Fic: I'll Let You Know (If You Have to Come and Choose a Name) PART DEUX, Miranda/Andy, NC17
Title: I'll Let You Know (If You Have to Come and Choose a Name)
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andy/Nigel, Miranda/Andy
Rating: NC17
Summary: written for the prompt 'accidental pregnancy' for this specific threesome. Set after the movie. YOU ASKED SO NICELY, and the story demanded to be written. Here is part two. Thank you ladyvivien for your eyes.
Disclaimer: Not mine! Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century FOX are the people in charge here. I'm just borrowing, and making no profit. Also, I have no idea what possessed me to fill this prompt, but there you go.
PART ONE
Andy might have been a coward for the past two weeks, but when she finally decides to bite the bullet, she doesn’t do things by halves.
So if Miranda only gets as far as murmuring missed you against Andy’s neck (and slipping one very determined hand under Andy’s skirt) before there’s another knock at the door, well, that’s just bad luck.
Nigel begins with a retort about how he hasn’t been this far out of his comfort zone since… and stops dead at the sight of Miranda, who’s still breathing just a tad too fast and is flushed even beneath her flawless makeup.
Are we-- Nigel begins, even as Miranda shakes her head. Andy deflects the patented Miranda glare that comes in her direction, because they should both know she’s not stupid enough to try and recreate that particular night.
You should both sit down. I’ll get wine. We’re gonna need it. Andy shoves Nigel towards the sofa before more gently steering Miranda in the same direction. She doesn’t watch to see how they arrange themselves, marching straight into the kitchen instead. This is probably a very, very bad idea.
*
It takes Miranda all of fifteen seconds, and Andy wonders if she was right about Mommy Sense after all. The lack of a wineglass in Andy’s hand sets Miranda’s eyes to narrowing, followed by that careful head tilt and then the slight purse of her lips that tells Andy she’s screwed.
Nigel, flustered though he is, knows just how to read Miranda. He might not have pieced together the same information, but he’s suspicious and apparently a little relieved that it’s just regular trouble, judging by the way his shoulders slump.
So… Andy begins, an fourteen drafts in Word and countless screwed up post-its still haven’t provided her with anything to say next.
So? Miranda throws back at her, before draining her glass in one deliberate gulp.
It’s kind of a funny story, actually… Nobody, especially not Andy, is laughing.
*
Nigel takes it best, all things considered. For a moment it looks like he’s going to grab Miranda’s Prada clutch just to throw up in it, but he recovers remarkably fast.
I don’t want anything, Nigel. I just thought you should know.
He looks relieved, loosening the skinny tie around his neck as he slumps back against the sofa cushions.
I won’t see you stuck, kid. I just never thought…
Andy shrugs, because really, none of them were thinking three months ago.
I can always be cool Uncle Nigel, if you want? Andy’s heart skips at the offer, and she bites back a grin.
Someone has to teach this kid how to dress is all she concedes, but the faint twinkle in Nigel’s eye suggests they’ll find a way to be okay. It’s Miranda they should worry about.
Miranda, sitting as proud and stiff as any marble statue, is the obvious problem. She hasn’t said a word, and Andy realizes that Nigel might not even know what’s been going on between them since that night. It’s…not a secret, exactly. Or at least it’s a poorly-kept one that’s somehow avoided the gossip pages so far. Andy isn’t sure there’s going to be a story to break after tonight.
The silence stretches on to the point of awkward, and Nigel is the peacemaker once more, slipping into his familiar role in this most unfamiliar of situations.
I’ll go he says, managing not to sprint towards the door. You call me, Six, if you need anything.
Andy nods and watches him go. Her initial fear has calmed somewhat, but even looking at Miranda again puts the tremble back in her hands. Pouring Miranda another glass of wine, Andy squirms a little longer as the rich, red liquid disappears in two hearty swallows. She finds herself wishing, not for the first time, that she could polish off a bottle by herself.
Miranda speaks at last, her voice dull and almost robotic.
