Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Goodnight, Miranda”

Miranda doesn’t answer, she’s distracted. Andrea hasn’t left yet but her mind has already shifted. Her goodbyes in person are nearly as bad as the ones over the phone.

“Miranda.”

“Yes.” She raises her hand in an echo of her usual waves of dismissal, although marginally more polite. She’s standing at the kitchen island, her back is to Andrea, and her attention is on the Book.

So she is surprised when she feels herself being turned by a hand at her elbow. It doesn’t happen quickly but it’s still too fast for her to process before it happens. Andrea grasps her arm and slowly lowers her face to Miranda's. Her nose rubs against Miranda’s and Andrea's lips brush hers, lightly, so softly, and Miranda's eyes widen. She turns her head slightly, and she swears it is to move away but Andrea seems to take her movement as acquiescence and very full, deep red lips are then pressed firmly against hers and Miranda's mouth has clearly caught a mind of its own because it presses back and she most definitely had no part in it.

A soft hand cups Miranda's cheek and nudges her slightly to the side so that Andrea can slant her mouth over Miranda’s. Andrea is alternating between pressing kisses to her top and bottom lip before pulling with her teeth and nibbling lightly and Miranda thinks she might have just sighed into Andrea's mouth. Andrea's tongue sweeps her lip and Miranda parts her mouth and huffs a sharp breath through her nose when it brushes her own.

There’s a soft heat spreading through her and a hammering pulse in her veins, she’s breathing heavily against Andrea and her hands are squeezing the countertop behind her. Some part of her understands that if she releases her strong grip on the counter and grabs at the girl she probably won't be able to let go and there’s only so much indignity even her subconscious mind will allow her to succumb to.

That is, until the hand holding her jaw glides over her neck and slides into her hair, and Miranda’s breath catches slightly. Fingernails scratch lightly at her scalp just as Andrea rolls her tongue in the most delightful way and several things happen at once, a shudder runs down Miranda's spine and Miranda moans loudly enough to be immediately mortified, and later furious with herself for losing her mind in her own damn kitchen.

There’s a tell-tale creak on the first floor landing which means one of the girls, most likely Cassidy whose sleep is as turbulent as her mother’s, is out of bed. Miranda springs back in a way which would be truly comical if not for the bewilderment which has seized her entire being.

Miranda can’t bring herself to look Andrea in the eye. Andrea may have started it but Miranda didn’t end it.

She manages to croak out a “goodnight, Andrea”, wincing internally at the rasp in her voice, and slides past her from where she'd been backed against the counter. She thinks Andrea might have reached for her as she went past but she isn’t sure and she can’t turn back.

She flees the room and mounts the stairs on shaky legs. The Book is forgotten.

_________________

Miranda does not sleep that night.

Or the next.
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Frederick in the Art department must be suicidal for attempting, for the second consecutive time, to have a pastel yellow backdrop for the six page Armani spread. He is new to the position, having joined them from Italy. Clearly, he isn’t going to last long, Miranda thinks.

She isn’t thinking about the other night.

The Dior spread needs reshooting. Patrick seems to have fallen under the impression that if he shoots in black and white then nobody will be able to tell that there’s a barren wasteland of gormlessness rotting between the model’s ears.

There is nothing to think about.

There are shoots and reshoots and run-throughs and business lunches and meetings with the board and Irv is still bitter and attempting to cut Miranda off at the knees by tampering with the budget, and she is absolutely not thinking about being backed into a corner and slowly kissed to death by a stunning twenty-something year old woman.

Miranda needs a date, clearly that is all that is happening here. Stephen has been gone for a while now, their divorce is due to be finalised imminently and the press has finally died down. If she’s honest, he was somewhat out of the picture even when he was still in it. They had been in separate bedrooms for some time. Roommates sharing breakfast two or three times a week. Roommates who eventually hated each other.

So, a date. A nice silver fox with a penchant for cigars and whiskey, with hair on his chest, a fragile ego and stubble on his jaw and, oh god, Miranda thinks she feels a little sick.

She snarls and snaps for Bethany (or Brenda or whatever the new Emily's name is) to get her coffee and ‘that purple thing she liked’. She has largely outdone herself these past few days, even Nigel has side-eyed her on more than one occasion and her tempestuous moods had long since stopped surprising him. Beryl (or Bambi) has twice fled the room shaking and in tears. Human Resources have decreed that Miranda cannot fire her assistants prior to the close of an absurdly long grace period, regardless of incompetence. There is only so much she can take.

At home she tries harder to contain herself. After Stephen, and the press and the long hours she’s had to pull to make sure Irv’s attempted oust was well and truly squashed, she has worked hard over the past months to have more time for the girls. She makes sure she is home for dinner at least 3 nights a week, even if it means an extra hour or two in her study before going to bed. She listens and engages, spoils them still yes, but not so much. She has worked hard to improve their relationship, to be the mother they deserve.

So she has resisted the urge to hide at the office and drown herself quite entirely in her work, but she has still caught one or two glances shared between the pair of them, when her tongue has been sharper than it ought to be, and she knows that they sense something is amiss. Worse than that, she sees the slightly fearful look in their eyes, wondering if the new Miranda is no more and it’s a sharp stab into Miranda’s side.

She also sees the messages on her phone, but she does not read them. A week later, Andrea goes silent.

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After a week of ignored messages and going to voicemail, Andy is aware that this approach is not going to work. God forbid that Miranda express an emotion like an actual human being. Fortunately, she has learnt a thing or two about how best to handle Miranda. Andy snorts as the thought makes her think of those people who put tigers in their backyards, thinking they can ‘handle’ them and stop in for a cuddle every now and then, only to end up with 7 fingers and wearing an eye-patch. She supposes that in a way, Miranda is exactly that. A skittish wild animal and the thought makes her smile, as much as it makes her sad.

Miranda isn’t reading her messages. But she hasn’t blocked her either. The latter suggests that there is hope but the former lets her know that approaching this head-on is going to get her nowhere. She may complain about moving at a glacial pace, for a Miranda that is unsettled, glacial is exactly what is required. Confront her and she is likely to lash out, and take the whole burning world with her. Paris should be evidence enough of that. She snorts and gets a funny look from the guy working late in the cubicle next to her.

She doesn’t attempt to contact Miranda in any way for over a week, despite the fact that she misses her, keenly. Miranda has this way of filling every corner of the room and Andy finds herself bereft at the loss. Again.

Andy waits until a Thursday night during which she knows for a fact that the girls will be home. It’s unfair to use Miranda’s daughters as the shield to her ire but honestly, she needs whatever advantage she can get if she’s going to pull this off. She knocks on the door of the townhouse at exactly 7.45pm. Andy is banking on the fact that Miranda will assume that the new second assistant has, again, forgotten the key to the townhouse when delivering the Book. Miranda referred to her once as ‘Britney’ but that actually being the girl’s name seems about as likely as Miranda answering the door in a baseball cap and shirt from the Gap and declaring her undying love for tepid instant coffee.

Andy prepares for a furious Miranda to wrench open the door and she is not disappointed. She ignores the look of shock that passes quickly over Miranda's face (which is a shame because it’s not an expression often seen on one Miranda Priestly), it changes quickly to anger and then extreme irritation, so she is soon back on familiar ground. Andy breezes past her and walks into the townhouse as if she had been expected. She removes her coat, hangs it in the hallway closet and heads into the kitchen, chatting as she goes.

“It took me forever to get here. Greg had me stay late, even though I’ve been on the early shift for the last nine days, we've got three guys out sick which meant that in between running up and down 87th trying to get an interview with that mobile baker that’s absurdly popular for somehow ‘reinventing’ sourdough, I was stuck covering obituaries and getting hit on by that sweaty cop who comes by for ‘media relations’. It’s a miracle I made it out when I did.”

Silence. Alrighty then.

“I mean, I get it, I won't be doing this forever and it’s working your way up yada yada yada, but you try remembering that when there’s a guy that smells like doughnuts dripping into your coffee. It can’t get much worse, right…?”.

Her plea forces Miranda to respond in some way. She, and Miranda too, is aware that she could babble for some time about workplace gripes and subway anecdotes as a method of distraction, but it’s been over two weeks of no contact and, frankly, Andy is fed up with waiting for Miranda to pull her head out of her glorious ass.

She looks Miranda dead in the eye and refuses to flinch at the icy glare-of-death being beamed in her direction. Instead she stares right back and attempts to will Miranda to understand by the power of thought alone, that although she will not bring up the wonderful kiss shared in this very kitchen - a kiss she knows damn well that Miranda enjoyed - she absolutely will not be putting up with any more of Miranda's shit, she will not be pushed aside thank you very much.

