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[personal profile] chainofclovers
Title: When in Paris
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: R
Note: Comment-fic that got a little long. This is for [livejournal.com profile] chilly_flame, who provided the prompt "roll in the hay."



Andy Sachs and Miranda Priestly were two of several dozen seated at small wooden tables in the open-air cafe. Their table was near the brass railing that separated the cafe from the sidewalk, and the passing pedestrians walked close enough to stir up warm air that brushed against Andy's bare shoulders. Andy had never been to Paris in the summer before, and she was delighted by the way the old buildings and green trees stood like ancient, stalwart shadows in the heat. Even though she and Miranda were both here to work--both here for fashion week, actually, though Andy was writing about it for her paper rather than assisting this time--this was an entirely free afternoon. I’m so happy, Andy wanted to say, and almost did.

She stopped herself when she looked at Miranda, who was gripping the stem of her wine glass between her thumb and two fingers and swirling its contents around and around. A tic, not a ritual. She hadn’t drunk much, certainly not compared to Andy, whose glass was nearly empty.

They’d slept together the night before, at Miranda’s hotel. It wasn’t the first time ever, but it was the first since their previous visit to Paris, when Andy had been assisting. That night--their real first time--hadn’t been a mistake, but it had been complicated. The act was weighty for an endless number of reasons: Miranda’s tears over her daughters’ probable reaction to her impending divorce, Andy’s mixed emotions over her break-up with her boyfriend and near-fling with Christian Thompson, the women’s professional relationship. But even after Andy quit her position and they returned to the States, that night was enough to give them both the idea to try to stay in touch. The emails they exchanged were more sad than angry, and they dwindled to almost nothing after a couple of months. Still, Andy wasn’t able to keep from calling Miranda when she found out that The New York Mirror had decided to increase its fashion coverage and was sending her to Paris to cover the fall/winter couture shows.

The memory of last night was pretty fantastic, and some of the silence at the cafe table--at least on Andy’s end--could be chalked up to fantasizing about it even though Miranda was still there, right across from her. At first, it had seemed like neither of them knew what to expect from the evening. They’d spent an hour carefully catching up over a shared dessert at a restaurant near the site of the evening’s final runway show. When Miranda asked Andy if she wanted to go to her hotel, she could have as easily been talking about a trip to the hotel bar as a night in her suite. Clearly, they ended up choosing the latter; when it came down to it, there wasn’t a question. They were both single this time, really single, and from the moment Miranda shut her door behind them Andy felt light as air. They fucked ‘til it hurt, and even then Miranda wanted to stay close, wanted to stay awake. For most of the night, they lay in bed talking. Silence settled in every ten minutes or so, but then Andy would remember a story from work, or it would occur to Miranda that Andy might know this writer or that writer, or one of them would want a kiss.

The morning had been rushed but not businesslike. They each had shows just after breakfast, and separate dinners and separate parties to attend tonight. This stretch of time together wasn’t cramped, but Andy was aware that the afternoon wasn’t going to last forever.

“You okay?” she asked.

Miranda broke eye contact with her wine and made eye contact with Andy. “Yes, why do you ask?”

Andy shrugged. “We’re both quiet.”

“I was just thinking about how people act differently when they travel. Both times you and I have been here together, we’ve . . .”

Suddenly, Andy felt herself growing flushed. The summer heat, pleasant only a moment ago, felt obtrusive. “Are you saying that last night was just a roll in the hay?” She was instantly aware that her voice seemed loud. They were speaking English, yes, but were surrounded by people, all of whom seemed to have mastered the intimate murmur.

“Should that be what I’m saying about last night?”

“I hope not,” Andy said quickly, and Miranda smiled. Immediately, Andy was flooded with relief. She was pretty sure she was sweating under her arms. “Last night made me really happy.”

“Paris isn’t magic, Andrea,” Miranda said. “I don’t mean to imply that behaving differently here is false. So far, we've behaved differently here than usual. That's all I'm saying.”

Paris isn’t magic. There was only one context in which those words could be considered romantic, and Miranda had just nailed it. Andy coughed a little, trying to prepare her voice to murmur intimately. “We can fuck in New York just as well as we can do it here.”

A second smile. The wine in Miranda’s glass stilled, but only until she lifted it to her lips and took a drink.
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