Summary/Rating/Disclaimer - found on first entry. The rating gets bumped up to R or M in this chapter.
AN - This is where it gets a little mature. If you're made uncomfortable or underage or the like, I suggest you skip this chapter. If you've made it this far, and through the behemoth that was Chapter Nine, 3 3 3 and appreciations. As always, every view or review means more than you will know.
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Chapter Ten - Home to Her
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She is exhausted.
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She is tired, and weary and exhausted and wants to go home. She should've gone home. Instead she's here, standing in the hall, waiting for the door to open.
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Why is she here?
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She can hear the music, loud from the other side of the door. She knocks louder, hoping to be heard over the din. The sooner Andrea opens the door, the less time she'll have to race through all the reasons this is wrong. At last count, there was 72 reasons on her list, jotted during the flight back into JFK. Miranda's so focused on her list that she doesn't realize the door has opened until she hears Andrea's voice - a half sigh greeting her with a simple "Hi!" She stands there for a moment, taking in the delicious sight of Andrea in yoga pants and bare feet and a tank top - hair disheveled, dish towel in her hand and she's overcome for a moment with this sensation that she promptly files for later. There have been so many thoughts, so many feelings over the last week, emotions and realizations she is unprepared to deal with, and she is a woman who prides herself on being prepared.
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Suddenly it's too much - the emotions, the realizations and the 72 reasons - she steps forward and is suddenly lost in the feel of Andrea wrapping her arms around her. The movement is swift and fluid. The door closes behind her, behind them, as a near-silent period. The end of the sentence and the beginning of a new one.
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She should speak.
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She should say something, but Andrea feels so warm, surrounding her in softness, in compassion that she finds herself on the verge of tears. The tears she didn't cry the whole time in Arizona. Tears she hadn't cried in so long for Peter, and Susan, and Greg, and her girls and maybe even herself. She couldn't recall the last time she cried - tears were useless and puffed her eyes and ruined her make up and her image. She wouldn't start again here, with Andrea, no matter how tempted she was. She hears Andrea murmuring in her ear, not quite cooing, but a soft stream of sounds and words that she couldn't quite place so much as feel all over her skin as if she were a child, a helpless child.
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She manages to tear herself away from the other woman, a deep breath helping restore her strength, a setting of her jaw restoring her composure. "I'm sorry Andrea, I must be terrifying you, showing up on your doorstep like this."
"Not at all Miranda. At least not until you apologized." A cocked grin on the other woman's face helps Miranda balance again. Had Andrea always been this graceful, this kind?
"I should go, it looks like you're expecting company."
"No." Andrea answers simply, stepping behind Miranda and wordlessly helping remove her trench coat. "Just caught me in a domestic moment. I have them every so often if I'm stuck on a piece." She hangs the coat in the closet and makes her way back to the kitchen, calling out "How was your flight back?"
"Awful, but then again, domestic travel always is." Miranda answers back after a moment, following the other woman. If Andrea is insisting on this domestic charade, then who was she to interrupt her make-believe? The kitchen is small, and looks like every other kitchen in every other prefab condo nowadays, but was bursting with … Andrea. She suspects the rest of the flat was the same. It seems the woman had a skill for marking everything as her own, making something out of nothing, sows ears and silk purses (or words to that extend).
"Can I get you a drink?"
"I should get home," She responds, and then falters for a moment, looking at the younger woman leaning against the fridge with the most amused look on her face. She wants very much to kiss that look off her face, but doesn't know how. "I stopped here first, for some unknown reason."
"But if you leave, you'll miss the grand tour." Andrea shrugs, "You haven't been here before."
"I need to shower."
"Funny enough…" Andrea begins, moving towards her slowly, "I'm pretty sure I have one of those. And you…" She stands as close to Miranda as she can without touching her, "Have everything you need in your suitcase."
"Do I?" Her mouth is dry. Her stomach is flipping around. Her heart is racing and she's just praying her décolletage isn't betraying her with its telltale blush of desire.
"Almost." Andrea slips past to just behind Miranda and sets forth pouring some wine and offering it to Miranda. "Now you do. Come on, let me give you the five cent tour."
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She slips her hand into Miranda's and walks her through her small flat, "The breakfast nook, the living room/study/guest room" She smiles when she notice Miranda's eyes gravitate to her shelves and shelves of books. "The observation deck." She indicates to the large floor to ceiling windows that reveal the twinkling lights of Brooklyn and it's famed bridge. From the care Andrea takes in pointing this out and the left over cup of coffee on the small table by them, Miranda suspects this is Andrea's favorite place in the apartment. It's pedestrian, yes, but endearing. With a gentle tug, the tour continues, "The bedroom" Andrea blushes, moving past the bed, nudging something underneath it with her foot, leading her to… "As I suspected, the shower." The look of pride on and amusement on the other woman's face is enough to make Miranda raise an eyebrow.
