Chapter Text
It wasn't even 9am, and therefore speech was all but prohibited in the outer sanctum of Miranda's office space. Not that the woman herself had arrived, yet. No, it was merely the case that Nigel, Emily and Andy were wordlessly passing around the blister package of aspirin because even the slightest whisper would have set off a fresh round of throbbing behind the temples.
After fifteen minutes so of painful silence waiting for the medication to kick in, they all spoke at once:
"Do you - "
" - Remember anything - "
" - About last night?"
"Well, fuck," Nigel muttered, taking in the similarly blank expression of the two women opposite him. "What the hell was in those drinks?"
***
When Miranda made her entrance known, it was remarkable for two reasons. One, she had never come in quite so late in living memory. Two, her usual glide had been replaced by a slowness only characterisable as trudging. Andy took one look at her boss and held out the remaining painkillers, which were snatched away before she had the chance to even wish Miranda a 'good morning.'
"Well?" the Editor snapped. "Where is my coffee? Of all the mornings my assistants could reach new heights of incompetence, it had to be this one."
Emily jumped up and fled. Andy bit her lip. She was no betting woman, but it was clear from Miranda's particularly foul mood that the older woman, too, was feeling the distinct effects of a hangover from the exceptionally lively internal work drinks the night before.
***
Andy was even less prone to jealousy than she was betting. Yet jealousy would be a mild way to describe the sickening knots curdling in her stomach upon seeing Miranda adjust her boat-necked sweater, revealing usually creamy skin marked by what was indisputably a hickey.
No, it wasn't jealousy. It was an almost violent rage at whoever had been bold - whoever had been lucky - enough to put it there in the first place, proud and purpling in the bright morning sun filtering through the blinds.
"Um, Miranda, " she stammered.
"What is it now, Andrea?"
She awkwardly pointed to the same spot on her own neck. "You've got a, ah…"
Miranda impatiently twisted her head to behold her reflection in the mirror on the wall. Her eyes widened almost as quickly as her hand flew up to cover it.
"Bag. Concealer. Now."
***
"Ugh."
Miranda gingerly wiped the residual vomit from around her lips, and picked up her toothbrush. As she moved the electronic tool around her mouth, she contemplated what on earth the source of the nausea she had been experiencing over the past three weeks could possibly be. She wasn't aware of any allergies she had, and food poisoning was all but impossible to last that long. The thought dimly occurred to her that the other ailments which had been plaguing her - specifically, the fatigue and breast tenderness - for roughly the same length of time might be connected. She spat into the sink and picked up her phone.
"Andrea. Book an appointment with my doctor for this afternoon. No, I don't care that she doesn't work on a Saturday."
***
"No." What a pity. She had really thought her doctor was competent. But what nonsense she had just been told…
"I'm afraid I'm entirely confident in my diagnosis, Miranda. You're pregnant. Roughly three weeks along."
"That's impossible," she replied coldly. "I have - I have not - since the divorce - "
The doctor - with an audacity that only went uncommented on and unchastised due to the more pressing issue of complete shock currently stealing through Miranda's body - took one hand in her own, and laid the other on Miranda's knee, leaning forward to look her dead in the eye with truly unbearable sympathy.
"There's no shame, Miranda," she said gently, "in being sexually active outside of marriage."
The Editor stiffened in visible outrage. "Well, I know that! I moved to this city in 1974, for God's sake!"
***
That evening, Miranda stood in her bedroom, scrutinising herself in the mirror. How on earth could it have happened? There seemed no feasible possibility. Three weeks, the doctor had said. Three weeks. It occurred to her in passing that such a timeframe encompassed the night of those hideous drinks of which she had no memory. But the only man she had encountered that night would have been Nigel, and for a very different reason that was a distinct impossibility. Security would not have let anyone else through.
So what could it be?
And then clarity struck.
Absolute clarity.
Clarity of a kind she had never been blessed with before. For a blessing it must be - a blessing, indeed.
***
"Nigel!" Miranda barked - softly, as was her custom, but sternly nonetheless.
