A Fine Line 1/1
A Fine Line 1/1
Title: A Fine Line
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: : Characters are property of the film and their distributors. I do not claim to own them.
Summary: Strange things happen when Andy has a run in with her former boss at an event. Andy hates fashion and expensive shoes, and Miranda Priestley. But sometimes, Andy loves fashion and expensive shoes...and Miranda Priestley. Set two years after the event of the film.
For ubiquitousmixie
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I must admit, I can't explain
Any of these thoughts racing through my brain
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Andy never particularly liked dressing up when she was younger, or through the awkward years of adolescence, or the even more awkward high school years, or even in college, when she stopped caring, really, because she only cared about being educated and successful and taken seriously. She wanted to be a lawyer. And then--well, that didn't quite pan out. In any case, there was no room for caring too much about trends. She never experienced what she likes to call The Princess Complex, although, she does remember a few Strawberry Shortcake themed birthday parties. Those were not too bad.
Not that she was ever a tomboy or anything. Her lack of coordination and substantial subconscious negligence of avoiding large, walls or street posts or on more than one occasion, actual human beings, kept her from doing that title true justice.
When she began working at Runway, she adjusted. She hated it at first. The extreme feminist in her hated the objectification the heels and the designer clothes brought on--but she learned. Slowly, but surely, she learned.
It wasn't about that. It wasn't about that at all. After all, how could she feel objectified when she was working for the most powerful woman in fashion publishing? Miranda ruled with an iron fist, contradicted every chauvinistic, sexist perception of the female population and she did it well.
Andy's perception of the fashion world changed drastically and she seemed to blossom.
Still, when it was over, it was nice to be a conformist again. It was nice to put on a pair of jeans and a pair of boots that weren't made of expensive Italian leather and weren't four inches high or cost more than her rent.
Although, she does miss it at times.
She had kept a couple of pieces from all those runway shows she was lucky enough to attend. She'd even purchased a couple of pieces herself, and she'd longed to wear them somewhere nice. They rested in her closet instead, beautiful, and some unworn.
Her career took off quickly after Runway. Abnormally so. Opportunity, literally, came knocking one day, with an offer from The New Yorker. A bike messenger delivered an urgent letter to her door on a Saturday morning, six months after her departure from Runway. She was afraid to respond and for a week, kept the letter pinned under a letter A magnet on her fridge. Exactly eight days after the nerve wrecking delivery, another arrived. This one, from The New York Times.
And then, a second notice from The New Yorker.
Hyperventilating, she finally called the first offer, hoping to god it wasn't a cruel joke from someone who hated her with a seething intensity. It was most certainly a joke.
Six months after that, she was moving into a new apartment, closer to work, in a nicer neighborhood.
This apartment is bright and big, and the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen are three separate entities. It even has a terrace that wasn't initially meant to be a fire escape. She loves her apartment. And she particularly enjoyed furnishing it.
The walk in closet was quickly filled. Fearfully at first, with only a couple of designer names, until she gave in completely to her newly acquired tastes and purchased items that she just "couldn't live without".
One day, she and Doug split a bottle of wine and had themselves a little dress up party in there. They played "Guess the Designer".
Work is hectic, and challenging. But she is absolutely in love. With writing anyway. No particular person with a specific title exists just yet. She likes it that way. Her career is time absorbing enough. Time absorbing and amazing.
Sometimes, when she has a free minute to catch her breath at the office, she stares at her computer screen, and considers sending a thank you e-mail. She knows for a fact that The New Yorker and The New York Times didn't just happen to hear about her.
For over a year, a saved draft has sat in her "Save for Later" e-mail folder. It changes sometimes. She adds and deletes sentences. Sometimes, it's shorter, sometimes longer. Sometimes it's explicitly formal, and sometimes, she writes as if she's writing an old friend. But she never sends it. One day, she hopes, she will know that it's perfect and Miranda will be pleasantly surprised to read 'Andy Sachs' in her inbox.
Andy dresses for Miranda Priestley every time she goes out. It's an embarrassing truth she would never admit to anyone, but the truth nonetheless. Every time she goes to a prestigious event and she puts on a new pair of shoes, or a borrowed Valentino gown--her paycheck isn't that hefty just yet-- she wonders, if they were to run into each other at one of these events, would Miranda approve?
But Andy catches herself and she begins to hate the fashion tyrant in couture attire. For changing her from the image she was so content with, for making her want more out of life than just writing. There is a thirst within Andy now, for more. For beauty. Anywhere she can get it. Art, fashion, music. Even her writing has been affected by this sudden longing. And it is a longing. It's evident in her Articles and her short stories.
It's difficult to hate her for too long, however. Andy considers the woman to be a genius. A cruel one for the most part, but a genius nonetheless. With an eye for beauty that is immeasurable. Andy has the feeling that Miranda would have looked at one brushstroke of a Ad Vinci canvas and know immediately that it would be The Mona Lisa.
Tonight, it's a mixture of both. There is a fine line between love and hate, and Andy is walking it on the tips of her toes. She is walking it in a Chanel dress that's been sitting in her closet for two weeks. It's long, sleek, in a cream colored embroidered lace that she couldn't possibly leave behind in that store. The sleeves are short and the cut in the front is a modest v-neck. The skirt falls into a short train against the floor and she feels like Grace Kelly.
Her hair is a couple of inches shorter now, her bangs have grown into long layers that she parts to the side. She's careful with the jewelry. She wants to show off the dress tonight. So she adorns it with pearl earrings and a matching long string of pearls that hangs just past her breasts.
This is definitely a formal event. It's a release party of some sort. For a book she hasn't read and doesn't intend to, and a writer she doesn't care about or even whose name she remembers. She didn't pay much attention to her boss aside from "you have to be there" and "dress up". Truth be told, she isn't really in the mood to be nice or anything. So she keeps to herself for the most part, saving her pleasantries for the bartenders, who seem to enjoy her request to keep bringing her alcohol until the bar is drained.
She's careful with the drinks. Careful with spilling anyway. She looks really good in this dress and she would cut her arm off before getting anything un-washable on it. During a particularly boring speech, by some publisher or other, she turns to her right, towards the wall she's nearest to, to stifle an excruciatingly heavy yawn that she's been pushing way back for about five minutes now. And then, there she is.
She's not sure if she's imagined it. She has in the past. When she's past her two drink mandatory limit and it's almost time to leave, she allows herself a minute of fantasizing of the perfect moment in which they would meet. It would be pleasant and they would chat and have a late--late--drink together, something that hasn't happened just yet. This isn't one of her fantasies, though. This is really happening, and she's afraid she doesn't have the capability or sobriety to fully comprehend it. Her eyes widen at the silver haired woman she spots at the far end of the room.
Miranda is watching her closely. And she seems--amused. She's got that glint in her eye--the glint Andy has seen in the past, when Miranda is getting ready to unhinge her jaw and devour someone's dignity whole. It might be pure, unadulterated entertainment for all Andy knows.
Rather than go for 'hate' right away, she offers a smile and shrugs as if telling her she can't help it.
To Andy's surprise, Miranda begins to move. She practically floats through the crowded party and goes untouched by even a single shoulder. It's always amazed Andy, the near fear respect she demands with her presence alone. People part ways and look in the other direction as soon as they see her coming. Miranda hates unnecessary human interaction and people will avoid displeasing her at any rate necessary. Everyone around her seems to automatically know that the petite fashion mogul prefers to not be spoken to or touched. The fact of the matter is, she's probably paid her dues. She's earned all of this.
Yeah, Andy is far from the hate side of this situation at the moment.
She realizes she's smiling. And then gasping as Miranda rounds a particularly large man, and a see of alabaster skin is suddenly revealed to Andy's eager eyes. She had been waiting, unknowingly, to see what she's wearing. Waiting to see what amazing piece she's picked out for the night.
