Andy's whole body tensed as her world exploded. Her back arched off the bed, hands tightly gripping the silvery white head keeping Miranda's mouth on her center as she rode out her orgasm. Completely sated, deliriously happy and utterly exhausted she crumpled onto the mattress like a ragdoll, her harsh panting the only indicator she had not died. She felt absolutely spent; she did not have enough energy to even pull Miranda off of her.
Miranda, on the other hand, was trembling and nearly wild with aching need. She kissed the inside of Andy's thigh once more, pleased at the aftershocks still going through the young woman. Raising herself up on her hands and knees, Miranda crawled over Andy's prone body.
The journalist's head lolled forward, her brown eyes firmly fixed on the woman moving up her body. Her breathing was still harsh and her heart beat had not calmed, and it did not seem either was going to slow in the very near future. She licked dry lips at the predatory image Miranda radiated: nose, mouth and chin smeared and shining with Andy's juices as if she had just killed and eaten a very satisfying meal; the deep blue of her iris just a thin ring around her dilated pupil making her look slightly drunk; her hair plastered gray with sweat against her neck and forehead and disheveled where Andy had frantically held on to making her look wild; the slightly open mouth as if the editor was breathing the journalist in and readying to pounce on her; the wings that had popped out from where Miranda had hid them as she gracefully moved over the journalist. Miranda looked like a mythical tigress come to devour her whole.
Andy shuddered when Miranda stopped, knees on either side of the journalist's abdomen, and lowered herself slowly onto her stomach. The hot wetness that immediately spread over her skin made the journalist gasp; the editor felt like she would melt a hole through her. Miranda's hands anchored onto Andy's suddenly very at attention breasts as the editor began to rock herself against the young woman- pelvis to ribs and back again- spreading her arousal all over Andy's stomach. The journalist hissed at the heady feel of it all.
"Andrea," Miranda's voice hitched as her wings opened slightly with the rocking of her hips. Andy's exhaustion made her limbs feel leaden, but the near desperation in the editor's voice spurred the journalist to tap into the reserves of her energy. She placed her hands on Miranda's knees and slid them up to rest on the editor's waist, her thumbs rubbing on the protruding pelvic bone making Miranda twitch and moan. The frantic rocking of hips slowed, but did not stop, as hazy blue eyes locked with brown. The look melted Andy's insides.
Still holding Miranda's waist, Andy moved her right hand between the editor's legs clumsily. Her fingers slid through Miranda's wetness gracelessly, but finesse was not necessary. The editor's eyes slammed shut and her pearly white teeth bit on her bottom lip to keep from crying out at Andy's touch. The journalist summoned the energy to part Miranda's folds and insert two fingers into the editor.
Miranda's hands squeezed the breasts in her hands as she immediately slid up and down the length of the fingers inside her. Andy swallowed at the sight and feel of the editor already tightening around her, she watched Miranda ride herself to oblivion. One thrust, two, three. Miranda came down a fourth time and ground herself into Andy's palm. The journalist could feel the hard point of the editor's clit on the heel of her hand and pressed up into it, her fingers slipping deeper into the clenching velvet walls. Miranda' whole body tensed; her back arched straining the muscles in her abdomen into sharp relief, her breasts and nipples proudly erect along the curve of her chest, her white head was thrown back, mouth opened in silent scream, and her wings unfurled so quickly they snapped the air like a whip.
Andy's breath caught at the sight. Miranda looked absolutely glorious in rapture. The editor, back bowed, eyes closed, mouth open, wings spread, seemed to glow; she was emanating light. The journalist watched the editor transfixed.
Miranda's arms collapsed as her strength fled in the wake of her release. Her wings slowed her descent so when she fell on top of a still prone Andy it was with gentle pressure. The wings disappeared as the journalist's arms encircled Miranda. The editor's harsh breathing evened out with Andy's, and the duo laid wrapped in each other, exhaustion pulling them quickly to slumber.
"I make you glow," Andy mumbled adjusting the editor into the most comfortable position above her. Miranda could hear the smugness in Andy's slurred voice even though the journalist was already more than half asleep. The editor would have retorted with a snide remark if the hands rubbing obscenely comforting circles on her back had not been lulling her to sleep. Instead she grunted (unintelligibly) sleep now against Andy's collar bone before promptly succumbing to the pull of slumber.
