I do not own the Office, Jim, Mark, or any of them. Anyway, this fic does contain slash, Jim and his roommate, Mark. From the Email Surveillance episode, in case y'all were wondering. Also lots of mentions of Jam (if that entices you). Anyway, enjoy!
He's never lived alone.
His mom likes to nag him about it when she comes to visit. She says that He is almost thirty, for goodness sake, and it's about time he found a nice girl and settled down.
Well, he's alone now. And he sure as hell is not enjoying it.
Corporate is paying for a hotel for him while he tries to find something more permanent, but god knows how long that will last.
And the girl, Michael informed him earlier today, is engaged to some guy she's known since high school.
His eyes hurt when he turns on the light and sees himself in the mirror, because it's stupid to be more-than-half in love with a girl he's known for a week. He doesn't think he believes in love at first sight or broken hearts, but the face in the mirror disagrees.
The mini-bar is enticing, but he is not going to let himself be that pathetic.
Instead he pulls out today's Scranton Times and flips to the classified section.
His hands are wet and ink smears across his palm. Half a column is gone, obliterated by his thumbs and his fingertips and the lines of his palm. Maybe one of those could have been a place for him to stay, or even a home, in the end.
At the bottom of the page is one more ad: Seeking roommate, $350/month, Call for details.
He knows if he doesn't do something he'll end up in bed before seven with a massive headache and he won't even bother to shut the blinds. He loves her because she can do this to him, or in spite of it (is there a difference?).
When he dials, a man picks up, and it's refreshingly normal. It doesn't sound like wedding plans or Lord of the Rings or improv.
"I'm calling about the ad," he says.
"Great," says the voice. "I'm Mark. You wanna come by later and check the place out?"
He looks out the window and sees Scranton crawling by below and thinks about becoming part of it.
She's part of it.
Not really, he thinks.
"Sure," he says.
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After he moves in, he spends his evenings telling Mark how much it doesn't hurt, and later, how much it does.
"I mean, I'm not in love with her or anything," he begins, and finishes with, "I mean, anyone would be; she's amazing."
He has work friends and he has other friends, and then he has Mark, who he's known all of two weeks and isn't really his friend yet (when he knew Pam this long he was already in love).
So, anyway, Mark turns on the Seinfeld he TiVoed and pops popcorn for both of them. "It'll work out, buddy," he says.
Jim doesn't even bother trying to focus on the show.
"Yeah," he says. "Maybe."
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They go out drinking when it's still icy and slick outside. Jim imagines building a fire and barricading himself in and watching the world melt.
Instead he's at Poor Richard's with Mark and Mark's girlfriend Monica and some girl he thinks he might be supposed to be on a date with. She's pretty: she has smooth black hair and her face is illuminated by the bar lights so he can pretend she is who she isn't.
By the end of the night the buzz in the back of his head is loud enough to drown out Pam and love and engaged, so he kisses her, and she smiles and doesn't stop him.
Her eyes are bright, questions peering out of her face to ask him things. Are you brave enough to do this? she is asking him. He's not brave, or he wouldn't even be with her now, but he's stupid and that's enough.
He knows he's drunk when he tries to get out of the car at her house. She smiles and the curve of her lips is an invitation to stop waiting and pours the ache in his bones (from disuse) in to her, and see if she broke.
Mark laughs a little and grabs his shoulder while he's still fumbling for the handle. "You don't want to do this, buddy; you're drunk," he says.
Buddy, Buddy, Buddy.
Maybe he doesn't want to do this, but he wants something and whatever it is it's sure taking its time coming.
Jim turns and feels sad, suddenly, and maybe that's the alcohol too. "Pam doesn't like drunk people," he says.
Mark smiles at him a little in the dark, but he can't see that (or the accompanying sadness). "She likes you, though," he says. "Monica, could you just take us home?"
Jim is asleep in the back seat before they turn the next corner.
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This is the routine:
Mark gets home before Jim, so he picks out where they'll get their food (Chinese, Thai, Mexican: they think of themselves as connoisseurs of the finest world cuisine).
Usually Jim is there before the food, so most evenings they turn on ESPN or the TiVoed episodes of shows that Jim won't admit to anyone, anyone that he watches (except for Pam, but she's more than anybody).
Mark usually falls asleep before the second commercial break, and Jim usually wakes him up. Only after he's set out the plates, and divvied everything up so they both get their favorites (he likes the crabrangoons, Mark likes the lo mein.)
Jim goes to bed before Mark and he hears the hum of the TV or of Mark and Monica's voices and he feels like he's a kid again, listening to the voices of his parents late at night to prove the house was still alive.
