Title: The Other
Rating: Tame
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Disclaimer: I do not own The Devil Wears Prada nor am I making any money from this fiction.
Summary: Miranda has some theories. Investigation follows.
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It had been five years since Miranda had first met Andrea Sachs and her horrible clothes and her distressing lack of regard for color coordination. Half a decade later, Andrea's taste in apparel and accessories had improved to levels that sometimes, quite on accident, she impressed Miranda just the tiniest bit.
Concerning fashion, Miranda suspected that Andrea had a secret life in which she left Runway in her beautiful couture and eyeliner that made her eyes pop out soft and warm, disappeared behind closed doors and transformed into someone else entirely.
Miranda hadn't let her suspicions stop herself from re-hiring Andrea after the unfortunate events of Paris fashion week; she would have been a hypocrite to not hire someone based on a secret. Everyone had secrets.
Andrea intrigued her because it seemed to Miranda that she was one giant secret. Everything about Andrea was shaped to conform to Runway and Miranda's exacting standards. Andrea's clothes, food, and demeanor were all carefully crafted to appear realistic to all but the finest of microscopes. Her lifestyle might have seemed legitimate to the untrained eye, but Miranda knew better. She knew a lie when she spotted it.
The first day she'd encountered Andrea Sachs, when she'd stumbled into Miranda's office in a tear-inducing collared cardigan sports jacket combination, the girl had possessed a fixed air of artificiality. There was a separate, private Andrea that Miranda doubted she had ever met. A real Andrea. An Other Andrea.
She couldn't deny there was a morbidly curious part of her that wanted to see it. She craved to once be witness to the Other Andrea, if only to prove her existence to herself. Miranda was a woman of theories, and of theories of Andrea she had many.
When Miranda was particularly difficult to the assistant-turned-junior-features-editor, Andrea would smiled vapidly and said things like "Yes, Miranda," and "Right away, Miranda."
Andrea was too tame, clever smile always flashing but her words meek and appeasing at the same time. It was like observing a snake sleeping in a glass box – there was something more there. Just once, Miranda would have liked the woman to say whatever devilish comeback was clearly on her mind.
Andrea ate vegetables and the occasional fruit cutlets for lunch with the other editors; her rapturous expressions while eating never gave away any dissatisfaction with her meals
The rapture was a clue, she decided. Miranda imagined Other Andrea held the same rapturous expression while eating a greasy deep dish pizza. Other Andrea was probably a devotee to food, someone who floated dreamily over her frying pan while she cooked, inhaling the fumes in sweet anticipation.
Junior editor Andrea remained optimistic when her articles fell apart, and shrugged when she had to call her family and tell them no, she would not be visiting them this Christmas. Or for Easter. Or for Nana's birthday.
The slight hitch in Andrea's voice, however, was another clue. Other Andrea, Miranda suspected, buried herself in junk food and watched TV reruns until she fell asleep. Other Andrea probably cried.
Occasionally Andrea would take note of Miranda watching her a little more closely than she should watch a low-level employee, and she would throw Miranda a quirky little smile. Miranda, when she wasn't occupied with the ten million concerns she was juggling at any given moment, sometimes thought it was Other Andrea giving her that smile.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps Other Andrea was a cold, calculating bitch at heart, who only made nice at work to win affections and get ahead. Other Andrea might care less about missing Nana's 85th birthday. Maybe Other Andrea thought sweets and greasy food were disgusting and would make her fat and give her bad skin. Maybe Other Andrea gave that sly little smile to Miranda just for the fun of being manipulative.
Miranda had a multitude of theories about any number of people's secrets, but she'd never stirred up the drive to investigate any further than her own hypotheses. She had a magazine to run and two daughters to raise.
Still, Miranda was often left alone with Andrea. As junior features editor, Andrea assembled the book, and more often than not, Miranda had taken to sending her assistants home and waiting for it herself, and they would be the only two souls left on the floor.
On one bleak evening, when Miranda's girls were away and she had nothing better to do than sit in the office and sell her soul to her magazine, Andrea demurely handed her the book and said, "We should go out sometime."
"Out?" Miranda queried and adjusted her reading glasses, baffled.
"On a date," Andrea clarified.
"Ahm," Miranda said, her theories thrown in an upside down loop-de-loop.
