Prada Fic... A Resolution
A/N: Last of three stories building to Miranda/Andy, because cold-hearted fashionistas and idealistic cub reporters need love too, dammit.
Summary: Miranda goes to Paris and Andy's life gets even more complicated. Finishes the trilogy started in Finding and continued in Becoming, so reading those first would probably be helpful.
Rating: Yeah... PG-13 again. Sorry.
Disclaimer: Duh. Not mine.
Embracing
by: Hayseed (hayseed42@gmail.com)
As she turned the key in the lock, her cell phone started to ring. Swearing, Andy dashed into her apartment, dropped the grocery bags on the floor and began groping around in her purse for her phone.
For a brief second, she thought for certain it would be Miranda but then remembered Miranda was thousands of miles away, probably attending some fashion show or another. Or, you know, sleeping, given that it was about four AM over there.
Not that she was keeping track or anything.
She finally found her phone and flipped it open. "Hello?" she said, grabbing the bag with the milk and carrying it into the kitchen.
Nothing.
"Hello?" she asked again, digging the milk out and putting it into the fridge.
She was pretty sure she could hear someone breathing.
"Look," she said, continuing to unpack her food, "I've got stuff to do, so if you're just some whacked-out sex freak randomly dialing numbers and hoping for a good time, I've got to tell you, I'm not your girl."
The breathing was steady and even.
"Don't think I won't star-sixty-nine your ass," she continued conversationally. "Prank calling is so last millennium."
More breathing. Not even panting -- just soft, steady breaths. If she hadn't been so sure she was talking to a deviant, the sound might even have been kind of soothing.
"And, honestly..." She walked back into her den to fetch the other bag. "It's just too freaking late to deal with this sort of thing. I know perverts keep weird hours, but there's something to be said for common decency. I could have been asleep, or in the... oh, God, I'm playing right into your hands, aren't I?"
Why the hell hadn't she just hung up? Was she that pathetic? That talking on the phone to a total nutjob was actually a form of entertainment?
Shaking her head, Andy just listened to the breathing for a few beats. She'd never had a phone call like this before, and she wasn't really sure about the etiquette involved.
"And to think," she muttered. "I went all nuts looking for the phone because I thought it was someone worth talking to."
There was a sharp intake of breath and the guy slammed the phone down on the other end of the line.
Andy stared at her cell. "Weird..."
"Look, dude," she said angrily into the phone. "I'm not interested in playing out your sick little fantasies any more."
"That's a shame," Lily replied in a dry voice, "because I have this one involving you, that really hot guy on CSI, and about a gallon of cottage cheese."
"Sorry, Lils," Andy replied. "I picked up a heavy breather about four days ago. He's called every day since then, but he never says anything and apparently gets off on me telling him crap like what I need to buy from the store and about the last book I read. Oh, and by the way? Ew."
She kind of wished she could see the expression on Lily's face. "Boy, with filthy stuff like that, I'm surprised all the phone sex pervs aren't just ringing you off the hook." She laughed, but Andy didn't join in. "Just star sixty-nine him, Andy. That'll take care of it."
She was silent. She couldn't explain why she hadn't done it yet, why she didn't do it the first time he called.
After a long pause, Lily started telling her about her newest exhibit, and Andy accepted the subject change with relief. "It's still hard to believe you live in LA now," she said.
"Hit the six month mark last week," Lily said. "Although, I've got to say, I'm so over summer. I mean, in the beginning, getting to wear all my cute flip-flops and sit on the beach was fun, but now... if anyone asks, I never told you this, but I miss New York winters. The snow, the nip in the air..."
"The grey piles of slush," Andy chimed in teasingly, "the icy patches on the sidewalks you never see until it's too late."
"You are not allowed to judge my homesickness," Lily said in a stern tone. "I don't judge you on your choice of friends, do I? By the by, how is the Dragon Lady?"
Andy rolled her eyes. "I told you to stop calling her that. And I guess she's okay -- she's in Paris for Fashion Week stuff right now. I haven't talked to her since before she left."
"I thought you two were a step away from swapping best friend bracelets or something like that. Don't you hang out, like, every day?"
