The White Queen Falls (Miranda/Andrea); Chapter 14
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: NC-17/Mature at some point (getting closer and closer ;-D)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Fluff
Betas: My darlings Susi and Jiggles. (I love you gals!!!)
Summary: What if Miranda hadn't known?
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to "The Devil Wears Prada". I only want to play around with our two favourite ladies. I make absolutely zero profit of this.
A/N: This one is even longer than the last one! :) I hope that makes up for the long wait.
Previous: [ Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 ]
Chapter 14
Although she had never much enjoyed the sensation of water drumming down on her face and shoulders, this morning Miranda revelled in the relentless stream of the shower. She welcomed the multitude of prickles on her skin as she leaned her forehead against the wall, palms flat and fingers spread wide on the smooth tiles. The hot spray massaged her scalp continuously, causing an overflow of sensory stimulation that left little room for thoughts and images to dominate her mind.
Dreams of Andrea were not exactly a recent occurrence. But, whereas in the past her unconscious mind had often played with ambiguous scenarios and fragmented, faceless desire, when she had woken today, Miranda had found her heart aching from the overwhelming, emotional intensity of the dream. Her body had not merely been affected by arousal, sweat and other stickiness creating unpleasant friction beneath the tangled covers, but a large part of her had been utterly enthralled by the spiritual intimacy she and Andrea had shared under Morpheus's watchful gaze. Finding herself alone in bed, the chilly morning air cooling her clammy forehead, had left her feeling bereft and devastatingly empty.
Miranda opened her lips and took deep, even breaths through her mouth as the bathroom gradually filled with steam. Running away from her emotions was a habit that was hard to shake, and her mind struggled to stay within that noncommittal grey area between complete denial and simple stagnation. Despite the appeal of following familiar patterns, she knew that pushing any part of what she felt away was not an option.
Contrary to what her public image of the 'Snow Queen' suggested, being in love wasn't an alien concept to her. Throughout the course of her life she had fallen for quite a few individuals. Some less deserving of her love than others, but all of them female. After fifty years, Miranda had thought to possess a pretty accurate understanding of love, how it progressed, how it tasted when in full bloom, and how it ultimately faded. The way Andrea had slowly invaded her heart, however, unnoticed at first, lowering Miranda's defences one by one with her intelligence, integrity and kindness, had been something entirely new.
Finding herself in love with a woman more than twenty years her junior wasn't that great of a shock. It was the magnitude of what she felt, and how it affected her entire being. Her love for Andrea had preceded the revelations on the beach by a few months, even if most of it had been hidden away, slumbering in the depths of her heart, where it had grown roots that by now reached deeply into her soul. Any of her past dalliances blanched in comparison, appearing almost meaningless, regardless of how serious some had managed to become. Andrea blew all of them away, and Miranda was hard-pressed not to be afraid.
She turned around and rolled back her head, allowing the hot water to cascade down her face as she wrapped her arms around her middle in an attempt to keep the raging tide of thoughts and feelings her dream had evoked from bubbling to the surface. Much like a magic mirror, her mind had shown her the possibility of an affectionate and passion-filled life with Andrea, where the helpless feeling of needing the younger woman had not actually scared her, but instead had been positively exhilarating.
Accepting her attraction and coming to terms with the idea of a possible romance was not difficult. She had been there and done that in the past. Now, however, she understood that never before had her heart been truly on the line, and as much as she hated to admit it, she was terrified.
Gently rubbing her temples, she exhaled against the water. The pact she had made with herself to suppress her deeper feelings for Andrea had completely crumbled halfway through the previous day. After spending the car ride chastising herself for having too vivid an imagination, she had, in fact, glimpsed several more tell-tale signs of Andrea appearing to be affected by her. Inside the grocery store there had been a few stutters and plenty of glorious blushing, and on the way back, when Miranda had deliberately chosen to drive in order to gauge possible reactions, Andrea had looked unmistakably feverish.
