Title: Nekid
Rating: T
Spoilers: Up until Season 5, episode "Business Trip"
Description: Because Andy's got some 'splainin' to do
Feedback: Let me have it.
Disclaimer: None of the characters or any other element of the source material belongs to me. I make no money off of it either. I mean, would anyone pay me anyway?
Author's Note: If you are coming here for the second time, welcome back and sorry for the previous version of this story. Unbeknownst to me, the 13-month-old daughter for my co-worker typed away at the story just as I published it and added extraneous letters and deleted whole paragraphs. This version should reflect sane spelling and coherent plot development.


Flowers? Check.

A signed copy of The Purpose Driven Life? Check. (Because the 'Nard is aaawesome)

Finger poised to hit play on "I Love You Just the Way You Are"? Check.

His bro Oscar on speed dial? Check.

He was ready. He smoothed his tie, knocked on the door…and waited.

"Who is it?" was the brisk answer from the other side of the door.

"Your only true love," Andy cooed into the peephole. There was a pause.

"Who is it?" came the voice again.

"It's Andy," he chirped. "The one you love." More silence and suddenly the song felt like a little too much. The door abruptly opened. Or as abruptly as it could open after the unlatching of seven locks.

"I've been trying to tell you sweetheart," Andy began with a curl on his lip, "that it's quality, not quantity, when it comes to locks."

"Can I help you?" was her tart reply.

"Look, I know our last conversation was a little…" he groped for a word that wouldn't incriminate him even further.

"Disgusting? Disrespectful? Vulgar? Heathen?"

"Thank you, dear. Um, any of those words will do."

"Well, I'm glad you understand that, because," she paused and, with a distressed face, tilted her head in that anguished way that made his stomach sink. "You have no idea how disturbing it was to hear my fiancée speaking to me in that fashion with a known homosexual giggling in the background." Was she going to cry?

"I am sooo sorry, honey bunch," he started, "I am as horrified as you are. I had no idea I had even said those words. I mean, those words, seriously, don't even sound like me." He whipped out the flowers. "This is just a token of my affection. These peonies say, 'I'm sorry…for being…a jerk.'" He handed the bouquet to her, bowing as he did. She hurriedly pushed them away.

"Flowers, Andy? Honestly. You know Bubbles has an allergy to pollen. Do you even listen to me when I'm talking to you at all? Or are you just picturing me naked?" Andy cringed. Coming from her mouth, the notion sounded so satanic.

"I would never picture you naked, ever," he said, waving his hands, and unfortunately the flowers, for emphasis. "Trust me, that is the farthest thing from my mind when I look at you. When I picture you, I picture you fully clothed. At all times." Angela rolled her eyes.

"Andy, really, I'm just tired OK. Let's do this tomorrow." She started to close the door, and Andy almost turned to leave, but suddenly remembered the book and caught the door with his hands.

"Milady, I have something else," he said.

"Your dignity?" she deadpanned from behind the closing crack. He held up the book. "As usual, too little too late," she replied. "I already have that book and have read and studied it several times with scripture in hand."

"Yeah," Andy said, "but is yours a…wait for it…" he flashed one of his toothy, knock-'em-dead smiles (because no one could really resist them) and showed the title page through the crack, "signed copy?"

Through the door he could see her eyes perk up ever so slightly and saw the faintest of smiles on her lips.

"Where did you get that from?" she asked, a faint softness appearing in her voice.

"A magician never reveals his secrets," Andy quipped. Opening the door just a little, she reached for the book, but he snatched it away.

"Andy," she snapped. "Stop being so juvenile."

"Come on, just talk to me sweetheart. That's all I want. Tell me you forgive me."

"Andy, give me the book and we'll talk about this tomorrow."

"No," he said putting his proverbial foot down, "I want your forgiveness today,"

"Andy, give me the book," she demanded.

"Nope," he said giggly, and held the book behind him as she pawed at it from behind the door.

