This Has Nothing To Do With Happiness, Miranda/Andy, PG13
Title: This Has Nothing To Do With Happiness
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: for the whole movie, pretty much! I won't give a summary because you work out where they are in their relationship as the story goes along (on purpose)
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Lauren Weisberger, 20th Century Fox, etc. No profit is being made. The title comes from the quoted poem - Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, by Richard Siken.
Prompt: Miranda/Andy, fire
Dedication: To one of my all-time favourite writers, chilly_flame. I'm sorry this was late, but I realized I was trying to tell two stories in one and this is now the story it was actually intended to be. I hope you enjoy it, and Happy New Year!
Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly
flames everywhere.
I can tell already you think I’m the dragon,
that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon.
I’m not the princess either.
Richard Siken, Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.
The blue flashing lights are making a very pretty illumination of the townhouse facade, Andy has to admit. Maybe that’s a prerequisite when you drop a few million dollars on real estate, or maybe like everything else in Miranda’s life it’s been carefully chosen to coordinate with its surroundings.
Andy pulls the scratchy woollen blanket more tightly around her shoulders and waits for another coughing fit to pass. Her eyes are watering and she really does not want to think about how her hair looks right now, but suffice to say that it was a wasted trip to the stylist this afternoon.
The crowd on the sidewalk is showing no signs of thinning, not while the fire trucks are still there and a couple of enterprising cops have set up a flimsy barricade that’s just inviting the paparazzi to swarm over it. They haven’t yet, but Andy’s been keeping a wary eye on them since they showed up about thirty seconds after the fire department.
“Ms. Sachs?” The fire fighter asks, pulling off his heavy plastic helmet.
“Is everything okay?” She pleads, hardly daring to take her eyes off the assembled throng.
“Yes,” he replies. “The fire itself was contained in a matter of seconds. We’ve opened some windows for ventilation.”
“Can I go back inside?” Andy asks, conscious that she’s not remotely dressed for a December night, even with the addition of a blanket.
“As soon as my guys are out, we’ll give you the all clear,” he confirms. “Hey, are you okay?”
Andy knows he must be asking because of the expression on her face, but she can’t do anything to hide it. In the middle of the street a sleek, silver Mercedes has just rolled to a halt, which means only one thing.
She is completely and utterly doomed.
*
“Miranda,” Andy squeaks as the other woman makes her way up the front steps of the townhouse. Andy’s at a complete loss as to what she says after that.
“Andrea,” Miranda says quite calmly, pulling off her slate-gray leather gloves with practiced ease. She lets her eyes roam over the still-chaotic scene, lingering for a long moment on the open windows on the second floor where some wisps of smoke are still dissipating into the winter air.
“I can explain,” Andy begins, and she’s really, really freaking hoping for inspiration soon--because she’s not sure she can explain, not in a way that will stop Miranda from wanting to kill her, anyway.
“I’m sure you can,” Miranda says with a wry half-smile, not looking at Andy yet. Instead she seeks out the fire fighter who’s lingering by the front door and accosts him. “You’re in charge here?”
“Yes ma’am. You must be the homeowner?”
“Obviously. Do I still have a home to own?” Miranda sounds peevish, she doesn’t usually deal with anything like this in person, and she has to have noticed the increase in flashes from the assembled photographers since she stepped out of the car.
“Yes, as I was just explaining to your daughter--”
Andy waves frantically for him to shut up, but the new rigidity to Miranda’s spine does not bode well for any of them.
“Miranda, the fire is out,” Andy steps in to explain, before the night gets any worse. “There’s some smoke damage, but nothing a good decorator can’t fix.”
Miranda finally looks her in the eyes then, and Andy can see the lingering panic.
“Honestly, Miranda. It’s not that bad, all things considered,” Andy reassures her. “You know the girls aren’t here, I was the only one in the house. It’s fine.”
“Fine?” Miranda asks, disbelieving. “I didn’t know what I was coming home to. All Emily said was that there was a fire, and that you--” the sentence dissolves into a strange sort of choking noise. Andy looks at Miranda in horror.
“You thought something had happened to me,” Andy confirms, tentatively. She looks at Miranda more closely now, seeing the signs of disorder - there’s a button not buttoned on her chic funnel-neck coat, and her hair is definitely more ‘messy’ than ‘mussed’. Even Miranda’s lipstick looks almost completely worn away. Andy hasn’t seen her this stressed since... well, since Paris.
“I thought--” Miranda admits, but the end of that sentence is not somewhere her voice will take her. Instead she grabs Andy, taking handfuls of the ratty blanket and pulls her into a kiss so hard that it feels a little like being socked in the mouth. Andy tries to wriggle away because, hello, public and reporters and a million other things, but her reflexes are failing her completely. She wants this kiss--hell, she needs it. For a few minutes there everything seemed pretty scary, and although comfort is not a word most people associate with Miranda, this simple act of affection definitely qualifies.
