Balancing Act | R | The Devil Wears Prada
Title: Balancing Act
Prompt: insomnia, memories
Fandom: Miranda/Andy, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: chainofclovers
Rating: R
Word Count: 2084
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: I got a little (okay, a lot) emotional writing this. I had originally intended something different with the prompt, but it took on a mind of its own. I don't usually like to write something so angsty, so I hope you all like it.
-
When Andy Sachs was a young, hopeless romantic, she used to fantasize about afternoons such as these. She'd imagine a light rain tapping at her window, classical piano streaming from her stereo, and a lover coiled within her sheets. She couldn't have imagined a more blissful way to pass the day. In her impressionable mind, this would have been a state of euphoria. Heaven.
Andy has since grown up.
Brahms is on the stereo. Andy likes to listen to classical music when she writes: it helps her concentrate. Her lover, who exhibits a multitude of idiosyncrasies on an hourly basis, prefers not to make love in silence. If they've actually made it to a bed or a couch, as opposed to some flat surface in a semi-public location, she insists upon there being something on the stereo. Andy will never let her live down the time they made it to a staticy gospel station on the radio.
One of the speakers is broken; there's an unpleasant, crackling hum every few minutes. It hardly sets the type of mood that she'd hoped to achieve, but her companion doesn't seem to mind. That's a surprise in and of itself.
It isn't raining so much as it is storming. It's not a soothing, romantic storm. Wind is howling furiously and the rain is pounding so hard and so fast that she worries the window might burst. It's the type of storm that knocks out the power and leaves her fumbling in the dark for the matches and candles that she's never had the sense to keep handy.
It's also the type of storm that unsettles her a bit, but she would never be caught dead admitting that she was scared. She'll put on a brave front for as long as she has company; when her lover leaves, she will hide under the covers with her iPod.
It comes as no surprise to Andy that the lover of her former, idealized fantasy would be the most complicated element of all.
Her younger self had imagined some knight in shining armor -- some charming, polite gentleman of her dreams.
She never quite figured herself to be the type to dally in clandestine office affairs -- especially with her superior.
Miranda Priestly shifts beside her and smiles sleepily into the crook of her arm. How the woman can sleep through a storm like this is beyond Andy's comprehension, but it's endearing to see Miranda in such a peaceful state. It's rare. Andy enjoys every second of it.
The sheet is twisted across Miranda's lower back, leaving her naked torso exposed to Andy's lingering gaze. Miranda lies on her stomach, resting her head on folded arms. Andy stares at the dips and curves of Miranda's spine, reaching a tentative finger to trace its ridges. Her back is smooth and warm and Andy shivers with want.
Her fingers trace circles around a dark brown freckle that adorns the left side of Miranda's back. It's just an ordinary freckle, nothing remarkable, but to Andy it's a perfect imperfection on an expanse of creamy alabaster skin that she wants to soothe with her tongue. She wonders if Miranda even knows it's there.
Andy begins to scratch lightly, gently raking her nails in random patterns across the smooth planes of Miranda's back. She traces a heart and scratches their initials within it. Miranda hums a soft sigh of approval but does not open her eyes.
This moment is perfect, despite the broken stereo and dismantling storm.
She smoothes the pad of her thumb along Miranda's spine, easing away any tension that may not have previously been released. Miranda once again groans in appreciation. Andy smiles.
And then her heart stops.
An inch or two above the dip of her shoulder blade is a pair of fading scratches. They are subtle, as if their infliction had been accidental. They're not fresh enough to have been given by Andy. The impressions are also slightly wider than her own fingernails, and too wide to have come from Miranda's own hand.
The realization hits Andy like a freight train to the abdomen.
It's stupid to get upset. Miranda's married. This is an affair. It started out as a one time thing. Every time seems like a singular occurrence and then it escalates and occurs again. Each kiss is always a promise of more kisses.
There were never any promises of fidelity. How could a married woman possibly promise such a thing? Sure, Andy is completely faithful to Miranda. She could never dream of being anything but. Men and women have come onto her more times than she can recollect and it doesn't matter; she's not interested in anyone who isn't Miranda. She resents everyone who isn't Miranda. She looks down upon everyone who has the bad taste not to be Miranda.
So while Andy is faithful to Miranda, Miranda can't exactly be faithful back. She's married. She's got wifely duties or whatever. The thought makes her cringe.
The images assail her at once. She's seen Stephen a smattering of times, so it's not difficult to conjure his likeness. Andy curses her memory, rues the day she ever set eyes on Miranda's husband. Because now…now she can imagine his mouth on Miranda's, can imagine his hands on her shoulders, pushing away bra straps and creating faint scratches like the ones Andy's discovered. It makes her sick to her stomach.
Does Miranda experience pleasure with him? Are her climaxes authentic, or does she fake it? If she comes, does she cry out his name?
It would be so easy to pretend that Miranda never experienced this kind of pleasure before, but is that delusional? It must be.
