Jim sits on a bench outside, staring.

The shrubs across the asphalt are a blur behind the replay of his day so far. Actually, just Michael's Welcome to the Jungle cover on Jim's desk, and Dwight's air guitar backup, over and over. Jim lifts his sandwich, remembering Michael's knees on his blotter, his hips bucking at Jim's eye level. He winces and gets mustard on his chin.

"Whoa."

He tries to smear the mustard off before looking up. The bearded guy grinning down at him works here, too; that's what his shirt says, anyway, and as bizarre as Jim's day has been, at least he can wear his own clothes. Unlike-

"Roy," the guy says, sticking out his hand.

"Jim," he says, taking it. Two pumps. Meaty, but dry.

Roy's hands settle on his hips, one finger tapping. "Rough day?" he chuckles.

"Yeah, I, uh, just started in the office," Jim says, pointing at the logo on Roy's shirt.

"Okay," Roy says, then, "Oh! With that Michael guy, right?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah!" Roy nods, laughing, and drops onto the bench beside Jim. It rocks a little. "Man, Michael. I don't get up there much, but Darryl - my boss? - says he's a nutcase."

"Yeah." Jim thinks that may be just the tip of the insanity.

Roy leans forward. "What'd he do this time?" There's a challenge there to top whatever story Darryl told last, but the eyes are friendly - blue - and Jim doesn't even have to make up anything.

"I got a private Guns'N'Roses concert."

Roy's eyes are wide.

"On my desk."

Roy stares. "Serious?"

When Jim nods, Roy's head drops into his hands.

"Spit, sweat, the works. He really rocked it out." Jim squints. "I almost threw my panties."

Roy's chuckle is low. "Ho, shit." His knee bounces sideways, bumping Jim's. An unconscious thing, but the contact spurs Jim on.

"Must've been the reunion tour, too, ‘cause Dwight was doing Slash-"

The laughter stops. "Ugh. Dwight." Roy sits back and shakes his head. " ‘At guy's a tool."

"But apparently The Top Salesman At The Branch For Eleven Consecutive Quarters." When Roy frowns, Jim explains, "That's how he introduced himself."

"Tool."

The change of mood makes Jim uncomfortable. He fights the urge to smooth it over, and loses.

"Nice day, though, huh?"

Nice day? What am I, his fucking bank teller?

But Roy looks at the sky, nodding. "Cold'll be here soon enough."

"Yeah." Jim holds up his sandwich. "Thought I'd get outta the office while I could..."

"Oh, sure!" Roy says, looking concerned. "Sorry, man, didn't mean to interrupt your lunch-"

"No, you didn't-"

"Nah, that's okay." Roy stands, wiping clean hands on clean pants. "Hey, uh, you like pool? Or beer?"

"Sure," Jim laughs.

"Yeah, who doesn't like beer, right? Stupid." Roy shakes his head. "Anyway, the guys're goin' to Poor Richard's after work. You know... let off some steam..."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, so, you know, if you wanna come..."

"Um, sure. Yeah." Jim nods. "Poor Richard's."

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay. See you there."

"Yeah, man." He watches Roy as he walks away, recognizes the easy stride of an athlete. He thinks Roy's sport probably involved pads and a helmet. When he turns back to the shrubs, the Michael/Dwight loop is punctuated by a low laugh and the ghost of pressure on the side of his knee. Out of curiosity, he tries to rock the bench. He can't; it's bolted down.

He finishes his sandwich, then goes inside to Mapquest Poor Richard's.

* * *

Roy makes him repeat the story for Darryl and Nick. When he's finished, Nick's hunched over his beer, coughing. Darryl looks at Jim. "Really?"

"Really."

Darryl shakes his head. "Dude's crazy."

Roy grins, pointing at Darryl with his beer. "Can you imagine him air-humpin' your desk, pullin' the phone cord back and forth between his legs-"

Darryl's hand are up, his eyes screwed shut. "Stop, stop! Shit's nasty, man."

Roy cackles and throws an arm around Jim's shoulders. "This guy lived it!" One big hand squeezes Jim's arm and stays there.

Darryl fills Jim's beer. "You're gonna need this. To forget." He looks at Roy. "Table's open."

"Cool." Roy slips away from his bar stool and follows Darryl to the pool table.

Jim drinks and tries to forget how his bicep had jumped at Roy's touch, and how his arm feels a bit cold now. When Nick mentions Roy's girlfriend, away at college, it barely registers.

* * *

Jim's well on his way to taking Dwight's Twelfth Consecutive Quarter when Roy seeks him out.

"Surprised to see you up here."

"I know," Roy says, checking for Michael. "Hey, we're gonna play hockey Saturday, and we need another guy. You in?"

"Sure." It's not Jim's strongest sport, but every kid in northeastern Pennsylvania spends his winters on ice, so he can hold his own. "Where? The rink?"

"Nah, the real thing, man. Nick's got a pond on his property, so..."

"Oh, cool..."

"Yeah, so you want directions?"