Andy woke to the feel of someone watching her. Blinking her eyes open, she smiled widely at the feel of Miranda's hand brushing errant locks out of her face. Andy drank in the sight of the editor. She let her eyes linger over the expertly manicured eyebrows, the imperfect nose that served to increase Miranda's appeal, the soft and perfectly kissable lips, the elegant cheek bones, the intense cobalt eyes. The journalist stared into the ocean blue of Miranda's eyes and her heart expanded inside her chest. It felt like a pot of warm honey had been tipped over in her soul; the slow, sweet essence of love spreading across her being.
Andy had staunched the overwhelming emotion before in an effort of self preservation; but now she let herself embrace and revel in it. Blue eyes softened, the journalist blushed a little at how obvious her feelings were to the editor. "You glow," Andy blurted, excitement evident in her voice as she remembered Miranda wings wide, head thrown back, bathed in light. She pulled the editor flush against her, placing a soft kiss on even softer lips just because she could. It was impossible to ignore the rush of heat the skin on skin touch caused, but Andy luxuriated in the altogether different warmth enveloping her heart at simply being with Miranda.
"Quite proud of yourself, aren't you?" The editor asked in a dry tone.
"Yes," the journalist giggled, happiness bubbling up inside her and spilling over.
"You glow all the time," Miranda offered off handedly, "It's one of the first things I noticed about you. It made you different from anyone I had ever encountered." Blue eyes watched Andy with hawk like intensity. "When you smile, the brightness you exude rivals the sun." Almost in reflex, Andy smiled. Miranda blinked, "That's why sunglasses were always on hand."
The journalist laughed, "You're kidding." The editor watched Andy in serious and brooding awe. It sobered the young woman. Dark eyebrows furrowed over curious brown orbs. Questions popped to the forefront of her mind; there was so much she wanted to know.
"In my pettiest moment," Miranda's voice was low, shamed, "I wanted to crush that light. To put out the thing that made you shine. And, several times, when I was especially cruel, it dimmed. But, it never died; it never went out. Only once did I think it would peter out and die."
"When?" The smile faded from Andy's face as she felt the mood dampen.
"In Paris. On the way to the final party of Fashion Week," Miranda's voice sounded strained, as if even recalling the moment was painful, "you sat quietly next to me after I had offered you everything, and your light just decreased until it was only a faint glow centered above your heart. I stepped out of the car before I could witness it extinguish. When I turned back around, you were walking away," Andy's heart squeezed painfully as she recalled the moment perfectly, "but your light was growing until it engulfed you and I had to turn away or be blinded by it."
Miranda shifted out of Andy's embrace unable to bear the direct press of the journalist's emotions against her psyche. She sat on the edge of the bed, her feet hitting the soft, carpeted floor. Andy sighed behind her.
"Why do you run away?" Andy asked flopping onto her back, exasperated. "You said you could feel me regardless if we're touching or not. I'd much rather be touching."
Miranda sighed. "I can feel you even with space between us," the editor gazed off into nothing, "But touching you makes everything sharper, clearer, more vivid."
"We are going to disagree, Miranda," Andy moved to press her hand against Miranda's tense back, "I am going to feel a lot of things. But that doesn't mean I don't want you near. You can't distance yourself just because you don't like what I'm feeling at a particular moment."
"You don't understand," now the editor sounded petulant, "you color my perception. When I tell you something awful I did, your first reaction isn't to be repulsed, but it's to forgive me. It's mercy," the word was acid leaving Miranda's tongue, "which I don't deserve."
"Why are you so hard on yourself?" Andy sat up and rested her chin on an alabaster shoulder.
"I never was until you," Miranda accused, feeling vulnerable and off kilter, "I am more than awful when reflected in your light. And, I never realized just how awful, until I looked at myself through your doe brown eyes that see the world in black and white, though you understand shades of gray, and you still retain a sense of innocence." The editor gently disengaged herself from the journalist and stood moving a few paces forward. "You see good and beauty in even the vilest creatures."
Her back to Andy, Miranda laughed mirthlessly. The sound bounced off the walls of the quiet room. "This is my real punishment, isn't it?" The editor yelled up at the ceiling, suddenly incensed. Andy watched in morbid fascination; she had never heard Miranda raise her voice. "To find something precious and be utterly unworthy of it."