“Wow,” Andy hears the fire fighter say to one of his buddies. “That’s really not her daughter.”
The kiss ends, as all kisses have to, but Andy doesn’t dare look around to see how the assembled snappers are reacting.
“I’m freezing,” she confesses in a giddy little whisper.
“No bloody wonder,” Emily snaps, scaring the life out of Andy all over again. “What are you wearing, Andrea?”
“Where did you come from?” Andy gasps, almost toppling over the balustrade in shock.
“Sussex, originally.” Emily pulls a notepad from her Prada purse and turning her attention to Miranda. “I’m completely ready for anything you need, Miranda.”
“Call Morgans, tell Henri I need a suite for tonight. Call my ex-husband--the first one--and tell him what’s happened so that Caroline and Cassidy don’t get worried,” Miranda pauses for breath, and that’s a sure sign that all is not yet well with her. “Have everything sent to Morgans for us both that we’ll need for tonight and tomorrow. Speak to Leslie--I want the press on this minimized. Cancel my morning--except for the run-through at eleven.”
“Yes, Miranda,” Emily nods furiously as she scribbles. “Of course I’ll stay here to lock up.”
“Decorators tomorrow morning--cleaning service too,” Miranda says, pursing her lips. “Andrea, will you please get in the car before you catch pneumonia?”
Andy has been listening so intently that she almost forgot she’s a part of the little scene. The prospect of a heated car sounds like heaven right now, and she’s ready to cry with sheer relief.
“We’re going to a hotel?” Andy asks, because she has a perfectly, well, habitable apartment somewhere in Brooklyn.
“Well, we can’t stay here. And your apartment is more than my mood can take tonight.”
“Okay,” Andy soothes, eager now to get into the car. “Let’s go then. Em, call if there are any problems, okay?”
Emily just glares, because Andy knows full well that Miranda is still the only one allowed to give orders.
And so, in a silk negligée, a hastily-grabbed coat that’s a size too small for her, and the blanket she can’t bring herself to part with, Andy takes her first tentative step towards the street. She almost topples in her brand new Jimmy Choos (Miranda raised her eyebrows at the leopard print, but said nothing) and there’s a steadying hand at her elbow right away.
“Come along, Andrea,” Miranda mutters, and in a matter of seconds they’re slipping into the back seat of the Mercedes, ignoring yells from the assembled throng as they go.
*
“So, should I ask--” Miranda begins, as the car pulls away from the curb. Andy can smell the smoke clinging to her clothes and her hair, ruining the usual pleasant ambience of soft leather and Miranda’s delicate perfume.
“Not yet,” Andy pleads, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the window.
*
They’re swept into the hotel like they’re some rockstar with an entourage. A valet hands them off to the assistant manager who hands them over to Henri outside the suite. Andy has never felt less appropriate to be presented as Miranda’s... well, picking a term for it is really a whole other problem.
“Henri,” Miranda sighs, greeting the man with her customary air kisses. Andy pulls the coat tighter around herself, offering a tight-lipped smile of her own. It puts her teeth on edge to note that Henri looks pretty close to Miranda’s ex-husbands--all salt and pepper hair and deep tans no doubt picked up at the yacht club. Andy bites back a little snarl as Henri takes Miranda by the arm when he leads them into the suite.
“Forgive me, my darling,” he positively oozes. “Your usual suite is being refurbished. But I trust that you’ll be comfortable here. Your butler will be just a button’s press away. James is working an extra shift especially.”
“You’re too good to me, as ever,” Miranda says in that charming tone that Andy knows is mostly fake, but it upsets her anyway. This French guy in his smart, charcoal suit is somehow exempt from the way Miranda addresses underlings and anyone she’s paying money to, and that’s just not something Andy needs to see right now.
“And the bathroom?” Andy chimes in, not bothering to sound polite about it. “Only I have a bunch of soot and smoke to wash off me.”
“To your right, miss,” Henri says, eyeing her with casual distaste. “I’ll leave you both to enjoy your evening.”
With that he reluctantly removes himself from Miranda’s orbit, and she throws Andy a questioning look.
“I desperately need to shower,” Andy says, and stomps off into the bathroom. She drops her coat, kicks of her heels, and is pulling off her negligée as she walks through the door, leaving everything on the floor where it lands.
She isn’t surprised to find Miranda standing behind her by the time Andy has fiddled with the dials in the wall and hot water is cascading and ready for her to step under.
