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Andy Sachs manages to peel her eyes open, despite it feeling a little like they have been glued shut on purpose, and blink up at the unfamiliar but friendly enough face of a nurse. And blink she does, because what is she doing with a nurse?
“Nice to have you back with us, Andy! How are you doing?” She asks brightly, hands reaching up to do… something with one of the beeping machines attached to the pulse oximeter on her finger. Andy only just noticed it, and is briefly fascinated by it’s existence, wiggling it a little before she remembers that there was a question asked at all. How is she doing?
“Happy as a clam down here; whatever you gave me must be the good stuff, so I appreciate ya; sorry I didn’t catch your name?” she answers with a distinctly midwestern twang that she’d thought had been left behind in Ohio, cotton mouth, and the floaty feeling that everything is just fine. Probably she should be more concerned about what’s happening and everything but for the moment she’s content to go with the flow.
“Glad to hear it; I’m Gloria, we actually did meet when you were brought in but I don’t think you’re in the best state to remember much right now,” The nurse chuckles through her mask, and Andy grins dopily back.
“Happy to re-meet you then, Gloria,” Andy says, and before she can get to a single question about why she’s here, a very beautiful, very silky woman strides elegantly into the room like she is meant to be there, a phone pressed to her ear. Andy knows she’s gaping at her, but who can blame her? If this is her doctor she must have been in very good hands indeed.
“Yes, she’s awake,” the woman says, her voice so low and gentle Andy nearly strains to hear it, to whoever is on the other end of the call, “I’ll update you when I have a moment.”
The previously steady beeping from the machine behind her has increased rapidly, but Andy, trying to find a politer way to drag her eyes up the pale shapely calves that emerge from a sinfully well tailored black pencil skirt, to the silky blue blouse and then, oh god, her face, icy blue eyes behind glasses and perfect pink lips beneath a shock of swoopy white hair, and isn’t worried about it right now.
“Gloria?” She ventures, unable to tear her eyes away as the woman seemingly hangs up, “who’s this tall drink of water?” Which is not what she meant to say - or it is but more smoothly - but it has the benefit of making the drink of water in question turn her full attention onto Andy with a raised eyebrow and a little half smirk threatening.
Gloria only grins down at her, shaking her dark ponytail, “That’s Miranda.”
“Miranda. Wow. You’re beautiful, sorry if that’s inappropriate, but,” and in spite of her dry mouth, and her mother’s long time adamance that polite ladies do not whistle indoors, whistles at Miranda. For her part Miranda doesn’t seem offended at all, she only blushes a little across her perfect porcelain cheeks and bites back what Andy can only assume would be a fucking glorious smile. Hell yeah, Sachs has still got it. Gloria has no such compunction and nearly chokes on a laugh.
“I’ll take that under advisement, thank you, Andrea,” Miranda demures, shaking her head, but she gets close enough to skim her hand over Andy’s blanket covered ankle. Her name from those lips sounds better than it ever has, and Andy can’t seem to help it; she beams up at her. “How are you feeling?” She asks quietly, her whole face softening, and Andy feels her heart stutter in her chest even before the beeping sounds tick up again. She knows Miranda like this, recognises her gentle and caring even if she can’t quite place how.
“I can’t feel my arm,” she breathes back, suddenly aware that her left one is in some sort of sling and bandage, “but otherwise good. Did the doctor send you? Because you’re eye candy, I’m feeling better already.”
“I’ll just grab the discharge paperwork for you and you can be on your way,” Gloria chimes in, striding out of the room.
“I’m here to take you home,” Miranda replies easily, and Andy is absolutely willing to go wherever she wants to take her. She wonders idly what the billable line would be from the hospital for sending a literal dream to take her home.
“Whatever you say, gorgeous. You know where I live?” She asks gamely, pushing herself up with the hand she can feel into a sitting position. Or close enough to one.
“I do. You live with me,” She says, and now that they are alone, Andy is gifted with a quirk of her lips, a genuine smile. There is a sort of startled tenderness to how Miranda is looking down at her, as if she too can’t quite believe the words that have come out of her mouth are true.
Andy feels her eyes widen in delighted surprise because she just knows with a certainty that is rooted somewhere in her bones that Miranda is honest. “With you?! Dang! How did that happen?”
“Oh,” Miranda titters a little laugh, “that’s a very long story to tell. I suppose you… you showed up on my doorstep one night, and once I let you in, you just never left.”
