Did it again... dammit
A/N: It took less than a week to succumb to the urge again -- I'm a bad, bad Hayseed. Pointless and fun Miranda/Andy fluff in which characterizations probably falter. Yes, I know it's silly, and no, I don't care.
Summary: The media is dying to know who's putting a smile on Miranda's face these days, but Miranda is prepared to keep them guessing.
Rating: PG-13, mostly for adult-ish humor
Disclaimer: Nope. Not mine.
Press Release
By: Hayseed (hayseed42@gmail.com)
Andy finds the first article over her lunch break as she's idly skimming a gossip rag that was left in the staff room.
Is the Ice Queen Thawing?
According to Runway rumors, which this author knows are always reliable,
notorious editor Miranda Priestly has been in a much improved mood lately and has
even taken several afternoons off. With the divorce to husband number two filed away,
we can't help but wonder if marriage number three is on the horizon, and if so, who is
the next victim?
She reads it to Miranda that night. Miranda is stretched out full-length on the bed, and Andy sits cross-legged at one end, grinning as she reads.
After a moment, Miranda props herself up on an elbow and rolls her eyes, but her lips tighten, obviously holding back a smile.
"You've taken afternoons off, huh? Wonder where they found that out?" Andy asks playfully.
"They could probably hear the celebration five blocks away." Miranda's head falls back and she closes her eyes.
Andy sometimes forgets that Miranda has a sense of humor.
The second article shows up two weeks later, as a blurb in a gossip column buried in the Times society pages.
...infamous man-eater Miranda Priestly has kept us in the dark about her new beau.
It is almost a given that she is involved with someone, but she has remained without
escort at the recent functions she has attended. Miranda, we want to meet him!
She dangles the clipping in front of Miranda's nose as they are relaxing for the evening.
Miranda merely glares at her. "You are blocking my view."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know you were so invested in... what is this, anyway?" Andy squints at the television.
Deliberately, Miranda turns away from the screen. "I'm not," she says, sounding exasperated. "What is it?"
"We're in the news again," Andy tells her. "Apparently, you've been running around, going to all of these parties and leaving me at home to paint my toenails."
"That's ridiculous. When I leave you at home, the last thing you do is paint your toenails."
Andy grins and lifts her foot up, inspecting it with a mocking air. "Oh, come on. We both know that my feet are perfect in every way without needing to slop stuff all over them."
Chuckling, Miranda reaches out and takes Andy's foot in her hands, running her fingertips briskly over the arch, causing a delicious frission to run down Andy's spine. "You could use a pedicure," she says, smoothing a finger over the big toenail. "But then again, it's been several days since I've had one myself."
"Next time you go, I could come along," Andy offers. "We can braid each other's hair and share our innermost secrets."
"I have no secrets. My life is an open book," Miranda says in a tone completely lacking irony, tickling Andy's foot again.
Miranda finds the next one. She drops the newspaper in Andy's salad at dinner.
"Thanks," Andy says sarcastically. "My favorite -- newsprint with a light vinaigrette."
"Just read it." Miranda's sigh is long-suffering.
Priestly Prince Nowhere To Be Found
Rumors linking famous New York fashionista Miranda Priestly with a member of
the Saudi Arabian royal family are proving elusive to validate. Priestly, who has
been dropping tantalizing hints about a hot new romance over the last few months,
is not saying anything on the matter, but a representative of the Saudi royals claims
that recordings of intimate phone conversations between one of the princes and 'a
woman matching Ms. Priestly's description' are available. Maybe Miranda will
finally set the record straight herself and debut her prince at next month's big
Runway gala.
"I think I'm going to make you call me 'your Majesty' from now on."
She rolls her eyes. "Andrea..."
"Oh, come on, Miranda. Don't you think it's just a little funny?" Andy lays the paper on the table and picks up her fork, resuming her meal.
"I would like to know exactly who has been circulating these rumors." Miranda's voice is tense and angry, and Andy immediately looks up in alarm. "My personal life should not be a matter of public record, whether the allegations are true or, as in this case, utter fantasy."
"Well, yeah," Andy says, trying to keep a soothing tone. "You know I agree with you. But you also know there's nothing you can do that'll get them to leave you alone. I mean, isn't that how you sell your magazine?"
"Thank you for that little lesson in Public Relations 101, Andrea," Miranda says. She does not sound amused.
Andy blows a sharp breath out through her nose. "What do you want me to say?"
"I don't want you to say anything. I just..."
