back, I mean."

"It took too long to get here," he said.

"Well, I never went anywhere," she pointed out.

"I know."

"I mean, just this morning, you were on your way to a job in New York. So I have to ask, are you going to stick around this time?" Her tone was light but her eyes held a hint of anxiety. "Or do I have to wait for you to go away and come back again?"

Jim ran his thumb over the back of her hand. "I finally remembered your threat to blow your brains out if I left. Can't have that."

She raised an eyebrow. "So this is a selfless act. You're saving my life."

He smiled, but felt it fade as he looked at her, as the rush of feeling in him drowned his instinct to make a joke. "I'm saving mine," he said.

Her eyes in the candlelight were dark, big, solemn. She did not smile. "Don't leave me again, Jim," she whispered.

He lifted her hand to his mouth, felt her fingers against his lips. Felt the tiny tremble in her fingers. He squeezed them, set her hand down on the table again.

"I can't."

THE END

Armed and dangerous

2007-04-18T23:56:26Z

Not to start a long, acrimonious debate, but my main thought since the Virginia Tech shootings hit the news has been: what if those students had been armed?

I went to the University of Texas in Austin. I remember studying in buildings that still had bullet scars left by Charles Whitman in 1966. I knew people who had literally dodged bullets that day. What they told me was this: citizens with guns saved lives that day.

A few minutes after the shootings started, KLBJ radio in Austin broke into programming and told people what was happening. The DJs and newscasters did not passively wait for The Official Word to be handed down from on high, they actively warned people to stay away from the campus. Before the broadcast ended (so I am told), you could hear the sound of brakes screeching to a stop up and down Guadalupe Street, which was the main drag and Whitman's chief target. Citizens reached into the backs of their pickup trucks, got down their deer rifles, and started pouring lead at the UT tower.

It took civilians to initially slow Whitman down after the first 20 minutes of his attack. "I was running toward the South Mall, and while running, once in a while somebody would shoot, and I'd look to see if I could recognize if it was an officer, and actually it was a civilian who had a deer rifle or some type of weapon shooting up at the Tower," Martinez said.

Ray Martinez is one of the Austin Police Department officers who eventually shot Charles Whitman to death--nearly an hour after citizens started shooting at the Tower. Their fire distracted Whitman sufficiently that Martinez and others could make their way up to the Tower observation deck, kick open the blocked door, and take Whitman out.

Although the shots from civilians couldn't stop Whitman altogether, they kept him pinned down, forcing him to stay below the parapet of the Tower and restricting his field of fire. There's no way to know how many lives were saved by ordinary folks with guns who unlimbered and shot it out with a sniper, protecting their community and their fellow citizens.

More to the point, it wasn't just the random passersby on Guadalupe that shot back at Charlie Whitman, as one eyewitness remembered:

I peeked around the office doorway to see one professor shooting a deer rifle at the top of tower while the other fed him ammunition. It never entered my mind to question why an English professor would have his deer rifle in his office complete with boxes of ammunition. This was Texas after all. Guns were commonplace. From the office windows, we could see the top of the tower clearly. Small puffs of smoke were coming from the rifle of the sniper on the observation deck. The large glass faced clock above the observation deck was shattered from others shooting back at him. The professor ran through several boxes of shells before running out of rounds.

So it's reasonable to ask ourselves: if there had been someone besides Cho in that Virginia Tech building with a weapon, even if it was just a taser or a can of Mace, would some of those 30 people be alive today? Much as I loathe the idea of sending students to school packing guns, I loathe even more the idea of restricting gun ownership to the point where only the crazies have them.

Because you know they will get their hands on them, no matter how many restrictions we put on ownership. Not even Great Britain, with its draconian gun control laws, was able to prevent the Dunblane massacre, in which 17 people, most of them children under the age of six, died. Canada has tight gun control laws but saw two school shootings in 1975, and again in Montreal in 1989. Australia, Germany, and other nations around the world have all suffered school shootings, despite the absence of a so-called "gun culture".

Guns are not the culprit here; they are the tool. The culprit is ungovernable rage, and there is damned little a society can do about that. No matter how gentle we are, no matter how peace-loving, we are and have always been a violent, predatory species, the most dangerous on the planet. There will always be that one in a million without conscience, restraint or anchor, who will turn without warning to violence. Until we evolve into another species entirely, we have to live with that.

But we don't have to die with it. Sending students to schools, or employees to a workplace, with no real protection, with no way to defend themselves in an armed attack, is like conveniently corralling all the fish in a barrel.

We have to stop doing this.

ROYGBIV: BLUE (Jim, Creed) PG-13

2007-04-11T06:03:22Z

Title: Blue
Series: ROYGBIV
Author: neverenoughjam
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jim, Creed
Warnings: None
Word Count: 2749
Summary: Some blues songs and a sympathetic bartender help Jim untangle his complicated love life.
Author's Note: ROYGBIV is the acronym describing the colors of the spectrum: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet. This work is a series of standalone pieces linked only by their use of a certain color. None of the various "chapters" is linked to any other. I'm playing with character, mood and setting. The other parts can be found here:

RED
ORANGE
YELLOW
GREEN

Jim was lifting the beer glass to his lips when his cell phone trilled. He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, put down the glass, and pulled out the phone. One glance at the screen confirmed his guess: a text message from Karen. He turned it to "silent", slammed the cell phone down on the bar and lifted his glass again.

"Bad news?" The bartender was a short, graying Hispanic woman with kind eyes. She flipped a towel over her shoulder and smiled at him.

"My girlfriend," Jim said shortly. He wiped foam from his upper lip. "She's called me six times since I left work an hour ago."

"Breakup?" Her tone was sympathetic.

Jim shook his head. "No, we're good. Just...today's not been a good day."

The bar was dark and cool, and almost empty. Onstage a trio was setting up a drum kit and some microphones, and a few early patrons were settling in at the tiny tables with beer. But Jim had the bar pretty much to himself. The bartender picked up a glass, started polishing it. She leaned back against the mirror in a classic listening pose.

"So," she said. "Most folks, after a bad day, go home to their loved ones. But here you are, ditching your girlfriend to hang with me. Which I totally understand, me being awesome and all, but some might wonder." Her smile took years off her age.

Jim smiled back. "I'm just trying to figure us out."

The bartender popped the top off a mineral water and took a swig. She waved a hand at the nearly empty room. "As you can see, I'm swamped."

Jim drank beer again. "Well. Take this beer. This is the first beer I've had in months. And I love beer."

Her eyebrows lifted. "She got you on the wagon?"

"Not at all. It's just that she likes wine, so I don't buy beer any more."

"Wine snob?"

"I don't know. She didn't really say anything. That's the thing. I mean, all she did was give me this look when I pulled a beer out of my own fridge, and I knew what she thought."

"Hmm."

"Don't get me wrong," Jim said hastily. "I mean, Karen is great. She's beautiful. Smart, funny, sexy."

The bartender's eyebrow went up again. "Oh, yeah?"

Jim remembered those breathy gasps in the dead of night when they were tangled and sweating and laughing together. "Yeah," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "Great in bed. And...and she loves me."

The bartender narrowed her eyes, drank more water. Said nothing, listening.

"I mean, I believe her when she says it. And...and it's really great that she does." Because he loved being loved, craved it, felt like a man dying of thirst who'd just been handed champagne. "She's really great."

Thumps and zings from the stage; Jim glanced in the mirror and saw that the band had arrived. A roly-poly drummer sat behind the drum kit, testing his cymbals. The skinny bass player was tuning his guitar along with the singer/guitarist, who had his back to the audience.

"So do you love her?" the bartender asked.

Jim took a long sip of beer. "I don't know."

"That's a pretty important question, given what she's told you."

"Yeah."

"Another beer? That one's low."

"Yeah."

The bartender moved away, came back with another glass. Jim put a twenty on the bar and she took it. "Keep a tab?"

Jim nodded. The door swung open, brought with it a blast of cold air and a quartet of laughing men and women. The bartender went to serve them, came back, placed a bowl of unshelled roasted peanuts in front of him. Nervously, Jim picked one up and started to shell it.

"So who's the other one?" the bartender asked. She took another pull at her mineral water.

Jim winced. "Wow. Did not know I was so obvious."

"Hey, I got boys of my own, same age as you or a little younger. I know that look. This Karen isn't the only one, is she?"

Jim shook his head. "No. Well, there's ... it's complicated."

The bartender nodded. "Of course it is. That's why you're here, and not with Karen. Excuse me a minute." She moved off down the bar to serve another couple who had just arrived.

Jim stared in the mirror. So why am I not happy with her? Why can't I get past Pam and settle into this bright future with this fantastic woman?

The reasons crowded in on him: Because she nags him to cut his hair; he's fine with it the way it was. Because she got him to change his favorite drink, got him to stop eating grilled cheese sandwiches because they were bad for him. Because she got him to spend more money on clothes than he's comfortable with. He bought a new car, even though he was happy with the old one.

And now she's making remarks about his music. Today in the break room at lunch, she'd pulled his iPod out of his hands. "Don't you ever listen to anything but this indie crap?" she laughed. He did like different kinds of music. He just didn't like the stuff she listens to. Which is why he was here, at the blues bar he used to frequent back when he and Mark were both single, and he'd never met Pam Beesly.

Pam. Shit. The thought of her made him turned on and sick at his stomach at the same time. God, would he never be rid of this? It was like a disease that hung on and on and on, that no medicine could cure. He felt infected with Pam. For life.

The bartender was back, towel on her shoulder. She leaned over the bar and stuck out her hand. "Bennie."

"Jim Halpert." He shook her hand. "Bennie?"

"Short for Benicia. So. What's her name?"

"You're not gonna let me off the hook, are you?" Jim smiled and sipped more beer.

"Nope. I hear all the stories. I want to know if you've got a good twist on this one."

Jim shrugged. So tired of telling this story. Of living it. "Nothing special. I fell in love with this girl at work. Her name is Pam. She was engaged to another guy. I ... I sort of told her how I felt, and she turned me down. I moved away, she broke off with him, and I met Karen. Got transferred back here and Karen came with me. That's it."

"The hell it is," Bennie said. "She was engaged, and broke it off?"