“We are going to talk about this, Andrea,” Miranda warns, but she slips her arms around Andy’s naked torso from behind anyway. The silk of Miranda’s blouse is cool against Andy’s skin, and it makes her smile that Miranda--who never wears the same outfit twice--is wearing this particular piece in midnight blue for a record third time, all because Andy told her a month ago that it made her look ‘good enough to eat’ in a throwaway comment.
“I’m sorry,” Andy sighs. “I’m really, really sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Miranda murmurs, her chin resting on Andy’s shoulder. “How did the fire start anyway? I know you find candles romantic, but I must confess I don’t, not really.”
“It, uh...” Andy trails off, squeezing her eyes shut. “It wasn’t a candle. I told you I was going to make tonight a romantic night in, you know? So I thought the best way to do that right before Christmas was pretty obvious--light a fire, maybe roast some chestnuts and mull some wine.”
“I don’t understand,” Miranda interjects. “Where in the townhouse could you even light a fire?”
“Um, duh,” Andy snaps, because it really has been an impossibly long day. “In the sitting room on the second floor. You know, with the big fancy fireplace? And the basket of logs right next to it?”
“The sitting room...” Miranda is the one to trail off this time, but instead of a frantic question or a snide remark, Andy feels Miranda begin to shake gently against her. Seconds later the ornate bathroom is ringing with the sound of Miranda’s laughter.
“Hey,” Andy protests, twisting around in Miranda’s now-shaky embrace. “Hey!”
Miranda tries to stop laughing, she really does. Andy can see the physical exertion of Miranda trying to get herself under control, but she’s too far gone. Usually Andy only gets to see Miranda this way--this free, this uninhibited--after some serious action between the sheets. It’s not exactly flattering to watch Miranda laugh herself into a state, and at Andy’s expense to boot.
“What are you laughing at?” Andy whines (and yup, no disguising that it’s an outright whine). Miranda clutches at her ribs and finally gets her breathing back under control.
“You’re an idiot,” she gasps, but there’s none of her trademark malice in the words.
“Well excuse me for trying to inject a little romance into our lives,” Andy huffs, still able to look completely indignant despite her lack of clothing. The shower is wasting water by the gallon, and so she turns her back on Miranda and steps in. For a moment Miranda looks as though she’s contemplating ditching the clothes and joining Andy, but Andy’s glare is seemingly enough to send Miranda back into the main part of their suite. If she’s still chuckling, then it’s lucky that the water is all but deafening Andy as it cascades around her head.
She takes her time in the shower, not least because the proximity of Miranda and the charge of tension between them has awakened the most sensitive parts of Andy’s body. She doesn’t entirely surrender to the temptation, but it certainly helps to improve her mood a little when she lingers with wet fingers over her breasts and between her legs.
It’s not that she’s pissed at Miranda, not exactly, but Andy is slow in toweling herself dry, combing out her hair and finally wrapping herself in the decadent white robe provided on the back of the bathroom door. When she steps out into the sitting area, she’s disappointed to find it deserted, and not for the first time Andy has to consider whether she should be so quick to take offense at Miranda’s actions; it usually leads to Miranda being even more upset in return.
There’s a quick knock on the main door to the suite, which draws Miranda back out of the bedroom where she’s apparently been hanging out. Still dressed, Andy notes, but when Miranda answers the door to Henri she merely takes the envelope he offers and dismisses him in an instant. No interest whatsoever from her side, Andy is pleased (and rational enough now) to note.
“Hey,” Andy mumbles. “I’m no longer a human s’more.”
“How nice,” Miranda says with a little smile. “Can you wait here just one more minute? Then join me in the bedroom, hmm?”
Andy isn’t really in the mood for games tonight, she’s thinking more room service and drawing Miranda the reluctant hugger into some above-the-cover snuggling, but she’s intrigued enough to agree. As Miranda disappears with her envelope, Andy retrieves a hairbrush from her purse and wastes some time combing out her hair.
“Andrea?” Miranda calls, eventually.
Something about the prospect of joining Miranda in any bedroom puts the spring back in Andy’s barefoot step, and she’s already grinning when she reaches the doorway.
The sight that greets her is a welcome one. Miranda is standing beside a room service cart laden with covered dishes, but more enticing than the food is the fact that she’s ditched her Bill Blass pants and unbuttoned Andy’s favorite blouse.
Andy saunters into the room, sitting down heavily on the bed. Miranda joins her in an instant, but not before pressing a remote control that she has in her hand. It takes a moment but when Andy turns her head, she’s greeted by the sleek little flatscreen at the foot of the bed playing video of a nicely-crackling fire.
“I liked your idea,” Miranda says softly, and Andy turns round to make sure she’s not smirking.
“So why am I an idiot?” Andy presses.
“Oh, because the fireplace you used has been welded shut since about twenty years before I bought the place,” Miranda explains, eyes dancing with remembered laughter. “I thought you would have checked first.”
