A/N: Here's the next chapter!

Chapter 11

Andy was about to raise the bottle to her lips once more when a knock on her door interrupted her. She frowned; she hadn't let anyone up.

She rose from the couch, setting the bottle back on the coffee table with a clank. As she adjusted to the new height, she swayed slightly, and realized she may be more affected by the alcohol than she thought. It didn't matter how affected her ability to stand was, though, because her mind was still racing with images and words that she wished would go away.

She shuffled to the door, not noticing a whole lot of difference in her step. Hopefully whoever it was wouldn't know that she'd had a little to drink. She'd get rid of them quickly.

However, when she pulled back the door, she knew that was easier said than done. She stared dumbly at him for a moment. Her words were no more intelligent.

"Sam," She blinked. "Hi."

His eyebrows pulled together slightly as he took her in, his mouth forming the word, "Hi," back very slowly.

She stood staring at him for longer than she should have, realizing belatedly that she should let him in. She stood back slightly, concentrating on her feet so she didn't stumble and give her intoxication away. Instead of speaking again, she waved her arm into her apartment. He stepped inside, still frowning slightly.

When he said nothing, Andy decided he was probably waiting for her to speak first. "What are you doing here?" she asked, thinking that she probably could have asked the question more eloquently.

"I came to check up on you…" He trailed off, turning back around to look at her, "Have you been drinking?"

She tilted her head to one side, not bothering to mention that he could have just called. "No. Well…maybe just a little," she replied, holding up her fingers to indicate a small amount.

Sam sighed, nodding in understanding while biting the inside of his cheek. "What happened to not drinking?"

Andy shrugged nonchalantly. "It was just sitting there."

"So you just… had to drink it?"

She nodded, the alcohol telling her it was a good idea to be honest.

He ran a hand through his hair and walked over to her coffee table, snatching up the bottle.

"What are you doing?" She asked, suddenly panicked. He wasn't going to get rid of it, was he?

He tore down the paper, looking through the glass. Obviously her weight perception was wrong. There was only a third of the bottle left, not just over half, like she'd thought. She fought to keep a clear head. She couldn't let the fuzziness overtake her; she wasn't that drunk… She wasn't drunk at all, was she?

After pondering that for a moment longer than necessary, she decided that it didn't matter anyways. She may be a little tipsy, but she still wasn't forgetting, and that was the whole point. Sam set the bottle back on the table with a considerably quieter clank than she had, and looked back up at her.

"You drank all of that?" He asked.

She nodded again.

"Why?" He asked.

She rolled her eyes, "You already asked me that." She frowned suddenly, "Well, kind of. Same question really. You want anything to drink?" She pointed her thumbs behind her to the kitchen, trying not to let her body follow her hands.

Sam shook his head, "Naw. I think you've had enough for both of us."

"I haven't had that much, really. I'm fine, Sam."

"Sure you are." He pressed his lips together, and she could tell he didn't believe her. But he was wrong, she was totally fine. Right?

She approached him, studying the way his eyes took her in, the way his pupils were dilated ever so slightly. She laughed, "You're one to talk."

He gave her a confused look.

"You've been drinking, too," she pointed out, crossing her arms and stopping just in front of him.

"I have," He conceded, only to continue and wipe the semi-triumphant look off her face, "The difference being that I stopped at two. You drank two-thirds of a bottle of whiskey."

"What are you saying?" She asked, her mind too bogged down to process his words.

"I'm saying that you drank way more than me, McNally. Our situations are a little different."

She scoffed, "Whatever. I told you I'm fine."

She took a step back, turning to look over at the television to avoid his eyes and swaying slightly.

"You sure about that?" He asked, his eyebrow rising slightly.

"Yes," She stated stubbornly, even though she wasn't completely sure anymore. She collapsed down to the couch, patting the cushion beside her, "Have a seat."

Sam lowered himself onto her couch, leaning back and exhaling loudly. She glanced at him quickly, and could see the weariness in his eyes. It had been a long day for both of them, and it wasn't over yet. She may have watched her temporary partner being loaded into a hearse, but he'd watched one of his best friends being lowered into the ground.

"I'm sorry," She whispered into the silence that had engulfed them.

He glanced over at her. "What are you sorry about?"

"Letting him die."

"What the hell are you sorry about that for? Like I said before, nothing you could have done."

"Yes, there was," She took a deep, shaky breath, continuing before he could protest, "I hesitated. When I heard the shots, I froze up, and I hesitated. If I hadn't, I would have been there faster, and he wouldn't have died."

Sam turned to face her, neither of them caring that they'd had this conversation before. "That little bit of time wouldn't have made a difference."

She looked away, unable to watch the disappointment seep into his gaze once she divulged the nail in Oliver's coffin. "But it would have. He died seconds before the paramedics got inside. Those seconds were the seconds I hesitated. He would have lived."

