Good Medicine
Feb. 3rd, 2009 11:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chainofcloversTitle: Good Medicine
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine.
Note: This piece follows Job Security and There Will be Time. Enjoy!
“…and I’m going to need to speak with James Holt as soon as I get back from my 3 o’clock. Yesterday’s meeting with him obviously left a lot to be desired—I don’t think a single one of the questions I sent with Emily were answered adequately. I was only gone a day and a half. Is it really too much to ask—” Miranda interrupted herself with a wracking cough, and pressed her fingers to her temples, elbows resting on her desk.
“Are you feeling all right, Miranda?” Andy asked as she scribbled Call James! on her notepad.
Miranda waved her hand impatiently. “Oh, I’m fine, I just picked up a slight cough from that infernal hospital. Honestly, even the cleaning chemicals they use in that place are filthy. As I was saying, is it really too much to ask for everyone to do their jobs even if I’m not in the building?”
Andy pointedly ignored the question. “Is there anything that still needs to be arranged for your 3 o’clock?”
Miranda stifled another lung-straining cough. Her face was very pale. She took a deep breath through her nose, composed herself, stared at Andy with watery, bloodshot eyes, and said, “You know as well as I do what needs to be done.” She reached into the bag of Ricola sitting on her desk. Neither of them broke eye contact as she slowly unwrapped a lozenge and brought it to her mouth. Andy knew better than to ask if Miranda needed a lighter load that afternoon, nodded, and left, a slight grin twitching at the corners of her mouth.
That night, Andy could hear coughing coming from the downstairs sitting room as she approached with the Book. Miranda didn’t make an appearance in the foyer, so Andy hung up the dry-cleaning on the table and set the Book on the usual end table. Aside from the past two nights, when Miranda had been at the hospital with her daughters, it had been days since she had performed the delivery routine without getting “interrupted.” With some hesitation, she set a box of throat coat tea on top of the Book. Just as she was past the townhouse steps and headed for the sidewalk, the door opened behind her. “Andrea,” Miranda wheezed. “What is this?” She held up the box of tea.
“It’s…tea. For your throat.”
“I know. You have time for a cup, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
Andy followed Miranda back into the house and toward the kitchen. They didn’t talk much while Miranda put the water on, and Andy marveled at the strangeness of seeing her at home in a kitchen, at how very “private sphere” it was. The realm of daily household labor. Putting on a kettle wasn’t exactly a chore, maybe, but it came closer than most things Andy saw Miranda do on an everyday basis.
“It’s not the most delicious tea you’ll ever drink,” Andy warned as Miranda sunk spoonfuls of honey into their mugs and raised her tea to her lips. “But I make myself drink it whenever I get sick. It kind of tastes like being a kid and staying home from school, and it really works. Maybe it’s good that I have some now. Precautionary measure, you know…” she laughed, and told herself to stop babbling.
“It’s not terrible. Thank you for bringing it, although it really wasn’t necessary. I’m perfectly well.”
“Hmm,” Andy replied. They drank their tea in silence for awhile, then Andy asked, “So, how are the girls doing?”
Miranda smiled. “Much better. Caroline’s going back to school tomorrow, and Cassidy will be back by next Monday. They’re both here, actually. They came home this morning.”
“Oh, that’s great…you must be so relieved. I should go, though. Don’t want to keep you from the Book or the girls.”
“That’s all right,” Miranda said, but she didn’t argue further.
“I’ll just see myself out.” She walked over to Miranda and kissed her lightning fast, far back on her cheek near her ear. A shaky breath caught in Miranda’s throat. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” It was a hoarse whisper, followed by another round of coughing.
Andy passed Caroline as she was leaving the kitchen. They smiled at each other but didn’t speak, and Andy could hear Caroline ask about the tea. “Andrea brought it for me, with the Book, so I had her in for a cup.”
“Jeez, Mom, how much are you paying her?”
Andy’s heart clenched, and she slowed her steps. “Never, ever say that again,” Miranda said, her voice weakened but fierce. Andy decided Miranda would never know that she had heard the exchange.