And amazing, it is.
Her dress is a silver number that is anything but simple or quiet, or anything that can possibly blend into the background. It's bold, its sleeves fall off both shoulders, it's fitted way low until it has no choice but to drape from the knees down and Andy finds that she can't stop staring at the woman's chest.
In contrast to Andy, Miranda isn't afraid of accessorizing. Diamonds are her rock of preference tonight. A white diamond necklace, with a yellow one hanging in the droop of it for show, and matching yellow diamond earrings. More white diamonds on her wrist. No rings, Andy notes as the woman is only a couple of feet away now.
She exhales unknowingly in utter awe and self consciously, she lifts her half empty martini glass to her lips, welcoming the bitterness of the gin with a quiet hum.
She can smell Miranda's perfume now. Something fresh and amazing and mind numbing. Andy's heart is racing.
"Hello, Andrea." Dear god, her voice is as silky as she remembers it.
Andy's knees buckle. She thanks god for the long dress.
In less time than she's ever thought of anything in her life, she forces herself to act as a normal person would act, were they to run into a former boss. You know, given that they don't suddenly feel like they want to pull said boss into the nearest bathroom stall and--
"Hello, Miranda," She says and is very surprised and very proud of the steady tone her voice has adopted. Very adult.
"This is the dullest party I have--EVER attended." The other woman says, looking around the room with a detachment and nearly offensive disinterest that only she can get away with.
But her tone is light. It surprises Andy and she giggles, "Yeah, it really is, isn't it?"
"Well, I guess the party must fit the person it's celebrating..."
Andy tilts her head. Was that a joke? She shrugs, "I suppose they make up for it with their guests."
The flattery flies right over Miranda's head, it seems, as she continues to regard the crowd with contempt.
"That was a compliment," Andy clarifies.
"Yes, I know." Miranda says flatly.
Andy rolls her eyes. The woman hasn't changed a bit. She wouldn't be Miranda if she had.
After another moment, Miranda turns and looks at Andy as if she's only noticed her standing there. She scans her from head to toe. Slowly. Andy feels as if she's on fire with every inch of her the piercing blue eyes sweep over. A brief nod lets Andy know that she does, indeed, approve of the dress.
"Chanel." The older woman states.
"Yes," Andy nods, then inquires smartly, "Versace?"
Turning her chin to the side, Miranda smirks briefly and answers, "Yes," Then adds, "I'm impressed."
"With what exactly? That I know vintage Versace when I see it or that I actually own a piece of clothing you approve of?"
A dry chuckle escapes Miranda and she says softly, "Both."
"Well, some things stuck, what can I say."
"Hmm."
"Along with the PTSD I experience whenever I hear a phone ring."
Miranda smiles broadly now, "That was a joke."
It's an earnest smile and it's the most beautiful thing Andy has ever seen.
"It was."
"It was almost funny."
When Miranda turns back towards the podium, Andy thinks, most definitely, she MUST be drunk, because Ms. Priestley seems to be blushing and just a little bit tipsy.
With a hint of deep amusement, sprinkled with just a little bit of shock, Andy asks incredulously, "Miranda, are you DRUNK?"
Miranda turns sharply in her direction, burning holes into her with her glare. Shit.
Instead of chewing her out, however, the woman shrugs and says a simple, "Yes." Then adds as she moves to stand closer to Andy, "Do you blame me?"
Pulled from the initial surprise, Andy laughs again, "No, I suppose I don't." She clears her throat and takes a stab at the one thing that has been on her mind for over a year now, "I've been meaning to write you--to thank you."
Miranda's gaze averts and focuses on the current speaker making his way to the small stage, "For what, Andrea?"
"For--" Andy searches for the right words and comes up with nothing specific, "--everything."
"I assure you, I do not know what you are referring to."
Andy's mouth opens to try again, but judging by Miranda's sigh, indicating intense displeasure in talking about it, she decides against it, "Well, my fashion sense, of course."
Miranda smirks and looks at her again. She inspects her once more. Andy could swear she's checking her out, but she doesn't say it.
"It needs work," Miranda says, then shrugs, "But I suppose you haven't absolutely failed in that department tonight."
"Thanks, Miranda," The brunette replies blandly.
"So, how is--your new job?" Miranda asks, holding Andy's gaze with actual interest.
She doesn't exactly know what to do with that. How do people do this? Grasp Miranda's interest? And once they have it, how do they keep her interested? "Well--it's great," She finds herself smiling in spite of herself because she means it. She adores her job and to that, she adds, "It's actually more incredible than I could have imagined. I'm in love."
"In love with your job--" Miranda repeats ironically, a halfway to condescending tone in her voice, "--how interesting."
Andy rolls her eyes, "Is this where you warn me that I'm becoming you?"
"No--" Miranda replies quickly, "--this is where I tell you that you are becoming yourself."
"Do you know who I am, Miranda?" She doesn't know where the question comes from, or the reason for it. She doesn't know if it's an invitation.
All Andy knows is that everything has stopped between them and the conversation has taken a very sudden, very different tone. She sees what can only be described as desire in Miranda's eyes. And to say that Andy desires Miranda would be the weakest description in the English language. She wants to own her.
The older woman's chest rises and falls as her breath becomes deeper, and Andy feels a familiar heat start to build in her loins.
"Miranda, would you like to come to my apartment for a drink?"
"Yes."
****
Andy doesn't like scotch. She hates it, in fact. The flavor--it's so strong, it isn't even a flavor. It burns. There's no way to "acquire" a taste for it and she just doesn't get it. But she keeps it around. Just in case--someone wants to drink it.
Miranda's drink is a Scotch. Neat. Andy doesn't understand it one bit, but she knows this information. And she knew it when she purchased the two hundred dollar bottle currently hidden in her closet. In fact, she was thinking of one person, and one person only, and when she brought it home.
When she asks Miranda to wait in the living room and disappears into the bedroom, she doesn't ask why. Andy is grateful. Explaining why she keeps alcohol in her bedroom when a small, but well stocked liquor cabinet sits promptly in her living room would be difficult. She reappears with the bottle and she showcases it proudly.
Miranda smiles. Her grin just barely visible. And waits for Andy to pour her a glass, which she waits to sip, even though her mouth is probably watering at the thought, until Andy has fixed herself a Corona, lime slice slipped securely through the mouth of the bottle. They stand out in the terrace, sipping their drinks in silence.
It's cold out. But neither wears a coat. Neither needs one.
About ten minutes in, Miranda looks over at the young brunette beside her and asks quizzically, "Is that good?"
"Hmm?" Andy asks, perplexed, then, following Miranda's line of vision to her beer, she smiles, "Yeah. You've never had one?"
"Not in a very long time--" Miranda says plainly, sipping her own drink.
"Here--" Andy says, offering her beer.
Miranda seems scandalized, as if she's just been offered a tall glass of tar, "No--" She shakes her head, "--no thank you."
"Oh, come on. No one is here to see the great Miranda Priestley drink straight from the bottle. Take it. Come on. It's delicious."
"Do you know how many carbohydrates are in that?"
"No." Andy says bluntly and pushes the bottle into Miranda's free hand, taking the scotch from the other. "Drink." She orders. Miranda's eyes never leave hers and for a second she wonders, "Do you want me to get you a glass?"
The older woman rolls her eyes and tilts her head back as she takes an unexpectedly long swig.
Andy is riveted. By the bubbles in the bottle as she gulps the crystalline liquid, by the sweat of the ice cold bottle trickling down the body of it and parting in different directions as it hits Miranda's fingers, by her lips pressed against where Andy's have been, the lime hovering and bobbing up and down with every gentle swig, dangerously close to falling out and into the woman's mouth, and most importantly, by the arc of her neck, shifting as she swallows. Smooth, perfect skin stretched deliciously. It turns Andy on more than anything ever has, and she's surprised by how strongly she desires this woman whom she thought she hated for a very long time.
