Something Not Everyone Knows How To Love
Something Not Everyone Knows How To Love
Rating: PGish (if that)
Summary: Sometimes it takes an act of nature to shake La Priestly
Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, don’t own any of these characters. Neither do I own the few lines of poetry I borrowed from Wasan Shire.
A/N: This is a fic for pure_ecstasy6 who donated to the FandomAid to help the Philippines. Thank you so much for your donation :)
It’s late. Andy glances at her watch, the second hand ticks away steadfastly, unerringly marking all the preceding seconds she will never get back. Like a metronome keeping tempo, her finger taps against the surface of her desk with each minute sweep of the second hand; she unintentionally gives voice to the passage of time.
Andy tilts her head and looks through clear walls to the figure bent over a displeasing photo spread. Miranda’s displeasure is evident in the set of her shoulders, the angle of her head, the almost aggressive sweep of her hand, and the tightness around her eyes and mouth. Her discontent couldn’t be clearer if she used her substantial vocabulary to acerbically detail each point of her pique. Andy releases a small sigh; they aren’t going to be leaving anytime soon. She slumps back into the chair that’s much more comfortable than it appears. Her eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling. She ran out of even mundane tasks to do over an hour ago; and, Miranda sent Emily out on a wild goose chase for something or other an hour before that.
She’s bored.
She sits back up, places her elbows on the smooth surface of her desk, and rests her head on her hands. Her face is turned in the direction of one Miranda Priestly. Brown eyes fasten on the living vision. Andy can’t complain. Not really. She may be an unwilling, overworked employee stuck at work on a Friday night with nothing to keep her mind even remotely occupied at the behest of an impossible boss, but at least it’s cool.
The sweltering heat that has settled over the city is unbearable. Andy’s little window unit at home in no way combats the oppressive humidity that sticks the heat to the body until it has seeped down through the skin and fused itself to every breath. It’s inescapable. Except at Runway, where, god forbid, the thermostat ever climb over freezing.
It’s much the same at the townhouse. But, Andy actively avoids that topic in her mind. She is going home alone tonight. To an apartment that currently resembles a pit of hell. It would not do to raise her temperature unduly before she even gets there.
Instead, Andy looks at Miranda to her heart’s content. Emily isn’t at the office; there is no one to be careful of, no one to tread lightly around. She’s free to look at the editor with impunity. So, she looks.
Big, brown eyes take their fill of the unflappable, implacable image of the icon. Andy traces the sharp heel of the stilettos Miranda refuses to slip off, too proud to allow her persona to waver even in front of a lowly second assistant. Andy’s gaze lingers on the curve of stockinged calves before her eyes flow over crossed knees and covered thighs.
She licks her lips and breathes through her mouth to compensate for the sudden depletion of oxygen in her immediate vicinity. The phenomenon seems to be attached to an equally sudden localized temperature spike.
The inspection, however, continues up a covered torso and pauses a long moment on a gently rising and falling chest. Andy bites her lip to keep from making any audible sounds. Her eyes continue along slim but strong shoulders, down lean arms, to the tips of delicate hands. She delights in the reverse journey, as well, before settling on the downturned face that’s sharp in its acute concentration.
Andy’s brown eyes take in every detail about Miranda: the way her glasses slip down the length of her nose, the way she holds her pen, the way she swings her foot to an inaudible beat, the way her eyes scrutinize what’s before them, the way her tongue unconsciously sneaks out to wet her lips when she finds something pleasing. She notices everything. And all Andy can see for a moment is Miranda under her: open, wanting, unguarded. She see’s blue eyes that see her and recognize her. She sees a genuine smile pull at the corners of lips unaccustomed to the motion. She sees the Miranda she gets in bits and pieces, but one she highly treasures.
And like smoke dispersing at a strong wind, the version of Miranda that Andy is privileged to see some of the time disappears, hidden beneath layers of ice and garments. What is left is the impeccably armored Editor of Runway. This Miranda she knows only in context of work. She is hard and demanding and amoral in regards to her position as editor. She is ruthless and efficient. She is the epitome of professionalism and poise.
Still so beautiful, though. It makes Andy ache. Brown eyes trace the fine lines that give Miranda an air of experience rather than detract from her beauty. Andy sees Miranda’s blue eyes narrowed in distaste and her mouth straightened in thin-lipped annoyance.
