A/N: It has been a long time since I've had a craving to write a little JAM, but the anticipation has gotten to me. I couldn't help but wonder what it might be for Jim and Pam a couple of months down the road. This is just a little something that has been flitting around in my head. I hope that you like it.

Disclaimer: I own no part of this show or its characters. If I did, surely I would have been charged with neglect by now.


Swell. It's a funny word; a throwback that you never hear anyone use in conversation anymore. It's too bad, really. Swell is a perfectly swell word.

It used to be the word. Just watch any old black and white movie from the 30's or 40's and you'll hear it all of the time. Saucy dames with shining platinum blonde hair poofed up over their arched eyebrows and little hats with those net things perched on top of their heads. Fellas in striped suits leaning in to light those ubiquitous cigarettes, which – let's face it – still look damn cool in black and white. That's swell. I think you're swell. I had a swell time.

I catch Pam watching those old movies in the wee small hours of the morning. She looks so beautiful in the flickering light of the television - drowsy and rumpled, warm and content, snuggled up with a blanket over her legs and that tiny, fuzzy head tucked into the curve of her arm. Mine. Those two beautiful people are all mine. Just the sight of them like that is enough to make a fella's heart swell with pride.

It's not perfect. Sometimes, we're so exhausted that we can barely do more than breathe. Sometimes, we're so annoyed with each other that we can't remember how we got here in the first place. Sometimes, it all feels so overwhelming that I'm sure that we're both going to be crushed under the weight of it all. And then, I look at her and she looks at me, and we look at the tiny miracle that we have made together, and everything is just - well, swell.

At the moment, it's dark out, but the sky is beginning to lighten from black to indigo. The house is still, but the low hum of the furnace reminds me that spring has not quite sprung yet. Soft, snuffling breaths that echo from the monitor at our bedside remind me that we are not alone, but for the first time in weeks our now nearly-eleven-pound bundle of joy is sleeping in the crib, and not in the middle of our bed.

I roll onto my side, and curl up against her. Just because I can. There in the pre-dawn darkness, I can't help but wonder at how perfectly our bodies fit together when we're horizontal. My knees find the soft skin at the back of hers, my chest presses into the curve of her spine, the plush, rounded curve of her bottom nestles just where I like it most, and she smells sweet. Shampoo and baby wash battle for supremacy, nearly masking the tantalizingly faint aroma of milk and the comforting scent of Pam. Nearly, but not quite.

I sigh and my breath stirs her tangled curls with a force that seems as strong as a gale in the quiet house. I feel myself harden, but close my eyes in an effort to ward off the impulse; knowing that if I can just hold on for a moment everything will subside, and I can just slide back to sleep with her in my arms. That's all I want. After all, that's all I really need.

Without a word, she shifts against me and I open my eyes. I know that she's awake. She moves again, and I know that she knows that I know that she's awake. I hold my breath and wait for her to speak, but the words never come. Instead, I feel her reach back, her hand resting warm and slightly sleep dampened on the leg of my pajama pants. For a moment, I panic. Closing my eyes, I try to chase away the fleeting thoughts of that awkward night a couple of weeks before. It never occurred to either of us that we'd be scared. I don't want to have to be the one to admit that I'm still scared.

Pam covers my hand with hers, moving it slowly from the safety of her thigh. Trapped beneath her soft palm, I force myself to relax as she guides my hand under the stretched thin t-shirt that was once mine and now will forever be hers. Her stomach is warm and soft, and I don't think that I could have stopped my fingers from caressing that tender skin if my life depended on it. She presses back against me again, and suddenly all is right with the world.

My fingertips graze the swell of her breast, and I hear her hum deep and low in her throat. They're full, taut, and ripe; but for the time being they are no longer mine. I force myself to steer clear, and the tiny moan that escapes her lips fills me with a flood of relief. She misses me too.

My lips are buried in her hair as I nuzzle my way through the billowing curls in a single minded quest to taste her skin. My mouth is on her neck, and I feel a ripple of anticipation flutter down her spine. Her hand deserts mine, and she wriggles away from me. For a moment I am bereft.

I feel the mattress shift as she wriggles her legs, and then settles back against me. The heat of her bare bottom almost sears the thin cotton of my pajamas, and my heart begins to hammer. Her hand reclaims mine, and those thin, capable fingers guide my palm over the now disturbingly flat curve of her belly. My fingertips tangle in the soft, damp curls at the juncture of her legs. Leaving me there, her hand finds my hip, her fingers curling into the fabric of my pants to tug impatiently. I wet my lips, torn by the desire to shuck the damn things and press myself against her and the enticing heat I feel blooming against my fingertips each time I stroke her. Pam lifts her leg over mine, opening herself to me as she plants her foot on the mattress behind my knees.

"Pam," I whispered hoarsely.


This fella is no fool. Somehow, I managed to push those stupid pajama pants down just far enough, but no matter what she said, there was no way in hell I could shush my groan. Suddenly, all bets were off. I was touching her everywhere; stroking her silky thigh, teasing the wet heat between her legs, gently kneading her stomach, and tracing the line of her hip. I rolled back, pulling her on top of me as I worshipped her with my fingertips. Unable to stop myself, I snaked my arm under her and reclaimed the swell of her breast.

This time, there were no tiny gasps of discomfort or muttered grunts of apology. This time, our bodies fit together just as they always had, just as they were meant to.

We didn't talk. There was no need for whispered words of direction, encouragement, or even love. A slow, seductive dance instinctively remembered. For that moment, we were no longer subject to the demands of our tiny dictator across the hall. It was just me and Pam. Pam and me.

Opalescent grey-blue light peeked through the curtains as she curled onto her side, her muscles lax and languid as I curled around her. I felt her sigh before I heard it, echoing it as I buried my nose in her hair.

"That was nice," she whispered drowsily.

I couldn't help but smile. Nice wasn't the word I had in mind. Kissing her cotton-clad shoulder, I inhaled the mingled scent of fabric softener and Pam, perfectly content.

"Swell," I concurred with a whole-hearted sigh.