Friday night, Jim digs his skates out of the closet. The tongues are curled and one of the laces breaks when he pulls it tight. He replaces it with one from a hiking boot (also at the back of the closet) and walks around his bedroom to get used to the feel of the blades again. Mark catches him looking in his full-length mirror.

"Ready for the ball, Snow White?"

"Shut up. And it's Cinderella, asshole."

Mark walks away laughing. "Whatever, Tinker Bell."

Jim leaves early Saturday, too early, and sits outside Nick's place in his car, waiting. The cold drives him out of it, though, and he's been making ovals around the pond for twenty minutes when Roy's truck pulls up the drive. It's followed by a couple guys Jim's met, but whose names are hazy. Mike and Frank? Good enough.

Nick brings the goals from the garage, and they set up the teams. After Darryl, Nick, and Frank split off, Mike offers to play goal for Roy and Jim.

"All right, Halpert, it's you and me. Ready?"

"I think I have too many teeth."

Roy laughs, then frowns. "Hey!"

Jim chuckles and smacks him on the ass with his stick on the way to the center.

To Jim's relief, he does hold his own. The passing, the strokes, the stops, all come back, and he feels ten years old again. Except when Roy pulls him aside to strategize, and Roy's breath is something Jim can swallow, his voice low in Jim's ear, and Jim remembers seventeen.

They rotate at the half, and Jim takes over the goal. He's really too tall, and cracks his knees on the ice several times because none of them are wearing guards, but he's doing better than he expected when Frank's stick takes him by surprise. The impact knocks him backward and when he hits the ice, he feels the chip on his tongue. He pulls his glove off, checks his front teeth, and groans.

"Shit."

Roy's kneeling over him by then. "Lemme see."

Jim fishes out the chip and spits blood onto the ice. When he bares his teeth again, Roy nods.

"Yup. He gotcha."

Later, over beer and aspirin, they toast Jim's busted hockey cherry, flashing five mouths of unbroken teeth.

"Fuck off," he says, grinning, and they cheer.

Before he goes to bed, Jim finds the chip again in his pocket, and pads into the kitchen with it. It's just a sliver, really, shiny on one side, and he decides it isn't worth taking to a dentist. He remembers something from high school chemistry class then, and puts the sliver of tooth on a plate. He roots around in the cabinets until he finds what he's looking for. He pours the vinegar onto the plate, then leans against the counter, watching the tiny bubbles form and pop. He remembers then the way Roy had run the tip of his tongue over his own front teeth as Jim lay on the ice.

He adds vinegar until the chip dissolves completely.

* * *

By the time Roy shows up, the Christmas party is in full swing. Which is to say: Michael has smacked Jim's ass two times, Toby has given up trying to keep the punch un-punchy, and Angela is camped out in a corner, scowling at Packer.

"Hey, man."

Jim turns at Roy's hand on his back. "Hey."

"How's it goin'?"

"I've been sexually harassed twice."

"The blonde?" Roy asks hopefully.

"The brunet," Jim says, pointing to Michael.

"Yikes. Well, hey, we, uh... we got our own thing goin' on upstairs."

Jim frowns. "Third floor?"

Roy grins. "Roof."

"I'll get my coat."

He follows Roy up the ladder and through the hatch. The roof is L-shaped and covered with snow. A shoveled path leads to a cleared area in the center, where Darryl and Nick are standing over a portable grill. The smell of burgers and brats meets Jim as he approaches. Roy reaches into the snow and hands him a Rolling Rock. The chill of the first gulp makes him shiver.

"Didn't know you could get up here."

Roy looks at Darryl. "We don't very often. Special occasions."

Darryl nods. "Company functions."

Jim salutes with his bottle. "Smart man."

Darryl looks at Roy. "Nobody saw you, right?"

"Nah, man, we're cool. Those done yet?"

Nick shines a flashlight on the grill. "Yup. Grab some rolls."

They sit in lawn chairs and eat till they're stuffed, kicking around words and snow as green bottles pile up at their feet. Eventually, they hear the office staff in the parking lot below, and when it's quiet again, Darryl sighs.

"Coast is clear. I'm headin'." He stands, as does Nick.

Roy looks up. "You out, Nick?"

Nick makes an excuse involving a wife or girlfriend or old lady, and offers to store the grill.

Roy waves him off. "We'll get it, man. Get on home to your ball ‘n' chain." He makes a few whip-cracking sounds as the guys leave, then turns to Jim. " ‘Nother beer?"

"Sure."

"Grab me one, too, will ya?"

Jim snorts. "So lazy." But he gets up and hands Roy a beer. "I gotta pee."

When he comes back, Roy stands. "My turn." He walks over to where Jim has been. "What the fuck, dude?"

"What?"

"Did you write your name?"

Jim shrugs. "Gotta do something, standing there."

Roy chuckles. "I guess."

Jim takes a sip of a new beer and sneaks a glance at Roy. He's staring at the hillside beyond the business park. His shoulders look broader because his hands are in front of him. When he bends his knees a bit and bounces, Jim turns away.