***
The Runway staff was in a frenzy the next day, as many of the meetings planned for the thirty-nine hours Miranda was away from the office had been rescheduled for a five hour block that afternoon. Andy could tell from the cloudiness in Miranda’s eyes that she was still feeling under the weather, but since no one else on staff thought it in their best interest to ask after her health or even acknowledge that illness was a physical possibility, the day went forward as planned.
Andy was seated directly behind Miranda at Josefina Jones’ studio, where the up-and-coming designer was presenting plans for a summer line. It was Miranda’s last out-of-office engagement of the day, and the late afternoon sun streamed glaringly through the picture windows. Andy felt uncomfortably warm as she sat in the crowded studio in her winter clothes, trying to take notes on the steady parade of sundresses and tailored shorts. After about twenty minutes, Josefina’s presentation was winding to a close, and Miranda seemed restless. Sure, she had nodded once or twice during the presentation, and based on the fact that Josefina hadn’t looked horror-stricken following the first few minutes, Andy imagined that she hadn’t been doing a lot of lip-pursing or frowning. But in the last few minutes she had been fidgeting, as if tired of the clothes that were touching her skin, and Andy could hear her subtly clear her throat. It was certainly beneath her to reach into her bag for something as pedestrian as a cough drop. Her legs were crossed and she shook her right foot, clad in a dark red three-inch heel, a dozen times a second. Josefina started speaking more rapidly; Andy felt a quickening in her stomach. Miranda cocked her chin to the side and massaged the nape of her neck. Josefina wrapped things up unnaturally fast; Andy stifled a wistful sigh.
As Miranda rose to speak to Josefina personally about a potential feature in the March issue, Nigel looked at Andrea quizzically. She mustered a smile. “Watch out,” he said in a barely audible singsong voice. “There’s something we-ird about Miranda today.”
“Well, I think she’s still pretty sick. Picked something up in that hospital. I mean, probably.”
“You keep telling yourself that, kid.”
Did he know whatever there was to know about them? Andy wracked her brain. Chances were, if he suspected anything, it was that Andy had developed a crush on her boss, that she thought Miranda’s bored, careless mannerisms were sexy. It wasn’t the whole story, of course, but it was true. But he’d said there was something weird about Miranda. Maybe he wondered if the mannerisms were a show for Andy. I should hope so, she thought wryly. And anyway, he was still sore about Paris, and rightfully so. Surely he wasn’t spending much time mulling over the notion of a dalliance between his boss and Andy.
Miranda came up behind them. “Time to head back,” she softly intoned. “Andrea, you need to ride with me so I can give you some notes on the presentation.” She rushed out the door, and Andy avoided looking at Nigel as she followed.
When Andy slid into the backseat, Miranda wasted no time in grabbing her arm and pulling it towards her. She pushed the sleeve of Andy’s coat up her arm, and fastidiously rolled up the fabric of her blouse so her wrist was exposed. “God, I so wanted to get out of there,” she muttered as she ran her fingernail over the crease of Andy’s wrist. Andy closed her eyes; Miranda stared out her window. “Some of those pieces were passable, didn’t you think, Andrea?” she said, louder.
“Yes, I did. They were great. Um, the dresses. The dresses were really pretty.”
Miranda rolled her eyes at Andy’s attempt to speak normally, but Andy swore she was breathing a bit harder than normal, and it didn’t sound like her recent respiratory challenges were to blame. She continued the path from Andy’s wrist to palm to fingers, massaging and pulling at each digit.
All too soon, they were back at Elias-Clarke. As they made their way from the car into the building, Miranda leaned close and murmured in her ear, “I was so aware of you all afternoon. Visualizing you.” Andy was wearing a gauzy, cream-colored button up Nigel swore had been made for no one but her. With a knee-length tweed skirt from 2003. “It was nearly impossible to concentrate. I’ve been completely distracted all day.”
“Sorry, I, uh—”
“Don’t be. The magazine will manage somehow. Do you have plans for dinner?” She tried to sound casual.
