one.

"You are sixteen, going on seventeen," is all Dwight can get out before Angela stands up and balls her hands into fists.

"No, Dwight, no!"

"Baby, it's—"

"Do not call me 'Baby'!" Angela hisses, glaring.

Dwight lowers his voice and explains. "Angela, it's not really me. It's Rolf."

"I know who it is," she mutters, folding her arms over her chest. The Sound of Music is a source of great conflict in their relationship, despite Angela's conviction that it is inappropriate to let such a fundamentally immoral film hold any sway in their lives. Maria is such an irresponsible floozy. But both of them love Georg, and the togetherness of opinion is rare enough that periodically Angela relents and agrees to watch it with Dwight, providing they skip every Captain-less Maria scene. (This excludes "Climb Ev'ry Mountain," as Angela is fond of the Mother Superior and finds her inspirational, for a Catholic.) She'll have to live without that enjoyment, however, because lately every time they watch the movie, afterwards Dwight wants to play Rolf and Liesl.

"But Snickerdoodle," Dwight wheedles, "the Anschluss—"

"I don't give a hoot about the Anschluss! And you know how I feel about snickerdoodles." She goes outside and waits in the passenger seat of his car, and when he drives her home, they don't say a word.

two.

On the first anniversary of the release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Dwight plans to stay up all night reading, in the most faithful reenactment of July 16th, 2005 (he wishes he could watch the Battlestar Galactica second season premiere beforehand to fully recreate his state of mind at the time, but Michael has his DVDs. He lent them to him hoping they would have something new to bond over, strengthening their friendship until it made Harry and Ron look like—Harry and Pippin. Those books aren't even in the same universe). Angela plans to stay up too; she buys a paperback copy of the book and stations herself in the backyard by the barbecue, resolute to burn every page individually. Neither of them backs down, and although it's a long exhausting process, Angela has finished by 4:00 AM. When she pads upstairs, she finds Dwight upright in bed, reading.

"I'm looking for signs of Snape's dastardry," he reports. Angela likes the way he looks in his tank top and thinks the wild ruffle of his hair is endearing, or would be under other circumstances. She is tired, though, and coated in smoke and ash, so she just looks at him.

And then Dwight says, "Don't look at me like that, woman," lifting his eyes from the page for the first time since she entered, and Angela feels a nasty jolt.

"Don't go to hell so much . . . man!" she retorts and stomps downstairs where she camps out huffily on the couch. She counts the hours until she'll leave for church by herself, because Dwight will be asleep after his night of debauchery. The wages of sin don't take IOUs, and neither does Angela. Accountancy teaches you that.

three.

Dwight wants to give her a nickname. Angela says no. Nicknames are disrespectful to one's parents and breed weakness of character; just look at Pam and Jim. Dwight says nicknames are tokens of intimacy and to be crafted among lovers. Angela says not to call her his lover. Dwight makes a list and, reading from it, tries to rhyme "Angela" with "flagella." Angela doesn't speak to Dwight for three days, and she takes his dictionary too, just to be on the safe side.

four.

It isn't like the only times their relationship is in jeopardy are the times that Angela gets angry at Dwight. He has plenty of complaints, too, and if he does not voice them all now, that is merely because the element of surprise is an advantage, and not one a Schrute would ever willingly concede.

Angela takes up too much of his time. She disrupts his laser tag schedule, won't watch television with him so he has to get a TiVo, and always wants to do things on the weekend when he has paintball and karate tournaments. Actually TiVo turns out to be pretty awesome so he's glad about that, but still. Dwight is a man of principle. Who knows when Sensei Ira might need his help? Not Angela.

She doesn't like beets, but eats them anyway and glowers through supper. She denies that she hates them, though any fool could see, and he is considerably less than a fool.

She never says anything nice to Mose. It's just like with the beets again. Underestimating the blood ties of the descendants of Amland has ended in tragedy more than once before. Dwight doesn't want to go Old Country on her ass, but that doesn't mean he won't.

The showers she takes are too long. She uses up the hot water and comes out as soft as a pear in Pinesol. She might as well just walk around with a bullseye painted on her forehead, if physical vulnerability is her goal, and at least that way Dwight could take warm showers.

He doesn't know why he doesn't drop her. Dwight's a bachelor in his prime and he should be living large. Balls and chains are for pens at the bank, and he's never seen a pen that looked like it could survive a level three nuclear holocaust. He should be agile and free, and stay up however the hell late he wants to, and rock Nelson's Greatest Hits. Dwight believes in Dwight. It's just after psyching himself up every few weeks for a clean break—he wants to let her down easy—he catches her making eyes at him from the copier, or she turns and he sees white ankle, or she purses her lips and he feels his innards ignite in amorousness. Women. Their pheromones are crazy. He shakes his head and gives in for another week. Women.

five.

After the lights go back on, Angela takes her overnight bag with her into the bathroom under the porch, and returns twenty minutes later wearing a nightgown, white flannel being her favorite. She pulls back the bedclothes and sits alongside Dwight in his bed, where he has been reading or updating his daily log in the interim. She smiles faintly and begins to brush her hair.

"Your golden tresses are like locks of heaven descended from the firmament," he says, or something like it, so quickly it's hard to catch. Angela pauses in her brushing and glances without turning her head; Dwight is bent over his book, adjusting his glances, tongue caught between his teeth.

"That's sweet of you," she replies, and her sedate strokes carry time past itself, softly counting out the seconds until Dwight shuts his book, and mysteriously she finds herself done as well.

"Good night, Dwight."

"Good night, Angela."

The lights go back off and the two of them lie down, spanning their fingers out so there is no accidental touching. Dwight seems never to learn, though, and after a minute he orchestrates a rollover, maneuvering himself close enough to her side that their bodies nearly touch. "Would you like to cuddle?" he whispers, and his breath is windy in Angela's ear.

"No," she says, "and if you plan to touch me without permission I suggest it's to throw me out the window, as I won't be coming back."

There's a beat before Dwight replies, "Of course," and rolls back to his side. The air over the bed is tense and the sheets seem taut over the stiff arrangement of their bodies.

The mantelpiece clock ticks.

Under the sheet, Angela's arm moves, and she turns in bed away from the wall. Her breath has become heavy and even, and if Dwight is awake enough to note her toes digging into the mattress as her body shifts and loosens, he never makes a noise. A bug in his ear or some strange murmur from out the window is cue to roll back towards Angela, and his sleeping hands somehow fold themselves with care and tuck in under the pillow. For a moment their breathing matches up, and the sheets rustle to hide it; but a moment later the two of them sound natural again, and when she wakes up in Dwight's arms, Angela only ever says, "Good morning."