"Yeah." He looked down into the peanut bowl. It still hurt to remember that night. Are you really going to marry him? And her silent nod.

"Because you told her?"

Jim looked up. "What? No, no way. I mean, she never called me, never got in touch. So. Here I am. Moving on." He drank the last of his beer. He wasn't sure why he was opening up to this stranger, but it felt okay. It was dark in here, and he didn't know anyone, and they didn't know him. Tomorrow he'd forget all about this murky blues bar. And this conversation.

A fuzzy bass line hummed through the room with a strong guitar strumming over it, and a smoky voice sang:

She's the one who told me
Everyone must choose
Between the light and darkness
Everyone must choose
No one can refuse
No one can refuse..

Good blues, he thought. Everyone must choose. Damn right. And he'd chosen Karen.

"Why can't I be happy with her?" he muttered to himself.

Bennie nodded. "Because she wasn't the one you wanted."

"But the one I wanted didn't want me." Okay, he thought. Too much beer. Too much honesty. Because that thought hurt so much. What did Roy have that I didn't?

Why couldn't she love me?

The singer's voice carried over the conversations of the growing crowd.

Don't care if you believe it
One thing is surely true
You're never gonna feel it
Chained to the blues.

"So this Karen chick, you're just what, settling?" Bennie leaned on an elbow on the other side of the bar. Her gaze was warm, condoling. "You think that'll make you happy?"

"Isn't that what people do?" Jim burst out. He caught his reflection in the bar mirror: pleading, desperate. He hated that look. He lowered his voice, looked at his hands. "I mean, you have to grow up sometime, right? This is the real world. There's no happily-ever-after, right? Here's this bright, smart, fantastic woman who loves me, who's good in bed, who isn't really all that demanding. She loves me. I should be happy, right? I mean, lots of guys never get it so good."

Bennie shrugged. "Who are you trying to convince with this, Jim? Me or you?"

Jim slumped and put his head in his hands. She was right. It was there every second, bubbling under the surface. If he let his guard down ever so briefly, Pam seeped through his defenses and he would find himself staring at her curls, or thinking about the way her eyes sparkle when she laughs...

He felt his stomach do a slow roll. Stop it, he thought. Stop, stop, stop.

The song ended and there was scattered applause around the room. Bennie tapped the bar in front of him and moved away to serve a customer. Jim shredded another peanut hull.

He heard laughter and looked to his left. A woman, her head thrown back, neck bared, laughed a throaty, sexy laugh. The guy with her grinned like he'd just scored a perfect goal. Which he totally had, Jim thought. Making a woman laugh is almost as good as making a woman moan. And while he could make Karen moan, he couldn't remember the last time he made Pam laugh. And that really, really hurt.

Bennie was back, eyeing his glass. "Jim, I'll be happy to get you another beer, but don't you think you'd better have something in your stomach? We've got a corned beef sandwich on special today."

Jim nodded. "Thanks. Sounds good. Got any fries?"

"Yeah. Ten minutes."

"Beer me when it comes?"

"Done." Bennie moved away and Jim sat thinking about Karen and Pam. His head felt light. The music swam through it, a different song now.

I must be out of what's left of my mind
She's gone, I can't even cry
I'm raving at ravens, it's come down to this
I'm out of what's left of my mind.

Out of his mind. Damn right. She's gone, I can't even cry. He had cried, once, that night when he told Pam. Never since. He wouldn't let himself. He'd resolved to by God move on, and move on he had. Trouble was, he really didn't have any direction to move in. And now he was adrift, being steered into some future not of his choosing by the only woman who loved him. He wondered if it was enough to choose a life with a woman who loved him, even if he didn't really love her.

What a mess.

Bennie came back and put a plate in front of him: corned beef on rye, a pickle, cole slaw and a side of fries. He realized that he was, in fact, very hungry, and grinned at Bennie as he picked up the sandwich. "Thanks."

She smiled back. "You're welcome, Jim. I'll get that beer."

The drummer hit the snare and the singer struck a new chord on the guitar (which Jim thought had a really nice, mellow sound to it, a well-loved instrument) and a new song, slow and soulful, poured through the crowd.

Well I'm tied to the blues if I let you
Take me right out of my spot
And you laugh whenever I tell you girl
I love you in spite of myself
I love you in spite of myself

Yeah. In spite of himself. He thought about Karen, about Pam. His stupid life. Why the hell didn't he just move on to another job, a job where he didn't see Pam every day? A better company, a better future. Move in with Karen, marry, have babies. Settle down. She'd be a pretty good wife, he thought. She'd work, and be a sensible soccer mom, and organize the house like nobody's business. She'd support him in his career, and he'd support her in hers, and they'd be partners. Lots of guys would settle for a life like that.

Settle, my ass. Something in him boiled over. Right life, wrong woman. It's just wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He felt himself frowning as he finished the sandwich.

Bennie came back to take his empty plate. Jim hung onto the saucer of fries. "How was it?"

"Great," Jim said. He ate one of the fries. "Thanks for the suggestion."

"So what did you decide?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "You're persistent."

"I'm curious. I love soap operas. I want to know how this one turns out."

Jim laughed. "I don't know. What do you think I should do?"

Bennie looked thoughtful, then pensive. "You know what? I don't usually give advice. I just listen. But you know? There was a time when I ... well, there was this guy." She looked away, and there was a sad look in her eyes. She looked back at Jim, gazing straight into his eyes. "Ask yourself one question, Jim. At the end of your life, what will you regret the most?"

Jim blinked. "Wow. That's ... intense."

"Maybe," Bennie said, shrugging. "But then, it's only the rest of your life, fellah."

"She turned me down." He clenched his fist. "I told her I loved her and she ..." He couldn't finish. It hurt too much. Still.

"Why did you tell her in the first place?" Bennie asked. "I mean, was that totally out of the blue, or did you think there was something there?"

Jim remembered Pam's"Me, too." And her hands in his hair and the way she swayed against him, just for a moment. He hadn't imagined that. No way he'd imagined that. There had been something there.

Bennie smiled. "Don't answer. I can see it in your face."

The singer came to the end of his song:

I love you in spite of myself
I love you in spite of myself

What would he regret most? He didn't even have to think about the answer to that.

Jim pushed his empty beer glass back across the bar. "I think I'm going home. What do I owe you?"

"Another ten."

Jim fished out a twenty, waved away his change. "Tip jar for the band?"

"Front of the stage."

"Thanks. I really appreciate ... everything."

Bennie nodded. "Don't mention it. Drive safe. And good luck."

The crowd had grown while he'd been sitting at the bar. Jim squeezed through the dancers and found himself right up against the stage. It was about waist high, so he was looking up at the singer...

...Who finished the chorus, fingered something intricate on the frets of his guitar, glanced down, and winked at Jim.

"I'll be damned," Jim said, laughing. He pulled out his wallet and pulled out his last twenty. He found the tip jar near the singer's feet and stuffed the money in it.

The singer leaned down. "Thanks, Jim!" Never missing a beat.

"You're welcome, Creed," Jim said. "See you tomorrow."

"Later, man." Creed turned back to his guitar, nodding his head in time to the music. His fingers danced along the neck of the guitar, spilling blue notes into the crowd. Blissfully in the moment, lost in his music, happy.

Jim pushed through the door into the cold air of the parking lot. He checked his cell phone: there were eight messages from Karen.

And one from Pam.

"No regrets," he muttered, and punched "Call".

::END::

From Creed Bratton's "Chasin' the Ball" CD:

Chained to the Blues

Out of What's Left of My Mind

Spite of Myself

ROYGBIV: Green (Pam) G

2007-04-10T21:41:42Z

Title: Green
Series: ROYGBIV
Author: neverenoughjam
Characters: Pam
Rating: G
Word Count: 1975
Warnings: None
Summary: Pam learns that to speak, she must first listen.
Author's Note: ROYGBIV is the acronym describing the colors of the spectrum: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet. This work is a series of standalone pieces linked only by their use of a certain color. None of the various "chapters" is linked to any other. I'm playing with character, mood and setting here.The other parts can be found here:

RED
ORANGE
YELLOW

Pam hated it that she could never say what she wanted. She said "I can't" when she meant "Me, too." She said, "We'll always be friends" when she meant "I'm dying inside." It was a way of avoiding difficult moments, arguments. She could never win arguments with her mom or her bossy sister, and with Roy it was a lost cause. He never argued, he just did whatever he wanted and whined later if she didn't like it. Or he'd totally ignore any real issues between them and reduce them to a tickle contest. Or he humiliated her in public and trashed a bar in a fit of jealous rage.

So she'd never learned to say exactly what she meant, because no one listened when she did. She retreated into art, where her hands could speak for her. And when the art was not enough, she took her mom's advice and tried gardening. "Work with living things," her mother said that summer. Good advice. The breakup with Roy had left her raw and sensitive, too sensitive to reach out to make new friends (and she would not, could not think about her best friend) but she needed contact with something besides oils and paints and stains. Something that would grow and change independently of her.

She tried orchids at first, because their waxen perfection looked so permanent. She bought a white Phalaenopsis at Wal-Mart, but it looked stark and lonely on her kitchen window. It also bloomed very slowly. She wanted change, more color, more life.

"Try African violets," her neighbor, Mrs. Dittman said one morning. They had met at the trash bin, when Pam was taking out her garbage. Mrs. Dittman lived two doors down in the apartment building. "You have to make sure they have plenty of humidity, and don't ever mist them; they don't like water on their leaves. But they're like all plants. Just listen, and they'll tell you what they need."

That weekend, Pam went back to Wal-Mart and found a brilliant purple African violet. She immediately liked the velvety texture of the dark green leaves, the splash of color, the yellow center. The plant looked both humble and exotic. She took it home. It died within two weeks.

"What am I doing wrong?" she asked Mrs. Dittman. She had knocked on her neighbor's door and been invited in. Mrs. Dittman's living room was done in brown plaid, but plants in riotous bloom covered every table, every surface. Pam handed the dead African violet to her.

"Hmmm." Mrs. Dittman eyed the plant, hefted it in one hand. "Did you put it in plenty of sunlight?"

"No. I thought violets liked shade," Pam said.

