DWP Fic
I told you, didn't I?
Uninvited
Andy has company. Some of it is expected, some of it is not. As one might expect, this leads to... difficulties. Miranda/Andy femslash warning!
Rating: PG-13 for language and innuendo
A/N: Because there is so totally not enough Miranda/Andy fic out there, dammit.
Summary: Andy has company. Some of it is expected, some of it is not. As one might expect, this leads to... difficulties
Rating: PG-13 for language and innuendo
Disclaimer: Ha! As if I own anything associated with The Devil Wears Prada.
Uninvited
By: Hayseed (hayseed42@gmail.com)
Miranda breezes in without so much as an upward glance, flinging her coat to its usual spot on the floor, completely ignoring the fact that it is probably worth enough to feed a small third-world country for a decade. "Really, Andrea, dear, I don't see why you won't move. How can you bear those... beggars lingering around your block?"
Mouth open, Andy can't help but stare at her. She knew giving her a key was a bad idea. Bad bad bad. "Uh..." she manages to squeak.
"And not even a lock on the front entrance," she continues. "Anyone could just waltz right in. I'm sure there has to be something more suitable located closer to..." Trailing off, it appears that she has perhaps noticed that Andy is not her only audience for the evening. "Who are you?" she asks rudely.
As if Miranda Priestly is going to behave in any other fashion as she barges in, unannounced, into someone else's home.
Andy covers her eyes with a single hand as her parents exchange confused glances.
"We're Andy's parents," her father says, friendly enough. "We flew in to spend the weekend."
I told you, Andy mentally screams at Miranda. I told you fifty thousand times not to come today. I even told you why! Why do you do these things to me?
Instead of saying any of this, of course, she just sighs and flaps her free hand in the air. "Miranda, may I introduce my parents?" she says in a formal tone. "Mom, Dad, I'd like you to meet Miranda."
There is a very long pause.
Unable to stand it any longer, Andy uncovers her eyes just in time to see Miranda cross her shabby little den and offer a hand limply toward her parents. "Charmed, I'm sure," she says blandly.
Her father is the first one to take the hand and give it a careful shake. "It's nice to meet you," he tells her, turning his head to give Andy a baffled look.
"Yes," her mother tells Miranda, reaching out and awkwardly grabbing at the hand. "We've heard..." She does not complete her sentence -- Andy has, naturally, told her parents nothing of any of this, and her mother does not believe in lying.
Miranda flashes one of her very, very famous shark smiles and casually perches herself on the arm of the chair Andy is sitting in. "I trust your flight was comfortable," she says in a congenial voice. "Which hotel are you staying in?"
Andy finds that she is shaking and cannot decide whether to laugh or cry.
Her mother blinks. "Oh, Andy is putting us up," she tells Miranda. "It'll be a tight fit, but I think we'll manage."
"Oh?" Miranda's tone is demure, and she shoots Andy a look with half-lidded eyes.
"I'm not that tall," Andy hears herself saying, attempting a laugh that is more hysterical than not. "I can fit on the couch just fine."
"Certainly," Miranda murmurs, raising an eyebrow.
Face hot, Andy is positive she's blushing from head to toe. Miranda knows all too well.
As her father obliviously begins chatting about their flight, Miranda leans a bit into the chair, curling an arm possessively around Andy's shoulders. It is casual and not unusual and before Andy can recall that she is seated in front of her family, she reflexively rests her head on Miranda's hip.
There is a crashing sound as her mother drops her cup of coffee.
"When exactly were you planning on telling us?" her father asks acidly, looming over Andy in a strangely menacing way as she crouches on the floor, mopping coffee up from the carpet.
"I... I, uh..." she stammers.
Her mother has been sitting preternaturally still on the sofa, white-faced, but she turns her head as Andy scrambles for words. "Is this why Nate went to Boston?" she whispers.
Horror blossoming, Andy fumbles with the roll of paper towels and knocks her father's coffee cup to the floor as well. "Oh, God, Mom!" she cries. "No! You have to understand--"
"Do I?" she asks faintly. "Do I, really? Oh, Andy..."
The obvious heartbreak is too much to bear, and Andy feels tears welling in her eyes. "I couldn't... not without being able to see you," she says.
Fuck the carpet. It isn't like she has a chance in hell of getting the security deposit back anyway. Not after Miranda's attempt to prepare a suitable meal in her tiny kitchenette -- no amount of scrubbing was ever going to remove the scorched patch of ceiling above her stove.
