Adjustments

“What,” Miranda paused to swallow her disgust, “in God's name is that?” She gestured vaguely at Andrea, afraid that looking directly at that abomination might somehow blemish her own impeccable taste.

“You mean this?” The brunette lowered the tool to the kitchen counter. “Don't tell me Miranda Priestly - fashion queen extraordinaire – doesn't recognise a wrench?”

Miranda didn't much care for teasing at the best of times; a half flooded kitchen was as far removed from that as when James Holt had foolishly assumed that sapphire was a sufficient substitute for her requested prussian blue.

“If you had any clue about fashion you might have bothered to read Runway's back catalogue. Urban spread. October 2001. Page 57. Giselle. Valentino. Wrench.” A measure of control returned with every uttered word, familiar ground serving to restore Miranda's equilibrium.

“You know what's both incredibly sad and hot? That you remember that and yet you forgot my birthday last week.”

Miranda sniffed at the chirpyness of Andrea's tone, wondering precisely at which point of their relationship Miranda's words had stopped having their desired effect. “I did not forget. I was fashionably late with your present, just as etiquette necessitates of the most important person in your life. 'Save the best for last', isn't that how that horridly common saying goes?”

Andrea snorted her laughter, “Look at you trying to sell that crap! Just admit it, the twins had to remind you. Oh and before you wade in deeper, I should mention Cassidy spilled the beans last night. So – busted.”

Miranda's exaggerated sigh was merely more fodder for the mirth dancing in her lover's eyes. The girl was ridiculously happy these days which was just utterly insufferable. Past time to cut her down to size.

“Clearly my daughters are as helpless against you, as fashion is against the heinous crime you're currently committing. Do you hear that sound, Andrea?” She stilled, watching Andrea frown in concentration, trying to detect a non-existent noise.

“What am I listening for?”

“Coco rolling over in her grave. Lucky for her, she's already dead. The rest of us – not quite so fortunate - left floundering to endure the sight of you clothed in...that. Do I dare ask if it comes with a hazmat warning? Should we evacuate the house? Is humanity safe?”

“I can think of one person who won't be safe if she continues to insult me.” Andrea's lips twitched before breaking into a smile. “You know, come to mention it, I think I do hear a sound. What's that Coco?” She cupped a filthy hand to her ear. “As a forward thinking modern woman, you did all of your own dirty work?” Andrea mock gasped, her other hand flitting to her chest, “You didn't wear your haute couture when you crawled under the sink to fix a leak? Are you definitely sure? Well, shame on you.” Turning to looking at Miranda with a suitably mournful look on her face, Andrea spread her hands, “I'm sorry, Miranda. Another one of your idols topples. You going to be okay?”

Miranda could feel her lips twitching in return and worked desperately hard to suppress the budding smile. God damn this girl, her cheer was as infectious as the flu. Miranda wished they'd hurry up and develop some sort of anti-virus shot against her too. Preferably something that lasted Miranda through these intolerably frequent episodes of “The Brady Bunch” her life had recently started to resemble. Thank god for an indubitable means of channelling that irritating sunshine into something useful and productive.

“That entirely depends.” Miranda's voice was cool, her eyes anything but.

Given Andrea's uncanny ability to pick up on Miranda's cues, she went from brash to sultry in under a second. “On what?” She advanced closer.

“How quickly you can divest - “

The dirty grey tank top hit the floor almost simultaneously with lips pressing themselves ardently against Miranda's.

“Shower,” the older woman's voice was muffled but firm.

“Only if you help me fix this mess yourself, right after.”

Miranda's lips absorbed the silent laughter breathed into them by Andrea's own. This impudence was spiralling out of control. She had a right mind to -

A warm tongue slipped into Miranda's mouth, brazenly tangling with her own. Her knees went weak. But truly, god damn this girl, no-one should be this bloody irresistible.

“Fine.”

Irritation quickly faded under the further onslaught of that mouth.

“Okay then...shower...give me five minutes.” Andrea's voice was foggy with passion.

“Two.” Miranda hadn't reached the top without knowing a thing or two about successful negotiation. One always low balled.

“Four. Oh and I hope you're prepared for me wearing that again later.”

“Three. Just as long as you're ready to face the consequences, Andrea.”

They broke apart smiling, each woman content with getting what she'd wanted all along.

“Deal.” Andrea's eyes shone with adoration. “You know I love you, right?”

Miranda felt her heart melt at the declaration, the truth of which she resisted even as she yearned for it with every fibre of her being. Maintaining customary façade, she shrugged, “Yes, yes, you might have rambled on about something like that once or twice. But really, Andrea, who can keep track when one talks as incessantly as you do?”

“Just make sure to listen later,” Andrea punctuated her statement with a kiss, “When I tell you exactly what you'll need to do to replace the gasket.”

Laughing, she darted out of the room, leaving Miranda spluttering in indignation. Well -

She used the length of a wooden spoon to pick up the offending item that'd started all of this. This rag really ought to be thrown away...

Her body chose that moment to quietly pulse its desire. Miranda smirked.

Well, maybe one more day.

What could it hurt?