"Hmm--" Miranda says observantly, licking her lips of the remaining taste of beer while Andy mirrors her actions, but for very different reasons, "--not bad."
When Andy speaks, her voice is hoarse, "--don't take this the wrong way, but--"She pauses to clear her throat and is surprised to be cut off by Miranda.
"Whenever someone says 'don't take this the wrong way, but', chances are--I will take it the wrong way."
Oh wow, Andy thinks. Miranda is so drunk, and her cheeks are so pink and her lips--are nearly red and slightly swollen from drinking, and Andy can't breathe very well. She smiles anyway and forces the suffocating air out of her lungs, "I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted--" Miranda's eyebrow raises, "--that the way you drank that just now was very sexy." She had intended for that to come out and be sexy and flirty, but she can't help but feel inadequate. Miranda has always had that effect on her. No matter how great she always was at her job, she felt somehow not--good enough and complementing her, even in her own apartment, both of them drunk, feels out of line.
"Me, chugging down cheap beer is sexy to you, Andrea?" Miranda asks almost purring, her eyelids heavy as she waits for an answer.
Andy turns to look at her and laughs again, "You were hardly chugging." It's comical, really, the very thought of Miranda doing a keg stand. Andy laughs at the image. No way in hell was Miranda ever that girl.
Miranda doesn't say a word. She simply gazes back, shifts her weight off of one foot, to the other, her hips swaying in half circles twice, slowly as she regards her with an interest Andy is not used to. "Try the scotch," She says softly. Invitingly, her eyes fleetingly moving from Andy's face to the glass, and back up. How is it possible, for one tiny person to posses so much sensuality? Every intricate movement, every single mannerism, oozes confidence and a lithe sexual energy to be envied and desired.
Andy makes a face against the vibrating sensation throughout her body and shrugs her shoulders, "I don't really like it."
A chortle escapes the other woman and she rests her hip on the metal railing, in the distance, an ambulance siren fades away, "You have a full bottle of some of the best scotch and you don't really like it?"
"I-" Andy starts, looking at the brownish liquid in her hand, "--honestly? I think I bought it for you."
Miranda's expression is unreadable. Is she amused, touched? Andy can't decipher it, so she explains, "I know you must have made a phone call to the New Yorker for me. All this--the nicer apartment, in the nicer part of town, the job--my career--my ...life really, it's good because of you." She looks down at her feet, because it's true. And this is everything she wanted to say in that e-mail. Funny that it took seeing her face to face for it to seem right, "And when I got my first paycheck, the first thing I paid with it was the lease to this apartment--and this scotch--" She lifts the glass before her gaze, meeting the blue stare only momentarily before looking out at the seemingly peaceful city lights, "--I thought you would like it. I didn't know you would be standing in my apartment drinking it though--that was a fantasy I couldn't possibly indulge in."
There's a pause as a soft breeze swoops over them and Andy shivers. She sighs, "My life was good even before this--when you were in it anyway." The confession comes without hesitation and without permission and Andy becomes suddenly stiff. She did not mean to say that. Not tonight.
"But you--" Miranda trials off.
Andy looks over slowly and smiles sadly, her voice so small, so hesitant, she doesn't recognize it, "--left. I know. I--couldn't stay and continue to let you be my life, when--I needed to be someone's life too."
Miranda licks her lips again. She sighs, looks the brunette up and down, the way she's been doing numerous times tonight. Giving away nothing, “I’ve got to say, I don’t--exactly fancy myself anyone’s fantasy.”
“I don’t know, I know quite a few people who fantasize about you on the daily--” Andy stops and blushes deeply, covering her embarrassment with a weak cough.
"Try the scotch." Is Miranda‘s next reply.
Andy blinks.
"Go on, try it," She repeats, "You purchased it for me, now I want you to try it."
"Miranda, I really don't--"
"Try it." It's not sweet or invitational this time. It's a stern order. And for some reason, Andy is obliged to obey the always gentle savagery in the familiar voice.
She lifts the glass to her lips, hoping it's the same side Miranda's lips were pressed upon minutes before, and takes a very small sip.
"Don't try to gulp--" Miranda says flatly before Andy can drink, "--it's not beer. Taste it, let it wash over your taste buds."
Andy does. She tastes it slowly, letting the scotch blanket her tongue before it slips down the back of her throat at its own accord. It's smooth. It's strong still, but it's different than the last time she tried scotch. Oakey, and dark. Delicious. It almost tingles all over her body.
Her surprise gives her away and she sees a hint of a reinforced superiority in Miranda's demeanor, "I asked you to do your job, I never asked you to make ME your life."
Andy blinks again. "I had no choice," she says quickly, the strength and bold flavor of the scotch suddenly translating into her reaction.
"Why?" Miranda asks before Andy can even finish her reply.
"Because you--I didn't know you could do that. I didn't know you could do that to me--" Andy snaps, suddenly on edge as the buzz of the single taste continues to daze her, "--I thought you could do that everyone else but me--make them cater to your every need, make them take the stairs because you prefer to ride the elevator alone--I thought I was different. I thought I loved Nate. Because Nate hated you and we talked about you like you were--this crazy woman--" Miranda glares briefly but she remains silent as Andy continues to ramble, "--this crazy, impossible, evil woman, only the more we talked about you, the more and the longer I knew you, I wanted to tell him to stop.." She takes a breath in brief recollection, "...I stopped talking about you and started worshipping you and then I started to hate him because he didn't know you. He didn't know the assholes you had to squeeze through to be--to be YOU, and then--that night in Paris--I loved you. You, in that bathrobe, looking at me like you--you NEEDED something. I was hoping you needed me," She drinks from the glass again, this time taking a bigger gulp and tossing it back like a shot of tequila. It works this way too, "But you don't want to need people. And--I needed you to need me so badly, I couldn't handle it. Suddenly, I was just like everybody else. I wanted to do everything--that you wanted, as impossible as it may seem. And I couldn't just keep doing that because I know myself and I would be--this stupid girl happy enough to just get your coffee if it meant I got to see you--" She takes a deep breath suddenly as if she hasn't taken one during her entire speech, "I know better now, I think. I didn't need you to need me exactly, I needed you to want me. There's a difference." She dots her sentence with a smile and a lift of her glass in a silent toast.
“Well--” Miranda nods at the glass in Andy’s hand, “--the truth serum works after all.”
“Wh--”
"Are you done?" Miranda asks. She isn't being vicious, there is no malice in her question. In fact, it's rather soft and she waits as Andy nods before adding, "Andrea, you are NOT like everyone else. You are not like anyone else, in fact." Her eyes are hard when she says it, like she wants to bore it into Andy's skull, "Never think that again."
Inexplicably, Andy laughs, "You can't control what I think."
Something resembling mirth flashes in Miranda's eyes, and she replies casually, "Try me." Then, "A resignation letter might have been nice, Andrea. A two week's notice. I wouldn't have tied you to your desk to keep you from leaving--"
"Miranda, if I would have stayed after Paris, you might have had to have security haul me out of the building."
"I suppose time heals all wounds. Matters of the heart, especially."
"Yeah..." Andy says, in more of a tone that says 'no, this heart is not healed'.
"Give me my scotch back," Miranda orders sternly and they exchange drinks.
"Please?" Andy suggests mockingly, but Miranda is already drinking. She wonders what her former boss is thinking. She wonders if she thinks Andy foolish, or childish. No time to dwell on that, in any case, "Do you want to see my closet?"
