Jim x Dwight Oneshots *smut warning*

Jim as a depressed alcoholic

*TW mentions Depression, Mental health facilities, Alcoholism, Suicide*

Jim sits at his desk, his eyes glued to Dwight's every move. He watches as Dwight types away at his computer, his fingers moving with precision and purpose. He can't help but be drawn to Dwight's confidence, his quirky sense of humor, and his unwavering commitment to his work. But Jim knows that he can never act on his feelings, not when he values his friendship with Dwight too much to risk ruining it.

As he stares at Dwight, lost in his thoughts, he's caught off guard by a snarky remark from his object of affection. "Can I help you?"

Jim's heart skips a beat at the sound of Dwight's voice. He tries to play it cool, masking his feelings behind a smirk. "Just admiring the view, Schrute," he says, hoping his voice doesn't betray his true emotions.

Dwight raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Well, don't get too comfortable. We've got work to do."

Jim quickly averts his gaze, feeling his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He hates how easy it is for Dwight to get under his skin, how he can always push his buttons and make him feel like a fool.

But even as he tries to move on, Jim can't help but feel a deep sense of longing for Dwight. Behind every prank, every little interaction, there is a hidden yearning that Jim could never tell anyone. He loves the way Dwight talks about bears and beets, the way he quotes random facts and figures, the way he always seems to know exactly what he's doing.

But then, a wave of hopelessness washes over him. He knows that he can never be with Dwight, that his feelings will forever go unrequited. He can't even imagine what Dwight would say if he knew the truth. Not when Jim's still in the closet, not when he values his friendship with Dwight too much to risk ruining it. So he sits at his desk, silently pining for a man he can never have, tears streaming down his face as he thinks about what could have been. He can't let Dwight see him like this, can't let anyone see the pain that he's been carrying for so long.

Eventually, Jim's shift ends and he heads out to his usual bar. He's become a regular here, known by name and drink preference. The familiar smell of alcohol and the sound of clinking glasses welcomes him, and he takes a seat at the counter. The bartender, a middle-aged man with a thick mustache, greets him with a nod.

"The usual, Jim?" he asks, grabbing the whiskey.

Jim nods, and the bartender pours him a generous glass. Jim downs it in one go. The warmth spreads through his body, numbing the pain and sadness he's been feeling all day.

He sits at the bar, staring blankly ahead. He knows he's becoming an alcoholic, but he can't bring himself to care. The alcohol helps him forget, even if it's just for a little while. He's even learned to love the feeling of the splitting headache that greets him every morning. It's better than waking up, remembering the fact that Dwight is not lying beside him.

As he downs drink after drink, Jim can feel himself getting more and more numb. The pain of his unrequited love for Dwight fades away, replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling. He feels like he's drinking bottled love, a cheap substitute for the type he yearns for. He chats with the other patrons, laughing and joking as if he doesn't have a care in the world. But deep down, he knows that he's just putting on a façade, that he's still hurting inside.

As the night wears on, the bar starts to empty out. Jim is one of the last customers left, slumped over the bar with a half-empty glass in his hand. He knows he should go home, but he doesn't want to face his empty apartment, his lonely bed.

Suddenly, he hears someone call his name. He turns around to see Darryl, one of his coworkers from the warehouse, standing there with a group of friends. Darryl looks surprised to see Jim there, and Jim greets him softly, not wanting to draw attention to himself.