Andy moved quickly off the bed to embrace the distraught woman. Miranda was quickly unraveling any preconceived ideas the journalist may have had about anything concerning the fashion icon. She moved them a few feet and lowered them to the nearest couch and simply held the editor.
"I wasn't supposed to save you," Miranda confessed, comforted in the arms of the young woman. She felt off balance. Feeling everything flowing from the journalist was making her lose control. It was freighting and freeing in an odd way. "I was to have no more to do with you, ever." Blue eyes closed as she remembered the direct order. "You had passed the test. You had survived your tenure with the Dragon Lady with your soul intact. I was to never bother you again."
Andy did not understand. "Why? To what purpose is this test?"
"I am not supplied with the why," Miranda's voice was tight, concealing something, Andy let it go for the moment, "I am only compelled to be the furnace through which you pass your trial by fire."
"How many have there been?" Andy asked, unsure she wanted to know the answer.
"Countless," came the short answer, "Only you have passed."
"Okay," Andy swallowed, her head was spinning with too much she did not comprehend. "So if you weren't supposed to save me," she went back to a safer topic, "how did you know to save me?"
"You screamed for me," Miranda explained as best she could. "The moment you began to fall, your heart called to me. Everything disappeared around me. It was as if we were in a room together and you were frantically screaming for me from the far end." The white mane shook the memory away, "It drove me mad with worry. I knew if I didn't get to you something terrible would happen. I smashed through one of the windows in my office and flew to you. My heart listened for yours and I found you."
Something clicked in Andy's head, "How long have you loved me?"
"Since the first moment you disagreed with me," blue eyes looked up into widening brown eyes.
"I disagreed with you one minute into my interview for the job as your assistant," Andy was incredulous.
"Yes," the editor confirmed.
Andy's heart tripped in her chest at the dawning of realization. "Oh," her head shook faintly, "Then, why?"
Miranda closed her eyes as she heard all the question the journalist was not asking: Why the cruelty? Why the barbs? Why the impossible tasks? Opening her eyes and looking at Andy she knew honesty was the only way through, "I loved you, but, I didn't want to. It was unexpected and debilitating. I don't do well with things that make me feel vulnerable."
"You have a gift for understatement," Andy mumbled to herself.
"Mockery," apparently Miranda had exceptional hearing, "how very mature."
Andy just barely withheld the urge to stick her tongue out at the editor. Instead she dropped a kiss onto a white mane, "I think we need a break." She needed a moment to digest all the information, and to mentally prepare for what was sure to be more of the same.
Andy felt her stomach sticking to Miranda's back and her nose picked up the faint but unmistakable smell of sex. She felt her neurons come alive at the vivid memories of the several hours they had spent putting that smell in the room. "And maybe we should get cleaned up, too," the comment came out more breathless than she intended. Miranda craning her neck back and giving her a heated stare did not help matters much.
When they finally made it to the bathroom, Andy marveled at the immensity of the shower. It easily fit half a dozen people, and then some. It was tiled black floor to ceiling with soft light that made the space inviting and not dark. A floor to ceiling glass door enclosed the stall. Inset on the ceiling of the stall were several shower faucets that rained down into the shower imitating rainfall, or the feeling of being under a waterfall. It was magnificent. "I think I'm in love with your shower," the journalist quickly entered and fiddled with the knobs until she got the right temperature and pressure.
Face upturned to the water, eyes closed, Andy felt hands slide across her abdomen as a body fitted itself to her back. Miranda laid lazy, open mouthed kisses along the back of her neck and shoulder as her hands diverged. One hand travelled up while the other travelled down.
The shower filled with steam, the sound of falling water, and distinctive moans of pleasure. The simple act of cleaning themselves took the women much longer than was usual for either of them.
Unable to help herself, after enjoying the show the editor put on while drying herself, the journalist pressed the silver haired woman to the counter their naked bodies touching everywhere. "Are we well sated now?" Andy kissed Miranda, tongue plunging into a warm mouth and ravaging their already heightened senses.
"You're a hunger I can never hope to sate," the editor expelled breathlessly before recapturing full lips. She kissed Andy desperately, as if they would never share another kiss, another moment.