It's a lot less impressive than Andy thought it would be, once standing in the suddenly terribly small walk in closet that used to once be mesmerizing. It has four walls and racks and room for every single thing she owns. Yet, suddenly, with Miranda standing in there, holding her expensive scotch, wearing her expensive jewelry and that gown that puts all others to shame, Andy feels unbelievably insubstantial and--cheap.
"It's--you know--" She stammers, looking around the now impressive space that would take up all of a tiny corner in the Runway closet, and possibly Miranda's closet.
Miranda, who is moving around, slowly, glancing at colors and fabric. Everything from her neatly folded jogging pants on a top shelf, to designer pant suits she wears to work sometimes. Most of them are from earlier seasons, and purchased off of sales racks, but timeless nonetheless.
She can imagine the scrutiny in Miranda's eye even simply watching the back of her head. Analyzing, judging, quickly deciding what's acceptable and what's reproachable, signature analytical hand on her hip. Andy grows more and more self conscious as moments pass. How could she ever think this to be a good idea?
The silver haired woman stops halfway around the room, evidently spotting something of interest and Andy wonders what it would possibly be.
A thin, elegant hand slips off the narrow hip and in between a couple of dresses to slowly pull something out from the back. When she turns, she's holding a long, single boot.
Andy grows pink immediately at the sight of the Chanel boots she had first worn out of the Runway closet.
"I remember these--" Miranda says observantly.
"Nigel gave them to me, I promise I didn't steal them," Andy explains in a panic, quickly averting her eyes in embarrassment as Miranda smirks in delight, then turns back and tucks the boot in its place.
"You've got quite a collection now--" She observes, leisurely looking around a minute more before walking back to stand beside Andy, "--it's--nice to see you doing well, Andrea, I must say. No longer on an Assistant's salary, I see. That's good."
"I would come back to you in a second," Andy blurts.
Miranda's smile broadens, but she shakes her head as she tells her, "You wouldn't."
"I would--"
"I would not allow that."
"What if I begged?"
"For your job back?"
Andy swallows, holding the piercing blue in her own inebriated brown stare, "To get you back."
"You think you had me, Andrea?" This question is a trick. Andy knows it. Or a trap, depending on how you look at it. She has to think for a second,
"No. But I'd like to."
"What part of me, exactly, would you like to have?"
All of you, she wants to say, but that would be rushing it and she's been waiting for too long for this moment, "For now?" She steps forward until all there is between them is a glass of scotch and a half empty bottle of beer, "This will do."
"Well--" Miranda exhales, her breath, sweet and soft against Andy's cheek, "--I thought you didn't need me anymore, this certainly--feels like need."
Andy can't tell for the life of her, what Miranda is trying to do with this. If she is trying to turn her off, she's failing miserably, the way her lips purse, the way her perfect hair falls dangerously close to her eye, the way she looks--need? Yes, she does need to kiss her. Want? Yes, she most definitely wants to kiss her.
She leans forward in the gentlest, shortest, most hesitant movement, exhaling nervously before their lips touch. They are exactly the same height in their respective shoes, and Andy makes a mental note to write a piece on the importance of Louboutins in the art of women kissing women.
Miranda doesn't seem very shy about the whole thing. "Oh for god's sake..." She mutters in annoyance and presses her lips to Andy's.
No one has made a move to tilt sideways or otherwise accommodate, their noses are crushed against one another, it's dry and tight lipped and imperfect, which makes it all the more perfect in a sense. Because their eyes drift shut and eventually, their lips mold so easily together. Breaths are exhaled as lips part and heads tilt, noses no longer crushed, lips parting once more as Andy, feeling not so shy anymore, brushes her tongue swiftly against Miranda's. It's better than she could have ever imagined, and good lord, she needs to get closer.
Not giving two shits about the fluffy white carpet under their feet, she drops her beer on the floor, pulls Miranda against her by the waist, causing her to drop her own in glass in surprise and pushes her back until she's got her against the dresser nearest to the door, which took her about two hours to decide on its placement.
Miranda grunts on contact, releasing a tiny puff of hair, but circling Andy's neck to pull her tightly against her, then, her hands fall between them, cupping the brunette's breasts in both hands. She squeezes once, gently, before her palms simply caress, and feel.
Andy's nipples harden against the older woman's touch and a surge of wetness dampens her panties at this. She moans, dropping her lips to kiss Miranda's neck. Here, her perfume is strong, still fresh, and fucking with Andy's brain like nothing she's ever experienced. She groans and drags her teeth against the sensitive skin, noting the goose bumps that rise in her wake before she roughly pulls the woman's hands away and pins the small wrists against the door to a shoe cabinet above their heads.
Miranda is smiling when Andy pulls back.
"Oh--" Andy says, kissing Miranda's jaw line, "--Miranda Priestly likes being handled...why does that not surprise me?"
"Oh, you took a psychology class in college, Andrea--" Miranda says, breathless and condescending, "--I'm very impressed."
Andy chuckles against the crook of Miranda's neck, where she licks and nibbles, drawing out a satisfactory moan with a gentle grinding of her hips before she nibbles on her earlobe and hisses against her ear, "Bed. Now."
Andy had intended on pushing Miranda onto her bed and devouring her, somehow that didn't happen, and she's the one pushed against the white comforter. As she pushes herself up the mattress to sit comfortably, she follows Miranda closely. Miranda, who is watching her intently as she lifts one wrist and begins to undo the clasp to the diamond bracelet.
"What jeweler made this?" She asks, and Andy sighs in exasperation. Is she really going to give her a lesson NOW? Of course she is, "I don't know--Harry Winston."
"Hmm--" She nods and gently places the bracelet on the bedside table, continuing with the earrings, "--how did you know that?"
"...your favorite," Andy shrugs and smiles, "That's how I know." She reaches out for her hips, and to her surprise, Miranda lets her pull her forward, however, continues to remove the second earring as Andy leans forward and presses her lips to her stomach through her dress.
Miranda sighs as she drops the earrings on the nightstand, then swiftly slips off the necklace. Andy's hands circle her until they're resting on her ass and Miranda closes her eyes, licking her lips before, reluctantly, pushing Andy's arms effectively away.
She steps back and watches the young woman momentarily.
Andy wants to know what she's thinking when she looks at her that way, not scrutinizing, but dissecting her. As if she's a Rubik’s Cube, "What--" She starts, frustrated as she reaches out her hand, "--get back here."
Miranda does. And when she's there, when her knees bump into Andy's, she lifts one, places it on the mattress and repeats with the other, the bed sinking under the small dent of her weight. Andy makes sure to pull her in as close as possible as their mouths get reacquainted.
"How drunk are you, exactly?" Andy asks, grabbing at Miranda's ass and smiling when she hears a hiss against her ear.
"Mm--drunk," Miranda replies, grinding her hips down and moaning.
Andy exhales, falling back against the bed, then rolling over until she's on top. Her hands pull at the never ending material of Miranda's dress until she's cradled between bare thighs and she caresses smooth legs while kissing a blushing neck and she mumbles against heated skin, "Drunk enough to regret this in the morning?"
Miranda sighs as she expertly unzips Andy and responds quietly, "I'm already regretting it."
By all means, Andy should be offended. If it were anyone else, she would be. But it's Miranda writhing underneath her. It's Miranda's hands sliding under her dress--Miranda gasping her name that way. "Can I tell you all the reasons I hate you right now?"
"Yes..." Miranda pants.
She has every right to hate her for the comment alone, and while she's walking the love/hate line on the tips of her toes already before tonight, she figures loving Miranda is something very similar, but with hundreds of miles worth of a fall down bellow. For someone as clumsy as Andy, this is the dumbest thing she could do. One slip and she could lose herself before she even hits the ground. Still, the first step off the safety of that ledge? It's the most exhilarating experience of her life.