After a stiflingly long wait, Miranda purses her lips and looks away. She walks past Andrea and retrieves two bottles of water from the fridge. She doesn’t say anything but Andy understands that that would be asking too much, the fact she hasn’t been tossed out onto her ass speaks volumes.

The water bottle hits the counter gently but underneath it she can see that Miranda is unsure. It’s the most tentative Andy has ever seen her. She's actually fidgeting, playing with her necklace and with the label on the bottle, and her lips are still pursed. Andy would take her hand if she wasn’t convinced she’d be left with just a waft of signature perfume in the air and a Miranda-shaped hole in the wall.

They are rescued by a cry of “Andy!” Followed quickly by a “Andy’s here?!” and Andy offers a quick prayer in thanks for her shields.

Andy is pretty good at telling the twins apart these days but she still needs more than 3 words from a distance. She’s granted that when they thunder into the kitchen and tell her, in rapid-fire, the details of their soccer game last weekend. It's almost like watching a game of table tennis.

Andy suspects they are going to ask where she has been recently so she makes sure to keep ahold of the conversation, getting the latest on the dramas playing out at Dalton school - which from what Andy can tell is fairly similar to the dramas of any other school, only the rumours about her football coach were about selling weed behind the bike sheds whereas theirs may be involved in an embezzlement scam.

After a time, Miranda comes to sit with the three of them at the kitchen island, she doesn’t sit directly next to Andy but that’s not unusual, even if she would prefer the woman to settle into her lap and never leave. Miranda certainly hasn’t left the room and come back in a beekeepers’ outfit and a sign around her neck saying ‘all clumsy junior journalists must stay 6 feet away at all times’, so Andy is ok with it.

Her contributions are few, she mostly lets the girls and Andy chat but she joins in here and there. Although the exclamation of “then that bitch Sophie finally got shoved into the mud!” earns a swift “Cassidy!” and Andy smiles at her happily.

Eventually, Miranda must send the girls to bed, they wish Andy goodnight and Miranda tells them she’ll be up soon.

“I should go too, it’s getting late. Well, late for a girl still on the early shift anyway.”

Miranda nods and they walk to the door in silence. Andy pulls her coat on and Miranda regards her for a moment so she waits. After a moment of deliberation, Miranda speaks,

“The girls have a soccer game on Sunday afternoon. They wondered if you would like to join us for a celebratory dinner afterwards.” While this is entirely possible, Andy suspects that they have said nothing of the sort, she’s not stupid enough to question it though.

“Celebratory, huh? They’re confident.”

This time Miranda smiles wryly, “well, they are capable of using either success or defeat as an argument for pizza, I’m sure.”

Andy laughs softly. “Sounds great.” She is careful not to sound too enthusiastic and compromise the tentative peace they have found. “Let me know the time, I’ll be there.”

Miranda nods again and looks down. “I’ll have Roy collect you.” Another pause. “Goodnight, Andrea.”

“Night, Miranda”. Andy lets herself out. As she takes the steps down from the townhouse, she sighs in relief and beams.

_________________

Miranda thinks that it is almost as if their period of disassociation never happened, once Andrea had brazenly waltzed back into the house that night. She cannot say why she allowed that to happen, or why she continues to invite her into her home and life at all, although not, perhaps, because she doesn’t know.

It is almost as if it had never happened. Try as she might, Miranda cannot entirely forget that kiss (event she tells herself, just an event. One of many that happen in everyday life and do not mean a thing). She wonders if Andrea thinks of it too. Surely she must, it cannot possibly be just Miranda feeling so uprooted, can it? If she is at all distracted, it is not obviously apparent, to Miranda's chagrin.

Miranda wonders what on earth it was that Andrea was doing that night. They had been drinking, yes, but surely not enough to explain that insanity. It crosses Miranda's mind that she may simply have been seeing what she could get away with. Seeing if she could get under the skin of the Ice Queen.

No, even Miranda of all people can recognise that she's being unfair. Andrea is anything but cruel. She thinks. Thinking that makes her mind flash back to Paris, to turning around and finding herself alone in a sea of snakes, watching Andrea walk away from her and she closes her eyes in exasperation.

It wasn't an act of cruelty, she reminds herself. Miranda had played a part in it even if that was hardly the outcome she had wanted. Thinking that makes her question what exactly she had wanted, and that makes her scowl.

She thinks she may hear Bella whimper.

_________________

Things continue on much as they were, Andrea meets Miranda for lunch on the rare occasions that their schedules align. They email and speak when possible. According to Andrea, Miranda's phone etiquette still needs work but it is improving. They speak about The Mirror and Runway, the girls, and so on. Andrea sometimes joins them for dinner at the townhouse and for occasional outings. Or, when Miranda has been laboriously worn down by twin antics, to a diner nearby. Seeing Miranda pick up a plastic coated menu with the very tips of her fingers, as if it were about to sneeze the black plague over her, has Andrea snickering, earning herself a glare and an eye-roll.

Miranda supposes that things are largely normal, although she hardly has a wealth of close friendships to base this upon, female or otherwise. Except that now Miranda feels hyper-aware of Andrea, of every time their shoulders brush or their eyes meet for a moment too long. Andrea insists on helping Miranda into her coat, she had raised an eyebrow at her the first time she did it, amused at the leftover assistant impulse. Now, she thinks she can see a gleam in her eye as she tugs the lapels of Miranda’s jacket into place and her fingers brush against Miranda’s nape and she has to wonder if it is more than that.

Andrea seems always to be close when they are together. Thighs touching on the couch, a hand to her lower back when they move from the kitchen to the den, which seems to burn through the silk of Miranda’s blouse. Miranda tries to recall if their hands have always brushed against the other’s so frequently, she doesn’t think so but she doesn’t quite trust her judgement at the moment. Then begins a gentle kiss to Miranda's cheek when they part and Miranda tries to hide the hitch in her breath and the flutter in her belly.

They are on their way back from an impromptu dinner on one particular evening, Miranda had insisted on dropping Andrea back at her apartment rather than let her use the subway. They are in the back of the car, the privacy screen is down and Andrea greets Roy warmly, asking about his day with a familiarity that Miranda hasn’t attempted in the 15 years that he’s been her driver. As the pair of them chat Andrea’s hand finds Miranda’s arm, which is resting on the seat between them rather than in her lap. Her fingers run the length of Miranda’s forearm, trailing up and down and barely grazing her skin yet leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Miranda looks steadfastly out of the window, feeling her cheeks turn a light pink. When she sweeps a thumb over the veins of her wrist her breath catches in her throat and by the time they get to Andrea's building and she removes her hand, Miranda’s vision is starting to go dark around the edges. When Andrea thanks for the ride she doesn’t move her gaze from the window, she’s supremely grateful that Andrea forgoes the kiss to her cheek, thinking she may just combust if she did. Her voice is slightly hoarse as she bids Andrea goodnight.

Neither of them comment when Miranda's arm strays from her lap the next time they are alone in the car.

By now every time that Andrea leans forward all Miranda can see is the way her breasts strain against her shirt, and for god's sake the girl is half Miranda's age and Miranda is absolutely not lusting after her. She is a woman surrounded by beauty, she has carved her whole life out of its appreciation and that is all that is happening.

Miranda feels like a simmering pot about to spill over.

_________________

The den is Miranda’s favourite place in the house, the soft, deep green couch being the place she chooses to unwind. It's Miranda’s sanctuary, the place where she can breathe a little easier. The entire house is a reflection of her design but this is the room that is the most hers, styled to calm and soothe. Stephen, for a time, would join her there, sitting in the sole armchair and asking about her day, slowly filling the space with dense cologne, drawing the walls in a little tighter.

She had tried, to a certain extent, to share the space amicably with him on those occasions that he would venture in, not long after he had moved into the townhouse, but at best she was cool and aloof. The muscles of her jaw would tighten if his voice rose too high for the peace of the room. After a time he had learned not to talk to her while in this room but he would still try to join her, choosing to read instead. He would clink the ice in his drink, and bounce his left ankle where it rested over his right and she would twitch in agitation and glare at the text in front of her, or directly at him as her patience waned. Eventually he had stopped coming in at all, much to her relief. A month or so after their separation she had had the armchair reupholstered.

When Andrea kicks her shoes off and tucks her legs under her on the couch Miranda doesn’t even notice.

Miranda is telling Andrea about the call she had received from the twins’ principal this afternoon, which had led to sizable donation to the school and two severely grounded children, both of whom were currently giving her the silent treatment, and Andrea is actually snorting in laughter, which Miranda thinks she really should find off-putting. Instead all she sees is how Andrea's cheeks have flushed from the wine and some of her hair has fallen loose from her ponytail and at this angle she can just about see the upper swell of her breasts through the buttons of her shirt.

