Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, don't own any of these characters. Neither do I own the few lines I borrowed from other, much more talented, authors
A/N: This is a fic for nails9 (over on LJ) who donated to the FandomAid to help the Philippines. Thank you so much for your donation :)

The Edges Of Me Dissolve

"Tell me." Andrea's voice is rough and her breath is hot against Miranda's ear. She's propped up against several of the editor's pillows with the editor herself pressed against her front. The length of Miranda's back touches the length of her torso, and she has one hand pressed between Miranda's breasts feeling the erratic heartbeat and the other hand working happily at the juncture of Miranda's thighs.

Her hand slows its tempo between Miranda's legs.

The editor's hips seek out the slacking rhythm in desperate thrusts. Her hands grip the knees just outside her own, nails digging into soft flesh. "No." It's not a denial to the demand. Miranda never denies that particular request verbally. It's a groaned displeasure at Andrea slowing her release.

The journalist stills completely. The soft tissue around her fingers tightens even with the lack of stimulation and Andrea knows Miranda is teetering on the edge. Their heavy breathing is the only sound in the room.

"Tell me." Please. Andrea bends to kiss the elegant neck before her, trying to chip away at the editor's unbreakable resolve. The hand on Miranda's sternum takes a heaving breast and rolls its straining tip between her fingers.

Miranda tries to thrust against Andrea's stilled hand, but the brunette slides the hand on her breast to her navel to hold her still. Another displeased sound escapes the editor's throat, and she feels full lips curve upward against her skin.

Miranda lifts up a hand and tangles it in brown locks, holding Andrea to her. She turns her head and takes those smirking lips in a hard kiss.

Lips and teeth leave a hot trail across Andrea's jaw. The editor bites down, but not hard enough to leave a mark. Miranda never leaves a mark where others can see.

"Andrea," Miranda tugs the brunette's earlobe with pearly teeth, "please…" Her hands tighten in Andrea's hair and against her thigh. "Don't leave me this way." And the editor, who demands everything in no uncertain terms everywhere, pleads in bed. It leaves Andrea feeling powerful and privileged; and it always makes her acquiesce.

Today is no exception. Hands resume moving in practiced, familiar motions across heated skin. It's only moments before deity and Andrea's name are exclaimed with equal fervor and passion. And, a sated Miranda slacks against Andrea.

It's a mutually satisfying arrangement.

Andrea's not sure when that stopped being enough. She kisses a sweaty temple and holds Miranda until her breathing is normal. The young woman tries to ignore the heartache she feels overshadowing the moment, but it's numbing her limbs and she has to escape.

Andrea kisses Miranda's cheek softly, tenderly before slipping out of her bed.

Hazy blue eyes follow the journalist through the room as she picks up and puts on her discarded clothing. Andrea is used to the faraway gaze and the silence; sex makes Miranda sleepy.

"Andrea, where are you going?" The question is unusually clear for the half-asleep state the editor is already in.

"Home," Andrea replies with her back turned, slipping her shoes on. It's odd to use that word and not mean the townhouse. "I have an early morning tomorrow and I didn't bring an overnight bag with me today." Excuses. Flimsy ones at that. But, the young woman needs some space, to think, to decide.

Andrea looks back at the half-lidded blue gaze directed her way, and she's torn. The request almost stumbles out of her mouth again, but it sticks in the back of her throat. Thick and heavy and choking. She can't ask Miranda again, not tonight.

She smiles but she's unsure if it even reaches her lips. "I'll call you about dinner on Friday."

Miranda doesn't protest. A cold dread spreads across her chest as Andrea slips out of her bedroom looking like she may never return.

The cold bite of night air feels good against Andrea's still heated skin. She walks a few blocks before hailing a cab; walking around at midnight is a bad idea no matter the neighborhood.

The cabbie is chatty. He talks nonstop, not needing her input, but Andrea doesn't mind. It's a soothing backdrop to her inner musings.

The reel of her mind projects their first real meeting. Andrea remembers the moment, the muffled sound of the party on the other side of the door closing them off from prying eyes and ears.

