A/N: the title is taken from Aqualung's song of the same name.
You've been sitting at this bar so long now that the first hour has blended into the fifth, the first drink has blended into the . . . ah, who gives a shit . . . and moving the glass to your lips and slurping your next mouthful of scotch has become something like a feat of dexterity. And you're stupidly proud of managing this as only the truly inebriated could be; and your world has shrunk to this bar, this glass, and the process of drinking yourself to a place where you don't have to remember that you're in love with a woman who doesn't even seem to much like you anymore.
"You okay, Dr. Sloan?" You try to focus on Joe long enough to work out what he's saying, narrowing your eyes and leaning back slightly to get a better look.
"'S fine," you say. "I'm fine." And you raise your glass, well, sort of lurch more than raise, and half the contents spills on your hand and Joe raises his eyebrows at you and smiles tolerantly. He's a good guy. "I'm fine," you say again. Because, like always, it's easier to lie.
Now that you have his attention, it seems like a good idea to order another drink, so you drain the one in your hand and grin at him, or you try to anyway, indicating your glass.
"Are you sure that's—"
"Please, Joe," you growl and as you hear your own voice it sounds so pathetic it's disturbing, but he pours you one and you take it gratefully. He really is a good guy.
"You're a good guy, Joe," you slur.
"Well, I try," he says pleasantly. "Let me know when you want a cab, okay?"
A cab? Cabs imply destinations, having someplace to go. You had that once. You had it a day ago; this morning even. Or you thought you did. 28 more days. 28 days until mind blowing . . . until you were loved. You could've waited 28 days; you'd already waited a lifetime.
Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. You're "Mark." Which is apparently something less than human and automatically makes you not worth loving; not worth giving a chance to; less than some first year wrestler with a second-tier M.D. who can't even fetch coffee; less than a preoccupied, self-absorbed husband who leaves and shacks up with a fantasy; and not even worth the consideration of saying "I don't want you."
You sigh, and the alcoholic lethargy that's running through your veins mingles with the deadened resignation in your heart, and you wish you could lie down on the floor right here, give in to the stupor, and go to sleep. Joe wouldn't like that, though, you reason. And Joe's a good guy and you don't want to piss him off. You have to have somewhere you can go apart from the hospital.
Being "Mark" has its perks, you guess. Sometimes, it makes you good for sex—if nothing better's available—and it's always made clear that you're very good for sex. It's just that you wanted to be good for something else as well, and all the slutty bravado that let you smirk and joke and fuck for hours knowing that her mind was somewhere else has evaporated.
"I loved you," you breathe. And when the guy three barstools down from you shoots you a slightly worried glance, you realize you just said this out loud. Still, who cares? You have no fucking dignity left anyway; you pledged your soul and got replaced by an intern in an on-call room.
"I hope he was good, Add."
And you know perfectly well you say this out loud, but it's so slurred nobody would understand you in any case. Ironic really, since nobody seems to understand you when you're sober and have control of your diction, either. Well, nobody that matters.
You drain the freshened scotch. What started out as burning liquid at the beginning of the evening is now devoid of taste, sensation, or any immediate effects at all; but that very fact reassures you that it's doing its job of numbing your brain into comforting insensibility.
And here's Joe again. "Dr. Sloan." He's doing that patient, bartender thing that's always reminded you of bedside manner. Which is kind of funny, if you think about it—you're dying inside and nothing can be done for you except administer palliative booze. "Don't you think it's about time you went home? It would be my pleasure to call you a cab."
You squint at him. "Home? Never had one. 'S a nice concept though. Got any suggestions?"
"I meant—"
"You're a good guy, Joe." You try to clasp his arm but gravity is against you and you half slump on the bar.
"Yeah, I believe I got that." He pats your arm. "I'm calling you a cab."
You shrug. "Okay." You're compliant. You've learned to be. You don't have any better ideas anyway. But, here's the thing.
You loved one person with your whole heart. You never wanted to; it just happened. You fell in love with her without restraint, self-protection, or any fucking common sense. You would have done anything for her. And when she didn't want you, there was only one thing left to do for her to show your love. And that was lie. It made her happy. It maintained the status quo. You're a manwhore. You're easy. You can't keep it in your pants, and you couldn't hold out. You have no loyalty or strength or endurance. You don't know how to love. It's a well-known fact. Obviously, you broke the bet. It's who you are.
You're "Mark." And it was easier to lie.