“Well, I guess that explains why the smoke spread so fast,” Andy groans. “But what kind of lunatic keeps firewood for an unusable fire?”
“It’s decorative,” Miranda says, reaching out to pull Andy closer. “But please, don’t scare me like that again.”
“Speaking of scary,” Andy adds, feeling incredibly apprehensive. “I think you just outed us, babe.”
“Have we or have we not discussed this use of silly pet names?” Miranda is pouting already. “And yes, that was unfortunate. But it was bound to happen sometime. We haven’t exactly been discreet.”
Andy thinks--with a very big smile--of the amazing dinners, the gratuitous making out in private booths, elevators and backseats of cars. How they’ve gotten careless in gatherings where Miranda is easily the most powerful person in the room, and yet been lucky that nothing beyond whispered rumors have gotten out.
“But we can protect the girls, right?” Andy’s surprised that’s become her first concern, but it’s not like public harassment and invasion of her privacy is that far behind.
“Of course,” Miranda scoffs, because her priorities have always been clear.
“And when the papers--and the bloggers--start to ask what we are to each other...” Andy hesitates. “What exactly are we going to tell them? Because honestly, I still don’t know.”
“I’ll have Leslie handle public statements. Something along the lines of ‘it’s nobody’s business, who I choose to love’, respect for privacy, blah blah.”
And if Andy thought she’d experienced emotion already tonight--anticipation for Miranda getting home, the fear as the fire went so horribly wrong, or mortification to be caught on the steps in her underwear, practically--then she had no concept of emotion at all.
They’ve been dancing around these words for, well, months now. Andy told herself, in the lightly-bruised and sweaty aftermath of that first, overdue hooking up, that she would not allow herself to fall for Miranda. Even as the evidence stacked up against her, Andy silently amended that to never admitting it, which in turn became a vow not to admit it first.
Miranda, who’s been gently stroking Andy’s back through the thick cotton of her robe, is holding her breath, Andy realizes. This is no accidental confession, no slip of the tongue that can be written off.
“Oh,” Andy says, choking on any words bigger than that for a moment. “Oh.”
“Yes,” Miranda agrees. “Oh.”
“Well, me too,” Andy manages to add. “In case you were wondering.”
It’s a ridiculous way to express their feelings, not least of all for an up-and-coming journalist and the most exacting editor in the Western hemisphere, but there it is regardless. Andy gets over her feelings of stupidity, and being pissed at Miranda and herself, and grabs Miranda by the shoulders to plant one hell of a kiss on her mouth.
“So,” Andy says when she relinquishes Miranda’s lips some long moments later. “What do you say we have that romantic evening after all?”
“You have all the best ideas,” Miranda deadpans, but she’s already reaching for the knot on Andy’s robe.
*
Andy is the first to wake, unusually, and by the time she’s been to the bathroom, someone has delivered the morning papers to the table in the sitting area. Figuring it might be best to get a jump on Miranda with how bad the coverage is, Andy reaches for the Post with a slightly trembling hand.
When she turns to Page Six, there’s absolutely nothing she can do about the shriek. It’s a total reflex reaction, but it brings Miranda scurrying out of the bedroom looking half-asleep, half-panicked.
“This...” Andy tries to explain. “This is... I can’t.”
Miranda slinks across the room, looking thoroughly bothered by Andy’s reaction, but when she takes the paper from Andy her reaction isn’t even close to the same.
In fact, she’s laughing. Again. Andy wonders if the clawfoot tub in the bathroom would be a good place to just drown herself.
Miranda drops the paper on the table, still chuckling as she does. Andy sees the headline glaring back at her all over again.
EX-ASSISTANT TRIES TO BURN THE DRAGON’S LAIR
“This isn’t funny, Miranda,” Andy says with a scowl. “Really. Not funny.”
“Oh,” Miranda says, gasping for breath. “It really is.”
“Why aren’t they using the pictures of us making out on the steps?” Andy asks, and she can’t believe that this would be her better option.
“I think a pyromaniac must sell more papers than a lesbian,” Miranda answers, dissolving into giggles again. “Oh, this is priceless.”
“They’re saying I’m crazy! And that I torched your house!” Andy complains.
“Let’s face it,” Miranda says, sobering a little. “It’s a miracle nobody has tried that yet.”
“You are so lucky I love you,” Andy sighs, accepting the open arms that Miranda is offering. The hug is a good one, and she feels cherished all over again. “Will you have Leslie fix this?”
“Eventually,” Miranda smirks into Andy’s bed-mussed hair. “But for today at least, let me have my fun.”
“You’re impossible,” Andy says, sneaking a quick kiss.
“That’s why you love me,” Miranda replies.