"First of all, the day Miranda wears a friendship charm is the day I dye my hair hot pink and start calling myself Lola," she said with a snort. "And secondly, we do not talk every day. We just happen to work across the street from each other, so it's easy to have lunch together. But I know she's really busy in Paris, and I don't want to bother her. If she needs me, she'll call."
Lily's voice was mocking and sarcastic. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much," she said. "I just think it's weird that you're such good friends with someone who used to give you nervous fits if she raised her eyebrow wrong."
Shrugging and then realizing Lily couldn't see her, Andy just sighed. "You and everyone else."
She looked at the clock.
Three-fifteen.
Sighing, Andy realized she was doing it again and forced herself to close her eyes.
Normal people were asleep at this hour.
Even her sex-prowler-prank-caller was probably asleep. Maybe he'd had a busy day -- it was the first time in more than a week he hadn't called.
Clearly, however, she had the willpower of a fickle two-year-old, because she just couldn't keep her eyes off the damned clock.
Three-sixteen.
She had an early morning appointment with a mayor's aide, a lunch meeting with her editor, and an afternoon in which she had to finish not one but two pieces for the upcoming issue. She needed to be asleep.
But her eyes remained stubbornly open, glued to the clock.
Three-seventeen.
And it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Miranda's plane touched down at JFK less than three hours ago. It really didn't matter that Andy hadn't laid eyes on Miranda for the last thirteen days, or even talked to her at any point during the last ten.
Insomnia just happened sometimes.
Three-eighteen.
She almost got up. If she wasn't going to sleep, she could at least do something productive.
Or find some stupid infomercial on TV. Maybe it would help lull her into oblivion.
No, the last thing she needed was to fall asleep in her den. She wouldn't hear her alarm clock and might oversleep.
Three-nineteen.
With a huff, Andy threw off her blankets and stormed into the den anyway. Turning on the television, she flipped through the channels several times before settling on an old black-and-white movie she didn't recognize.
Miranda liked old movies. She once told Andy that she wished she'd been around for the glamour of Old Hollywood. Frankly, Andy had been a little surprised. She didn't associate Miranda with mundane things like black-and-white movies on cable. But then, she didn't associate Miranda with things that weren't Runway, so she was probably being unfair.
She dozed, then.
When she woke up, the movie had changed into some grainy '70's flick with a relatively fresh-faced Paul Newman attempting to put the moves on a braless ingénue with feathered hair that Andy didn't recognize.
And someone was knocking on her door. Loudly.
Wincing, dragging a hand through her hair, Andy forced herself to walk over and peer through the peephole.
Miranda?
Blearily, she looked over at the clock beside the television. Four-ten.
What the hell did Miranda want at four in the morning?
Confused, Andy opened the door. "Um..." she said inelegantly. "You're... you're back."
"I am," Miranda said with a nod.
Andy expected her to come sweeping into the apartment, probably saying something cutting about the fact that Andy's coat was in a crumpled heap on the floor, next to about three pairs of work shoes, flung carelessly in a corner.
And there were dirty dishes in her sink. Crap. She was going to have to keep Miranda out of her kitchen somehow.
For now, though, Miranda seemed content to linger in the doorway. "How was Paris?" she asked after a while, unsure as to what to do next.
"Paris?" Miranda echoed, blinking. "Fine."
It became clear that she wasn't going to say anything else, so Andy just nodded. "Okay. And, uh, your flight was all right, I guess."
Miranda's mouth opened and then snapped back shut.
"Would--" Andy's voice was squeaky and unnaturally high. "Would you like to come in?"
"To come in? Well..." For a moment, Miranda looked absolutely lost.
"Yeah," she said, opening the door wider and stepping to the side. "I can... I have coffee somewhere. Although it's nowhere near as good as what you can get in Paris. I mean, their coffee is really spectacular, isn't it? I remember this one café, man, it was--"
She finally stepped into the room. "Andrea?"
Strangely nervous, Andy broke off and gave her a curious look. "Yeah?"