The hunger, the desperation to be with and in Miranda, Andy understood. The confusion and roiling emotions that accompanied such open revelation by the editor could wait a little while longer. Right at that moment, the only thing that mattered was seeing Miranda come undone.
Sometime later, preceded by another much more efficient shower, the women stumbled out into the spacious room. "Should I get going?" Andy asked looking for her discarded underwear.
Miranda stared at the clock on her bedside with furrowed brows, not answering Andy's query. She walked to the balcony doors and pushed the curtains aside. Andy waited for some sort of response. "I don't believe that will be necessary," Miranda finally replied moving to her walk in closet.
"Won't the girls be home soon?" Andy raised her voice so Miranda could hear the question in the adjoining closet. Anxiety twisted her stomach unpleasantly. She most definitely did not want to officially meet the twins after marathon sex with their mother. She absentmindedly picked up her discarded clothing, clutching them like a safety blanket, while her mind whirled. Maybe dinner later this week when I've had some time to sort things out, Andy thought staring off into nothing, Or maybe next week, once I've practiced not picturing Miranda naked every few seconds, or the look she gets when she comes, or the feel and taste of her. She licked her lips, heat crawling up her chest and neck. Andy groaned internally, I think she's turned me into a sex fiend. It's like I can't get enough of her.
"No," the voice in front of her startled Andy so bad she dropped the clothes she was holding. The slightly raised eyebrows, darkening eyes, and insistent smirk pulling at Miranda's lips clued the journalist in to the fact that the editor knew where her thoughts had gone. "One track mind," the words sounded half amused and half loaded with anticipation. Andy could feel heat crawl up her face as she bent over to pick up the clothes.
"Rarely, if ever," standing, brown eyes raked over the now dressed editor, "except around you…" Andy's eyes took another sweep of Miranda as her voice faded. Will wonders never cease? Her mind seemed stuck. She catalogued the bare feet, the Levi's jeans that looked older than she was (well worn but in immaculate condition), the simple white oxford rolled up hazardously to the elbow, the make-up free face, and the gunmetal gray hair still damp from their shower. At that moment, her heart exploded a little in her chest. When she did not think she could possibly love the creature before her any more than she already did, the woman went and showed her a part of herself that she never showed anyone. And, it solidified something for Andy; it gave reality to their extraordinary circumstances. "Have I ever told you how absolutely beautiful you are?" Andy asked unconsciously as she took in the vision before her.
Miranda blushed lightly, pleasure suffusing her whole. The words were themselves she had heard countless times said in countless ways, but what made the editor's heart expand in her chest was the sincerity in Andy's voice, the spark in her eyes, and the light that was glowing brighter the longer she looked at her. The journalist was not simply saying the words, she meant them. Andy did not say the words in placating pleasantry, jealous disdain, or grudging acceptance, but in genuine realization. And standing, in her most common, pedestrian clothes (albeit comfortable), Miranda felt like the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth because that was how Andy was seeing her. Clearing her throat, she offered what she was carrying, "Put these on. They are clean and comfortable."
Andy set her clothes aside and accepted Miranda's offering without a word. Figuring modesty was unnecessary after everything they had done to each other the past few hours, she dropped the robe and began dressing in front of a very interested editor. The sharp intake of breath, when the robe pooled around Andy's feet and she bent to put on the lacy panties Miranda gave her, caused a smirk to spread her full lips. "One track mind," Andy slipped into the white linen pants.
"You seem to," Miranda lost her train of thought as the journalist stretched to slip the on simple white cotton shirt sans bra, "have that affect on me."
Andy closed the distance between them, loving the fact that barefoot she stood two inches above the editor. Slipping her hands under the untucked oxford, the journalist's fingers grasped two belt loops and she tugged the editor to her. "I'm glad I'm not the only one," she whispered against lips that had surged up to meet her own. "Unless," she pulled back suddenly her mind running over itself, "I make you feel that way, because I feel so strongly that way. I mean I don't want the whole I-feel-what-you-feel thing to be the reason…" Miranda kissed her quiet.
"I've wanted you longer than you've wanted me," the editor appeased.
"Really?" Andy rolled her eyes at herself. "I mean good. I mean okay. I mean," Andy shook her head and took a deep breath, pulling back slightly, "what is this about the girls not being here soon?"