Her Miranda is no less severe. But, her Miranda is also passionate and full of fire. The icon daintily folded into the chair at the helm of Runway is untouchable. But, her Miranda loves to be touched and taken and caressed and held. This Dragon guards her magazine like a treasure: jealously and viciously and voraciously and at the cost of everything. But, her Miranda shares her warmth and gifts unseen parts of herself to Andy.
The gamble is really in never knowing which one Andy will get on any given day. She hasn’t quite figured out where and when one Miranda begins and the other ends.
All Andy knows for certain is that she can’t keep her sanity and be Miranda’s assistant for much longer. It’s too straining to sleep next to a lover and wake up next to a stranger. At work Miranda is the epitome of professionalism. Andy smiles bitterly. Miranda shows her absolutely no favoritism; she, in fact, demands more of her than she previously did. If Andy was on the outside looking in, she would appreciate Miranda’s propriety. But, she can’t help the stab of pain at the editor’s absolute indifference at work.
Emily delights in Andy’s apparent estrangement out of Miranda’s good graces. The redhead is certain Andy committed some terrible faux pas in Paris that pushed her out of the editor’s favor. The brunette is beginning to wonder if Emily isn’t right; perhaps staying was a mistake. Because, every day Miranda dismisses her-like a lapdog only to pull her into fervent kisses when she deliver the Book-makes Andy feel like being irreverent. It makes her want to break the icon’s professional veneer. It makes Andy want to split her open to reveal the other parts of the editor. It makes her want to expose the editor, and reveal her duplicity.
Andy’s eyes slip away from Miranda. Her elbows spread and she lets her head fall to the desk. She sighs heavily, her breath fogging its surface.
A relationship with Miranda is akin to walking through a minefield to get to some ephemeral reward: dangerous, foolish, and ultimately a death wish. She likes to think it’s also a little bit brave. But that thought is far away when she has to be nimble, and quick, with good eyes, and a better sense of humor, to simply avoid one wrong step. Dead or alive, Andy won’t escape unscathed. She’s smart enough to know that she is neither young enough nor strong enough to walk through whole.
Andy drags her eyes to the editor once more, heart aching with something heavy and unnamable. This Miranda that looks through her and cuts her down with words and treats her like little more than a stranger, Andy can’t help but treasures this Miranda, too. Because ultimately, the editor is part of the bigger whole that Andy has begrudgingly and inevitably fallen in love with.
Stormy blue eyes rise and pierce Andy. Miranda beckons her without a word.
Andy obeys the summons without question. She stops in front of Miranda’s desk. The editor leans back in her chair, glasses held between her fingers, eyes studying Andy. Miranda looks at the brunette with familiar eyes. Eyes that know the curves under Andy’s clothes intimately. Eyes that see her. Eyes that cause Andy’s heart to beat wildly against her sternum.
Andy tries not to fidget as the silence stretches and blue eyes stare at her.
“Yes, Miranda.” It’s meant as a question to the summons. It doesn’t quite come out that way. Andy can’t be sure what she’s seeing in blue eyes. But, the silence between them is now loaded and heavy with intent.
“You’ve been staring.” A statement, not a question. Or, perhaps, a rhetorical question. Which amounts to the same thing, really. Andy’s not supposed to answer. She’s supposed to stew.
Andy could swear the heat from outside is seeping into the building; she’s burning up. She opens her mouth to break the silence once again but something catches the corner of her eye. Her head snaps to the windows behind Miranda. The editor automatically follows the brunette’s line of sight.
Andy watches in rapt fascination as building after building goes dark. It is a majestic sweep of blackness that extinguishes the manmade lights of the city.
Darkness covers the city as far as she can see from Miranda’s office.
Night has fallen on the Big Apple.
And, the stars come out.
The silhouette of the skyline visible against the sudden brightness of the night sky is breathtaking and beautiful. The sight reminds Andy of home and all the reverence she used to have for the heavens.
An audible intake of breath shift Andy’s focus.
“One of the city’s transformers must have gone out,” Andy supplies unnecessarily. All she can see is the white of Miranda’s hair illuminated by the scant light afforded by the waning moon. The shake of the white head informs Andy that the editor is not happy.
