Don't sue me for copyright infringement; any that you find is unintended, plus I have no money to give you anyway.

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SMILE

Pam woke once during the night, and couldn't remember where she was.

This would happen all the time when she was a girl: she'd be sleeping over at a friend's house, and she'd wake in the night and have no idea where she was, and it would be completely dark and the bed would be unfamiliar, the room full of strange noises and smells and with windows in odd places, letting in moonlight that just didn't look the same, somehow, as the moonlight coming through the dormer windows of her friendly little bedroom at home.

And when she was very very young, she'd always end up crying because she was scared and her mom would end up having to come and get her in the middle of the night. Her first sleepover had ended that way; her mom liked to tell the story at family gatherings, how seven-year-old Pam had woken up her entire friend's family with her crying and demanded that she be taken home, and how she'd had to sleep with a nightlight for years afterward, just so she could see where she was when she woke up.

It hadn't happened in many years, but it was happening tonight: Pam had absolutely no idea where she was sleeping. For the past four years, she had woken up in the same bedroom in the same apartment, in the same secondhand queen-sized bed with the dove-grey sheets and the streetlight shining just outside the window, its light peeking around the outside of the shades so she could always see where she was, even in the dead of night. Only occasionally had she visited back home to sleep in her childhood bed, with the old orange nightlight keeping watch in the corner and the door to the hall open halfway.

This place was not either of those places. Even the crickets chirping outside the window and the occasional cars passing the house didn't sound right. She wasn't home, and she couldn't for the life of her remember why she would be anywhere else. And she wondered if she'd cry again.

Then he grunted softly beside her, and it all came flooding back: the aimless drive across town, the sweaty afternoon nap, the pizza, the tearful confession outside in her car. She was at Jim's. She could feel her face flushing in the dark as she turned her head slowly, slowly…oh God. Her head was resting on his shoulder. Just like that time she'd fallen asleep on him in the conference room, only this was a thousand times worse.

His shoulder was warm and comfortable. His head was thrown back and he was snoring softly and she could just feel the feather-kiss of his breath blowing a few strands of her air around her ear. She was surrounded by his scent again. She didn't want to move.

But, she had to go to the bathroom. So she lifted her head an inch, and he snorted and shifted his limbs and one of his arms brushed against her side through the comforter, and she sucked in her breath and eased out of the bed.

The floor was cool under her bare feet. She watched to see if he'd wake up, but he only turned his face away from where she'd been and moaned under his breath.

Not tired, she thought. Who was he kidding?

She crept down the hall to the bathroom, clutching the tails of his shirt around her upper legs even though she knew his roommate wasn't home. She didn't turn on the light in the bathroom: another habit from childhood. The bright light had always hurt her eyes when she flipped it on after walking in near-complete darkness, so she left it off and felt her way around the room until her eyes adjusted.

Some things were easier in the dark.

On the way out she caught sight of her own dim reflection in the mirror over the sink, just a silhouette against the light blue shower curtain, and she couldn't help staring. His shirt was bright white and the first two buttons were open, and the skin of her face and neck was almost as pale as the cloth. Her face looked like a ghost's; her eyes were two round shadows. She stared at herself in the dark: at the cloud of bushy hair, the sallow cheeks and the tight line of a mouth.

What am I doing?

She stared at her reflection for a few more seconds, and then, to her own complete astonishment, felt the corners of her mouth tugging upward. A laugh bubbled its way up her throat and nearly exploded out of her mouth; she put her hand up just in time, and the giggle escaped as a muffled snort. She caught her own shadowy eyes in the mirror, and more giggles fought their way up from her chest and shook her as they escaped, silently, into the darkness. Her knees gave out and she sat down, hard, on the edge of the tub.

Pammy has the giggles. It was her Mom, and she was a little girl again, staring at her Mom across the breakfast table, covering her mouth with both hands and trying like mad to keep the laughter in. I see you, her Mom would say, smiling at her and pointing. I see you laughing. It was a losing battle; it always had been. Pam took her hand away from her mouth and suffered through the giggles for a few minutes, the laughter escaping through her nose. It would sound like she was crying, she realized, to anyone who happened to hear her. But she couldn't stop.

Finally the laughter subsided. She wiped at her eyes with the rolled-up sleeves of the shirt; there were more tears on her face than she'd expected. She stood up and caught her own eye in the mirror, and surprised herself again by sticking her tongue out at her sober-looking reflection. I saw you laughing.

She opened the door and lurched out into the dark hallway, grinning, steadying herself against the wall. The walls up here on the second floor were strangely bare, like the two young men who shared the house wanted to keep up the illusion that they were still in a dorm, that this was still only temporary. If she lived here, she'd want some pictures, at least, maybe even her own work, or some family photos, even, just something to brighten up…

In her absence, he'd turned over onto his left side, away from where she would have been, and half-curled his legs into a long comma shape. His feet almost reached the end of the mattress. He'd pillowed his head in the crook of his left elbow; his right arm was splayed out in front of him, dangling off the edge of the bed.