"That's okay," Andrea finished for her, then strode out indifferently in her four inch spike heels. Miranda was absentmindedly envisioning Other Andrea sliding about in an old pair of socks (her theory did not match an Andrea in heels) until she realized that Andrea's actual person had vacated her office.
A date. None of her theories had accounted for that; she had to admit that much to herself.
The next morning, her second assistant spilled piping hot coffee down Andrea's striking Anna Sui blouse and down the front of her pants. Andrea grabbed a Coach bag and disappeared into the bathrooms, only to return mysteriously ten minutes later in a flattering diamond cut day dress and silk wrap, her soiled clothes wrapped in plastic and carefully tucked away with the reverence due to fine clothing.
Miranda bit the arm of her glasses thoughtfully. She couldn't see Other Andrea being so tidy. She thought of Andrea strewing dirty clothes all over the floor of her apartment, only collecting them when it was time for a wash. Then she suddenly imagined Other Andrea leaving behind a path of clothes as she sauntered to bed, and Miranda frowned.
Miranda's theories were definitely thrown.
A date. How incredibly bizarre.
By nightfall, Miranda had sent her assistants away and opted to remain and wait for the book herself.
At seven thirty on the dot Andrea entered her office as calm and put-together as always. She proffered the finished book to Miranda, who accepted it.
"I would be amenable to a date," said Miranda, carefully studying Andrea's reactions.
"Oh." Andrea appeared frozen for a few tense moments, until her shoulders returned to their usual relaxed, confident positions. "Saturday? Six p.m.?"
"Your place," stated Miranda firmly, in a tone that hopefully held little room for argument.
Andrea nodded and flashed her that sly, secret smile before gliding gracefully out of the office.
Miranda dwelled all week on what she might see inside Andrea's apartment. The possibility of laying her insatiable curiosity to rest was tantalizing. Miranda would finally glimpse into her employee's probably mediocre, uninspiring personal life and put her inquisitive demons to rest.
Whenever she reminded herself of the 'date' aspect of her little fact-finding expedition, she dutifully reminded herself that this was for the sake of her sanity. She would just be forced to go along with whatever bizarre notions Andrea had in mind until her curiosity was sated, then call it a night and never have another passing fancy for her junior features editor again.
By seven o'clock on Saturday night, Miranda unfortunately hadn't had the opportunity to glance into Andrea's freezer for ice cream, or clandestinely scour behind furniture for dirty clothes that might've been forgotten in the expected pre-date cleanup process. She hadn't had the opportunity to discover much of anything, in fact, except that Andrea's 'notions' apparently included an extravagant amount of touching.
The touching had started before Andrea had even finished cooking dinner. Miranda had arrived thirty minutes early hoping to catch a glimpse of Andrea unprepared, but Andrea was already done up in a violet Burberry dress that ebbed down into a seductive, thigh-forming wraparound that grazed the tops of her knees. Judging from her unsurprised expression, Andrea had been expecting an early arrival. She guided Miranda with a slight touch to her elbow into an immaculate sitting room - the touch had made Miranda shiver.
Now Andrea was serving grilled salmon on plates and shooting her those clever smiles over the table. Miranda's fingers tingled when their hands met, deliberately on Andrea's part she was sure, as she was passed the silverware.
Throughout dinner Andrea was in the constant pursuit of tactile contact, and whenever she saw Miranda's skin rising at her touch, she smiled. Miranda, for her piece, was thoroughly regretting agreeing to subjugate herself to Andrea's – and there was no other word for it – wiles.
Every time Miranda thought to disappear to the bathroom and peak around the medicine cabinet, a delicate hand was covering hers as Andrea told her a particularly amusing story.
When Miranda suggested she pour herself another drink in the kitchen, hoping for a quick peek into the refrigerator, she was frozen by a warm squeeze to her shoulder and assurance that Andrea would take care of it for her.
When Miranda plied her with leading questions about the state of cleanliness of her apartment, the cheap decorations and other insulting insinuations prodding for a reaction, Andrea only smiled her wicked smile, and despite that it was not a physical touch, Miranda couldn't breathe.
After the fish was consumed Andrea led Miranda to the couch and left her with a smirk to disappear into a hallway, promising a quick return. Unable to relax despite the plush sofa, Miranda forced herself to breathe.
When she had convinced herself to go along on a date with Andrea, she had never counted on an actual attraction for her to spring up. No, attraction seemed too tame a word. Allure? Temptation?