"Nothin' like pissin' under the stars," Roy says as he settles into the chair next to Jim's. He stretches his legs out.

Jim uncrosses his legs at the knee and recrosses them at the ankle.

"Damn, Halpert, what size shoe you wear?"

"Fourteen."

"Fourteen. Lucky ladies."

"Right."

Roy looks at him sideways. "Oh, come on, you probably got somethin' lined up this weekend?"

"Nope."

"No?"

"Nope."

"Huh. I figured you had it goin' on, pretty guy like you." Roy puts his hands behind his head. "Hell, I'd do ya."

Jim smirks to cover the flip in his gut. "Great, thanks."

"What? You could do worse!"

"Really?"

"Hey, I'm a catch. Steady job... nice ass..."

"Keen decorating sense," Jim says, pointing out the beer bottles littered around.

"See? Total package."

Jim shakes his head. "Too bad you're taken."

"Yeah," Roy laughs, then, "Yeah. Actually, I should probably be headin' out. Told Pam I'd call her."

Jim cracks an imaginary whip.

"Yeah, yeah. Get the chairs, will ya?"

Roy dumps the coals from the grill into the snow. Jim folds the chairs and leans them against a vent, then follows Roy down the ladder again. He's close behind Roy going down the stairwell, so when Roy stops suddenly on the second landing, Jim runs into him.

"Sorry, man, what-"

Roy looks back at him and points at the corner. Jim peeks around him. Todd Packer's passed out against the wall. He's snoring, drool slipping from his open mouth.

"Pretty."

Roy frowns. "Do we leave him here?"

Jim shrugs. "I dunno." He takes a step forward. "Packer."

Nothing.

"Packer."

Still nothing. Jim pushes his toe into Packer's gut. Packer snorts and comes to enough to mumble something about sugar. Jim cocks his chin at Roy. "Let's try to get him to his car."

He weighs more than they expect, and they drop him once, but eventually they're standing with Packer's arms draped over their shoulders, their arms crossed behind his back. He doesn't help much, and as they stagger down two flights of steps, Jim grabs Roy's coat more than once to keep from overbalancing. They navigate the snowy parking lot with a few slips, due mostly to Packer making passes at Roy. By the time they reach his car, though, he's passed out again. Jim tries the driver's door. Locked. They look at each other, then down at Packer's slacks. Each pats a front pocket gingerly. The rattle is on Jim's side.

Roy chuckles softly. "Sucks to be you."

Jim's hand is balls-deep in Todd Packer's front pocket, fingers curling around the keys, when Packer comes to again. He stares at the movement in his slacks, then his head bobs up to look up at Jim.

"Whathefuck, Halpert? Fag..."

Jim yanks the keys out. "Fuck off, Packer." He squints at the keys, takes a guess and opens the door. They dump Packer into the driver's seat. He droops sideways over the gearshift, so Roy lifts his legs into the car. Jim tosses the keys in and closes the door.

"Think he'll freeze in there?" Roy asks as they walk toward their own vehicles.

Jim crosses his fingers like he's making a wish.

Roy shakes his head. "Jackass tried to kiss me."

Jim shrugs. "You are the total package."

Roy smirks. "Whatever. See ya Monday?"

"Yeah, man, see ya."

Jim waits till Roy pulls away, then gets out and pulls a blanket from his trunk. He walks back to Packer's car and checks to make sure he's still out before opening the door and arranging the blanket over him. He closes the door quietly and walks back to his car, stopping once to compare his shoeprint to Roy's.

He drives home with the window down.

* * *

Two weeks later, Jim finds an excuse to go to the warehouse. When he opens the door, he's greeted by the high-pitched roar of an industrial ShopVac. He finds Roy on the forklift. When Roy sees him, he turns it off and hops down. "Hey!" he shouts.

"Hey," Jim yells back, "do you-"

Roy holds up a hand to stop him. He pulls an orange rubber plug from one ear, then steps close, averting his face and putting a hand on Jim's shoulder. He gestures for Jim to try again. Jim stares at the curls behind Roy's ear, the curve of his neck where it disappears under his thermal shirt.

"Do you know how to rewire an electrical outlet?"

Roy leans in to Jim's ear. "Yeah, sure. Why?"

"Do you think you could talk me through it over the phone?"

Roy leans back and looks at him a moment. He says something that Jim can hear just fine. Jim points to his ear anyway. Roy leans in until his breath puffs against Jim's neck. "Do you want me to just show you here?"

Jim shakes his head, thinking fast. "Nah. I gotta get back upstairs. ‘Sides, I don't know what kinda wiring to expect in my place."

Roy nods. "Okay, sure. You have my number?"

"Yeah, I think so." Jim's had it programmed since October.

"Cool. I should be home after six."

"Great. Thanks, man."

"Sure." Roy squeezes his shoulder, then steps away and replaces the orange plug. He waves and nods.