It seemed that Miranda's affinity was not unreturned. The depth of the younger woman's affection, however, was surprisingly difficult to decipher. On the surface, Andrea was an open book. Her beautiful face often revealed the state of her mind, be it through her eyes, the colour of her cheeks, or the shape of her lips. Nonetheless, when one needed to discern the extent of her emotions, she made it near impossible for anyone to read between the lines.
Miranda gazed down to study her hands. Her wrists did not look as slim as they had once been, and beneath her pale skin her veins stood out like the winding channels of a river delta on a satellite photograph. That Andrea was drawn to her Fashion Queen persona was easily comprehensible. Miranda knew the effect the calculated, powerful and alluring act could have on people, male and female alike. What if, however, the reality of her age ended up pushing Andrea away? After all, the last time a beautiful young woman had cupped her face or held her hand had been many years ago.
Andrea had already seen her at her worst, though, had she not? Miranda vaguely remembered the ghostlike reflection of herself from a week ago, when tears had rendered even the best make-up useless and her hair had been a frightful, unstyled mess. And yet, despite the absence of her Runway mask, Andrea had taken care of her, had opened up about her past, and now even responded positively to careful flirtations. Still, it was highly unlikely that Andrea felt much more than admiration. There had been at least one boyfriend in Andrea's life, and it would not be the first time that Miranda had temporarily managed to turn the head of a straight girl. But when it came to Andrea, a trivial fling was the last thing she desired.
Ugh. Whatever happened to living on hope?
She groaned into her palms. Willingly placing herself into any situation that left her vulnerable went against Miranda's very nature. If she revealed too much, Andrea might become overwhelmed and frightened. Misinterpreting the younger woman's actions would have severe repercussions that Miranda was not sure she would be able to handle. Before she could make any kind of move, she needed to be certain.
The warm water had by now lost its soothing appeal, and Miranda turned off the shower. She wrapped herself into a towel and stepped out onto the fluffy, white bath mat. Despite the steamed-up glass obscuring her view, her eyes were inevitably drawn to the large mirror on the side wall. As someone whose livelihood had depended on her outward appearance for so long, she had developed a substantial love-hate relationship with her reflection. Her toes curled in between the thick threads beneath her feet, and she clutched the towel to her chest as the room gradually cooled, and the image turned from a fogged-up, blurry shape into the sharp contours of her face.
For a while she shifted her weight from foot to foot, indulging in the softness of the rug as water drops ran down her legs in tickling streaks and seeped into the fibres. Of course, she was aware that for a woman her age she was in an admirable form. Nonetheless, a strict diet and years of pilates were still losing to gravity. Miranda knew her body well, and before now she had not really minded the gradual passing of her youth. The classic definition of beauty had never much applied to her, and her strength had always lain within her mind rather than her physique, rendering a few lines here and there inconsequential. But trying to look at herself through the eyes of a potential young partner was still incredibly daunting.
Slowly, she opened the towel, and her eyes hesitantly travelled over her exposed torso. What would Andrea think of the faint stretch marks and the thin layer of loose skin just below her stomach? Miranda had published quite a few plastic surgery articles in Runway, but the thought of placing herself under the knife to erase the evidence of the pregnancy with her twins had never crossed her mind. As her fingers poked at her soft belly, she wondered whether perhaps a little surgical help should have been considered. She stroked upwards and over her breasts, which had begun to slightly sag since she had stopped breastfeeding ten years ago. And yet, the idea of radically changing her body in order to feel less apprehensive about situations that would not likely come true was preposterous. With a bite to her lower lip, she silently scolded herself for being silly.
The Andrea she had grown to love so much was a woman of principles, a woman who had practically stomped her way into the fashion industry with the strong belief that beauty came from within. And despite the many months of working for a magazine that superficially existed purely on a make-belief world of very selective aesthetics, Miranda was convinced that Andrea had retained most, if not all of her convictions. From what she had learned of the younger woman during the past week, judging Miranda's body for its little imperfections was something she would definitely never do.