Miranda sobered immediately at the question, "Time has stopped."
The coffee maker percolated a strong brew.
The scent of coffee filled the kitchen.
Andy stared at the screen of her phone. She was still only fifteen minutes late to her appointment from hours ago. The journalist had checked every clock in the house. All read the same time, and no matter how long she stared at them they did not move forward.
Her head dropped to the counter top. She concentrated on the constant drip of the coffee falling into the pot. She had called everyone she could think would answer only to have the phone ring endlessly. Andy even went so far as to ask Miranda to fly them out to inspect the city. She should have known the situation was dire when the editor took them up without changing out of her Levi's, white oxford, and bare feet. The city literally stood still. Cars and people frozen at every intersection in the city waiting for time to resume to get on with their morning.
Miranda had even taken her to the exact spot where she had plucked her out of the sky. The glass had not even hit the floor yet, it was frozen thirty feet above the pavement. It was surreal. The only thing bouncing around in a loop through her head the whole ride had been Miranda's words: I wasn't supposed to save you. The flight back had been swift and quiet.
The journalist tried to ignore the panic trying to seize her chest. She felt crazy. Her emotions running high one second and low the next. She felt like she was on a rollercoaster ride from hell.
She had left Miranda in the den with the excuse of bringing them much needed caffeine. The editor had nodded but not turned from the window where her eyes stared at the stationary sun illuminating the eastern horizon. It stood frozen on its upward zenith, like a painting of the New York City skyline at morning.
Andy was trying to not freak out, but was finding the task a bit impossible considering the circumstances. She let the coolness of the granite under her cheek seep into her, and tried to calm her inner turmoil. The editor was reluctant in sharing her history, but once started she was forthcoming with details that the young woman wished she had withheld.
Hypnotized by the drip and splash of each drop of coffee, the journalist's mind replayed the conversation she and Miranda were having before she fled the den.
"A little more than a decade ago, I was visited by a messenger and given a directive," Miranda started as if forced, "I was given a measure of power to go about the job given. Wings, empathy, healing, some strength, all things I did not want nor need. All to go with a job I refused to do. That is, until my first charge. The pleasure I took in breaking her, in crushing her, was addicting. From that moment on, I enjoyed the heady rush of destroying the human will."
Andy shuddered at the smirk that spread Miranda's lips. But she did not interrupt, she listened.
"I was never a tactile person, but after some of my former traits reasserted themselves, I was even less so," the editor continued. "It was counterproductive to insult someone only to touch them and feel remorse at the necessary action." Miranda looked pensive, "I suppose refraining from touching people made me even more fearful and unapproachable. I can't say I mind that side benefit."
Andy tamped down the desire to inject judgment or comment, she instead only supplied questions. "You said you fell to the temptation of great power fifty years ago," the journalist probed, "but I don't recall any great event in history happening during that time period."
"That's because I failed to attain the power I was seeking," Miranda said in a flat voice, face averted, "History would tell a different story otherwise."
Andy believed the statement wholeheartedly. If Miranda was a force to be reckoned with being only human, she could not imagine the force she was with real power.
"World War Two was simply a reflection of the celestial Great War," Andy tried to make sense of the off tangent statement, but Miranda did not give her opportunity to question the statement. "The visible realm has a tendency to move to the ebb and flow of the invisible, so when jarring conflict is taking place in the latter the former inevitably moves in the direction of war. At the onset of this realm's war, the camps for my realm's war were well defined: Light, Dark, and Shadow."
"There were three sides?" Andy interjected, the reporter in her seeking out the details.
Miranda shook her head, "Not in combat. Shadow agents originally set out to gather information for the Light. And, before long, they were the agents sent out to balance the scales in the mortal realm."
"You were one of these Shadow agents, I take it," the reporter stated.
The silver head bobbed. "I was tasked with conserving as much human life as possible. A simple task had I been allowed to actively use my power to save them. But Death would not be robbed of so many souls. So, a compromise was reached. I could only save lives through humanity itself. That was a much harder task, given human motivation and compassion." Miranda sighed heavily, a weight seeming to pull on her shoulders. "It finally came down to numbers. Sacrifice one million here for ten million there. The few died for the man, and I fulfilled my task."