FIN
Title: A Fine Line
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: : Characters are property of the film and their distributors. I do not claim to own them.
Summary: Strange things happen when Andy has a run in with her former boss at an event. Andy hates fashion and expensive shoes, and Miranda Priestley. But sometimes, Andy loves fashion and expensive shoes...and Miranda Priestley. Set two years after the event of the film.
For ubiquitousmixie
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I must admit, I can't explain
Any of these thoughts racing through my brain
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Andy never particularly liked dressing up when she was younger, or through the awkward years of adolescence, or the even more awkward high school years, or even in college, when she stopped caring, really, because she only cared about being educated and successful and taken seriously. She wanted to be a lawyer. And then--well, that didn't quite pan out. In any case, there was no room for caring too much about trends. She never experienced what she likes to call The Princess Complex, although, she does remember a few Strawberry Shortcake themed birthday parties. Those were not too bad.
Not that she was ever a tomboy or anything. Her lack of coordination and substantial subconscious negligence of avoiding large, walls or street posts or on more than one occasion, actual human beings, kept her from doing that title true justice.
When she began working at Runway, she adjusted. She hated it at first. The extreme feminist in her hated the objectification the heels and the designer clothes brought on--but she learned. Slowly, but surely, she learned.
It wasn't about that. It wasn't about that at all. After all, how could she feel objectified when she was working for the most powerful woman in fashion publishing? Miranda ruled with an iron fist, contradicted every chauvinistic, sexist perception of the female population and she did it well.
Andy's perception of the fashion world changed drastically and she seemed to blossom.
Still, when it was over, it was nice to be a conformist again. It was nice to put on a pair of jeans and a pair of boots that weren't made of expensive Italian leather and weren't four inches high or cost more than her rent.
Although, she does miss it at times.
She had kept a couple of pieces from all those runway shows she was lucky enough to attend. She'd even purchased a couple of pieces herself, and she'd longed to wear them somewhere nice. They rested in her closet instead, beautiful, and some unworn.
Her career took off quickly after Runway. Abnormally so. Opportunity, literally, came knocking one day, with an offer from The New Yorker. A bike messenger delivered an urgent letter to her door on a Saturday morning, six months after her departure from Runway. She was afraid to respond and for a week, kept the letter pinned under a letter A magnet on her fridge. Exactly eight days after the nerve wrecking delivery, another arrived. This one, from The New York Times.
And then, a second notice from The New Yorker.
Hyperventilating, she finally called the first offer, hoping to god it wasn't a cruel joke from someone who hated her with a seething intensity. It was most certainly a joke.
Six months after that, she was moving into a new apartment, closer to work, in a nicer neighborhood.
This apartment is bright and big, and the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen are three separate entities. It even has a terrace that wasn't initially meant to be a fire escape. She loves her apartment. And she particularly enjoyed furnishing it.
The walk in closet was quickly filled. Fearfully at first, with only a couple of designer names, until she gave in completely to her newly acquired tastes and purchased items that she just "couldn't live without".
One day, she and Doug split a bottle of wine and had themselves a little dress up party in there. They played "Guess the Designer".
Work is hectic, and challenging. But she is absolutely in love. With writing anyway. No particular person with a specific title exists just yet. She likes it that way. Her career is time absorbing enough. Time absorbing and amazing.
Sometimes, when she has a free minute to catch her breath at the office, she stares at her computer screen, and considers sending a thank you e-mail. She knows for a fact that The New Yorker and The New York Times didn't just happen to hear about her.
For over a year, a saved draft has sat in her "Save for Later" e-mail folder. It changes sometimes. She adds and deletes sentences. Sometimes, it's shorter, sometimes longer. Sometimes it's explicitly formal, and sometimes, she writes as if she's writing an old friend. But she never sends it. One day, she hopes, she will know that it's perfect and Miranda will be pleasantly surprised to read 'Andy Sachs' in her inbox.
Andy dresses for Miranda Priestley every time she goes out. It's an embarrassing truth she would never admit to anyone, but the truth nonetheless. Every time she goes to a prestigious event and she puts on a new pair of shoes, or a borrowed Valentino gown--her paycheck isn't that hefty just yet-- she wonders, if they were to run into each other at one of these events, would Miranda approve?
But Andy catches herself and she begins to hate the fashion tyrant in couture attire. For changing her from the image she was so content with, for making her want more out of life than just writing. There is a thirst within Andy now, for more. For beauty. Anywhere she can get it. Art, fashion, music. Even her writing has been affected by this sudden longing. And it is a longing. It's evident in her Articles and her short stories.
It's difficult to hate her for too long, however. Andy considers the woman to be a genius. A cruel one for the most part, but a genius nonetheless. With an eye for beauty that is immeasurable. Andy has the feeling that Miranda would have looked at one brushstroke of a Ad Vinci canvas and know immediately that it would be The Mona Lisa.
Tonight, it's a mixture of both. There is a fine line between love and hate, and Andy is walking it on the tips of her toes. She is walking it in a Chanel dress that's been sitting in her closet for two weeks. It's long, sleek, in a cream colored embroidered lace that she couldn't possibly leave behind in that store. The sleeves are short and the cut in the front is a modest v-neck. The skirt falls into a short train against the floor and she feels like Grace Kelly.
Her hair is a couple of inches shorter now, her bangs have grown into long layers that she parts to the side. She's careful with the jewelry. She wants to show off the dress tonight. So she adorns it with pearl earrings and a matching long string of pearls that hangs just past her breasts.
This is definitely a formal event. It's a release party of some sort. For a book she hasn't read and doesn't intend to, and a writer she doesn't care about or even whose name she remembers. She didn't pay much attention to her boss aside from "you have to be there" and "dress up". Truth be told, she isn't really in the mood to be nice or anything. So she keeps to herself for the most part, saving her pleasantries for the bartenders, who seem to enjoy her request to keep bringing her alcohol until the bar is drained.
She's careful with the drinks. Careful with spilling anyway. She looks really good in this dress and she would cut her arm off before getting anything un-washable on it. During a particularly boring speech, by some publisher or other, she turns to her right, towards the wall she's nearest to, to stifle an excruciatingly heavy yawn that she's been pushing way back for about five minutes now. And then, there she is.
She's not sure if she's imagined it. She has in the past. When she's past her two drink mandatory limit and it's almost time to leave, she allows herself a minute of fantasizing of the perfect moment in which they would meet. It would be pleasant and they would chat and have a late--late--drink together, something that hasn't happened just yet. This isn't one of her fantasies, though. This is really happening, and she's afraid she doesn't have the capability or sobriety to fully comprehend it. Her eyes widen at the silver haired woman she spots at the far end of the room.
Miranda is watching her closely. And she seems--amused. She's got that glint in her eye--the glint Andy has seen in the past, when Miranda is getting ready to unhinge her jaw and devour someone's dignity whole. It might be pure, unadulterated entertainment for all Andy knows.
Rather than go for 'hate' right away, she offers a smile and shrugs as if telling her she can't help it.
To Andy's surprise, Miranda begins to move. She practically floats through the crowded party and goes untouched by even a single shoulder. It's always amazed Andy, the near fear respect she demands with her presence alone. People part ways and look in the other direction as soon as they see her coming. Miranda hates unnecessary human interaction and people will avoid displeasing her at any rate necessary. Everyone around her seems to automatically know that the petite fashion mogul prefers to not be spoken to or touched. The fact of the matter is, she's probably paid her dues. She's earned all of this.
Yeah, Andy is far from the hate side of this situation at the moment.
She realizes she's smiling. And then gasping as Miranda rounds a particularly large man, and a see of alabaster skin is suddenly revealed to Andy's eager eyes. She had been waiting, unknowingly, to see what she's wearing. Waiting to see what amazing piece she's picked out for the night.