Miranda blew out a breath and watched herself deflate in the mirror. She suddenly realised that this was the very first time she had ever been afraid of disappointing someone other than herself or her daughters. Bizarrely, that revelation filled her with strength, confirming that Andrea was worth the torture of, after four long decades, feeling like an insecure, restless teenager again. With a snort, she wrapped the towel back around her shoulders and rolled her eyes at the ceiling. She was losing her mind.
What am I going to do?
Perhaps having a concise plan would help with her anxiety. First and foremost, she needed to verify that her interpretation of Andrea's behaviour was correct, and the way of achieving that was to conduct more research. Lots of it.
With a wave of sudden determination pushing her body into action, she got dressed and dried her hair. As she styled her signature forelock, curling it just so that it lightly settled above her left brow, it crossed her mind how much it felt as if she were getting ready for a date. Instead of fighting or suppressing her nerves, though, she decided to embrace them, aware that a healthy amount of apprehension would make success taste that much sweeter.
When she descended the stairs, she found Andrea already in the kitchen, cooking. The younger woman turned around and looked up with a smile, and Miranda's heart instantly transformed into a hummingbird whose tiny, rapidly beating wings filled her chest with the sweetest buzzing. It made her feel alert, alive and free, and she knew that as soon as she had certainty, she would hold nothing back.
"Good morning," she softly greeted while sitting down on one of the bar stools.
"Hi," Andrea said brightly before returning her attention to the stove.
"So, what's for breakfast?" Miranda inquired, adding cheek to her tone to keep their morning banter light and playful.
Andrea did not reply, and instead just quietly loaded the contents of the frying pan onto two plates. With an almost dramatic swirl she turned around and slid the food onto the kitchen island counter.
"Pancakes." She said excitedly as she took the opposite seat.
Astonished, Miranda studied the two paddies of fried dough in front of her.
"Pancakes? I haven't eaten pancakes in years."
"Huh?" Andrea looked at her with wide eyes, her mouth agape in exaggerated shock. "But... have the twins never had them for breakfast?"
Miranda bit her bottom lip and looked up at the younger woman through lowered lashes, taking note of how Andrea's eyes were immediately drawn to the movement of her mouth.
"Of course the girls have eaten pancakes, Andrea. The best New York has to offer." She picked up her fork and pulled the food closer. "I myself, however, have kept a disciplined diet over the years, which has not exactly permitted for indulgences such as pancakes."
Andrea met the challenging quirk of her eyebrow with another wide smile.
"Well, these are low-carb," she beamed proudly. "Cream cheese, eggs, a little bit of almond flour, and a handful of blueberries. No added sugar. So you can safely dig in."
"I'll take your word for it," Miranda teased with a smirk, and the way Andrea shyly averted her gaze helped her feel confident that her flirting was at the very least somewhat effective.
Miranda took a bite, acutely aware of Andrea's attention on her as she chewed.
"Hmmm," she said after a while. "Not bad."
"Oh thank god," Andrea exhaled and then grinned. "I was worried."
After swallowing another bite, Miranda looked at her intently. "You shouldn't be, Andrea. You're a wonderful cook."
She rested her fork on the edge of the plate and dabbed her mouth with a napkin.
"Finding ingredients that work together is not that difficult a challenge. But you seem to truly grasp the importance of attention to detail. I often prefer simple meals that were created with care over the experimental concoctions that may outwardly appear creative, but then rarely achieve this perfect... harmony," she nodded at the pancakes, "of texture and flavour."
Andrea blushed at the compliment, and Miranda wanted nothing more than to tenderly stroke her fingertips over those luscious, pink cheeks.
"Uh, wow. Thanks."
Rather than lessen the impact of her words through further talking, Miranda simply smiled, a full, happy smile that came directly from her heart. Its effect on Andrea was instant, the shade of her face darkening as she looked away with a grin of her own, before she shyly picked up her fork.