And luckily for them both, that’s absolutely the truth.
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: for the whole movie, pretty much! I won't give a summary because you work out where they are in their relationship as the story goes along (on purpose)
Disclaimer: These characters belong to Lauren Weisberger, 20th Century Fox, etc. No profit is being made. The title comes from the quoted poem - Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, by Richard Siken.
Prompt: Miranda/Andy, fire
Dedication: To one of my all-time favourite writers, chilly_flame. I'm sorry this was late, but I realized I was trying to tell two stories in one and this is now the story it was actually intended to be. I hope you enjoy it, and Happy New Year!
Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly
flames everywhere.
I can tell already you think I’m the dragon,
that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon.
I’m not the princess either.
Richard Siken, Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out.
The blue flashing lights are making a very pretty illumination of the townhouse facade, Andy has to admit. Maybe that’s a prerequisite when you drop a few million dollars on real estate, or maybe like everything else in Miranda’s life it’s been carefully chosen to coordinate with its surroundings.
Andy pulls the scratchy woollen blanket more tightly around her shoulders and waits for another coughing fit to pass. Her eyes are watering and she really does not want to think about how her hair looks right now, but suffice to say that it was a wasted trip to the stylist this afternoon.
The crowd on the sidewalk is showing no signs of thinning, not while the fire trucks are still there and a couple of enterprising cops have set up a flimsy barricade that’s just inviting the paparazzi to swarm over it. They haven’t yet, but Andy’s been keeping a wary eye on them since they showed up about thirty seconds after the fire department.
“Ms. Sachs?” The fire fighter asks, pulling off his heavy plastic helmet.
“Is everything okay?” She pleads, hardly daring to take her eyes off the assembled throng.
“Yes,” he replies. “The fire itself was contained in a matter of seconds. We’ve opened some windows for ventilation.”
“Can I go back inside?” Andy asks, conscious that she’s not remotely dressed for a December night, even with the addition of a blanket.
“As soon as my guys are out, we’ll give you the all clear,” he confirms. “Hey, are you okay?”
Andy knows he must be asking because of the expression on her face, but she can’t do anything to hide it. In the middle of the street a sleek, silver Mercedes has just rolled to a halt, which means only one thing.
She is completely and utterly doomed.
*
“Miranda,” Andy squeaks as the other woman makes her way up the front steps of the townhouse. Andy’s at a complete loss as to what she says after that.
“Andrea,” Miranda says quite calmly, pulling off her slate-gray leather gloves with practiced ease. She lets her eyes roam over the still-chaotic scene, lingering for a long moment on the open windows on the second floor where some wisps of smoke are still dissipating into the winter air.
“I can explain,” Andy begins, and she’s really, really freaking hoping for inspiration soon--because she’s not sure she can explain, not in a way that will stop Miranda from wanting to kill her, anyway.
“I’m sure you can,” Miranda says with a wry half-smile, not looking at Andy yet. Instead she seeks out the fire fighter who’s lingering by the front door and accosts him. “You’re in charge here?”
“Yes ma’am. You must be the homeowner?”
“Obviously. Do I still have a home to own?” Miranda sounds peevish, she doesn’t usually deal with anything like this in person, and she has to have noticed the increase in flashes from the assembled photographers since she stepped out of the car.
“Yes, as I was just explaining to your daughter--”
Andy waves frantically for him to shut up, but the new rigidity to Miranda’s spine does not bode well for any of them.
“Miranda, the fire is out,” Andy steps in to explain, before the night gets any worse. “There’s some smoke damage, but nothing a good decorator can’t fix.”
Miranda finally looks her in the eyes then, and Andy can see the lingering panic.
“Honestly, Miranda. It’s not that bad, all things considered,” Andy reassures her. “You know the girls aren’t here, I was the only one in the house. It’s fine.”
“Fine?” Miranda asks, disbelieving. “I didn’t know what I was coming home to. All Emily said was that there was a fire, and that you--” the sentence dissolves into a strange sort of choking noise. Andy looks at Miranda in horror.
“You thought something had happened to me,” Andy confirms, tentatively. She looks at Miranda more closely now, seeing the signs of disorder - there’s a button not buttoned on her chic funnel-neck coat, and her hair is definitely more ‘messy’ than ‘mussed’. Even Miranda’s lipstick looks almost completely worn away. Andy hasn’t seen her this stressed since... well, since Paris.
“I thought--” Miranda admits, but the end of that sentence is not somewhere her voice will take her. Instead she grabs Andy, taking handfuls of the ratty blanket and pulls her into a kiss so hard that it feels a little like being socked in the mouth. Andy tries to wriggle away because, hello, public and reporters and a million other things, but her reflexes are failing her completely. She wants this kiss--hell, she needs it. For a few minutes there everything seemed pretty scary, and although comfort is not a word most people associate with Miranda, this simple act of affection definitely qualifies.