She pushes herself to her feet and puts a hand on her mother's arm, something in her gut twisting as her mother flinches. "Mom, I wasn't going to... would you have preferred me to tell you in an email, or on your answering machine?"
Hey, guys. Just wanted to let you know that they're running my story on the front page tomorrow! I'm really excited about it, of course. Oh, and while I'm thinking about it, I've entered into a sexual relationship with a woman who's more than twenty years older than I am. Hope you're having a good time at bridge tonight.
Yeah.
Andy has always known that if she ever planned to tell her parents about... well... this, it would have to be in person.
Although, if she had been able to actually plan it, Miranda most certainly wouldn't have been there.
Because she would have done exactly what she is doing now.
Calmly sitting in the chair Andy had vacated about five minutes ago, ankles crossed primly, looking vaguely put out. She likely perceives herself as an island of serenity in this mad sea of obviously puritan chaos.
Andy wants to claw her eyes out.
Instead, she settles for folding her arms defensively over her middle and giving her mother a sad smile. "I'm sorry I've disappointed you," she says stiffly.
Her father clears his throat, and she is not able to keep herself from starting in surprise. "That's not at all what we mean, sweetie," he tells her, reaching out and touching her cheek. "But you've got to admit, it's kind of a shock."
Andy's laugh is grim and lacks any discernible humor. "You're telling me."
The touch on her face turns briefly into a familiar pat before he withdraws. "Andy, I want you to know--"
Impossibly, a cell phone begins to chirp.
She has to bite back a groan as Miranda actually answers the damned thing.
"Emily," she barks into the phone. "Have I not made it clear that I am never to be disturbed after seven o'clock on Friday evenings? Honestly, Emily, one would hope--"
She stops mid-tirade, and Andy can hear Emily's static-filled wail crackling through the receiver.
Her father's brow furrows as he takes in the picture. An immaculately dressed Miranda, not a single hair out of place on her elegant head, snapping imperiously at a terrified assistant on the other end.
She tries really, really hard not to wince.
"Donatella can wait," Miranda says in her most dangerous 'do not argue' tone of voice. "Preferably as long as possible. You should know that by now, Emily."
Another brief pause.
"There is nothing she has to say to me that I wish to hear, and you are beginning to irritate me by pressing the matter. If it truly offends your sensibilities, I encourage you to dip into your next paycheck and send her a bouquet of flowers in apology."
Clearly not in the mood to wait for Emily's frantic response, she punches the End button and tucks the phone back wherever it came from in the first place.
Her mother appears bewildered, her father is scowling, and Andy prays very hard to be struck dead on the spot.
Miranda, of course, is unruffled.
"Andrea," her father begins, sounding absolutely livid, "is she... is this Miranda Priestly? "
It, of course, goes downhill from there.
There is shouting.
There are tears.
Suggestions are made that various individuals are in serious need of therapy.
Things are said that will take many months to cease to hurt.
Andy cannot help but be the slightest bit amused that her parents do not object to the nature of her relationship but that it is with, at least according to her father, "the Devil herself."
After her parents remove themselves to a nearby hotel -- they will stay for their weekend visit, but they will under no circumstances stay under the same roof as Miranda Priestly -- Andy gives the woman in question a baleful glare.
Miranda, who has said less than two dozen words all evening but has come perilously close to destroying Andy's relationship with her family, continues to sit in her chair, offering Andy a complacent look.
"If you wanted to meet my parents," Andy says venomously, "all you had to do was ask."
"Is it so hard to believe that I genuinely forgot?"
"Yes."
She has dealt with Miranda for far too long and on far too many levels to believe that her air of innocence is anything but a complete sham.
"Andrea..."
Andy curses the day that she ever admitted to Miranda Priestly that one of the most erotic sounds she'd ever heard was her own name coming out of Miranda's mouth. "Do you even care about what just happened?"
"Of course I care," she replies, tilting her head slightly. "But it was inevitable. Surely you see that."
"Why?" No one else on Earth has the ability to piss her off like this. "Why couldn't you have let me tell them in my own way and in my own time?"
Finally slipping out of her seat, Miranda kneels beside her and brushes a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. Andy feels the usual lurch as Miranda's fingertips graze her skin.
"Because, Andrea, you would never have told them anything at all." She smiles again, but it is gentle. The smile Andy knows is reserved for her and her alone. "And I find that unacceptable."
"That's... that's not..."
She hates that Miranda can reduce her to a stuttering wreck with a single touch.
The only real thing that makes up for it is her suspicion that she can basically do the same to Miranda herself.