And amazing, it is.
Her dress is a silver number that is anything but simple or quiet, or anything that can possibly blend into the background. It's bold, its sleeves fall off both shoulders, it's fitted way low until it has no choice but to drape from the knees down and Andy finds that she can't stop staring at the woman's chest.
In contrast to Andy, Miranda isn't afraid of accessorizing. Diamonds are her rock of preference tonight. A white diamond necklace, with a yellow one hanging in the droop of it for show, and matching yellow diamond earrings. More white diamonds on her wrist. No rings, Andy notes as the woman is only a couple of feet away now.
She exhales unknowingly in utter awe and self consciously, she lifts her half empty martini glass to her lips, welcoming the bitterness of the gin with a quiet hum.
She can smell Miranda's perfume now. Something fresh and amazing and mind numbing. Andy's heart is racing.
"Hello, Andrea." Dear god, her voice is as silky as she remembers it.
Andy's knees buckle. She thanks god for the long dress.
In less time than she's ever thought of anything in her life, she forces herself to act as a normal person would act, were they to run into a former boss. You know, given that they don't suddenly feel like they want to pull said boss into the nearest bathroom stall and--
"Hello, Miranda," She says and is very surprised and very proud of the steady tone her voice has adopted. Very adult.
"This is the dullest party I have--EVER attended." The other woman says, looking around the room with a detachment and nearly offensive disinterest that only she can get away with.
But her tone is light. It surprises Andy and she giggles, "Yeah, it really is, isn't it?"
"Well, I guess the party must fit the person it's celebrating..."
Andy tilts her head. Was that a joke? She shrugs, "I suppose they make up for it with their guests."
The flattery flies right over Miranda's head, it seems, as she continues to regard the crowd with contempt.
"That was a compliment," Andy clarifies.
"Yes, I know." Miranda says flatly.
Andy rolls her eyes. The woman hasn't changed a bit. She wouldn't be Miranda if she had.
After another moment, Miranda turns and looks at Andy as if she's only noticed her standing there. She scans her from head to toe. Slowly. Andy feels as if she's on fire with every inch of her the piercing blue eyes sweep over. A brief nod lets Andy know that she does, indeed, approve of the dress.
"Chanel." The older woman states.
"Yes," Andy nods, then inquires smartly, "Versace?"
Turning her chin to the side, Miranda smirks briefly and answers, "Yes," Then adds, "I'm impressed."
"With what exactly? That I know vintage Versace when I see it or that I actually own a piece of clothing you approve of?"
A dry chuckle escapes Miranda and she says softly, "Both."
"Well, some things stuck, what can I say."
"Hmm."
"Along with the PTSD I experience whenever I hear a phone ring."
Miranda smiles broadly now, "That was a joke."
It's an earnest smile and it's the most beautiful thing Andy has ever seen.
"It was."
"It was almost funny."
When Miranda turns back towards the podium, Andy thinks, most definitely, she MUST be drunk, because Ms. Priestley seems to be blushing and just a little bit tipsy.
With a hint of deep amusement, sprinkled with just a little bit of shock, Andy asks incredulously, "Miranda, are you DRUNK?"
Miranda turns sharply in her direction, burning holes into her with her glare. Shit.
Instead of chewing her out, however, the woman shrugs and says a simple, "Yes." Then adds as she moves to stand closer to Andy, "Do you blame me?"
Pulled from the initial surprise, Andy laughs again, "No, I suppose I don't." She clears her throat and takes a stab at the one thing that has been on her mind for over a year now, "I've been meaning to write you--to thank you."
Miranda's gaze averts and focuses on the current speaker making his way to the small stage, "For what, Andrea?"
"For--" Andy searches for the right words and comes up with nothing specific, "--everything."
"I assure you, I do not know what you are referring to."
Andy's mouth opens to try again, but judging by Miranda's sigh, indicating intense displeasure in talking about it, she decides against it, "Well, my fashion sense, of course."
Miranda smirks and looks at her again. She inspects her once more. Andy could swear she's checking her out, but she doesn't say it.
"It needs work," Miranda says, then shrugs, "But I suppose you haven't absolutely failed in that department tonight."
"Thanks, Miranda," The brunette replies blandly.
"So, how is--your new job?" Miranda asks, holding Andy's gaze with actual interest.
She doesn't exactly know what to do with that. How do people do this? Grasp Miranda's interest? And once they have it, how do they keep her interested? "Well--it's great," She finds herself smiling in spite of herself because she means it. She adores her job and to that, she adds, "It's actually more incredible than I could have imagined. I'm in love."
"In love with your job--" Miranda repeats ironically, a halfway to condescending tone in her voice, "--how interesting."
Andy rolls her eyes, "Is this where you warn me that I'm becoming you?"
"No--" Miranda replies quickly, "--this is where I tell you that you are becoming yourself."
"Do you know who I am, Miranda?" She doesn't know where the question comes from, or the reason for it. She doesn't know if it's an invitation.
All Andy knows is that everything has stopped between them and the conversation has taken a very sudden, very different tone. She sees what can only be described as desire in Miranda's eyes. And to say that Andy desires Miranda would be the weakest description in the English language. She wants to own her.
The older woman's chest rises and falls as her breath becomes deeper, and Andy feels a familiar heat start to build in her loins.
"Miranda, would you like to come to my apartment for a drink?"
"Yes."
****
Andy doesn't like scotch. She hates it, in fact. The flavor--it's so strong, it isn't even a flavor. It burns. There's no way to "acquire" a taste for it and she just doesn't get it. But she keeps it around. Just in case--someone wants to drink it.
Miranda's drink is a Scotch. Neat. Andy doesn't understand it one bit, but she knows this information. And she knew it when she purchased the two hundred dollar bottle currently hidden in her closet. In fact, she was thinking of one person, and one person only, and when she brought it home.
When she asks Miranda to wait in the living room and disappears into the bedroom, she doesn't ask why. Andy is grateful. Explaining why she keeps alcohol in her bedroom when a small, but well stocked liquor cabinet sits promptly in her living room would be difficult. She reappears with the bottle and she showcases it proudly.
Miranda smiles. Her grin just barely visible. And waits for Andy to pour her a glass, which she waits to sip, even though her mouth is probably watering at the thought, until Andy has fixed herself a Corona, lime slice slipped securely through the mouth of the bottle. They stand out in the terrace, sipping their drinks in silence.
It's cold out. But neither wears a coat. Neither needs one.
About ten minutes in, Miranda looks over at the young brunette beside her and asks quizzically, "Is that good?"
"Hmm?" Andy asks, perplexed, then, following Miranda's line of vision to her beer, she smiles, "Yeah. You've never had one?"
"Not in a very long time--" Miranda says plainly, sipping her own drink.
"Here--" Andy says, offering her beer.
Miranda seems scandalized, as if she's just been offered a tall glass of tar, "No--" She shakes her head, "--no thank you."
"Oh, come on. No one is here to see the great Miranda Priestley drink straight from the bottle. Take it. Come on. It's delicious."
"Do you know how many carbohydrates are in that?"
"No." Andy says bluntly and pushes the bottle into Miranda's free hand, taking the scotch from the other. "Drink." She orders. Miranda's eyes never leave hers and for a second she wonders, "Do you want me to get you a glass?"
The older woman rolls her eyes and tilts her head back as she takes an unexpectedly long swig.
Andy is riveted. By the bubbles in the bottle as she gulps the crystalline liquid, by the sweat of the ice cold bottle trickling down the body of it and parting in different directions as it hits Miranda's fingers, by her lips pressed against where Andy's have been, the lime hovering and bobbing up and down with every gentle swig, dangerously close to falling out and into the woman's mouth, and most importantly, by the arc of her neck, shifting as she swallows. Smooth, perfect skin stretched deliciously. It turns Andy on more than anything ever has, and she's surprised by how strongly she desires this woman whom she thought she hated for a very long time.