Absolute silence reigns. No circulating air, or low hum of fluorescent lighting, or whirr of servers, breaks the silence that darkness has descended on the city.
The low hum of electricity charging the emergency lights breaks the silence. The backup generators must have turned on.
In deference to the look on the editor’s face, Andy doesn’t make any smart comments about the work day being over. Miranda seems in no mood for levity. They both know they have to leave the building.
“We could take the stairs.” The suggestion is met with pointed silence. Andy imagines the look being directed at her; she feels its intensity even through layers of darkness the emergency lighting can’t breach.
She sighs quietly barely resisting the desire roll her eyes. Of course they can’t take the stairs. Miranda doesn’t do stairs. She does nothing that is inconvenient. Andy feels the truth of that burn below her breast bone.
“Right then, no stairs. Of course. What was I thinking?” Andy murmurs to herself as she exits Miranda’s office.
“Where are you going?” Miranda’s voice seems loud in the quiet of the sleeping building, desperate almost.
“To do my job.” Andy doesn’t mean it to sound so sharp, so careless, so indifferent. So like Miranda a few months ago in Paris. So like Miranda every day at work.
Andy’s instantly contrite. Brown eyes try to find blue in the semi-darkness and what she see when she finds them surprises her. Miranda’s face is ashen, her hands balled tightly in her lap, her eyes tight with worry. Andy is momentarily floored. Miranda is scared. And Andy does what she always does when faced with this woman, she succumbs to her, gives her an out without having to voice her inadequacies. She forgets her own grievances and protects her. “I could call from your phone.”
A small nod is all she needs before she’s striding across the office to the phone on the corner of Miranda’s desk.
Andy calls the security team downstairs. She’s reassured that the elevators will be routed through the generators to allow them to get down as soon as humanly possible. She’s impressed they don’t once suggest the women take the stairs; they know all too well who works on the Runway floor.
“They’ll call us when the power is rerouted to the elevators.” Andy prays it’s soon, she can already feel the heat seeping in through the windows and the floor. At least Miranda will escape the heat when she gets in her car. She tries not to think of the long subway ride home with sweaty people in a confined space.
She absently moves to the chairs across Miranda’s desk. Her motion is brought to an abrupt halt as an ice cold hand clings to hers.
“Stay with me.” Miranda tries to command but all Andy can hear is a small child’s fear. It breaks her heart a little bit. But, unbelievable, it also serves to endear the editor more to her. She feels supremely privileged to see Miranda so vulnerable.
Hand still firmly clasped around Miranda’s, she turns and kneels before the editor, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Curiosity slams against Andy’s teeth, but she restrains herself from asking the obvious questions. She can’t forget to be nimble and subtle as she navigates through Miranda’s psyche. “Come sit with me on the couch, there’s no more work you can get done.” She pulls an unresisting editor to the plush couch no one ever uses.
They sit quietly a long while. Miranda finding her composure. Andy holding her hand tightly.
“Why?” Miranda’s voice is more modulated now, no longer shaky with fear or desperation. The vagueness of the question sounds much more like the editor as well.
“Why what?” Andy doesn’t bother trying to figure out what Miranda may or may not be asking. The editor will simply have to chalk it up to extenuating circumstances. She’s feeling irreverent and powerful in the dark. Quite possibly a dangerous combination.
“Why were you staring?” Miranda indulges the brunette because she hasn’t let go of her hand yet.
Because I want to tear your mask off. Because I want to split open that professional façade of yours. Because I want to see if, maybe, just maybe, you want me even a little bit as much as I always want you. Andy discards all those thoughts; she’s feeling brave not stupid. “Because I like looking at you,” Andy says softly but without the background noise that usually fills the office it’s clearly audible.
The brunette can feel blue eyes scrutinizing her. The cover of darkness makes it only slightly more bearable than usual. Miranda has a way of undoing her.
“You can’t work for me anymore.” And that is classic, bitchy Miranda.
That Andy agrees with Miranda’s statement is completely irrelevant. Is Miranda firing me? Her face turns stony. In a moment of complete and justified pettiness, Andy wants to tear her hand away and leave Miranda alone in the dark to fend for herself. The only thing that’s stopping her is the editor’s death grip on her hand.