Andrea had been sure at the time that Miranda was going to murder her in some gruesome way and have Nigel clean up the mess. Thinking back on it now makes the brunette want to laugh; she couldn't have been further from the truth.

Miranda had stared at her for what seemed like forever but must have only been a few seconds. "I find myself thinking of you often and longing for you. I would not have it so."

The statement had short circuited Andrea's brain. "Excuse me?"

The next words out if the editor's mouth had made Andrea's knees buckle in utter shock. "Would you like to meet me this weekend and expel this desire I have for you?" Miranda had waited—only barely patiently—for an answer.

"Let me think about it." Had been the best she'd been able to come up with.

It had apparently been a satisfactory answer because Miranda exited the room with a signature "that's all" over her shoulder.

Andrea jolts back to the cab when the driver knocks on the divider. She pays and walks slowly up stairs to an apartment she hasn't been to in several days. She can only hope she has clean laundry; she really does have an early morning tomorrow.

The journalist leaves a trail of clothes from her bedroom door to the bed; she's too tired to throw pajamas on. But, in bed, she tosses and turns and can't shut her mind off.

Flopping onto her back with an exasperated breath, Andrea allows her mind to wonder.

She clearly recalls the long days she had spent agonizing over what to do about Miranda's proposition. The outcome had been inevitable. Her curiosity and interest had been completely captured, again, by the woman with eyes like blue fire.

If Andrea concentrates hard enough, she can still feel the terror that had churned in her stomach as she knocked on the townhouse door that first time. Her inner dialogue had run rampant with doubt as to whether she had heard the editor correctly, and if so, if she had understood her meaning and intention. The door had swung open before Andrea had the opportunity to flee.

They had just as quickly fallen into bed. But, Miranda's itch ran deeper than one night could satisfy. And, they had fallen into a routine. Andy would have called it friends with benefits, but they weren't really friends; they both just happened to be unbelievably compatible in bed.

Andrea turns and punches the pillow beneath her angrily. If only things could still be that simple: great-no-strings-or-sneaky-emotions-attached sex.

It had been casual and easy. But somewhere along the line, something had changed. Andrea remembers the first time she had stayed in Miranda's bed a whole night and woken up next to the editor. There had been hesitance and slight awkwardness but it had been mostly pleasant. Looking back on it now, the young woman is certain that's where her emotions began to get muddled up with their casual arrangement.

"Of course I had to go and ruin it by falling in love with you, Miranda," Andrea whispers to an empty room.

She flops back and stares sightlessly at the ceiling. The moment when they had exchanged keys to each other's homes had been uneventful. The keys were convenient for their arrangement. Andrea can still taste her own nervousness when she handed the key over to Miranda; it had meant a great deal to the journalist, regardless of how exactly the editor had received it.

Their nights had turned into days together. Which had eventually included Miranda's daughters. And, sometimes, especially of late, when Andrea spent more days at the townhouse than at the apartment she paid rent, their nights weren't all about passion and desire.

That little fact made Andrea ache with the disappointment of unfulfillment. They were in love. Right?

Andrea throws an arm over her eyes in a weak attempt to stall her thought. Eventually she falls into a fitful sleep.

She dreams of Miranda.

Miranda is in the middle of a run-through when her cell phone erupts in a unique ringtone. She shouldn't answer, but she hasn't received a text, email, or call from this particular caller in several days. She's beginning to worry.

She dismisses everyone for a fifteen minute recess they all look much too pleased to be given. She answers the phone with her usual brusqueness. Miranda has never had the best phone etiquette.

"Hey, Miranda," the editor can immediately detect the weariness in the voice, "can we move up dinner on Friday a few hours?"

"Why?" Miranda doesn't mean it to come out as sharp as it does, but Andrea has made her worry. She had not realized until that moment the mood the days-long silence has put her in.

There's a hesitant pause and Miranda can almost see Andrea biting her lip and taking a fortifying breath. "I have a date that I'd like to be on time for."

It's said in a nearly incomprehensible rush, but the words bounce loudly and clearly in Miranda head. Her immediate reaction is to hang up. She refrains. Barely.