At 6:10, Jim forces himself to eat some soup. At 6:20, he's washed his bowl and spoon. By 6:25, he feels like a twelve-year-old girl. He watches a rerun of something, his knee jittering up and down, until the laugh track starts sounding like a flushing toilet. He jumps up at 6:52 and goes to where he's arranged a screwdriver (standard) and the new replacement hardware (three-prong, grounded) on the floor below an outlet in his room. He dials.

"Anderson."

"Hey, it's Jim."

"Hey, man. So... rewiring, huh?"

"Yeah, I need a grounded plug for my computer."

"Okay, well, you got your new outlet?"

"Yup."

"Screwdriver?"

"Yup."

"Have you flipped the breaker?"

"What? Oh. No... uh, wait a sec. Where would that be?"

Roy chuckles. "I dunno, man. Do you have a garage?"

"No."

"Laundry room?"

"No."

"Great place."

"Yeah, it's nice for a shoebox... wait, here it is. It's in with the water heater. Shit. Nothing's labeled."

"Better throw ‘em all."

"Okay, lemme grab a flashlight. What're you up to?"

"Watchin' the Flyers."

"Winning?" He finds a penlight in a drawer.

"Gettin' their asses kicked. You follow ‘em?"

"A little." Each breaker switch gives a hard little thunk as he throws it.

"Well, they're hurtin' tonight. Makin' stupid mistakes."

Jim runs upstairs again, the penlight's LED bouncing on the carpet ahead of him. "Okay," he says, sitting down before the outlet. "Ready."

Roy begins, and Jim manages to hold the penlight in his mouth, the cell phone between his ear and shoulder.

"Okay, unscrew the old outlet."

Jim does, and it pops out of the wall. "Okay..."

"Now pull it out and unwind the wires from the points on the back. You'll probably have to loosen some screws. AH! So close!"

"Good shot?" The penlight's making him drool a little and his jaw aches.

"Not good enough. See the ground wire?" Roy asks.

Jim can't, sitting up. He stretches out on his side to get closer, and in the shift, drops the penlight. He reaches for it in the dark just as Roy begs the Flyers to score. His voice is an urgent growl and it's right there in Jim's room, in his ear. He hesitates, then abandons the light and rolls over onto his back.

"Found it yet?" Roy asks.

Jim closes his eyes for no good reason. "It's green, right?" he asks. More high school science. "Green for ground..." His thumb rubs his hipbone.

"Sometimes. Not always. Oh! Nice block!"

Jim swallows hard. "Hey, uh, gimme some play-by-play while I look." It's weak, he knows, but he hopes Roy'll bite. He does.

As Roy catches him up on the game so far, Jim flicks open the buttons on his fly, and lays a hand on his boxers. He's already half-hard. He rubs the fabric, pressing first up, then back down, agreeing with Roy about the dumbassness of a player he's never heard of. He's getting there, so he tries to spit into his hand without making noise, and mostly succeeds, because Roy just asks him about the ground wire again (yup, found it) and tells him where to attach it, then goes back to commentating. His voice is low and a little rough and Jim reaches into his shorts to pull his dick to life with skates and thermals and white teeth on the backs of his eyelids. He re-wets his hand a few times, and when Roy's voice becomes loud and excited for a few minutes, Jim pumps hard. He's close, so close, and Roy's yelling in his ear, and Jim's breath is starting to get a little gaspy, but Roy's loud, so he keeps going. He can't stop anyway because his balls are starting to feel tight and god he's hard and fuck here it comes and he clenches his jaw and unnhh. He comes on his t-shirt, his knees pressed together, his chin raised to his chest. He milks it, holding his breath, and then lets his head drop to the floor. He remembers, barely, to move the phone from his mouth before he breathes out again in a whoosh. When he does, he realizes there's no voice on the other end of the line. His eyes open, searching the dark ceiling. He can hear faint sounds of the game, but Roy's no longer interpreting. Jim's pulse beats in his nose and lips. He clears his throat.

"Hey... you there?"

Roy hangs up.

Jim's frozen for a moment before he realizes one sticky hand is still wrapped around his limp dick. He pulls it away and wipes it on his shirt, where it only gets stickier.

Fuck.

He stuffs himself back into his shorts. He walks down the hall and washes his hands in the dark. When he gets back to his room, he finds and connects the ground wire, then the other two, then pushes it all back in place and fixes the faceplate to the wall again.

When he flips the breakers back on, the hum of the appliances does nothing to calm him.

* * *

Jim goes in early the next day to avoid running into Roy. At lunch, he eats in the alcove of an empty office down the hall. Dwight objects when he wants to stay later than usual, but Michael cheers his initiative and steers Dwight bodily from the office.

At six, Jim figures he's clear, and heads downstairs. The elevator doors open to reveal Roy leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed. He steps forward, into the elevator, and punches 3. He stands, hands on his hips, watching the numbers light and dim. When the door opens, Roy gestures for Jim to exit, so he steps out, half-hoping Roy will leave him there. Instead, Roy grabs Jim's coat lapel and pushes him backward until he hits the wall. Roy lets go, but doesn't back off.

"What the fuck, Halpert?"

Jim stares at the blue eyes, mind racing to explain away the previous night, but Roy doesn't wait for the lie. He raises a finger and points at Jim.