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He doesn't need to say anything when he gets home after Casino Night. He just walks in and (oh God, he's not crying, is he) collapses against the door and (was the floor always this unsteady) takes the beer Mark offers him and—
He's already drunk and heartbroken and maybe dead but he gets drunker and less heartbroken as the night wears on and it seems like a fair trade-off (he's still maybe dead).
He makes Mark get drunk, too, because it's no fun being drunk alone, and together they belt out an affirmation of their manhood and neither of them bothers to point out the fact that Jim spends more of his time drunk over Pam then he does sober.
"I kissed her," he tells Mark around one in the morning. "You know? Like this," and he's drunk enough to stumble forward and press his lips to Mark's and Mark is drunk enough to clutch at his hair when he does it.
Jim laughs and stumbles to the ground. Mark falls down beside him. "Who needs her?" Mark asks. "She just makes you sad."
That's true, but he loves the holes she makes in his heart and he's used to being sad.
Mark kisses him anyway.
There is no music in the background, nothing like that. He doesn't suddenly realize that he was hiding his true feelings and neither of them have startling confessions of love to make.
Mark is his friend, and it isn't enough (no one but her ever will be), but it's a release, and he hasn't felt skin on his since before he can remember. He's sober enough to know who this is and that he will regret it later, but drunk enough not to care.
This isn't love. Because it's dark in the living room where they are and he can still see Mark from the florescent kitchen light and the carpet is rough on his chest and something that hurts this much cannot be love.
His love for her is falling out of the pores of his skin and streaming down from his eyes like tears and by the time it's morning and he falls asleep with Mark in Mark's bed he is empty and that hurts much less.
XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX
"Shit."
His head is throbbing, and there's too much sun in the room. Mark is up, tugging on a pair of jeans.
He starts to say something and ends before he begins.
"Yeah," Mark says grimly. "It's four. Monica and I are going to the movies at five."
He sits up in bed and is at a total loss as to what the protocol for this situation is. What do you say when you've drunkenly slept with your roommate after being shot down by your best friend? Did they need to talk?
Yeah. Probably.
"Hey, Mark," he says. "I mean—"
"Later," Mark says, and glances at him briefly so Jim can see that he means it.
Jim slides out of the unfamiliar bed and turns bright red when he realizes he isn't wearing anything. He starts to fumble around for something on the floor but it's pointless, anyway (this obviously isn't the first time Mark's seen him this way).
Besides, it's faster to just leave. He can look, later.
He pulls the blankets around him like a suit of armor and stumbles through the door, a Knight of the Round Table with a sword through his chest.
XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX
Australia is being alone again, a nameless tourist in a city of millions.
Pam follows him, and he sees her on the other end of the phone and in a wedding dress and with paint on her fingers.
He went scuba diving, and wondered what it would be like if he didn't actually come up.
That's when he knows for sure he's going to leave.
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Mark picks up on the first ring. "Jim!" he says. "I haven't heard from you in ages."
Jim likes that they both pretend there isn't a reason for that. It's easier.
"Look," he says. "I'm moving. To Stanford. I got a new job, and I'm all set up in an apartment. Could you send me my stuff? I'll send you money."
There is silence on the Scranton side of the line, and then Mark says, "I was really worried when you didn't come back after your trip. Why didn't you return my calls?"
Jim wants to laugh at that, but says, "Pam got married. I couldn't face her. I drove to Stanford."
Mark wants to be near Jim so he can comfort him and maybe comfort himself a little bit, too. Instead he says, "Man, that's tough," and concentrates on Monica and doesn't think about kissing this man who has become his best friend. "I'll send it up as soon as I can," he says.
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He's alone again in Stanford. Karen starts to creep into his life: her hairbrush by his sink, her car keys on his counter.
He kisses her to know that she is there. She proves his existence, which is something he hasn't been at all sure about this year (or since he met her, actually).
She tastes like nothing in his mouth, and feels like nothing on his skin.
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When he finds out about the merge, he doesn't even feel shock. Just a sense that he was falling headlong into a black hole, resigned to the inevitable.
He packs his thing up for the second time in six months and drives down to Scranton to look for a place.
He finds himself in his old neighborhood, by his old house, and sees Mark's car in the driveway. He pulls out his cell phone and dials a familiar number. Mark doesn't pick up till the third ring.
"It's Jim," he says by way of greeting.
He can hear Mark smiling through the phone. "Hey, Buddy," he says, and Jim hears Monica in the background.
"Listen," he says. I'm moving back to Scranton, and I was wondering—are you still looking for a roommate?"
There is uncertainty in Mark's voice as he answers. "Monica wanted to move in together," he says, and Jim aches for the loss of the familiarity that he hasn't had the chance to miss yet.
"Okay," he says. "Just thought I'd check."
There is a pause, and then Mark says. "I think I'd like a roommate," and "When can you come by?"
Jim is grinning as he turns the last corner. "Now," he says.
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