As they ate their breakfast, Miranda made sure to continuously seek eye contact with Andrea and use every subtly seductive move in her repertoire. After each bite she would lick her lips, just barely grazing them with the tip of her tongue, watching closely how Andrea shifted in her seat. And whenever their gazes met, Miranda would tilt her chin forward and lower her eyelashes, causing the younger woman to fidget with her napkin and look away, suddenly utterly fascinated by the ceiling lamp.
Miranda basked in those responses, positive that they indicated Andrea indeed being attracted to her, whether she was aware of it herself or not. From here on, however, Miranda knew she had to tread carefully. If she pushed Andrea too far too quickly, she could lose her forever. So she gradually mellowed her flirtatious attacks, and instead began to focus on being sweet. When Andrea stood up to clear the island counter, Miranda walked to her side and held out her hands.
"Here. Let me," she offered, and Andrea rewarded her with a shocked face that was easily worth the labour of washing a hundred dirty plates.
"What? No, no, that's okay. Really," Andrea muttered, out of breath.
"Please," Miranda said softly, and with a slight tilt of her head she took the dishes from Andrea's hand, purposely brushing her fingers over the younger woman's knuckles in the process. "I insist."
Andrea's pupils dilated at the contact, and she abruptly stepped away, clasping her hands behind her back. Miranda felt guilt emerge in the back of her mind. It was not her intention to play games or torture Andrea.
She softened her gaze and asked, "Didn't you say you wanted to do laundry?"
"Uhm, yes," Andrea confirmed cautiously.
"Well, will it not prove more efficient to split these tasks?" Miranda continued softly, sensing that Andrea would respond better to basic logic.
"Uhm, I guess."
"Then go. Wash your clothes, and I will finish up here." Miranda opened the water tab and quickly rinsed their plates, before looking back at Andrea. "When you get back, I will require your assistance with sending out more emails."
That seemed to spur the younger woman into action.
"Oh, okay. Yes. Got it," Andrea said, the stable, familiar territory of work clearly a prospect that appealed to her.
Quickly, she made her way up the stairs and into her bedroom, and Miranda tried not to dwell too much on the apparent eagerness with which Andrea had fled from her. It was likely that Andrea was merely overwhelmed by her own responses and oblivious to the fact that Miranda actually welcomed them.
Silly girl.
A brief moment later, Andrea reappeared on the second floor landing and carefully made her way down the stairs carrying a laundry basket. The domesticity of the image was ridiculous, but Miranda absolutely loved it.
"I won't be long," the younger woman called over her shoulder, before she vanished through the door to the basement. Miranda was left with giddy anticipation.
I'll be waiting.
She smirked and rolled her eyes at the ceiling, slightly scandalised by her soppiness. Now was not the time to let herself get completely lost in romantic sentimentality. They still had so much work to do. The problematic list loomed above her like a grey rain cloud, threatening to ruin her bright and happy day with an unpleasant outcome. Sighing, Miranda turned back towards the sink, but before she could start with the dishes she heard her phone ring in the livingroom.
The only numbers she had not blocked were her girls', Andrea's and Nigel's, so she dried her hands and hurried across the room. The phone display showed an incoming call from her townhouse, and wondering what the girls were doing back home, she quickly answered.
"Hello?"
"So. You're not dead," a familiar male voice spoke from the other end of the line.
Stephen.
Miranda looked at the open basement door to verify that Andrea had not been alerted by the ringing phone, before she grabbed the blanket from the couch and made her way towards the veranda.
"What do you want?" She replied through clenched teeth as she stepped into the clear but cold morning and closed the door behind her.
"What do you think?" Stephen said with a tired sigh.
The air outside was freezing, and Miranda pulled the blanket around herself and sat down in one of the wicker chairs.
"Don't play games with me, Stephen," she hissed. "Why are you at the house?"
There was a pause, and Miranda could hear the sliding of his palm as he rubbed his face.
"Why haven't you signed the divorce papers yet?" He asked quietly, and Miranda realised that for the first time in months, Stephen was not drunk when he spoke to her.
"I'm out of the country," she replied. "I will sign them once I get back to New York."
"And when will that be?"
