“You’re late,” Miranda says, but stands anyways, leaning in for their customary kiss in greeting. She leaves her glasses on, a hint to Andy that she’s been hard at work for hours, barely looking up from her desk as she barks orders to her new assistant. “Did you have to travel by penny cab?”
“Nice to see you, too,” Andy says, unfazed, letting her hand linger a little too long on her wife’s arm. Even though they’d been married for nearly five years, Miranda was still conservative about affection in public. “I brought you lunch.”
Miranda eyes the bag in Andy’s hands, one brow raised in barely-concealed interest. “Green salad from—“
“From the new café across from your salon, yes,” Andy says, setting the food on Miranda’s desk. “You need a break. You need to eat.” Miranda rolls her eyes, but Andy puts up her hand before she can protest. “I only have half an hour. Don’t you want to eat with your wife?”
“Always so difficult,” Miranda says, thin-lipped, but sits down. They eat in companionable silence for a moment, but Miranda’s chewing slows as she looks Andy up and down with approving eyes. “You look…lovely. Did I forget an engagement?”
Andy feels herself flush at the compliment. She pokes at her turkey-cranberry salad, trying to be nonchalant. “Nope. I just threw whatever on this morning.” She presses a hand to her scarf. “Why, do you like it?”
She’s changed her style some since her stint at Runway—she’s more casual, definitely, and a lot more practical. She spends more money on books and wine than she does on shoes and purses. And though she’d never fully admit it to Miranda, she’s begun shopping at thrift stores. Not vintage boutiques or high-end consignment stores—just run-of-the-mill secondhand shops filled with racks and racks of used clothing and accessories.
Today, she’s wearing the short, black wool Valentino dress Miranda got her for Christmas months before with simple burgundy tights and black boots. Her bag is designer—a big, shiny, functional thing with an embossed stamp from a label Andy’s never heard of who Miranda is enamored with. But around her neck is a paper-thin silk scarf, multicolored in whites, reds, and purples with a black and burgundy border. The geometric shapes clash against each other at the fold Andy is wearing it, drawing attention to the statement piece.
“That,” Miranda says, nodding at the scarf. “It suits you. Where did you pick up such a thing?” Her eyes are appraising, but Andy recognizes the pointedness in her look—it’s not a look she spares for models or designers. Those hooded eyes are for Andy only.
Andy’s about to smile and cave, telling Miranda the origins of the scarf, but she can’t resist being a little shit sometimes. “Oh, don’t give me that. You know this scarf.”
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timeasmymeasure
Fill: Devil Wears Prada, Andy/Miranda, PG, 1/2
Date: 2016-03-26 04:55 pm (UTC)“Nice to see you, too,” Andy says, unfazed, letting her hand linger a little too long on her wife’s arm. Even though they’d been married for nearly five years, Miranda was still conservative about affection in public. “I brought you lunch.”
Miranda eyes the bag in Andy’s hands, one brow raised in barely-concealed interest. “Green salad from—“
“From the new café across from your salon, yes,” Andy says, setting the food on Miranda’s desk. “You need a break. You need to eat.” Miranda rolls her eyes, but Andy puts up her hand before she can protest. “I only have half an hour. Don’t you want to eat with your wife?”
“Always so difficult,” Miranda says, thin-lipped, but sits down. They eat in companionable silence for a moment, but Miranda’s chewing slows as she looks Andy up and down with approving eyes. “You look…lovely. Did I forget an engagement?”
Andy feels herself flush at the compliment. She pokes at her turkey-cranberry salad, trying to be nonchalant. “Nope. I just threw whatever on this morning.” She presses a hand to her scarf. “Why, do you like it?”
She’s changed her style some since her stint at Runway—she’s more casual, definitely, and a lot more practical. She spends more money on books and wine than she does on shoes and purses. And though she’d never fully admit it to Miranda, she’s begun shopping at thrift stores. Not vintage boutiques or high-end consignment stores—just run-of-the-mill secondhand shops filled with racks and racks of used clothing and accessories.
Today, she’s wearing the short, black wool Valentino dress Miranda got her for Christmas months before with simple burgundy tights and black boots. Her bag is designer—a big, shiny, functional thing with an embossed stamp from a label Andy’s never heard of who Miranda is enamored with. But around her neck is a paper-thin silk scarf, multicolored in whites, reds, and purples with a black and burgundy border. The geometric shapes clash against each other at the fold Andy is wearing it, drawing attention to the statement piece.
“That,” Miranda says, nodding at the scarf. “It suits you. Where did you pick up such a thing?” Her eyes are appraising, but Andy recognizes the pointedness in her look—it’s not a look she spares for models or designers. Those hooded eyes are for Andy only.
Andy’s about to smile and cave, telling Miranda the origins of the scarf, but she can’t resist being a little shit sometimes. “Oh, don’t give me that. You know this scarf.”