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Title: Fifteen Seconds
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada (film)
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to The Devil Wears Prada.
Note: I finished this story about 12 minutes after the recent DWP comment ficathon ended, so I'm posting it here instead. It's in response to [livejournal.com profile] la_fono's prompt: "bunions, blisters, and hammer toes." Edit: and apparently, the ficathon doesn't end until 11:59 PST. So, I'm adding a link to this story to the original thread!



They first had sex only a couple of hours after Andy left Miranda’s employ. (“We waited about fifteen seconds after I left Runway,” Andy would enjoy saying for years into the future, twining her arm around Miranda’s waist and smiling openly at the smirk the story always provoked on Miranda’s face.) It was surprisingly straightforward: a rollicking good fight in Andy’s suite, a biting kiss, a few hot tears sliding down both their cheeks. “Sit down,” Andy said forcefully, because Miranda wouldn’t shut up or be still or fucking listen. It could’ve gone a couple of ways, Andy supposed later. She might have yelled more, staring down at Miranda as she perched on the edge of the bed, fury burning acidic holes into the primness she had left. But as soon as Miranda sat, Andy knelt, and the room went silent. “Let me,” Andy whispered after a few seconds went by, ghosting her fingers gently against Miranda’s knees, troubling the hem of her dress with her fingers. To Miranda’s credit, she knew exactly to what she was agreeing when she moaned a yes. Not only that, but she reciprocated. On her knees.

“This isn’t a good idea,” Miranda said the second time. They were back in the states by that point, and everything was awful: the divorce, the break-up, the terrible new assistant, the tough new reporting job. The statement shouldn’t have enhanced the mood, but Miranda was unbuttoning her shirt as she said it.

“Yes, it is,” Andy argued, and wondered how she’d managed ten months under a professional obligation to avoid contrariness around this woman. Miranda was wearing burgundy lace under her shirt. If this were such a bad idea, she wouldn’t have made it as far as Andy’s bed, and certainly wouldn’t have dressed for Andy under her work clothes. They kissed again, their eighth or ninth kiss that day, and not everything was awful.

Years do not pass quickly but in the telling of them at parties. Hours accumulate at a single, misleading rate, not only hours of sex and decisions and trouble but of sleep, of what to have for dinner, of discussing what to say to this person at work or that friend who hasn’t called in awhile. You bring up the pain you never thought you’d mention. You bite your tongue around an observation for years, and then you hear it spoken in your own voice. In large part, love is learning casualness.

“My feet hurt,” Miranda complained just after work, late in the evening on a day she might have walked a bit more than usual. There was Andy in the den, fiddling with her phone. They’d been together for years, and still had many left.

“No shit,” Andy said, glancing meaningfully at Miranda’s shoes. Only two inch heels today, but still.

Miranda smirked; Andy smiled. “Sit down,” Andy said, setting down her phone and gesturing at her lap. “Actually, stretch out.” She peeled off Miranda’s shoes and began to massage, remaining mindful of the bunions, checking Miranda’s heels for the little blisters she sometimes got. “There’s such a thing as bunion surgery you know.”

“I know,” Miranda replied. “I looked into it. Worse than the thing itself.” She never said ‘bunions’ if she could help it. She closed her eyes as Andy thumbed her arch and caressed the instep. It was her turn to smile when Andy lost interest in her feet and moved on to her ankles, her calves, the knees Andy had always loved for what seemed like no reason. (It hadn’t been always, though, and she had her reasons.) “Shut the door and come back,” Miranda entreated, and kept her eyes closed as Andy maneuvered her legs away from her lap and stood. Miranda knew how this evening would be, but maybe not all of it. The door shut and she breathed a little faster, heart lifting as she waited for the couch to shift again.
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