"Are you trying to get me to disrobe Andrea?"
"Absolutely. The brunette slides in and with a swift motion, places a hand on her waist and a kiss on her unsuspecting mouth. After a second, Miranda breathes into it, relaxing into it. It's not hurried, or pressured, there's so much simmering below the surface between the two of them. "I have dinner on the stove. I should check on it." Andrea apologizes as she steps back.
"A woman can get used to hearing that."
"Could she?" Andrea asks as she makes her way back to the kitchen, leaving Miranda alone with her thoughts… mainly, was the saunter and sway of Andrea's hips.
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She sighs as she glances at herself in the mirror. The opportunity is tempting, there's no point in denying it. After a week of non-stop company, the idea of going to an empty house, seems somewhat lonely. Especially when there was Andrea here. Andrea, with her warmth and kindness. No matter how complex Miranda's thoughts were regarding the other woman, the being with her was simple. But there was more at play here then her desires. If she stayed:
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Would they sleep together?
Would Andrea even want to sleep with a middle aged mother of two(no matter how fit and trim)?
As the middle aged mother of two, was she ready to sleep with a woman barely in her 30s?
Was she ready to sleep with a woman?
What did she know about sleeping with a woman?
Was she ready to sleep with anyone?
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She doubted it was truly said by Marilyn Monroe, but sentiment held true, the few people she had bedded had slept with Miranda and were severely disappointed when they woke up with Miriam. She hated that name. She hated the look in their faces when they realized it. When they convinced themselves they'd been tricked, been duped into - she feels eyes on her. Andrea is watching from the doorway, towels in hand. "Just in case." She shrugs, placing them on the sink. "You have time before dinner, I've just started the side."
"I should go."
"Ok." Andrea doesn't move, and neither does she. She can pick out some words from the music coming from the living room, something about being too young, being too old. She wonders if Andrea's picked this out for a reason, or if it was just serendipitous? After a beat Andrea blinks and turns, making her way back to the kitchen. In her wake, Miranda can see her suitcase placed on a chair, ready to open, ready to stay. Why does this woman even want her to stay? She's mean and cruel and confused and generally not very easy to be around. But still, Andrea does everything in her power to be accommodating. She's the human equivalent of a mindless Saint Bernard, albeit an attractive human equivalent.
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This really isn't going to end well, she thinks to herself, depositing her phone on the charger by Andrea's bed and unzipping her suitcase. Better to get this over with now, instead of after. Save them both some heartache. She undoes her blouse, she unpacks her cosmetics, she digs out a change of clothes, she runs the shower to warm it (after she inspects it thoroughly and is pleased to find Andrea's spat of domesticity has extended to a meticulously scrubbed tub), she glides her hand over Andrea's bed (the sheets will do for now, but she'll need to purchase some better ones if she expects to make this…a habit), she looks at the few photos on the dresser and the wall - a brood of dark haired people, her family, she suspects. So odd to think of Andrea, her Andrea, as part of a unit, an entity independent of New York. What was her reinvention like, she ponders, stripping nude and stepping under the warm stream of water (the water pressure passible), going from perky student to seducing Miranda Priestly. She knows appallingly little about the other woman's life before their reintroduction. She thinks on how she'd like to keep it this way.
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Separate.
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She doesn't know why.
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She washes her hair, washes her face (a sign of defeat or submission, she only rarely allows herself the comfort of this bad habit), washes her body. She needs to decide, before stepping out of safety of the bedroom, just how far she'll go tonight. The list, with the 72 reasons is still valid. But that is something to be dealt with tomorrow. For tonight, she's decided to indulge in comforts she's accustomed to denying herself. The warmth of the other woman, a second (or third) glass of wine, washing her face in the shower. She finally steps out from beneath the stream, refreshed, despite the late hour, despite the travel and the uncertainty. She takes great care in applying moisturizer to every inch of her still damp skin. She selects a perfume, then reconsiders, putting it back down. She towel dries her hair and uses some oil and some product to tame it, opting to finger comb it all back, not wanting to deal with the hairdryer, not wanting to blur the lines between Miranda and Miriam. It isn't fair testing Andrea like this, but it's necessary, for the both of them. She leaves her arms, her neck, her body unadorned, choosing to slip into simple sand colored silk slacks and a slim white camisole, a loose stone colored linen sweater over it. She doesn't smile so much as nod at her reflection in the mirror, building up her courage to open the door and step out. She hasn't decided yet, her hand on the doorknob, listening for clues on the other side of the door. There's the sound of china landing on the tables, pots in the sink, the soft pop of another bottle of wine being opened. Eventually, it's the sound of her stomach growling in protest that makes her decide to open the door. She decides that it doesn't have to mean anything, the open door doesn't have to a metaphor for her decision. It can simply be an open door.