The older woman shook her head, handing the plant pot back to Pam. "Nah. They're not really violets, despite the name. They like light. If they don't get much sunlight, the leaves get thin and dark, like these. You can put them under a grow light if you need to and they'll be fine."

Pam sighed. "I had no idea it was so hard to grow plants."

Mrs. Dittman shrugged. "They're living creatures. They react to other living creatures, to light, to water. Nothing lives in isolation."

Pam went back to Wal-Mart and bought two African violets, one purple and one pink. She bought a grow-light for them and picked up a book on indoor gardening. When she got home, she set up the grow-light on a table in her living room, changed into flannel pajamas, and curled up on her couch with the book. When she woke up the next morning, the book had slipped to the floor and she had a hell of a crick in her neck, but she knew a lot more about gardening.

Two weeks after she brought the second set of plants home, the leaves began to turn pale and to curl. The brilliant flowers withered, turned brown, fell off. She paged through her book, but the symptoms could have been for either overwatering or for lack of fertilizer. She sat down and peered at the plants long and hard.

"Tell me what you need," she muttered.

Well, what would make her droop and turn pale, she wondered. Lack of company, came the instant answer, but she dismissed it. Hunger, was her next thought.

She went to Wal-Mart for fertilizer. The checkout clerk greeted her by name. Back home, she measured the granules, mixed them with water, carefully watered the plants, making sure not to wet the leaves.

Patience, she told herself. They won't bloom overnight. Still, she couldn't help it. Every morning before work she checked for new blooms. The day she saw the first new bud, she walked into work with a spring in her step that had Michael grinning at her all morning.

When she came home, the bud had opened into a new blossom. "Well done," she said approvingly. She refused to worry about what someone might think about her talking to a plant. They were living things, she reminded herself. Nothing lives in isolation, not even a plant.

That night she said goodnight to her plants, as if they were roommates. In the morning, she greeted them and bid them goodbye as she left for the day. She didn't think twice about what anyone else would say. As time went on, she grew used to talking to them.

"Heck of a day at work," she would say as she closed the door behind her. "Michael scheduled overlapping meetings and Meredith passed out in both of them. And that stupid outside extension kept acting up again. I have told those repairmen time and time again that it's out of order, and they don't pay any attention. And Jim ..." She couldn't talk about him. Not to herself, not to anyone. She leaned over the plants, which now included three aromatic herbs, basil and oregano and mint. She inhaled deeply and smiled. "I hope your day was quieter."

She liked the way the plants added color to the room. The pale, aloof orchid, the exotic, colorful violets, the humble kitchen herbs: they added ... life. One night after watering them, she went to get her sketch pad and her pencils. She spent the rest of the evening trying to get the shape of the orchid's petals just right. She didn't succeed, but it didn't feel like time wasted. It felt like time spent with a friend.

On a snowy Sunday afternoon, a knock on her door woke her from a nap. Mrs. Dittman held two plant pots in her arms.

"Oh, come in," Pam said, and held the door wide. The other woman stepped, looking around.

"I can't stay, we're on our way out of town. I was wondering if you'd baby-sit these two gardenias." Even as she spoke, the heady, rich smell of gardenia was filling the room. Pam felt intoxicated. "My son's wife went into labor early, and we have to get to Baltimore right away. I'm afraid these two will go dry if we're gone more than a few days. They need high humidity, and you know how dry this winter air can get. Can you keep them until I get back?"

"Sure," Pam said, taking the pots. The small, glossy green leaves looked almost leathery, but the creamy white blossom on each plant smelled like heaven. "I'm not sure what to do, though."

Mrs. Dittman dug into the pocket of her overcoat. "Oh, don't worry. I wrote it all down here for you. Take care of these, sweetie, and I will really owe you one." She smiled, her eyes wrinkling at the corner.

Pam smiled back. "I'll do my best, Mrs. Dittman."

"Thank you so much, dear," Mrs. Dittman said. "And call me Jackie! See you soon!"

When she had gone, Pam stood for a moment, inhaling the scent of gardenia. It was like smoke, swirling around inside her head, making her feel relaxed and dreamy and warm. She put the two pots on the table (which was now looking rather crowded, if jaunty) and bent down to rest her chin on her arms, looking at them.

"Now what shall I name you?" she said. "Something exotic. Maybe Italian?" She smiled. "How about...Romeo and Juliet?"

Unsurprisingly, the plants made no answer. Still, Pam found herself smiling the rest of the day. And inhaling deeply whenever she passed through her living room. That night she slept deeply and dreamed sweet dreams of childhood laughter.

Three days later, however, she came home to find the white gardenia blossoms had turned brown and fallen to the tabletop. Anxiously, she plunged a finger into the soil of each pot, testing the soil moisture. It seemed fine. She got out her pH strip and tested the acidity of the soil--all within limits. But the leaves of the gardenia and the begonia were drooping.

Pam frowned. She was doing the best she could. Why weren't these plants thriving? She pulled up a chair, sat with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, and stared at them.

They'll tell you what they need.

"So. Tell me," she muttered. "What am I doing wrong?"

The fallen petals were dark. Dark, she thought. Dark because ... not enough light? She'd been turning the light off at night because it kept her awake. That night she left it on, and closed her bedroom door instead. It made her bedroom into a retreat, a cocoon, an incubator of dreams. She slept deeply in the dark, like a seed waiting for spring.

Three days later the gardenias had revived and were putting forth new buds. Pam felt like she'd saved a nation from death. She breathed in the friendly, warm scent: it smelled like triumph. "We did it!" she said to the gardenias. "Thanks for telling me what you needed! We're a team." She kissed Romeo, then Juliet, then the nameless orchid.

Mrs. Dittman knocked on her door that Sunday afternoon. "How was your trip?" Pam asked.

"It was fine. Oh, look how nice these gardenias are! You really have a talent for growing things, Pam!" She turned, holding out one of the pots. Juliet, Pam thought. "Would you like to keep one?"

Pam smiled. "I'd love to. Thanks!"

Mrs. Dittman left with Romeo, waving goodbye. Pam closed the door, cradling Juliet in her arms. She felt a twinge of sympathy for Juliet, separated from her lover.

Nothing lives in isolation.

She sat down slowly on her couch, looking at her apartment. Flowers were everywhere, the scents filling the room, from the green, homely smell of mint to the exotic, heady fragrance of the baby jasmine and gardenia. The fragrance marked her territory, her place. Not her parents', not Roy's, not a roommate's. It was all hers. A place where she could speak her mind, make her art, make it all hers, be herself.

Just listen, and they'll tell you what they need.

What did she need? Like the plants, she thought, she needed light and warmth and food. And more than that, she needed attention. Love. She needed love. How long would she, could she, live without it? No one was going to come and nurture her, she thought. No one would be coming by to bring her food and water, to see that she had enough light. She would have to find that sustenance for her heart on her own.

And she knew where to find it, if she would only listen. If she could only speak.

The next day she took Juliet to work. She placed the plant on her desk, carefully siting it so that it didn't block her view of the room. She bent over to smell the creamy, silken white blossom. Smiled.

Waiting for Romeo to come to work.

::END::

ROYGBIV: Yellow (Angela, Dwight) G

2007-04-10T21:30:23Z

Title: Yellow
Series: ROYGBIV
Author: neverenoughjam
Rating: G
Word Count: 2383
Characters: Angela, Dwight
Warnings: None
Summary: Angela needs a hero to help her fight her inner demons.
Author's Note: ROYGBIV is the acronym describing the colors of the spectrum: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet. This work is a series of standalone pieces linked only by their use of a certain color. None of the various "chapters" is linked to any other. I'm playing with character, mood and setting here.You can find the other colors here:

RED
ORANGE

It started when Oscar deleted the wrong file right before the deadline for submitting the sales tax figures to Corporate. Angela hated inefficiency and waste, even more so when the perpetrator was as insolent and unrepentant as Oscar Martinez. Worse, when she insisted that Oscar stay to clean up his mistake, he became surly and said he had a doctor's appointment he could not reschedule. That left her and Kevin to scramble to rebuild the spreadsheet and send it to Corporate by 6:00 PM. By the time Kevin (useless as he was) had shambled out, it was dark outside and Angela was alone in the office.

Putting on her coat, she was very aware of the shadows stealing in from the corners. She started to go into the bathroom before heading home, but when she pushed through the doors to the kitchen/bathroom area, she saw that the lights were completely out both there and in the Human Resources area beyond. For no reason at all, her heart began to beat faster. She decided she could wait until she was safe at home.

Locking up, the jingle of her keys echoed in the empty corridor outside Dunder-Mifflin. The lonely sound completely erased any lingering pride she felt at having an authorized key to the office. Waiting for the elevator, she found herself listening for the sounds of other people in the building – a distant murmur, a laugh, a footstep. She heard only the impersonal whine of machinery. As the elevator doors closed behind her, she felt the beginning of that suffocating, smothered feeling.

Deep breaths. Remember what the doctor said. Deep breaths. Relax.

Angela closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. There was nothing to worry about. There was no one lurking outside the door of the elevator, ready to pounce as soon as she stepped out. There was no one waiting around the bend in the corridor with an axe dripping with blood. No one had tampered with the elevator cables, dooming her to a long, shrieking fall to her death...

The elevator doors slid open suddenly and Angela let out a tiny shriek. She stood trembling, her eyes darting wildly, until the elevator doors began to slide shut again. Then she stuck her hand between the doors, and the bumpers tapped her wrist before sliding the doors open again. Gingerly she emerged into the corridor. Why did the building management insist on timers that turned off most of the hall lighting after 6:00? It was unsafe. She should complain to the building management.

Naturally, the parking lot was dark, cold and empty. The pink glare of the overhead lights only made it seem more lonely than it was. And of course, her car was parked on the far side. Angela was acutely aware of the click-click of her sensible heels on the asphalt.

Don't run. They'll chase you.

She forced herself to slow down. This was not a nightmare. It was not a horror movie. It was just a parking lot on a Tuesday night in Scranton. Don't get melodramatic. She heard her mother's dismissive tone echoed in her own head.

It took her forever to fumble her keys out of her purse. Her hand shook so badly she dropped them. The wind whipped her hair into her eyes, stinging and drawing tears. A car drove by slowly in the street -- too slowly, she thought. Her pulse quickened. When she finally got the door open and slid behind the wheel, her breath was coming in gasps.