Andy pointed out that her dinner plans usually involved eating take-out at her desk and catching up on calls while she waited for the Book.
“Right. Well, if you can spare the time—” she smirked. “—pick some place you like, and we’ll have dinner.”
***
Andy picked a moderately priced Thai place far away from Elias-Clarke, as far as she thought Miranda would be able to travel without pitching one of her deadly quiet fits. She made the reservation in her name, and they took a cab. Miranda was mostly very nice in the restaurant, and as soon as they’d ordered their entrees and wine she leaned across the table and said quietly, “I’m going to the restroom. Will you follow me in a moment?”
There was no one else in the bathroom, so the second Andy opened the doors, Miranda’s hands were gripping her waist, snaking up her back, and cradling her neck. She was radiant even under the fluorescent ceiling lamp. She kissed Andy’s collarbone and was working her way across her jawline and toward her lips when Andy cleared her throat.
“Um, you aren’t, like, contagious or anything, are you?” She grinned. “You see, I have a somewhat demanding work situation, and…”
Miranda glowered at her. “For the last time, I am perfectly fine. You aren’t going to catch anything.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, and kissed her soundly, caressing her back with her left arm. She timidly placed her right hand on Miranda’s ribcage, sliding it up toward her breast and cupping it with experimental pressure. Even with the light touch, she could feel Miranda’s nipple harden.
“Don’t be so gentle.”
So she pressed harder, and kissed harder, and soon they were both out of breath, and Miranda was pushing her thigh between Andy’s legs, and Andy was sucking on Miranda’s bottom lip, and—Miranda pulled away. She neatened her hair with trembling fingers, saying, “We should get back to the table.”
On their way out of the bathroom, Andy wondered—not for the first time—whether Miranda actually got off on denial (self- and otherwise) and withholding. Then she remembered how miserable she had looked eating soup at Andy’s apartment only three nights before, and decided that perhaps this wasn’t the perfect time to bring up psychologically charged sexual hang-ups. As fate would have it, a mother with two young children walked past their table and toward the bathroom the instant they sat down. They smiled tense smiles at each other, drank their wine, and chatted sporadically about Runway and New York weather and Miranda’s children until their dinner arrived.
***
Miranda didn’t move away when Andy laid her head on her shoulder during the cab ride back to Elias-Clarke. Andy felt strangely tired for the relatively early hour, and Miranda’s fingers working their way between her own left her in a haze.
“I’d invite you back after we, or rather you, fetch the Book, but—”
“The twins. I know.” Andy held back a yawn. “It’s okay.”
“I’m going to figure this out.”
“We will figure this out.” She thought she felt Miranda squeeze her hand, but between the wine and the sleepiness, she couldn’t be sure.
***
The next morning, Andy ignored the burning in her throat as she got ready for work, but by the time she got the coffee order delivered and was settling into her desk, her head was pounding and every word she heard sounded like it was coming from the bottom of the deep-end of a swimming pool. Not contagious, my ass, she thought.
“Get yourself together,” Emily mouthed as Andy coughed and wheezed her way through a late afternoon phone call with one of Valentino’s people.
Andy shrugged. Her head was swimming too much for her to care how ridiculous she sounded. The instant Andy hung up the phone, promising that someone intelligible would call back later, Miranda breezed out of her office, presumably on her way to a meeting. She stopped suddenly at Andy’s desk. “Andrea, you look like Death is at your door. And if you happen to have anything like the ghastly illness I had recently, you’re wishing he was. You may go home and rest.” She turned to Emily. “Emily, I’m going to have to ask you to bring the Book to my home tonight.”
“Of course, Miranda,” Emily said obediently. As soon as she was out of earshot, though, she turned to Andy and said dryly, “It wasn’t long ago that I would’ve welcomed Death into my home. And did Miranda say anything? Encourage me to get some rest? No. No she didn’t.”
Andy shrugged again. “Anything I can do for you before I leave? I really do feel like utter shit.”