"Andrea," Miranda feels the coolness and indifference of her dragon mask slip into place, "don't let us be a hindrance to your date night. Please," the hissed sweetness is anything but sincere, "enjoy your night without worrying about the inconvenience of our weekly dinner."

The editor ends the call before a response is even formulated.

She sits deathly still, ignoring the pain in her chest, and ignoring the jealousy gripping her in its cloying fingers. Miranda silently watches the time wind down from the fifteen minutes she gave her team.

She stands and opens the door to allow everyone back in a full five minutes early.

Miranda feels like today is a good day for heads to roll.

Andrea bounces nervously on the balls of her feet. She stands before the black door of the townhouse debating whether she should use her key or knock.

When the twins unexpectedly open the door, she feels equal measures of relief and dread.

"Hey, munchkins, where are you off to in such a hurry?" Andrea asks noticing their overnight bags.

"Dad's," is the identical reply.

"But," Andrea remembers the schedule of custody, "it's not your dad's weekend."

"Yeah, well," Caroline lengthens both words, definitely annoyed at having whatever plans she had disrupted, "since you're acting like Stephen, we have to go to dad's until the fallout clears."

"What?" The journalist's confusion is evident even to the teenagers.

"Fix it," Cassidy seems just as grumpy, but she's always gentler, "please."

The girls move in quick, agitated strides to the car waiting for them. Andrea thinks that perhaps she shouldn't have taken her little white lie so far.

She enters Miranda's house and seeks its owner out.

Andrea opens the door to a room she's come to think of as theirs and it's like she's stepped back a few years into a Paris hotel room.

Miranda is sitting on her settee wearing the same gray robe she'd been wearing that night in Paris. Her feet bare, her face clear of make-up, and her eyes dry but with the evidence of recent crying clearly evident.

Andrea's heart flutters in her chest; Miranda cares.

"I'm surprised you have the time to drop by and keep your date waiting," it's a cold whisper and Miranda doesn't look at the journalist.

"I don't," Andrea approaches the editor carefully, "have a date." She kneels before Miranda, taking cold hands between her own warm ones. "I needed to see if this meant more to you than just a casual fling."

"And they call me the manipulative one," Miranda's tone heats in anger.

"I was desperate," Andrea's voice is supplicative, "I want you to expect more of me than casual sex, just like I want to expect more than that from you."

"What do you mean?" Miranda's still angry but it's warring with the relief flooding her.

"How about love?"

"Love?" Miranda sputters out the word.

"Yes, Miranda. Love"

"That's what you need from me?" Miranda's voice holds unbelief. "You need me to tell you that I love you?"

The phrase, even coated in a question, makes Andrea's heart jump and then fall painfully. "No," she shakes her head sadly, "I need you to feel it."

"Where is this all coming from?" Miranda now sounds tired.

"Oh, I don't know, Miranda, maybe from the fact that all we do is fuck." The editor visibly cringes as if Miranda slapped her in the face. "You don't ever take me out to dinner or out of the four walls of this house or my apartment."

"I left that decision to your discretion," Miranda sounds as close to baffled as Andrea has ever heard, "It's very fashionable, at the moment, to come out in my world. And more so, if the person on my arm is young and beautiful. So, it would in no wise be detrimental to my career. It would, in fact, propel me to untouchable status for the next few months. But, you run in different circles. And I know that exposing this to the scrutiny of your coworkers and bosses could be detrimental to your career." Miranda has put a lot of thought into her position. "So, if you're willing to risk the scrutiny, I'm willing to stand by you."

Andrea expels a long breath; that was definitely not what she was expecting. But, now that she'd started, she planned on finishing. "Why don't you ever leave marks on me where others may see them?"

"Do you want me to?" The surprise is evident in Miranda's voice.

Andrea blushes because she does want that. She wants to possess and be possessed of this woman wholly.

Miranda's voice pulls the journalist to the present. "No one questions me. Ever. Not even when I can't hide the marks you leave on me. But, you have a public face. And part of your job is presentation. So I don't leave marks where the people you interview can see and make erroneous conclusions of your character."