"I'm not a queer."

"I know that."

"Well, what did you expect? This?" Roy grabs Jim's face in his hands and mashes his mouth on Jim's.

Roy's thumbs are pressing on Jim's sinuses, and he can feel Roy's teeth behind his lips. It's horrible. Jim wrenches his head sideways, pushing hard on Roy's chest. Roy stumbles backward, and when Jim looks over at him, Roy's eyes are still angry, but his brows are knit with confusion. Jim stalks to the stairwell door.

"I'm not," Roy says.

"I get it," Jim throws back, pushing through the door, taking the steps two at a time.

The next morning, he looks around the office, finds the person who least reminds him of Roy, and turns on the charm.

* * *

It's like penance, he tells himself when she closes her front door on their fifth date and he's still on the landing outside.

At the end of the first date, he squeezed Angela's hands and thanked her. She said that he was welcome. Which meant, of course, that he absolutely wasn't.

Second date: he raised her hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles. She blushed in spite of herself, and thanked him.

Third date: he kissed her cheek and heard her breath catch as he whispered his thanks in her ear.

Fourth date: he kissed her softly, chastely, on the lips. She made a distracted hm sound as she backed blindly into her apartment.

This time she kisses him back. Then locks him out, again.

Penance. At this rate, he may see a bra strap around July 4th.

They're very discreet at work - no different than before, actually. They speak only when his sales and her accounting intersect. Only once does it come up, when Michael asks Jim what he's giving up for Lent, and Jim, joking, says, "Dating." She skitters into the outer hall, and he finds her sniffling in the stairwell. He apologizes for hurting her feelings, and she apologizes for being unprofessional. He chuckles, and holds her close until, like one of her cats, she wriggles away from him and back to her desk.

* * *

He sees Roy now and then - parking lot, break room, Poor Richard's - and keeps the conversation short and manly: fantasy football (until the Pro Bowl), then tournament brackets (through March), then spring training. They begin to regain last year's ease.

The evening Angela closes her door for the seventh time, Jim's choosing magazine pages and lubricants when his own doorbell rings. He waits, but it rings again, so he pads down the stairs. He opens the door to find Roy, head down, hands in his pockets.

"Hey, man, what's up?"

"Hey," Roy says looking up. He looks tired. "Wanna get a beer or something?"

"Um... sure." Jim steps back. "Come on in. I need to get my shoes."

Roy steps in and closes the door behind him as Jim jogs upstairs. He stows the wackadex and grabs his shoes. Roy turns as Jim walks into the living room.

"You have Madden?" he asks, pointing to the game case by the TV.

"Yeah, got the new one at Christmas."

Roy nods. "Me, too. Who you play?"

"Depends." He considers Roy. "You wanna play? I've got beer here - decent stuff."

Roy shrugs. "Long as it's beer."

Jim dumps his shoes again and grabs a couple of bottles. He hands one to Roy, who grimaces and flicks the cap off with his thumb. Jim looks down at his own bottle - same as Roy's and not a twist-off. "Okay."

Roy seems to lighten up a bit as they play, teasing Jim for choosing ‘pretty boy Manning'. Jim talks some trash about McNabb, which gets him sacked on the next down, and intercepted several times after that. Roy wins the first game and they swap out players for another game. He uses the same plays in the second game, though, and Jim's able to predict his calls. Roy's Favre concedes to Jim's Warner, and Jim heads to the fridge again. When he returns, Roy's leaning back on the couch, staring at nothing. He takes a beer, and glances at it, but doesn't drink.

"Y'alright, man?" Jim eases down on the other end of the couch. "I'll let you win this next one, if that'll help..."

Roy grins at him then shakes his head. "Nah, I just... ah, never mind."

"What?"

Roy shrugs, picking at the damp label on his bottle. "Y'ever feel like you're not doin' enough?"

"Whaddya mean?"

"Like your job isn't good enough?"

Jim snorts. "All the time."

Roy looks up. "Really?"

Jim thinks it's obvious. "I sell paper. I'm not fighting fires or curing cancer."

"Yeah, but I mean good enough for the life you want. I'd like to have a house, and kids."

"Well, you probably make pretty good money, though, don't you? Maybe better with a union, but still."

"Yeah. I guess it isn't just the money. I wanna be proud of what I do, you know?" Roy looks at his beer. "I want other people to be proud of me."

Jim squints, pursing his lips. "Well, I happen to know for a fact that Michael is very proud of you."

Roy looks up in surprise.

"Okay, well, maybe not ‘is proud of' so much as ‘has a crush on'..."

Roy smirks, but then is serious again. "Nah, man. I mean Pam."

"You don't think Pam's proud?"

"I think she's embarrassed."

"Whoa. What makes you think that?"

Roy shrugs. "Just, you know, stuff she says. The way she introduces me to people. She never tells people what I do."

"Maybe they never ask."

Roy looks away. "They do ask. She changes the subject."