“No. Just think about me as you drift off to sleep, all right? Slaving away, answering to Miranda’s every whim…”
***
Andy was so doped up on Nyquil that she almost considered ignoring the knock at her door. It was past 11 p.m., and she had been drifting in and out of consciousness since 7, but when the insistent knock sounded for the second time, she dragged herself out from under the covers.
“Go back to bed,” Miranda said as she strode into the apartment. She set her coat and bag on the couch, revealing that she was still dressed for dinner. “I brought some of that tea: I assume I can find my way around your kitchen easily enough?”
“Okay…” Andy said weakly, her head reeling. She trudged back to her bedroom, smoothing her rumpled pajamas.
A few minutes later, Miranda entered the room, holding a Northwestern University mug and her cell phone. “Are you hungry?” she asked. Andy shook her head and accepted the tea. She drank and Miranda watched awkwardly from the side of the bed. “I’m sorry you’re sick. I really didn’t think you’d catch it.” She sounded like she meant it.
“It’s not a huge shock. But thanks. And thanks for the tea.” She smiled, and noted with surprise that her heart was beating faster in spite of the Nyquil and the warm beverage and the fact that her head felt like a lead balloon.
Pain or confusion crossed Miranda’s face for a brief moment, and she looked for an instant like a child ready to attempt a leap off the high-dive. She quickly unzipped the back of her dress, let it fall to the ground, and slid into bed wearing a black slip and stockings. She said, “The girls are with Paul tonight, and I set the alarm on my phone so I can be up early in the morning.”
“All right,” Andy said sleepily, not bothering to stifle a yawn. She reached over to turn off the lamp on her nightstand, an effort which set off another coughing spell. “I feel absolutely disgusting,” she said when the fit was over, and turned toward the wall.
“I can’t recall finding anyone more beautiful,” Miranda said as she spooned herself behind Andy. She allowed her hand to slide gently over the narrow part of Andy’s waist and rested it softly on her hip, remembering how tender the flu had left her own skin. Andy smiled into the darkness, and floated toward sleep.
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The characters are not mine.
Note: This piece follows Job Security and There Will be Time. Enjoy!
“…and I’m going to need to speak with James Holt as soon as I get back from my 3 o’clock. Yesterday’s meeting with him obviously left a lot to be desired—I don’t think a single one of the questions I sent with Emily were answered adequately. I was only gone a day and a half. Is it really too much to ask—” Miranda interrupted herself with a wracking cough, and pressed her fingers to her temples, elbows resting on her desk.
“Are you feeling all right, Miranda?” Andy asked as she scribbled Call James! on her notepad.
Miranda waved her hand impatiently. “Oh, I’m fine, I just picked up a slight cough from that infernal hospital. Honestly, even the cleaning chemicals they use in that place are filthy. As I was saying, is it really too much to ask for everyone to do their jobs even if I’m not in the building?”
Andy pointedly ignored the question. “Is there anything that still needs to be arranged for your 3 o’clock?”
Miranda stifled another lung-straining cough. Her face was very pale. She took a deep breath through her nose, composed herself, stared at Andy with watery, bloodshot eyes, and said, “You know as well as I do what needs to be done.” She reached into the bag of Ricola sitting on her desk. Neither of them broke eye contact as she slowly unwrapped a lozenge and brought it to her mouth. Andy knew better than to ask if Miranda needed a lighter load that afternoon, nodded, and left, a slight grin twitching at the corners of her mouth.
That night, Andy could hear coughing coming from the downstairs sitting room as she approached with the Book. Miranda didn’t make an appearance in the foyer, so Andy hung up the dry-cleaning on the table and set the Book on the usual end table. Aside from the past two nights, when Miranda had been at the hospital with her daughters, it had been days since she had performed the delivery routine without getting “interrupted.” With some hesitation, she set a box of throat coat tea on top of the Book. Just as she was past the townhouse steps and headed for the sidewalk, the door opened behind her. “Andrea,” Miranda wheezed. “What is this?” She held up the box of tea.
