Chapter Text
Andrea, when placed in a favourable environment, thrives. Miranda is right next to her, allowed to witness it all from her position, which she got to keep—with a promotion, even—and everything is perfect. Which is exactly why Miranda finally allows herself to analyse what she’s been keeping in the back of her mind for the past twenty years.
The fact that Andrea Sachs is very, very pretty, very, very interesting, and that Miranda really, really wants her.
Andrea wants her, too, if the looks she’s giving Miranda any clue. Or the way she to Miranda’s door back in Milan, all teary-eyed and worried, and delivered the most moving speech Miranda has ever heard, shook her up from the stagnation, and convinced Sasha to buy out Elias-Clarke.
“Miranda,” Andy says as she steps into Miranda’s office, papers in hand. “The May issue.”
She reaches out to Miranda, hand extended. Their fingers brush; Miranda grabs her hand and pulls Andrea close, right into her embrace. “You work too much,” she whispers into her ear, pressing a kiss to Andrea’s cheek. “One should remedy that.”
Andrea giggles. “One should,” she agrees easily, tilting her head back to let her gaze meet Miranda’s. Her hair tickles Miranda’s face. “This evening?”
“This evening,” Miranda confirms, turning Andrea in her embrace and capturing her lips in a kiss. “Will you be staying over?”
“And do I ever do anything else?” Andrea laughs. Her hands travel down Miranda’s back, steady and gentle, and Miranda inhales deeply, smelling Andrea’s shampoo, roses and something else, more bitter.
“I’ll have Roy pick you up.”
Andrea smiles, open and happy, and Miranda kisses her again, with no care for the office's murmur muffled by the door.
Andrea wakes Miranda up with a phone in one hand and Miranda’s glasses in another.
“Hi, love,” she whispers, pressing the device into Miranda’s hands. “Look.”
On the screen, when Miranda perches the glasses on her nose, she can see a picture of them both together at some restaurant. Andy is in that devastating blue dress—the one Miranda took off her the moment the townhouse's door closed behind them after the date—both of them laughing, Andrea’s hand covering Miranda’s. Underneath the picture, a title is displayed in a big, garish font: Is Miranda Priestly dating her Features Editor?
“They wrote an article,” Miranda says evenly. Andrea throws herself next to her, cheerfully ignoring the small oomph Miranda makes.
“I told you we were going to become public if you kept up these dates,” she reminds her gently.
“I wouldn’t hide you from people, Andrea,” Miranda protests, something hot and protective stirring up in her chest at the mere thought. “I don’t care what they write about us, I wanted—”
“Hey,” Andrea interrupts raising her hand to cradle Miranda’s face. Her fingers are gentle, soft as down—courtesy of all the hand creams Miranda has been giving her. “It’s not a problem for me. Just—people know now, don’t they?”
“It’s just a speculation” Miranda assures her, because the last thing she needs is Andrea getting nervous about their relationship being public and calling it all off.
But Andrea only worries her lip, looking up at Miranda from between her lashes. “We could,” she starts slowly, almost as if she’s shy, “make it official. If you’d want that.”
“And you’d be okay with people knowing?”
Andrea huffs out a laugh, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I’d love for people to know about us.”
“They are going to talk.”
“Why? Because you’re older?”
The topic isn’t something that comes up often between them; both Andrea and Miranda are more than happy with not acknowledging their age difference, happy with pretending that they are the same age, and that Miranda’s time is not running out. That they have more than ten, maybe fifteen years together at the very best, more than a few years before Miranda becomes old and frail and sick and—
“Oh, Miranda,” Andrea whispers, reaching out to wipe a stray fear that Miranda didn’t realise has fallen. Her touch is soft and gentle, and Miranda leans into it with a quiet hum. “If our age difference is your only concern, then there’s no concern. I don’t care about it. You’re successful, and beautiful, and you—you get me, you know? You understand my job, and my passions, and you’ and you’ve read everything I’ve ever wrote, which is, frankly speaking, a terrible sacrifice, and I want people to know that you’re mine. And that I’m yours.” She leans over to Miranda, her hands still on Miranda’s face, tracing the wrinkles there with careful movements. She kisses her then, slow and sweet and careful, closing her eyes. “I want to make it official. With you. If you also want it,” she whispers when they finally pull away. There are tears shining in her eyes, ones she doesn’t even try to blink away.
