Title: What Happens in Vegas...Can Follow You Home
A/N: As always I want to thank my wonderful betas: JazWrite13, Ginakasarahsmom, and shesgottaread who have looked at this over the years. They make gold from dross.
A/N2: This one fulfills my obligation to the 2014 July Fic-a-Day Marathon, the P&P Finish It Challenge and the International Day of Femslash. It's a busy little fic.
Delicate eyelids flickered as sleep slowly released Miranda Priestly. The first rays of sunlight touched her face with warmth barely equal to that at her back. She luxuriated in the feeling of comfort, in the softness of the bed beneath her, the slight ache in her muscles that spoke of a night well spent and the press of the body against her back.
The pleasant haze vanished as her eyes shot open. Ache? Body? What the f-? Miranda froze, both at the pain that shot through her head at the sudden infusion of light into bleary eyes, hangover, how lovely, and the realization that she was not alone in her bed. Her eyes moved frantically for a moment taking in the surroundings. Not her bedroom, then where was…Vegas! She was in Las Vegas. For the Westwood shoot. In her suite. All right, that made sense but who-. A frown creased the porcelain brow. It was morning. There should be a tickle of hair at her shoulder blades and a nudging at her buttocks, but the sensations were exactly opposite and the nudge came in stereo, one for each shoulder blade, and the tickle was located much lower as well. A woman. There was a naked woman at her back. Who?
Some showgirl or other random person she had met last night? She rolled her eyes sending another streak of pain through her belabored brain. She closed her eyelids with a wince and tried to reason calmly. Even in her twenties during the heyday of New York's club scene, she had never taken home a stranger whom she had just met, no matter how inebriated she had become. Therefore, it seemed doubtful she would do so now, so this must be someone she knew. One of the models? No, she would not put her professional life so at risk for some frivolous physical release.
No, it would have to be someone she was familiar with. Emily? She pushed the thought away almost as soon as it entered her mind. Her first assistant was much too similar to her La Priestly persona to ever find the woman attractive. Serena, then. The Brazilian was arguably the most gorgeous woman at Runway if one followed the guidelines glorified by the magazine; however, there was one Miranda, personally, found to be even more beautiful. While Serena was a possibility, the soft lushness pressed to her upper back quickly ruled her out as well. For all her beauty, Serena was not so…well endowed. That left only one woman in her entourage who might possibly be currently cuddled familiarly at her back.
Miranda groaned softly and turned her head into the pillow on which she rested. The probable identity of her bedmate both thrilled and terrified her. Andréa. The gods could not be so cruel, but, then again, she supposed they could. Why else would she awaken, hung over and skin to skin with the woman who haunted her dreams, only to have no remembrance of the events which had led to neither this moment nor, more importantly, what had occurred when they initially achieved this state? She finally had the girl she secretly obsessed over but without any knowledge of what it had been like.
Drawing her left hand from under the pillow where it had rested since she awoke, Miranda rubbed it over her face only then noticing the slim platinum band that graced her ring finger. Eyelids opening to an extent that a vague worry of their being able to contain her eyeballs skidded across her mind, she stared at her own hand turning it slowly back to front. Married?! This could not mean what she thought it did. She'd gotten married?! To whom? Not to…oh, it wasn't possible. Was it? It was simply too clichéd to be possible. There was no way she, Miranda Priestly, had gotten drunk and married in Vegas! Nope…uh uh…not possible…no way. Her normally pristine grammar fled in the face of the horrible possibility.
But would it be so horrible? She couldn't help but think. To be married to Andréa. To awaken this way every morning, sans headache, of course. To have the sweet, loving, wonderful young woman to come home to every night. To slip into bed next to that voluptuous naked body. Miranda's heart began to thump at an ever increasing rate as her mind turned to what might happen in a bed she shared with Andréa. Stop that! She admonished herself, taking a slow cleansing breath. At that moment, her bed mate flexed in her sleep pressing tighter against her back and Miranda reacted without thought, tossing back the sheet and sliding to the floor.
