NOT PROPOSING
"Miranda," Andy said, from the muffled depths of the older woman's hall closet, where she was depositing her coat, "Is there some reason you have a red bedazzled trident in here?"
"Oh that. Some ridiculous Page Six person sent it over as a wedding gift."
There was a thunk. Andrea emerged rubbing her head. "Ow. Wedding? We're getting married?"
"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous," Miranda said. "Now come out of the closet, darling."
Andrea snorted. "I thought I already had. Well both of us. All of your wining and dining me for weeks and weeks was hardly going to go unnoticed."
"Wining and dining," Miranda snorted. "More like whining and dining. How many mea culpas did I end up performing? Did it average one grovelling apology per course, dear?"
Her eyes twinkled. Miranda was surprised to find herself more amused and impressed than anything else at how much effort Andrea had required from her before agreeing to recommit to their relationship. It actually raised her considerably higher in Miranda's estimation. Women should place a high value on themselves. Hadn't she tried to teach her daughters exactly this? Andrea couldn't be a better role model. Not to mention she was kind and generous and brought laughter back into their home.
Not that she had shared any of this. Miranda could do without further smug looks. Andrea was insufferable enough as it was, after putting Miranda through a Herculean set of embarrassing trials. The dinner apologies, as it turned out, had been just the tip of the iceberg of the intense months of grovelling required. She shuddered at several still burning memories.
"Well you deserved it," Andrea said firmly, and closed the closet door, turning to face her. "I wasn't going to accept you back without a full and clear display of utter contrition. And, as you know, the girls agreed with me that this was the correct procedure. You raised them well," she added with a gleam.
"Ah yes, your mini-me accomplices. I suppose that serenaded apology at your apartment door was their idea, too?"
"I had no idea you had such a lovely voice, Miranda," Andrea giggled. "Neither did my neighbors. So what gave away whose idea it was?"
"Unless your musical tastes have regressed to the chewing gum classics from Frozen - the twins' all-time favorite musical I might add - then, yes, I did suspect their hand in the song title you texted me to perform."
Andrea gave her that goofy smile that absolutely did not melt Miranda from the inside out nor turn her into a pathetic pile of goo.
"What?" Miranda asked in the face of that appallingly adorable expression. Really, how was one supposed to concentrate when fixed with such a look?
"You sang it. You sang 'Let it Go', in public, for ME."
Andrea was glowing again.
Honestly.
"Well it wasn't so much 'in public' as to a dimly lit hallway lined with closed doors," Miranda rolled her eyes.
Andrea slid her arms around Miranda. "Mmm, yes, closed doors, behind which were actual people, none of whom, I note, complained once. Although old Mrs Fredericks in 4B declared your voice was 'lovely' when we crossed paths in the laundry room the next day."
"How on earth did she know it was me?" Miranda gasped. The only thing saving her last shred of tattered dignity had been her sense of anonymity in that darkened hallway eight weeks ago.
"Well who else would be loitering outside my apartment for starters? And who would change the lyrics to 'Let Page Six rage on, the paps never bothered me anyway'?"
"Ah, that. The song was insipid in its original form. If I was required to sing for my love, it wasn't going to be with those dreadful lyrics."
Andrea was looking at her strangely.
"What is it?" Miranda's eyebrows lifted.
The hands around her waist tightened and tugged her towards a soft, warm belly. "You just called me your 'love'. Careful La Priestly, or I'll start to think this prickly act of yours hides a mushy heart capable of romance."
Miranda smirked and couldn't bring herself to make her usual trademark retort. Instead she just gazed at Andrea, now her Andrea, and traced a stray hair, curling it back behind the brunette's ear.
"Pure speculation," she whispered. "You have no proof of such wild allegations." She leaned forward and captured Andrea's lips in her own.
Her heart rate leaped as it usually did when she felt the whisper of the other woman's lips moving against her own. The desire had been the other wonderful new development in recent months. Miranda had discovered she was capable of multiple orgasms. And, she had discovered a rather avid interest in trying to elicit them from Andrea. How many and how often and under what circumstances was an ongoing research project she hoped to be able to continue indefinitely. Her present line of inquiry involved soft lighting, donning white stockings (wearing nothing else), and trailing silk scarves over youthful, pliant skin until nipples hardened into pebbles.
At that thought she gave a purr against Andrea's throat, pleased at the goosebumps that instantly erupted. She smiled. The young woman was impossibly adorable.
"Imagine the rumor I could start," Andrea murmured softly against her ear. She blew at strands of white hair. "The devil has a heart. And it's beautiful. And sweet."
"They'd never believe such a ridiculous story, darling," Miranda said firmly. "Even the National Enquirer would baulk at that one on the grounds it's too outlandish."
Andrea laughed against her neck. "I think you're kidding yourself again. Like all those times you said we didn't have sex and weren't friends and weren't dating. I think you're really the queen of denial. I dread to think what your non-marriage proposal might be like..."
"White is a very attractive color," Miranda said nonchalantly. "It would look good on you."
Andrea blinked at her. "Miranda?"
"Not that it should be big, our all-white 'party'. We could invite a celebrant. Who could perhaps say a few words and ask a few questions, to which the answers would be a resounding yes. At least on my side."
"You're proposing to me?" Andrea's eyes grew wide. "You want to marry me?"
"It would be a shame to waste the trident," Miranda argued. Her eyes danced. "And I wouldn't call it a wedding so much as a gathering of friends and a pure white theme."
"This is the weirdest proposal…"
"Proposal?" Miranda said innocently. She ran her fingers softly through Andrea's hair. "What an idea. The very notion that Miranda Priestly would propose to the woman she loves."
"Oh!" Andrea's eyes grew very wide. "Oh my God."
"Well?"
"Miranda," Andrea rolled her eyes and slapped her bicep playfully. "I'm still waiting for a real proposal. A girl doesn't wait her whole life to hope she gets invited to a white party."
"I suppose not," Miranda said after a beat. She sighed dramatically and lowered herself to one knee with a tiny groan. She was getting too old for this romance business. But one look at Andrea's shining face derailed that thought. She was glowing. Hope and joy suffused her beautiful, expressive face.
Miranda reached up for her hand and felt it was damp.
Goodness.
She swallowed. She really had no experience at this. At asking it, and meaning it, and truly loving. All of it. Any of it.
"Andrea," she began, shocked at how thick her voice sounded, rough with emotion. "I cannot imagine life without you. I do love you. Will you -"
"- YES!"
Andrea hauled Miranda to her feet and smothered her in kisses. The editor eyed her fondly.
"You will notice," she drawled, "That I still didn't actually propose."
She gave a cheeky grin and kissed the startled look off Andrea's astounded face.
No, no, Miranda Priestly did not do ridiculous things like propose marriage. How absurd.
A/N: Dedicating this chapter to Elliewrites who has been so wonderful in helping me with Americanisms in my fab lesbian novel I'm writing. This is also where I've been lately. I hope to drop in on my Mirandy fics again as time permits.