"Hmm--" Miranda says observantly, licking her lips of the remaining taste of beer while Andy mirrors her actions, but for very different reasons, "--not bad."
When Andy speaks, her voice is hoarse, "--don't take this the wrong way, but--"She pauses to clear her throat and is surprised to be cut off by Miranda.
"Whenever someone says 'don't take this the wrong way, but', chances are--I will take it the wrong way."
Oh wow, Andy thinks. Miranda is so drunk, and her cheeks are so pink and her lips--are nearly red and slightly swollen from drinking, and Andy can't breathe very well. She smiles anyway and forces the suffocating air out of her lungs, "I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted--" Miranda's eyebrow raises, "--that the way you drank that just now was very sexy." She had intended for that to come out and be sexy and flirty, but she can't help but feel inadequate. Miranda has always had that effect on her. No matter how great she always was at her job, she felt somehow not--good enough and complementing her, even in her own apartment, both of them drunk, feels out of line.
"Me, chugging down cheap beer is sexy to you, Andrea?" Miranda asks almost purring, her eyelids heavy as she waits for an answer.
Andy turns to look at her and laughs again, "You were hardly chugging." It's comical, really, the very thought of Miranda doing a keg stand. Andy laughs at the image. No way in hell was Miranda ever that girl.
Miranda doesn't say a word. She simply gazes back, shifts her weight off of one foot, to the other, her hips swaying in half circles twice, slowly as she regards her with an interest Andy is not used to. "Try the scotch," She says softly. Invitingly, her eyes fleetingly moving from Andy's face to the glass, and back up. How is it possible, for one tiny person to posses so much sensuality? Every intricate movement, every single mannerism, oozes confidence and a lithe sexual energy to be envied and desired.
Andy makes a face against the vibrating sensation throughout her body and shrugs her shoulders, "I don't really like it."
A chortle escapes the other woman and she rests her hip on the metal railing, in the distance, an ambulance siren fades away, "You have a full bottle of some of the best scotch and you don't really like it?"
"I-" Andy starts, looking at the brownish liquid in her hand, "--honestly? I think I bought it for you."
Miranda's expression is unreadable. Is she amused, touched? Andy can't decipher it, so she explains, "I know you must have made a phone call to the New Yorker for me. All this--the nicer apartment, in the nicer part of town, the job--my career--my ...life really, it's good because of you." She looks down at her feet, because it's true. And this is everything she wanted to say in that e-mail. Funny that it took seeing her face to face for it to seem right, "And when I got my first paycheck, the first thing I paid with it was the lease to this apartment--and this scotch--" She lifts the glass before her gaze, meeting the blue stare only momentarily before looking out at the seemingly peaceful city lights, "--I thought you would like it. I didn't know you would be standing in my apartment drinking it though--that was a fantasy I couldn't possibly indulge in."
There's a pause as a soft breeze swoops over them and Andy shivers. She sighs, "My life was good even before this--when you were in it anyway." The confession comes without hesitation and without permission and Andy becomes suddenly stiff. She did not mean to say that. Not tonight.
"But you--" Miranda trials off.
Andy looks over slowly and smiles sadly, her voice so small, so hesitant, she doesn't recognize it, "--left. I know. I--couldn't stay and continue to let you be my life, when--I needed to be someone's life too."
Miranda licks her lips again. She sighs, looks the brunette up and down, the way she's been doing numerous times tonight. Giving away nothing, “I’ve got to say, I don’t--exactly fancy myself anyone’s fantasy.”
“I don’t know, I know quite a few people who fantasize about you on the daily--” Andy stops and blushes deeply, covering her embarrassment with a weak cough.
"Try the scotch." Is Miranda‘s next reply.
Andy blinks.
"Go on, try it," She repeats, "You purchased it for me, now I want you to try it."
"Miranda, I really don't--"
"Try it." It's not sweet or invitational this time. It's a stern order. And for some reason, Andy is obliged to obey the always gentle savagery in the familiar voice.
She lifts the glass to her lips, hoping it's the same side Miranda's lips were pressed upon minutes before, and takes a very small sip.
"Don't try to gulp--" Miranda says flatly before Andy can drink, "--it's not beer. Taste it, let it wash over your taste buds."
Andy does. She tastes it slowly, letting the scotch blanket her tongue before it slips down the back of her throat at its own accord. It's smooth. It's strong still, but it's different than the last time she tried scotch. Oakey, and dark. Delicious. It almost tingles all over her body.
Her surprise gives her away and she sees a hint of a reinforced superiority in Miranda's demeanor, "I asked you to do your job, I never asked you to make ME your life."
Andy blinks again. "I had no choice," she says quickly, the strength and bold flavor of the scotch suddenly translating into her reaction.
"Why?" Miranda asks before Andy can even finish her reply.
"Because you--I didn't know you could do that. I didn't know you could do that to me--" Andy snaps, suddenly on edge as the buzz of the single taste continues to daze her, "--I thought you could do that everyone else but me--make them cater to your every need, make them take the stairs because you prefer to ride the elevator alone--I thought I was different. I thought I loved Nate. Because Nate hated you and we talked about you like you were--this crazy woman--" Miranda glares briefly but she remains silent as Andy continues to ramble, "--this crazy, impossible, evil woman, only the more we talked about you, the more and the longer I knew you, I wanted to tell him to stop.." She takes a breath in brief recollection, "...I stopped talking about you and started worshipping you and then I started to hate him because he didn't know you. He didn't know the assholes you had to squeeze through to be--to be YOU, and then--that night in Paris--I loved you. You, in that bathrobe, looking at me like you--you NEEDED something. I was hoping you needed me," She drinks from the glass again, this time taking a bigger gulp and tossing it back like a shot of tequila. It works this way too, "But you don't want to need people. And--I needed you to need me so badly, I couldn't handle it. Suddenly, I was just like everybody else. I wanted to do everything--that you wanted, as impossible as it may seem. And I couldn't just keep doing that because I know myself and I would be--this stupid girl happy enough to just get your coffee if it meant I got to see you--" She takes a deep breath suddenly as if she hasn't taken one during her entire speech, "I know better now, I think. I didn't need you to need me exactly, I needed you to want me. There's a difference." She dots her sentence with a smile and a lift of her glass in a silent toast.
“Well--” Miranda nods at the glass in Andy’s hand, “--the truth serum works after all.”
“Wh--”
"Are you done?" Miranda asks. She isn't being vicious, there is no malice in her question. In fact, it's rather soft and she waits as Andy nods before adding, "Andrea, you are NOT like everyone else. You are not like anyone else, in fact." Her eyes are hard when she says it, like she wants to bore it into Andy's skull, "Never think that again."
Inexplicably, Andy laughs, "You can't control what I think."
Something resembling mirth flashes in Miranda's eyes, and she replies casually, "Try me." Then, "A resignation letter might have been nice, Andrea. A two week's notice. I wouldn't have tied you to your desk to keep you from leaving--"
"Miranda, if I would have stayed after Paris, you might have had to have security haul me out of the building."
"I suppose time heals all wounds. Matters of the heart, especially."
"Yeah..." Andy says, in more of a tone that says 'no, this heart is not healed'.
"Give me my scotch back," Miranda orders sternly and they exchange drinks.
"Please?" Andy suggests mockingly, but Miranda is already drinking. She wonders what her former boss is thinking. She wonders if she thinks Andy foolish, or childish. No time to dwell on that, in any case, "Do you want to see my closet?"