“Wow,” Andy hears the fire fighter say to one of his buddies. “That’s really not her daughter.”
The kiss ends, as all kisses have to, but Andy doesn’t dare look around to see how the assembled snappers are reacting.
“I’m freezing,” she confesses in a giddy little whisper.
“No bloody wonder,” Emily snaps, scaring the life out of Andy all over again. “What are you wearing, Andrea?”
“Where did you come from?” Andy gasps, almost toppling over the balustrade in shock.
“Sussex, originally.” Emily pulls a notepad from her Prada purse and turning her attention to Miranda. “I’m completely ready for anything you need, Miranda.”
“Call Morgans, tell Henri I need a suite for tonight. Call my ex-husband--the first one--and tell him what’s happened so that Caroline and Cassidy don’t get worried,” Miranda pauses for breath, and that’s a sure sign that all is not yet well with her. “Have everything sent to Morgans for us both that we’ll need for tonight and tomorrow. Speak to Leslie--I want the press on this minimized. Cancel my morning--except for the run-through at eleven.”
“Yes, Miranda,” Emily nods furiously as she scribbles. “Of course I’ll stay here to lock up.”
“Decorators tomorrow morning--cleaning service too,” Miranda says, pursing her lips. “Andrea, will you please get in the car before you catch pneumonia?”
Andy has been listening so intently that she almost forgot she’s a part of the little scene. The prospect of a heated car sounds like heaven right now, and she’s ready to cry with sheer relief.
“We’re going to a hotel?” Andy asks, because she has a perfectly, well, habitable apartment somewhere in Brooklyn.
“Well, we can’t stay here. And your apartment is more than my mood can take tonight.”
“Okay,” Andy soothes, eager now to get into the car. “Let’s go then. Em, call if there are any problems, okay?”
Emily just glares, because Andy knows full well that Miranda is still the only one allowed to give orders.
And so, in a silk negligée, a hastily-grabbed coat that’s a size too small for her, and the blanket she can’t bring herself to part with, Andy takes her first tentative step towards the street. She almost topples in her brand new Jimmy Choos (Miranda raised her eyebrows at the leopard print, but said nothing) and there’s a steadying hand at her elbow right away.
“Come along, Andrea,” Miranda mutters, and in a matter of seconds they’re slipping into the back seat of the Mercedes, ignoring yells from the assembled throng as they go.
*
“So, should I ask--” Miranda begins, as the car pulls away from the curb. Andy can smell the smoke clinging to her clothes and her hair, ruining the usual pleasant ambience of soft leather and Miranda’s delicate perfume.
“Not yet,” Andy pleads, closing her eyes and leaning her head against the window.
*
They’re swept into the hotel like they’re some rockstar with an entourage. A valet hands them off to the assistant manager who hands them over to Henri outside the suite. Andy has never felt less appropriate to be presented as Miranda’s... well, picking a term for it is really a whole other problem.
“Henri,” Miranda sighs, greeting the man with her customary air kisses. Andy pulls the coat tighter around herself, offering a tight-lipped smile of her own. It puts her teeth on edge to note that Henri looks pretty close to Miranda’s ex-husbands--all salt and pepper hair and deep tans no doubt picked up at the yacht club. Andy bites back a little snarl as Henri takes Miranda by the arm when he leads them into the suite.
“Forgive me, my darling,” he positively oozes. “Your usual suite is being refurbished. But I trust that you’ll be comfortable here. Your butler will be just a button’s press away. James is working an extra shift especially.”
“You’re too good to me, as ever,” Miranda says in that charming tone that Andy knows is mostly fake, but it upsets her anyway. This French guy in his smart, charcoal suit is somehow exempt from the way Miranda addresses underlings and anyone she’s paying money to, and that’s just not something Andy needs to see right now.
“And the bathroom?” Andy chimes in, not bothering to sound polite about it. “Only I have a bunch of soot and smoke to wash off me.”
“To your right, miss,” Henri says, eyeing her with casual distaste. “I’ll leave you both to enjoy your evening.”
With that he reluctantly removes himself from Miranda’s orbit, and she throws Andy a questioning look.
“I desperately need to shower,” Andy says, and stomps off into the bathroom. She drops her coat, kicks of her heels, and is pulling off her negligée as she walks through the door, leaving everything on the floor where it lands.
She isn’t surprised to find Miranda standing behind her by the time Andy has fiddled with the dials in the wall and hot water is cascading and ready for her to step under.