Home. Have to get home. Safe at home.

She drove carefully through the dark streets. Image after image cascaded through her overheated imagination: a flat tire, a carjacker, a suicide jumping in front of her car, someone sideswiping her. Images that left her stranded in the dark, helpless. She tried to dismiss them from her mind, but it took more than will power.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want...

Usually prayer soothed her, but now, creeping along streets slick with re-freezing snowmelt, the words sounded desperate and scared. She rolled to a stop at a red light. There were no other cars around; the streets looked ominous and deserted, as if waiting for a horde of zombies or monsters to surge around a corner and surround her little car. She tightened her grip on the wheel until her knuckles were white.

Suddenly a car slid to a stop beside hers. She heard the fuzzy boom of an over-amped bass, heard male laughter from the car. Don't look at them if they see you looking they'll look back and then they'll see you. If you don't look, they can't see you please please please turn green.

Finally the light turned green and the car beside hers squealed across the intersection with an arrogant screech. The car fishtailed on ice, slid into the oncoming lane, righted itself, and sped off. Angela crept across in its wake, body tense and poised to wrestle the car should the tires swerve. But the tires held firm (Dwight had personally advised her on their purchase) and she saw the turn to her street coming up. She whimpered with relief.

Someone had taken her parking spot, even though it had her apartment number on it and a RESERVED FOR TENANTS sign near it. She noted the license plate number and decided to talk to the manager in the morning. Right now, the last thing she wanted was a confrontation with anyone. Unfortunately, the only parking space was at the end of the row, and her walk back to her apartment was long and solitary. She felt as if eyes were watching her, eyes with an evil glint in them.

By the time she reached her apartment, her panic attack was in full bloom: shortness of breath, pounding heart, tingling hands, a blackness at the end of vision. Please God, just let me get inside. She unlocked the triple locks on her apartment and swung the door open.

Her apartment was dark. Why hadn't the timer turned the lights on? Had she forgotten it? Or was someone inside, waiting for her? Angela hesitated on the threshold, wondering if she should call the police.

A shape, drifting towards her out of the dark. She tensed for flight, then saw the tail...

"Sprinkles! Oh, it's you!"

Her cat greeted her with the customary yowl for food and attention.

Relief washed over her so strongly she felt her knees go weak. Angela stepped inside and reached for the light switch. The light flared on, and her familiar apartment greeted her: soft lemon yellow walls, gold upholstery, with touches of green. Tasteful, light, refreshing.

Sprinkles wound herself around Angela's ankles, threatening to trip her, but Angela didn't mind. She carefully locked the three locks on her front door, then put the safety chain on and flipped the interior deadbolt. Finally, she propped an iron bar against the door and fitted the other end into a socket Dwight had installed in her floor despite it being a violation of her tenant's agreement.

A quick tour of her apartment proved that there were no signs of entry. The covers of the central heating vents were solidly screwed down. No one was hiding under her bed or in her closet or pantry. All the kitchen knives were accounted for.

It didn't do any good. When she finally discarded her coat and hat and sat on her bed, her breathing was as ragged as if she'd run a mile. Nausea roiled her stomach. She knew that even if she could choke down one of her clonazepam tabs, she would not be able to keep it down. She'd been here before.

Angela closed her eyes and folded her hands together. Dear God, why did this keep happening to her? It didn't matter how many times she went over and over it with her minister, prayer just didn't work when these ... spells ... came over her. And the "therapists" her doctor insisted on just didn't understand her faith, her need for God. They kept talking about cognitive therapy and drugs.

None of them understand.

"MEOW!" Sprinkles demanded food. Angela got up and went into the kitchen, mechanically opening cans and feeding the cat. Putting the can in the trash, she cut her finger on the rim of the lid. The pain didn't bother her, but at the sight of the blood on her finger, she felt clammy sweat break out all over her.

There was really only one person who could help her. She needed a hero, someone who could make her feel safe. She took out her cell phone. Her hands shook so badly she had to dial his number twice.

He answered on the second ring. "Dwight K. Schrute," he said, his enunciation clipped and no-nonsense as ever.

"Oh, D! I..." She couldn't finish.

"Monkey? Is that you?"

"D! Please. I ... I'm so scared." She felt tears clogging her throat – tears of relief at hearing his voice and tears of panic.

Was that a sound at the door? She clutched the phone.

"Monkey, are you having another anxiety attack?" Dwight's voice sounded stern yet concerned. Her heart flooded with joy hearing him.

"Yes. I ... I tried praying--"

"Okay, calm down," Dwight said firmly. "First of all, are you sitting down?"

"No."

"Do so. Acknowledge when you have done so."

Angela walked into the living room and sat down on the edge of her yellow upholstered chair. "I'm sitting down."

"Okay," Dwight said. He sounded very practical. "We'll go through the same routine as last time. No deviations. You must follow my instructions. Is that clear? Acknowledge."

Her head was pounding. "I hear you," she said faintly.

"Very well. First, are all the locks on the door secure?"

"Yes."

"Tell me. In detail."

"The three outside locks are locked. The deadbolt is shot. I have the safety chain on. And the door is braced."

"Excellent!" Dwight sounded proud. "No one can break into your apartment through the door, which is the weakest point of entry. Now, how about your windows?"

"I checked them all. Each one is locked."

"Both window locks? On all windows? Even the ones I bought at the hardware store for you?"

"Yes, Dwight."

"Did you hang the garlic on the windows?"

Angela bit her lip. "Um. No. I--"

"Angela, I've told you before that you must protect yourself against all forces of evil."

"But I don't believe in vampires, D," she said weakly.

"It doesn't matter. Even the forces of evil you don't believe in can hurt you. Now, do you remember where I left you the strings of garlic?"

"Yes," she said in a subdued voice. "In the pantry, in a plastic bag." She went to the kitchen and rummaged in the back for the bag. "I have it."

"Hang it on every window, no matter how small," Dwight said.

She didn't want to let go of Dwight's reassuring voice, so she cradled the cell phone against her shoulder. She went from window to window, hanging the small strings of garlic on nails Dwight had driven into the frames. She felt silly at first, but as she hung the last string, she felt some of the tension at the back of her neck ease. "All done," she said.

"Excellent," Dwight said. "You have checked the vent covers like I told you?"

"Yes, Dwight."

"It's time to put the music on."

The pain behind her forehead was worse. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, Angela. That music is specially selected to enhance your feelings of courage and self-protection. Put it on."

Angela stood and walked over to her small stereo. The CD Dwight had made for her was still in the disc changer. She hit POWER and then PLAY, and in a moment the Star Wars trumpet fanfare boomed through her living room. She winced and turned down the volume. She put the phone back to her ear.

"Okay," she said.

"Yes, I hear it, Angela. Very good. Now, let's get to the next step: protection from chemical attack. Do you still have the plastic tarp and the duct tape I placed on the floor of your closet?"

"I don't think I need that, not right now," Angela said faintly.

"There's not enough to cover all your doors and windows anyway," he said. "You'll have to confine yourself to your bedroom. Use the duct tape to seal both windows and the door. No, wait. You'll need to leave the door free so you can come out and open the door for me."

Angela felt her tension vanish instantly, replaced with relief so intense it was like, well, that feeling she got in ... bed ... with Dwight. "You, you're coming over?"

"Of course I am, Monkey! I was on my way home from the dojo when I got this call. I made a U-turn and now I am almost back at the dojo. I wanted to get a naginata."

"A ... a what?"

"It's a pole with a curved blade at the end. Very useful against demonic attacks, when the demon attacking has longer arms. Oh, and Angela, make sure you have some salt handy when you open the door for me. I want you to throw it over the threshold the moment I step across, so that no evil forces can follow me in."

She was so relieved that he was coming over she didn't even argue with this nonsense. She felt her breath returning to normal, felt her heart rate subsiding. She took several deep breaths.

"Angela, I have to hang up now. Will you be all right for ten minutes?"

"Yes, Dwight," she said. "I ... thank you."

"It is my duty to protect you," Dwight said fiercely. "I will not fail!" He hung up.

Angela closed the cell phone, her hands losing that shaky feeling as she did so. Her stomach growled, and she realized she had not eaten since lunch. Now for the first time since leaving the office, she felt like eating. She remembered that she had a lasagna casserole frozen in her refrigerator. There might be time to heat it up by the time Dwight arrived; he generally didn't like her vegetarian cooking but he did like her lasagna. Yes, definitely she would cook him dinner. And afterwards, there would be other ... comforts.

Because her hero deserved it.

::END::

Challenge fic: Punker (Ryan, Todd) PG-13

2007-04-01T10:50:38Z

Title: Punker
Author: neverenoughjam
Rating: PG-13 for bad language and alcohol abuse
Characters: Ryan, Packer
Word Count: 4245
Spoilers: Through "Sexual Harassment"
Summary: This is a story written in response to the hiatusathon challenge. My challenge was: "Ryan and Todd Packer - set Sexual Harassment. Where did they go? Points for non-obvious locations like strip clubs." For those who don't remember the episode, salesman Todd Packer asks Michael to delegate someone to drive him around town, since Packer's license has been yanked for DUI. Michael chooses the extremely reluctant temp, Ryan, to be Packer's chauffer. Packer being who he is, boozing, belching, and bad behavior follow.
Disclaimer: The usual denials of responsibility apply.

"Where to?" Ryan Howard clicked his seat belt and adjusted the rear view mirror on Todd Packer's red Corvette.

Packer didn't bother with the seat belt. He fiddled with the passenger seat adjustment, shoving himself all the way back. "You know where 'The Booty Call' is?"

Ryan blinked. "Uh. Strip club on North 40?"

"You got it. Ever been there?"

Ryan shifted into reverse and eased the big car out of the parking slot. "No." Ryan frowned and decided that on the whole, he would rather stay in the office. Too late now. Well at least he was away from those cameras.
He turned right and headed for Wyoming Avenue. Packer was a top salesman. Might pick up a few pointers from him. Otherwise, this is another colossal waste of time. Ryan was still embarrassed that after all these months, he still hadn't made a single sale at Dunder-Mifflin.

"So. Which of the chicks in your office is Michael banging?" Packer said.

Ryan frowned. "None of them."

