Work Text:
The foreign palace, Andy notices as her and Miranda are led through its corridors by some dignitary, is cold.
In Miranda’s palace, Andy is used to warmth. To the crimson of Miranda’s clothes, to the gold ornaments hanging on the walls, to the chandeliers casting everything in soft glow, to the marble, polished so that the floors shine with some kind of inner light, warm as the sun. The corridors there are warm, too, full of twins’ laughter—and recently, Andy’s.
Andy is Miranda’s personal knight for trips now, too. It came as a big surprise, after the whole assassination situation, but Miranda seems to be more worried with not spending enough time with Andy than of Andy getting hurt again (which is a thought planted in her mind by Andy herself, together with the princesses). And that worry exactly now means that Andy is the knight travelling with Miranda when she’s on any political trips, and is the one learning new things about their neighbouring kingdoms. She even began to study politics in her free time, so that she can follow what is happening in the meeting rooms when she’s standing at attention, playing the role of a regular knight.
What she’s learning now, though, is that she really doesn’t like cold. She thought she grew past it, but apparently not: it still reminds her of her time in the Academy, of the cold nights when she was shivering, curled under thin covers and unable to fall asleep, praying for the morning to come quicker. Now, in Miranda’s palace, it’s better, especially with how loved she is, by Miranda and her daughters both—but in moments like these, the past demands space in her brain with more force than usual, annoying in its insistence.
Still: the corridors are beautiful, and Andy does her best to keep her mouth closed.
They come to a halt in front of the door to what the dignitary—Malcolm, his name is, Andy remembers now—calls guest chambers, prepared specifically for Miranda. There are two guards flanking it already, but Andy knows Miranda prefers her over some unknown people, and that means that Andy will be on her watch through the entire night.
Miranda enters the chambers with a nod, not saying a word. Andy meets her eyes the moment before the door closes, and then she takes her place directly in front of the door, straight right ahead, like perfect knight ought to.
“Your room is down the hall,” the dignitary says. Andy doesn’t think she’ll be using it anytime soon, given Miranda’s preferences, but she nods either way, her lips stretching into a small smile.
“Thank you, sir,” she replies quietly.
Malcolm walks away without a word, his steps echoing in the corridor. The two guards stare right ahead, their faces impassive, and so Andy slowly exhales and copies their expressions, determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing her uncertain. Or uncomfortable, for that matter.
Miranda opens the door fifteen minutes later, and then stands in the threshold, her eyes moving between Andy and the two guards flanking her.
“I don’t trust them,” she says at last, almost petulant, except that Miranda is never petulant, and this means that she’s acting. “I want you close.”
Andy stares at her. “Of course, Your Majesty,” she answers, because what else is there to say? Miranda wants her close, Miranda will have her close. The only question is how exactly she wants that to happen, but here, it’s not Andy’s duty to figure that out.
Miranda keeps still, looking almost like she’s waiting for something. Frowns. “Well, then?” she asks, elongating the letters with pretended boredom. “Inside.”
Andy bites her lip to stop from smiling too widely and follows Miranda into her chambers. They are just as silvery-blue as the rest of the palace, with tapestries on the walls, and a big bed in the middle, covered with insane amount of pillows that look soft as sin. Miranda immediately moves to the chair that has a bathrobe thrown over the backrest, unbuttoning her dress, and Andy takes a place next to the wall, desperately trying not to stare at Miranda’s body. Trying, and failing. She’s only human, after all.
Miranda disappears into what Andy suspects is a bathroom, and Andy takes that time to compose herself. She’s there as Miranda’s knight, not as her lover. Miranda might want her in one chamber with her, yes, but that’s just because she trusts her, not because she wants Andy-Andy. Just knight-Andy.
Miranda steps out of the bathroom just as Andy starts to count the number of fringes on the tapestry the closest to her. Her white hair curls around her forehead; she washed her hair, Andy can see that, even from the distance separating them. The sleeping gown she’s wearing is one of Andy’s favourites, she notices with a warm, surprised jolt, long and red, made from the finest silk that feels like water under Andy’s fingertips whenever she has the occasion to touch it.