It takes her a moment to realise that Andrea has stopped talking and she hasn’t responded to whatever Andrea has just said. Andrea’s smile has faltered and she’s staring at Miranda like she’s something to eat.

Miranda swallows and Andrea breathes “Miranda” and when Miranda doesn’t look away, she leans forward. She lightly takes hold of Miranda's jaw and brushes her thumb over her cheek, she traces the high cheekbone and looks at her lips. This time she waits and looks back up at Miranda. Miranda, whose mind is telling her to put an end to this right now, but who instead, swallows lightly and nods.

Andrea kisses her gently but confidently. She slides her lips over Miranda’s and cradles her face. She does not grasp and she does not push. It’s achingly soft and Miranda sighs into her mouth, warmth running down her spine when Andrea nibbles her lip again. When she pulls back Miranda's eyes stay closed for a moment. When she opens them Andrea is looking at her warmly. She presses another two or three chaste kisses against Miranda lips then sits back, gently clearing her throat.

As she speaks, Miranda doesn’t really have any clue what Andrea is saying but she hums in the right places and Andrea doesn’t let on that she can see right through it.

When she goes to bed that night, after Andrea has left, she feels cold. She thinks of Andrea's bright smile and pale cheeks and she feels old and foolish.

But she knows she isn’t going to stop it from happening again.

_________________

This time Miranda handles it better. She doesn’t, entirely, bury her head in Runway and she doesn’t stop talking to Andrea.

That’s not to say that when Brooke trips and stumbles and chooses to spill Miranda’s red-hot Starbucks over the Michael Kors samples rather than scald herself that Miranda doesn’t suggest she “crack open her head and use the brain matter that dribbles out to mop up the mess as it’s surely far less valuable than the paper towels”, but Miranda fails to see a problem with that.

_________________

By now it’s been weeks. Dinners and outings and evenings at the townhouse, but there’s also the kissing. Miranda pressed against the wall of the foyer as Andrea leaves. Andrea’s hands pulling her close in the kitchen after dinner and sweeping into Miranda’s mouth, tasting of red wine and sweetness. Andrea's hands on her waist, teeth biting her jaw, sucking her earlobe and making Miranda sigh and pant as she leans heavily into Andrea’s chest.

Miranda feels herself being wound tighter and tighter with each press of Andrea’s lips and she wonders how long this can last.

_________________

This time, Miranda is very aware that it’s a Friday night and the girls are with their father.

Andrea has Miranda's silver hair threaded through her fingers, keeping her head held back so she can dip her tongue into Miranda’s collarbone. When Andrea's fingers brush against the exposed skin at her waist she inhales sharply.

Before she can think about it too hard, Miranda pulls back and tugs Andrea's wrist to lead them up the stairs.

Somewhere along the third floor hallway Andrea spins her around and plants her lips firmly back against Miranda’s, walking her backwards into her bedroom and manoeuvring them through the door with a fluidity which was notably, and painfully, absent during her tenure as second assistant.

When Andrea stands back to shut the bedroom door, Miranda is at a loss of what to do next. She turns away but facing her enormous bed hardly helps matters. She hears Andrea step closer and to her chagrin she sees that her hands have a small tremor. She feels the warmth of Andrea at her back and the smell of her coconut shampoo as her hands snake around her waist.

“I haven't done this before.” As if that fact weren’t abundantly clear.

But the words tumble out of her before she can get ahold of them, she closes her eyes. She can’t remember the last time nerves had gotten the better of her like this.

If Andrea says ‘I know’, she’ll kill her.

She doesn’t. Instead, she places a soft kiss on Miranda's jaw and runs a hand over Miranda’s stomach, making her muscles contract and her breath stutter.

“Lie down, Miranda.”

The instruction is gentle and Miranda finds herself following it. She sits on the bed and moves backwards to lie down, her head on the pillows. Andrea lies on her side next to her. She strokes down Miranda’s side but otherwise makes no move to continue where they’d left off. Instead her darkened brown eyes look into Miranda’s, a soft smile at her lips.

Miranda’s discomfort is rising quickly and as her cheeks deepen, she’s about to snap something about just getting on with it, when Andrea kisses her again, deeply this time, her tongue licking firmly into Miranda’s mouth and every thought Miranda had flies straight out of her head. Andrea sucks the spot behind Miranda's ear that makes her tremble and she finds her hands clutching at Andrea's arms.

Andrea’s hands pause at the buttons of her blouse and she nods quickly, wanting Andrea’s hands on her skin. She isn’t given an opportunity to feel self conscious, for which she is grateful, before Andrea is trailing kisses down her chest and tugging Miranda's skirt off.

“Wait.” Her voice sounds harsh in the quiet but Miranda tugs at Andrea's belt loops, feeling very aware of the imbalance between them, and Andrea gets the message. She rolls to the side to wriggle out of her pants then sits up and pulls her shirt over her head, messing her hair in the process. Miranda is momentarily relieved to see that she has recovered from whatever fit of unnatural grace possessed her during their dance across the hallway but then Andrea’s breasts press against hers and grace becomes the least of her concerns.

Andrea lifts Miranda’s wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside, and tugs her gently.

“Lie on your front for me.”

“... what?”

“Trust me.” She peppers the words with a kiss to her shoulder.

Somewhat reluctantly Miranda turns and lies on her stomach, feeling the muscles in her shoulders tense in anticipation. She’s exposed, lying on her front like this, unable to see Andrea and waiting for whatever she is going to do. The kiss between her shoulder blades makes her jolt.

“Relax, I’ve got you.”

Andrea’s hands run up and down her body, fingers trailing over her skin as she presses kisses everywhere she can reach and Miranda groans. Andrea makes no hurry, she works her way up Miranda's legs, nipping the sensitive skin behind her knees. Her loose hair tickles Miranda’s sides deliciously as she presses her tongue into each dip of her spine. Miranda’s eyes are closed, palms flexing into the sheets as she gasps and sighs into her pillow. It’s taking everything she has not to rut her hips into the bed and there’s a firm ache between her legs.

When Miranda finds herself on her back and Andrea cups Miranda's breasts and sucks her nipple through the lace of her bra, she’s panting loudly and biting her lip to stay quiet.

She shudders when Andrea's hand flutters over her underwear and her hips buck into her hand. Long fingers trace the inside of her thigh before sweeping through her folds and Miranda can’t stay quiet any longer, she feels how wet she is and Andrea is playing with her, brushing against her clit then teasing her entrance, dipping in just slightly before moving back again.

“Oh, oh. God.”

Miranda tugs Andrea's mouth back to hers and she's panting into her mouth and pulling at her arms. She’s never felt this desperate before and her hips are lifting off the bed, chasing her hand and searching for relief.

“Andrea - oh - I need, I need…”

Andrea presses two long fingers inside of her and she almost sobs, her kisses have turned sloppy.

Andrea’s thumb starts to circle her clit in firm, consistent, strokes and then she’s shuddering through her release with a sharp cry, her hands clutching Andrea's smooth back.

Miranda’s eyes fall closed as her hips stop twitching and she slumps back against the pillows. She feels Andrea remove her fingers and kiss her left shoulder. Miranda lifts her hand to cover her face, swallowing and listening to the sound of her shaking, heavy breaths.

She leans into Andrea’s hand as it brushes her forelock out of her face.

“You aren’t finished yet, Miranda.” Andrea’s voice husks into her ear and she blinks in confusion, she’s still dazed, and as far as she knows, is most definitely finished.

She realises Andrea is kissing her stomach but this time she’s moving down and Miranda’s chest flames when she realises what she’s about to do.

“Oh. Oh god… Andrea….”

Andrea hums and gently but surely pushes Miranda's thighs farther apart. She kisses along Miranda's inner thigh, making her twitch when she sucks the sensitive skin. She noses Miranda's curls and groans when her tongue takes a long sweep through her and Miranda gasps loudly.

Andrea takes her time, teasing her tongue around Miranda’s folds, passing lightly around her clit. Miranda is desperately trying to keep still but she’s twitching and writhing and she’s panting again as Andrea laps at her hungrily.

“Oh god, -oh god”

Andrea moves her hand to hold her spread open and starts flicking her tongue inside of her.

“Oh god, god. Please”

Miranda can’t stop herself, she’s moaning and pleading and this one seems to be building from the depths of her spine and it’s so much bigger than before.

“Oh. I, I can’t… Please. Oh”

Miranda begins to panic, she’s overwhelmed and desperate and her hands grip the sheets tightly in her fists. Andrea’s hand finds her own and she brushes her thumb over Miranda's white knuckles and Miranda would resent the ease with which she has understood her if she weren’t so preoccupied with biting her lip to keep from shrieking.