"You're babbling." But it didn't sound nearly as insulting as it often did. In fact, there was something behind it that Andy was tempted to label affectionate.
"Sorry." Closing the door, she made her way back toward the couch, hoping Miranda would take the hint and they could both sit down.
But she didn't. She just continued to stand in the middle of Andy's den, discomfort written all over her face. For the first time, Andy realized Miranda was still wearing traveling clothes -- a blouse and skirt combination badly wrinkled from the flight -- and looked exhausted.
Andy couldn't take her eyes off her.
After three full minutes of silence -- Andy counted the seconds off on the clock -- she couldn't stand it any more. "Uh, Miranda, don't take this the wrong way, but what are you doing here?"
"My flight was horrible," Miranda said matter-of-factly. "The food was wretched and Emily failed to make sure that all children were seated either three rows forward or three rows back. And there was an infant. What sort of parent takes a newborn on a transatlantic flight?"
"Um..." Andy really didn't want to point out that none of this came even close to answering her question.
"And the canapés at the closing event were all wrong," she continued, not missing a beat. "My hotel suite had freesias in the sitting area, I packed a Lagerfeld from last season and was forced to wear it, and the airline lost one of our makeup kits for three full days."
In an effort to figure out where Miranda was going with this, Andy just offered the best, friendliest smile she could manage at four in the morning. "But the shows were good, right? I mean, that's what it's really all about, isn't it?"
Miranda's eyes narrowed, and Andy could see faint worry lines appear around them. She had the sudden and totally inappropriate urge to touch Miranda's cheeks, smooth the lines away. Miranda shouldn't have anything to worry about.
"But... but I'm sorry all that stuff went wrong," Andy said, soldiering on bravely in spite of Miranda's bizarre behavior. "If it helps, my week pretty much sucked, too."
She wasn't going to admit to missing Miranda, because some things just went too far.
"Two months ago, we attended one of those ridiculous plays you enjoy so much," Miranda said as if Andy hadn't spoken at all.
"Huh?" The non-sequitur took her completely off-guard.
Although now she thought about it, she did remember bullying Miranda into going to a Broadway show with her one evening. She got free tickets because the Mirror's reviewer had the stomach flu. And the play had been pretty dumb, but Miranda's unintentionally hilarious commentary throughout the whole thing had made the night worthwhile.
"If I had attended with anyone but you, I would have walked out in the first ten minutes," Miranda said thoughtfully.
Andy was still completely mystified.
"In fact, Andrea, as long as you're there, almost any event becomes tolerable." Miranda's cheeks pinkened and she closed her eyes. "Which is why I just spent an entire week talking myself out of calling your editor and demanding you be sent to Paris to cover Fashion Week for that tasteless newspaper of yours."
Her stomach plummeted and her knees felt like they were going to give out any second. "Well..." she said weakly. "That's what--"
"You may not believe this, Andrea," Miranda interrupted, opening her eyes so she could glare at her, "but I am not unfamiliar with the conventions of friendship. In my experience, mere friends are able to function independently from each other."
She gasped and stared at Miranda with wide eyes. "Miranda, I..."
"That's all." Flapping her hand, Miranda just walked out of the room, slamming the door as she left.
Giving in, Andy slid to the floor, curled her arms around her knees, and started to cry.
Six weeks later, Andy's phone had gone completely silent. No Miranda. No Lily, although that wasn't as surprising, as Lily's schedule was absolutely insane these days. Even her sex freak had stopped calling.
But she wasn't going to think about why. Just like the day she spent her morning sobbing her eyes out on her living room floor. She wasn't going to let herself admit that it was because of what Miranda had ripped away from her.
It was easier to just bury herself in work. There was plenty to go around.
And sometimes, it had its perks. Not quite like Runway, but perks all the same.
Today, for instance. Some association was giving away a series of humanitarian awards, so the staff drew straws to see who would get to go. Andy thought it was kind of funny -- a group of adults getting all excited over a chance to dress up, eat rubber chicken, and watch some Hollywood actor get an award for patting a malnourished baby on the head.
Of course, she drew the winning straw.