“It is becoming increasingly difficult,” Miranda’s voice is softer, appeasing, “to compartmentalize you.”
Of course Miranda would try to stick Andy in a neat little box that she could categorize into a neat little corner of her world. Of course the editor would act like a petulant child and treat her more coldly the more she lost control. Of course she sees herself as completely justified in her set of actions. Of course she can’t simply say I love you.
Andy looks at Miranda askance. Is this how she wants to live her life? Never knowing exactly what Miranda is thinking? Not understanding certain actions until months after their inception? Always being in the dark?
Looking down at the hand entwined in hers, Andy knows the answer. But, god, if she isn’t going to rock the boat every once in a while.
Andy pulls the editor into her lap, thrilled and terrified at her own boldness. She holds Miranda like the precious thing she is to her. She presses the editor tight to her body in assurance and comfort. And love.
“You are terrifying,” Andy speaks very softly pressing herself closer to Miranda when the editor stiffens at the words, “and strange and beautiful.” She pauses measuring the weight of her next words. Sometimes, Miranda doesn’t need subterfuge and subtlety, she needs directness and forthrightness. “Something not everyone knows how to love.”
Miranda does nothing, says nothing, but Andy can feel her heart beating faster.
“But, I do, Miranda,” Andy steps on the mine, there is no getting out of this alive, “I know how to love you. And, I will. As long as you let me.”
Miranda kisses her softly.
Andy is thankful she’s sitting because the kiss makes her knees weak, not because it’s especially earth shattering, but because it’s the first time Miranda’s ever kissed her at Runway. (Because it’s the first time she’s kissed her outside of the confines of her townhouse.) Andy knows she’s not going to work for the editor much longer, but it means something that Miranda is crossing that line. The fact that the office is empty and darkness pervades it doesn’t cheapen the moment. Miranda is telling her something important, and Andy is listening.
The phone rings. And, they both hear the elevator ding its arrival.
“Shall we?” The editor stands and holds her hand out to the brunette.
Andy smiles and takes the offered hand. Miranda has never met a challenge which she did not conquer; Andy has no desires to tarnish that record.
They walk out hand in hand, neither minding the heat or the darkness.
Rating: PGish (if that)
Summary: Sometimes it takes an act of nature to shake La Priestly
Disclaimer: I, unfortunately, don’t own any of these characters. Neither do I own the few lines of poetry I borrowed from Wasan Shire.
A/N: This is a fic for pure_ecstasy6 who donated to the FandomAid to help the Philippines. Thank you so much for your donation :)
It’s late. Andy glances at her watch, the second hand ticks away steadfastly, unerringly marking all the preceding seconds she will never get back. Like a metronome keeping tempo, her finger taps against the surface of her desk with each minute sweep of the second hand; she unintentionally gives voice to the passage of time.
Andy tilts her head and looks through clear walls to the figure bent over a displeasing photo spread. Miranda’s displeasure is evident in the set of her shoulders, the angle of her head, the almost aggressive sweep of her hand, and the tightness around her eyes and mouth. Her discontent couldn’t be clearer if she used her substantial vocabulary to acerbically detail each point of her pique. Andy releases a small sigh; they aren’t going to be leaving anytime soon. She slumps back into the chair that’s much more comfortable than it appears. Her eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling. She ran out of even mundane tasks to do over an hour ago; and, Miranda sent Emily out on a wild goose chase for something or other an hour before that.
She’s bored.
She sits back up, places her elbows on the smooth surface of her desk, and rests her head on her hands. Her face is turned in the direction of one Miranda Priestly. Brown eyes fasten on the living vision. Andy can’t complain. Not really. She may be an unwilling, overworked employee stuck at work on a Friday night with nothing to keep her mind even remotely occupied at the behest of an impossible boss, but at least it’s cool.
The sweltering heat that has settled over the city is unbearable. Andy’s little window unit at home in no way combats the oppressive humidity that sticks the heat to the body until it has seeped down through the skin and fused itself to every breath. It’s inescapable. Except at Runway, where, god forbid, the thermostat ever climb over freezing.
It’s much the same at the townhouse. But, Andy actively avoids that topic in her mind. She is going home alone tonight. To an apartment that currently resembles a pit of hell. It would not do to raise her temperature unduly before she even gets there.
