It was two in the morning the next time she saw her.

Andy hadn't been having a particularly deep sleep when she heard the knocking on her door, characters from her novel dancing through her head. She stumbled to the door, pulling on a robe, vaguely cognitive of the fact that she wasn't expecting anyone and that two in the morning was a ridiculous time to receive an unexpected visitor. Andy looked through the spy hole, more out of muscle memory than anything else, and was a little stunned to see a certain white-haired woman standing on the other side. She slid the chain across, turned the deadbolt and opened the door.

They stood there for a second, on opposite sides of the threshold, before Andy realised that Miranda had been crying and she felt the realisation like a punch to the stomach.

She ushered the other woman inside, closing the door behind her and taking her coat to hang it up. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the thought that she'd never actually given the other woman her home address, but in the early hours of the morning, with a tearful Miranda standing in her apartment, it didn't seem like a particularly important thought.

Andy went to her liquor stash and pulled out a bottle of something warming and poured a finger or two for each of them. She pushed a glass across the counter and Miranda gripped it tightly, staring into the amber liquid, the silence between them heavy, broken finally by a low whisper.

"I was served divorced papers at the office today."

The hand that Andy had curled around the edge of the countertop tightened, knuckles turning white, as she strove to restrain her outrage on Miranda's behalf.

That bastard.

She took a deep breath and centred herself, moving to cover the hands that were wrapped around the glass. Her thumbs stroked across the delicate skin, slowly easing Miranda's grip until she was able to hold onto Andy's hands instead. Andy watched Miranda stare at their joined hands, she studied the expression on her face, the emotions that played behind her eyes.

"I actually tried," she said at last, her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, and Andy gently squeezed her hands. "I did. I still wasn't enough."

There were many things in this world that Andy could stand, but that defeated tone in Miranda's voice was not one of them. She rounded the end of the counter and took the other woman in her arms. She smelled of top-shelf whisky and expensive perfume.

Still firmly locked into whatever space her head had been in, Miranda whispered softly into her neck, "It's just… he doesn't… w hy doesn't he want me?"

'Because he's a fucking asshole!' is what Andy didn't say, though she thought it very loudly.

"I really don't know," is what she said instead and the "because he's missing out" quietly slipped past her lips before she could help herself. Miranda pulled her head back from Andy's shoulder and planted a hand on her chest, just over her heart.

"You really believe that." The words were framed as a statement, but Andy could see the question mark, the disbelief written all over Miranda's face.

She met her gaze without flinching, her next words serious as a vow. "I do."

Andy's heart skipped a beat at the look in Miranda's eyes as they dropped to stare at her mouth. Miranda released the lip that had been caught between her teeth and slowly leaned in, eyes fluttering shut. Andy could smell the alcohol on her breath and her better sense kicked in, turning her head slightly so that Miranda's kiss graced her cheek.

"No, Miranda... No." she whispered, her hands sliding to rest at her elbows as she gently pulled away.

Miranda stiffened and refused to meet her gaze. "Do you not want me?" she asked, her voice incredibly small and rough with unshed tears. Andy soft smile belied the pain in her chest and she held Miranda's hand against her heart before she could think to move it away.

"Sweetheart," Andy breathed, and shining blue eyes blinked up at her in response. "You're tired, upset, and not a little intoxicated." She gently cupped her face in her hand, traced her cheekbone with the pad of her thumb, "Just… let me look after you, okay?"

The other woman nodded, her features screwed up into a fragile smile that was distorted by the effort it took not to resume crying. Andy drew her back into her arms and she nestled into her chest. Miranda's breathing shuddered beneath the weight of the hand rubbing soothing patterns on her back. Unused to such tenderness, she gripped handfuls of flannel and held on tight.

It was three in the morning by the time Andy fell back into bed again. She'd rehydrated Miranda, removed her makeup and helped her into her nicest pair of pyjamas. That last part had taken an awful lot of self-control, between the sight and the scent of the woman, but she had managed.

As she had slipped between the sheets, some small voice in the back of her head had reasoned that it would be a good idea to sleep on the couch, but she ignored it. She was tired and the couch had a bad spring and she was weak.

Andy had lain down carefully, not wanting to disturb Miranda or encroach on her space.

She looked down at the head that now lay on her chest and the arm and the leg that had been flung across her body. It seemed that an intoxicated, slumbering Miranda was also a snuggly Miranda.

And Andy was weak, she was weak, she was so, so incredibly weak.

Because her arms were wrapped around Miranda as well.