“Oh!”

Andrea sucks sharply on her clit and Miranda comes, hard. Her back arches off the bed as her fingers grip the sheets and her eyes squeezed shut, face twisted, and she’s shuddering as if she’s in pain.

Andrea draws it out, rolling her tongue gently against her until she stops quivering.

For a few long moments the only sound in the room is of Miranda trying hard to get her breath back. When Andrea kisses her again she can taste herself on her tongue and she blushes. Andrea smiles widely and Miranda tries to glare at her but her cheeks are still burning and her hair is sweaty and sticking to her neck. She is forced to settle for staring at her bedroom ceiling as Andrea lays her head on her chest and runs a hand soothingly up her side.

_________________

With the twins away, Miranda spends the weekend alone. She replays the night over and over again in her head. She frets and she growls at herself. She doesn’t ignore Andrea as such, it’s just that Andrea usually contacts her first and if she doesn’t then Miranda has no idea what to say. It’s not like they ever discussed all of the kissing.

On Sunday afternoon she receives a text.

‘It turns out the baker was using the business as a front for a minor trafficking ring. Keep an eye out on tomorrow’s paper’

Miranda blinks.

Of all the opening bits she had prepared for, this was not one of them. Another message soon follows.

'So that you know, we are definitely doing that again.’

Miranda makes a noise of disbelief (it was not an indignant squeak). She grips her phone and contemplates a multitude of scathing retorts but she ends up sending none of them.

Instead, she says nothing, but by 9:23 on Monday morning she has devoured The Mirror, finding the words ‘Andy Sachs’ in bold print on page three, and a request for dinner later in the week is waiting in Andrea’s inbox.

Miranda realises that she has not got it out of her system.

_________________

It’s early and Miranda is awake.

This in itself is not unusual but on this occasion there is a slender arm slung over her waist and the sound of a quiet, yet distinctly unladylike, snore from the pillow behind her.

She thinks that Andrea will have to be gone early, she is on early shifts still and she will need to go back to her apartment to change. Andrea hasn’t stayed over before. This wasn’t exactly planned. In fact, it may have been Miranda’s fault.

Andrea had twisted Miranda into ribbons using her tongue between her legs. Then she had laid down and pulled Miranda on top of her, holding her close and slipping her fingers between her legs and slowly rocking her into an orgasm that curled her toes, a firm hand on her pale cheek of her ass to guide her. After which Miranda had promptly passed out, apparently, while still on top of Andrea. She winces and tries not to draw comparisons to her ex-husbands.

She needs to get up and deal with the Book, she didn’t get to it last night and the print deadline is only a week away. As she’s wondering how exactly she can get out of her bedroom both silently and with some degree of dignity, Andrea's alarm goes off, quietly, as if set not to disturb the other occupant of the bed. Miranda isn’t sure if she’s grateful for the consideration or annoyed that the girl was capable of the forethought to do so when she decidedly was not.

She stays still in the darkness when Andrea begins to stir and the arm retreats. She contemplates her options. She thinks about pretending to sleep, it’s not outrageous, lying here in the dark and Andrea could slip away without knowing, saving both of them the awkwardness of a morning-after. Miranda’s jaw clenches at having to deal with a morning-after at all.

She thinks about getting up and breezing out of the room, treating Andrea as you would a stranger after a casual hook-up, not that she has much experience with those either, but Andrea isn’t a stranger.

Or worse, she thinks, Andrea could be the one to get up and breeze away from her.

Before she can agonise much further, Andrea breathes her name. It’s not a question, she knows she’s awake. Before Miranda can respond there’s a kiss to her temple and a hand in the dip of her waist. It moves to trail down her thigh. Her palm is warm and Miranda’s skin is still bare.

“What are you doing?” Miranda tries to sound assertive but it comes out as a croak.

“Wishing you a good morning”, Andrea replies casually.

She tugs at the sheet to reveal Miranda's shoulder and kisses it lightly. She pushes Miranda’s leg forward so that her knee is bent towards her chest and her sex is exposed to her hand. Miranda blushes, grateful for the darkness, she is still sticky and swollen from the night before. Andrea doesn’t seem to care, she cups Miranda's hot flesh and pushes inside her without preamble.

When Miranda begins to pant, she presses her face into her pillow in a vain attempt to hide just how swiftly she has come around to this turn of events. Andrea is leaving little nips along her neck, not hard enough to leave marks but just enough to send shivers down her spine. She rubs her nose through Miranda’s hair, grazing the shell of her ear.

“You’re so beautiful like this, Miranda.”

Andrea thrusts roughly and Miranda groans, pulling her leg higher so she can get deeper.

“I’ve thought about you like this so many times.”

Miranda has always hated being spoken to during sex but Andrea’s voice is pitched low and sweet as she murmurs in her ear. The idea that Andrea has pictured this, desired it, makes her skin flush and a shudder runs down her spine as she cants her hips backwards.

“I thought about how you would feel.” Her fingers twist slightly, gliding into her wet heat with ease and Miranda moans.

“Oh!”

“I imagined how you would taste.”

“Oh god”

Her face isn't in the pillow anymore, her head is thrown back to give Andrea better access, to listen to her whispers.

“More?”

Miranda isn’t sure what exactly she needs more of but she does know she wants it, she manages to choke out “Yes. Please, please” and Andrea adds a third finger and the stretch burns deliciously.

“God, you feel incredible around me.” Andrea groans into her ear. “Let go, Miranda. You’re so close, I can feel it. Let go. ”

“Oh, oh god. Shit. – oh.” Miranda clenches tight around Andrea and her breath catches for several long moments as she comes, her hips moving erratically against Andrea, who hums and keeps whispering in her ear.

When she finally stills Andrea presses another kiss to Miranda’s temple, nuzzling her hair for a moment.

“I have to go, I’ll be late.” Miranda thinks she might sound a little regretful but she isn’t sure. “Have a good day.”

At this, Miranda can’t help but huff out a short laugh. “Yes, well.” It’s not exactly the eloquence she is known for. She feels Andrea smile into her hair.

She’s out of the room before Miranda’s heart rate is back to normal.

_________________

When Miranda sits down at her desk she twitches a little, still somewhat sore.

Nigel pretends not to notice. He chooses not to comment on Miranda’s wayward attention, or on how her cheeks infuse slightly with pink every now and then.

It’s the best run-through they’ve had in years.

_________________

Miranda isn’t with Andrea when she realises.

It’s late and she’s still in the office. She’s looking over the advertising budget and it falls into place somehow, like an old key sliding into a lock, the tumblers move and align and the door swings open.

She’s gay.

She asks herself how is it possible - how could she have made it her entire fifty-one years of life and not known? She’s been married twice for crying out loud. While she can hardly call them successful marriages, the first ending in bitter tears and the second with a hollow, disappointed numbness, she had wanted them, she thinks. Surely she should have known.

Although she also supposes that if she's pulling at threads, she probably should have realised the first time Andrea made her come hard enough to see stars. The first time she walked the stairs with her thighs clenched tightly after just a goodnight kiss.

Her ex-husbands had hurled all kinds of failures and accusations at her, the ways in which she had failed them and the reasons why things hadn’t worked. This certainly hadn’t been one of them. But as Miranda grips the edges of her chair tightly, staring at the figures in front of her but seeing nothing, she can see it all coming together.

For a few horrifying moments her entire self unravels and slips away from her.

She stands on shaky legs and retrieves the bottle of scotch that she has hidden in her private bathroom, for emergencies. She figures this counts. She fills a glass with more than is sensible and focuses on the burn in the back of her throat.

What does she do now?

She wonders if there’s some support group for formerly-in-denial lesbians who’ve fallen out of the closet past their prime. Would they even let her in? She doesn’t know how to talk to lesbians. She has no interest in field hockey and she refuses to wear anything made out of hemp. As far as she knows, lesbians don’t like her, she may fill the pages of a glossy magazine with beautiful women but not one of them has had half a shaved head and a nose ring.

Andrea calls her. She’ll be on her way home from The Mirror. Miranda doesn’t answer, she can’t speak. She summons Roy to collect her and manages, only just, to walk by the security guards without stumbling.

At home she drinks, then she sleeps.

_________________

So far, Miranda has had 23 orgasms courtesy of Andrea. She has sighed and shuddered and moaned and gasped and it has been quick and long, gentle and intense.

Miranda, however, has yet to return the favour.

She'll admit that at first she was a little grateful that it hadn’t been expected of her to reciprocate.

But now she wants it, she’s imagining it whenever she looks at Andrea, making Andrea sigh, making her tremble like she does Miranda, and the way her skin would taste, the feeling of her firm thighs wrapped around her, the weight of her breasts in her palm.