Jim frowns, because there are rules here, a code. Article 47, section B: Don't criticize the Girlfriend until she's the Ex. But he can't help it. "That's not right."

"Yeah. I guess I need a better job."

"What? No. You have a good job. And you're good at it."

"I stack boxes."

"You operate machinery that requires specialized training. You and the guys are the reason our orders have any efficiency to them at all. And you guys haven't had an accident in, what, a year?"

"Six hundred thirty-seven days," Roy nods.

"Two years. Michael injures himself or someone near him every goddamn day."

"No, he doesn't."

Jim shrugs. "Okay, so it's emotional damage." Roy chuckles, and Jim edges closer. "You do good work."

"Yeah."

Jim pokes him with his bottle. "You do."

Roy gives Jim a tired smile. "Thanks, man. Bleh. Sorry. Didn't mean to be such a downer. ‘Nother game?"

"That's more like it."

This time they gang up on the computer. Every time they take down the opposing quarterback, Jim imagines it's this Pam person. He's never met her, but he's pretty sure she doesn't deserve Roy. Once, Jim slips and says, "Got ‘er," through gritted teeth. But Roy just agrees that yeah, Bledsoe is kind of a pussy, and he's laughing again, and every time they sit down after jumping up, Roy's sitting a little closer. By the fourth quarter, his knee has been parked against Jim's for a while. Occasionally, when he's trying to execute a tricky move, his shoulder swerves hard into Jim's. Once, it knocks the controller from Jim's hands.

"Same team, Anderson!"

"Put up or shut up, Halpert!"

"Dude. Same team."

They manage several unlikely plays in the fourth and by the two-minute warning, they're both on their feet. When Jim's receiver fails to, Roy reaches over and smacks him on the ass without looking. " ‘S okay, man. Set up again!" Jim pushes his guy across the goal line on the next down, and when he connects with the ball, Roy whoops, and then laughs when Jim makes his player do a celebratory disco move.

"Nice!"

"I'm very current." Jim tosses his controller on the couch, grabs the beer bottles and struts into the kitchen, where he pulls a Saturday Night Fever pose.

"Whoa, save it for the ladies!"

Jim decides then to do Travolta for Angela, just to see her reaction. He thinks she might giggle, but he's not sure he's ever heard her do that, so...

"Well, I'd better head."

"Alright, man." Jim puts the empties in the sink and follows Roy into the hall. Something about the way Roy's walking with his head down makes Jim speak. "And hey. I meant it... before."

Roy turns to him.

"About your work." Jim shrugs. "You should be proud."

Roy smiles, and steps forward to give Jim a one-armed hug. Jim returns it, patting Roy's back firmly, stiffly, then realizes that Roy isn't patting, he's holding. Jim lays his hand in the safe territory between Roy's shoulder blades, feeling the other man's chest breathe against his. He breaks away as soon as Roy does and takes a step back.

When he raises his eyes, Roy is looking at him as though trying to reconcile something. Jim watches as Roy struggles, his hands hovering at his sides. Then Roy's hands begin to move up, and Jim lets out his breath.

This time, Roy's hands are gentler, and trembling a bit, and when he pulls Jim to him, his lips are soft. Jim's afraid of breaking the spell, afraid to touch Roy, but then Roy's mouth opens and his tongue slides across Jim's, and Jim's hands find Roy's waist and squeeze. Roy pulls away, closing his eyes, hands still holding Jim's face.

"It's okay," Jim says.

Roy looks at him, thumbs caressing his temples.

Jim reaches over slowly and switches off the hall light. "Better?"

Roy's eyes flick behind Jim to the top of the stairs. "It's darker up there."

Jim's gut rolls, and he nods.

He doesn't remember walking up the stairs, doesn't remember who led whom, but when they step into Jim's dark room, it's Roy who grabs the bottom hem of Jim's shirt and pulls it up and off. He does the same with his own shirt, then pulls Jim against him, fingers in his hair, his beard scraping Jim's neck.

Jim's lets his hands slide down over Roy's chest, down through the hair on his stomach, to his waist, his hips. There, he pulls Roy against him. They're both hard and Jim shifts so that he rubs across Roy. Roy grunts and his hand drops to Jim's jeans, yanking open the buttons on his fly, shoving the jeans down. He rests his face against Jim's for a moment and trails warm fingers over Jim's abdomen before curling them under the waistband of his boxers and pushing down. Jim sucks in his breath as his cock bounces against Roy's jeans, and gasps again when Roy wraps his fingers around it and squeezes. He feels his cock jump in Roy's hand and then Roy is pulling up, up, circling the tip with his thumb, then sliding down again. Jim tries to unbutton Roy's jeans, but Roy brushes his hand away and pushes Jim backward against the closed door.

"Let me," Jim protests.

"Not yet."

Roy spits into his palm and this time his hand slides easily up and down Jim's cock. Jim moans against Roy's mouth, fingers pressed into the man's sides, the slippery friction of Roy's grip almost more than he can handle. He locks his knees to keep from falling. As Roy increases his pace, his arm pumping, his hand gripping, sliding, squeezing, pulling, Jim drops his face to Roy's shoulder and bites down. It seems to give Roy a jolt, and he's a little rough, but Jim's so fucking hard it doesn't matter. He comes, groaning against Roy's skin, tasting salt there.