What if he's really in love with her? What if, despite the fight that she witnessed from the stairs, and the recurring business trips and the late nights, Miranda is the woman he's waited all his life for? And what if Andy is ruining a marriage because of her presence? It's easier to hate him. It's easier to pretend that he's just a stick figure -- a mindless, faceless body who shares a life with Miranda. But to imagine him as a person -- a flesh and blood human being with emotions -- makes this all seem so much more horrible than it is.
It's not horrible though. Nothing is horrible about her feelings for Miranda. Against all rational odds, Andy and Miranda were lucky enough to find some sort of happiness with each other. Andy can't speak for Miranda, but she has to believe that Miranda must care about her as more than just a sexual partner. If it was just sex, would Miranda fall asleep in her arms afterwards? Would she allow Andy to hold her? Would she bring Andy's favorite flowers?
She remembers the first time Miranda gave her flowers. She hadn't been expecting them; she'd been horny and ready for sex and nearly tackled Miranda when she walked through her door. The flowers slowed her down. When Miranda presented them, she watched her face expectantly, as if she were worried that Andy wouldn't like them. She has several of the flowers still pressed inside a book of poetry.
Andy knows that, for her, it's about something shockingly similar to love. Maybe that’s what makes it so difficult: knowing that she's falling in love with the most unattainable woman in New York. There's no rule stating that Andy cannot experience these feelings for a married woman, but where can it possibly go? Is it pointless to dream that Miranda may divorce her husband in order to freely pursue a relationship with her? Does Stephen know that Miranda's affections reside elsewhere? Does she let on that she doesn't love him? Is their marriage going to continue this way forever, with both parties ignoring the rift between them?
Her heart feels as though it's in a vise. It grips and twists so hard that she feels like she may faint. She could die of a broken heart in this very bed, with Miranda Priestly lying naked beside her. What would happen if that were the case? Miranda no doubt would slip back into her clothes, make an anonymous phone call to the police, and return home to her husband. Andy might as well stay alive.
Andy stares at the window, watching the fat raindrops make dizzy patterns on the glass. She feels a little like crying and a little like laughing. She does neither and instead dips her head down to kiss the small of Miranda's back. It's soft and tastes faintly of sweat. Andy finds it extremely sexy that Miranda sweats like normal people, especially when she exerts herself.
She definitely exerted herself earlier, and Andy blushes and grows slick between her legs at the memory.
She remembers the fervor with which they made love. She hopes that focusing on sex will help reign in Andy's thoughts; sex always makes her feel better. When she's feeling low, she'll give herself an orgasm to lift her spirits.
She can't distract herself now from the thoughts running rampant in her mind. She recalls the way that Miranda looked at her earlier that afternoon -- the way she always looks at her. When Miranda casts her eyes upon Andy, she feels like the single most beautiful creature in existence. The force of Miranda's gaze is like a caress, worshipping her over and over again. The proof of her feelings is in her eyes.
Miranda stirs then, twisting her body so that she's lying on her side. She curls around Andy, threading an arm around her waist and resting a leg between her own. She rests her head on Andy's shoulder.
Andy accommodates her, allowing Miranda to nestle completely into her body. Her heart feels as though it's going to burst. How can something so blissfully perfect threaten to end at any moment? How can Miranda go home to a husband who might not lie awake simply to stroke his fingers through her hair? How can Miranda risk losing all of this just to continue a life of obligation?
She doesn't want to be the other woman. She wants to be THE woman. She knows with absolute certainty that it may never happen and that this fleeting affair may end at any moment. She's okay being the other woman as long as she is Miranda's woman. She'll endure. She has to. She can't give this up.
Nevertheless, the acknowledgment of this fact makes her want to cry. It's pointless to cry when she has a choice. It makes her feel marginally better to know that she has some power.
Andy knows with absolute certainty that it will kill her a little bit every day to remain the dirty secret of a married woman. Miranda won't talk about her to her children. Miranda won't take her out in public. Miranda won't stay for more than one night. She knows that this is all she's been relegated to: stolen afternoons and weekends sent from the gods when Stephen and the twins are out of town.
She has to learn to be all right. Miranda is giving her something relatively huge in the fact that she's here at all, and Andy has to appreciate that. She has to be okay with the anxiety and the sneaking around and the secrets. She has to be okay knowing that there may very well never be a way out of this tunnel. She has to learn how to walk this fine line.
So this is it. Miranda sleeps on her shoulder, wrapped around her as if they have molded into one being. There may be no hope that this affair can end in Andy's favor. But the other alternative, the one that involves Andy walking away and never looking back, hurts infinitely worse. While it will devastate her to watch Miranda leave and go back to her husband, it will completely destroy her for this to end. She needs Miranda like she needs sunlight or oxygen, and she'll be damned if she willingly lets go.
All Andy can do now is pray that Miranda won't let her fall.
Miranda mumbles something in her sleep, something incoherent. Her lips brush against Andy's bare skin and she shivers. She sweeps a silver strand of hair from Miranda's brow and leans down to kiss her forehead. Seeing Miranda like this, so vulnerable in her arms, fortifies Andy's belief that she's making the right choice.
---