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She finds Andrea seated on the couch, not quite sprawled, but definitely languishing, book in hand, wine glass by her side. "Hello." She murmurs as she makes her way over to Andrea.
"Hello you." The other woman smiles up at her as she dog ears the corner of the book. She tries not to wince - of course Andrea's the type of person who'd do that. Andrea begins to laugh.
"What?"
"You don't approve of dog earring. Noted." She rises, tucking the book between the couch cushion and the arm of the couch. "I know I shouldn't be surprised, but I am a little jealous of how good you look fresh from the shower." Andrea comments, placing a quick kiss on her lips. "Are you hungry?"
"Famished." Miranda confesses, a little stunned at the other woman's ease. She looks almost nothing like her persona, her alter-ego, sometimes even she has difficulty recognizing herself without the trappings of Miranda, and yet, this woman took no note.
"Great, because I'd be lying if I said I didn't put a lot of work into dinner." Andrea smirks before taking her hand and leading her to the breakfast nook.
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Dinner is an easy affair, slow and meandering. Andrea had made a mushroom and truffle polenta with a simple salad on the side. It was surprisingly delicious and Miranda chooses to forget that at some point, there had been a cook in the picture. They touch throughout the meal - a hand, a foot, anything. At first it throws Miranda off, but she finds she becomes accustomed to it quickly. They eventually find themselves on the couch, still touching, still talking. Until the talking turns to kissing and the touching… the touching. At some point while they were distracted, Andrea navigates herself onto Miranda's lap, a thigh on either side of the other woman, straddling her. She's too focused on mapping Miranda's lips, Miranda's neck, Miranda's collarbones to notice the heat rising from their bodies. She's thankful for the other woman's damp hair, she doesn't need to worry about mussing it as she runs her fingers through it and tugs back slightly to allow greater access to her neck. Andy finds it incredible being the source and the cause of Miranda's moans. She feels Miranda's hands undo her ponytail, run through her hair, over and over and over again until she has no choice but to remove her mouth off Miranda and just breathe. It's difficult to breathe, it's difficult to focus on anything as long as the other woman's hands were in her hair. She can hear a whimper and is surprised to find it coming from herself. "Please," She whispers, half-hoping the music drowns out her words, "Please Miranda." She can't help keep her hips from their rhythm, pushing themselves against Miranda's own, rising to meet their mate. The older woman lowers her hands from Andrea's hair and for a moment, they just allow themselves the moment, staring into each other's eyes, trying to communicate without words, give their racing hearts a moment to catch up, half-praying their hips slow their roll. With a deep breath, Andy grabs the hem of her top and yanks it over her head, revealing her breasts, pink with desire in a simple bra. Miranda feels a flood of stickiness between her legs, unlike anything she could remember experiencing. She raises a hand and slowly drags it from the other woman's stomach up to her cotton-clad breasts, she hovers above the swell, brushing over Andrea's skin as if it were precious - before reaching behind her and unclasping her bra. Andrea slides it off and flings it into a dark corner and waits.
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She waits.
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Her body literally aches with desire, with the desire to touch Miranda, to be touched everywhere the way she knows Miranda wants to, but still can't bring herself to. She breathes slowly, trying to temper her want of the other woman and waits.
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Miranda, for what it's worth, is taking in Andrea. Is taking in every last inch, every last detail of the other woman. Her hair, her eyes glowing, the blush on her cheeks, on her breasts, the surprising smattering of freckles and feel of her hips rolling into hers softly. It's clear that she was more than willing and was just waiting for Miranda.
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The number of times Miranda had felt like a Queen was countless. She was as close to one that America and that Fashion could have. She ruled the modern equivalent of Empires, but here and now, having Andrea on her lap, half-nude and breathing hard and heavy with desire, she wonders if this is what it feels like to be a King. She has no doubt that Andrea would fulfill every desire, but would she know how to return it? What does she know about another woman's body? She barely knows anything about her own and she's been living with it for more years than she cares to count. She feels a soft touch on her cheek, Andrea's brown eyes are peering into hers, reminding her to return to this moment, this place. "It's ok to want, Miranda. And it's ok if you don't want to… go any further." After a moment, she moves to reach for the discarded tank top, but is stopped by the woman beneath her.