Miranda leaned back in the chair and looked out over the bay. A flock of seagulls screeched in the distance, and Miranda pulled up her legs under the blanket. The peaceful morning at the cabin made her feel safe and less irritable, and thoughts of returning to a busy Manhattan were no longer intimidating.
"After the holidays."
"After the holidays?" Stephen was getting angry. "Damnit, Miranda. I promised...," he halted and took a deep breath before he continued. "Fine. Just... please do it as soon as possible."
They were quiet for a while, and Miranda became aware of a dull pain in her chest. It was the faint memory of the good friend Stephen had once been, long before he had started drinking again. Miranda truly missed that man.
She gentled her voice. "Stephen, what are you doing at the house?"
"Getting the last of my things," he replied. Hesitantly he added, "before I go off to rehab."
He sounded sincere, and Miranda felt somewhat relieved that he was finally seeking help. Countless times in the past she had urged him to deal with his drinking, and yet he had never listened. Whoever had managed to finally get through to Stephen and open his eyes, the part of Miranda that would always love him was grateful to them.
"That is good news, Stephen," she breathed into the phone. "I'm happy for you."
Instead of retorting with a doubtful remark, Stephen slowly exhaled and simply said, "Thank you."
Miranda realised that they had not had a civil conversation in months, and not for the first time she understood that getting married had probably been one of the biggest mistake of their lives. The arrangement might have temporarily stabilised both their careers, but it had thoroughly ruined their friendship.
"So," Stephen said softly. "Where are you anyway? The press is starting to notice your absence."
"Took them long enough," Miranda replied with a snort, and she could hear Stephen's quiet chuckle through the phone.
"I'm in Canada," she explained, astonished by how the removal of the tension between them almost made it seem as if they were still friends.
"Is she with you?" He suddenly asked.
"What?"
"That pretty assistant of yours. The brunette," Stephen elaborated.
For a split second Miranda considered lying, but despite having drifted so far apart in their time of sharing a household, Stephen probably still knew her better than most, and he would be able to see right through her denial. So instead she opted for the truth.
"Yes. Andrea is here with me," she allowed.
It felt so odd to dance around the subject when in the past they had always shared information about their respective love interests. Of course she had still been partially aware of the comings and goings of young gentlemen in Stephen's life, but after their marriage arrangement and the need for complete discretion, their heartfelt talks had gradually disappeared. She had gotten too absorbed in her work, and the hunger to keep hold of her position at all costs had alienated her friend. Looking back at their years together, Miranda missed the bond they had once shared.
She bit her bottom lip in an attempt to not sound too eager.
"Andrea actually whisked me away to her secret cabin," she could not keep the mirth from her voice.
"That sounds really romantic," Stephen said, and Miranda could hear him smile through the phone.
"Well," Miranda sighed and curled deeper into the blanket. "Me having a mental breakdown isn't all that romantic, Stephen."
The resentment was still there, even if she and Stephen had both always agreed to end their marriage as soon as either one of them no longer wished to carry on with the facade. She knew that her dismissal from Runway was not his fault either, but part of her still blamed him. When she felt betrayed and vulnerable, forgiveness did not come easily.
"I... I'm sorry for my bad timing." Stephen began. "That was not my intention."
Miranda pursed her lips and watched a bald eagle circle high above the water, focused on its prey in the sea below. The image of the two kings, standing side by side sneering down at her still haunted Miranda, but rationally she knew that Stephen would not have had a part in Irv's schemes.
"I had no idea what the board had planned," he said, his voice sad, and Miranda believed him.
"The last time I spoke to... Robert," Stephen paused, and Miranda recalled the face of his long-time golf buddy who also happened to be a board member of Elias-Clarke. "The last time I saw him was eight months ago," Stephen continued, his tone brimming with melancholy. "He insisted that you were safe for at least another two years. Clearly he was wrong."