“We are going to talk about this, Andrea,” Miranda warns, but she slips her arms around Andy’s naked torso from behind anyway. The silk of Miranda’s blouse is cool against Andy’s skin, and it makes her smile that Miranda--who never wears the same outfit twice--is wearing this particular piece in midnight blue for a record third time, all because Andy told her a month ago that it made her look ‘good enough to eat’ in a throwaway comment.
“I’m sorry,” Andy sighs. “I’m really, really sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Miranda murmurs, her chin resting on Andy’s shoulder. “How did the fire start anyway? I know you find candles romantic, but I must confess I don’t, not really.”
“It, uh...” Andy trails off, squeezing her eyes shut. “It wasn’t a candle. I told you I was going to make tonight a romantic night in, you know? So I thought the best way to do that right before Christmas was pretty obvious--light a fire, maybe roast some chestnuts and mull some wine.”
“I don’t understand,” Miranda interjects. “Where in the townhouse could you even light a fire?”
“Um, duh,” Andy snaps, because it really has been an impossibly long day. “In the sitting room on the second floor. You know, with the big fancy fireplace? And the basket of logs right next to it?”
“The sitting room...” Miranda is the one to trail off this time, but instead of a frantic question or a snide remark, Andy feels Miranda begin to shake gently against her. Seconds later the ornate bathroom is ringing with the sound of Miranda’s laughter.
“Hey,” Andy protests, twisting around in Miranda’s now-shaky embrace. “Hey!”
Miranda tries to stop laughing, she really does. Andy can see the physical exertion of Miranda trying to get herself under control, but she’s too far gone. Usually Andy only gets to see Miranda this way--this free, this uninhibited--after some serious action between the sheets. It’s not exactly flattering to watch Miranda laugh herself into a state, and at Andy’s expense to boot.
“What are you laughing at?” Andy whines (and yup, no disguising that it’s an outright whine). Miranda clutches at her ribs and finally gets her breathing back under control.
“You’re an idiot,” she gasps, but there’s none of her trademark malice in the words.
“Well excuse me for trying to inject a little romance into our lives,” Andy huffs, still able to look completely indignant despite her lack of clothing. The shower is wasting water by the gallon, and so she turns her back on Miranda and steps in. For a moment Miranda looks as though she’s contemplating ditching the clothes and joining Andy, but Andy’s glare is seemingly enough to send Miranda back into the main part of their suite. If she’s still chuckling, then it’s lucky that the water is all but deafening Andy as it cascades around her head.
She takes her time in the shower, not least because the proximity of Miranda and the charge of tension between them has awakened the most sensitive parts of Andy’s body. She doesn’t entirely surrender to the temptation, but it certainly helps to improve her mood a little when she lingers with wet fingers over her breasts and between her legs.
It’s not that she’s pissed at Miranda, not exactly, but Andy is slow in toweling herself dry, combing out her hair and finally wrapping herself in the decadent white robe provided on the back of the bathroom door. When she steps out into the sitting area, she’s disappointed to find it deserted, and not for the first time Andy has to consider whether she should be so quick to take offense at Miranda’s actions; it usually leads to Miranda being even more upset in return.
There’s a quick knock on the main door to the suite, which draws Miranda back out of the bedroom where she’s apparently been hanging out. Still dressed, Andy notes, but when Miranda answers the door to Henri she merely takes the envelope he offers and dismisses him in an instant. No interest whatsoever from her side, Andy is pleased (and rational enough now) to note.
“Hey,” Andy mumbles. “I’m no longer a human s’more.”
“How nice,” Miranda says with a little smile. “Can you wait here just one more minute? Then join me in the bedroom, hmm?”
Andy isn’t really in the mood for games tonight, she’s thinking more room service and drawing Miranda the reluctant hugger into some above-the-cover snuggling, but she’s intrigued enough to agree. As Miranda disappears with her envelope, Andy retrieves a hairbrush from her purse and wastes some time combing out her hair.
“Andrea?” Miranda calls, eventually.
Something about the prospect of joining Miranda in any bedroom puts the spring back in Andy’s barefoot step, and she’s already grinning when she reaches the doorway.
The sight that greets her is a welcome one. Miranda is standing beside a room service cart laden with covered dishes, but more enticing than the food is the fact that she’s ditched her Bill Blass pants and unbuttoned Andy’s favorite blouse.
Andy saunters into the room, sitting down heavily on the bed. Miranda joins her in an instant, but not before pressing a remote control that she has in her hand. It takes a moment but when Andy turns her head, she’s greeted by the sleek little flatscreen at the foot of the bed playing video of a nicely-crackling fire.
“I liked your idea,” Miranda says softly, and Andy turns round to make sure she’s not smirking.
“So why am I an idiot?” Andy presses.
“Oh, because the fireplace you used has been welded shut since about twenty years before I bought the place,” Miranda explains, eyes dancing with remembered laughter. “I thought you would have checked first.”