Packer snorted. "Such a loser."

"It would be very unprofessional of him," Ryan said. Why am I defending Michael? Oh, right. Because this guy's a prick.

"Unprofessional?" Packer mocked. "So gay."

"Why are we going to a bar?"

"Got a customer meeting set up for 11:00," Packer said, leaning back in the seat to stare up at the sky. "Damn, I love a convertible."

"Yeah, Michael's got one, too."

"Little shit's always copying me," Packer said. Ryan didn't miss the note of pride in his voice. "Turn here."

"But we're not at --"

"Jeez, will you just turn in here?"

Ryan turned into the parking lot of a dilapidated strip mall. Packer opened the door before he'd brought the car to a stop. "Wait here," Packer said, and strode into a liquor store.

What the hell? They were going to be late. Ryan checked his watch twice.

Packer came out holding a brown paper bag. He dropped into the passenger seat, already uncapping the flask inside. "Want a hit?"

"I'm driving," Ryan said. God, he sounded like a prude, but still...

"Whatever."

Ryan shifted into reverse again and headed out. Packer drank steadily from the bottle in the bag as Ryan navigated back onto Wyoming, to Green River. Where they ran into a massive traffic jam that stopped them dead.

"What's the holdup?" Packer said.

"Train," Ryan said. A slow freight, of course. He was cursed.

"So do a U-turn and get back to Capouse," Packer said. "I know this town like the back of my hand."

"Then you know Capouse takes us right back to the freeway."

"Just go." Packer chugged from the bottle.

Ryan turned the car in a U-turn, thinking about the places the train was going, places he might never go. Stuck here in this dying town forever. He thought maybe he should get a hit of that flask, but then thought about Packer's mouth on the rim of the bottle and decided against it.

As Ryan turned onto Capouse Avenue and headed for the entrance to the freeway, Packer fiddled with the radio until he found the only country and western station in the Scranton area.

"Do you have to listen to that?" Ryan said through gritted teeth.

"What, not met-ro-sexual enough for ya?"

Just don't talk to him. That's the only way to get through this.

By the time they arrived at the strip club, they were fifteen minutes late for Packer's customer meeting. The club was on the back side of a run-down strip mall on the north side of Scranton, sandwiched between a chiropractor's office and a thrift shop. It had once been a small store of some kind, but the big display windows had been painted black. A neon sign over the door said "OP N 24 HRS"; a beefy man in a black T-shirt leaned against the entrance, arms crossed. The deep throb of an over-amped bass line pulsed from the half-open door.

"This is the place," Packer said.

Ryan parked the car next to a battered van. "You're meeting your customer here?"

"Hell, yes. Frank and I go way back. I buy him a couple of lap dances and he orders whatever I tell him to."

Not exactly the closing technique they taught in night school, but what the hell. If it works...

Ryan watched as Packer put the flask under the passenger seat and climbed unsteadily out of the car.

The scowling bouncer moved to intercept Packer as he approached the door. He put a hand on his chest, shaking his head. "You know you can't come in here, Packer."

"Bullshit," Packer said loudly. "You know that little gal Mercuri can't get enough of me."

"You're blacklisted, Packer." The big man looked as solid as a brick wall, even in front of the tall, beefy Todd Packer. "Mercuri requested it special. You won't keep your hands off the girls."

"What the hell? You can't blacklist me!"

"Don't make this ugly," the bouncer said. "Just get back in the car."

Ryan hung back, watching. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see Packer get beat up or not. While it would have been a pleasure to watch, he didn't want to have to explain something like that to Michael.

Packer turned to him, scowling. "Go in and get Furley to come out here," he said.

"But--"

"No buts! Just get in there."

The bouncer looked at Ryan, nodded and stepped aside.

Dim lights, stale beer, music that was too loud and tables that were too close together. Same old same old. Ryan remembered similar bars from his frat days. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the raised dais, the skinny pole dancer entwining herself around it, saw the haze of blue smoke hanging in the air. He was willing to bet that the smoke in this place was older than he was.

"Hi, honey!"

Ryan looked to his right and saw a redhead in black mascara wearing a tight T-shirt and cutoffs that looked more like a thong. "Hi. I'm, uh, looking for a guy."

She smiled and he saw that one of her side teeth was missing. "Wrong bar, baby. But I can find you a real nice girl if you like."

"No, really, I need to find a guy I'm supposed to be meeting. Name of Furley."

Her face went blank. "Oh. Okay." She turned her head and bellowed. "Frank! Guy here for you."

Ryan tried not to watch the girl gyrating around the pole. He heard a chair scrape in the darkness, heard sounds. Then a tall, gaunt looking man loomed out of the shadows like a shark emerging from the depths.

"Who are you?"

Ryan stuck out his hand. "Ryan Howard, Dunder-Mifflin. I'm here with Todd Packer." Too late, he remembered to smile.

Furley was sandy-haired, wearing a brown suit with a pink shirt that had mustard stains on it. His bony wrists protruded from his cuffs. He was holding a beer bottle in one hand. "Yeah? So where is he?"

"Out front. He, uh, he can't come in."

Furley snorted contemptuously. He stared at Ryan a moment longer (didn't this guy blink?) and then looked away. He lifted the bottle to his lips and finished it in one long draft. "Okay," he said. Without further ado he walked past Ryan. Ryan hurried after him.

"Furley, you son of a bitch! How ya doin'!" Packer crowed as Furley emerged from the bar ahead of Ryan. He slapped hands with the other man. "Gettin' any in there? Nah, I'm just kiddin' ya. Listen, I got a little problem with the management here, nothing serious. But we'll have to move the meeting."

Ryan watched as Furley pulled out a pack of cigarettes, selected one, lit it, taking his time. Finally he blew a cloud of blue smoke in Packer's face. "You still buying?"

"Hell, yes!" Packer's grin was wide, if lopsided.

"Tip Top Club, then."

"Great. Come on, temp."

"You're still blacklisted at every club in town," the bouncer growled behind Ryan.

This is a disaster. He'd have been better off washing Michael's car.

"Screw that," Packer said belligerently.

Furley chuckled softly. "Blacklisted? So we should go to Chili's? No way, Packer."

"I can meet with him," Ryan ventured. "If you want, you can sit in the..." He trailed off as he met Packer's blazing eyes. "Um. Yeah. Okay."

Furley looked from him to Packer. "Follow me. I know just the place." He tossed the cigarette away and strode off, heading for a black Lexus parked at the curb. Ryan scrambled to get Packer into the passenger seat and get himself behind the wheel before Furley took off. As it was, he barely had time to fall in behind Furley before the black Lexus took off at top speed.

Ryan was too busing concentrating on keeping up with the Lexus to pay much attention to where they were going. By the time the car ahead pulled over and slid into a parking spot, he was thoroughly lost. He parked the 'Vette and locked the steering wheel, looking around.

What the hell? Are we still in Scranton?

Warehouses and industrial buildings, most of them rusting and shuttered, lined the street. A couple of signs with missing letters or broken bulbs hung over deserted doorways. One neon sign was lit, although pale in the winter sunshine: The May Pole. Neon beer signs advertising Bud and Coors hung in the window below. May Pole? What kind of club was this? Ryan wondered. He followed Furley and Packer into the building reluctantly.

The bar was half full, even in the middle of a work day. Purple walls, a mirror ball, a dance floor, and a bar stretching the length of the room. And not one single woman in sight.

Oh my God. No. Oh, I don't believe this...

"Are you fucking kidding me, Frank?" Packer blinked as he looked around. "You brought me to a gay bar?"

Shut up shut up shut up, Ryan thought, stepping away from Packer. He saw heads swiveling in their direction: tattooed faces, pierced cheeks, leather everywhere. They're going to kick our asses. Or worse.

Furley smirked at Packer, his eyes half shut. "What's the matter, Packer? Afraid they'll out you?"

"It's a goddamn fairy palace," Packers said, still too loud.

"Yeah, but they're not picky," Furley said. "They let you in. Let's get a table."

Ryan tried to make himself inconspicuous as he trailed behind the other two. It wasn't that he was homophobic. But he'd never understood why gay men were so attracted to him. He caught a few looks sent his way and felt his cheeks growing cold. Maybe he could wait in the car.

Ryan decided that Furley was settling some obscure score with Packer when he picked a table right next to a party of several men in black leather and studs. Most of them had pierced noses and eyebrows; one had what looked like a carriage bolt through one ear. The blond next to the beefy older man stuck his tongue out at Ryan as he was pulling out his chair; the blond's tongue was pierced.

"Hey, sweetie," the blond said.

Ryan said nothing and sat down. Oh, man, why did Michael send him on this trip?

A waiter with half-closed eyes slouched over to take their order. He looked both bored and angry at their presence. Ryan ordered mineral water, Packer ordered shots for the table. Furley handed the waiter his credit card and smirked at Packer. "'Cause I know your credit card is redlined," he said.

"Hunh," said Packer. His face was red and now his eyes were starting to glaze over. His gaze shifted from Furley to the men at the next table and back. "So. You come here often?"

Furley shook his head. "Nope. Guy in the office was talking about it." He leaned forward. "So. About that coated magazine stock. You think you could cut me some slack on that?"

Ryan knew he should listen to the negotiations. After all, the only possible good that could come out of this day would be if he learned to close a sale. But Ryan listened in horror as Furley – who, he noticed was not actually drinking -- negotiated himself a hefty twenty percent discount off wholesale on a huge paper contract.
I should step in here, Ryan thought. This guy's gonna wipe out our quarterly profit at this rate. Not that Dunder-Mifflin actually made a quarterly profit was, but still. Todd Packer would lose big time on this deal.

And on that thought, Ryan resolved to shut up and let the guy hang himself. It wasn't like he could stop this runaway freight train anyway. He sat back and drank his water and concentrated on paying no attention to the men at the next table. By the time he'd finished his water, Todd Packer had let himself be screwed out of his commission for the next six months.

Ryan smiled slightly. He'd wondered why someone as boorish as Packer was still at the company. And now, seeing him blow this sale big time, Ryan wondered even more. And he thought he knew the answer: Michael Scott. Only Michael's confused idea of loyalty, and his conviction that this asshole was his friend, could account for Packer's continued presence at Dunder-Mifflin. Ryan stored that little insight away for future reference.