She wants to bring it up somehow but she can’t. She thinks she should initiate it, take the lead and do all the things she yearns to, but she’s never been the one to start it and she doesn’t know what that would mean, or how Andrea would react.

Eventually, it crosses her mind that there may be a reason that Andrea isn’t asking. Maybe she doesn’t want Miranda's hands on her. Maybe she’s already getting everything she wants.

_________________

They are in the den, the girls are at their father’s again. Andrea has ‘popped by’ on her way home, despite it being well out of her way. She’s in sinfully tight jeans that cling to her thighs and hug her backside. Her hair is loose and falling over her shoulders in waves, curled from the snow that’s coming down outside, her eyes keep catching the light and Miranda hasn’t seen her in days and all she has thought about all day is Andrea’s hands on her skin, and she wants her.

She’s been in a foul mood all evening, snapping and griping. Andrea is ignoring it. Much as one would ignore a child having a tantrum, Miranda thinks and she bites her cheek as a wave of anger washes over her.

Greg has refused the latest article Andrea submitted, leaving her stuck with a fluff piece squeezed in between ads for dentures and weight loss pills, and Miranda can’t stop the poison before it’s out of her mouth. Her eyes are averted and she quietly hums something along the lines of ‘if I’d known you would give up so easily I'd never have bothered’ and that she thought by now she’d have ‘some inkling of initiative’ in her, and Andrea finally snaps.

“Oh for fuck’s sake! What is your problem?”

Miranda’s mouth tightens but she says nothing, her chest is heaving faintly and she sees Andrea spot it. She rises swiftly, leaving Andrea on the couch as she goes to refill her glass.

“You know, if there’s something you want… you can say so.”

The irony of those words aren’t lost on either of them. Miranda stays silent.

She feels Andrea come to stand behind her, her breath whispers along the short hairs at Miranda’s nape and a shiver runs down her spine.

“Is there? Something you want?”

She's using that voice she uses when she's whispering in Miranda's ear, driving her crazy as she comes. Miranda's eyes fall shut and her grip on her glass tightens, but she says nothing.

“No?”

She will not admit to it. “No. It was a busy day, Andrea.” It would be more convincing if it hadn't come out as a rasp.

Andrea grasps her hips and pulls her backwards so that their bodies are flush and Miranda makes a soft sound of surprise. She’s warm and soft and Miranda can feel her breasts pressed into her back.

“What about something you need?” Andrea's voice is right in her ear and she jolts slightly, heat rushing over her.

She moves her head slightly in denial but as Andrea's lips barely graze the skin of her neck, her head falls backwards onto Andrea's shoulder. Her breath stutters when Andrea's hands bunch the hem of Miranda's wrap-dress and her fingers bite into her thighs.

Andrea slips her thigh betweens Miranda’s, pressing up and Miranda moans, she grinds down, searching for the friction.

“Hmm. I’m not sure I believe you.”

Miranda’s eyes fly open in anger.

“Must you – oh” Andrea quite swiftly stops whatever Miranda was about to snap when she pushes her dress out of the way and takes Miranda’s breast in her palm and roughly flicks her thumb over her nipple.

“Oh!” Miranda shudders and presses herself harder onto Andrea's thigh, rocking back and forth as much as she can.

Her other hand snakes down Miranda’s stomach and cups her through her underwear and she groans into Miranda’s ear,

“Oh Jesus, you’re soaking wet”.

Miranda knows it’s true, she has been nearly all day, but her cheeks burn furiously. How dare she. How dare she do this to her, make her needy and desperate, and throw it back in her face.

Andrea tugs Miranda unceremoniously by the waist. She pushes her onto the couch and slides to the floor, yanking off her underwear. She kisses the inside of a pale thigh quickly before licking through that wetness and Miranda groans, sinking backwards in defeat.

Her thighs are lifted and hooked over Andrea's shoulders, her t-shirt scratches softly at Miranda's calves. Andrea's mouth latches around her clit as her fingers press inside and Miranda cries out, clamping down around Andrea’s fingers.

“Hard-harder - please, I need -”

Andrea’s fingers crook and rub firmly and Miranda pants and clutches Andrea’s hair through her fingers, her head snapping back as she comes with a sharp cry, the muscles of her stomach visibly fluttering as writhes on Andrea’s tongue, thighs clenched around her head.

Her thighs are shaking when Andrea drops them gently back to the floor. When Miranda opens her eyes, her face is flushed, and very moist, and her eyes are nearly black, she drops a tender kiss on Miranda's knee then sits up and strokes Miranda's hair out of her face. Miranda stares at her a moment, then cups her cheek.

Leaning forward, she kisses Andrea, sweeping her tongue over her bottom lip. When she hears Andrea's soft sigh she can’t help herself, she twists them around and pushes Andrea back onto the couch and thrusts her tongue into Andrea’s mouth. Her hand trembles ever so slightly as she reaches to undo Andrea’s jeans.

“Wait. Mm... Wait. Please.”

She doesn’t really register the words as she breathes in the scent of her, bending to kiss her jaw as her hands fumble with the buttons. She doesn’t hear anything until she’s stopped by two firm hands at her shoulders, pushing her back gently.

“Miranda… stop, please.” Andrea’s voice is quiet and quaking slightly.

Miranda’s stomach drops to the floor. She freezes.

Then, she quickly rises, moves her dress back into place and turns her back on Andrea.

She rubs one hand over mouth in agitation and manages to get out a single word. “Leave.”

“I - what?”

Miranda hisses a breath through her teeth, hand playing with her necklace.

“Leave.” She repeats. There’s a beat of painfully fraught silence as Andrea rises from the couch. She hears her hesitate before taking a deep breath and asking softly,

“Um, ok. Why? What’s going on?”

“It’s what we do isn’t it? You have your way with me, and I do nothing. It’s done, so go.” Her voice is icy.

“I, um, I mean, you can forgive me for not immediately seeing why that kind of deal would be a problem, right?” She laughs weakly and Miranda rounds on her with an incredulous glare, the likes of which Andrea hasn’t been subject to for some time.

Andrea realises her mistake as she winces and says “oh fuck, not funny. I didn’t mean to - I’m sorry”.

“Why?” It’s barely a whisper.

“Why what? I don’t know what’s happening.” Andrea’s voice is pleading.

Miranda has to bite the words out, embarrassment tinges her chest and face, “Why won’t you let me… touch you?”

“What?”

Miranda’s jaw clenches. She will not repeat herself.

“I, no - oh god, Miranda”. Andrea stops, then huffs out a laugh and Miranda stiffens and turns, ready to fly out of the room.

“Wait! - I’m sorry! I’m so sorry… I didn’t realise that’s what you -” She breaks off then and takes another deep breath and steps closer to Miranda. “That’s not what I was doing. I, um, I didn’t think you wanted to… do that. I wasn’t sure you were, um, ready”

Oh.

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to”, she adds quietly.

Oh.

The concern in Andrea’s eyes would be sweet if it weren’t so infuriating.

She understands it then, that Andrea has manipulated each one of their encounters so as not to pressure her.

Miranda debates between killing her and kissing her. She takes a very deep breath and holds it for a moment. She struggles not to use the same voice she used when Beatrice delivered her 28-day dry aged Irish steak with pan-fried mushrooms, steamed spinach and asked if she wanted ketchup with it, as she says,

“No, Andrea.” She pauses and swallows. “I… want.”

“Oh.” Andrea nods, dumbly. “Oh, right. That’s good, then. Really good.”

Neither of them move.

The silence is deafening.

“Er,” Andrea shuffles her feet. “Go ahead?”

“Oh, well how can I resist?” Miranda snaps.

Then she regrets it, marginally. But the mood is hardly what it was and she’s made a fool out of herself enough this evening. Luckily for her, it’s enough to snap Andrea out of her awkwardness. She rolls her eyes and leans forward to kiss Miranda, leaving a quick nip to her lip as she does so and a frisson of interest runs back through her.

It takes embarrassingly little time for Andrea to turn that frisson into something needy and clawing and then she’s the one pushing at Andrea’s shoulders and they fall onto the couch together.

She dips down to suck Andrea's neck then tugs her out of her shirt and pushes her bra out the way to suck her nipple into her mouth, feeling it harden as Andrea gasps and arches into her mouth and god she is delicious.

She pulls harshly at Andrea's jeans, not bothering to fight them all the way off. Her hands are trembling again as they pull down Andrea’s underwear (she's wet, thank god she's wet). Miranda doesn’t know what she’s doing but she’s eager and then Andrea is softly chanting her name under her breath and she’s panting and Miranda has never felt more powerful.