She sat beside the bed and stared back at the place she had just lay so comfortably. It was indeed Andréa, sound asleep, her face angelic as it rested on the pillow beneath her head. Miranda's eyes dropped lower to what had been exposed by her tossing of the sheet and all thoughts of innocence fled. Oh, sweet heaven. Had she really had her hands on that last night? And couldn't remember it now? Cursed, I am literally cursed, she thought, mouth moving from dry to Sahara in seconds. I need a drink! Of water. Right, water.
Rising, she stumbled into the bathroom, reaching for the nearest glass. She filled and emptied it twice before staring at herself in the mirror. She saw tousled white hair, red rimmed eyes and the vaguely smug expression of a woman well satisfied. Reaching to rub at irritated eyes with the opposite hand this time, she caught a whiff of something on her fingers. The smell immediately making her mouth water. Andréa. This is what her arousal smells like. Instinct brought the fingers to her lips before she realized what she was going. Miranda stilled, fingers barely touching her lower lip. What was she doing? She couldn't, could she? Realizing she might not otherwise know, she pressed the fingers between her lips, sliding them deep into her mouth, tongue bathing them. Miranda hummed happily deep in her throat. She's exquisite. With a start, she realized what she was doing and hastily began to wash her hands. Coffee. She would order coffee and then shower.
Shrugging into her robe, she hurried through the bedroom and into the living room not daring to glance again at the bed and its occupant. Reaching for the phone, she noticed the room service menu beside it. She should order breakfast. Unlike the rest of the women at Runway, Andréa actually ate. She'd be hungry when she woke. Grabbing her glasses from a nearby table and offering a silent prayer of thanks that while her hangover headaches could be extreme a glass of water usually cleared them quickly and they never affected her stomach, Miranda flipped through the menu. What kinds of things would Andréa like? Eggs. Eggs were good, unless Andréa had an allergy to them. Maybe she better order something else as well. Pancakes. Everyone liked pancakes. Okay, so eggs and pancakes. What else? Miranda ran a finger down the list. Bacon? Sausage? Why didn't she know these things about her Andréa? Making up her mind that she would just have to learn them, Miranda picked up the phone and placed her order.
She, then, took a quick shower, made sure the bedroom door was pulled closed and, dressed again in her gray bathrobe, was ready to answer the door when the food arrived. She directed the young woman where to set up the table and after signing for their breakfast and adding a large tip, poured herself a cup of steaming coffee. She carried the cup over to the couch and sat down to wait for Andréa to awaken. It was then she noticed the folded piece of heavy white paper on the coffee table. Not remembering having placed it there, she picked it up and slipping on her glasses, perused it. Her breath caught with a gasp as she realized she was holding their marriage license. Miranda Elizabeth Priestly and Andréa Danielle Sachs were united in Holy Matrimony. Andréa's middle name was Danielle. How lovely. The name suited her.
Miranda frowned. She had thought Nevada was a Domestic Partnership state, but this was clearly a marriage license. A quick glance revealed that Nigel and Serena had signed as witnesses. Where had Emily been?
A sound from the bedroom made Miranda look up and she was suddenly glad her coffee was sitting safely on the table before her. Andréa, her wife, stood in the doorway wrapped in only a sheet, looking tousled, sleepy and well loved. Miranda swallowed against a suddenly tight throat.
"Hi," Andy said, her tone soft and breathy. Large brown eyes showed a mixture of apprehension, fear and something else Miranda couldn't quite place.
"Good morning," Miranda offered, her voice gentle. "There's coffee and I ordered you some breakfast." She gestured to where the table was set up.
Andy glanced at it and then back to Miranda.
"Did we…?" Andy started to ask and then clearly thought better of it.
Miranda could almost read her thoughts. No one asked Miranda anything, even if you had just woken up naked in her bed. Miranda's lips took a wry twist. "Yes, I believe we did. And," she waved the paper she held, "it appears we're married as well."
"Married!?" Andy exclaimed. "We. You and me. Us. Married? Can we even be married in this state?"
Miranda stifled the urge to smile. Okay, the whole 'you can't ask Miranda anything' concept had totally flown out the window. But then how often did one find oneself waking up married to Miranda Priestly? "Really, Andréa, you act as if you've encountered the proverbial fate worse than death. There are worse things than being married to me, you know?" Miranda sniffed.