So here she was, tripping around in stilettos, camera in one hand and notebook in the other. Anne Klein offered her a vague smile as they plucked champagne flutes from the same tray. "You look very familiar," she said. "But I can't place it."
Andy grinned sheepishly. "I used to work for Miranda Priestly."
"That's it!" she said, snapping her fingers. "I remember you picking up samples." They sipped at their champagne and shared friendly smiles. "So, which magazine are you working for now?"
"None," Andy replied with a little shrug. "I'm a reporter for a newspaper these days."
Anne's expression was openly confused. "Well, congratulations," she said, drifting off in the crowd.
Too late, Andy realized she should have asked her for a quote and frowned to herself. Finishing her champagne, she plunked the glass on a nearby tray and made her way over to the tables, trying to find her name card.
She paled as she found her name at the same table as Miranda Priestly.
"Oh, fuck," she muttered.
"Andrea," a voice said dryly from somewhere over her left shoulder, "I see we're destined to meet this way."
She rolled her eyes. "Go away, Emily. I'm not in the mood."
"Oh, but I can't, you see. I have to check the table arrangement for Miranda." Moving to the setting containing Miranda's card, Emily began examining the silverware, polishing a fork or two on a towel she pulled out of her bag.
"You know she doesn't care about stuff like that," she said with a sigh.
Emily raised her eyebrow in an uncanny imitation of her boss. "Clearly you haven't been paying attention for the last six weeks," she said. "Besides, I do what Miranda tells me to. Shouldn't you be scampering off to the press table or something?"
In reply, Andy just pulled out her chair and sat down. "I'm sure there's been a mistake," she said coolly, "but I've got to sit where my card is, don't I?"
She managed to offer Emily a smile she was pretty sure was patronizing, but internally she was screaming.
How the hell was she going to get through this?
Especially as Miranda swept up, practically threw herself in the chair across the table from Andy, and began picking up random flatware, poring over each piece as if it held the secrets of the universe.
Andy felt her face burning but didn't speak as the other people sat around the table. A really famous actress asked her flatly who she was, but Andy just gave her a blank stare, not willing to take her attention off Miranda long enough to answer the question.
Lunch was served, and Andy was fairly sure she ate it, but she had no recollection of what it actually was. All she remembered about the meal was that Miranda kept her eyes firmly on her plate, only looking up now and again to exchange bland pleasantries with the man seated at her right. Andy had a vague memory of him during her time in Paris but couldn't put a name with the face.
As the dessert plates were cleared, Andy fumbled with her fork, coming close to stabbing her server in the hand. "I'm sorry," she said, feeling stupid.
Miranda looked up then. Locked eyes with her and everything. Her cheeks reddened and her lips pursed.
Andy almost ran out of the room right then and there.
Amazingly, she kept her seat. "Miranda," she said in an uneven voice, pasting a fake smile on her face, "how has your day been?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Terrible."
"Oh..." Andy began.
But she didn't have a chance to finish her sentence. Before she could formulate another thought, let alone express it, Miranda was out of her chair and walking across the room. She saw her say something to Emily that caused Emily to glare at over at Andy.
Miranda stormed out, then.
"Boy..." the famous actress said thoughtfully, "she must really be having a bad day."
The phone rang and Andy was afraid to answer it because she recognized the number. In the end, though, she figured it would be better to face up to Miranda sooner rather than later.
"Hello?" she asked cautiously.
"What did you do, Andrea?" Emily shrieked into the phone so loudly Andy had to hold it away from her ear.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Emily said furiously. "She's been a nightmare for almost three months. Ever since Paris, as a matter of fact."
Andy sighed. "What does that have to do with me?"
"Well, obviously, you did something to make her angry," she said in such a condescending voice that Andy almost hung up. "All I know is you two were having your little... lunches or whatever, and she was fine. Now you're not, and she's absolutely beastly."
"I--" She didn't know what to say.
Not true. She had a fair idea of what to say, she just had no intention of saying it to Emily.
"I don't care what you did wrong, Andrea," Emily said viciously. "All I care is that you make it go away. Apologize, offer her candy and flowers, whatever. Just fix it!"