"Yes, Miranda?"
"I bear great news. Marvellous tidings."
"Oh?" he said hopefully, crossing his fingers that his boss was about to announce a substantial budget uplift, or an actually legal vacation policy - no, not that, that would never happen - or something.
Whatever he was expecting, it was most certainly not:
"I am with child," La Priestly proclaimed. Then, "oh, do close your mouth, Nigel. It's a terribly unbecoming expression."
"You what?"
"In nine months, I shall bring a blessing into the world."
"Well, yes," he muttered, wiping his brow in a fruitless bid to conceal his shock, "that does tend to be the end result of pregnancy."
"Then why the stupefaction, Nigel?"
"Um," he said awkwardly, unsure of how to put the burning question to her in a manner which would not result in his own hide being metaphorically - or, knowing Miranda, perhaps literally, too - singed. "I, ah, wasn't aware you were seeing anyone. If you don't mind me asking, who's the father?"
Miranda's gaze drifted to the ceiling. "There is no father," she murmured dreamily
Nigel briefly contemplated if he might be undergoing a stroke. But the air around him smelt of expensive flowers, not toast, so that was a possibility quickly dismissed.
"How do you explain it, then?" Nigel asked incredulously.
"Clearly," Miranda smiled beatifically, lowering her hand to caress her still-flat abdomen, "the site of the second immaculate conception stands before you."
Nigel blinked. "Miranda. You're Jewish, you're an atheist, and I should damn well hope you're not a virgin."
"Semantics," Miranda sniffed. "That's no way to speak of the mother chosen by the divine."
"The antichrist, more like," Nigel muttered, backing away. "Now that, I could believe."
***
"Ow!" Nigel exclaimed, rubbing his biceps. His biceps, which moments before had been seized by Emily and Andy as part of dragging him into a single-stall bathroom.
"We have to do something," Emily said flatly, locking the door behind them.
"Ah," Nigel replied, "I'm afraid I'm neither polygamous nor interested in women."
Andy blinked, then registered what he was getting at. "Nige, we didn't bring you in here for the grimmest threesome known to man in the bathroom! By do something, we meant Miranda!"
"Do Miranda?"
"No!" Came the twin shrieks. "She's gone insane!"
Nigel exhaled, cursing the sharp jolt back to reality on his first day post returning from a week's shooting in Milan.
"Please," he groaned, "do not tell me she's still on this reincarnation of the blessed mother of God kick."
"It's worse," Emily whispered. "She's branched out to multiple religions."
"What?"
"Some sort of purity spiral," Andy added. "She's insisting that all her San Pelligrino has to be blessed by all the major religions' leaders before she drinks it. I had the Pope on line two this morning."
"It didn't go well," Emily whispered. "He kept on saying she'd have to convert to Catholicism for him to do it. Miranda took over the phone herself - herself, Nigel! - and ended up threatening that she'd personally rig the next conclave if he continued to call her a heretic!"
Nigel had the sneaking suspicion that - once again - he bore more than a passing resemblance to a codfish.
"Shit," he muttered.
"Yeah," Andy said. "She's gotten herself banned from entering twelve countries just this week. The Pope seems to have teamed up with a couple of other leaders to coordinate it. And they really don't get along normally, so it would be kind of impressive how much she's unified them if it wasn't due to causing international offence."
"Double shit."
***
"What the hell?" Caroline gasped. Beside her, Cassidy blinked rapidly.
"Bobbseys!" Miranda exclaimed cheerfully, drifting into the den. The den, with every single wall covered head to toe in spiritual symbolism and religious iconography. "How does it feel to be the siblings of the chosen one?"
"Mom," Cassidy said slowly, "do you normally take meds? And have you taken them recently?"
"Whatever are you suggesting, Cassidy?"
"Uh," the girl replied, "I'm just wondering what the reason behind the new…interior design choices is."
"Yeah," Caroline added, "there's got to be something from every single religion here - hang on. Mom, is that a satanist sign next to the pagan symbols?"
