Jim x Dwight Oneshots *smut warning*

Jim as the Scranton Strangler pt. 2

*TW mentions Murder, Violence, Alcoholism, Parental Abuse, Homophobia*

As Dwight skillfully maneuvers the car into a parking spot in front of Poor Richard's, I take a moment to gather myself. The therapist's words still echo in my mind, an unsettling reminder of the dark secrets I carry. I shake off the unease, forcing a casual smile as I open the car door.

The familiar warmth of the bar envelops us as we step inside, the air thick with the mingling scents of laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses. Dwight leads the way, his eyes scanning the room, ever the vigilant detective.

I lean casually against the bar, my eyes surveying the assortment of beers on tap. The bartender greets us with a nod. "What can I get you, fellas?" he asks, his voice genial.

"I'll have an IPA, please," I say, a forced smile firmly in place.

Dwight quickly orders a German-style lager, "I'll take a Jegerbräu."

The bartender nods, grabbing the requested beers and sliding them across the counter. I take hold of the cold glass, condensation forming on the exterior. 

With our beers in hand, we navigate the bustling crowd, weaving through clusters of people until we find an empty booth tucked away in a corner. The worn leather seats welcome us. I take a sip of my beer, relishing the hoppy bitterness that dances on my tongue. It's a small moment of tranquility where the Scranton Strangler becomes just another face in the crowd.

Dwight sits across from me, his eyes scanning the room with a hawk-like intensity. His commitment to his role as a protector is unwavering, even in the midst of our supposed downtime. 

"Jim, keep an eye out for any suspicious behavior. The Strangler could strike at any moment," he advises, his gaze darting around the room, his detective instincts on high alert.

"Yeah, because it's not like he's sitting right here," I mutter under my breath, my voice barely audible over the din of the bar.

Dwight's head snaps towards me, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What did you say, Jim?"

I quickly shake my head, a nervous chuckle escaping my lips. "Oh, nothing, Dwight," I reply, feigning nonchalance. "Just making a joke. You know how I like to keep things light."

Dwight's gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, his expression questioning, but he ultimately decides to let it slide. He takes a sip of his beer, the foam leaving a faint mustache on his upper lip. "Right, well, we can never be too careful. The Strangler could strike at any moment, even in a place like this."

Unable to contain myself, a genuine smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I watch Dwight unwittingly sport a foam mustache. Chuckling softly, I motion towards his upper lip, amusement dancing in my eyes. "You've got a little something there, Dwight," I remark, my voice light and teasing.

Dwight's hand instinctively rises to his upper lip, his fingers hastily wiping away the remnants of the foam. His reaction is swift, almost defensive, as if my comment has unsettled him in some way. "Thanks," he mutters curtly, his eyes avoiding mine.

Sensing his discomfort, I attempt to diffuse the tension, my voice filled with playful affection. "Don't worry, Dwight. It looks cute on you," I quip, a warmth bubbling within me at the sight of his rare vulnerability.

Dwight's response is guarded, his shoulders stiffening ever so slightly. "Cute? Jim, we're on duty here," he retorts, his tone more defensive than he intends. "I'm here to solve a case, not to be the subject of your amusement."

My smile falters, the rejection stinging more than I care to admit. I quickly divert my gaze, reaching for my beer as if it can shield me from the hurt. "Right, sorry, Dwight," I mutter, my voice tinged with regret. "I didn't mean to offend you."