In an attempt to lighten the mood, Andy reaches out with her foot under the table and gives Miranda's shin a gentle poke. "Have I ever told you before that you're way too uptight about stuff?"
"Just be quiet and eat your supper." Miranda sounds just as exasperated as before, but there is underlying affection in her voice now.
"And are you going to take me to the gala? I could wear a long beard and talk with a bad Arabian accent. It might not look so great with the evening gown, but I think with the right shoes..." Andy's grin is big and dopey.
"Andrea?"
She laughs. "You and I both know you think I'm adorable."
Miranda's only response is to pick a cashew out of her salad and throw it across the table.
The next article actually gets a full-belly laugh out of Miranda. She saves it for a night when Miranda drags herself into Andy's apartment with particularly tired eyes and lines of exhaustion around her lips.
They are in bed, shoulders occasionally brushing against each other as Miranda pages through the Book and Andy types away on her laptop. "I found another article about us today," she says matter-of-factly, closing the computer.
Miranda makes an interrogative noise, obviously not really paying attention to her.
"It was actually in the Enquirer," Andy continues. "And I think it's going to require some intervention -- someone at Runway clearly knows what's going on."
The Book closes with a soft thump. "I'm listening."
Alien Priestly Love Child
Reliable sources inform the Enquirer that none other than fashion guru Miranda
Priestly is expecting. The father? An individual who does not wish to be identified
for fear of government reprisals but does confirm that his origins are extraterrestrial
in nature. He claims that he and Priestly have had a long-standing intimate
relationship, and the pregnancy, while unplanned, is not unwelcome. The best part?
According to the father, Priestly has agreed to take the child back to his homeworld
once it is born. "I want my baby to have dual citizenship," he says with a beaming
smile.
As Andy reads the article aloud, Miranda's eyes get rounder and rounder. Once she reaches the end, Miranda's mouth is actually hanging open.
Unable to resist, Andy reaches over and gives Miranda's flat belly a tender caress. "We can name him Zanthrax, darling, after my fourth uncle on my father's side. I can't wait to count all of his little tentacles and make sure he has the right number of antennae."
The laughter starts out as a series of soft giggles but soon escalates to full-blown cackling. Andy cannot help joining in, and soon, they are both wiping tears out of their eyes.
Still chortling a bit, Miranda presses a soft kiss to Andy's lips. "I needed that, Andrea."
"No problem."
The papers are relatively quiet on the subject of Miranda's love life for more than a month. And the next mention in the gossip columns doesn't exactly bring it up directly.
...on Saturday, Miranda Priestly was spotted at the Bronx Zoo on an outing with
her twin daughters. While their new nanny seemed to be managing the girls quite
well, we can't help but wonder when the next Mr. Priestly is going to appear on the
scene to lend a helping hand.
"I'm the nanny, huh?" Andy asks, tossing the paper across the tiny den. "I should be getting paid, then."
Miranda's eyebrow raises and her mouth opens.
"Hang on," Andy says hurriedly. "Don't say what I know popped into your head just now."
Shrugging, Miranda waits for a short pause before speaking. "I'm glad the girls have taken to you as well as they have," she says instead.
"Yeah." What Andy does not say is that she has wondered on and off what Miranda would have done if the twins hadn't decided that 'Mom's new friend' was okay. She knows when to back off from a subject, however. "I don't know if they've figured out that I'm not doing their homework any more, though."
"Cassidy does get awfully confused about her algebra sometimes." A smile plays around the corners of Miranda's mouth.
Andy grimaces. "Hire her a tutor."
The next few articles are mere variations on the same theme and therefore not nearly as entertaining.
In fact, six weeks after Andy meets Cassidy and Caroline, Miranda brings home an interesting bit of news herself.
"My staff is taking bets on all of this nonsense," she says abruptly one Saturday night. The girls are spending the weekend with their father, and Miranda is stretched out on Andy's couch, a hand idly running through Andy's hair as they watch an old Cary Grant movie on cable. Andy herself is sitting on the floor, trying not to give herself away by purring like a cat.
"Mmm?" Andy asks, focused more on the sensation of Miranda's fingernails lightly scratching her scalp than anything else.
"They don't think I know, but Emily is running the book from her desk."
"Any good guesses yet?" She stifles a contented yawn.
The hand trails down the back of her neck, and Andy shivers with pleasure. "Of the ones I saw, my favorite was the six-to-one that I've become a dominatrix in a bondage cult."
Her eyes fly open. "Seriously? Only six-to-one?"