You’re certain about your choice?
Sensing the beginning of a quick and hopefully merciful end, Andy lets her head drop into her hands. Let Miranda take that as an answer, this is hard enough already. Andy is struggling with tears, which she’s determined to blame on hormones, but there’s something painfully real about where they’re coming from.
She just isn’t ready to be done with Miranda, and the thought of never kissing her again, of never watching her eyes darken when she comes, leaves Andy feeling bereft. This kid, this decision, has to be worth it. Andy knows already that she’ll make it worth it.
Never predictable-especially in times of stress-Miranda stands in one fluid movement that startles Andy from her own little pity party. Crossing the few feet of space between them, Miranda sinks to her knees, seemingly not caring what cheap oatmeal carpet will do to a Bill Blass trouser.
She kisses Andy, and it’s so very fucking sad.
Kisses aren’t supposed to be sad, Andy thinks as she kisses back. Pressing a hand to the base of Miranda’s neck, she pulls her into a deeper kiss, as though the meeting of their tongues will somehow stave off the inevitable. They’re still volatile though, and that simple action is a match thrown into a powder keg. For a moment, the reason for the kiss is gone, and Andy realizes they’re going to say goodbye fucking on her not-very-comfortable sofa.
Miranda is needier and far more possessive than normal. Her kisses have flashes of teeth, leaving a trail of angry red marks over Andy’s skin, everywhere but her lightly rounded stomach. The pace is relentless, and Andy feels her hips arching towards Miranda, already begging for more. She has to make this last, has to savor it, and yet she already knows that she can’t.
By the time Miranda’s mouth is over her clit, Andy’s already fucking herself against Miranda’s rigid fingers. How is she supposed to give this up? It’s the last coherent thought before she climaxes, and when the stars behind her eyes clear, Andy opens her eyes to see Miranda rising slowly to her feet.
Goodbye, Andrea is all she says as she reaches for her purse. Andy couldn’t stop her from walking out if she tried, not on legs still halfway to jelly. She’s naked except for an unfastened bra, and panting into the eerie silence as the door slams behind Miranda.
Well, shit.
*
Nigel is as good as his word, Andy’s kind of relieved to discover. Her parents are letting disapproval outweigh their impending grandparenthood, and her sister couldn’t care less. Doug and Lily have offered sympathy and a safe sex lecture respectively, but Andy’s kept quiet on details of conception, so only Nigel understands the full weirdness of the situation.
The Mirror’s parent company offers a little in the way of maternity leave, but Andy doesn’t miss the look of disappointment that her boss lets slip when she breaks the ‘good’ news. She cries on the phone to Nigel that night, and he shows up with really good Italian takeout an hour later. Sure, he bitches about the cab ride to the back of beyond, and offers Andy his spare room in a way that’s almost convincing.
I told you; you don’t have to do any of that. I’m fine here. Andy does play the pregnancy card to get the last of the garlic bread though, because principles are non-existent in the face of a well-baked focaccia.
Suit yourself, Six. Although you’ll be an even bigger number soon, he warns, with his trademark raised eyebrows.
Andy threatens his brand new Armani pants with the marinara sauce and he holds his hands up in surrender.
Don’t remind me she sighs, but the contentment is finally starting to outweigh the worry.
*
She’s getting into her fifth month, and even getting creative with her jeans and some ribbon-belts isn’t doing the trick anymore. Andy’s close to just wearing sweatpants to work when the first of the packages arrives, delivered to her apartment by a very unhappy courier. No wonder, Andy realizes when she feels the weight of the thing. She can’t drag it any further than the hallway before opening it.
Inside the huge box are a variety of garment bags and smaller boxes, with some decidedly fancy maternity wear. Andy seizes on the nicely tailored pants, and the soft, flowing skirts with barely-concealed relief, trying everything on in front of her bedroom mirror before calling Nigel with a giddy smile.
You didn’t need to send me all these clothes, Nigel. But I’m so glad you did.
There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone.