There was a click as she disconnected, leaving Andy sitting at her desk listening to a dial tone.
She was proud of herself. Her hand barely shook at all as she knocked on the front door of Miranda Priestly's townhouse.
And she wasn't here for Miranda. Or for Emily either.
She was here because she and Miranda were both acting stupid and it was time to stop. If they were such good friends, why the hell had they been ignoring each other for the last three and a half months?
Why did Miranda showing up at her doorstep and professing to spending a week missing her have them so bent out of shape that Andy had stopped sleeping and Miranda had apparently started terrorizing anything within shouting distance? Up to and including office supplies, if what Nigel told her about the incident involving the stapler and the computer monitor could be believed.
However it worked out, it was going to stop today. Andy wasn't going to leave until she straightened everything out.
Resolve firm, she banged on the door again.
One of the twins cracked it open and offered her a shy smile. "I'm not supposed to let you in," she said quietly.
"Is that what your mother said, Caroline?" Andy asked. Her former skill at identifying the twins had come back somewhat.
"She's sad all the time now," Caroline answered, dipping her head in a slight nod. "When she comes home from work, she doesn't do anything but watch TV with us. She doesn't talk like she used to."
"Well..." Andy said hesitantly, not quite sure what to say to that.
"But she's never sad when you're around," the girl continued in a thoughtful voice. "She said you're not invited, but I kind of miss you, Andy."
She narrowed her eyes. Caroline and Cassidy had improved somewhat on acquaintance, but they still weren't sweet, innocent kids. The doe-eyed act was a little over the top. "What am I going to have to do to get you to let me in, Caroline?"
"I want to play soccer in the park league in the spring," Caroline said with absolutely zero hesitation, confirming Andy's suspicions. "Mom thinks that we should only do 'ladylike' stuff, and Cassie doesn't want to play anyway, so I've never gotten to do it. But you can talk Mom into it."
It could have been worse. She knew from first-hand experience that the twins excelled at worming all sorts of schoolwork and toys out of Miranda's assistants. Frankly, she was a bit surprised -- Caroline's request was almost reasonable.
Sticking out her hand, Andy gave a firm nod. "Deal, kiddo. Now, let me in before I freeze and something vital falls off."
With a giggle, Caroline shook the waiting hand and then opened the door completely, letting Andy walk into the foyer. As casually as she could, Andy pulled off her coat and put it in the closet, next to one of Miranda's furs.
"She in the living room?"
Caroline nodded. "We'll be upstairs, doing homework."
"Or trying to listen through the air ducts," Andy corrected, not unkindly.
Eyes widening in an effort at innocence, Caroline did her best to look wounded. "We're doing homework, I promise. We've got a really big math test at the end of the week."
"Yeah, I bet you do," she replied, watching Caroline flounce upstairs in an indignant huff. Fortunately, Andy knew if she and Miranda kept away from the kitchen area, not much would be audible upstairs.
Besides, their conversation probably wouldn't be very kid-friendly. Even kids as worldly and jaded as Miranda's.
Caroline was true to her word -- Miranda was sitting in an overstuffed chair, staring blankly at a page in the Book as Andy walked in. She didn't even look up.
In fact, to get her attention, Andy had to actually clear her throat.
Miranda's head jerked up and she paled under her makeup.
"Um... hi..." Andy said awkwardly.
She just rolled her eyes. "Caroline," she muttered angrily.
"It's not her fault," Andy replied in a bland voice. "She haggled pretty well, actually."
"I suppose you are here on behalf of my staff?" Attempting a diffident air, Miranda flipped a page in the Book.
"Nope," Andy said. "As a matter of fact, I find the thought of you all but chasing Emily around the office, waving a letter opener, to be one of the funnier things I've ever heard."
"Well, I am glad I could be a source of amusement to you, Andrea," she snapped.
With a sigh, Andy just seated herself in the opposite chair. "I came here because we're both acting like little kids about this," she said, that weird feeling in the pit of her stomach starting up again. "And I'm tired of it."