"Of course," Miranda smiled. "You simply have to cover all your bases, darlings. It's the same principle as a wise investment portfolio. You cannot bank on one thing being true, so you never put all your eggs in one basket. Much better to put everything in shares, spread it around. A little military-industrial complex here, a little environmental and social governance there, a few tobacco companies - "
" - Sorry," Caroline interrupted, "and you seriously think *you* are the chosen vessel of God?"
"Such lack of faith, Bobbsey. How distressing."
***
"We're going to have to Mamma Mia it," Nigel said, slamming his hands down on Emily's desk.
"To what it?"
"Musical. Woman knows not which of three men fathered her daughter. Daughter tries to investigate. I fear I must assume the mantle of Miranda's prodigal child."
"Isn't that your day job anyway, Nigel?" Emily replied sweetly.
"Hush. We need to figure out when the hell Miranda managed to conceive, and then what the hell her movements were on that day."
He looked pointedly at her. Emily threw her hands up. "Hey! What are you looking at me for?"
"You're the one whose job it is to ask her inane questions, for some reason. Now, scoot."
Emily closed her eyes. "I love my job, I love my job, I love my job…"
***
"She wouldn't let me go!" the redhead hissed.
"What?" Nigel asked. "What do you mean? Don't tell me she tried to offer you up as a human sacrifice to whatever divine entity she thinks impregnated her now. And sit down - you look like you're about to faint."
"No," the assistant huffed, "I mean I asked her when her due date was and received the longest monologue about every single stage of pregnancy the world has ever known."
"And? Did she at least tell you when she's due?"
Emily gulped. "Yup. Backdate it nine months and…the night of the party. Has to be." She turned to stare at Nigel, who looked positively wounded and threw his hands up in surrender.
"Oh, no, no, no. Don't even suggest it."
"You were the only man there, Nige!"
"What's going on?"
"Hello, Six. How thoughtful of you to grace us with your presence. Good news - we've managed to figure out that the not-so immaculate conception happened on the night of the party, but we're no closer given that Nigel was the only person there capable of - Six? Six?"
Andy had turned positively white.
"Shit," Emily muttered. "Here - drink this water. God, what's gotten into you? If it's food poisoning, I'm going to hate you forever. Should be me!"
"Give me a moment," Andy croaked.
Nigel groaned. "Right. Emily, you watch Six. I'm going to clear my name. I'm not being framed for this - besides it being a total affront to my professionalism, I don't have the funds to pay child support."
"Where are you going?"
"No need to sound so anxious. I, dear colleague of mine, am going to ask Larry to do me a favor."
"Larry?"
"Security. Absolutely fantastic in bed - "
" - Stop!" Emily shrieked. "I do not need to know that, thank you very much! And a midday rendezvous is one of the stupidest - "
" - Not for that," Nigel groaned, "I mean to ask him to let me see the CCTV. Jesus, Six. No need to look like I'm holding you at gunpoint."
And before anyone could say anything else on the matter, he dashed out of the room at a speed faster than either woman had ever seen him move."
***
"Is it really so difficult to source organic air purifiers? Am I reaching for the stars here? Really, Andrea, I hardly think - "
The door to the Editor's office burst open.
" - Miranda. Six."
"Must you interrupt me with all the subtlety of a foghorn, Nigel?" Miranda looked supremely irritated. "Loud noises are not good for the baby."
"Yeah, speaking of," the Art Director replied, looking distinctly queasy, "I've got something you both need to see. Immediately."
"Immediately?" Miranda's immaculate eyebrows were in severe danger of disappearing into her equally immaculate hairline.
"This is more urgent than the entirety of Paris burning during Fashion Week."
"Lead the way, then. You had better not be pulling some sort of inane stunt, Nigel."
***
"Nigel!" Andy yelled.
"Nigel!" Miranda hissed - which for her constituted a yell - "locking me in this godforsaken room goes well beyond an inane stunt. Have you taken leave of your senses?"
"Sorry," came the muffled voice through the door. "Watch the CCTV. I cannot bear to witness such horrors again. I will keel over and die on the spot. I'll come and unlock the door in fifteen minutes."