I really didn’t Nigel confesses, and Andy’s left staring at the dazzling array of designer labels strewn over her bed in confusion. As he hangs up, Andy allows herself one glimmering moment of hope before dismissing it. Nigel probably just doesn’t want her to feel beholden or something. Nobody else could have sent those clothes.
*
It takes exactly twenty-four hours for Andy to cave and call Emily. They’ve only had a couple of awkard, stilted conversations since Andy found herself back in Miranda’s orbit, but it’s been clear that Emily was no fan of the sudden return.
Emily wants to withhold, that much is clear, but that’s not exactly news. She stonewalls Andy’s finely-honed journalistic technique for all of a minute before relenting and confessing that, yes, Miranda did send those clothes. In fact, she picked them out herself, in that she made a list of items and had Emily chase every last one down.
I can’t believe you’re knocked up, Andy. Not that it’s any excuse for even more carbs. So don’t go-
Andy hangs up.
*
It might be just a meaningless gesture.
Miranda can certainly afford to throw couture around like confetti, given that she pays for basically none of it. Andy tries not to fixate on what it might mean, but it’s impossible not to think of Miranda every time she slips into a silky top or especially forgiving pair of pants. In fact, Andy finds every idle moment consumed by thoughts of her ex-lover and that’s bordering on the ridiculous.
It was a fling she tells herself. What, were they supposed to be some lesbian cliché and move in together after three dates? Andy couldn’t even stay over for fear of upsetting the twins, who had decided the best way to avoid disruption to their home life was for their Mom to stop dating, period. And pregnant as a result of their first, ridiculous ‘date’? Hell, even Andy and her big, easily bruised heart wouldn’t be stupid enough to fall for someone in that scenario.
She’s leaving her 20-week scan, printout gripped firmly in her hand because she still can’t quite believe it, when the receptionist calls her over.
It might be nothing the friendly woman begins.
Miranda Andy thinks, and she’s proven right in short order.
Well, this English woman keeps ringing here, asking for updates on your condition. I’ve told her about patient confidentiality, but she doesn’t seem to be taking the hint.
In that moment, whether it’s hormones or righteous goddamned anger to blame, Andy sees red.
I’ll take care of it she says, taking off at a pace that’s almost a run. She hails a cab and gives the address before she can think better of it.
*
Batting her eyelashes at the security guard gets her in the building, although she sees him reconsider for a moment as he sees her baby bump on the way past. It’s harder to hide now, and honestly she has no intention of concealing it anyway.
The Runway receptionist smiles in that vague way she’s always had, too slow to realize that although Andy’s face is familiar, it still shouldn’t be here. If Andy weren’t so close to wringing Miranda’s neck herself, she might just point out that security in this place needs a major rethink.
Emily is the last, ineffectual hurdle. She wilts in the face of Andy’s glare like she might at a similar look from Miranda, and Andy could swear she hears a muttered ‘sorry’ as she strides straight into Miranda’s office.
Andy does not give even a single damn that there’s a run-through going on. She only has eyes for Miranda, who looks as fierce as ever while she dismisses some inspid dress choices. Only when Andy stands directly in front of her does Miranda shut up, apparently at an historic loss for words.
Nigel, wonderful Nigel, has the foresight to dismiss everyone from the room, closing the doors behind him when he’s the last to depart. It leaves Miranda and Andy painfully close, even if right now they seem to be a million miles apart.
How dare you. Andy begins, her words dripping in venom she didn’t know she was capable of.
I won’t apologize for caring Miranda says, letting her head droop just a little from her usual ramrod-straight posture. Andy doesn’t point out that Miranda won’t apologize for anything, because she’s too busy being hit by an invisible clue-by-four.
Miranda can’t apologize, not in words. Andy knew this two months ago, but forgot it somehow. Miranda can’t reverse her position, or take back anything she meant at the time. But she can, slowly and almost imperceptibly, change her mind. She just makes it look like that was her position all along.