Andy was horrified at the inhumanity of it all. Life and death came down to mathematics. She felt sick. Miranda physically withdrew from her. The journalist took a deep breath, trying to control her reactions. She knew it was not Miranda's fault; the woman did not need her shock on top of the guilt she so obviously felt.
"But," Miranda stared out the window and back ramrod straight, "I was getting the information to influence human decisions from a source that took pleasure in genocide. So, I was sacrificing few from particular ethnic groups for the many of diverse groups."
"You mean the Jews," Andy whispered.
"And the Romani," Miranda confirmed, voice emotionless, "among very few others."
Andy opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she had no words.
"After the Great War had ended, and subsequently World War Two, I was left reeling with not only the blood of so many innocents on my hands but also the near annihilation of their lineages and cultures." Miranda would not turn to meet Andy's eyes, her posture was stiff as if readying to ward off attack. "I weakened the human race by taking away cultures and diversity inherent in distinctive groups of people. But, I fulfilled my duty. I did my job. And the slight oversight on my part was overlooked." Miranda did not sound as if that made her happy at all. "In an effort to make amends, I began seeking enough power to remedy so much death by helping those left regroup, rebuild and restart. I was enticed by a dissenter that promised power enough to atone for the souls on my charge."
"That was the right thing to do," Andy agreed, even though it mattered little in the grand scheme of things.
"Not according to the powers that be," Mirada's voice was laced with fire, showing the first real sign of the emotion weighing down on her, "I could commit genocide on behalf of a war not even of your own making, but it was treason to ally myself to someone of the Dark to rebalance scales I had tipped."
"How is that treason?" The journalist did not see the betrayal. "You weren't going to use the power against your side."
Silence met Anyd's statement. Miranda did not refute it or defend herself, "It was the only way. The source of power was intentionally hidden from me by my fellow comrades. I had apparently become a liability to the stability of the Light. When I made a play to attain the power, I was found out and succinctly crushed."
"You made one mistake, and for a noble cause," Andy protested, unbelieving at the rigidity of whatever system Miranda was subject to, "couldn't they have forgiven you one error?"
"No," Miranda's answer was vehement, "we are afforded no such luxury. There is no mercy, no forgiveness, and no redemption for an angel. That is a privilege afforded only to the human race. And, you squander it like it is dross."
"You're human now, Miranda," Andy pointed out, trying to wrap her mind around everything, "And you are the most unbending person I know. You expect perfection from everyone, and afford no one the luxury of mistakes. You are human with the capacity for mercy but without an ounce of it." Andy paused as she considered the editor, aching sadness gripping her chest, "But, I think, I can finally understand why you're that way."
"I am not," Miranda's answer was emphatic, but Andy was not sure was she was denying. "I am human in body, yes. And, unfortunately, in emotion as well. But, not in ideology. I am burdened with the memories of a past I cannot break free from. I show no mercy because none has ever been shown to me. I do not know how to give it. You have no idea what a burden it is to bear the weight of so many souls on a human conscious. While I was an angel I felt remorse, but it was under the guise of duty. I felt little but the need to help those left behind; I had only done my job, after all." Eyes almost violet in shade finally turned to her. "But, in this mortal coil, I feel agonizing guilt over every single person that died because I was just doing my job." Miranda struggled with herself, "Don't you see? I haven't ever learned to be merciful and forgiving, so my capacity for it is meaningless." Her gaze suddenly bored into Andy. "Until you. I treated you worse than I've treated everyone else, simply because you made me feel more. And yet, you continually forgave me and came back for more. You afford me mercy and dole out forgiveness freely. I am more the monster in your light." Blue eyes flashed as they fixed firmly on brown, "Why do you stay now but not in Paris?"
"I stay because I love you Miranda," Andy did not hesitate, though she was not sure at all when the conversation had turned back to the two of them specifically. The world was not making any sense, so why would Miranda who did not make sense even when the world did. She sighed heavily. "It killed me to leave you in Paris. Some part of me died that day. But, I couldn't stay. I couldn't be what you wanted. It would have destroyed me. I can never be that, not then and not now. That doesn't mean, though, that I don't love you. I want to be with you and part of your life. But, I need it to be on my own terms."