"This isn't easy for me, Andrea." She murmurs, moving her head closer, pressing her forehead to the other woman's. "This isn't me."
"This is you, Miranda. And this is me. Just you and me. That's all." She smiles and places a chaste kiss on Miranda's lips, Swiftly she feels the other woman's hand on her breast, cupping the weight and circling the nipple with her thumb. She snaps her head back with surprise and lets out a sudden sound of desire. The touch, as quick, as sudden as it was, sends a jolt through her, from the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair. The sudden arching of her back made it very easy for Miranda to be able to lower her mouth to the other breast and tease it with her teeth and soothe it with her tongue.
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She begins to pant out Miranda's name or as close to it as she can get. Every nerve is alive and sparking and breathing is difficult. Thinking is out of the question - the only thing running through Andy's mind is a mantra consisting of begging Miranda for release. By the time Miranda's hand makes it past Andrea's waistband, she's whimpering from the verge of climax. She clings tightly to Miranda, her arms wrapped tightly around the other woman's neck so that every sound from her lips send hot breath to the shell of her ear. Despite the awkward angle, Miranda's hand lingers between the damp curves between Andrea's legs. She can literally smell how close Andrea is to … in her hands. She can hear it in the moans, now just a string of sounds and she can feel it in the dampness in her hand. She has never held this much power in a sexual relationship before and she wants to relish this moment, this absolute need the other woman has for her, in case she never gets to experience it again.
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In case Andrea never wants her like this again.
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That thought causes her heart to drop and her fingers to slide hard into Andrea. She hopes, in some twisted way, that the other woman feels the same pain as she did at the thought, but all she can feel is the younger woman tighten around her fingers, tighten around her shoulder. This woman is hers now. This is all she can think about. That this woman is hers. She works her hand in and out now, ignoring the cramping and discomfort. Andrea is hers. Andrea is hers. The thought speeds up to match her the pace set by her hand, by the other woman's hips, until she feels Andrea clench tightly around her and then suddenly release, spent and exhausted. She feels her go limp in her arms, she feels goosebumps rise across her skin. A contented sigh slips past Andrea's lips, "Thank you." She murmurs, burrowing her head in the other woman's neck.
"So polite." Miranda tries to tease, but unsure what comes next. "I do need my hand back."
"No you don't. You can go to work like this, can't you? Call it the latest accessory?"
"I could, but - my hand, it's…uncomfortable." She confesses.
"Oh!" Andrea exclaims, finally realizing the angle at which Miranda held her. She rises slightly, allowing Miranda to slip out from within her. She feels the loss immediately and acutely. She settles back down on Miranda's lap, not wanting to release the other woman from their position. She watches as Miranda attempts to deal with her hand in the most ladylike of manners and can't help but feel mesmerized by the sight of the other woman flexing them, coaxing blood and sensation back to them. She knew she should be embarrassed, but all she could think about was how those slim fingers who flicked through pages and balanced a red marker with grace were just inside her. Was that really her making those sounds? Saying those words (whatever they may be)? They should've waited, they should've moved to the bedroom, they should've -
"Andrea?" Miranda softly speaks, "Are you alright?"
"I -" She takes the other woman's face in hers and kisses her firmly, hoping to convince the other woman to stay, to overlook whatever embarrassment she may have caused.
"Well, not that I object, but what was that for?"
"Thank you."
"You already said that."
"Just…I'm…sorry, if it was too fast, or not fast enough or - and I haven't even done anything for you and -"
"Andrea, calm down." She hooks free hand around Andrea's back, "Your chatter is threatening to ruin a perfectly lovely moment." She reaches for the tank top and tries to wipe her hand, but finds the stickiness has dried. She looks at it, curious about the taste, the smell, some men had such a desire for it, but she couldn't bring herself to raise it to her lips, not yet. She blushes at the though. "As for me, I assure you, you have more than satisfied me for the time being. You are…magnificent." She looks the younger woman in the eye as she says this, willing her to see it as truth. She holds eye contact until the other woman looks convinced. Miranda hates herself for this moment, because it's true. She is as satisfied as if Andrea actually…did anything to her. She doesn't know why the other woman seems embarrassed, Miranda is the one who should feel shame over her actions, her loss of control over her actions and her desires, her desire to possess the other woman. That feeling seems so foreign now, as if it were another woman who acted, another woman who wore Miranda's skin and clothes as if they were her own.
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So there they are. Each alone in their thoughts.
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Andy eventually rises and winces. "I'm going to need to take up yoga, or at least stretch before we do that again." She laughs, offering Miranda her hand to help her off the couch.