Instead, Andy looks at Miranda to her heart’s content. Emily isn’t at the office; there is no one to be careful of, no one to tread lightly around. She’s free to look at the editor with impunity. So, she looks.
Big, brown eyes take their fill of the unflappable, implacable image of the icon. Andy traces the sharp heel of the stilettos Miranda refuses to slip off, too proud to allow her persona to waver even in front of a lowly second assistant. Andy’s gaze lingers on the curve of stockinged calves before her eyes flow over crossed knees and covered thighs.
She licks her lips and breathes through her mouth to compensate for the sudden depletion of oxygen in her immediate vicinity. The phenomenon seems to be attached to an equally sudden localized temperature spike.
The inspection, however, continues up a covered torso and pauses a long moment on a gently rising and falling chest. Andy bites her lip to keep from making any audible sounds. Her eyes continue along slim but strong shoulders, down lean arms, to the tips of delicate hands. She delights in the reverse journey, as well, before settling on the downturned face that’s sharp in its acute concentration.
Andy’s brown eyes take in every detail about Miranda: the way her glasses slip down the length of her nose, the way she holds her pen, the way she swings her foot to an inaudible beat, the way her eyes scrutinize what’s before them, the way her tongue unconsciously sneaks out to wet her lips when she finds something pleasing. She notices everything. And all Andy can see for a moment is Miranda under her: open, wanting, unguarded. She see’s blue eyes that see her and recognize her. She sees a genuine smile pull at the corners of lips unaccustomed to the motion. She sees the Miranda she gets in bits and pieces, but one she highly treasures.
And like smoke dispersing at a strong wind, the version of Miranda that Andy is privileged to see some of the time disappears, hidden beneath layers of ice and garments. What is left is the impeccably armored Editor of Runway. This Miranda she knows only in context of work. She is hard and demanding and amoral in regards to her position as editor. She is ruthless and efficient. She is the epitome of professionalism and poise.
Still so beautiful, though. It makes Andy ache. Brown eyes trace the fine lines that give Miranda an air of experience rather than detract from her beauty. Andy sees Miranda’s blue eyes narrowed in distaste and her mouth straightened in thin-lipped annoyance.
Her Miranda is no less severe. But, her Miranda is also passionate and full of fire. The icon daintily folded into the chair at the helm of Runway is untouchable. But, her Miranda loves to be touched and taken and caressed and held. This Dragon guards her magazine like a treasure: jealously and viciously and voraciously and at the cost of everything. But, her Miranda shares her warmth and gifts unseen parts of herself to Andy.
The gamble is really in never knowing which one Andy will get on any given day. She hasn’t quite figured out where and when one Miranda begins and the other ends.
All Andy knows for certain is that she can’t keep her sanity and be Miranda’s assistant for much longer. It’s too straining to sleep next to a lover and wake up next to a stranger. At work Miranda is the epitome of professionalism. Andy smiles bitterly. Miranda shows her absolutely no favoritism; she, in fact, demands more of her than she previously did. If Andy was on the outside looking in, she would appreciate Miranda’s propriety. But, she can’t help the stab of pain at the editor’s absolute indifference at work.
Emily delights in Andy’s apparent estrangement out of Miranda’s good graces. The redhead is certain Andy committed some terrible faux pas in Paris that pushed her out of the editor’s favor. The brunette is beginning to wonder if Emily isn’t right; perhaps staying was a mistake. Because, every day Miranda dismisses her-like a lapdog only to pull her into fervent kisses when she deliver the Book-makes Andy feel like being irreverent. It makes her want to break the icon’s professional veneer. It makes Andy want to split her open to reveal the other parts of the editor. It makes her want to expose the editor, and reveal her duplicity.
Andy’s eyes slip away from Miranda. Her elbows spread and she lets her head fall to the desk. She sighs heavily, her breath fogging its surface.
A relationship with Miranda is akin to walking through a minefield to get to some ephemeral reward: dangerous, foolish, and ultimately a death wish. She likes to think it’s also a little bit brave. But that thought is far away when she has to be nimble, and quick, with good eyes, and a better sense of humor, to simply avoid one wrong step. Dead or alive, Andy won’t escape unscathed. She’s smart enough to know that she is neither young enough nor strong enough to walk through whole.