It's a lot less impressive than Andy thought it would be, once standing in the suddenly terribly small walk in closet that used to once be mesmerizing. It has four walls and racks and room for every single thing she owns. Yet, suddenly, with Miranda standing in there, holding her expensive scotch, wearing her expensive jewelry and that gown that puts all others to shame, Andy feels unbelievably insubstantial and--cheap.
"It's--you know--" She stammers, looking around the now impressive space that would take up all of a tiny corner in the Runway closet, and possibly Miranda's closet.
Miranda, who is moving around, slowly, glancing at colors and fabric. Everything from her neatly folded jogging pants on a top shelf, to designer pant suits she wears to work sometimes. Most of them are from earlier seasons, and purchased off of sales racks, but timeless nonetheless.
She can imagine the scrutiny in Miranda's eye even simply watching the back of her head. Analyzing, judging, quickly deciding what's acceptable and what's reproachable, signature analytical hand on her hip. Andy grows more and more self conscious as moments pass. How could she ever think this to be a good idea?
The silver haired woman stops halfway around the room, evidently spotting something of interest and Andy wonders what it would possibly be.
A thin, elegant hand slips off the narrow hip and in between a couple of dresses to slowly pull something out from the back. When she turns, she's holding a long, single boot.
Andy grows pink immediately at the sight of the Chanel boots she had first worn out of the Runway closet.
"I remember these--" Miranda says observantly.
"Nigel gave them to me, I promise I didn't steal them," Andy explains in a panic, quickly averting her eyes in embarrassment as Miranda smirks in delight, then turns back and tucks the boot in its place.
"You've got quite a collection now--" She observes, leisurely looking around a minute more before walking back to stand beside Andy, "--it's--nice to see you doing well, Andrea, I must say. No longer on an Assistant's salary, I see. That's good."
"I would come back to you in a second," Andy blurts.
Miranda's smile broadens, but she shakes her head as she tells her, "You wouldn't."
"I would--"
"I would not allow that."
"What if I begged?"
"For your job back?"
Andy swallows, holding the piercing blue in her own inebriated brown stare, "To get you back."
"You think you had me, Andrea?" This question is a trick. Andy knows it. Or a trap, depending on how you look at it. She has to think for a second,
"No. But I'd like to."
"What part of me, exactly, would you like to have?"
All of you, she wants to say, but that would be rushing it and she's been waiting for too long for this moment, "For now?" She steps forward until all there is between them is a glass of scotch and a half empty bottle of beer, "This will do."
"Well--" Miranda exhales, her breath, sweet and soft against Andy's cheek, "--I thought you didn't need me anymore, this certainly--feels like need."
Andy can't tell for the life of her, what Miranda is trying to do with this. If she is trying to turn her off, she's failing miserably, the way her lips purse, the way her perfect hair falls dangerously close to her eye, the way she looks--need? Yes, she does need to kiss her. Want? Yes, she most definitely wants to kiss her.
She leans forward in the gentlest, shortest, most hesitant movement, exhaling nervously before their lips touch. They are exactly the same height in their respective shoes, and Andy makes a mental note to write a piece on the importance of Louboutins in the art of women kissing women.
Miranda doesn't seem very shy about the whole thing. "Oh for god's sake..." She mutters in annoyance and presses her lips to Andy's.
No one has made a move to tilt sideways or otherwise accommodate, their noses are crushed against one another, it's dry and tight lipped and imperfect, which makes it all the more perfect in a sense. Because their eyes drift shut and eventually, their lips mold so easily together. Breaths are exhaled as lips part and heads tilt, noses no longer crushed, lips parting once more as Andy, feeling not so shy anymore, brushes her tongue swiftly against Miranda's. It's better than she could have ever imagined, and good lord, she needs to get closer.
Not giving two shits about the fluffy white carpet under their feet, she drops her beer on the floor, pulls Miranda against her by the waist, causing her to drop her own in glass in surprise and pushes her back until she's got her against the dresser nearest to the door, which took her about two hours to decide on its placement.
Miranda grunts on contact, releasing a tiny puff of hair, but circling Andy's neck to pull her tightly against her, then, her hands fall between them, cupping the brunette's breasts in both hands. She squeezes once, gently, before her palms simply caress, and feel.
Andy's nipples harden against the older woman's touch and a surge of wetness dampens her panties at this. She moans, dropping her lips to kiss Miranda's neck. Here, her perfume is strong, still fresh, and fucking with Andy's brain like nothing she's ever experienced. She groans and drags her teeth against the sensitive skin, noting the goose bumps that rise in her wake before she roughly pulls the woman's hands away and pins the small wrists against the door to a shoe cabinet above their heads.
Miranda is smiling when Andy pulls back.
"Oh--" Andy says, kissing Miranda's jaw line, "--Miranda Priestly likes being handled...why does that not surprise me?"
"Oh, you took a psychology class in college, Andrea--" Miranda says, breathless and condescending, "--I'm very impressed."
Andy chuckles against the crook of Miranda's neck, where she licks and nibbles, drawing out a satisfactory moan with a gentle grinding of her hips before she nibbles on her earlobe and hisses against her ear, "Bed. Now."
Andy had intended on pushing Miranda onto her bed and devouring her, somehow that didn't happen, and she's the one pushed against the white comforter. As she pushes herself up the mattress to sit comfortably, she follows Miranda closely. Miranda, who is watching her intently as she lifts one wrist and begins to undo the clasp to the diamond bracelet.
"What jeweler made this?" She asks, and Andy sighs in exasperation. Is she really going to give her a lesson NOW? Of course she is, "I don't know--Harry Winston."
"Hmm--" She nods and gently places the bracelet on the bedside table, continuing with the earrings, "--how did you know that?"
"...your favorite," Andy shrugs and smiles, "That's how I know." She reaches out for her hips, and to her surprise, Miranda lets her pull her forward, however, continues to remove the second earring as Andy leans forward and presses her lips to her stomach through her dress.
Miranda sighs as she drops the earrings on the nightstand, then swiftly slips off the necklace. Andy's hands circle her until they're resting on her ass and Miranda closes her eyes, licking her lips before, reluctantly, pushing Andy's arms effectively away.
She steps back and watches the young woman momentarily.
Andy wants to know what she's thinking when she looks at her that way, not scrutinizing, but dissecting her. As if she's a Rubik’s Cube, "What--" She starts, frustrated as she reaches out her hand, "--get back here."
Miranda does. And when she's there, when her knees bump into Andy's, she lifts one, places it on the mattress and repeats with the other, the bed sinking under the small dent of her weight. Andy makes sure to pull her in as close as possible as their mouths get reacquainted.
"How drunk are you, exactly?" Andy asks, grabbing at Miranda's ass and smiling when she hears a hiss against her ear.
"Mm--drunk," Miranda replies, grinding her hips down and moaning.
Andy exhales, falling back against the bed, then rolling over until she's on top. Her hands pull at the never ending material of Miranda's dress until she's cradled between bare thighs and she caresses smooth legs while kissing a blushing neck and she mumbles against heated skin, "Drunk enough to regret this in the morning?"
Miranda sighs as she expertly unzips Andy and responds quietly, "I'm already regretting it."
By all means, Andy should be offended. If it were anyone else, she would be. But it's Miranda writhing underneath her. It's Miranda's hands sliding under her dress--Miranda gasping her name that way. "Can I tell you all the reasons I hate you right now?"
"Yes..." Miranda pants.
She has every right to hate her for the comment alone, and while she's walking the love/hate line on the tips of her toes already before tonight, she figures loving Miranda is something very similar, but with hundreds of miles worth of a fall down bellow. For someone as clumsy as Andy, this is the dumbest thing she could do. One slip and she could lose herself before she even hits the ground. Still, the first step off the safety of that ledge? It's the most exhilarating experience of her life.
FIN