She doesn’t have too much time to admire it now, though, as Miranda crosses the chamber in a quick stride and before Andy has the time to blink, she’s under the covers already, propping herself on one side.
“I can’t have you tired tomorrow,” she says quietly, giving Andy a long look. Andy licks her lips, trying to figure out the correct response—even now, even when she was being courted by Miranda, however semi-officially.
“Of course,” she finally says, pushing herself from the wall she was unconsciously leaning on, tired from the day, and marginally more relaxed than usual, knowing there are other guards present. She takes a step towards the door, excused for the night already. Unexpected decision, but not an unwelcome one.
Miranda frowns. “Where do you think you’re going?” she asks, stopping Andy mid-move.
“I—my chambers?”
Miranda huffs out a quiet laugh. “No.”
“No?” Andy repeats, stupidly, and then immediately wants to take it back.
“No. You’re staying with me, here,” Miranda clarifies. Andy swallows, nodding. Her eyes catch on the settee under the opposite wall, but before she has a chance to make a move on it, Miranda tsks, shaking her head. “In the bed,” she says, almost exasperated. “It’s big enough for two.”
Andy inhales slowly, stopping the urge to worry her bottom lip again. Miranda’s gaze stays steady on her face, sharp despite the hour and the events of the day, and, well. Orders from the queen are to be obeyed.
“I, um,” she starts, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment. “The—clothes?”
A corner of Miranda’s lips twitches. “Everything you need is in the bathroom already.”
Andy closes her eyes for a brief moment, exhaling, and then inhaling, and exhaling, under she feels a bit more steady on her feet. It was planned, then. Good to know at least that.
She places the sword against the wall, making sure it won’t fall down, and then starts to take off her armour, with practiced movements, and stops only when she’s standing in front of Miranda in just her undergarments. It’s not unusual for her to do that—not anymore, when they spent together more nights that Andy can count, but there’s still something weird in going from Miranda’s knight to her lover so quickly and so visibly.
The bathroom is of worse quality than the one adjacent to Miranda’s royal chambers, but it’s passable, Andy thinks, and then laughs quietly at how absurd she’s being. How easy it is, to go from shared bathrooms and lukewarm water to the best ones money can buy, with hot baths filled with oils and flowers and milk, and still judge them as worse than Miranda’s.
They are worse, though. Or it might just be Andy’s love for Miranda making her biased; she’s too tired to differentiate these two, content with deciding that she prefers Miranda’s, and sticking with it. Either way, she washes, and dries herself, and puts on a nightgown that was waiting for her, in her size, just as soft as Miranda’s.
When she looks at herself in the mirror, she cannot recognise her old self from the Academy in the reflection; she smiles at the sight, warmth spreading through her chest, and walks out to face Miranda again.
She stops next to the bed, only to meet Miranda’s amused eyes staring back, moving down her body and then up. She opens her mouth to say something—it’s the first time they are to be in bed together just because, without making love before—but the words get trapped in her throat, as if they are thistles in a dog’s fur.
“Well,” Miranda hums, her voice honeyed with pleasure. She lifts the covers with one hand, moving back to make space for Andy. “What are you waiting for?”
Andy bites her lip and gets into the bed, right next to Miranda. Her scent envelops her immediately, roses and something sweeter, and she closes her eyes on instinct, inhaling it like it can stop the time, trap the two of them in that one perfect moment, forever.
Miranda laughs, and then grabs Andy’s hand and pulls her down onto the pillows, placing her head on Andy’s chest. “I’m cold,” she says quietly, and though a queen doesn’t need to explain herself to anyone, Andy is more than happy to have an excuse to put her hand on Miranda’s back and draw shapes there. She keeps on doing it, her movements growing more and more uncoordinated with each passing minute, and continues to do so until Miranda falls asleep. Her steady breathing lulls Andy to sleep as well, moments later.
The last thing she remembers is Miranda’s soft, rosy scent and the weight of her head on Andy’s chest, where she lies nuzzled into her like a cat.