"Those seconds meant nothing. He would have died anyways, because that's just how it is. No amount of alcohol is going to change that. And it still doesn't explain why you're apologizing to me."

"You were close to him. I'm apologizing because I was responsible for his death, or at least partly responsible. I took him from you. I took him from his family. And so: I'm sorry."

She could sense he was getting frustrated without even looking at him. "How many times do I have to tell you it wasn't your fault? Maybe you just need some time for it to sink in, but you're going to realize you couldn't have done anything more to keep him alive than you already did, Andy."

She sat in silence, digesting his words and the use of her first name. He'd never called her Andy before. Her eyes were shifting in and out of focus, and she had to lean back on the couch to steady the spinning world.

"I have nightmares," she blurted out, unable to keep the words in. Damn liquor.

Sam said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"Every time I close my eyes, I can see him staring back at me, dead. I can hear the gunshots. I can see his face. I can't sleep at night because every time I close my eyes I have a different dream, and they always end the same," she whispered, as though she were afraid to speak any louder. "I just want it all to go away."

The only sound in the room was their intermittent breathing, and Andy wondered if Sam was going to say anything at all. Maybe he'd fallen asleep on her.

After a moment more, Andy felt something warm encase her fingers. She looked down to see Sam's hand twisting around hers where it lay on the couch between them, fitting together perfectly. She glanced up at him for a split second, then away, not wanting him to second guess his action. She liked the feeling of his hand holding hers, but knew that she shouldn't. It was wrong, but she felt better, knowing he was there. She felt reassured, in a strange way.

"God," she scoffed, still whispering as she felt her eyes well up again, "I'm so messed up."

She thought she caught the corner of his lips twitch briefly out of the corner of her eye, but she couldn't be sure. "We all are, Andy."

Her heart almost fluttered at the name change, but she couldn't quite let herself be happy about it.

"So are you going to drink the rest of that?" He asked, and she knew he was talking about the whiskey.

She eyed it, still sitting on the table in front of them. It hadn't helped yet, but there was a good chance it might if she finished it off. Of course, there was always the chance it wouldn't. "I don't know yet."

"Want me to wait until you do?"

She wasn't sure what she expected, but it certainly wasn't this. She felt the tears she'd just fought back returning, and wouldn't let herself speak. The offer alone was enough to make her want to break down. In her life, she was always the only one she could count on; there was no one there to have her back, or ask her how she was feeling. It felt… relieving, to finally be able to let go. She'd waited around her entire life for someone to give a damn, and now here he was. She was afraid to open her mouth, lest all of this come out; she wouldn't put it past her intoxicated self. Instead, she said nothing in reply, only nodding her head, and they sat in silence for a long while, making no contact except their hands, which remained –fingers loosely intertwined- between them on the couch.

Andy opened her eyes groggily to the sensation of being laid down on something much softer than the couch.

"Sam?" She asked, her voice hoarse and disoriented.

"Sorry, I tried not to disturb you."

"Oh," She replied, not sure of what else to say. Her vision had stopped swimming, which she took as a good sign. She was starting to sober up, but she had a feeling she'd get a killer hangover tomorrow. "How long was I out?"

"About half an hour," he replied, standing to the side of her bed, "Your neck looked like it would hurt in the morning if I left it like it was."

She nodded, her mind gradually clearing itself of the cobwebs. She was still drowsy, and wanted nothing more than to fall back asleep, yet she was afraid to.

"I should go," he stated into the silence, clearing his throat quietly. "Night, Andy."

He turned to leave, but only made it a step before her hand reached out and caught his wrist. Her voice was so small when she spoke that she almost couldn't believe it was hers, "Wait."

He turned his head back to look at her, his eyes expectant.

"Would you- Can you- Will- Will you stay?" She asked, her voice still small and her stomach twisting angrily and nervously at her request. There she went again with the acting before thinking thing.

He stared at her for a long time before slowly shaking his head, "I don't think that's a very good idea."

He tried to pull his hand away, but she tightened her grip slightly. "Just for a little bit. Please?"

It was very unlike her to talk like this, and she wanted nothing more than to blame it on the liquor, but it was gradually leaving her system, and she was definitely more in control than she'd been yet tonight. What the hell was wrong with her? Andy McNally didn't act like this; she wasn't so dependent on one person.

After a lengthy pause, he finally nodded, and she scooted over under the covers so he could sit or lay or whatever he wanted to do on the side of the bed closest to the door, because she didn't expect him to still be there in the morning. She knew he'd leave after an hour at the most, because that's just how it was.

He sat on top of the blankets, leaning against the headboard as she snuggled deeper underneath the quilt.

"Thank you," she mumbled, already half asleep. She didn't notice that she hadn't let go of his wrist, and he said nothing as he watched her drift off into her first peaceful sleep that week.

A/N; So it's still shorter than the last few, but I'll try to make them longer! Like it? Hate it? I live for reviews!