"Over what?" Miranda looked up from the Book just long enough to shoot her a vicious glare. "Our association has become an inconvenience, and so we have chosen to end it."
"See, that's the thing, Miranda," Andy began, feeling truly nervous for the first time that evening. "I'm not exactly sure what happened. All I know is that one day, I was looking forward to asking you about all the stupid things Donatella did during Fashion Week, and the next, if I tried to call, you'd hang up." Leaning forward, she pasted on her best 'curious look.' "Miranda, what did happen?"
The Book slid from Miranda's lap and hit the floor with a soft thud. "I--"
"We're friends, aren't we?" she asked earnestly, leaning even closer. "I mean, I miss all the stuff we used to do. I miss those horrible lunches you'd make me eat because you wanted to try a new restaurant. I miss you calling and telling me about Serena's latest plans to wrap a model in toilet paper and try to do an Egyptian-themed shoot. I know we weren't exactly having sleepovers and braiding each other's hair every night, but I thought we sort of had a good thing going."
Miranda murmured something unintelligible.
Andy went for it, her voice breaking as she spoke. "And I... I can't stand the thought of never seeing you again, Miranda. I just..." She swallowed. "You said that you spent the whole time in Paris wishing you could talk to me? Hell, Miranda, I spent the whole time you were in Paris sitting by the phone, praying you'd call. I started up conversations with a crank-call pervert because I wished he was you! Every time he called, I'd pretend I was telling you all about my day, and I'd just talk."
Her nostrils flared as she stared at Andy. The color was high in her cheeks, and she looked for the world like she wanted to say something but just couldn't.
"I... you can't walk away from me, Miranda. That's not fair!" Andy cried. "You can't make me get to know you and get to like you and then just pull back like it never happened. How can you do that to me?"
"I didn't..."
She realized then how close they were. She'd inched forward, and Miranda had inched forward, and if Andy moved any closer, they were going to bump into each other.
It was easy, then, to do it.
Before she could talk herself out of it, Andy did it. She pressed her lips to Miranda's.
An electric sizzle ran down her spine, and she realized in that moment that she'd been waiting to kiss Miranda since the day she handed her a business card.
More to the point, Miranda was kissing her back, lips curving, mouth slipping open to--
It was too much.
Andy jerked herself away, shame and apology written all over her face. Miranda's eyes shot open, her expression indecipherable as Andy all but ran out of the room.
She made it out the front door and down the steps before a hand wrapped around her wrist.
"Don't you dare," Miranda breathed, her voice as furious as Andy had ever heard.
"Miranda, I'm--" She gave her arm a half-hearted tug, realizing she wasn't going to get it back any time soon.
"You come into my house, you say all these... things, you do... what you did, and then you think you can just run away?" Her voice rose a note. "Again?"
She tried again. "Miranda, I'm really, really--"
"You prattle on and on about fairness and loneliness. You selfish girl. Did you never stop to consider what you were doing?" Miranda's hand tightened around Andy's wrist, and she winced as fingernails bit into her skin. "What we were doing?"
"I never--"
Miranda's expression was equal parts cunning and livid. "No," she said, cutting her off yet again. "After your little performance this evening, I find that very doubtful."
"Honestly," Andy practically wailed. "I didn't know! I didn't realize!"
"Then," Miranda said contemptuously, finally releasing Andy's wrist, "you really are stupid."
"I thought..." she began, giving her arm a rueful rub -- Miranda's nails left angry red marks. "I don't know. I don't know anyone else like you, Miranda," she admitted with a laugh that was more than halfway a sob. "I didn't have anything else to compare it to."
Arms folded in a defensive posture, Miranda just sighed. "I suppose I have not behaved any better," she said.
It was the closest thing to an apology Andy was going to get.
She took it. "Well, I guess I ought to leave you alone now, Miranda, since that's what you want. I'll..." Andy trailed off. If she tried to say anything else, she was going to cry. Tears were falling even now, and she turned to walk away, hiding her face from Miranda's view.
"Do you mean, Andrea," Miranda said slowly as Andy took several steps toward the street, "that you still intend to run off after all?"