Miranda pursed her lips. "The fact I cannot fire him is a travesty," she growled.
***
Andy and Miranda bent over the monitor displaying the CCTV footage, the former trying her hardest not to betray the full-body trembles currently assaulting her form. The latter reached out and pressed play.
The footage - time-stamp denoting it was taken on the night of the drinks no one remembered the faintest hint of - showed the interior of a large but cramped supply closet. Ten seconds or so in, the door burst open. Two figures distinctly recognisable as the two women themselves whirled into the room, spinning around, lips fiercely locked. As Miranda gained the upper hand and slammed Andy against the wall of the closet, a notable tent between the assistant's legs came into clear view, which immediately attracted the onscreen Editor's attention. The older woman knelt, frantically unbuckled the younger's belt, then drew her pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, revealing a large, stiffened cock. Onscreen Andy stared down at her boss, who promptly fisted it, pumped up and down a few times, kissed the tip and took it into her mouth. Andy's hand came down to twine into her hair, holding the Editor's head steady as she fucked her mouth. After perhaps a minute, she pulled out, crouched down and brought Miranda back up to stand. She deftly flipped her so Miranda was bent over a stray chair and pulled down the neckline of her dress so her chest spilled out. Then she lifted the older woman's skirt, roughly pulled aside her underwear, slapped her rear and entered her.
It was very, very clear that a condom came nowhere into the equation at any point.
The duo watched their drunken selves sloppily rutting in stunned silence. When the selected portion of footage eventually came to a stop, the air felt thicker than treacle.
Finally, Andy could bear it no longer. Unfortunately, she said the first thing which came into her head, which was a low murmur of, "what were you saying about the conception being pure?"
Miranda emitted a sound which was half strangled squeak, half mortified groan.
"You - you will not tell anyone about this."
Andy blinked. "Seriously? You think I want to own up to - this?"
Miranda's shoulders drooped. "I might remind you that it takes two. While of course I recognise you would hardly be capable of finding me attractive if you were sober -"
She was cut off by Andy's appalled stare. "No, Miranda. That's not what I meant. I meant the fact it was in a supply closet. And that, quite frankly, you deserve to be treated with far more respect than - that!"
"Oh," Miranda breathed, slightly mollified. "Well. Well." She cocked her head. "I can't believe I never noticed…" she waved her hand awkwardly in the vicinity of Andy's crotch.
"Ah. About that. There's ways of concealing it, you know. Ever seen me in tight pants?"
Miranda sighed. "Ugh. At least I can get rid of those hideous figurines and iconography now. I admit I was worried about what might happen to me if post-death judgement was real."
Andy laughed, and laughed some more when she received no rebuke. Then she rubbed her arm and shrugged.
"Look. I'm not exactly in a position to match you dollar for dollar child-support wise, but I'll contribute what I can. I'm not going to be a deadbeat parent - I actually come back from my coffee runs! But maybe I can make up the shortfall in other ways?"
"Which would be?" Miranda sounded genuinely interested.
"Uh," Andy ventured, acutely aware that she was treading a very, very fine line indeed, "whatever you want. Backrubs? Emotional support? Serving as a human verbal punching bag in the delivery room?"
"The last one was a given. The former two are acceptable." Miranda paused, as if uncertain about what she was going to say next. Evidently, she decided that it was worth it, and added, "although I would appreciate dinner before backrubs."
"Dinner?" Andy stammered, hardly believing the insinuation which lay beneath such a simple word. "Like, um, a - "
"A date. If you would be so amenable. I confess myself rather jealous of my CCTV persona, and am exceptionally put out that I have no memory of what looked to be a thoroughly enjoyable encounter."
Huh. Funny. Andy had always thought one's heart soaring to be a figure of speech.
"I, ah, yes. I'm amenable to that. Super amenable, actually. Dinner it is."
Miranda sniffed. "A relief. While that video may cast aspersions on my character to the contrary, I do in fact have standards."
FIN