Furley signed and initialed the (much revised) purchase order and stood up, gesturing for the waiter. "Thanks, buddy. Been good doing business with ya."

Todd blinked, his expression blank. "Yeah. Alwaysh a pleashure." He hiccuped. Ryan could smell the liquor on his breath from the other side of the table. He looked up at Furley, who winked at him.

"I'll get the bill," Furley said as the waiter came up holding the check.

"Least you could do," Ryan said solemnly.

Furley grinned, which made him resemble a ferret very much. He walked away, followed by the waiter. Ryan heard a giggle from the next table but refused to look.

Packer was tipping his shot glass to see if there was any more liquor in it. There wasn't. He craned his neck, looking for the waiter.

"Let's go," Ryan said, standing. He got a hand under Packer's elbow and tugged.

"Getcher damn hands offa me," Packer growled, and jerked away. But he got heavily to his feet and lurched in the general direction of the front door. Ryan followed, digging the car keys out of his pocket.

The day had grown overcast while they were inside, which made the day appear much later than it actually was. Ryan looked around but Furley's Lexus was already gone. He got a hand under Packer's elbow and steered him away from the dumpster and towards the Corvette. As they reached it, Packer slumped over, leaning on the passenger side door.

"Hey," he said. "I think I'm --" And then he suddenly vomited on his shoes and the side of the car. "Oh, shit."

Ryan closed his eyes. He wondered if he could drive away in the Corvette and leave Packer where he was. Would anyone notice if he showed up at the office without him? Yeah, Michael would. Ryan sighed and reached around Packer to open the car door for him.

"Get in," he said wearily. "I'll drive you home." With any luck, the son of a bitch will pass out before I reach the end of the block.

Unfortunately, the fresh air apparently revived Packer. By the time Ryan had reached a part of town he recognized, Packer was sitting up and fiddling with the radio dial again. "Hey, temp. Take a left at the next light."

Figures he knows all the shortcuts, Ryan thought. He turned left, found himself on a residential street, and frowned. "Are you sure?"

Packer was bent over, rummaging for the bottle he'd stashed under the seat. "Yeah. Hang a right at the house with the three rosebushes at the corner."

"Um. Okay."

"And then left at the second stop sign."

"Yeah." What the hell? Ryan turned, turned again, and found himself deep in suburbia. Where was the highway?

"Okay, pull over in front of that house with the sycamore tree out front. Where is that bottle?"

"Pull over?"

"Just do it!"

"Is this your house?" Ryan said, pulling up to the curb. The house was a run-down brick ranch style house with an overgrown lawn, in need of a paint job. The sycamore in front was at least fifteen feet high, its branches not yet fully leafed out. "I thought you lived in an apartment."

Packer belched. "I do. Cut the engine."

"Then whose house is this?"

"Pop the trunk." Packer opened his door and more or less spilled himself into the gutter.

"What?"

Packer hauled himself up, leaning on the open car door. He turned and stared at Ryan, bleary eyed. "Open. The. Trunk."

Ryan punched the button on the dash and heard the 'Vette's trunk release. Packer hauled himself hand-over-hand along the body of the car until he reached the open trunk. "Ah," he said.

Ryan shut off the engine and climbed out. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Whose house is this? Why are we here?"

"Jus' a li'l pay...payback." Packer was rummaging in the trunk. He straightened, tearing at something in his arms.

"Look, I really think we should get back to--"

"Catch!" Packer tossed him something white.

Ryan caught it by reflex. "Toilet paper?"

Packer grinned, his arms full of rolls of white toilet paper. "Yeah. Gonna have a li'l teepee party."

"Teepee?"

Packer snorted. "Damn faggot. Di'nt you never (belch) TP some guy's house?"

"Packer, we can't just trash some stranger's house just 'cause you--"

"Not a stranger!" Packer bellowed. He swayed, but righted himself. He turned towards the big sycamore. Rolls of toilet paper dropped to the ground, but he hung onto one. "Gotta show that li'l bastard!"

"What? What are you talking about? Stop!" Ryan stepped forward, tossing his roll of toilet paper into the open trunk of the 'Vette.

Packard reared back and flung the roll of toilet paper. It hit the tree halfway to the top, bounced off a branch, and one end of the strip of paper caught on the bark. Bouncing its way down to the ground, the paper unrolled in filmy streamers.

Packer hooted. "That'll do 'er! Gimme another." He leaned forward, slapping his hands on his knees.

"No. Come on, get in the car." Ryan picked up a roll of errant toilet paper and tossed it into the trunk. "We can't do this. Whoever lives here will call the police."

Packer giggled. "Can't. He's not home! He's at wor...work." He picked up another roll of toilet paper, tossed it at the tree. He was aiming at the top of the tree but the roll hit the lower branches. It too unfurled a long streamer as it rolled back to his feet. Packer picked it up, tore off the strip, and hurled the roll back towards the tree. This time it sailed clean through the branches and landed on the porch with a thump.

"Packer, knock it off," Ryan said desperately. "I mean it."

"Gimme 'nother roll."

"No. Get in the car."

Packer hiccuped, looked surprised, and then leaned over and vomited on the lawn.

"Oh, God," Ryan said. If I kill him now, I can stuff him in the trunk of the 'Vette. No one would miss him.

Packer heaved again, coughed, straightened, and wiped his mouth. "Dammit." He picked up the last roll of toilet paper. "Bought these shpesh ... splesh ... special today."

Ryan stepped over the vomit and grabbed Packer's arm. "Come on, let's go. Furley will call the cops when he sees this."

Packer giggled and threw the toilet paper roll. "Not Furley's house!" The toilet paper roll hit the tree high on the left side, bounced to the right, and zigzagged down to the ground, leaving a crooked ribbon of paper behind it. The sycamore now looked like the target of a high school prank.

"You're just trashing some stranger's house? Get in the car!" Ryan was getting mad now. He could see himself getting arrested, maybe fired thanks to this drunken idiot.

Packer giggled. "Not a stranger!" He wove his way back to the car and leaned on it, laughing. "Michael Snot's house!"

Ryan froze in the act of closing the trunk. "Michael...this is Michael's house!?"

"His ma...his mama's," Packer hiccuped. "Hee! Li'l Mikey Snot lives with his mommy!" Packer's tone turned ugly, taunting.

"What the hell? Why did you toilet paper my boss's house?" Ryan said despairingly. "Are you trying to get me fired?"

Packer rounded on him suddenly, his face going from blearily amused to stone cold mean in the blink of an eye. "Your boss? Your boss? I'll tell you about bosses. Michael Scott ain't nobody's boss. He's a sniveling little shit is what he is, who can't sell water to a thirsty man." To Ryan's infinite relief, Packer yanked open the door and threw himself into the seat.

Ryan hastened to slide behind the wheel, glancing around again to see if any of the neighbors had decided to investigate their vandalism. "I thought Michael was your best friend," he said.

Packer sneered. "Yeah, friend. Li'l bastard done me out of my promotion, is what." As they pulled away from the curb, Packer leaned over the window of the car and flipped off the house and its festooned tree. "You hear that, you cheater! You been punked!!"

Ryan quickly retraced his route and found himself on Wyoming. He pushed down on the gas pedal, no longer caring if he got a speeding ticket. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between that house and himself.

"Sunnovabitch took my job," Packer was mumbling. "Taught Michael Scott everything he knows, and what does he do? Kisses Ed Truck's ass until he gets promoted, while I'm out busting my humps making sales!"
"I thought Michael had the highest sales figures, that was why he got promoted to Regional Manager," Ryan said. Ah, thank God, there's the exit coming up. Five minutes, and he'll be back in the office. Who'd have thought it would ever seem like a haven?

Packer snarled. "Shoulda been my promotion! Shoulda made me Regional Merger!"

"Manager," Ryan corrected automatically.

"Shut up! And take the Stenson exit."

"But we're almost--"

"No! Got a sales meeting at a --"

Ryan suddenly felt something snap inside. "Hell, no. We're going back to the office!"

"Hey, what? You --"

"I have calls to make. I can't be driving you around all day." Ryan glanced over at Packer. "And you're in no shape to be selling."

"Don't you tell me I can't--" Packer roared.

Ryan jerked the wheel hard left, slamming Packer against the door. "Back. To. The. Office." He glared at Packer.
"And if you open your mouth again, I'm telling Michael who trashed his mother's house." What the hell, I'll probably tell him anyway.

Packer glared at him but said nothing. He sat sullenly all the rest of the way.

When he pulled into the parking space at Dunder-Mifflin, Ryan jerked the keys out of the car and tossed them at Packer. Packer lunged for them, missed, and stumbled getting out of the car to pick them up. Ryan said nothing but stalked back into the building.

Complete waste of time, he thought disgustedly. He'd have been better off playing solitaire.

He heard Packer lurching along behind him but paid no attention. In the elevator, he stood on the other side of the car from Packer, not looking at him. Packer wheezed, coughed, and groped in his pockets for a breath mint. Ryan could smell it from where he stood and felt ill.

I should totally tell Michael about the toilet paper. He'll be grateful, and Packer will get a kick in the ass.

He thought about how grateful Michael would be. About how Michael would gush and giggle and tell him what beautiful eyes he had and how he was a hero. And then make an announcement to the rest of the office. Then probably try to pin some stupid medal made out of tinfoil on him. And then he'd make some joke with Packer about the toilet paper, never realizing he was the butt of Packer's venomous prank.

With a sinking feeling, Ryan realized he wasn't going to tell Michael anything. Michael would go home, or his mother would get home first (and did the man really live with his mother?), and think some kids had pranked him. Ryan wondered how many other childish tricks Packer's jealousy had led him to play on Michael.

Ryan thought about Packer shooting the finger at the house as they drove away, yelling "You been punked!" Then he thought about the purchase order in Todd Packer's pocket, the one that would demolish his sales record and erase his commission.

By the time the doors opened and he strode through the doors of Dunder-Mifflin and saw Pam's face, he was smiling to himself.

It looked to him that Packer had punked himself.