Tears formed in the corners of Miranda's eyes when she suddenly understood. Eight months ago had been around the same time when Stephen had begun to drink again. Her chest filled with dread when she realised that her best friend had actually been heartbroken, and she had been oblivious and uncaring, which had driven him back into the clutches of the substance he had fought so hard to forever avoid.
"Stephen..."
"I'm truly sorry, Miranda."
She swallowed hard.
"So am I."
Silence stretched between them, but Miranda felt as if they had exchanged more words of significance in this one phone call than during the entire previous year.
"Hey, I'm okay now," Stephen said softly, and Miranda wiped at her tears, touched that he still knew how caring a person she could be. "I've moved on. I've found someone new, and it's beginning to become serious."
"I'm glad," she sniffled.
"Thank you," he said, and Miranda could hear that he was truly happy. "I just... I know I should have talked to you first before springing the divorce on you like that. I guess I was getting impatient."
"It's all right, Stephen. I realise I was not exactly... approachable the last few months." She rubbed her temples and thought back at the vague blur her home life had become. "I truly wish I had paid more attention to you and the girls."
"Hmmm," he murmured. "It's not too late, you know? I realise I've never been much of a father figure, but even I could tell how much those girls adore you. They will be back."
"I hope so," she whispered. Oh god I hope so.
"So, this Andrea. Is she taking good care of you?" He asked, kindly changing the subject.
Thinking of the younger woman effectively stopped Mianda's tears and caused her to smile, "Oh you have no idea."
She turned around in her chair and looked back at the cabin, only to find Andrea standing by the window, concern subduing her beautiful face.
"Feel free to tell her about us," Stephen offered, and Miranda knew he was right. Andrea deserved to know everything.
"I will," she replied, eyes still locked with Andrea's.
"Well, I have to go. It would be rather comical if I ended up being late for rehab," he laughed, the joyful, easy-going character Miranda so fondly remembered shining through. "It was really good to talk to you, Miranda. Thank you."
"No, thank you," she whispered, truly glad they had gotten the chance to clear the air between them. "I will make sure to sign the papers as soon as possible."
"I really appreciate that. Well... goodbye."
"Goodbye, Stephen."
She hung up and motioned for Andrea to join her on the veranda. The younger woman did not hesitate and quickly stepped through the door.
"Miranda, are you okay?"
The tear tracks on her cheeks were freezing and her eyes burned from the cold, but Miranda nodded. She felt more than just okay.
"Yes, I'm perfectly fine." Her wide smile seemed to convince Andrea, and the tension in the younger woman's shoulders noticeably lessened.
"Who was that?"
"Stephen. We sort of... made our peace," Miranda replied, and she watched as Andrea's eyebrows drew together in panic. "Not in the way you think," she continued, unwilling to give the wrong impression when it so visibly upset Andrea.
"Come here," she said softly, opening the blanket and holding out her hand.
"W-what?" Andrea squeaked.
Miranda smirked and lowered her feet back to the floor. She patted her thighs and quirked an eyebrow. "I said, come here."
Hesitantly, Andrea walked closer, and Miranda grasped her hand and turned her around.
"Sit."
When Andrea did not react immediately, Miranda snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her rigid body backwards and onto her lap.
"My god, Andrea. Would you relax," she gently scolded while pulling the blanket closed around the both of them.
Gradually, the younger woman settled within her embrace, and before long Miranda was finally able to press her face into the warm crook of Andrea's neck. Her scent was like a safe haven, and Miranda slipped both arms around her belly and held her tightly.
"Hey!" Andrea squirmed.
"What?" Miranda breathed into her hair, her lips so very tempted to press sweet kisses to Andrea's earlobe.
Not yet.
"Your nose is icy," Andrea whispered, but she leaned back against Miranda's chest and grasped the hands around her middle. "And so are your fingers." She began to rub over her cold knuckles. "Maybe we should get back inside."
"No!" Miranda said immediately, and she possessively hooked her chin over Andrea's shoulder. "No. Let's sit here for a while longer."
"Okay." Andrea sighed, and the sound of it coursed through Miranda's body directly to her heart.
TBC...