Miranda pinches her shoulder hard.
"Oh, yes, mistress," Andy gasps in mock-ecstasy, failing to hold back her giggles. "Please, hurt me."
Another pinch. "Oh, I'll hurt you, all right."
"It would be better if you turned out to be the one who wanted to be hurt," Andy says, still grinning. "More ironic and all."
"That one was in the book, too," Miranda tells her. "At twenty-to-one."
"Damn," Andy exclaims with what she hopes sounds like true disappointment, "and me with all my blindfolds and whips at the dry-cleaners for the weekend."
"I can just burn you with a cigarette lighter instead." Miranda's tone is light.
She makes a face. "Because that's a real turn-on. Gee, Miranda, you sure know what to say to get a girl's blood pumping."
But the hand is back in her hair, gentle and affectionate, and Andy finds that she can't speak.
The next article is somewhat hurtful -- Andy recognizes the reporter's name as someone Miranda has been hateful to in the past.
Romancing the Dragon Lady
With all of this recent speculation over the identity of Miranda Priestly's mystery lover,
this reporter cannot help but question the plausibility of his existing at all. Priestly is
an infamously difficult personality to cope with, and a romantic relationship with her
would likely require an inhuman level of tolerance and patience. Perhaps the
circulating rumors can be traced back to Priestly herself -- this reporter would be
willing to bet that Runway sales have never been better.
The expression in Miranda's eyes is the nearest thing to concern that Andy has ever seen from her. "Does it bother you?" she asks abruptly.
With a shrug, Andy folds up the paper that Miranda has just shoved at her and puts it on her nightstand. "What do you mean?"
"All of this... the rumors, the assumptions."
Andy chooses her next words very carefully. "I know it bothers you," she says slowly. "And I guess that bothers me. But, honestly, Miranda, these things aren't about us. They're not even really about you -- these reporters don't know you at all."
Miranda's eyes are narrow, studying her in a way that Andy hasn't seen in a while.
"Besides," she continues in a lighter tone, "I kind of like being your... secret bit on the side. No one else knows, and that's kind of... sexy."
"Sexy?" Miranda echoes, clearly doubtful. She gives Andy the once-over with a raised eyebrow, taking in the worn old sleepwear and rumpled hair.
Putting a hand to the small of her back, Andy thrusts her chest forward and strikes a playful pose. "Your tallest, thinnest model ain't got nothin' on me!"
"You've met my tallest, thinnest model," Miranda tells her, lips twitching. "She has the personality of a desk chair."
"Well, I'm glad to know you find me more appealing than office furniture," Andy says.
Miranda puts a fingertip to her forehead. "Although," she says in a thoughtful voice, "I recently purchased a matched set of Zalszupin side tables in a very nice jacaranda. I am quite fond of them."
Reacting quickly, Andy puts her hands on Miranda's shoulders and pins her to the bed. "Side tables?" she asks, leaning forward and kissing her throat. "I'm being tossed over for side tables?"
"They are rather expensive side tables," Miranda says in a breathy voice, her hands clutching at the back of Andy's pajama top.
Working her way down toward Miranda's collarbone, Andy applies enough pressure to leave a mark just below the bony protrusion. "I don't care if they're capable of human speech and can take your messages," she says, lips moving against her skin, pressing openmouthed kisses along the very edge of the neckline of her nightgown.
The hands are pulling her top up and off. "You are being... ridiculous," Miranda gasps as Andy's mouth moves further. "Andrea..."
"What?" Andy pulls away and offers her a sweet smile. "Is there something I can do for you that your wonderful, magical side tables can't?"
Her frustrated expression is strangely endearing. "Just..." Miranda says in a strangled voice, arching her hips, her hands hot on Andy's skin.
Obliging her, Andy grabs the hem of her nightgown and slides it off. "Oh, all right, then," she says, holding back laughter with little success.
With a growl, Miranda pulls her down into a fierce kiss, and there is no more talking.
Three weeks later, Andy is sitting in her den, surfing through the channels, while Miranda is in the bedroom, finishing up the Book for the evening.
There is a familiar flash of white on the screen and her hand pauses. "Hey," she calls after a moment, "you're on TV, Miranda."
Her voice floats into the room. "Oh, God, change it. Those interviews are almost always idiotic -- none of the reporters can actually tell the difference between Galliano and the Gap. Who is it this time?"
"Cojo." Andy turns the volume up a little -- on-screen Miranda is currently making neutral noises about Halston's latest efforts at a collection.