Andréa looked at her in surprise. Miranda knew she hadn't hidden her hurt at Andréa's reaction to their possible marriage, but honestly, would being married to her be so terrible? The way Andréa dropped into the chair on the other side of the table quite suddenly indicated that it was, nor was her new wife aware that the sheet she was wrapped had parted to expose one long leg from ankle to waist. Miranda was unable to tear her eyes from that long expanse of flesh. Andréa had exquisite skin.
Miranda found herself straining to remember what it had felt like to have it against her own, under her hands, her lips. She would never drink that much again. To be deprived of the one memory she would give almost anything to recall was abhorrent to her. Andréa, however, was obviously appalled by the idea of what had happened so the sooner this all ended the better. She reached for her coffee with a hand that only trembled slightly. She grimaced at how cold it had become and rose to pour a fresh cup.
"Andréa, come eat your breakfast." Miranda settled in one chair and cut into her omelet not waiting to see if Andréa joined her.
Andy settled into the chair across from Miranda. Lifting the lid on not one but two plates, she stared in amazement at the variety of foods Miranda had ordered. "Are these all for me?" she questioned.
"Of course. I certainly won't be eating any of it," Miranda replied, clearly astounded that Andréa would even suggest such a thing. Her looked softened as she continued, "I didn't know what you liked, so I chose several standard breakfast items. I hope at least some of it meets with your approval."
Andy blinked back a rush of tears. The gesture was so incredibly sweet and so totally un-Miranda-like that she didn't know quite how to respond, though she made the attempt. "Being married to you would be a string of continual surprises."
Miranda opened and closed her mouth several times before finally speaking. "Would that be such a bad thing, Andréa? Being married to me. I realize I don't have the best record in that department, but it might be different."
Andy paused, the piece of sausage on her fork a scant inch from her lips. Instinct told her to step carefully. "Nooo, I suppose not. If the other person were in love with you, I'm sure it could be a wonderful experience. Assuming, of course, that you loved them back." Andy congratulated herself on dodging that particular bullet. Or maybe not, she thought as Miranda pursed her lips. Andy quickly stuck the sausage bit into her mouth to eliminate the ability to comment further. She smiled weakly at Miranda as she chewed slowly, very slowly.
"I have a number of calls to make," Miranda snapped and retrieving her cell, went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Sighing, Andy pushed her plates away, no longer even remotely hungry. Evidently we relate much better when at least one of us is drunk out of her mind. She really wished she could remember what had transpired the previous night, but all she got when she tried to recall the events were brief flashes of memory. What the hell does Elvis, teddy bears and gobs of cooked rice have to do with anything? she wondered. She rubbed her temples, the slight headache she'd woken with steadily worsening. If she thought for a moment that Miranda actually wanted any of this, Andy knew that she'd be all in for this marriage. Unfortunately, that was highly unlikely. Miranda Priestly was not the sort to marry her assistant, drunk or not.
Right now, Andy would kill for a shower and clean clothes, neither of which she was going to get with Miranda hold up in the bedroom. Nor could she walk back to her own room in a sheet, even if it did have an enormous thread count. Sighing, she curled up in a corner of the couch to wait and in moments, was asleep.
Miranda stalked back and forth as she hissed at her attorney.
"What do you mean breach of promise? I haven't promised anything!" she snarled.
"Miranda, going through with the marriage ceremony itself was a promise of sorts, even if it isn't legally binding. It can be argued that Andrea has an expectation of maintaining that type of relationship with you." Mark Graves replied in a calm tone.
"And how exactly does a twelve hour pseudo marriage relate to palimony?" Miranda was beginning to think he was the one who had had too much to drink, and had yet to sober up.
"Once again, expectations and intent, Miranda. While she in all probably wouldn't win such a suit, to avoid publicity you'd have to settle a sufficient amount on her to keep her silent on the matter. It could all get very expensive and very nasty. Keep the certificate in your possession and get back here to New York as soon as can be managed. It may be simpler to gain the cooperation of any witnesses, than to try to settle with Ms. Sachs. She really can't do much more than create a bit of smoke with no one to back up her story. For the moment, it might be best if you just go along with it all. If she's out to make a buck, she'll slip up soon enough," Mark advised.