"You're awfully certain about the repeat performance." Miranda responds, raising an eyebrow, pursing her lips.
"I… can we not joke about that? At least right now? Tonight?" Andrea asks, hiding her head beneath her hair. "Can we just…" She squeezes Miranda's hand for a moment then leads her to the bedroom.
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Miranda watches the fog.
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It doesn't move or roll or float. It just hangs in the air, covering the city in a velvety blanket. She wishes she were at home, on her rooftop, feeling the cold damp on her skin. She slides the window open as far as it will go and sticks her free hand out, desperate for some contact with it, however slight.
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She sips her coffee.
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This is her favorite time of day. It's quiet. Tranquil. It allows her to think. She has so much to think about now. What is she even doing with Andrea? It scares her and she is not a woman who likes to be scared. She doesn't have time for this waffling on her late-in-life lesbian conversion. She doesn't have time or patience for waffling in general. She doesn't have time for Andrea, or whatever they are playing at. She doesn't have time for self-indulgence. She knows what she has to do. She doesn't know why she's hesitating. She's never hesitated before. She's always known what she wants, what needs to be done, then has acted swiftly to obtain the desired outcome. This inability to act is new and all together unpleasant.
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More than that, it's dangerous to her.
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It's dangerous to play with things and people she can't control, can't predict. Andrea is not a woman she can predict. Hidden in her bouts of domesticity, in her skill as a writer, her talent for charming others, is a dangerous woman just now starting to realize her power. Of course it's power, what else can it be that makes Miranda think of things she hasn't thought of in years? Things like home, things like…this could be her every day. Not this apartment, with the childproof windows and this view, but this woman, this delicious soreness in her muscles, this unexpected turn of events.
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She feels a warm body press into her from behind, hesitant and tentative, an arm slides around her waist and chin rests upon her shoulder. "Here you are." Andrea whispers in her ear.
"Here I am." Miranda murmurs, not looking back.
"You looked deep in thought, I didn't want to interrupt, but my robe went missing this morning."
"Can't imagine where it went." Miranda purses her lips into a smile as she recalls sliding the other woman's grey silk over her body this morning.
"I missed you this morning."
"Well here I am."
"I was talking to my robe." Andrea teases, nipping Miranda's exposed neck. "You look like you're thinking serious thoughts."
"What are we doing?"
"I love you."
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She raises her eyebrow in surprise. It appears she was correct about the other woman's unpredictability.
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"Don't be childish Andrea?"
"I have come to realize I am very much in love with you Miranda. And if this ends here and now, before it really even begins,then I may as well do whatever I can, say whatever I want."
"It's impossible. You're impossible."
"Everybody needs something impossible to hope for."
"I don't do anything by half measure Andrea, you should know this about me by now."
"Neither do I Miranda."
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Miranda can feel Andrea's jaw set as it digs into her shoulder.
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"Do you know what it means to be in a relationship with me?"
"No, but I love you enough to want to find out. I think I've loved you since…I don't know when. You don't… you don't have to love me, Miranda. I'm not asking for that. I'm just asking you to…try this. Try me."
"You are a human, Andrea, not a garment to try on."
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She turns in Andrea's arm, shocked and a little thrilled that the other woman is nude.
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"Speaking of, why don't you have any clothes on?"
"Because my robe went missing." Andrea shrugs, running her hand down the front of the robe. "Put down the mug Miranda."
"Why?"
"Because I'm about to kiss you and I don't want to break the mug. It's mya favorite."
"Already at this stage of the relationship? Mundanities about robes and mugs?"
"So it seems."
"Very well." Miranda sighs, placing the mug on the table, steeling herself for Andrea's kiss.
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Tawdry novels talk about drowning in a kiss but with Andrea, it is as if she can finally breathe, she can breathe deeply and safely, without worry or fear.
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Predictability is overrated. And isn't she always complaining about the derivativeness of every day? The danger of routine? She doesn't have time or patience for waffling. She wants this woman. This is a fact. She wants this woman, so she will have this woman. As she said to Andrea earlier, she isn't one to deny herself such pleasures. Such desires. It was going to hurt when it ends. And it was going to end. Poorly most likely. Pain was the only certainty in a relationship like this, with a person as volatile as she was, as they both were. But wasn't that what life was all about?
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She feels the belt of the robe slide open, the heat of Andrea's skin on hers. She feels the ground move beneath her feet before she realizes Andrea is leading them to the bedroom. Pushing them onto the still unmade bed.
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"I want you."
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Neither of them can tell who said it. It could've so easily been either one of them.