::END::

ROYGBIV: Orange (Roy) R

2007-03-27T21:38:14Z

Title: Orange
Series: ROYGBIV
Author: neverenoughjam
Rating: R
Warnings: Adult language, implied violence
Spoilers: for "Cocktails"
Characters: Roy
Word Count: 4215
Summary: Roy deals with the aftermath of Pam's confession in "Cocktails". It will probably be AU after April 5, but this is how I would like to see it work out.
Author's Note: ROYGBIV is the acronym describing the colors of the spectrum: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo and Violet. This work is a series of standalone pieces linked only by their use of a certain color. None of the various "chapters" is linked to any other. I'm playing with character, mood and setting here.

Part 1: RED
Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing these characters. I promise to put them back when I'm finished.

"'Lo?" A sleepy, annoyed voice.

"Kenny, it's Roy."

"Wha..? What the fuck, bro? It's ... three in the morning!"

"I need help, Kenny. I'm in jail."

"What? Jesus, Roy, you -- No, honey, go back to sleep. It's Roy. -- What happened? Oh, God. You didn't go after that Jim guy--"

"No. DUI again."

"But...you were fine when we left Poor Richard's!"

"I stopped at a liquor store on the way home." He rubbed his eyes with one hand, feeling sand under his eyelids. "Look, can you get down here with some bail money?"

"Uh. You know I had to lay out the jet ski money to fix the thing at Poor Richard's?"

"Yeah. I only need five hundred dollars."

"Only? Jesus, Roy...Look, let me call Dad--"

"No!" It burst out of him. Roy slid a hand over the stubble on his cheeks, looked down at his orange jail jumpsuit. "No, for God's sake don't tell Dad. It'll kill Mom."

On the other end of the phone, Kenny sighed. Roy imagined him running his hand over his head, thought about him lying in bed next to his sleeping wife. He missed sleeping next to Pam. He'd actually thought he could get that back--

"Look, I ain't got the money, bro," Kenny said. "Maybe you could call Darryl?"

"I don't want anyone at work finding out about this," Roy said.

"Time's up," said the burly deputy next to him. He reached out a hand for the receiver.

"I gotta go, Kenny," Roy said. "I need $500, bro."

"I'll see what I can do," Kenny said. He hung up.

Roy handed the phone to the deputy, who took his arm and steered him back into line. Roy hated being manhandled, but resisted the urge to jerk away. It would just get him in more trouble.

Another prisoner in an orange jumpsuit stepped forward to the phone. Roy closed his eyes, wishing his headache would go away. Wishing it all would go away, wishing he was back where he was last year, on Lake Wallenpaupack setting a date with Pam. Had Halpert been hitting on her even then? He felt the slow tide of rage rising in him and took a deep breath. Not now.

Roy heard Pam's voice in his head. He told me how he felt, and I guess I had feelings too, and we kissed. God. How could she do this to him? And Halpert...Halpert had lied. Said he'd been over his "crush" on Pam. Said it was all in the past. Said they were "just friends".

How could he have been so stupid, to believe that? His head hurt and he wished he had some aspirin.

"Let's go," the deputy called. Roy opened his eyes.

The guy on his left nudged him. "You heard him, man."

Roy turned and followed the two guys ahead of him, shuffling in his jail-issued flip-flops. He hated wearing the things anyway, and these were one size too small; they were wearing a blister between his toes. All the prisoners were wearing day-glow orange jumpsuits; his was half a size too small and chafed him under the arms and at his crotch. He wondered if any of them would swap with him, so he could get a larger size. He decided not to suggest it.

They shuffled down the gray cinder block corridor to the end, waited while a door was unlocked, went through, waited while it was locked behind them. The air smelled of sweat and Lysol and anger. Dimly he heard banging sounds up ahead, shouts and laughter. Would Kenny be able to scare up the bail money? Would he go to their parents for it? He knew Kenny and Louise didn't have that much money, what with the twins and all. Shame joined the rage chasing his headache round and round in his skull. Another locked door, another wait, and then they passed through into a large room.

Cinder block walls, a high ceiling. Windows with wire mesh embedded in the glass, high up under the ceiling, higher than a man could jump. A line of bunk beds against one wall, and three concrete picnic "tables" with benches against the other. Three metal toilets set under the windows, a sink, and a stainless steel shower (no curtain) in the corner. No privacy. Hot. And it stank. One of the toilets had overflowed. Roy felt his stomach turning. He remembered throwing up already (on his clothes, the arresting officer's shoes, and his truck's front seat), so he didn't think he actually had anything in his stomach, but he didn't want to prove himself wrong.

The door slammed behind him and he turned. It was metal, with a small window. The glass had mesh embedded in it. He saw the guard's face in it, then the face went away. He heard the thunk of locks shooting home.

The group he'd arrived with split up immediately. Roy watched as the two men who had been ahead of him joined three men on the bunks. The other two men sat down on a concrete picnic table with other men who looked like they might be gang members. That left Roy standing next to a young, heavily tattooed guy.

The young guy looked at him. "Hey." There were bruises on his face.

Roy nodded at him, dismayed--was this kid old enough to be locked up with the adults? He looked about sixteen.

"Got a smoke?" the younger man said. He'd rolled the sleeves of his orange jumpsuit up, revealing heavily tattooed forearms. "I'm gonna shit if I don't get a smoke soon."

"Sorry," Roy said.

"I'll blow you for one, if you want," the younger man said casually.

Shocked, Roy said, "No. And I don't smoke anyway."

The younger man shrugged. "Whatever." He shuffled over and sat cross-legged on the concrete floor.

Roy looked at the men on the bunks, then the men on the picnic tables. Nobody looked back, yet he could feel the hostility radiating off of them. He'd seen this kind of aggression before; it didn't have to have any kind of cause, it was just there. Angry men locked up together lashed out at any target. He didn't want to join either of the groups against the walls.

Reluctantly, he sat down on the floor next to the younger man, in the center of the big room. Someone on the bunks said something in a low voice he didn't catch, though he caught the mocking, nasty tone. Catcalls followed. Roy looked away, avoiding eye contact. He didn't want a fight. Not with these guys, anyway.

"First time?" the kid said.

"Nah, been here once before. But they put me in a smaller room."

The kid nodded, looking across the room at the bunks. "On Friday nights they like to fill this one up first."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. One of the guys from the bunks got up and used the toilet, flushed, sat down again. The sound of banging, shouting and laughter filtered in from other cells.

"Dan," the younger man said.

"What?"

"My name is Dan."

"Oh. I'm Roy."

"What are you in for?"

"DUI."

"Sucks."

"Yeah." Roy stretched his legs out, unkinking them. Sitting on the hard concrete hurt his ass. "What about you?"

"Assault."

Roy looked over at him, seeing the bloody knuckles, the scrape along one cheek, the purple bruises almost hidden under the tattoos. "What happened?"

"Guy got between me and my girl."

Roy nodded. "I get that." Boy, did he get that. "You take him out?"

Silence.

Guess not, Roy thought. Kid probably got his ass kicked. "Don't get mad, but, uh, how old are you?"

Dan looked at him for the first time. His shock of black hair stood up in spikes all over his head, and his pale skin contrasted with the swollen left eye, blue as summer skies. "I'm nineteen. Why?"

"No reason. You don't look your age."

"You a chicken hawk?"

Roy scowled. "No," he said shortly.

Dan shrugged. "Whatever. A lot of guys in here roll that way, especially for a younger guy."

"You...let them...?"

Dan laughed shortly, a bitter sound. He waved a hand at the mutually antagonistic groups on either side of the room. "Let them? How do you think I buy protection? These guys would chew me up and spit me out."

It dawned on Roy that, by sitting down with Dan, he'd inadvertently told the room that he was Dan's 'protector'. Which meant they thought that he and Dan... He felt his face go hot. "Hey, I didn't say anything about--"

"Don't get your panties in a twist," Dan said wearily. "I ain't hittin' on you."

"Damn right you're not!" Roy said.

Dan nodded to the men ranged around the room. "Don't yell at me. Tell it to them."

Great, Roy thought. As if he didn't have enough troubles. Last time he'd been arrested, they'd put him in a smaller room, with three other guys. This gay thing hadn't even come up. He didn't like it. He didn't need this.

"Shit," he muttered, putting his face in his hands.

"Don't do that," Dan hissed.

Roy jerked his head up. "What?"

"Don't cry. That's like blood in the water."

"I'm not crying."

"Oh. Well, it looked like you were. Bad idea."

"Well, I'm not."

"Don't even let them think--"

"I said I'm not crying," Roy said loudly. Kid was working his last nerve.

"And keep it down! You don't want to attract attention."

"Shut up," Roy said. "I don't want to hear any more of this."

"Just trying to help, man." Dan stared at his bare feet, picking his toenails in silence.

Where the hell was Kenny?

Roy sat with his knees drawn up, forearms on his knees, chin on his arms. His headache began to fade, but his stomach was growling with hunger. He replayed the scene in Poor Richard's over and over; Pam telling him I guess I had feelings too and we kissed. She guessed she had feelings for Jim Halpert? How long had she had them? What had those two been doing behind his back? He burned, thinking of Pammy in Halpert's arms, of him kissing her, doing more.

He squeezed his hands together, trying to shut out those pictures in his head. A distraction—he needed a distraction. "Uh. Look, I didn't mean to be rude just now. I was just...it's been a hell of a night."

Dan looked up at him. The swelling around his eye was so bad Roy winced. "You hit anyone? With your car?"

"Nah. Ran off the road into a ditch. Cop was on my ass, busted me right away."

"They might let you go with a fine, then. Where's your car now?"

"Cop said he was towing my truck."

Dan nodded. "Good. Sometimes they leave it, you come back the next day it's gone. What kind of truck?"

"2006 Dodge Ram."

Another nod. "Good wheels."

"Yeah. What about you?"

"Saving up for one. My bud's got an '03 Silverado he'll let me have cheap."

"V6 or V8?"

"It's got the V8. And the new electrical system. Good ride." Dan sighed. "I wanted to take Cynthia -- my girl -- away in it."

"She getting bail for you?" Roy asked.

Dan shrugged. "I doubt it. Her boyfriend -- the guy who clocked me -- keeps her on a tight leash."

Her boyfriend? Wait a minute. "She's with someone else?"

"They been together a long time. But she wants out, and he won't let her go, so..." Dan shrugged.