A sharp beeping pulled Andy from her thoughts. The coffee was ready. She lifted her head from the granite and moved mechanically to acquire cups and pour them generous portions of coffee. She took a deep breath and let the scent of something familiar soothe her nerves.
Setting her face in determination, Andy picked up the cups and walked back to the den.
Miranda had vacated her spot by the window and now sat, head laid back and eyes closed, against a large, brown, leather couch placed in front of an empty fireplace.
Andy sat next to the editor gently, thigh to thigh, careful not to spill the coffee. She was calmer now, a little more in control of her emotions. The editor shifted forward and graciously accepted the steaming cup.
"I was born into an impoverished Romani family in eastern Europe," Miranda began without any prompting, "Romania, I believe. Though, I never took the time to trace my family line." That made Andy sad for an inexplicable reason. "I was orphaned by some misfortune or other, and raised by the community," Miranda said without inflection as if talking about the weather, or something of equal inconsequence, "We are a very insular group of people and generally outcast everywhere. We wonder without a home. Nomadic by nature or by curse, I have put little thought into it."
"For a gypsy you seem quite settled," Andy was not sure what to do with the information Miranda was providing. It broke her heart that the woman had grown up without real family, or means to any good future she did not provide herself.
"Hardly," Miranda tried to ignore the sympathy flowing from the young woman, "I travel constantly. I stay in no place long enough to form any attachment to it."
"What about New York?" Andy wondered aloud, "Runway?"
"Tethers. Nothing more," the editor dismissed.
"But you haven't left the city since Paris," the journalist said before she could stop herself, "Something is keeping you here."
Sharp blue eyes narrowed. Andy shrugged and gave the editor a half smile. "Home is where the heart is, or some such nonsense."
The young woman could clearly hear what the Miranda was not saying. "You stay because of me," it was not a question. Andy set their cups aside and enveloped the editor in her arms; still unsure of so much, but certain about this thing between them.
Miranda rested her head on a strong shoulder and tried to relax. "I find it impossible to be too far from you," blue eyes closed.
Andy rested her cheek against the silver head, "What do we do?"
"We wait," Miranda said, seething at her helplessness, her powerlessness.
"I thought we had free will and all that jazz, no meddling or interfering," Andy said, fear creeping up her spine.
"You do," Miranda moved to look at the young woman, "I am bound to do the will of my Master."
It was odd to think of Miranda at the behest of anyone but herself. Andy could see how it grated the editor to be collared. "You're human, too, Miranda," Andy was adamant, feeling indignant on the editor's behalf, "that means you have free will."
"More than most of my kind," the editor smiled sadly at the journalist as she stood to pace; restless energy pumped through her, "I lost my free will when I let you walk away in Paris."
"You made it impossible for me to stay," Andy tried to defend herself again, Paris was a sticking point for them, "You gave me an ultimatum that I couldn't agree to and still be me."
"I know," Miranda nodded remembering, "You would have stayed otherwise."
"You wanted me to leave?" Andy head was spinning again, and not in any pleasant way.
"Yes," Miranda said evenly, "I couldn't trade your free will for my own. I loved you too much. But, I also wanted you to stay more than I ever wanted anything in my entire life."
"Miranda, I don't understand," Andy stood pulling the editor to a stop. She raised her hands to cup the editor's face between her palms. "Please, help me understand," she pleaded.
The editor sighed in defeat. "I was told you were coming. You, they said, were different. You had the potential to replace me. All I had to do was make you stay, and I would be freed. I was expecting you when you arrived in my office with your righteousness and innocence. I was ready to tear you down piece by piece and rebuild you to be me."
"Do you really think you would be different if you weren't burdened with the memories of who you used to be?" Andy asked truly curious, not judging Miranda's desire to be free of the burden she carried. "Your life won't be different. You would still have lived the same life, only with the memories of before gone."
"Perhaps, I would be the same. Perhaps not," Miranda's voice was her usual soft whisper, "I would like the opportunity of the freedom to choose. But not at your cost. It is strange that the first time I feel my humanity assert itself, it does not do so in my own interest, but in the interest of another. It makes me think there is perhaps some honor and nobility in our race."
"Love is a great equalizer," Andy wrapped her arms around thin shoulders, feeling arms snake around her waist. The two women held each other tightly. "What do you think is going to happen?"