“It’s…tea. For your throat.”
“I know. You have time for a cup, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
Andy followed Miranda back into the house and toward the kitchen. They didn’t talk much while Miranda put the water on, and Andy marveled at the strangeness of seeing her at home in a kitchen, at how very “private sphere” it was. The realm of daily household labor. Putting on a kettle wasn’t exactly a chore, maybe, but it came closer than most things Andy saw Miranda do on an everyday basis.
“It’s not the most delicious tea you’ll ever drink,” Andy warned as Miranda sunk spoonfuls of honey into their mugs and raised her tea to her lips. “But I make myself drink it whenever I get sick. It kind of tastes like being a kid and staying home from school, and it really works. Maybe it’s good that I have some now. Precautionary measure, you know…” she laughed, and told herself to stop babbling.
“It’s not terrible. Thank you for bringing it, although it really wasn’t necessary. I’m perfectly well.”
“Hmm,” Andy replied. They drank their tea in silence for awhile, then Andy asked, “So, how are the girls doing?”
Miranda smiled. “Much better. Caroline’s going back to school tomorrow, and Cassidy will be back by next Monday. They’re both here, actually. They came home this morning.”
“Oh, that’s great…you must be so relieved. I should go, though. Don’t want to keep you from the Book or the girls.”
“That’s all right,” Miranda said, but she didn’t argue further.
“I’ll just see myself out.” She walked over to Miranda and kissed her lightning fast, far back on her cheek near her ear. A shaky breath caught in Miranda’s throat. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” It was a hoarse whisper, followed by another round of coughing.
Andy passed Caroline as she was leaving the kitchen. They smiled at each other but didn’t speak, and Andy could hear Caroline ask about the tea. “Andrea brought it for me, with the Book, so I had her in for a cup.”
“Jeez, Mom, how much are you paying her?”
Andy’s heart clenched, and she slowed her steps. “Never, ever say that again,” Miranda said, her voice weakened but fierce. Andy decided Miranda would never know that she had heard the exchange.
***
The Runway staff was in a frenzy the next day, as many of the meetings planned for the thirty-nine hours Miranda was away from the office had been rescheduled for a five hour block that afternoon. Andy could tell from the cloudiness in Miranda’s eyes that she was still feeling under the weather, but since no one else on staff thought it in their best interest to ask after her health or even acknowledge that illness was a physical possibility, the day went forward as planned.
Andy was seated directly behind Miranda at Josefina Jones’ studio, where the up-and-coming designer was presenting plans for a summer line. It was Miranda’s last out-of-office engagement of the day, and the late afternoon sun streamed glaringly through the picture windows. Andy felt uncomfortably warm as she sat in the crowded studio in her winter clothes, trying to take notes on the steady parade of sundresses and tailored shorts. After about twenty minutes, Josefina’s presentation was winding to a close, and Miranda seemed restless. Sure, she had nodded once or twice during the presentation, and based on the fact that Josefina hadn’t looked horror-stricken following the first few minutes, Andy imagined that she hadn’t been doing a lot of lip-pursing or frowning. But in the last few minutes she had been fidgeting, as if tired of the clothes that were touching her skin, and Andy could hear her subtly clear her throat. It was certainly beneath her to reach into her bag for something as pedestrian as a cough drop. Her legs were crossed and she shook her right foot, clad in a dark red three-inch heel, a dozen times a second. Josefina started speaking more rapidly; Andy felt a quickening in her stomach. Miranda cocked her chin to the side and massaged the nape of her neck. Josefina wrapped things up unnaturally fast; Andy stifled a wistful sigh.
As Miranda rose to speak to Josefina personally about a potential feature in the March issue, Nigel looked at Andrea quizzically. She mustered a smile. “Watch out,” he said in a barely audible singsong voice. “There’s something we-ird about Miranda today.”
“Well, I think she’s still pretty sick. Picked something up in that hospital. I mean, probably.”
“You keep telling yourself that, kid.”