_________________

There's a pair of Andrea’s boots in the hallway closet. There’s a scarf of Andrea’s hanging off a chair in the kitchen. Her favourite tea is in the pantry. Miranda believes her pockets must be filled with hair ties as they are inexplicably littered in her wake, she finds them in the laundry, the kitchen drawers, in the girls’ bedrooms, in between the couch cushions, on her desk.

As she strides into the Runway offices after a lunch meeting one afternoon she realises her heels aren’t clacking as they should and when she reaches her office, having ignored the confused looks of her assistants, she lifts her foot to peel one from the bottom on her shoe. She places it on the clear surface of her desk. She nudges it to the side as she fires up her Macbook. She spots it again when she reaches for her water.

She's glaring at it when Nigel walks in.

_________________

Miranda is used to being watched. Her assistants watch her as she works, trying to determine what she’s going to demand next. The press watch her, desperate for a glimpse into her life or an inkling of who will be the next “Mr Priestly”. The designers watch her, scanning her facial expressions for the hint of a smile or the turn of her brow. Everywhere she goes she is stared at, assessed, evaluated, revered.

She isn’t used to feeling naked. Like the same person who is smiling at her brilliantly is also thinking about spreading her open on the table in front of them. Feeling like she wants them to.

Her skin feels hot and Andrea hasn’t even touched her, in fact, it’s as if she’s done her very best to avoid being closer than 3 feet all evening.

The look in Andrea’s eye makes Miranda internally gulp before she has even reached her.

She has barely made it back into the room when Andrea presses her against the door of her study and hitches her skirt up to her waist.

“Andrea! - The girls…” The words are hissed under her breath.

The girls are home and sleeping at the other end of the hall, and god, what is it with this woman and her aversion to sex in a bed? Miranda hasn't exactly complained when Andrea has pressed her against the kitchen counter and slid a hand between her legs but that's not quite the same thing as being taken in a doorway while the two fruits of her womb are sleeping only a few scant metres away. Not that Miranda is being taken.

Andrea is remarkably less concerned about this situation, in fact there's a gleam of amusement in her eyes and mouth which Miranda resoundly chooses to ignore, lest she lose her sense of identity entirely.

“You’ll just have to stay quiet then, won’t you?”

Before Miranda can put a stop to this madness, which she swears she is going to, Andrea’s hands are stroking at her entrance, already wet, and her tongue is swiping underneath Miranda’s earlobe. She slips inside, just far enough to tease her, and Miranda is rapidly finding that perhaps her thoughts on sex taking place only in beds isn't in her best interests.

Miranda’s teeth are biting into her lip and she can hear the sound of her harsh breathing in the quiet darkness. When she lets out a loud moan, thanks to Andrea’s thumb brushing precariously close to her clit, Andrea leans in and reminds her to be quiet and Miranda very seriously contemplates throttling her.

To her dismay, all she actually does is lift her leg higher to give Andrea better access and tries to muffle her cries by hiding in her neck. When this proves ineffective Andrea's other hand, the one that isn't buried in Miranda, comes to cover her mouth and Miranda actually whines. Andrea smirks at her and god Miranda wished that it bothered her.

“Quiet, remember. That’s it.” Her fingers are deep inside her, slow and twisting with each thrust and Miranda squeezes her eyes shut.

“No, Miranda. Look at me.”

Oh god.

Miranda's eyes snap open.

“Good. Look at me and stay quiet.” Andrea adds another finger and Miranda whimpers.

“Mmm. Good girl. That's it. Nice and quiet while I have you.” Andrea groans into her ear as Miranda clenches around her. "Such a good girl."

Miranda will, begrudgingly, admit to herself that she quite enjoys the things that Andrea has whispered to her in the darkness at times like these, but she will deny to her dying breath that she is at all thrilled by those words. Admittedly, denial is likely futile because the words cause a flood of arousal and thanks to the hand covering her mouth the most prominent noise in the room is coming from between her legs.

Miranda is desperately, dangerously, panting behind Andrea’s hand but she is merciless as she continues to whisper, her breath hot on Miranda's neck.

“That’s it. You’re doing so well. You’re getting close now.” Her tongue runs over the shell of her ear. “Can you be quiet when you come for me?”

She nods frantically, thighs clenching hard as she waits on the edge, blood roaring in her ears.

“Show me. Show me how good you are. Come now.”

With another swipe over her clit, and her fingers crooked deep inside of her, Miranda tries not to shriek as she comes but she can't help it and she's sincerely grateful for the hand over her mouth as she spasms wildly around Andrea, wave after wave quaking her body.

Her chest is heaving and she panics as she fights for her breath. Her knees have given way and if Andrea weren't pressing her against the doorway, her hand having moved from her mouth to grip her waist, she would be on the floor.

As the aftershocks die down, Miranda still clutching weakly at Andrea's back as she whispers reassurances in her ear and gently removes her fingers, Miranda slumps backwards. Her eyes are open but glazed and unseeing. When Andrea begins to step back and right Miranda's clothing, the feeling of cold, wet underwear being moved back into place makes Miranda wince.

She is saved from having to avoid eye contact by the sound of small feet padding on the carpet. Miranda doesn't move, because apparently any and all control of her own body is but a distant memory. She is aware that she is in no state to converse with her daughter but she can't seem to figure out how to do anything about that.

This must be visibly apparent (delightful), as Andrea looks at her and seems to quickly arrive at the same conclusion. She saves her from this moment by gently guiding her, on still shaking legs, to lean on the edge of her desk and she steps outside of the room.

“Hey Cass, you alright?”

Miranda listens from her spot at the desk while trying in vain to straighten her hair and dress, and trying not to dwell on the absurdity of having to hide from her offspring because she's just been fucked into oblivion.

“Yeah. I woke up and heard a noise, I didn't know what it was…” there's a brief pause and Miranda wishes she could see what was happening. “Was it you? You look kinda red and funny.” Miranda ignores the revolting use of ‘kinda’ to enjoy this little triumph, it's about time that Andrea was the party to suffer some degree of humiliation.

Andrea’s response is at least quick when she says,

“Oh Cass, I’m sorry. It was me. I, um, I was laughing. Your Mom said something really funny but I was trying not to wake you guys up. I guess I couldn't contain it, must have sounded weird huh?”. Andrea doesn't sound like she's lying. In fact, she sounds remarkably, unbearably, natural.

“Oh, ok”

From what Miranda can hear, Cassidy is still sleepy and Miranda supposes that it's not completely unreasonable that the sound of her … of that could have been the sounds of someone trying to hold back hopeless laughter.

“Wait… did you say Mom made you laugh?”

Miranda closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose.

_________________

By the time Cassidy is back in bed and Andrea returns to the study Miranda is seated in front of the book, wearing a new pair of underwear, and she is ready to unleash the full force of her wrath onto Andrea and send her into the snow storm taking place outside.

A small part of her wants to stomp into her daughter’s bedroom and let her know that she is actually capable of being funny, she does have a sense of humour, rusty though it may be.

But mostly she is red-cheeked and furious.

Andrea sets a glass of chilled pellegrino in front of her but stops her from speaking by grasping Miranda's face in both hands and tilting her chin upwards to look at her. For a moment all she does is stare at Miranda like she's the most incredible thing she's ever seen.

“Come to bed soon. Please.” Her voice is soft and her mascara is slightly smudged at the corners of her eyes.

Miranda blinks. Andrea places a kiss to her forehead, just below her now drooping forelock and leaves the room without another word.

She stares at the space where Andrea just was, thinking about all the things she should be doing, that she should have said.

She wonders when she lost all control. She wonders when she stopped entirely caring about it. She wants to fire someone. She wants a drink. Mostly, she wants to sleep. She wants to slide into bed next to Andrea and sleep.

In the end, that's exactly what she does.

_________________

Miranda starts to feel concerned that at this point she basically comes on Andrea's command.

Like the way she damn near bent in half last night as she'd ridden Andrea's fingers, with far less elegance than she can usually be accredited with, until she had said “come for me, Miranda” and latched that beautiful, generous mouth around her nipple and sucked. Miranda didn't think coming was optional at that point and her back arched immediately into Andrea's palm.

She wonders how far this particular superpower of Andrea's can extend. She wonders what would happen if they're eating dinner at the townhouse one night, and in between Cassidy and Caroline bickering over the last slice of garlic bread and Andrea leaning closer to ask her to pass the butter, she whispers to Miranda that she wants her to come right now. Miranda isn’t sure her body would have any control over the matter. She suspects she may just convulse into a puddle right there at the table and turn the chair into a wet slide made of Italian leather and her own demise.

