Work Text:
Miranda had been many things.
A bitch. An ass. A “thinks-too-highly-of-herself.” A tyrant. A devil. Miranda had had more names than Jesus probably did, and that wasn’t something she minded. Rather, she had gotten used to it. If she could help a struggling publication profit off her reputation, Miranda was more than generous enough to oblige.
But she drew the line there: herself.
So when Miranda walked in on Andrea crying in the pantry, she had to be held back, or she would have been disastrous. Runway had long been aware of their relationship, although if Miranda had had a say in the matter, she would have kept everything private. But Andrea wanted to ‘show it off’—the younger girl had said in her very long “why we should tell people we’re fucking” speech—and Miranda, so desperate to make her happy, agreed because how bad could it get, right?
Very, apparently.
While people at work were smart enough not to talk about it in front of Miranda, they pestered Andrea relentlessly with it. It started as something playful, although Miranda would argue that her girlfriend being called a “dick-rider” was nowhere near that, unless some dumbass had decided to redefine the word entirely. Still, Miranda said nothing. Not even when she heard someone call Andrea a pet, a suck-up, a gold digger, a buffer—Miranda kept quiet, forced herself to stay restrained, because Andrea had asked her to, had insisted she could handle it.
And Miranda hated being proven right this way, hated seeing Andrea hide just so she could cry about it, hated that she couldn’t even say ‘I told you so.’
“What is it this time?” Miranda asked, her fist clenched.
Andrea sniffed and shook her head. “It was nothing.”
“So you’re crying for fun?”
Andrea looked at her, offended, then glanced away. “They were just being pla—”
“If I hear you say ‘playful’ once again, I swear to God,” Miranda stressed.
Andrea pressed her lips together and hiccuped. Her eyes stayed fixed on the ground, mouth trembling, and Miranda felt an indescribable pain twist in her stomach. She had to get out, slamming the door hard enough to make Andrea jump only to return moments later, pointing a finger at her.
“This stops here,” Miranda snarled. “You will never tell me to let this matter go ever again. You are my girlfriend, and if I have to do everything in my power to make sure those fuckers never get to breathe New York air ever again, I will and you will not stop me.”
Miranda made good on her word. By the end of the month, Runway had lost at least ten people.
It could have been avoided if Andrea had chosen someone her age, or anyone who wasn’t Miranda. At least, that’s what Miranda thought to herself. And oh, she thought about it often. She had never been insecure. She had no reason to be. Everything she had, she had worked for, and no one could make her feel inferior to herself.
But overhearing someone tell Andrea she could have picked anyone else and still chose someone as sour as Miranda—as old, was enough to make even her falter. The editor couldn’t help but agree. The thought ate at her. Some nights, she would lie awake, turning it over and over in her head until she could barely breathe.
She never told Andrea.
Until she did, during one of their heated arguments. Miranda couldn’t even remember what had started it. Only that it escalated, and then she heard herself shouting, “If this life is so hard for you, then go and find someone else! I’m sure you’d enjoy not having some old hag telling you how to live your life!”
Miranda remembered crying, remembered Andrea leaving the townhouse and not coming back until two days later, remembered Andrea calling her stupid and selfish for even suggesting she hated her life, remembered the way Andrea’s voice broke as she said it hurt to be treated like a child, remembered how Andrea had threatened her with a breakup if she were to speak about herself like that again. Miranda spent a month apologizing for it.
But it wasn’t always bad. Miranda had once built her relationships around convenience: a face, a figure. But Andrea was everything and more.
Miranda loved Andrea in ways that were both terrifying and consuming. Miranda loved her in the only ways she knew how.
Andrea often came home to gifts, ones that inevitably sparked arguments, despite the shine in her eyes. She liked receiving gifts but hated what it implied: that she was only in it for the money, so Miranda learned to accept whatever Andrea would offer in return: a gift of her own, a cooked meal, a handwritten letter, a kiss, good sex.
Miranda hated affection. She hated it even more when people were watching, but she didn’t mind holding Andrea’s hand in the elevator, kissing Andrea as she walked past her desk, or placing her hand on the small of Andrea’s back when they walked together.
“Why do you watch her like she holds the sun or something?” Caroline had asked once when they were all gathered in the kitchen and were watching Andrea bake something the twins had requested.
Miranda smiled, almost absently. “Does she not?” She asked.
Caroline looked at her with mild disgust but didn’t say more than, “As long as you’re happy, I guess.”
Miranda was happy. In fact, happier than she had been in years, perhaps since the twins were born.
She wanted to believe she deserved it. After everything she had endured, she thought she deserved this kind of joy, if only because she didn’t know how she would survive losing it.
Andrea had scolded her for thinking so ominously about their future, had told her she’d have to be dragged away to leave Miranda, had promised her that she wouldn’t have to wake up alone in bed again. Miranda kissed Andrea that night with a burn in her chest. She kissed her until she was writhing and panting. She kissed her until she could taste her blood in her own mouth.
“I love you so much it sometimes hurts,” Miranda had admitted once with an unsteady voice.
Andrea had stared at her, wide eyed. “Miranda—”
“I will do everything for you,” Miranda added, choking on the words. “If I had to bleed myself dry, I would.”
Andrea crossed the room in an instant, cupping her face before pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “I love you just as much,” she said in between breaths.
Miranda would always argue that it wasn’t possible for Andrea to love her just as much, because she had so much of it.
Too much love enough to last a lifetime and more.