Did he know whatever there was to know about them? Andy wracked her brain. Chances were, if he suspected anything, it was that Andy had developed a crush on her boss, that she thought Miranda’s bored, careless mannerisms were sexy. It wasn’t the whole story, of course, but it was true. But he’d said there was something weird about Miranda. Maybe he wondered if the mannerisms were a show for Andy. I should hope so, she thought wryly. And anyway, he was still sore about Paris, and rightfully so. Surely he wasn’t spending much time mulling over the notion of a dalliance between his boss and Andy.
Miranda came up behind them. “Time to head back,” she softly intoned. “Andrea, you need to ride with me so I can give you some notes on the presentation.” She rushed out the door, and Andy avoided looking at Nigel as she followed.
When Andy slid into the backseat, Miranda wasted no time in grabbing her arm and pulling it towards her. She pushed the sleeve of Andy’s coat up her arm, and fastidiously rolled up the fabric of her blouse so her wrist was exposed. “God, I so wanted to get out of there,” she muttered as she ran her fingernail over the crease of Andy’s wrist. Andy closed her eyes; Miranda stared out her window. “Some of those pieces were passable, didn’t you think, Andrea?” she said, louder.
“Yes, I did. They were great. Um, the dresses. The dresses were really pretty.”
Miranda rolled her eyes at Andy’s attempt to speak normally, but Andy swore she was breathing a bit harder than normal, and it didn’t sound like her recent respiratory challenges were to blame. She continued the path from Andy’s wrist to palm to fingers, massaging and pulling at each digit.
All too soon, they were back at Elias-Clarke. As they made their way from the car into the building, Miranda leaned close and murmured in her ear, “I was so aware of you all afternoon. Visualizing you.” Andy was wearing a gauzy, cream-colored button up Nigel swore had been made for no one but her. With a knee-length tweed skirt from 2003. “It was nearly impossible to concentrate. I’ve been completely distracted all day.”
“Sorry, I, uh—”
“Don’t be. The magazine will manage somehow. Do you have plans for dinner?” She tried to sound casual.
Andy pointed out that her dinner plans usually involved eating take-out at her desk and catching up on calls while she waited for the Book.
“Right. Well, if you can spare the time—” she smirked. “—pick some place you like, and we’ll have dinner.”
***
Andy picked a moderately priced Thai place far away from Elias-Clarke, as far as she thought Miranda would be able to travel without pitching one of her deadly quiet fits. She made the reservation in her name, and they took a cab. Miranda was mostly very nice in the restaurant, and as soon as they’d ordered their entrees and wine she leaned across the table and said quietly, “I’m going to the restroom. Will you follow me in a moment?”
There was no one else in the bathroom, so the second Andy opened the doors, Miranda’s hands were gripping her waist, snaking up her back, and cradling her neck. She was radiant even under the fluorescent ceiling lamp. She kissed Andy’s collarbone and was working her way across her jawline and toward her lips when Andy cleared her throat.
“Um, you aren’t, like, contagious or anything, are you?” She grinned. “You see, I have a somewhat demanding work situation, and…”
Miranda glowered at her. “For the last time, I am perfectly fine. You aren’t going to catch anything.”
“Okay, okay,” she said, and kissed her soundly, caressing her back with her left arm. She timidly placed her right hand on Miranda’s ribcage, sliding it up toward her breast and cupping it with experimental pressure. Even with the light touch, she could feel Miranda’s nipple harden.
“Don’t be so gentle.”
So she pressed harder, and kissed harder, and soon they were both out of breath, and Miranda was pushing her thigh between Andy’s legs, and Andy was sucking on Miranda’s bottom lip, and—Miranda pulled away. She neatened her hair with trembling fingers, saying, “We should get back to the table.”
On their way out of the bathroom, Andy wondered—not for the first time—whether Miranda actually got off on denial (self- and otherwise) and withholding. Then she remembered how miserable she had looked eating soup at Andy’s apartment only three nights before, and decided that perhaps this wasn’t the perfect time to bring up psychologically charged sexual hang-ups. As fate would have it, a mother with two young children walked past their table and toward the bathroom the instant they sat down. They smiled tense smiles at each other, drank their wine, and chatted sporadically about Runway and New York weather and Miranda’s children until their dinner arrived.