Andy couldn't believe what she was hearing. Sniffling, she turned around.
Miranda, standing there with an impatient look on her face, her hair ruffling in the wind. With a start, she realized Miranda had actually thrown on Andy's coat to come outside, and it clashed horribly with the sweater she was wearing. Tousled and frustrated, Miranda Priestly was the most beautiful thing Andy had ever seen in her entire life.
"Really?" she asked dumbly, swiping at her runny nose.
"Besides," Miranda continued airily, "you forgot your coat. You're going to be hypothermic before you get two blocks down the street."
This couldn't be happening.
"I just..." Andy's mind kept skipping around, unable to settle on a single thought for more than an instant. "Really?"
Miranda finally appeared to notice Andy's agitation. "Andrea," she said in a softer tone, "if we have established anything tonight, I think we can safely conclude that we have some significant misunderstandings to address. And not only am I unwilling to discuss our intimate affairs on a city sidewalk, I think your lips are turning blue as we speak."
Her nose was a little numb, but she couldn't do anything other than grin. "Intimate affairs?" she echoed teasingly. "That sounds promising."
Miranda just rolled her eyes, but she did take Andy's hand as they walked back up the stairs into the townhouse.
"You're joking," Miranda said, disapproval in her eyes.
Andy just frowned. "Come on, Miranda. There's nothing wrong with athletics. You let them do ballet, right? Isn't that just as intense?"
"Ballet is a feminine activity..."
"So the feminist movement just sort of happened around you, didn't it?" Andy asked sarcastically. "She just wants to play soccer -- it's not like she's going to shave her head and start calling herself 'Bubba.'"
"Still..." Miranda didn't sound anywhere near convinced.
With a triumphant grin, Andy presented what she considered the final nail in the coffin. "I played Pee-Wee hockey for years when I was a kid, and I turned out pretty damned girly, didn't I? When I found that spider in the bathroom last week, I screamed and made you come kill it. If that's not feminine, I don't know what is."
Eyebrow raised, she looked like the very epitome of skepticism. "You? Played ice hockey? I find that difficult to believe."
"Oh, believe it, baby," Andy said in a husky, playful voice. "I was convinced I was the next Wayne Gretzky. My mother was convinced I was going to wind up toothless and brain damaged."
"Are you sure you didn't?"
Growling, Andy just tackled her, grabbing her wrists and forcing them into the mattress as she straddled her. "Did you just insult my intelligence?"
Miranda smirked up at her. "I would never be so rude as to doubt your brilliance, Andrea."
"My self-preservation instinct prevents me from responding to that statement," Andy said, relishing the feel of Miranda's warmth underneath her.
They were quiet for a moment, just enjoying the comfort of being together.
Four months ago, as Andy seated herself anxiously on Miranda's couch, she couldn't have imagined they'd end up like this. Not on that train-wreck of an evening. Miranda had confessed that the thought of coming to rely on Andy the way she had was terrifying to her, and Andy had admitted that she was unsettled by how much she wanted to just be near Miranda, all the time.
They worked on it, trying to find a happy medium.
There were fights, of course. Horrible screaming matches during which unforgivable things were said and both parties skulked off to lick their wounds in angry silence. But they always came together and talked it out, and the fights were decreasing in intensity.
And everything else more than made up for it. Miranda's skin, slick against hers. Lips and tongues and teeth and nothing but sensation. Laughing together in the dark, Miranda teasingly threatening to cut Andy's hair in her sleep because it almost always wound up in Miranda's mouth before the night was done.
The lunches when Miranda smirked at her over a plate of something blue and unidentifiable, and the afternoons when Andy retaliated by forcing Miranda to try something unsanitary from a street cart or snack machine.
Miranda doing an uncanny imitation of her latest (and apparently dumbest) assistant attempting to take a phone message, and Andy recounting the interview she did with a high-ranking city official who had a horrible attack of diarrhea as soon as Andy started asking questions about the school budget.
Even the simple feel of Miranda's arm pressing against her own as they leaned against each other during the evenings, Miranda paging through the Book as Andy flipped through television channels, making snide comments until Miranda tossed the Book aside and pushed Andy back up against the arm of the couch.