"If you would like," she says diffidently, "we could call my mother and tell her as well. I know that it would be disappointing for you to not be able to address her in person, but the horror of realizing that I have managed to become involved with someone with an income of less than fifty thousand dollars a year will likely kill her on the spot, which should more than make up for it."
Doing her best Miranda impression, Andy purses her lips and furrows her brow ever-so-slightly.
After a long moment, Miranda chuckles.
"So..." Andy drawls uncomfortably. "You think it's important that my parents know about... us? Does that mean...?"
"Honestly, Andrea," she says, clearly exasperated. "Do you think I would actually walk through a crowd of... unwashed vagrants and up five flights of stairs at least twice a week for a merely casual affair?"
Her grin is radiant, she is sure. "Cool."
Miranda rolls her eyes. "If you are quite done acting the adolescent, I am going to stand up before my knees are permanently ruined from kneeling on your hideous carpet, and then I am going to bed. You may, if you wish, join me."
"Afraid the proximity to shag carpeting is going to destroy your fashion sense?" But Andy is standing up as well, offering her a helping hand.
As soon as she is on her feet, the hand goes around her waist. "If it hasn't done so by now, I believe I'm safe," Miranda says in a dry voice. "Although I still do not understand why you refuse to move out of this hellhole."
"Maybe I'm sentimental."
"About what? The peeling wallpaper in the bathroom or the freezer you have to defrost with a hacksaw?"
Their banter has gone a long way toward pushing her parents out of her mind, but the quizzical look Miranda is giving her completes the job.
Laughing, Andy pulls her close. "Because it's the first place that I ever did this." She presses her lips tenderly to Miranda's, teasing her mouth open with her tongue.
Awkwardly stumbling over furniture and into walls, they make their way to the bedroom-- neither of them is paying a damn bit of attention to anything but each other, turning walking into somewhat of a liability. Andy begins to concede that Miranda possibly has a good point concerning her family.
They tumble onto the bed, and Miranda laughs, low and sensual, as Andy's hands seek out the ticklish spots just under her ribs. Clothes are shed and they eventually find themselves wrapped around each other so firmly it is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. Andy licks a bead of sweat off Miranda's nose and feels something very close to contentment.
As much as she hates it when Miranda is correct in that supercilious, unyielding way of hers, Andy cannot bring herself to complain about the end result.
FINIS
Uninvited
Andy has company. Some of it is expected, some of it is not. As one might expect, this leads to... difficulties. Miranda/Andy femslash warning!
Rating: PG-13 for language and innuendo
A/N: Because there is so totally not enough Miranda/Andy fic out there, dammit.
Summary: Andy has company. Some of it is expected, some of it is not. As one might expect, this leads to... difficulties
Rating: PG-13 for language and innuendo
Disclaimer: Ha! As if I own anything associated with The Devil Wears Prada.
Uninvited
By: Hayseed (hayseed42@gmail.com)
Miranda breezes in without so much as an upward glance, flinging her coat to its usual spot on the floor, completely ignoring the fact that it is probably worth enough to feed a small third-world country for a decade. "Really, Andrea, dear, I don't see why you won't move. How can you bear those... beggars lingering around your block?"
Mouth open, Andy can't help but stare at her. She knew giving her a key was a bad idea. Bad bad bad. "Uh..." she manages to squeak.
"And not even a lock on the front entrance," she continues. "Anyone could just waltz right in. I'm sure there has to be something more suitable located closer to..." Trailing off, it appears that she has perhaps noticed that Andy is not her only audience for the evening. "Who are you?" she asks rudely.
As if Miranda Priestly is going to behave in any other fashion as she barges in, unannounced, into someone else's home.
Andy covers her eyes with a single hand as her parents exchange confused glances.
"We're Andy's parents," her father says, friendly enough. "We flew in to spend the weekend."
I told you, Andy mentally screams at Miranda. I told you fifty thousand times not to come today. I even told you why! Why do you do these things to me?
Instead of saying any of this, of course, she just sighs and flaps her free hand in the air. "Miranda, may I introduce my parents?" she says in a formal tone. "Mom, Dad, I'd like you to meet Miranda."
There is a very long pause.
Unable to stand it any longer, Andy uncovers her eyes just in time to see Miranda cross her shabby little den and offer a hand limply toward her parents. "Charmed, I'm sure," she says blandly.
Her father is the first one to take the hand and give it a careful shake. "It's nice to meet you," he tells her, turning his head to give Andy a baffled look.