She needed to leave before this went too far. Miranda hastily grabbed her purse from beneath the coat rack and shrugged it over her shoulder. She rooted through its contents to find her phone – she could call a cab and be on the way home within ten minutes time, if she hurried.
"Miranda? Are you leaving?"
Andrea was silhouetted in the hallway cradling a de-corked bottle of wine, the stems of two glasses dangling casually between her fingers, lips downturned in a look of polite concern.
Always polite, Andrea was. Never showing too much emotion or enough compassion to be considered inappropriate. Always controlled.
"I – I had a call. I'm afraid I must be going, Andrea. I don't think we'll be repeating tonight's venture," Miranda said while determinedly making a study of scrolling through her phone's contact list.
"I'm sorry you didn't enjoy yourself," said Andrea moderately, and Miranda could not help but rake her eyes upward from her phone. She chanced a look at Andrea's eyes – they cut into Miranda's skin and made her feel dark and smoky inside.
Looking up from her phone must have triggered something, because then Andrea was advancing on Miranda's position predatorily, four inch heels clicking as she invaded Miranda's personal space.
Andrea moved in close – so close that Miranda could swear they were sharing the same tiny pocket of oxygen.
"See you Monday."
This is where I step back and shut the door in her face, thought Miranda. Then I –
Then Andrea was leaning forward, and for the life of her Miranda could not move. It was all she could do to ignore the hammering in her breast - she could not recall a time when it had beat so hard, or made her blood race in such a hot, sudden rush - as full red lips closed in on her own.
Andrea's lips, her skin, the air from her lungs, filled Miranda from her toes to her tingling, wanting mouth, a warm liquid that settled in her chest, emanating a heat that turned from pleasant to scorching when Andrea's tongue flicked forward.
Miranda's lips parted instinctively, allowing the warm tongue to dart into her mouth before her mind could catch up. Andrea was standing so close to her, closer than any woman had ever been, their breasts brushing up against each other through thin fabric. Andrea's proximity was a fog behind her eyes; she couldn't think, she couldn't breathe this close to the heady scent rising from the other woman's skin.
Too soon, Andrea was pulling away.
"Or you could stay."
Tainted by the kiss, its poison - that she like Socrates had been handed calmly and told to drink, to which she did not question but swallowed willingly – its poison coursed through arteries she was only distantly aware of, dark blue lines that had only shown when she would press her fingers to her skin and trace the paths idly with a manicured nail.
She was contaminated.
Vague, erotic flashes blazed through her mind's eye, unspecific in their torture but heavy and full of hot, carnal promise, much like the promise born inside Andrea's bit lower lip, rouge-tinged cheeks and desirous eyes.
"Or I could stay."
Miranda thought it was safe to say she didn't know what the hell she was doing or if she had been attracted to Andrea all along and managed to subconsciously trick herself into entering this situation.
Or perhaps she truly had just stumbled her way into this like a fool, only to find herself weak to the calling of kisses and hot skin.
However ignorant of her own attraction she had been before, what she knew now was that she desperately wanted her lips on Andrea's once again. She easily recognized the currents of desire in Andrea's body language as reflections of her own. The idea of Andrea as hot-blooded and wanting as she was drove Miranda to lean in, eager for another sweet taste.
Clank.
"Oh shit," Andrea exclaimed, taking a step back. The absence of her intense, intimate presence sliced Miranda like a knife before she noticed the dark red stain running down Andrea's front.
Andrea crossed to the kitchen and set the guilty wine bottle in the sink, then grabbed a hand towel and dabbed herself delicately.
"I need to, um…" she said, briefly glancing at Miranda before derailing. "Give me a minute."
Miranda watched Andrea disappear down the same hallway she had gone to get the wine and glasses before her brain caught up with her.
Did Andrea know what to do with a wine soaked dress? She hadn't taken any salt from the kitchen with her.
Surely she would want Miranda to intervene, if only to save a beautiful dress?
Then a more insidious thought wormed its way into her consciousness: surely Andrea, with her young, soft love of clothes, sweet, mild temperament and perfect diet, would not want Miranda –
No.
Miranda firmly decided she would not question herself on anything else that was occurring tonight. She would not be the one to rain on her own parade. Not this time in her life, not ever again.