In that moment, unable to meet Miranda’s downcast eyes, Andy finally gets it.
You were--
Yes, Miranda finishes, because letting anyone say it out loud is more than she can bear.
It isn’t really a choice to kiss Miranda, Andy knows. It’s just something she has to do, much as she needs to breathe, or put one foot in front of the other in order to walk. It’s the next, and only, logical step.
Miranda tastes like coffee and regret, and Andy can’t get enough. She doesn’t care that the doors are closed, because she’d be kissing Miranda now, like this, even if they were stood in the middle of Times Square.
It’s what happens next, and Miranda really likes it when she doesn’t have to explain every silly little detail, so this should suit her just fine.
I wanted another baby Miranda says, casually dropping another one of her little bombshells. But after the twins… the complications…it wasn’t possible.”
You don’t mean-“ Andy begins, and thankfully she’s used to being interrupted by now.
I mean, if you’re having this baby...I would like you to have it with me.
Andy can think of a hundred reasons why that’s the stupidest idea she’s ever heard, but the tears rolling down her cheeks don’t want to listen. She should say no, or laugh in Miranda’s face before running away from this building and this insane proposal, but not one atom of her will act on the impulse.
I suppose you have done this before; and I think you have a better throwing arm than Nigel.
Miranda looks confused at the apparent non-sequitur.
It’s-he’s-a boy. I want him to be able to throw a decent curveball, and God knows you do that on an hourly basis; just ask your staff.
For a moment, Andy thinks she might be in for a lecture on how sports are not the exclusive domain of men (weirdly, Miranda is particularly vehement in her support for Title IX) but the pinched expression on Miranda’s face gives way to one of the rarer sights-a genuine smile.
As long as he has Nigel’s fashion sense and your hairline, I think we might be okay.
Not the other way round? Andy teases as she takes Miranda in her arms again. It feels different now, around the bump. Around her little boy, she reminds herself.
Definitely not Miranda confirms before drawing Andy into another, far more patient kiss.
This wasn’t why I came here Andy murmurs between kisses.
It only matters that you came.
And that, Andy discovers, is almost impossible to argue with.
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andy/Nigel, Miranda/Andy
Rating: NC17
Summary: written for the prompt 'accidental pregnancy' for this specific threesome. Set after the movie. YOU ASKED SO NICELY, and the story demanded to be written. Here is part two. Thank you ladyvivien for your eyes.
Disclaimer: Not mine! Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century FOX are the people in charge here. I'm just borrowing, and making no profit. Also, I have no idea what possessed me to fill this prompt, but there you go.
PART ONE
Andy might have been a coward for the past two weeks, but when she finally decides to bite the bullet, she doesn’t do things by halves.
So if Miranda only gets as far as murmuring missed you against Andy’s neck (and slipping one very determined hand under Andy’s skirt) before there’s another knock at the door, well, that’s just bad luck.
Nigel begins with a retort about how he hasn’t been this far out of his comfort zone since… and stops dead at the sight of Miranda, who’s still breathing just a tad too fast and is flushed even beneath her flawless makeup.
Are we-- Nigel begins, even as Miranda shakes her head. Andy deflects the patented Miranda glare that comes in her direction, because they should both know she’s not stupid enough to try and recreate that particular night.
You should both sit down. I’ll get wine. We’re gonna need it. Andy shoves Nigel towards the sofa before more gently steering Miranda in the same direction. She doesn’t watch to see how they arrange themselves, marching straight into the kitchen instead. This is probably a very, very bad idea.
*
It takes Miranda all of fifteen seconds, and Andy wonders if she was right about Mommy Sense after all. The lack of a wineglass in Andy’s hand sets Miranda’s eyes to narrowing, followed by that careful head tilt and then the slight purse of her lips that tells Andy she’s screwed.
Nigel, flustered though he is, knows just how to read Miranda. He might not have pieced together the same information, but he’s suspicious and apparently a little relieved that it’s just regular trouble, judging by the way his shoulders slump.