***
Miranda didn’t move away when Andy laid her head on her shoulder during the cab ride back to Elias-Clarke. Andy felt strangely tired for the relatively early hour, and Miranda’s fingers working their way between her own left her in a haze.
“I’d invite you back after we, or rather you, fetch the Book, but—”
“The twins. I know.” Andy held back a yawn. “It’s okay.”
“I’m going to figure this out.”
“We will figure this out.” She thought she felt Miranda squeeze her hand, but between the wine and the sleepiness, she couldn’t be sure.
***
The next morning, Andy ignored the burning in her throat as she got ready for work, but by the time she got the coffee order delivered and was settling into her desk, her head was pounding and every word she heard sounded like it was coming from the bottom of the deep-end of a swimming pool. Not contagious, my ass, she thought.
“Get yourself together,” Emily mouthed as Andy coughed and wheezed her way through a late afternoon phone call with one of Valentino’s people.
Andy shrugged. Her head was swimming too much for her to care how ridiculous she sounded. The instant Andy hung up the phone, promising that someone intelligible would call back later, Miranda breezed out of her office, presumably on her way to a meeting. She stopped suddenly at Andy’s desk. “Andrea, you look like Death is at your door. And if you happen to have anything like the ghastly illness I had recently, you’re wishing he was. You may go home and rest.” She turned to Emily. “Emily, I’m going to have to ask you to bring the Book to my home tonight.”
“Of course, Miranda,” Emily said obediently. As soon as she was out of earshot, though, she turned to Andy and said dryly, “It wasn’t long ago that I would’ve welcomed Death into my home. And did Miranda say anything? Encourage me to get some rest? No. No she didn’t.”
Andy shrugged again. “Anything I can do for you before I leave? I really do feel like utter shit.”
“No. Just think about me as you drift off to sleep, all right? Slaving away, answering to Miranda’s every whim…”
***
Andy was so doped up on Nyquil that she almost considered ignoring the knock at her door. It was past 11 p.m., and she had been drifting in and out of consciousness since 7, but when the insistent knock sounded for the second time, she dragged herself out from under the covers.
“Go back to bed,” Miranda said as she strode into the apartment. She set her coat and bag on the couch, revealing that she was still dressed for dinner. “I brought some of that tea: I assume I can find my way around your kitchen easily enough?”
“Okay…” Andy said weakly, her head reeling. She trudged back to her bedroom, smoothing her rumpled pajamas.
A few minutes later, Miranda entered the room, holding a Northwestern University mug and her cell phone. “Are you hungry?” she asked. Andy shook her head and accepted the tea. She drank and Miranda watched awkwardly from the side of the bed. “I’m sorry you’re sick. I really didn’t think you’d catch it.” She sounded like she meant it.
“It’s not a huge shock. But thanks. And thanks for the tea.” She smiled, and noted with surprise that her heart was beating faster in spite of the Nyquil and the warm beverage and the fact that her head felt like a lead balloon.
Pain or confusion crossed Miranda’s face for a brief moment, and she looked for an instant like a child ready to attempt a leap off the high-dive. She quickly unzipped the back of her dress, let it fall to the ground, and slid into bed wearing a black slip and stockings. She said, “The girls are with Paul tonight, and I set the alarm on my phone so I can be up early in the morning.”
“All right,” Andy said sleepily, not bothering to stifle a yawn. She reached over to turn off the lamp on her nightstand, an effort which set off another coughing spell. “I feel absolutely disgusting,” she said when the fit was over, and turned toward the wall.
“I can’t recall finding anyone more beautiful,” Miranda said as she spooned herself behind Andy. She allowed her hand to slide gently over the narrow part of Andy’s waist and rested it softly on her hip, remembering how tender the flu had left her own skin. Andy smiled into the darkness, and floated toward sleep.