“Well, I guess that explains why the smoke spread so fast,” Andy groans. “But what kind of lunatic keeps firewood for an unusable fire?”
“It’s decorative,” Miranda says, reaching out to pull Andy closer. “But please, don’t scare me like that again.”
“Speaking of scary,” Andy adds, feeling incredibly apprehensive. “I think you just outed us, babe.”
“Have we or have we not discussed this use of silly pet names?” Miranda is pouting already. “And yes, that was unfortunate. But it was bound to happen sometime. We haven’t exactly been discreet.”
Andy thinks--with a very big smile--of the amazing dinners, the gratuitous making out in private booths, elevators and backseats of cars. How they’ve gotten careless in gatherings where Miranda is easily the most powerful person in the room, and yet been lucky that nothing beyond whispered rumors have gotten out.
“But we can protect the girls, right?” Andy’s surprised that’s become her first concern, but it’s not like public harassment and invasion of her privacy is that far behind.
“Of course,” Miranda scoffs, because her priorities have always been clear.
“And when the papers--and the bloggers--start to ask what we are to each other...” Andy hesitates. “What exactly are we going to tell them? Because honestly, I still don’t know.”
“I’ll have Leslie handle public statements. Something along the lines of ‘it’s nobody’s business, who I choose to love’, respect for privacy, blah blah.”
And if Andy thought she’d experienced emotion already tonight--anticipation for Miranda getting home, the fear as the fire went so horribly wrong, or mortification to be caught on the steps in her underwear, practically--then she had no concept of emotion at all.
They’ve been dancing around these words for, well, months now. Andy told herself, in the lightly-bruised and sweaty aftermath of that first, overdue hooking up, that she would not allow herself to fall for Miranda. Even as the evidence stacked up against her, Andy silently amended that to never admitting it, which in turn became a vow not to admit it first.
Miranda, who’s been gently stroking Andy’s back through the thick cotton of her robe, is holding her breath, Andy realizes. This is no accidental confession, no slip of the tongue that can be written off.
“Oh,” Andy says, choking on any words bigger than that for a moment. “Oh.”
“Yes,” Miranda agrees. “Oh.”
“Well, me too,” Andy manages to add. “In case you were wondering.”
It’s a ridiculous way to express their feelings, not least of all for an up-and-coming journalist and the most exacting editor in the Western hemisphere, but there it is regardless. Andy gets over her feelings of stupidity, and being pissed at Miranda and herself, and grabs Miranda by the shoulders to plant one hell of a kiss on her mouth.
“So,” Andy says when she relinquishes Miranda’s lips some long moments later. “What do you say we have that romantic evening after all?”
“You have all the best ideas,” Miranda deadpans, but she’s already reaching for the knot on Andy’s robe.
*
Andy is the first to wake, unusually, and by the time she’s been to the bathroom, someone has delivered the morning papers to the table in the sitting area. Figuring it might be best to get a jump on Miranda with how bad the coverage is, Andy reaches for the Post with a slightly trembling hand.
When she turns to Page Six, there’s absolutely nothing she can do about the shriek. It’s a total reflex reaction, but it brings Miranda scurrying out of the bedroom looking half-asleep, half-panicked.
“This...” Andy tries to explain. “This is... I can’t.”
Miranda slinks across the room, looking thoroughly bothered by Andy’s reaction, but when she takes the paper from Andy her reaction isn’t even close to the same.
In fact, she’s laughing. Again. Andy wonders if the clawfoot tub in the bathroom would be a good place to just drown herself.
Miranda drops the paper on the table, still chuckling as she does. Andy sees the headline glaring back at her all over again.
EX-ASSISTANT TRIES TO BURN THE DRAGON’S LAIR
“This isn’t funny, Miranda,” Andy says with a scowl. “Really. Not funny.”
“Oh,” Miranda says, gasping for breath. “It really is.”
“Why aren’t they using the pictures of us making out on the steps?” Andy asks, and she can’t believe that this would be her better option.
“I think a pyromaniac must sell more papers than a lesbian,” Miranda answers, dissolving into giggles again. “Oh, this is priceless.”
“They’re saying I’m crazy! And that I torched your house!” Andy complains.
“Let’s face it,” Miranda says, sobering a little. “It’s a miracle nobody has tried that yet.”
“You are so lucky I love you,” Andy sighs, accepting the open arms that Miranda is offering. The hug is a good one, and she feels cherished all over again. “Will you have Leslie fix this?”
“Eventually,” Miranda smirks into Andy’s bed-mussed hair. “But for today at least, let me have my fun.”
“You’re impossible,” Andy says, sneaking a quick kiss.
“That’s why you love me,” Miranda replies.
And luckily for them both, that’s absolutely the truth.