Roy scowled. "You mean they were going together and you broke them up?" He was feeling a lot less sympathy for Dan than he had been a few moments ago.

"Nah, it's not like that, man. She wants out. She doesn't want him any more. But he won't let her go. I mean, what is she, his fucking property? So I drove over to help her move out, take her to her mom's, you know? And he comes home early and starts whaling on me."

"Did she tell him she wanted out?"

"Yeah. He wasn't listening." Dan looked at him with dull eyes. "You know what? I didn't give a shit about her boyfriend. I was all about what she wanted, hey?"

That stopped Roy cold. "She..."

"She wants out, man. She wants me, not him. And he can't let go of that. So fucking pathetic."

"Still, if she wanted out, why not get out? Why cheat on her guy with you?"

"She tried. He hit her and brought her back. Far as I care, he wasn't her guy."

The hell he wasn't. "Did she make him a promise?" Roy said, his voice thickening with anger.

"Yeah. And then she met me. It happens," the boy said strongly. He looked Roy in the eye, unafraid. "Hey, they weren't married. Look, man, she can't help how she feels. Neither can I. It is what it is, you know? And her boyfriend getting pissed about it isn't going to make any difference."

"Still—"

"What is she supposed to do? Stay with a guy she doesn't love? Marry him? Have kids? That ain't right. No way that's right."

"Then she should be up front with the guy."

Dan let out a bitter chuckle. "She's afraid of him. Afraid he'll hurt her."

"So cheating works better?" Roy could hear the anger in his voice, saw the men on either side of the room turning to look at them. He didn't care.

"What the hell is it to you?" Dan sounded annoyed.

Roy opened his mouth for an angry retort. And heard It is what it is.

Suddenly the anger turned bitter, turned sour, turned into fear. It shocked through him like a cold shower. He sighed, collapsing in on himself, subsiding. He stared at his feet in the worn flip-flops. A low chuckle sounded from the wall at his left; he ignored it.

"What's up?" Dan said, frowning.

And suddenly it was just too much to carry by himself any more. Roy had always been a team player, always relied on the guys or his family or, or Pam to help him carry the weight of his own emotions. And now he was on his own and he couldn't do it. It was all too much to carry alone. He glanced over at Dan. The boy was looking at his hands, twisted together. Broken, chewed nails.

Strangely, the thought came to him. This guy understands.

"I .. I think my girlfriend was cheating on me," Roy said in a low voice. It was the most painful thing he'd ever said to a stranger. Shame flooded through him, but he refused to back away.

"Yeah?"

Roy drew in a long, shaky breath. "Yeah. We ... we work at the same company, and there was this guy, a salesman. Long story. Anyway, we were gonna get married, me and Pam. Then, a month before the big day, she calls it off."

"Harsh."

"Yeah, and this was back in May, you know? May, for crissakes."

"She didn't tell you about this other guy?"

"Not a word. Until tonight, after I bust my ass for months trying to get her back, she goes and tells me she and this other guy..." Roy couldn't finish for the rage choking his throat.

"So you beat the shit out of him." Dan flipped his feet up and down, watching the sandals flap against the concrete.

"Not yet. That's the plan," Roy growled.

"And you think that's gonna make her leave him and come back to you?"

"No, the thing is, they're not together. In fact, the guy--his name is Jim--he's dating some other woman completely."

"No shit?" Dan looked skeptical. "That doesn't make sense. If they're not hooked up, why'd she tell you what she did?"

Roy shrugged. "No idea."

Dan pursed his lips, looking away. "Women."

"Yeah."

Dan cracked his knuckles, winced. "So. What are you gonna do now?"

"Kill the bastard."

"Well, yeah. Like you said. But I mean, do you want her back?"

"I--." Roy stopped. Did he want Pam back? "I don't know."

Dan shook his head. "Man, some chick ditches me, I wouldn't want her wandering ass back. Not after what, ten months?"

Roy looked over at him. "You got into a fight over your girl."

"She didn't ditch me and then lay shit like that on me ten months later."

"You think your girl wants this other guy? Is that why she hasn't left him?"

Dan stared at the wall morosely. "I don't know."

"You still want her?"

Dan was silent so long Roy figured he wasn't going to answer, then he said, very softly. "Yeah."

"How many times has this guy beat you up?" Roy asked.

Dan shrugged, his thin shoulders rising and falling under the orange jumpsuit. "Few times."

"And you keep going back for her."

"Yeah."

Roy looked at his hands, slowly formed them into fists. "Even if he keeps messing you up like he has?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

The boy looked at him out of smouldering eyes. "'Cause I love her. Duh. I ain't gonna quit on that."

Roy thought he was like that. He wasn't going to quit on Pam. But she's already quit on me, he thought. Twice.

The door behind them clanged open. All heads turned to see who was coming in. One of the deputies, the bald one, came through and gestured at Roy. Relief flooded through him as he stood.

"Looks like your bail money came," Dan said.

Roy looked at him, still sitting hunched on the floor. He looked over at the two groups of hostile prisoners, looking from him to the boy. He realized that the boy would be alone in here if he left.

"Hey, you gonna be okay?" Roy asked.

"Let's go, Anderson," the deputy called.

"I'll be okay." Dan looked away, squaring his shoulders. Roy saw another bruise on his arm, peeking out from under the rolled up sleeve.

He walked over to the deputy. "My brother's here?"

"Yeah, let's go."

"Can I, uh, can I post bail for that guy?" He nodded toward the younger man.

The deputy looked from Roy to Dan and back again. Roy felt himself growing hot at the cynical look but said nothing. He told himself it didn't matter what this guard thought.

"Depends. We'll see." He nodded at the door and Roy went through. He waited while the guard locked the cell again.

"That guy, Dan..." Roy said.

"He your boyfriend now?" The guard smirked at him.

Roy felt his hands curving into fists and forced them to relax. "Those guys are gonna mess him up," he said.

The guard shrugged. "We'll keep an eye on him."

Helpless, Roy followed the guard down the hall, through several doors, until they arrived in a room with tables and chairs and a guy sitting behind a desk with a computer. Kenny stood up as Roy came in.

"Hey, bro."

The guard motioned at Roy, and he sat down at a table with Kenny. At another table, a large Hispanic woman spoke rapid Spanish to a man in an orange jumpsuit. She was crying.

"Kenny. You got the money?"

Kenny nodded, looking unhappy. "Look, Louise and me, we don't have that kind of money."

"I know," Roy said. "But you didn't have to go to Dad, did you?"

His brother shook his head slowly. "Look, you aren't gonna like this, but it was all I could think of."

"What did you do? You ... you didn't talk to ... you didn't go to Pam, did you?" Roy felt his breath come short. God, anything but that.

"No. I ... I let them put a lien on your truck."

Roy's jaw clenched. He'd just made the last payment on that truck. "Is it ... is it enough?"

Kenny nodded. "Yeah. But if they give you a fine and you can't pay it, you'll lose the truck."

Roy looked down at his hands, wondering if this night could get any worse. First Pam hits him with that bad, bad news. Then he gets drunk and winds up in the tank, and now he might lose the truck. And tomorrow he'd get hit with another fine for DUI. Damn.

And then he thought of a thin-faced young man sitting hunched in the middle of a cold room, surrounded by hostile stares. A boy--no, a man--who loved a girl who belonged to someone else. Who'd suffered for her and would suffer again. And something curiously compassionate stirred in Roy Anderson.

He remembered Dan saying, She wants me, not him. And he can't let go of that.

He cleared his throat. "Uh, Kenny, how much of a lien did you get?"

Kenny scratched his head. "Anything up to a couple thousand."

"There's a guy I met. Inside. He, uh, he shouldn't be in there. I'd like to help him out."

Kenny looked at him blankly. "Roy? You barely got the money for this. And then there's the fine. What are you doing?"

"Guy needs a break," Roy said roughly. "He'll pay me back." Well, maybe he would and maybe he wouldn't. Roy didn't want to examine this idea too closely.

"Do you even know this guy? Is he running some kind of jailhouse con on you?"

Roy shrugged. "I don't care. Just find out if we can bail him out."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"What's his name?" Kenny stood, frowning.

"Dan. He's in for assault."

"That's all you know?"

"Yeah." Roy balled his fists, willing himself not to feel like an idiot.

"I'll see." Kenny shuffled over to the man behind the desk with the computer. He sat down and started a conversation in low tones.

Roy sat and looked at his hands. He thought about smashing Jim Halpert's face with them. That's what he'd been thinking when he left Poor Richard's, when he stopped in at the liquor store. But now ... now he saw Pam's face when she told him I guess I had feelings too, and we kissed.

She'd waited ten months to tell him. Why? Was she afraid of him? What kind of guy was he, that his own Pammy was afraid of him? Was this the guy he wanted to be?

He remembered the sound of her voice when she said I had feelings too. It didn't really matter what Halpert felt for Pam. With a sinking feeling, a feeling of finality, Roy Anderson realized that it was over. It no longer had anything to do with Jim Halpert. It had to do with Pam.

She wants me, not him. And he can't let go of that.

Roy opened his hands, palm up, and looked at them. Calloused, big, muscular. Sure, he could take Jim Halpert apart like a cheap toy. And Pam still wouldn't want him, Roy. She wasn't his any more. He wasn't hers, either.

Roy felt the burning in his eyes that said he might be close to tears. And he absolutely was not going to do that here, not here.

Kenny sat down across from him and pushed a piece of paper across the table at him. "That's the lien. Sign it and we'll be out of here."

Roy picked up the pen. "What about Dan?"

"They're doing the paperwork now. Roy, you sure about this? I mean, you don't even know this guy."

Yeah, Roy thought. He didn't know Dan. But he and Dan understood something in common, even if they understood it from opposite sides of the fence. In some ways, Dan understood him better than Kenny.

He signed the paper. Kenny took it away.

He wondered if it was smart, helping this guy Dan steal another man's girl. Then he remembered Dan saying She doesn't want him any more. But he won't let her go.

Yeah, he knew how that went. He looked at his hands again. He made slow fists, released them, clenched his hands again.

She'd said, I guess I had feelings too. Which meant, she didn't have feelings for him any more. And his fists wouldn't change her mind.

Roy opened his hands. Maybe it was time to let go.

::END::