So… Andy begins, an fourteen drafts in Word and countless screwed up post-its still haven’t provided her with anything to say next.
So? Miranda throws back at her, before draining her glass in one deliberate gulp.
It’s kind of a funny story, actually… Nobody, especially not Andy, is laughing.
*
Nigel takes it best, all things considered. For a moment it looks like he’s going to grab Miranda’s Prada clutch just to throw up in it, but he recovers remarkably fast.
I don’t want anything, Nigel. I just thought you should know.
He looks relieved, loosening the skinny tie around his neck as he slumps back against the sofa cushions.
I won’t see you stuck, kid. I just never thought…
Andy shrugs, because really, none of them were thinking three months ago.
I can always be cool Uncle Nigel, if you want? Andy’s heart skips at the offer, and she bites back a grin.
Someone has to teach this kid how to dress is all she concedes, but the faint twinkle in Nigel’s eye suggests they’ll find a way to be okay. It’s Miranda they should worry about.
Miranda, sitting as proud and stiff as any marble statue, is the obvious problem. She hasn’t said a word, and Andy realizes that Nigel might not even know what’s been going on between them since that night. It’s…not a secret, exactly. Or at least it’s a poorly-kept one that’s somehow avoided the gossip pages so far. Andy isn’t sure there’s going to be a story to break after tonight.
The silence stretches on to the point of awkward, and Nigel is the peacemaker once more, slipping into his familiar role in this most unfamiliar of situations.
I’ll go he says, managing not to sprint towards the door. You call me, Six, if you need anything.
Andy nods and watches him go. Her initial fear has calmed somewhat, but even looking at Miranda again puts the tremble back in her hands. Pouring Miranda another glass of wine, Andy squirms a little longer as the rich, red liquid disappears in two hearty swallows. She finds herself wishing, not for the first time, that she could polish off a bottle by herself.
Miranda speaks at last, her voice dull and almost robotic.
You’re certain about your choice?
Sensing the beginning of a quick and hopefully merciful end, Andy lets her head drop into her hands. Let Miranda take that as an answer, this is hard enough already. Andy is struggling with tears, which she’s determined to blame on hormones, but there’s something painfully real about where they’re coming from.
She just isn’t ready to be done with Miranda, and the thought of never kissing her again, of never watching her eyes darken when she comes, leaves Andy feeling bereft. This kid, this decision, has to be worth it. Andy knows already that she’ll make it worth it.
Never predictable-especially in times of stress-Miranda stands in one fluid movement that startles Andy from her own little pity party. Crossing the few feet of space between them, Miranda sinks to her knees, seemingly not caring what cheap oatmeal carpet will do to a Bill Blass trouser.
She kisses Andy, and it’s so very fucking sad.
Kisses aren’t supposed to be sad, Andy thinks as she kisses back. Pressing a hand to the base of Miranda’s neck, she pulls her into a deeper kiss, as though the meeting of their tongues will somehow stave off the inevitable. They’re still volatile though, and that simple action is a match thrown into a powder keg. For a moment, the reason for the kiss is gone, and Andy realizes they’re going to say goodbye fucking on her not-very-comfortable sofa.
Miranda is needier and far more possessive than normal. Her kisses have flashes of teeth, leaving a trail of angry red marks over Andy’s skin, everywhere but her lightly rounded stomach. The pace is relentless, and Andy feels her hips arching towards Miranda, already begging for more. She has to make this last, has to savor it, and yet she already knows that she can’t.
By the time Miranda’s mouth is over her clit, Andy’s already fucking herself against Miranda’s rigid fingers. How is she supposed to give this up? It’s the last coherent thought before she climaxes, and when the stars behind her eyes clear, Andy opens her eyes to see Miranda rising slowly to her feet.
Goodbye, Andrea is all she says as she reaches for her purse. Andy couldn’t stop her from walking out if she tried, not on legs still halfway to jelly. She’s naked except for an unfastened bra, and panting into the eerie silence as the door slams behind Miranda.