Andy drags her eyes to the editor once more, heart aching with something heavy and unnamable. This Miranda that looks through her and cuts her down with words and treats her like little more than a stranger, Andy can’t help but treasures this Miranda, too. Because ultimately, the editor is part of the bigger whole that Andy has begrudgingly and inevitably fallen in love with.
Stormy blue eyes rise and pierce Andy. Miranda beckons her without a word.
Andy obeys the summons without question. She stops in front of Miranda’s desk. The editor leans back in her chair, glasses held between her fingers, eyes studying Andy. Miranda looks at the brunette with familiar eyes. Eyes that know the curves under Andy’s clothes intimately. Eyes that see her. Eyes that cause Andy’s heart to beat wildly against her sternum.
Andy tries not to fidget as the silence stretches and blue eyes stare at her.
“Yes, Miranda.” It’s meant as a question to the summons. It doesn’t quite come out that way. Andy can’t be sure what she’s seeing in blue eyes. But, the silence between them is now loaded and heavy with intent.
“You’ve been staring.” A statement, not a question. Or, perhaps, a rhetorical question. Which amounts to the same thing, really. Andy’s not supposed to answer. She’s supposed to stew.
Andy could swear the heat from outside is seeping into the building; she’s burning up. She opens her mouth to break the silence once again but something catches the corner of her eye. Her head snaps to the windows behind Miranda. The editor automatically follows the brunette’s line of sight.
Andy watches in rapt fascination as building after building goes dark. It is a majestic sweep of blackness that extinguishes the manmade lights of the city.
Darkness covers the city as far as she can see from Miranda’s office.
Night has fallen on the Big Apple.
And, the stars come out.
The silhouette of the skyline visible against the sudden brightness of the night sky is breathtaking and beautiful. The sight reminds Andy of home and all the reverence she used to have for the heavens.
An audible intake of breath shift Andy’s focus.
“One of the city’s transformers must have gone out,” Andy supplies unnecessarily. All she can see is the white of Miranda’s hair illuminated by the scant light afforded by the waning moon. The shake of the white head informs Andy that the editor is not happy.
Absolute silence reigns. No circulating air, or low hum of fluorescent lighting, or whirr of servers, breaks the silence that darkness has descended on the city.
The low hum of electricity charging the emergency lights breaks the silence. The backup generators must have turned on.
In deference to the look on the editor’s face, Andy doesn’t make any smart comments about the work day being over. Miranda seems in no mood for levity. They both know they have to leave the building.
“We could take the stairs.” The suggestion is met with pointed silence. Andy imagines the look being directed at her; she feels its intensity even through layers of darkness the emergency lighting can’t breach.
She sighs quietly barely resisting the desire roll her eyes. Of course they can’t take the stairs. Miranda doesn’t do stairs. She does nothing that is inconvenient. Andy feels the truth of that burn below her breast bone.
“Right then, no stairs. Of course. What was I thinking?” Andy murmurs to herself as she exits Miranda’s office.
“Where are you going?” Miranda’s voice seems loud in the quiet of the sleeping building, desperate almost.
“To do my job.” Andy doesn’t mean it to sound so sharp, so careless, so indifferent. So like Miranda a few months ago in Paris. So like Miranda every day at work.
Andy’s instantly contrite. Brown eyes try to find blue in the semi-darkness and what she see when she finds them surprises her. Miranda’s face is ashen, her hands balled tightly in her lap, her eyes tight with worry. Andy is momentarily floored. Miranda is scared. And Andy does what she always does when faced with this woman, she succumbs to her, gives her an out without having to voice her inadequacies. She forgets her own grievances and protects her. “I could call from your phone.”
A small nod is all she needs before she’s striding across the office to the phone on the corner of Miranda’s desk.
Andy calls the security team downstairs. She’s reassured that the elevators will be routed through the generators to allow them to get down as soon as humanly possible. She’s impressed they don’t once suggest the women take the stairs; they know all too well who works on the Runway floor.
“They’ll call us when the power is rerouted to the elevators.” Andy prays it’s soon, she can already feel the heat seeping in through the windows and the floor. At least Miranda will escape the heat when she gets in her car. She tries not to think of the long subway ride home with sweaty people in a confined space.