They stand panting against each other until Jim can see.

When Roy is once again a dark shape against the window, Jim kisses him, walking Roy backward to the wall. Roy grunts softly when he hits it. It's a sound Jim wants to hear again, only louder. He reaches for Roy's fly, and Roy stops him again, his fingers warm around Jim's wrists.

Jim puts his lips to one ear and says, "Let me."

After a moment Roy releases his hands. Jim opens the button and slides the zip down slowly. He smiles against Roy's neck.

"Breathe," he whispers.

"Not yet," Roy says, and their laughter is soft.

Jim pushes Roy's jeans down over his hips, then eases his briefs down as well. His lips are still against Roy's neck when he takes hold of Roy's cock. The thick weight of it fills his hand and closes his eyes. He slides his hand down to hold Roy's sac, his fingers pressing up on the muscle behind it.

Roy moans softly in his ear. "Please."

Jim kisses Roy on the jaw, then trails his tongue down along Roy's collarbone, over a nipple, around his navel, and into the wiry hair below, kneeling as he goes. When he's sitting on his heels, Jim presses his tongue to the base of Roy's cock and licks the length of it. Roy groans, then sucks his breath through his teeth as Jim tongues his tip, then closes his mouth over it and sucks.

"Fuck."

Jim wets Roy's cock all over and begins to use one hand to pump it, while he sucks on the tip. When his other hand begins to knead Roy's balls, Roy whispers, "Jesus," and rakes his fingers into Jim's hair. "Go." Jim increases the pressure with his fingers and tongue, pulling and pushing and sucking, until Roy is gasping and begging him not to stop. Jim feels Roy's sac start to tighten, his cock to gain last-second girth, just before Roy grunts loudly through gritted teeth and comes in Jim's mouth. His hips pump forward a few times before his fingers release Jim's hair and he leans back against the wall, slack. Jim wipes his mouth and stands. Before Roy can say anything, Jim kisses him again, then goes down the hall to the bathroom.

He stays long enough for Roy to leave if he wants. Jim brushes his teeth, watching himself in the mirror. Nothing is different. He wonders if Roy will do the same, and what he'll find. When Jim's finished, he lets his eyes adjust to the dark again, then pads back to his room and opens the door. Roy is stretched out on his bed, fingers laced under his head, staring at the shadows of bare branches moving on the wall. He turns his head toward Jim.

Jim steps forward, and the shadows claw at his chest.

* * *

On Monday, he follows a cryptic note to the third floor. Roy produces a key to the unleased office there, and fifteen minutes later, Jim's tucking his shirt back in and hoping that sound doesn't travel through the heat vents.

When he breaks his next date with Angela, she agrees that his grandmother's birthday is more important.

The following week, Jim makes three trips to the third floor, and cancels his rescheduled date with Angela by email. She peeks at him over the cubicle wall, and he extends a sales call that has already ended, just to avoid her eyes. When he finally hangs up, Dwight smirks and mutters, "Amateur."

By the end of April, Jim's considering storing a toothbrush on the third floor, and Angela's no longer rescheduling.

He strikes up a friendship with the receptionist. Her name is Jennifer. When he stops to talk, he traces her name on the nameplate that stands on her counter. She's pretty, and blushes easily, but mostly she's just the closest person to his desk who isn't Dwight, and when he returns from the dark office upstairs, he leans against her desk, relaxed and flirty, and tries to make her laugh or blush or both.

One day, he returns to find her red-eyed. When he asks what's wrong, she silently points to Accounting. He confronts Angela.

"What are you doing?" he asks, tipping his head toward reception.

She raises an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

He stares at her, wondering if she can smell the sex on him, until her eyes flick toward Jennifer, and he realizes where the envy lies. He does nothing. Soon, the nameplate at the reception desk says NICOLE.

He's been able to make Nicole laugh, but not blush, when the name plate changes to SHEILA. Sheila has no sense of humor, but when she quits, Angela looks triumphant anyway. The next receptionist (MELANIE?) quits the day her custom nameplate arrives. After she walks out, Michael drops it in the wastebasket. He replaces it with one that says, simply, RECEPTION.

* * *

Not long after, Roy comes into the office, holding a piece of paper. Jim asks him a silent question, to which Roy shakes his head almost imperceptibly. He walks into Michael's office and, with a glance at Jim, closes the door. Jim watches as Roy stands before Michael's desk, holding his hands in front of himself, making small shrugging motions now and then. He hands the paper to Michael. Jim can't see Michael's reaction, so he takes his break and walks out to the hallway to wait. When Roy steps around the corner, Jim looks up.

"Hey."

"Hey." Roy seems distracted.

"What's up?"

"Oh, um, nothing..." Roy punches the elevator button.

"Did... you just quit?"