“You’re crying,” Miranda notices stupidly. Andrea laughs in response, pressing herself close to Miranda.
“Happy tears,” she murmurs, her voice thick. “Happy, happy tears.”
Miranda takes her time with choosing the perfect engagement ring for Andrea. It is to be gold, eighteen karats, no diamonds because Andrea, after her article on De Beers, had declared a war on them and on the whole diamonds bullshit.
But to marry, one needs engagement, and for engagement, one needs an engagement ring, and so Miranda gets Andrea a ring. With a big emerald in a princess cut, surrounded with smoky quartz, the gold sculpted into leaves that hold the stones in place and catch light beautifully.
The big moment happens where their whole relationship has properly started; in Milan, during Fashion Week, in the plaza where Miranda had cried two years before, thinking her world was going to end. Now, she cries again, with Andrea’s hands wrapped around her, as she laughs through her tears, repeating, “Yes, Miranda, a thousand times yes,” over and over again. Her tears are wetting Miranda’s shirt, and Miranda is, in that moment, the happiest person in the world.
“You know, I was going to propose to you, too,” Andrea chokes out when she finally calms down for long enough to look at Miranda properly. The moon shines on her face; the dried-up tears glisten on her face like liquid starlight, and Miranda can’t stop staring at her. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. “I had—” she breaks off, fishing hand going to the pocket of her jacket. “Here—!”
She opens the box without a flourish without anything, not even getting down on one knee, but it still somehow makes Miranda feel more special than during any of her previous engagements.
The ring has a big, red stone in the middle, smooth from outside, and yet, despite that, it looks like somebody managed to capture flames inside of it. Miranda stares at it, tears burning in her eyes, and then she pulls Andrea back into her arms, laughing into her neck, with no care for her fiancée’s yelp.
“I love you,” she whispers, quietly at first, and then louder, “I love you, I want to spend my life with you, I want—I want you, Andrea, all of you, you, if only you’ll let me.”
Their kiss tastes like tears and happiness.
For their honeymoon, they go to Paris.
There’s something special about following the footsteps of them twenty-five years earlier, Miranda thinks, as she walks through one of Paris’ parks, her hand in Andrea’s. Something special in hearing Andrea talk about these days. About how she slept with Christian—some shadow of jealousy flares in Miranda’s chest at that, even as she knows Andrea is hers and hers alone—only to wake up to the realisation that Irv is trying to betray Miranda. How panicked she was, back then, when Miranda just ignored her the entire day, which only made Andrea spiral further, which wasn’t good at all since the big resolution was just Miranda taking Nigel’s promotion out of his hands.
“I threw my phone into this fountain,” says Andrea, looking at the water’s surface with something like amusement painted across her features. “You just—said we’re the same, and I decided that it cannot be, and just—panicked some more. It was a day of panicking. And then I saw that you were calling me, and I just—threw the phone away.”
Miranda wraps her hand around Andrea’s shoulders; she immediately leans into the touch with a soft sigh.
“You actually destroyed your phone,” Miranda notices, surprised. She’s always assumed that Andrea simply turned it off. Something as dramatic as throwing it into a fountain has never crossed her mind before—but, she has to admit, it fits Andrea, when she thinks about it deeper.
Andrea shrugs. “I mean,” she mutters, her eyes still on the glittering water. “Seemed like a good idea back then.”
Miranda hums. Andrea turns to look at her, a sad smile on her face. “It gave us twenty years less together,” she says finally, “but it, finally, gave us—well, we’re married now. I don’t think we would’ve done that if I stayed.”
“You didn’t like me back then?”
“Oh, I was half in love with you,” Andrea laughs, seemingly unaware of how that admission makes Miranda’s heart squeeze painfully. “But it was just—so different back then. Now, we’re on equal footing. You liked me, I liked you. Relationship groundwork.”
“Not to mention the Hamptons situation,” Miranda mutters.
“Oh, yeah, the sex definitely—I mean, it was nice, seeing you so open there. The person underneath the facade. Made me think I could hope for something more with you, and look at us now.” Andy smiles, placing her hand over Miranda’s. “Married, in love, and in Paris. What more is there to wish for?”