Miranda chooses not to wonder about this out loud for fear of giving Andrea ideas. Andrea, who apparently enjoys little else more than turning Miranda into a trembling, breathless pile of goo. Andrea, who will wait patiently for Miranda to regain her breath and steady her footing and rather than gloat will hold her and run her hand soothingly up Miranda's spine and beam at her a smile so blinding it nearly knocks Miranda right off her feet again.

Andrea, who tells Miranda she's beautiful. Who actually smiles when she sees Miranda, regardless of whether or not she's grouchy after a long day or has just woken up and hasn't remembered how to speak with others yet or is simply exhausted and weary. Who doesn't mind late dinners after work-days gone wrong and who talks and laughs with her girls.

_________________

Miranda can't sleep.

She finds herself yet again at the mercy of her own actions. She's on her side, half hanging off the mattress, a position which really doesn't lend itself to comfort. Her reason for this is because there is a sizable wet patch on her side of the bed.

It's not like she'd never thought this would be a problem, it's just that, being a woman in her fifties, she had assumed that the cause would be hot flushes, not because the beacon of youth peacefully slumbering on the wide expanse of bed on the other side of said wet patch had bent her over her 1000 thread count sheets and…

Miranda growls, loudly, and shifts to her other side to see if that helps. It doesn't.

It's at this point that Miranda learns Andrea isn't peacefully asleep, when she hears an amused “problem?” from across the darkness.

She can just about make out a sleepy Andrea from the streetlight coming through the drapes.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Well, I might have been but someone was being awfully inconsiderate about my rest.”

“I can’t seem to get comfortable.”

There's silence for around half a second until Miranda yelps as she’s suddenly grasped around the waist and tugged, none too gently, across the bed. She is pulled on top of Andrea, who tucks Miranda into her neck and hooks a leg on top of her, wrapping her in an Andrea-cocoon.

“Better?”

It is. It is much better. But she won’t admit it. Instead she makes a soft grunt, but she puts her arm around Andrea's waist and drifts off to sleep.

_________________

“What are you doing?”

Usually, when Miranda asks this question what she really means is ‘why on Earth are you doing that’ but on this occasion the question she poses is genuine.

She's walked into her kitchen to find Andrea, which in itself isn't unusual, except that this time she's standing on the kitchen island. She's reaching into the empty light fixture above her, holding what must be a fresh light bulb. Miranda didn't know she had any of those.

Andrea stares back at her, she blinks a few times in quick succession and appears to be equally baffled. “Um. I, er. I mean….” She looks pointedly at the item in her hand and the vacancy above her.

When Miranda says nothing and continues to look at her expectantly she continues, “Ok, well. - I'm just so confused by the question that I'm going to answer it as is. I am changing a lightbulb.”

“Why?”

More rapid fire blinking. “Um. To see…?”

They continue to stare at each other for a few more moments.

Miranda eventually huffs.

“Why are you?”

Andrea continues to blink at her dumbly until she realises, then she barks out a laugh.

“Oh my god - are you telling me that you call someone just to change a lightbulb?!”

There is outright glee in her voice.

Miranda shifts her weight between her feet and purses her lips. Andrea is laughing her ass off, her balance becoming precarious. When Miranda's silence continues, she eventually rights herself and finishes the job. She hops off the counter and beams at Miranda, raising an eyebrow in an unconscious Miranda-like gesture.

“I wouldn’t call someone.” Miranda’s voice is soft and acidic. “I have a housekeeper.”

Andrea cackles again. She's wearing an old, ugly t-shirt, but it stretches nicely over her chest, and her jeans are worn, they have a hole in them at the knee. Standing in Miranda's kitchen she sticks out like a hobo at the MET gala.

Apparently the memo has not reached Andrea, who grins at Miranda. “You are insane.”

Miranda gets an odd, pinched look on her face and she backs out of the room and strides into the study as realisation pours over her and it dawns on her that she’s fallen deeply in love. Completely, blindly, painfully in love with a lightbulb wielding lunatic that will stand barefoot on her kitchen counter, chipped nail polish and all, and laugh at her without compunction.

Oh fuck.

_________________

Miranda arrives home to the sound of chatter in the kitchen. Instead of hearing Cara she hears a throaty laugh courtesy of Andrea. As she walks towards the kitchen she catches the tail end of a conversation.

“--Ew, isn’t yours old and filthy?”

Cassidy is yet to learn the art of a subtle tongue.

Andrea chuckles, “what, you looking for pocket money? You kiddos have five bucks with your name on it if you want to swing by and clean up”. Miranda doesn’t know what they’re talking about but she rounds the corner in time to see their aghast facial expressions.

Andrea laughs to herself again, her back is to Miranda and the girls, head inside of one of Miranda’s cabinets.

“Seriously? There has to be something somewhere. I’m starving. It's not possible this entire house has no snacks in it, where does your Mom hide the good stuff?”

The girls see Miranda in the doorway and snicker. Miranda is grateful for having slipped her shoes off at the door as she pads silently to Andrea’s back.

“As I tell the girls, there is celery in the refrigerator.”

Andrea yelps and jumps about a foot in the air. She turns to face Miranda.

“Are you looking for something, Andrea?” She raises an eyebrow imperiously.

“We really need to get you a bell.” Andrea grumbles, Caroline and Cassidy laughing behind them, but she slides a second glass of wine over to Miranda anyway.

When they eat they sit at the kitchen table. The dining room is rarely used these days, only really for holidays and special occasions. They had stopped eating there regularly after Stephen left.

Miranda asks Caroline how her science project is coming along, they have a new teacher who is proving to be very popular and she knows Caroline is keen to impress them. She has half an ear on Andrea and Cassidy, the latter of whom is bribing Andrea into taking them skating over the weekend.

Maybe, Miranda thinks. Maybe this is how it is supposed to be.

_________________

“I thought you had finished work for the evening?”

Miranda slides into the right-hand side of the bed. She has begun to think of the left side, where Andrea is still on her laptop, as Andrea’s. There is a tube of hand cream on the mahogany bedside cabinet and 3 different books, all of which Andrea is part-way through.

“I have. I need to order a gift for Cheryl. Her baby shower is Thursday, as the only other woman in the department I ended up being the planner.”

Miranda hums in acknowledgement. Andrea continues speaking.

“I’m also in charge of snacks so I'm bringing cupcakes” At Miranda's look she rolls her eyes and continues. “Doug is making them. He’s letting me pass them off as mine.”

“That’s a relief.” Andrea’s baking is perfectly adequate in taste, it’s just that the items end up looking like the things Caroline had occasionally brought back from school. When she was six.

“I want it to be good for her. It means so much to her. They had been trying for a while. You know, married at 32, the years went by and she was starting to worry that it wasn't going to happen. She deserves this.”

She submits the order and shuts the laptop, turning to look at Miranda.

“Done, I’m all yours.” Her large smile falters when she sees Miranda’s pale face. “You ok?”

Miranda nods with a jerk, her lips flicker in what would be a smile except that it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Yes. Fine. I have a headache. It was a long day.” Andrea nods and kisses her lightly.

When she lies down and turns to her side Andrea turns the lights off and rolls over to press against her back. Miranda tries not to tremble as her arm wraps around her, but a gaping chasm has just opened in her gut.

Women's thirties, the age during which they have their babies. A year older than Andrea is now.

And so, in a turn of events which would surprise exactly no one (except maybe Becky who Miranda swears would get lost looking for sand in the desert), Miranda hides.

Well, she tortures all those within her immediate, and not so immediate vicinity, but from Andrea, and from herself, she hides.

_________________

She has to end it.

There's no other way, Miranda knows this. It doesn't matter that it’s killing her, that the mere thought of it robs her of breath. She’s been fooling herself to think that this could last, she is old and bitter, and Andrea is young and vibrant and cunning and brilliant. Miranda will not hold her back.

She has spent her entire life being selfish. She won’t allow herself to be selfish with Andrea too. It doesn’t matter that it turns out she’s the only thing Miranda really needs.

She’s been cooling things off for the last few weeks, working overtime, changing plans and ensuring their schedules barely match. She’s preparing to cut things off for good but she can’t help but delay the inevitable.

Of course, she doesn’t prepare for Andrea outwitting Elias-Clarke security and stomping into her actual office after hours.

She keeps her attention on her MacBook, whether to appear at ease or to avoid meeting her eyes and losing her nerve she won't speculate.

“Andrea.” Miranda murmurs. “Did we have plans?”

“Nope." Andrea pops the 'p' most obnoxiously. "No plans. You've made sure of that haven't you?”

“I have been busy with work, as you can see.”

There's silence as Miranda continues working and Andrea continues waiting.

“Why are you doing this? I thought we were past this.”