She tiptoed across to the bed and, being careful not to touch him, tugged the corner of the comforter out from underneath his knees. Feeling slightly absurd, she spread half of the blanket over his sleeping form--Well, he must be cold--trying to ignore the way his eyes looked when they were closed in the dreamy half-light. She had to fight back another attack of the giggles as she tucked the blanket around him; she stood there with both hands over her mouth and watched the blanket rise and fall with his steady, deep breaths, and tried to get control over herself for a long time.

Then, not really thinking about what she was doing--or so she told herself--she crawled under the blanket next to him, took a deep breath, and lay her head back onto the pillow.

Perfect.

…………………..

In the morning, she could barely remember getting up hours before, but she did remember that she had put the blanket over both of them. She remembered because he'd turned over again in the night, and was now lying on his right side, facing her, with one arm draped over her midsection and his face inches away from hers in the depression between the two pillows.

It was disturbing on several levels. For one thing, his hand on her belly: the long fingers splayed in every direction. Every. Direction. His hand was warm through the thin material of the shirt. Really. Warm.

For another: his breath on her cheek. She could feel the warmth when he exhaled, the cold vacuum when he inhaled. It was just…odd. And good.

Odd, to be looking at him from such a short distance, to be able to move her head to the side and study she curve of his mouth, how even in his sleep, his lips twitched as though he wanted to smile. She could lean in and kiss him, if she wanted.

Good, to be able to see just how long his lashes were against his cheeks, to be able to count the faint, almost-not-there freckles on his nose. If she wanted, she could…

He needed a haircut. An unruly strand of hair had fallen into one eye, just touching the soft skin of his eyelid. She drew her hand from underneath the blanket and, as if in slow motion, as if watching herself from far away, caught the strand of hair between two fingers and smoothed it back up over his forehead, her fingertips just grazing his skin.

Then his eyes were open. In the daytime they were a dark green/hazel, but right now they were softer, almost grey. It seemed to take Jim, too, a minute to remember where he was, and with whom: first, his eyes widened, then he blinked several times in succession, and finally they softened with recognition. His mouth tried to pull up into a smile as he drew his hand away from her, but immediately his cheeks stiffened, suppressing it. He was trying to hold back, trying not to be happy. She could see it.

Neither of them spoke, and the silence stretched out longer and longer. The sunlight seeped into the dim room from behind the shades. The birds sang.

And then: "Hey," he said. His voice was low and bleary with sleep. His movements mirrored her own as he reached up and slowly, slowly brushed a strand of hair away from her face, his fingers lingering and brushing her cheek and the tip of her ear as he pulled away.

"Hi," she said. Her own voice sounded thin and much too far away.

He stretched his legs under the blanket, extending them out past the end of the bed, allowing his knee to brush against hers. His eyes closed and he rubbed them with the flat of his palms. "How'd you sleep?"

"Fine." She couldn't look away from him.

"Mmmm." He dropped his head into the crook of his elbow and watched her, and his eyes were burning her but she couldn't look away.

"How about you?" she asked.

"What?"

"How did you sleep?" She poked a finger teasingly into his chest, and she saw his hand move up to grab her hand and hold it to his chest, but he stopped himself from touching her at the last second, diverting the movement and scratching his cheek. She wasn't fooled.

"I didn't sleep," he said. "I told you, I wasn't tired."

She grinned at him. "I beg to differ." She leaned closer, not really thinking, his body so warm, their eyes locked together. "I saw you." A small laugh escaped her.

He smiled back, a touch of confusion wrinkling his brow. "Did not."

"Did so." She was so, so close to him. She could almost feel his heart beating through the space between them. She could almost feel it when he took a breath.

"Liar," he breathed.

It was too much. She was kissing him, just a gentle touch of her lips to his. It was such a small thing, really, she reasoned. Such a small space between them, such a thin line to cross. It was so easy.

And then: the flood gates opened, and their mouths opened and the tip of his tongue was brushing her lower lip, and suddenly every inch, every inch of their bodies was touching underneath the blanket. He was so warm. He was breathing into her ear. Someone, somewhere, was murmuring his name, with a voice that sounded dim and weak. "Jim," just "Jim." Somewhere, he was kissing her. Somewhere in the universe, his arms were around her and he was pulling her closer, closer even though it wasn't possible to be closer because they were already touching, everywhere there was to touch.

Somewhere, his hands were in her hair and on her back and rubbing up and down the outside of her thigh and just everywhere. Everywhere.

Somehow, he was pulling back. His eyes were closed tight and he was breathing heavily and she was sure she could feel his heart pounding. Somehow, he was looking at her, his eyes locked with hers and filled with love and longing and sadness.

"What are you doing?" he whispered.

"What I want." She said it without hesitation, her voice now clear and strong.