"Andy Bernard, I won't have you toying with me. Now give me the book."

"I want you to come out first," he said and tapped his finger on her forehead twice. "Just one little peck at that sweet little forehead of yours. Is that too much to ask?"

"You will get no such thing, Andy," she snarled. "Did you even read the book?"

"Nope," he said, with no trace of irony. They stood there a moment, eye to eye; his eyes were playful, her eyes were steely. She suddenly flung the door open. "That's what I thought, snookums," he cooed.

"Andy, I will not play games with you," she started, orchestrating her words with an accusing finger. "First you grossly humiliate me and now you come to my house just to embarrass me further."

"C'mon, that's not why—," Andy protested.

"You tease me, Andy—," she continued.

"Tease, you? Ange—"

"I'm not one of my cats that is entertained if you just dangle something in from of its face."

"Perish the thought, love bunch, I would never—"

"So take your book, Andy Bernard, I don't want it." All 122 pounds of her seemed to pierce him through with her eyes.

"Here take it," Andy said, suddenly chastened. "Seriously, I want you to have it. No strings attached." She just stared, one hand on the door and the other firmly clutching her hip. "Here," Andy insisted, and extended the book to her in open palms. "I didn't mean to tease you. I got the book for you and here it is. I want you to have it."

She stared at him, then the book, then back at him before snatching the book and slamming the door.

Andy stared at the shut door with a dejected countenance. He had come there hoping for some closure or some kind of redemption, but now he was feeling emptier that when he came. He really wasn't such a bad guy, was he? God, when he was with his boys, there was nothing they couldn't laugh off over a couple brewskis and pitch pipe. But with this woman…there was no pleasing her. Sure, he made mistakes, but God knows he always…gave it…his all. And he deserved some kind of acknowledgement of that, didn't he? Was that really too much to ask? He knocked on the door again.

"Who is it?" Angela called.

"Andy," he said, just a little despondent. She opened the door.

"You know, I came here to make amends Angela. I didn't come here to make you angrier. I tried really hard."

She looked at him with an empty glare. "Are you done?"

"No, I'm not," he said, bobbing his head upwards as he spoke. "I stood in line for six hours at a Barnes and Noble waiting for what's-his-face to come and sign that god-forsaken book. Why? Not for me, Angela. For you. And then I bought flowers and practiced my speech, neither of which you accepted. I even had this song I was going to play…" Then he trailed off; the more he talked the worse he felt. "You know what Angela? Just…just forget it," he said, and turned to walk away.

"Which song?" she asked.

Andy paused. "'I Love you Just the Way You Are'…by Billy Joel." He turned around. "I'm sure you hate that song."

"No, I like it," she said. She walked down the walk and met him where he was. "I like the book, Andy. Thank you…very much." She took his hand in hers. "Thank you for trying," she said. "I know you try." She leaned her head against his chest and hugged him, and they stood that way for a second. And the gloomy mood that had fallen on Andy dissipated into a warm serenity. She glanced up at him and Andy bent down and kissed her, ever-so-gently, on the forehead.

"Thank you," he said. She turned and went to her front step wordlessly and after a quick wave, shut the door. Andy sighed a tranquil sigh and got in his car.

Angela watched him from the window as he drove off. "Oh Andy," she whispered to herself.

"What a turd," Dwight remarked. "Everybody knows Rick Warren wrote The Purpose Driven Life. The sacred tome is complimentary bedside reading at Schrute Farms."

"Shut up, Dwight," Angela barked. "You've never played me a song."

"Technically, neither did Andy," Dwight said.

"And get out."

"What?" Dwight said, looking up from his pile of nail clippings. He stood and walked over to steaming Angela sitting by the window, placing his hand on her shoulder. "I know what Andy did was tough on you, Monkey, but—"

"Don't 'Monkey' me," she interrupted. "And I meant it, GET OUT!"

Dwight sighed hard and gathered his things to leave.