She absently moves to the chairs across Miranda’s desk. Her motion is brought to an abrupt halt as an ice cold hand clings to hers.
“Stay with me.” Miranda tries to command but all Andy can hear is a small child’s fear. It breaks her heart a little bit. But, unbelievable, it also serves to endear the editor more to her. She feels supremely privileged to see Miranda so vulnerable.
Hand still firmly clasped around Miranda’s, she turns and kneels before the editor, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Curiosity slams against Andy’s teeth, but she restrains herself from asking the obvious questions. She can’t forget to be nimble and subtle as she navigates through Miranda’s psyche. “Come sit with me on the couch, there’s no more work you can get done.” She pulls an unresisting editor to the plush couch no one ever uses.
They sit quietly a long while. Miranda finding her composure. Andy holding her hand tightly.
“Why?” Miranda’s voice is more modulated now, no longer shaky with fear or desperation. The vagueness of the question sounds much more like the editor as well.
“Why what?” Andy doesn’t bother trying to figure out what Miranda may or may not be asking. The editor will simply have to chalk it up to extenuating circumstances. She’s feeling irreverent and powerful in the dark. Quite possibly a dangerous combination.
“Why were you staring?” Miranda indulges the brunette because she hasn’t let go of her hand yet.
Because I want to tear your mask off. Because I want to split open that professional façade of yours. Because I want to see if, maybe, just maybe, you want me even a little bit as much as I always want you. Andy discards all those thoughts; she’s feeling brave not stupid. “Because I like looking at you,” Andy says softly but without the background noise that usually fills the office it’s clearly audible.
The brunette can feel blue eyes scrutinizing her. The cover of darkness makes it only slightly more bearable than usual. Miranda has a way of undoing her.
“You can’t work for me anymore.” And that is classic, bitchy Miranda.
That Andy agrees with Miranda’s statement is completely irrelevant. Is Miranda firing me? Her face turns stony. In a moment of complete and justified pettiness, Andy wants to tear her hand away and leave Miranda alone in the dark to fend for herself. The only thing that’s stopping her is the editor’s death grip on her hand.
“It is becoming increasingly difficult,” Miranda’s voice is softer, appeasing, “to compartmentalize you.”
Of course Miranda would try to stick Andy in a neat little box that she could categorize into a neat little corner of her world. Of course the editor would act like a petulant child and treat her more coldly the more she lost control. Of course she sees herself as completely justified in her set of actions. Of course she can’t simply say I love you.
Andy looks at Miranda askance. Is this how she wants to live her life? Never knowing exactly what Miranda is thinking? Not understanding certain actions until months after their inception? Always being in the dark?
Looking down at the hand entwined in hers, Andy knows the answer. But, god, if she isn’t going to rock the boat every once in a while.
Andy pulls the editor into her lap, thrilled and terrified at her own boldness. She holds Miranda like the precious thing she is to her. She presses the editor tight to her body in assurance and comfort. And love.
“You are terrifying,” Andy speaks very softly pressing herself closer to Miranda when the editor stiffens at the words, “and strange and beautiful.” She pauses measuring the weight of her next words. Sometimes, Miranda doesn’t need subterfuge and subtlety, she needs directness and forthrightness. “Something not everyone knows how to love.”
Miranda does nothing, says nothing, but Andy can feel her heart beating faster.
“But, I do, Miranda,” Andy steps on the mine, there is no getting out of this alive, “I know how to love you. And, I will. As long as you let me.”
Miranda kisses her softly.
Andy is thankful she’s sitting because the kiss makes her knees weak, not because it’s especially earth shattering, but because it’s the first time Miranda’s ever kissed her at Runway. (Because it’s the first time she’s kissed her outside of the confines of her townhouse.) Andy knows she’s not going to work for the editor much longer, but it means something that Miranda is crossing that line. The fact that the office is empty and darkness pervades it doesn’t cheapen the moment. Miranda is telling her something important, and Andy is listening.
The phone rings. And, they both hear the elevator ding its arrival.
“Shall we?” The editor stands and holds her hand out to the brunette.
Andy smiles and takes the offered hand. Miranda has never met a challenge which she did not conquer; Andy has no desires to tarnish that record.
They walk out hand in hand, neither minding the heat or the darkness.