Making a quick decision (for the sake of fashion), Miranda rifled through the cabinets above the stove, where she had seen Andrea grabbing spices from before, and in lieu of finding a box of salt withdrew a plain-looking salt shaker. It would have to do.
"Andrea?" She wandered down the hallway, passing the bathroom she was familiar with and rounding a sharp corner, where she had never been. A single door was hanging quarter-open.
"Shitshitshit…"
"Andrea."
Miranda hesitated outside the door, eyes averted, waiting for a response. "I have salt for you to use, Andrea. Do not dare touch that elegant dress with water. Are you decent?"
Are you decent. If only her sense of propriety had been present two minutes ago, she thought to herself caustically.
Throwing caution to the wind (it was Burberry, for goodness sake), after waiting an indecent amount of time for an acknowledgment that never came, Miranda toed the door with the tip of her Prada heel, edging cautiously around the barrier. Eyes kept firmly on the carpet, she glanced enough through her peripheral vision to ascertain that Andrea was still fully clothed before allowing her gaze to wander.
Andrea's room was spotless save an empty ice bucket that was accumulating moisture on a nightstand and the open walk-in closet where the woman was on her knees.
"I'm fine, Miranda, I'll just take it to the cleaners," Andrea called over her shoulder loudly, clearly unaware of how close the editor was to her person. "Where the hell are you...? Aha!"
A hand shot into a pile – Miranda felt an eye twitch – of couture, fished out a lavender sleeve that had been peeking out and tugged to reveal a mid-length Vera Wang informal dress.
Andrea stood up, holding out the dress to its full length, and sighed happily.
A pile.
Several piles, actually, not that there was any organization to them besides the one jumble of mismatched heels off to the side, and a few obviously well-loved sweatshirts Miranda was certain once belonged to a man. A bar and a half dozen hangers hung empty, begging for a gown or at least a smart business jacket to hold up, yet had probably never been used.
Here was Other Andrea. Other Andrea clearly did not give a shit for hangers, or shoe racks, or any forms of organization whatsoever. Other Andrea also, apparently, was an owner of Eeyore slippers. Good lord.
"Your closet is horrific," Miranda commented from behind her.
Andrea looked cautiously over her shoulder, startled. For the first time that night, her expression was twisted into something unsure.
"That bothers you?" she asked hesitantly.
Miranda released a silent sigh, a breathe she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
Instead of answering, she kissed her.
"Let's go to my house," said Miranda. Her investigation was done with, and Andrea seemed too dizzy with kisses to disagree or wonder why the change.
Sometime around midnight.
As it turned out, to Andrea's pleasure Miranda found she quite enjoyed the touching, once she'd managed the task of breathing.
Most of the time, anyway.
And kissing. There had been lots of that particular activity.
Now though, despite the late hour Miranda was satisfied with doing her own touching – running the pad of her finger down the center of Andrea's smooth, bare back, watching the skin prick up in response.
"Hmmm," Andrea sighed into a pillow. Her eyes were fluttering, had been for an hour now. Miranda had expected her to fall asleep already, but she'd underestimated the efficacy of willpower.
"Is that… Irv?" Andrea suddenly asked, picking her head up.
Of the questions Miranda would have predicted absolutely least likely to be uttered in her bed, by someone she had just had delicious sex with, Andrea's question would definitely be in the top five.
"I beg your pardon?"
"This… look."
Miranda lifted her head over Andrea's shoulder to see what the woman was pointing to. "Oh. That."
Beside her night lamp she kept a pad and pencil for when she brought the Book to bed with her, on which she was often guilty of doodling idly on, if only to do something with her hands as she browsed the images of clothing and posing models.
On this particular paper, next to her handwritten 'less vermil. on 23' and 'brighter lighting right 29' was a miniature pencil version of Irv Ravitz, cowering in fear and wetting himself at the sight of a tiger with cartoonishly large fangs.
Miranda studied her nails carefully. "Maybe it is. I don't know."
"It's good. Really good. Funny." Andrea fingered the drawing thoughtfully, biting her lip. "I'd thought..." She cut herself off, lips tugging into a frown.
"Yes?" Miranda quirked a fine eyebrow.
"Well, I've had some theories about you..."
"Tell me all about them," said Miranda as Andrea tucked herself beside her, burying her face in her hair, and Miranda couldn't think of a better place to be.