She can almost hear the eye-roll in Miranda's voice. "That... that caricature," she says. "He acts like a gay Muppet."
Stifling a giggle, Andy watches on-screen Miranda visibly flinch as Cojo attempts to give her a sideways embrace.
"So, Miranda," Cojo says conspiratorially, "anything to dish on your love life?"
On-screen Miranda's expression is contemptible. "I don't understand why people find it so fascinating," she responds. "It's obscene voyeurism, and I wish people would just stop asking about it."
"Are you breaking up with him, then?" Cojo asks with an effeminate little wave.
The camera quickly cuts back to the studio discussion before on-screen Miranda can react to this, and Andy grins. "Miranda, did you assault Cojo on national television?" she shouts toward the bedroom.
"I most certainly did not," Miranda says, walking into the den. "No matter how much he deserved it."
She leans her head over the edge of the couch and offers her a sympathetic look. "I won't disagree with you there. It must really be getting bad for you on the carpet, though. He barely waited at all before asking you personal stuff."
As Miranda joins her on the couch, Andy nestles into her side almost automatically. "I won't break," Miranda replies.
Andy resumes her channel surfing. "That doesn't mean you're not getting hurt," she says quietly.
"I'm a big girl, Andrea. I can take care of myself."
"That is so totally not the point." Andy lays a hand on Miranda's knee.
She feels Miranda's arm go around her shoulders and rests her head comfortably on her chest. "Anyway, after what I said to that horrible little monkey of a fashion reporter, I don't think anyone will be bothering me for a while."
Groaning, Andy closes her eyes. "What did you do, Miranda?"
"Oh, nothing. Yet."
After more than a year of speculation, the media has finally settled down into a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy concerning Miranda's romantic interests. It is more or less a non-secret that Miranda is involved with someone, but everyone appears to have gotten the message that she's not going to reveal anything more than that.
Which suits Andy just fine -- she isn't lying when she tells Miranda that she likes keeping their relationship private. Who wants to be overrun with paparazzi and nosy, bitchy reporters when they can continue spending their free nights quietly in Andy's apartment, sharing supper and bickering good-naturedly about Andy's taste in footwear?
Many weeks after the fact, Miranda comes in from work, drops a kiss on Andy's cheek, and settles into her chair at the kitchen table with such a smug expression on her face that Andy can't help but mention it.
"What is it?" she asks, bringing the plates of salmon over to the table.
"What?" Miranda replies demurely, pouring two glasses of wine.
"You're grinning like you just fired half of your staff for having the wrong number of paperclips at their desk."
She ignores this, choosing instead to cut into her salmon and take a prim mouthful. "This is... more than adequate," she says. "What is in this glaze?"
"Lemon and ginger, and you so didn't answer my question." Andy's voice is almost grating with impatience.
"You didn't ask a question."
She's on the verge of strangling her. "Miranda..."
"Andrea..." she mocks, taking another bite of the fish.
Huffing with frustration, she fidgets with her fork, remaining silent.
"I was going to wait," Miranda finally relents with a little chuckle, "but if you're going to act like a child..."
Andy just purses her lips and sips wine, resisting the urge to make a face at her.
"Emily had to leave early today," she says.
"Okay..." Andy is mystified -- what can this have to do with Miranda's extraordinary mood?
"She checked her betting book at lunch today and found an unauthorized entry." Miranda's eyes are twinkling, and Andy is still confused. "It upset her so that she gave herself the afternoon off."
Instead of explaining, Miranda goes back into the den and rummages around in her bag. When she returns, she puts a little notebook on the table.
"Go ahead and look," she says, leaning over Andy's chair and putting an absent hand on her shoulder.
Andy's eyes widen as she flips through the pages -- there are at least seventy different bets listed, all in Emily's careful handwriting, and each bet has more than twenty names under it. It is the last one that stands out, though.
Average number of times Miranda Priestly gets laid in a week. Over/Under: Three.
One of the names listed below the entry is in a sloppier but no less familiar hand:
Miranda Priestly, $500, Over
Goggling, she looks back up and sees Miranda's lips twitching. "Sometimes," Miranda says in a voice rich with suppressed humor, "Emily needs to be reminded of her place."
The expression in Miranda's eyes is so close to actual happiness that Andy can't stand it. Feeling like her heart is about to explode with joy, Andy reaches upward, delighted that Miranda leans down to meet her halfway.
Their lips touch, and Andy wonders if this is what true love feels like.
FINIS