Author's Note & Disclaimer: Standard disclaimer – I don't own anything related to The Office, its plotlines, its characters, this is a work of fanfiction, etc.

So…I'm currently rewatching this show (currently deep in S8 right) and listen, I love Andy/Erin, I do.

However, am I the only one who maybe, kinda, has a small thing for post-Boston Legal, out-of-shape James Spader? He plays the creepy/sleazy thing so well. And hello, Stargate back in the day was one of my faves so, ya know, whatever…baby Spader was dreamy.

Anyway, watching the Christmas episode where Erin gets drunk and Andy's kinda a heartless jerk (plus stalker much?) and well, this fic happened…

Chapter 1 – The Party

He's not sure what he expected to happen when he gave her his condescending little lecture on leaving cola in the kitchen, taking life by the horns, embracing her adventurous spirit, that sort of thing…but Drunk Erin is charming. Every time she comes back for another drink (and another), she easily teases another smile (and another) from Robert California, her all-too-willing bartender.

She surprises him with the way she knocks that first shot back. And then with the determined, dead-serious way she says "hit her up" and then "another"…oh he's not sure what he's unleashed.

With her inhibitions lowered, her default tendency to say whatever her audience wants to hear and believe whatever they try to spoon feed her diminishes to the point of blunt truth and brutal honesty. And yet her happy, bubbly personality remains firmly intact, energy as high and strong as the spirits he serves her. It's a fascinating display.

She dances—grinning, twirling, singing along to the music…and inevitably wanders back over to his makeshift bar, leaning up against the podium or slyly sidling up beside him, asking for "another alcohol". Her hair soon comes down from the messy half-bun and falls in beachy, red waves around her shoulders. Her shoes come off, tossed in a corner, and her festive green skirt spins and twirls with every song she dances to—she gets the others onto the dance floor too. Her infectious spirit somehow makes the tawdry decorations and godawful music playing in the conference room nearly bearable.

More than bearable, if he's being honest.

He overhears what she says to Andy and finds himself somewhat titillated by the unexpected words spilling out of her mouth.

Andy, hey, wanna know my Christmas wish?

Okay…?

I wish Jessica was dead.

Ahh…I think you mean you wish Jessica wasn't here or something.

No, I wish she was in a graveyard. Under the ground…

And then she grins widely. It's utterly refreshing. And charming. And sad, all at once.

Robert can't decide which description fits best really. But he also finds that he can't take his eyes off Erin all night, watching her dance and laugh and make a fool of herself, all with that genuine, eager manner that he usually finds so…saccharine. Now it seems playful and…well, to suddenly see the receptionist in this new way is intriguing to him. A part of him would very much like to see how far down this gin-flavored, martini-saturated rabbit hole she'll go and where exactly it might lead.

But he's not a monster, of course. Far before Andy's mention of "oatmeal" that had Kevin wildly salivating, Robert makes a conscious decision to curb the little red-head's plummeting descent into black out drunkland. He starts watering down her drinks after the third drink, because she's already heavily buzzed after that second shot.

And Drunk Erin is far too amusing and fascinating to let slip away into a boring old stupor.

Robert's glad he decided to attend the Scranton office Christmas party tonight. The black-hole of misery he was feeling all week has lessened somewhat. He finds himself sufficiently distracted from his train-wreck marriage and the mixed bag of other grievances typically buzzing around his head. And, with smug self-awareness that's rarely wrong, he recognizes that Erin's the main reason for his distraction.

So when Andy starts in with typical ex-boyfriend resentment and blame and Erin answers with typical ex-girlfriend jealousy and hurt, Robert turns over his drink-making duties to Oscar. He steps out from behind the bar and takes Erin by the arm smoothly, saying, "Come on, Erin, let's you and I take a walk."

She accepts the gentle pressure of his other hand, as he lets it drop to her waist suavely, pressing on the small of her back and leading her from the conference room. She accepts the motion as easily as she's accepted his drinks all night.

She doesn't say much as they descend in the elevator and almost nothing as they take a slow, cold turn around the parking lot. She's angry with Andy and that anger is focusing her mind, sharpening her senses and stealing away all the delightful fuzziness of the prior hours.

Robert's not ready to let her slip back into plain, old depression. It's boring down there. And he's quite certain if she goes, he goes. He's not ready to return to misery just yet.

"Your heart is broken," he sighs finally, breaking the silence. "So is mine…"

"And?" Erin looks at him expectantly, her wide eyes a much darker shade of brown under the orange glow of streetlamps. They look almost violet.

"And what?" he replies.

"And do you have any advice or anything to make me feel better?" she wonders, her hands fidgeting in the pockets of her wool jacket. She's not shivering—she has too much alcohol in her system to feel the chill in the December night, even though her breath escapes in white puffs. She tips her head earnestly on the question, thinking that's why he brought her out here in the cold and icy parking lot—to share his master wisdom.

"Oh God, no," he huffs a wry laugh, his gaze flickering on the glittering night sky (God, the stars are always so smug in their heavens, aren't they?) and then back to her, "I've been married thrice and each has ended in an acrimonious divorce. I'm not sure I'm the best person to give love advice, do you?"

He decides that he'll appeal to her honest nature, which he's seen on display all night and which currently speaks to him, loudly and on an oddly, deeper level than he ever would have expected, "I was hoping you were going to make me feel better."

She looks confused for a moment, narrowing those brown eyes. She's not used to being asked for anything but copies and coffee, both of which she's habitually hopeless at. But then the gin from that last martini kicks in and he's granted another beaming, pretty smile. She thinks he's making a joke. He doesn't care what she thinks, as long as she smiles.

That's all it takes. One smile and his mood lightens within seconds.