Author Notes: Hockey playoffs and a friend with a drinking problem means that I tend to disappear.

Kevin bounces into the office, twinkling lightly on his toes, held up in the air by the wafting scent of delicious double-fudge brownies.

"Double-fudge... aaaarrrrrrrllllll," he drools in his best Homer Simpson impression. It's not nearly as good as his Kool-Aid Man impression.

Angela: Yes, I baked brownies over the weekend. One for everyone. Two for Kevin because he complains if he they're gone before he's full.

Cuts to scene from A Benihana Christmas with Angela scolding Kevin's stomach.

Angela: And two for Andy.

Her expression sours.

Angela: You know why.

"Mmmm... D-lish, Angel-cakes," Andy croons as she delivers two gooey brownies to his desk on a paper plate.

"I think I'm getting special treatment," Andy smiles and winks at the camera. It's kind of creepy.

Angela looks mortified.

Angela: We will not be doing the (whispers) nose sex (/sotto voce) again.

Andy smiles as he chews happily on his second brownie. "I love your brownies, Angie-baby," he tells her with his mouth full and crumbs raining onto his pastel suit and paisley tie. Stanley and Phyllis gaze with disgust down at Andy's chest, whether appalled by his horrible table manners or just his horrible fashion sense isn't clear.

Dwight rolls his chair over beside desk island 2, inappropriately grim determination upon his babyish face, given the subject matter at hand. Of course, that's not the subject matter that's on Dwight's mind. Such as it is. "You know, Bernard," Dwight says, "that some people think her cookies are better."

No one notices Angela turn white. Whiter.

"Yeah, I really don't really care that much for Angela's cookies," Andy replies, washing down his brownie with a tall glass of lukewarm milk. "A little bit dry and bland."

Angela is incensed into albinism. Dwight smiles. Just a little bit.

Andy: My friend, Operation Fallen Angel is now proceeding to phase 3. I.E. the falling down part. In fact, tonight I plan to take her on a romantic overnight picnic in the back of my X-Terra. I even cleaned out all the Burger King wrappers in preparation.

"Camping? Are you insane?" Angela yells at him in the break room during lunch, disrupting a meeting of the Finer Things Club and sending Pam's biscotti flying. "You know that I'm allergic to poison ivy and poison oak and poison sumac and-"

"Hush my darling." He reaches into his pants pocket and retrieves a box of decongestants. "Not only will you be clear but you will be Claritin clear."

She rolls her eyes at him in the condescending way that has been hurting her eyeballs for the past few months. "Andy, that's for nasal congestion."

"I've packed up the back of my X-Terra with a picnic basket full of vegetarian sandwiches filled with... something... not very meat like, some sparkling white grape juice, some After Eight mints for dessert, and my inflatable bed. It's a roomy twin."

"What about my sleep apnea mask?"

"You won't need it," he boasts, making everyone shudder. Angela really wishes that this conversation was happening in a far less public place, but Andy isn't a very private person. Not at all. So she drags him forcefully out into the hallway, away from prying eyes and ears. But not lenses. As soon as the door closes behind them, an affectionate Andy playfully squeezes Angela's breasts. "Honk," he says, smiling.

"Stop that," she whispers, through gritted teeth, but the corners of her mouth are tugging up and her eyes are sparkling. She swats his hands away, though she doesn't prevent him from doing it again...

"Alright, Andy. I will go on this picnic excursion with you on one condition," she takes a deep breath and resolves herself. "We will have relations in the method of my choosing." Andy nods vigorously and a sly smile forms on Angela's lips. "And the method of my choosing is role play."

Andy starts dancing. "Yes!! I knew you had a kinky side to you!"

"Stop that. I will be the wholesome, Christian, chaste minister's daughter, and you will be the handsome, rugged beet farmer."

"Why can't I be another kind of farmer?" Andy pouts. "Beets? Lame-o. I want to be a dairy farmer."

"Why a dairy farmer?"

"Udders." Honk.