DISCLAIMER: The Devil Wears Prada and its characters belong to Lauren Weisberger and 20th Century Fox. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: My thanks to JazWriter13 for her excellent beta work, to Ginakasarahsmom for her stamp of approval, and to a_lou_jaxon for making sure I hadn't actually posted this somewhere before. It's kinda embarrassing when readers remember the stories better than I do.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To qhfletcher[at]gmail.com
Putting Her Foot Down
By quiethearted (QH Fletcher)
In the darkness, Andy lay curled on her side facing the bedroom door, just as she did every night once she crawled into the bed she'd shared with Miranda for the last fifteen years. Well, that wasn't actually true. She'd only been facing out for the last five years. The first ten had been spent spooning the woman she loved. Andy huffed and punched the pillow she was clutching. Okay, so it had been only five years of spooning. The first five had been spent half-lying beneath an exhausted Miranda, who would drape herself over Andy nightly as if she couldn't get close enough. The intervening years had seen Miranda slowing turning to face away from Andy as they slept. Now it had been five years of them barely touching at night. And sex?!
Andy rolled to her back and stared up at the ceiling, angry at the very thought of their non-existent sex life. She'd consider herself lucky if Miranda cut her off a Christmas piece, and that particular holiday was still months away. It wasn't like Andy hadn't tried. Some of her efforts had been downright humiliating. She closed her eyes and groaned softly as she thought of her last fruitless effort from earlier that night.
She'd forgone her usual choice of sleepwear and even passed up on the silk slip and robe Miranda had given her a few years ago for a barely -there lace vest and matching butt-floss undies. Damn, they'd been uncomfortable, but she'd figured a howitzer was better than a shotgun for hunting dragons. She'd draped herself invitingly over the bed and waited a ridiculously long time for Miranda to arrive home from work, knowing her first stop would be a long, hot shower to relax from the stresses of Runway.
Andy had struck her most inviting pose as Miranda entered their bedroom. She thrilled at the way Miranda's eyes had traveled leisurely over her body, convinced she was making progress until Miranda had opened her mouth and blown it all.
"Really, Andréa, where are your clothes? You'll freeze to death in that," Miranda gestured distractedly at Andy's outfit before continuing. "I can't believe they chose that shade of green. It does nothing for a brunette with your complexion. I really must tell Nigel to drop this season's La Perla from the lingerie spread. It just won't do."
Miranda had continued past her and into the bathroom, shutting the door between them and ending Andy's hopes for a romantic evening.
She growled softly, and in the light cast by the streetlights outside gave the lump next to her an evil glare. Reaching out one long arm, she gave a shove to what she assumed was a shoulder.
"Miranda, are you awake? Miranda? Miranda! MIRANDA!"
Andy watched with satisfaction as Miranda yelped and sat straight up.
"What? What is it? Are the girls all right?" Miranda gasped, staring at Andy with a startled expression.
"Oh, good, you're awake," Andy responded, sitting up at a more leisurely rate.
Miranda gaped at her before flopping back down on her pillow. "You shoved my head down into my shoulders while screaming at me. Yes, of course, I'm awake. Something I was not before your wild histrionics. And something I will no longer be in a matter of seconds." She pulled the covers back up to her neck and prepared to root back under them.
"I don't know how you can sleep buried under there. I'd suffocate," Andy commented, fully intending to keep the conversation going until she reached the topic she wanted.
"It's really quite simple. Watch as I demonstrate." Miranda flipped the cover over her head and settled in.
"When did you stop loving me?"
The cover flipped back down and Andy heard an explosive sigh before Miranda rolled to her back.
"Andréa, I have not stopped loving you. I love you as much today as I ever have. You are my world, my light, my everything. Now if you're sufficiently reassured, I have an early meeting in the morning." She looked away toward the small table next to her side of the bed. "Or should I say later this morning. Now do allow me to go back to sleep."
"You don't have to be so sarcastic about it," Andy sniffed, pleating the sheet with restless fingers.
"I was not aware that a declaration of undying devotion was considered sarcasm. I stand corrected. Good night." Miranda once again began to shift into her sleeping position.
"Do you want me to move out?"
That brought Miranda to a seated position, and she turned on the lamp before facing Andy. "Have you suffered a psychotic break? Where are these questions coming from?"
"Never mind," Andy huffed and plopped back on her pillow. "Good night." She started to roll away only to feel slender fingers digging into her bicep.
"Oh, no. You do not wake me from a sound sleep by shrieking in my ear, begin questioning my feelings for you, and then just pout yourself to sleep. You will sit up and tell me what's going through that addled mind of yours now," Miranda snarled, her patience clearly deserting her along with her hopes for a quiet night's rest.
Andy glanced at her and then away. "You don't think I'm sexy anymore."
"And when, might I ask, did I make that fallacious statement?" Miranda asked, staring at her incredulously.
"How about earlier when you walked right by me like I wasn't even there and told me to put some clothes on?" Andy turned back to give Miranda an accusing glare. "Cold, Miranda? I might get cold, you said! Trust me, nothing is colder than the way you've treated me the last few years." Andy's eyes narrowed as Miranda flushed guiltily.
"Oh. You were--" She shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't realize--"
"You didn't realize?" Andy snapped angrily. "Miranda, I was wearing butt-floss! I despise butt-floss!"
"It is referred to as a thong, Andréa. How many times must I point that out? After fifteen years of living with me, I still find it hard to believe that you do not know the correct terms for the clothing you wear."
"And don't change the subject. You always do that." Andy gripped the covers in tightened fists. "You try to deflect me from the topic."
"I'm not nearly as Machiavellian as you accuse me of, Andréa. Is it so out of the realm of possibility that I would expect the woman who shares my life to have acquired the most basic of knowledge about my chosen field?" Miranda crossed her arms and huffed her frustration.
"You know as well as I do that I know plenty about fashion, Miranda. Nowhere near what you do, but plenty," Andy defended.
"Yes, yes, your knowledge is extensive. Far too extensive to wear some of the things you do."
"I'm not having this discussion with you, Miranda. When we're representing Runway , I wear what you want, but the rest of the time I wear what I want. That's the deal, and we're sticking to it. Now good night!" Andy flounced down on her pillow, satisfied at having the last word.
It wasn't until she was seated at her desk the next day that she realized Miranda had done it again, deflected the subject of their sex life entirely.
"Urgggghhhhh, that woman!" Grabbing her purse, Andy stormed out of her office. Miranda was not getting away with it this time.
Her anger had built to a near eruptive level by the time she charged into Miranda's outer office.
"Don't!" she snapped at Emily as she strode past, leaving her friend giving a remarkable impression of a landlocked guppy. She slammed the door hard enough to leave the glass walls vibrating before zeroing in on her lover. Leaning over the desk, she shoved a brochure under Miranda's nose. "Counseling! We're going, or you're single. No more deflecting," she declared before turning on her heel and leaving the way she'd come, except this time when the door flew in the other direction and the knob encountered the wall, there was the satisfying sound of shattering glass. She could hear Miranda's voice floating behind her.
"Emily. Call a glass service, charge it to my private account, and make an appointment for Andréa and I at this place. That's all!"
Return to The Devil Wears Prada Fiction
Return to Main Page