A/N: Still do not own anything :). Except for the faults and mistakes. Those are mine and mine alone. This will be the last chapter for about a week or so. Cause all the 'written ahead' 'stuff' is now, well, published. So please be patient.

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'Did you became what you wanted?'

It was one of the evenings that Miranda dropped by. Always a little after closing time, around 21:30 she would either step out a vehicle that brought her and that would head off then, or came by foot. Andy assumed that Miranda had a work-related driver and that she lived nearby in the better part of town, which meant she had a high position of some sorts. Applause Sherlock, like you couldn't sense that from her appearance alone. They never talked about those things. They never talked that much. Mostly Andy talked. In the beginning about coffee or daily nonsense, or a bit of news from the papers. Miranda's reaction had been either ignorant or hurtful, but they had both known the rules, Miranda being able to lash out, Andy to keep on talking. Miranda kept coming back. And after a few weeks there had been a difference, if only minor. The cutting sentences changed, not that much from content, but rather punctuation. The point at the end was pronounced less static, sometimes leaving room for interpretation. Transforming into what could possibly be a question mark. Without asking anything or without 'warming up', Miranda had started to converse with the younger woman.

Andy had been immensely happy with this change. She had felt special at apparently being adequate enough to be given a chance to proof herself. She tried hard to be both intellectually competent as warm and welcoming instead of a stammering childlike schoolgirl who knew the answer but was afraid of the teacher. She had definitely understood the message behind Miranda's choice of action: if she failed, they hadn't actually had any conversation whatsoever. It was a mutual, silent agreement. A pact that enabled them to sharpen their souls at each other, or rather Andy sharpening her soul at Miranda's, since the older woman did not only held the control but also seemed to know an astonishing lot, beating Andrea easily intellectually.

It was therefore sudden and almost strange to hear the sentence she just let slip past her lips resound in the air. They had been talking about the somewhat strange topic of an article they both had read from a scientist who was able to genetically modify the wings of a butterfly, changing it in shape and colour. An topic close to the discussion of the manufacturability of things and lives, and with that, the question if one was ultimately responsible for their own succeeding or failing. It was the first public acknowledgement of their, what was it, acquaintanceship?, and Andy looked a bit alarmed at Miranda, unsure of how it would influence this, whatever this was.

A sigh. Acknowledgement of the question. 'Yes and no. I became what I wanted, and I've never regretted any prize I paid for it. Sacrifices that aren't worth making, should never be made. So that is what I did. Part of what you are is defined by the choices you make, and I'm not easily distracted by side tracks or secondary goals. So I succeeded.' Andy could easily understand that. Miranda looked like a woman without failure. Someone who wouldn't give up on her goal once she had it in her mind.

'It doesn't, however, mean that I am unaware of what I sacrificed. Knowledge is at times a painful reminder that even if you sometimes make the best decision, that it is not always the right decision.' Miranda took another sip of her coffee. Andrea sensed that it was all that the woman was going to say. And even if it told her a lot about Miranda, it weren't exactly facts or details. She was still in the dark about who this woman was.

'And you?' Miranda broke Andy's train of thought.

'Me?'

'Yes. You see someone else in this room?'

'Haha, lots of them, but those are from a different dimension.' The raise of an eyebrow. 'Okay, I know, lame joke.' She rubbed a spot off the counter with her towel. 'I love my job, actually. I love the interaction with the people. The stories they tell and the lives they live. I love it when I can see that a costumer is having a special day and is wearing a new dress, just because you see them that often that you unconsciously know the inside of their wardrobe. Or when a new costumer comes in and is delighted with the cappuccino.' She winked. 'Of course there are always days that you could easily empty your piston in someone's mouth because of their rudeness, or that you want to put a sign on the counter that says "yes, single, no, dirty comments. I sell coffee not myself." But overall it is a lovely job. And I wouldn't mind doing it for a little longer.'

'Until you find you absolute dreamjob.'

Andy laughed, was she that obvious? 'Yes, until I find my dreamjob.'

'Which would be…?'

'Writing. Journalism, actually. I would love to write for a newspaper or a magazine. But such a job isn't easy to obtain.'

'Do you practice your writing skills?' Miranda asked, letting her fingers glide over the cup, turning it around. Andy got a little distracted by those hands. Miranda had lovely hands. 'Well, articles are difficult, because nobody's giving me assignments, but I try to write. Mostly, describe, the things I see, hear.'

'Costumers?'

'Yes. Sometimes. But that's more the content of my diary. Stories of people and occurrences that happen, things I see in society, those I try to put into articles. Analyses.'

Miranda had the urge to ask if she had written about her in her diary. And if so, what she had written and if she could perhaps read it. But she knew very well those things were private. It was strange, but around the young woman she often felt the desire to cross the line between formal and private. In fact it was all she could do to not spill and bound with the kind-hearted beauty. A foreign sensation actually. But not unwelcome enough to ignore the first personal question Andrea had asked. She had elaborated about her values and opinion. Just as foreign, explaining. Perhaps Andrea had thought it was an impersonal and vague answer, but it was more that Miranda normally cared to share with anyone. And it would do no good to become that personal. She knew how things would develop then. She had seen and experienced it often enough. The moment the girl would know who she was and what she did she would withdraw and become formal, or fall into hero-worship and put Miranda on a statue. Miranda was not stupid, people either hated or loved her, most of the time both, and those feelings prevented to see the woman Miranda was and forced the Icon image upon her. And while maybe not personal, it was certainly precious to Miranda, these short moments of respite. It was why she kept it hidden. Only coming by when she already had to work late or when the children were at their fathers. The only person knowing was Roy, and after several years of loyal service she trusted him just enough to not mention her stops for coffee.

'Miranda?'

Miranda looked up from her thoughts. 'Yes?'

'Nothing. You just were… very far away for a moment.' The sudden intimacy of that sentence did not go unnoticed by Miranda. As if she normally was close. Which was not true, they were closer to passengers than to friends. Miranda didn't do friends anyway. Not that the girl knew.

Andrea's eyes became more quizzical by the second. Miranda realized she hadn't answered. With a curt nod she said; 'I was. I have to go, bring some copies of your articles next time, so I can read them.' She put on her coat. Apparently she had been comfortable enough to shed it. A first. With another nod she closed her purse and looked at the younger woman again. 'Goodnight Andrea.'

Andrea smiled a genuine smile. 'Goodnight Miranda, see you next time.'