"I could cover them," Andrea counters with little conviction. She still has Miranda's nail marks down her back and mouth shaped bruises on her abdomen from days previous.

"No amount of makeup could cover them and scarves and turtlenecks only work in certain weather." Blue eyes sear the places where they land across Andrea's skin.

"Why haven't you ever told me you loved me when I've asked?" The brunette does her best to keep the hurt out of her voice.

"Andrea, you've never asked me to tell you that I love you." Miranda's lips are pursed and she seems to be rewinding their interactions in her mind. "You've never completed the request, so I've never known what you were asking." Her voice quiets. "Not with enough certainty…and I didn't want to assume because you've yet to say those words to me. I didn't want to push you away with too much too soon."

Andrea opens her mouth to interject that she most definitely has told Miranda she loves her, but her mouth snaps shut when she can't recall a single moment when she has verbalized the emotion out loud. The editor continues, watching Andrea with red rimmed eyes.

"I've allowed you into my life," Miranda's voice is trembling slightly, "I've given you my mind and body. I've shown you who I am. I've allowed you to know my daughters. I've given you full access to me, to everything I am. Why do you need me to tell you that I love when I've shown you in every way I know how?"

The revelation blows Andrea away. She sees it. And, she finally understands.

"My god…" She grabs the folds of the gray robe and pulls Miranda to her lips. Andrea puts every ounce of love and longing into their kiss.

Andrea decides at that moment that sometimes words aren't enough; actions are needed to convey the depth of emotion. Miranda has apparently always had this wisdom.

The kiss peters out naturally as their need for air overtakes their desire.

"But if you require the words, it's a small price," Miranda takes a deep breath, her eyes the color of a noon sky, "You, Andrea, have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love…" she kisses the young woman's forehead, "…I love…" she kisses a nose, "I love you."

Andrea stands and her hands pull Miranda flush against her. The meeting of their mouths this time is easy, languid but full of certainty that has previously been out of reach.

"Now," Miranda's eyes are closed as she pulls away slightly for oxygen, her face is bent in supplication, "please stay with me."

"Always."

"Why?" Miranda puts the Book aside and looks at the young woman seated across from her on the couch typing away frantically on the laptop propped on her folded lap.

The question makes Andrea lose her train of thought, her fingers freeze on the keys. She looks up at a serious countenance. "Why what?"

"Why do you love me?" The vulnerability is uncharacteristic.

"I don't know." Andrea closes her laptop and places it on the floor.

The frown that overtakes Miranda's face clues the journalist into the fact that she may have said the wrong thing.

"No," the brunette leans forward, "I mean, I don't know how to describe it."

"And you pride yourself on being a good journalist," Miranda sniffs haughtily but there's no real acerbity in her tone.

Andrea smiles widely and shakes her head. The editor never allows vulnerability to stay her tongue; she thinks perhaps it's impetus for the woman's fierceness. "That's one reason," the brunette unfolds herself and moves closer to Miranda, "your humor." Andrea licks her lips. "Your hair. Your hands. Your lips. Your eyes."

Miranda rolls said eyes. Andrea chuckles. She takes the editor's hands and kisses the knuckles slowly.

"I have an inexhaustible list of reasons for why I love you, Miranda." Brown eyes gaze with sincerity, with validation, at the older woman. "The way you are with your daughters. The sensitive heart you hide. The sadness that you carry because of your success. The way you love Patricia. The way you get sleepy after sex. The way you command. The way you plead. The way you move. The softness of your eyes when you're happy. The way you look at me like the world begins and ends with me. The way the edges of me dissolve into you."

Andrea straddles Miranda, her arms placed on either side of a white crowned head. "I could go on and on. That list gets a new addition daily. But those aren't the main reasons or the most important. I love you because it's you the one I love."

"That makes absolutely no sense." Miranda grips the young woman's waist.

Andrea shrugs. "It doesn't. It's not supposed to. It just is."

The hands on either side of Miranda's head migrate into white locks.

"I love you. And, words don't encompass the entirety of it," Andrea lowers her face to Miranda's, "So, let me show you."