"Yes," her mother tells Miranda, reaching out and awkwardly grabbing at the hand. "We've heard..." She does not complete her sentence -- Andy has, naturally, told her parents nothing of any of this, and her mother does not believe in lying.
Miranda flashes one of her very, very famous shark smiles and casually perches herself on the arm of the chair Andy is sitting in. "I trust your flight was comfortable," she says in a congenial voice. "Which hotel are you staying in?"
Andy finds that she is shaking and cannot decide whether to laugh or cry.
Her mother blinks. "Oh, Andy is putting us up," she tells Miranda. "It'll be a tight fit, but I think we'll manage."
"Oh?" Miranda's tone is demure, and she shoots Andy a look with half-lidded eyes.
"I'm not that tall," Andy hears herself saying, attempting a laugh that is more hysterical than not. "I can fit on the couch just fine."
"Certainly," Miranda murmurs, raising an eyebrow.
Face hot, Andy is positive she's blushing from head to toe. Miranda knows all too well.
As her father obliviously begins chatting about their flight, Miranda leans a bit into the chair, curling an arm possessively around Andy's shoulders. It is casual and not unusual and before Andy can recall that she is seated in front of her family, she reflexively rests her head on Miranda's hip.
There is a crashing sound as her mother drops her cup of coffee.
"When exactly were you planning on telling us?" her father asks acidly, looming over Andy in a strangely menacing way as she crouches on the floor, mopping coffee up from the carpet.
"I... I, uh..." she stammers.
Her mother has been sitting preternaturally still on the sofa, white-faced, but she turns her head as Andy scrambles for words. "Is this why Nate went to Boston?" she whispers.
Horror blossoming, Andy fumbles with the roll of paper towels and knocks her father's coffee cup to the floor as well. "Oh, God, Mom!" she cries. "No! You have to understand--"
"Do I?" she asks faintly. "Do I, really? Oh, Andy..."
The obvious heartbreak is too much to bear, and Andy feels tears welling in her eyes. "I couldn't... not without being able to see you," she says.
Fuck the carpet. It isn't like she has a chance in hell of getting the security deposit back anyway. Not after Miranda's attempt to prepare a suitable meal in her tiny kitchenette -- no amount of scrubbing was ever going to remove the scorched patch of ceiling above her stove.
She pushes herself to her feet and puts a hand on her mother's arm, something in her gut twisting as her mother flinches. "Mom, I wasn't going to... would you have preferred me to tell you in an email, or on your answering machine?"
Hey, guys. Just wanted to let you know that they're running my story on the front page tomorrow! I'm really excited about it, of course. Oh, and while I'm thinking about it, I've entered into a sexual relationship with a woman who's more than twenty years older than I am. Hope you're having a good time at bridge tonight.
Yeah.
Andy has always known that if she ever planned to tell her parents about... well... this, it would have to be in person.
Although, if she had been able to actually plan it, Miranda most certainly wouldn't have been there.
Because she would have done exactly what she is doing now.
Calmly sitting in the chair Andy had vacated about five minutes ago, ankles crossed primly, looking vaguely put out. She likely perceives herself as an island of serenity in this mad sea of obviously puritan chaos.
Andy wants to claw her eyes out.
Instead, she settles for folding her arms defensively over her middle and giving her mother a sad smile. "I'm sorry I've disappointed you," she says stiffly.
Her father clears his throat, and she is not able to keep herself from starting in surprise. "That's not at all what we mean, sweetie," he tells her, reaching out and touching her cheek. "But you've got to admit, it's kind of a shock."
Andy's laugh is grim and lacks any discernible humor. "You're telling me."
The touch on her face turns briefly into a familiar pat before he withdraws. "Andy, I want you to know--"
Impossibly, a cell phone begins to chirp.
She has to bite back a groan as Miranda actually answers the damned thing.
"Emily," she barks into the phone. "Have I not made it clear that I am never to be disturbed after seven o'clock on Friday evenings? Honestly, Emily, one would hope--"
She stops mid-tirade, and Andy can hear Emily's static-filled wail crackling through the receiver.
Her father's brow furrows as he takes in the picture. An immaculately dressed Miranda, not a single hair out of place on her elegant head, snapping imperiously at a terrified assistant on the other end.
She tries really, really hard not to wince.
"Donatella can wait," Miranda says in her most dangerous 'do not argue' tone of voice. "Preferably as long as possible. You should know that by now, Emily."
Another brief pause.
"There is nothing she has to say to me that I wish to hear, and you are beginning to irritate me by pressing the matter. If it truly offends your sensibilities, I encourage you to dip into your next paycheck and send her a bouquet of flowers in apology."