Andy had no idea anything could be like this. And not with Miranda Priestly, of all people.
Which was why after a few minutes of pinning Miranda and gazing at her to her heart's content, Andy was not surprised at all when Miranda frowned and asked, "Soccer? Really?"
"That's what she wants," Andy confirmed.
It may have been almost four months after the fact, but a deal was a deal. She could take Caroline to the park this weekend and get her registered for tryouts.
Besides, the thought of Miranda attending a rec league soccer game was absolutely priceless. Andy was planning on bringing a video camera.
"They're growing up," Miranda said quietly.
Dipping her head, Andy pressed a kiss to her neck. "I've heard that happens sometimes with kids."
Miranda gave her a 'be serious' cough. "They'll be in high school soon."
After a moment's thought, she moved up to Miranda's ears. "Don't think I'm not totally impressed with the glory of motherhood and everything," she said, "but I'm trying to accomplish something here."
Miranda shuddered and Andy let out a smug laugh.
"You know, Andrea..." Miranda said, beginning to trail her hands up Andy's sides. "I seem to recall something you said almost a year ago that always struck me as odd. Something about love sonnets and my earlobes."
"I can't be held responsible for all the ridiculous things I say," she replied, squirming a little as Miranda hit a ticklish spot.
The hands promptly slipped under her pajama top. "True," Miranda said. "You do say a lot of stupid things."
"Oh, gee whiz, that's a big turn on, Miranda." She made a show of attempting to roll away, but Miranda's hands were firmly clamped around her hips. "Tell a girl how dumb she is."
"I often wonder what I see in you." But the tone was affectionate, and Andy just grinned.
"Yeah, I can't even keep a sex pervert interested," she said, sliding her hands over Miranda's ribs, enjoying the slippery feel of the silk she was wearing. Idly, Andy unbuttoned the first couple of buttons on the top. "He called for, like, ten days, and then nothing. I guess he didn't care about my recipe for risotto after all."
A weird expression on her face, Miranda suddenly stiffened.
"What?" Andy asked curiously. "Sorry. I guess my old crank caller isn't really what I'd call bedroom material either."
She'd never admit it, but sometimes Miranda's insults were kind of a turn-on. But if Miranda knew, she'd never let Andy live it down.
Not, of course, that she was currently in any state to comment on it. A deep blush had spread across her cheeks, and she was completely still, her hands falling away from Andy's sides.
Wheels started spinning. "Miranda..." she drawled. "There's something you're not telling me."
The blush spread to cover her whole face.
And it clicked. "You didn't..." Andy exclaimed. "You're not..."
"I told you," Miranda said haughtily. "Did I or did I not expressly mention that I spent that entire week wanting to talk to you?"
Her lips twitched but she managed to hold her tongue.
"But I couldn't talk," she admitted, sounding much less lofty now. "All I could do was listen to your voice. I would lock out the rest of the world and just listen to you. Emily thought I was going senile."
Miranda looked openly afraid at the thought of what her admission might cost her, but Andy was way too busy fighting off happy tears to even attempt to tease. "That is..." she said lowly.
Miranda flinched.
"The sexiest thing I've ever heard in my entire life," Andy said in a grave tone.
Lips curving upward, Miranda offered her one of those smiles. Those light-up-the-world-everything-is-beautiful smiles that Andy lived and died for.
So, naturally, she couldn't help but kiss it.
"I think," Andy said decisively once their lips parted, "that's worth at least one sonnet about the shape of your ears."
"Oh, really?" Miranda purred, running her nails briskly down Andy's back.
She thought for a second. "A couplet at least. I wasn't ever any good at poetry.
"Perfectly shaped pearls of white/Teardrops of milk I long to... I can't think of a way to end it. Rhyming is hard, you know."
Rolling her eyes, Miranda just pushed Andy up and effectively flipped her over. Andy felt the air whoosh out of her lungs as Miranda landed on top of her, laughing with sheer delight as Miranda's lips began their assault.
I can't believe we're doing this, she thought to herself happily.
FINIS