"Nah, I just... needed to give Michael something." The elevator arrives, but when Jim moves to step in, Roy blocks the doorway with one arm. "We're really swamped today," he says to the floor.

Jim steps back. "Oh... sure." Only then does he see that the carriage is headed down, not up. Roy gets in, and the doors separate them.

Dwight frowns when Jim comes back from his break early.

* * *

Jim sits on a bench outside, staring.

This time, it's the past month that plays in a disjointed loop on the shrubs across from him...

...His last trip to the third floor, where a clean-shaven Roy avoided his touch, and explained the paper he'd given Michael...

...Roy's arm, draped protectively around her shoulders when she'd come in for her interview...

...Michael's arm, draped inappropriately around her shoulders as he introduced her to the staff...

...Waking up, pasty-mouthed and queasy, to the sound ("Morning, princess.") of Mark clearing the beer bottles from the living room floor...

...The new spreadsheet he opened to fill his break times, listing potential pranks on Dwight...

...The way he cuts off her voice to answer the sales calls she transfers...

It occurs to him, sitting on the bench, that he could just start flirting with her, and let Angela's subsequent jealousy scare her off. Maybe if he really turned it on, she'd leave Roy for him, and wouldn't that be rich? And if he-

"Hi."

Jim's head jerks up at the sound of her voice. She's standing, tentative, next to the bench, holding an insulated lunch bag with both hands. She looks like she's trying to take up as little space as possible.

She motions to the bench with one elbow. "May I?"

"Yeah, sure. I was just finishing up." He begins to gather his own lunch wrappers.

"Oh. You don't have to go." She shrugs. "I was hoping you could give me a few tips. You know... about the office."

Whatever. He waves her onto the bench.

She sits with her knees pressed together and pulls a yogurt from her bag. When she peels off the foil lid, she doesn't lick it like he would, but scrapes it clean with methodical strokes of her spoon. "How long have you worked here?"

"Since October."

"October. Must not be too bad, then."

"Nah. Not too bad."

"Phyllis seems nice."

"Mm-hm."

"And Toby."

"Mm-hm."

"And Michael's funny, huh?"

"He has his moments."

"Yeah."

They sit for a moment in a silence that Jim doesn't bother to fill. So she does.

"I had a dream last night." When he doesn't respond, she goes on. "Michael started telling me a joke, and it took all day, and I couldn't answer the phone because it was an audience participation joke." She hesitates, then, "At the end of the dream, you yelled at me."

He looks at her. "Why?"

"Because I hadn't transferred your calls to you."

"Oh." So he's the guy who yells at her in her dreams. Ten minutes ago that would have made him happy. Now that she's sitting next to him, her feet tucked under the bench, he feels like kind of a shit. "Sorry."

"Why?"

"For yelling."

She giggles. "It wasn't your fault."

"Yeah, it was..."

"What?"

"...so do you have the hang of the phones now?"

"Um, yeah... I mean, it's pretty easy. I did just graduate college." She smiles, then seems to realize that maybe that sounds like bragging and that maybe he didn't graduate, and she backpedals a bit. "I mean, you know, it's a phone." She fiddles with her empty yogurt container, and he has an idiotic urge to set her at ease.

"Extension eight."

She looks up, then realizes what he's doing. "Stanley."

"Five."

"Angela."

"Twelve?"

"Devon."

"Excellent." He watches her for her reaction. "Three."

She rolls her eyes. "Dwight K. Schrute."

Jim smiles. "Any dreams about him yet?"

"No, thank god." Then she perked up a bit. "But I did start a list of ways to annoy him back."

His laughter is a bark that takes him by surprise. "Like what?"

"Like moving the top shelve of the refrigerator up or down a notch every day, just to see if he notices."

"He... would.... Where is this list?"

"Word document." She looks up again. "Why?"

"Because mine's in Excel."

She stares at him, smiling. "No way."

"Way."

She laughs. "How can one person be so ridiculous?"

"I know, right?"

"Maybe we should merge our lists. For efficiency's sake."

He squints at her and nods. "Maybe."

She gives him a small, shy smile. "I'll email it." She gathers her things and stands. This time her smile is more of a grin. She touches her face just above her lip. "You have a little something here. Mustard, maybe?"

He feels himself blush hard as he swipes at it.

"See you inside," she says before turning to go.

He watches her walk away. She takes small steps, but her shoulders don't seem quite as hunched as before, and she swings her lunch bag at her side. When she steps through the door, she waves to the security guard, and disappears.

He turns back to the shrubs. Now the images are really jumbled. He stares and tries to put the pieces together, but he's part of the puzzle and has no perspective. He tries to look beyond the edge, but can't see anything.

He can't see that he's going to fall for her, hard.

He can't see that Roy is going to become complacent, and heavy, and as distant as possible.

He can't see the cameras, or the way he'll struggle to keep them from seeing his past, even more than his present.

He can't see any of it. He can feel it, though, and his insides feel too light and too heavy at the same time. He swallows in an effort to put everything back where it belongs. It doesn't really work.

He throws away his sandwich wrapper, and goes inside to check his email.

* * *