"Most likely, we will be returned to a moment of an important decision for both of us," Miranda spoke into the crook of Andy's neck, "A moment that defined who we are. Your memory of anything that's happened up to this point will disappear quickly; my memory will be wiped completely."
"I refuse to believe that's the only way out of this," Andy squeezed the editor tighter, "I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose you."
"It's not a question of belief. We have very limited power, there's not much fight we can put up," Miranda felt tears seep through her shirt, "But nothing in any world is more powerful than love. Nothing. That cannot be lost or taken away. It exists above any power in the universe."
"Why can't it save us now?" Andy's voice shook.
"Perhaps it can," Miranda's voice sounded far away and the journalist's vision blurred at the edges before darkening completely. She felt like she was fading away into nothingness. Never forget how much I love you, Andrea.
Andy gasped, the world solidifying around her. She was seated in the back of a car. Her wide brown eyes tried to register where and when exactly she was. Everything was fuzzy in her mind; there was something she needed to remember to do, but she could not quite recall what it was. She turned to the familiar presence beside her. Miranda's hand was lifted but paused in midair as if unsure if she should offer some sort of comfort to the obviously agitated young woman beside her. Lips thinning into a displeased line, the editor fisted her hand and dropped it to the space between them.
Andy swallowed roughly as she studied Miranda. Her eyes flitted momentarily to the view outside the editor's window. Paris. Andy was back in Paris. In the back of a black Mercedes with Miranda elegantly outfitted in the black ensemble she wore when she offered the young woman the world on a silver platter. It felt like déjà vu, but the sensation was fading quickly as if only an imagined memory. The car slowed as it transitioned out of traffic. Flashes of light from the waiting paparazzi jolted Andy out of her surprised stupor. She realized she could correct their course at this very juncture. Andy could change their future. She was not exactly what future she was saving them from, but she felt an insistent tug in her heart that she needed to do something and fast.
"Take another loop," the command in the assistant's voice was unquestionable. The car quietly slipped back into traffic. Miranda did not protest the order; she simply awaited the young woman's decision. Though an arched eyebrow communicated that the assistant better hurry and explain herself.
"Miranda," Andy waited until the editor turned to face her fully, "I'm quitting." The editor stiffened completely, lips pursing in displeasure, blue eyes piercing even through the sunglasses she was wearing. Andy could feel the laser intensity, and she felt a thrill of fear whisper through her. Taking a steadying breath, the assistant continued, "I don't want fame and fortune." Delicate nostrils flared, but otherwise the editor did not move. "I don't want you to think you can buy me or entice me into your world with things." Miranda's eyes narrowed and her jaw tensed. Andy knew she was inciting the wrath of La Priestly but she needed to say her piece. Like I should have the first time around, the errant thought bounced in her head but she could not place it, she had never been in this situation with the editor before. "I am not you, Miranda. We are similar in traits I admire in you, but we are not alike. And, I don't want to be like you," Andy could see blue eyes flash with hurt and insult through the tinted lenses.
"So, I'm quitting," the young woman moved her hand to envelop the fisted one Miranda had between them. Andy felt the editor pull away but she held firm. With her free hand, the young woman removed Miranda's sunglasses. The editor allowed the liberty. "But, I'm not leaving you," chocolate eyes held ice blue. Andy cupped an alabaster cheek, her heart fluttering as Miranda involuntarily leaned into the touch.
"If you love me," the assistant took an enormous leap of faith. Breath bated, Andy watched mesmerized as some great emotion flashed through the blue eyes before her. She stared fascinated as those eyes darkened from sky blue to ocean blue. The intensity directed her direction was palpable, she fell into the blue depths, "I'll stand by you. I'll stay for you. Just love me like I love you."
Andy closed the distance between them slowly, giving Miranda every opportunity to stop her if she so chose. The editor unfurled her fist, tangling her fingers with Andy's, before moving her free hand around the young woman's waist and meeting her half way. Warm, soft lips met and fused, and the world righted itself. Miranda clung to Andy, and Andy clung to Miranda.
And it did not matter that Andy was smearing painstakingly applied make-up, or that the driver was privy to their kiss, or that Miranda had to make an appearance at the final party of Paris Fashion Week. All that mattered was that Andy's lips tasted of salvation, and the love connecting the women offered redemption.
Fin