Andy nods sagely. That makes perfect sense to her, after all how could anyone leave a woman like Miranda? But it does bring a more important question to the fore; if she’s not from the hospital…“Smart move from me, I’d do it again right now. And how do I know you?”
A gleam of something that makes Andy’s cheeks warm just to see it sparks to life in Miranda’s eyes, something smug and satisfied, but underpinned by such softness that she couldn’t look away even if she wanted to. “I’m your wife,” she says softly, and the hand that had brushed her ankle now curls around it, possessive. It’s not even on bare skin, but the heat of her palm is enough to send sparks through every point of contact.
“For real? You’re my wife?” Andy gasps reverently, unabashedly thrilled. What the actual fuck is her life?
“Mhm,” Miranda hums in corroboration, looking very pleased by Andy’s starry eyed response to the revelation.
She needs more information immediately, desperate to know everything there is to know about this dream she seems to have woken up in. “Holy shit! Woo! How long have we been married?”
“Clearly you come by your journalism honestly,” She says, rolling her eyes, but there’s such familiar fondness in the gesture that she can’t find it anything except endearing. This is her wife. “A long time,” Miranda answers with a tone so warm Andy could wrap herself up in it and stay cozy all winter.
“Amazing.” It really is amazing - she has a whole life that seems, at least in the soupy haze of joy she finds herself swimming in, completely incredible. She tries to construct a picture of it but her brain is not cooperating, all she can think is Miranda Miranda Miranda, and she just has so many questions. “We have kids?” She asks hopefully, because if not she’s going to suggest they get to making one asap. Andy would be very dedicated to the attempt even without the use of her left arm.
“We do. Twin teenagers. The girls will be very disappointed I haven’t recorded you like this for posterity, you know,” she sighs, seemingly a little disappointed herself that she hasn’t done just that.
“Oh my god. I hit the jackpot, sweetheart. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Our girls. And we kiss?”
“Most definitely,” Miranda all but purrs, and Andy can’t stand it anymore, she needs her closer.
“Wow. Come here, let me see your face,” Andy beckons her to join her, suddenly desperate to have Miranda as close as possible. Miranda stalks from the foot of the hospital bed to join her at the pillow end for Andy to devour with her eyes, which she does. Close enough now to see the little lines around Miranda’s eyes and mouth that are hidden by flawless make up, the slight smudge of a fingerprint on the metal arms of her glasses, the places where lipstick has been worn away by her tongue. She has stacked necklaces that fall on smooth décolletage and enough buttons open that from this angle Andy can see the top of a matching blue balconette bra underneath. The indulgent way she is looking at Andy, like there is nothing on earth that she wouldn’t do, wouldn’t give to her. No one else has ever looked at her like that.
“You’re perfect. Wanna turn around so I can see the rest of you? Bet you’re perfect all over.”
“Andrea,” Miranda almost scolds, but the hand she runs softly along Andy’s cheek tells a very different story. She leans into it helplessly, warm and content even before she spots the understated diamond ring and gold wedding band. It’s still somehow unbelievable that this goddess had agreed to be with her forever. Andy is her wife.
“We’re married? Wooooahhhh. I must’ve done something really right,” she says, still awed, reaching up to stroke Miranda’s knuckles, holding her fast against her cheek. Being held by her hands is a relief of some tension Andy hadn’t even been aware of consciously, the world itself set to rights by the prolonged contact. If this is how it feels to be touched so innocently, what must it be like to be like when they are touching her with intent? Andy can’t help the shiver that runs through her at the thought.
Miranda huffs a little laugh, but her gaze turns weighty with a tenderness that makes Andy’s breath catch. “You did, darling. You do. Every day.” It feels borderline religious coming from Miranda, like a confession of something held closely to her heart. Tears well, uninvited, in Andy’s eyes at the admission.
“God, we’re just really in love, aren’t we? I bet everyone hates us,” she sniffs, suddenly overwhelmed by the vastness of her feelings. With a hum of amused agreement, Miranda squeezes her cheek.
The rap of knuckles on the door announces Gloria’s return with the discharge papers, but she takes one look at the tableau they’re making, fights back the awwwww that her face telegraphs regardless, and leaves the pages at the foot of the bed before slinking back out.
“As I said; everyone wants to be us,” She murmurs, pressing a brief kiss to her temple, sliding her fingers through Andy’s hair, like they hadn’t even been interrupted at all. Like she has done it a thousand times before and will be doing it for the rest of their lives. “Let’s get you home, Andrea, hm?”
There is nowhere else Andy could ever want to be.