He just stared at her. He took a shaky breath and said, looking away, "This is what you want."

She pressed her fingertips to his cheek and made him look back at her, nodding. "Yes."

This time he couldn't resist; he reached up and took her hand and pressed it to his face. He was kissing her palm and the inside of her wrist and she'd never, never…He was kissing her mouth again, she wasn't sure how it had happened this time and she didn't care either because she'd never…not ever…

And then he was pulling away, and it was all she could do not to groan with disappointment. He still had hold of her hand, and when the feeling came back into her fingertips she noticed that his palms were sweating and his breathing was shaky. He was still holding back, still trying to keep himself from being happy.

He took a deep breath and looked back into her eyes, and he was so, so sad. "Why do I find that hard to believe?"

She blinked at him, stung, and the small smile that had been curling her lips faded. "I don't know." Her voice was trembling. "Why do you?"

He looked away, up at the ceiling. Then he rolled onto his back and let go of her hand and covered his face with his palms. He was pressing his fingers into his forehead so hard that his knuckles were white. His voice was muffled when he said, "Because just last night you were telling me that you were still in love with Roy."

"Roy," she echoed. Remember him, Pam? The one who never asks you what you want, not even when it comes to…

"Yeah," said Jim, and his voice was low and bitter. "Remember him?"

"Yeah," she said sharply, propping herself up on her elbow. "And I also remember what I said last night."

"Yeah, so do I." He was close to tears; it was in his voice.

"I said I love him. And I do."

"And you don't have to keep saying it," he spat, pushing himself up to a sitting position and swinging his legs off the bed, so he was facing away from her. He buried his hands in his face again. "Don't you know what it--"

"Would you let me finish?" She practically shouted it. He must have heard the tears in her voice, too, because he turned to look at her, frowning. His eyes were red and damp and still, heartbreakingly, carried a trace of hope. She took a shuddering breath. "I love him, I care about him and I'd really rather not hurt him if I can help it. But…" She looked down, suddenly shy for some inexplicable reason. "I'm not in love with him. Not any more. Not…not for a long time now."

"What?"

She looked up; he hadn't moved, but his mouth was hanging open. "You said it yourself," she continued. "He left me alone. After everything that happened, after the last few days, after…what I told you about…" She looked down again. "He left."

"But…that's not…what about the…the--"

"There's not going to be any wedding." The blue pillowcase beneath her elbow suddenly became fascinating to her: all the tiny interlocking threads, crossing and weaving until her eye couldn't follow them. She stared at the pillowcase, kneaded it with her fingers.

"When did you decide this?" He was barely speaking aloud, as if he had no breath left to use.

"Few hours ago." She didn't look at him.

"While you were sleeping?" His voice was cracking again. "Pam…"

"No, I was awake."

She heard him take a long breath; her eyes caught movement and she saw that he, too, was plucking at the bedspread beneath him. His long fingers ran over the fabric, looking for a loose thread, as he said, "Wow. So what are you…I mean, are you, I mean, what do you want…"

His voice trailed off and she trained her eyes on his hand as she reached out, slowly, deliberately, and took it. Held it. What do I want? When was the last time someone had asked her that? She laced her fingers into his and her heart beat in her throat as she let her eyes rise from his hand to his arm to his shoulder to his throat to his mouth. To his eyes.

She looked into his eyes without blinking. Just looked at him.

And his mouth curled into a smile, a full smile for the first time in days, and it lit up his face in the way that she loved, and it was mischievous and warm and knowing and loving and just Jim. And she loved it.

And after that:

He kind of fell down on top of her with no preamble, and was kissing the breath out of her before she could say anything, and she felt his warm weight on her, and decided it was all she'd ever need. And he wasn't holding back now, not at all, not with any part of him, and she'd never, never…

The buttons were breaking off of his white work shirt and they were both laughing as the sleeve ripped a little when she flung it away, and then she was tugging at his shorts.

And…

She was letting out a long, long breath into his ear as they both lay almost motionless. Almost.

Then she was taking a sharp breath in. A pause, and she was biting down hard on her lower lip, hard enough to taste blood, as she let the breath out in a soft moan.

"I love you," she whispered with the last of her breath.

He pulled back, and his brow was furrowed and his lips were quivering, and his eyes were drinking her in like he couldn't get enough of just seeing her and his hands were tangled in her hair. "Say it again," he breathed.

And she had to pause to take another quick, sharp breath, and she closed her eyes as she let the breath out in one shuddering word: "…Jim." She opened her eyes and clutched at his shoulders, neck, hair. "I'm in love with you."

And after that, there were no more words.

And sometime in the hour or so that followed, she thought to herself for the very last time, What am I doing?

She smiled as she answered, What I want.

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A/N: So…do I continue? Or do I shut up now? It's up to y'all. I heart reviews, good and bad; they encourage me to update more quickly. Hint, hint. ;)