DISCLAIMER: I own very little, none of which comprises anything so glorious as Miranda Priestly. So, not mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my very first attempt at DWP fic. I have developed a rather unhealthy obsession with it of late, and decided to try my hand, in a very minor way. Very minor. Miniscule, in fact. This supposes an already established, ongoing relationship between Miranda Priestly and Andrea Sachs. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine alone. For Peanuts, who hinted ever so nicely.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
"Do you ever wonder what your funeral will be like?"
The unnaturally loud tones of Andrea's voice ripped through the delicate strands of sleep that had just begun to drape across Miranda's consciousness, forcing her bleary eyes open to strain against the semi-darkness of the bedroom.
"I was under the obviously erroneous impression that we were going to sleep, Andrea. And that is the last time you're watching "Four Weddings and a Funeral", if you're going to insist on being morbid," Miranda growled sleepily, willing the girl at her side to allow her to slip back into the glorious state of lassitude out of which she had been so rudely snatched.
"It's not really morbid. It's realistic. Aren't you always lecturing me to be more realistic? I mean, like they said, it's the one ceremony we all end up participating in," Andrea responded, with no indication she had paid the least bit of attention to the note of irritation in Miranda's voice. "I wonder sometimes, you know, what people will say about me, who'll be there, if I'll be cremated or buried you know, all that stuff."
The only response from the other side of the bed was a deep and profoundly beleaguered sigh.
"Andrea. You are twenty-seven years old. I think that there will be more than sufficient time for you to contemplate the complexities of death and the arrangements for your funeral. During the day. Alone. Silently." Miranda dearly hoped this was the end of the conversation. Work had been one adventure in incompetence and ineptitude after another and all that she wanted was to sink into the softness of her mattress and Andrea's arms and sleep.
Apparently, that wish was not to be granted.
"Life's unpredictable. I could get hit by a runaway taxi or choke to death on a hot dog tomorrow. Don't you ever think about what would happen if you died unexpectedly?"
"Given the fact that Emily and the new girl seem incapable of managing something as simple as scheduling a luncheon meeting with Donatella, I am fairly certain that I shall have to resign myself to an unscheduled demise," Miranda murmured disgustedly, closing her eyes, determined at least to try to rest, despite the seemingly endless stream of conversation disturbing the perfect oasis of her bedroom. "As for choking on a hot dog; really, Andrea, anyone who actually indulges in something sold on a filthy street corner cannot possibly be surprised if it kills them, now can they?"
The ensuing silence caused Miranda's lips to twitch ever so slightly, and sighing again, this time in satisfaction, she allowed her body to relax. Sleep at last.
"I imagine that we'd have to hold your funeral at St. Patrick's, just to have enough seats," Andrea mused, again clearly unfazed by Miranda's cutting remark and obvious lack of enthusiasm for the conversation. "Everybody who's anybody will be there."
"Oh, unquestionably. The vast majority of them there just to make absolutely certain that the house was on target and I really am dead. Really, most sincerely dead," Miranda snorted, one side of her mouth curling up in disdain. "Do promise me that it will be a closed casket. I want to keep them guessing, hopefully with a great amount of trepidation."
Andrea couldn't stop the little giggle of amusement that welled up in her throat at Miranda's comment. The woman never ceased to amaze her, although, on further thought, it didn't seem all that odd that someone accused of being a witch (on a good day) would be quite familiar with the Wizard of Oz. Besides, no doubt she had watched it with the twins. Still, the comparison amused Andrea, mainly because she was one of the chosen few who knew that the comparison between Miranda and the Wicked Witch stopped at the door of the townhouse. Well, usually.
"So, I should probably just grab the slippers and make a run for it, eh?" Andrea laughed, an unexpected image of Nigel as the Scarecrow and Emily as the Lion sending her off into a convulsive fit of giggles.
Those giggles stopped abruptly as Miranda made a sound low in her throat and moved suddenly, the weight of her body pinning Andrea quite efficiently to the bed. Even in the dim light, Andrea could see the expression in Miranda's eyes, irritation overlaid with a wide swath of desire, of need. Miranda's hands slid down Andrea's arms, over the warm silk of her pajamas, reaching her hands, long fingers intertwining, as she raised their joined hands above Andrea's head, anchoring them to the pillow.
"If you insist on using your mouth, and not letting me sleep, I can think of much more productive and entertaining things that you can do with it," Miranda's voice was dangerously low, her breath a whisper of warmth against Andrea's cheek.
Things that she proceeded to demonstrate. Repeatedly.
As the feathery tickle of silver hair made its way along the smooth skin of Andrea's stomach, the image of an emerald city and a brilliant blue sky littered with billowing black smoke snaked across a brain already overwhelmed by sensations, until the feel of Miranda's mouth on her drove all rational thought from her mind.
Surrender Dorothy, indeed.
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