Well, shit.
*
Nigel is as good as his word, Andy’s kind of relieved to discover. Her parents are letting disapproval outweigh their impending grandparenthood, and her sister couldn’t care less. Doug and Lily have offered sympathy and a safe sex lecture respectively, but Andy’s kept quiet on details of conception, so only Nigel understands the full weirdness of the situation.
The Mirror’s parent company offers a little in the way of maternity leave, but Andy doesn’t miss the look of disappointment that her boss lets slip when she breaks the ‘good’ news. She cries on the phone to Nigel that night, and he shows up with really good Italian takeout an hour later. Sure, he bitches about the cab ride to the back of beyond, and offers Andy his spare room in a way that’s almost convincing.
I told you; you don’t have to do any of that. I’m fine here. Andy does play the pregnancy card to get the last of the garlic bread though, because principles are non-existent in the face of a well-baked focaccia.
Suit yourself, Six. Although you’ll be an even bigger number soon, he warns, with his trademark raised eyebrows.
Andy threatens his brand new Armani pants with the marinara sauce and he holds his hands up in surrender.
Don’t remind me she sighs, but the contentment is finally starting to outweigh the worry.
*
She’s getting into her fifth month, and even getting creative with her jeans and some ribbon-belts isn’t doing the trick anymore. Andy’s close to just wearing sweatpants to work when the first of the packages arrives, delivered to her apartment by a very unhappy courier. No wonder, Andy realizes when she feels the weight of the thing. She can’t drag it any further than the hallway before opening it.
Inside the huge box are a variety of garment bags and smaller boxes, with some decidedly fancy maternity wear. Andy seizes on the nicely tailored pants, and the soft, flowing skirts with barely-concealed relief, trying everything on in front of her bedroom mirror before calling Nigel with a giddy smile.
You didn’t need to send me all these clothes, Nigel. But I’m so glad you did.
There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone.
I really didn’t Nigel confesses, and Andy’s left staring at the dazzling array of designer labels strewn over her bed in confusion. As he hangs up, Andy allows herself one glimmering moment of hope before dismissing it. Nigel probably just doesn’t want her to feel beholden or something. Nobody else could have sent those clothes.
*
It takes exactly twenty-four hours for Andy to cave and call Emily. They’ve only had a couple of awkard, stilted conversations since Andy found herself back in Miranda’s orbit, but it’s been clear that Emily was no fan of the sudden return.
Emily wants to withhold, that much is clear, but that’s not exactly news. She stonewalls Andy’s finely-honed journalistic technique for all of a minute before relenting and confessing that, yes, Miranda did send those clothes. In fact, she picked them out herself, in that she made a list of items and had Emily chase every last one down.
I can’t believe you’re knocked up, Andy. Not that it’s any excuse for even more carbs. So don’t go-
Andy hangs up.
*
It might be just a meaningless gesture.
Miranda can certainly afford to throw couture around like confetti, given that she pays for basically none of it. Andy tries not to fixate on what it might mean, but it’s impossible not to think of Miranda every time she slips into a silky top or especially forgiving pair of pants. In fact, Andy finds every idle moment consumed by thoughts of her ex-lover and that’s bordering on the ridiculous.
It was a fling she tells herself. What, were they supposed to be some lesbian cliché and move in together after three dates? Andy couldn’t even stay over for fear of upsetting the twins, who had decided the best way to avoid disruption to their home life was for their Mom to stop dating, period. And pregnant as a result of their first, ridiculous ‘date’? Hell, even Andy and her big, easily bruised heart wouldn’t be stupid enough to fall for someone in that scenario.
She’s leaving her 20-week scan, printout gripped firmly in her hand because she still can’t quite believe it, when the receptionist calls her over.
It might be nothing the friendly woman begins.
Miranda Andy thinks, and she’s proven right in short order.
Well, this English woman keeps ringing here, asking for updates on your condition. I’ve told her about patient confidentiality, but she doesn’t seem to be taking the hint.