"You don't know Andréa. She would never do such a thing," Miranda was adamant in her refusal to believe her Andréa to be capable of such a thing.
"Are you willing to bet several million dollars on that?" Mark cut to the core of the issue.
Miranda sighed. He did have a point with that. Was she willing to take that risk? This time yesterday she would have replied with a resounding yes, but then, why had Andréa agreed to marry her last night. There was no way a woman that young could love her, so there still remained the question of motive. A chance at easy money perhaps, or the opportunity to get back at Miranda for all the times she'd made Andréa's life miserable. Rubbing her eyes, she sighed again, deeper and more heartfelt. There was no way to know until she actually addressed the issue with Andréa. After assuring Mark she would return as soon as a flight could be arranged, Miranda disconnected. She next placed a call to Emily, giving her instructions in a rapid fire manner and ended the call before the other woman could reply. Now, she just needed to speak with Andréa and ascertain her intentions. Without letting Andréa know that was what she was doing, of course. Ok, subtlety. I can do subtlety. If I must.
With a sniff, Miranda opened the door and walking back into the seating area to confront Andréa…subtly. It quickly became obvious that she might need to be just a hair move obvious as Andréa was sound asleep on the couch, that same leg on full display. Miranda found she was unable to tear her gaze from that silken, delicate flesh at the very top of Andréa's thigh. Was it as soft as it looked? How would it feel against her lips, her tongue? Was it possible to die of want from not tasting that small strip of heaven? Not following where it led, beneath the shadows of the sheet draped over her hips?
Miranda could not remember ever being quite so mesmerized by another woman's body, by anyone's body actually. Suddenly, she very much wanted their marriage to be real, to have the right to explore every inch of the delectable skin that was hidden from her view as well as what she could see, to kiss and tease Andréa into wakefulness and then spend the rest of the day making love to her wife. My wife. A phrase Miranda had never thought she'd utter in association with herself, but now one she dearly wanted to claim.
She sat on the edge of the couch watching Andréa sleep, the same angelic air Miranda had noticed before on her face. Miranda had worked with many beautiful women in her time, but never could she recall a more innocent face coupled to quite so sinful a body. With gentle fingers she brushed a strand of hair back that had been caught in those full lips.
"Andréa. Darling, you need to wake up." Miranda kept her voice low and gentle, less like the one she used in the office and more like how she sounded when talking to her children.
"M'randa," Andy murmured, more asleep than awake.
"Yes, Love, it's Miranda. I need to talk to you about a few things."
"Umkay. Wha'?" came the mumbled response.
Realizing that Andy was more talking in her sleep than actually carrying on the conversation with her, Miranda decided to take a risk.
"Why did you marry me, Andréa?"
A small frown marred the smooth brow before relaxing again. "You ask," Andy breathed.
"Because I asked?" Miranda questioned, not quite able to believe that Andréa had said yes just because she'd proposed.
"'Zu ma teda bur," Andy continued to mumble adding, "Sleep now." She gathered Miranda's hand and hugged it between her breasts and she turned her face into the cushion, slipping back into a deep sleep.
Miranda was left to puzzle out what Andy had meant. Zu ma teda bur? Whatever does that mean? Teda bur? Oh, teddy bear. So the rest would be…you're my teddy bear? Miranda stared at the sleeping woman aghast. I have been called many things, but never someone's teddy bear. Grizzly, perhaps. Polar, undoubtedly, but never teddy. More confused than ever, Miranda tried to retrieve her hand only to find it held in an iron grip. Well, she could sit there half leaned over until she was released or her back seized in that position, or… Sighing, Miranda turned and stretched out between the woman she found herself married to and the back of the couch, slipping her other arm under Andy's neck in order to hold her close enough for them both to fit on the couch. With the heat of her new sort-of-wife pressed along her length, Miranda was quickly asleep.