Clearly not in the mood to wait for Emily's frantic response, she punches the End button and tucks the phone back wherever it came from in the first place.
Her mother appears bewildered, her father is scowling, and Andy prays very hard to be struck dead on the spot.
Miranda, of course, is unruffled.
"Andrea," her father begins, sounding absolutely livid, "is she... is this Miranda Priestly? "
It, of course, goes downhill from there.
There is shouting.
There are tears.
Suggestions are made that various individuals are in serious need of therapy.
Things are said that will take many months to cease to hurt.
Andy cannot help but be the slightest bit amused that her parents do not object to the nature of her relationship but that it is with, at least according to her father, "the Devil herself."
After her parents remove themselves to a nearby hotel -- they will stay for their weekend visit, but they will under no circumstances stay under the same roof as Miranda Priestly -- Andy gives the woman in question a baleful glare.
Miranda, who has said less than two dozen words all evening but has come perilously close to destroying Andy's relationship with her family, continues to sit in her chair, offering Andy a complacent look.
"If you wanted to meet my parents," Andy says venomously, "all you had to do was ask."
"Is it so hard to believe that I genuinely forgot?"
"Yes."
She has dealt with Miranda for far too long and on far too many levels to believe that her air of innocence is anything but a complete sham.
"Andrea..."
Andy curses the day that she ever admitted to Miranda Priestly that one of the most erotic sounds she'd ever heard was her own name coming out of Miranda's mouth. "Do you even care about what just happened?"
"Of course I care," she replies, tilting her head slightly. "But it was inevitable. Surely you see that."
"Why?" No one else on Earth has the ability to piss her off like this. "Why couldn't you have let me tell them in my own way and in my own time?"
Finally slipping out of her seat, Miranda kneels beside her and brushes a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. Andy feels the usual lurch as Miranda's fingertips graze her skin.
"Because, Andrea, you would never have told them anything at all." She smiles again, but it is gentle. The smile Andy knows is reserved for her and her alone. "And I find that unacceptable."
"That's... that's not..."
She hates that Miranda can reduce her to a stuttering wreck with a single touch.
The only real thing that makes up for it is her suspicion that she can basically do the same to Miranda herself.
"If you would like," she says diffidently, "we could call my mother and tell her as well. I know that it would be disappointing for you to not be able to address her in person, but the horror of realizing that I have managed to become involved with someone with an income of less than fifty thousand dollars a year will likely kill her on the spot, which should more than make up for it."
Doing her best Miranda impression, Andy purses her lips and furrows her brow ever-so-slightly.
After a long moment, Miranda chuckles.
"So..." Andy drawls uncomfortably. "You think it's important that my parents know about... us? Does that mean...?"
"Honestly, Andrea," she says, clearly exasperated. "Do you think I would actually walk through a crowd of... unwashed vagrants and up five flights of stairs at least twice a week for a merely casual affair?"
Her grin is radiant, she is sure. "Cool."
Miranda rolls her eyes. "If you are quite done acting the adolescent, I am going to stand up before my knees are permanently ruined from kneeling on your hideous carpet, and then I am going to bed. You may, if you wish, join me."
"Afraid the proximity to shag carpeting is going to destroy your fashion sense?" But Andy is standing up as well, offering her a helping hand.
As soon as she is on her feet, the hand goes around her waist. "If it hasn't done so by now, I believe I'm safe," Miranda says in a dry voice. "Although I still do not understand why you refuse to move out of this hellhole."
"Maybe I'm sentimental."
"About what? The peeling wallpaper in the bathroom or the freezer you have to defrost with a hacksaw?"
Their banter has gone a long way toward pushing her parents out of her mind, but the quizzical look Miranda is giving her completes the job.
Laughing, Andy pulls her close. "Because it's the first place that I ever did this." She presses her lips tenderly to Miranda's, teasing her mouth open with her tongue.
Awkwardly stumbling over furniture and into walls, they make their way to the bedroom-- neither of them is paying a damn bit of attention to anything but each other, turning walking into somewhat of a liability. Andy begins to concede that Miranda possibly has a good point concerning her family.
They tumble onto the bed, and Miranda laughs, low and sensual, as Andy's hands seek out the ticklish spots just under her ribs. Clothes are shed and they eventually find themselves wrapped around each other so firmly it is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. Andy licks a bead of sweat off Miranda's nose and feels something very close to contentment.
As much as she hates it when Miranda is correct in that supercilious, unyielding way of hers, Andy cannot bring herself to complain about the end result.
FINIS