In that moment, whether it’s hormones or righteous goddamned anger to blame, Andy sees red.
I’ll take care of it she says, taking off at a pace that’s almost a run. She hails a cab and gives the address before she can think better of it.
*
Batting her eyelashes at the security guard gets her in the building, although she sees him reconsider for a moment as he sees her baby bump on the way past. It’s harder to hide now, and honestly she has no intention of concealing it anyway.
The Runway receptionist smiles in that vague way she’s always had, too slow to realize that although Andy’s face is familiar, it still shouldn’t be here. If Andy weren’t so close to wringing Miranda’s neck herself, she might just point out that security in this place needs a major rethink.
Emily is the last, ineffectual hurdle. She wilts in the face of Andy’s glare like she might at a similar look from Miranda, and Andy could swear she hears a muttered ‘sorry’ as she strides straight into Miranda’s office.
Andy does not give even a single damn that there’s a run-through going on. She only has eyes for Miranda, who looks as fierce as ever while she dismisses some inspid dress choices. Only when Andy stands directly in front of her does Miranda shut up, apparently at an historic loss for words.
Nigel, wonderful Nigel, has the foresight to dismiss everyone from the room, closing the doors behind him when he’s the last to depart. It leaves Miranda and Andy painfully close, even if right now they seem to be a million miles apart.
How dare you. Andy begins, her words dripping in venom she didn’t know she was capable of.
I won’t apologize for caring Miranda says, letting her head droop just a little from her usual ramrod-straight posture. Andy doesn’t point out that Miranda won’t apologize for anything, because she’s too busy being hit by an invisible clue-by-four.
Miranda can’t apologize, not in words. Andy knew this two months ago, but forgot it somehow. Miranda can’t reverse her position, or take back anything she meant at the time. But she can, slowly and almost imperceptibly, change her mind. She just makes it look like that was her position all along.
In that moment, unable to meet Miranda’s downcast eyes, Andy finally gets it.
You were--
Yes, Miranda finishes, because letting anyone say it out loud is more than she can bear.
It isn’t really a choice to kiss Miranda, Andy knows. It’s just something she has to do, much as she needs to breathe, or put one foot in front of the other in order to walk. It’s the next, and only, logical step.
Miranda tastes like coffee and regret, and Andy can’t get enough. She doesn’t care that the doors are closed, because she’d be kissing Miranda now, like this, even if they were stood in the middle of Times Square.
It’s what happens next, and Miranda really likes it when she doesn’t have to explain every silly little detail, so this should suit her just fine.
I wanted another baby Miranda says, casually dropping another one of her little bombshells. But after the twins… the complications…it wasn’t possible.”
You don’t mean-“ Andy begins, and thankfully she’s used to being interrupted by now.
I mean, if you’re having this baby...I would like you to have it with me.
Andy can think of a hundred reasons why that’s the stupidest idea she’s ever heard, but the tears rolling down her cheeks don’t want to listen. She should say no, or laugh in Miranda’s face before running away from this building and this insane proposal, but not one atom of her will act on the impulse.
I suppose you have done this before; and I think you have a better throwing arm than Nigel.
Miranda looks confused at the apparent non-sequitur.
It’s-he’s-a boy. I want him to be able to throw a decent curveball, and God knows you do that on an hourly basis; just ask your staff.
For a moment, Andy thinks she might be in for a lecture on how sports are not the exclusive domain of men (weirdly, Miranda is particularly vehement in her support for Title IX) but the pinched expression on Miranda’s face gives way to one of the rarer sights-a genuine smile.
As long as he has Nigel’s fashion sense and your hairline, I think we might be okay.
Not the other way round? Andy teases as she takes Miranda in her arms again. It feels different now, around the bump. Around her little boy, she reminds herself.
Definitely not Miranda confirms before drawing Andy into another, far more patient kiss.
This wasn’t why I came here Andy murmurs between kisses.
It only matters that you came.
And that, Andy discovers, is almost impossible to argue with.