Miranda opens her mouth but Andrea cuts her off.

“No stop - whatever it is. Stop. You’re about to say something terrible and I won’t let you.”

“‘Let me’? You think you can ‘let me’ do anything?”

“We are in this together. Is it too much to ask that you might actually just talk to me when something upsets you?” Andrea is soft and placating, her voice trying hard to reach her and Miranda's heart clenches a little a the word 'we' .

“This had to end sometime. Now is that time.” Her voice is soft. “Please show yourself out.”

“No, Miranda -”

This time Miranda cuts her off, she doesn't want to hear, she's not sure she can bear it. “Andrea, please spare us from this embarrassment. You seem to believe this has been more than it has. It is done.” She looks up then, looks at Andrea. “Move on.”

Miranda looks away, Andrea is staring at her like she doesn’t recognise her, eyes filling with tears, and Miranda knows she’ll break if given the chance. She turns her attention back to her MacBook and forces her hands not to shake.

There’s silence for a few long moments but Andrea is stubborn.

“It’s the baby thing, isn’t it? That’s when this started. I told you that a friend of mine is having a baby and you freaked out.”

She doesn’t answer.

Andrea growls. “I swear to God -”

“I doubt this matter is of interest to him.”

“You don’t get to do this. You cannot just decide to end a relationship like this, with nothing.” She's angry but her voice still shakes as she holds back tears.

Miranda’s heart twists.

“You flatter yourself.There is no relationship, there never was. Do not blame me for whatever falsehoods were conjured by your mind.”

“I don’t even want children!”

Miranda clenches her jaw. “That is of no relevance to me.”

Her voice is low and cold. She learnt a long time ago that words cut much deeper the more quietly they are said.

“Did it even occur to you to ask me what I want rather than decide that you know best?” Andrea’s chest heaves. “Who am I kidding, of course it didn’t, who doesn’t know better than Miranda fucking Priestly?!”

Finally Miranda breaks, standing from her desk. Her voice isn’t so quiet any more, it’s harsh and mocking. She is furious now and for a moment she truly hates Andrea Sachs for forcing her to do this. The words run out of her, she ignores the way Andrea flinches, all she can do is say the words to sever the cord and try to hold herself together in the aftermath.

“What exactly did you think would happen? We'd fuck a few times and live happily ever after? Did you think you would change me? That you could be the one who would sweep me off my feet?” She rolls her eyes and smiles, cold and mocking.

“Andrea Sachs, still playing in waters far too deep for her reach. You have no idea what I'm -”

“Miranda!” Andrea yells and slams her hands onto the desk, jolting Miranda out of her tirade.

“It is not news to me that you’re a bitch!”

There's a moment of deathly quiet.

“...Excuse me?”

“You’re acting like I don’t know you and it’s ridiculous!” Andrea's voice is as fiery as Miranda's is cold. “I know you. I understand that you’re a bitch.”

Miranda's jaw drops.

Andrea sighs and runs her fingers through her hair, which is sweaty and falling out of its bun, “and that you’re also really not, I know that too, ok?”

Miranda can’t remember how to speak. She flounders, opening her mouth but finding nothing.

Andrea senses her opportunity and presses on. “I know you, Miranda. I’ve known you for a long time.” Andrea steps closer to her now, stepping around the desk to where Miranda is still standing in front of her chair. “For god sake, would you please stop trying so hard to get in your own way and just let me love you?”

“I - what?” She pauses, her eyes wide. “You, what…?” She trails off.

“I love you. Very much. You infuriating woman.”

“Oh.” Miranda’s hand finds her necklace. “Right.”

“Of course I do, Miranda. Can’t you see?” She says it as if loving Miranda is obvious. But it isn’t, it never has been.

“And you love me. Hence the bitchiness.”

“I…” Her breath peters out and she closes her eyes in defeat. “Yes.”

“Good. Ok then.” Andrea steps closer. “I’m still pretty pissed at you but will you let me kiss you now?” Andrea grazes the back of her hand over Miranda’s cheek, who exhales shakily.

“Yes. Please.”

Andrea beams.

She kisses her cheek before wrapping her arms around Miranda and holding her close. After a moment she whispers “I love you” breathily and reverently into Miranda’s ear, whose eyes fill with tears and her hands clutch Andrea's shoulders.

There’s silence for a while, as they catch their breath and hold on to each other.

Eventually the silence is broken, as God forbid Miranda leave a moment unblemished.

“You really shouldn't forgive people so easily.” Miranda thinks Andrea is possibly the only person who would understand that what she's really saying is “I'm sorry.”

Andrea responds by snorting inelegantly in Miranda's ear.

“Don't tell me what to do.” She adds, with a nip to her ear.

Miranda tucks her face into Andrea's neck and wraps her hands around her waist as she mumbles, “Why? You never listen.”

_________________

Miranda feels Andrea's lips on her cheek again and smiles.

“I know I just confessed my love for you, so this is the part where I take you home and lay you on your bed and make love to you for the next several hours, and believe me, I'm going to” Andrea pauses to step back and drop her arms to Miranda’s waist, looking into her eyes.

“But seen as we’re already here, are you going to let me fuck you on your desk?”

“Oh.” Miranda blushes. She looks away and glances at the desk, then she sighs and purses her lips.

“...Yes.”

_________________

Miranda doesn’t really know how to love, not like this. Not like Andrea does, with everything she has. But she wants to.

Item by item she fills Andrea's closet. Fashion is how she speaks, the only way she’s ever really known how, and so this is a start. And she thinks about it, each and every item, the fit and the colour and the suitability. She could easily have Nigel raid the Closet and hand over the latest samples from Westwood and the like, it is what she would usually do, but these are for Andrea and that means something.

She makes sure that each item is durable and down to earth, beautifully crafted but understated, never glamorous. Miranda believes she should dress for the career she intends to have but Andrea can't parade around the bullpen wearing this season’s Chanel and get away with it, and it certainly won’t help her when she’s trying to interview in the depths of the Bronx.

Admittedly, that conversation may have taken place when Miranda had watched Andrea stumble into a scuffed pair of Skechers and the word ‘hideous’ had tumbled out of her mouth…

Still. Miranda is trying, and she could have said worse.

_________________

“I didn't know.”

They're in bed, Miranda's head on Andrea's chest. They've been quiet for a while, she’s not sure if Andrea has dozed off. She wouldn't be surprised, after what they've just done.

She realises she isn't when she feels a kiss on the top of her head.

This time Andrea does say “I know” but Miranda doesn't mind. She’d like to say that it's emotional growth but it's likely due to her brain still swimming in a post-orgasmic haze. That seems to be a fairly frequent state of mind. She wonders idly if it's possible to sex-damage one’s IQ.

“It seems so obvious now. So foolish.”

“I don't think anyone could call you a fool, Miranda Priestly.”

There's a possessive squeeze to the pale globe of her ass cheek and Miranda hums in contentment.

“Are you ok?”

She doesn't respond for a moment but Andrea is patient.

“Yes. I think I am.” She doesn’t say ‘now’ but it’s understood regardless.

_________________

Miranda asks her to come to Paris. Again.

Miranda hasn't said the words yet, not since that sort-of confession in her office a few months ago. She's fairly confident that Andrea understands it even so. She doesn't want to just blurt it out, although sometimes it's actually frighteningly hard not to. They mean something this time. She’s said the words before but it felt like they were too much. Now they aren’t enough, they don’t even begin to cover it. Saying them in Paris feels right. It's where she had once lost her, now it will be where she keeps her.

She poses the thought of Andrea joining her with an air of nonchalance, while sitting up in bed and looking over the Book, Andrea next to her in an obscenely tight tank top. She's not entirely surprised when the Book is yanked out of her lap in response, although she scowls anyway, knowing that Andrea sees through it. She should be annoyed about the product of her life's work being tossed to the floor but when Andrea grins at her and plants little kisses all over her face she finds that she doesn't really care.

When she strides through the doors of Runway the next morning she has to force herself to stop smiling. For the first time in her life she feels whole.

But Miranda is still Miranda.

On the morning that she arrives at her office to be greeted with a lukewarm Starbucks and a phone call from the irate manager of their next cover model, flown in fresh from the runways of Milan, who explains that thanks to the friendly chat with Bernadette their model has decided to retire from modelling and pursue their long forgotten dream of opening an Etsy shop and knitting their own yoghurt or something else equally ridiculous, Miranda notes that Human Resource’s window of tyranny has long passed. It is with no small amount of glee that she delivers her final dismissal with all of the solemnity and grace of a Shakespearean soliloquy.

Wails can be heard travelling along the hallway until they cease with the final, satisfying close of the elevator doors.

It turns out that her name was Sarah.