A Sentimental Moment
Title: A Sentimental Moment
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Rating|Genre: g | femslash
Pairing: Miranda/Andy, established relationship
Summary: Miranda finds Andy mending one of Caroline’s sweaters, and remembers a scene from her first marriage
Word count: 542
Spoilers|Warnings: No.
Notes: I wrote this a year ago but never posted it. Found it again tonight and thought why not. It just a drabble and I can’t even remember why I wrote something like this.
It was Caroline’s favorite pink mohair sweater and now there was a hole on it. Andy had found her almost in tears earlier, but as she quickly took a look at it she could see that the damage wasn’t great, and certainly not irreparable.
Andy was by no means a professional or even very amused by needlework, but she had been brought up by a mother who insisted that she learned how to mend her own clothes if she ever needed to. She was so focused on her task that she didn’t even hear Miranda come into the den where she was sitting. She jumped and almost pricked her finger with the needle as Miranda spoke:
“Is that Caroline’s? I didn’t know you knew how to do that.”
Then Miranda changed the tone of her voice, just slightly. She spoke more slowly, with a shade of irony or something like it, and began to recite a poem:
Autumn - overlooked my Knitting -
Dyes - said He - have I -
Could disparage a Flamingo -
Show Me them - said I -
Cochineal - I chose - for deeming
It resemble Thee -
And the little Border - Dusker -
For resembling Me -
“That’s Emily Dickinson”, Andy said and stared at her.
“Yes, Andrea, did you think that I don’t read?”
“No…” Andy shook her head. “I just… I didn’t know you read poetry.”
To be honest, Miranda didn’t read poetry… but her first husband had once given her a volume of Emily Dickinson’s collected poems.
It was purple, the book. He had read that poem aloud to her, sitting by the fire. She hadn’t paid a lot of attention at first; it had been something about knitting and colors. He explained the poem, it was so simple - was Emily Dickinson truly that simple? - and said it was like the two of them; cochineal for her because she was younger and more ‘lively’. He had obviously identified strongly with the topic, because he returned to that poem many times.
That first time, Miranda thought that the whole thing felt so ridiculous - the thought of him knitting, how seriously he read and how obvious it was that he had bought the book more for himself than for her… He was such an emotional man, that one! She burst out in laughter, and laughed and laughed.
It had been fun. It was one of the better memories of her first marriage.
“You’re smiling”, Andy observed.
“Yes”, Miranda said. “Something about Emily Dickinson always cheers me up.”
“I don’t think she’s supposed to be funny”, Andrea commented with a small frown.
Miranda just shrugged and smiled. No, it wasn’t funny. She was just beginning to realize it, actually. She doubted she was ever going to become a great reader of poetry, but now that Andrea was in her life and made her so happy giddy smiles and other completely unexpected things, she was beginning to see why someone would want to recite poems to their beloved significant other.
She made a mental note not to make fun of her first husband in her thoughts again, if she ever thought about him and his silly love for purple books, roses and romantic settings.
Those things were quite nice, actually. If they were shared with the right person.
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Rating|Genre: g | femslash
Pairing: Miranda/Andy, established relationship
Summary: Miranda finds Andy mending one of Caroline’s sweaters, and remembers a scene from her first marriage
Word count: 542
Spoilers|Warnings: No.
Notes: I wrote this a year ago but never posted it. Found it again tonight and thought why not. It just a drabble and I can’t even remember why I wrote something like this.
It was Caroline’s favorite pink mohair sweater and now there was a hole on it. Andy had found her almost in tears earlier, but as she quickly took a look at it she could see that the damage wasn’t great, and certainly not irreparable.
Andy was by no means a professional or even very amused by needlework, but she had been brought up by a mother who insisted that she learned how to mend her own clothes if she ever needed to. She was so focused on her task that she didn’t even hear Miranda come into the den where she was sitting. She jumped and almost pricked her finger with the needle as Miranda spoke:
“Is that Caroline’s? I didn’t know you knew how to do that.”
Then Miranda changed the tone of her voice, just slightly. She spoke more slowly, with a shade of irony or something like it, and began to recite a poem:
Autumn - overlooked my Knitting -
Dyes - said He - have I -
Could disparage a Flamingo -
Show Me them - said I -
Cochineal - I chose - for deeming
It resemble Thee -
And the little Border - Dusker -
For resembling Me -
“That’s Emily Dickinson”, Andy said and stared at her.
“Yes, Andrea, did you think that I don’t read?”
“No…” Andy shook her head. “I just… I didn’t know you read poetry.”
To be honest, Miranda didn’t read poetry… but her first husband had once given her a volume of Emily Dickinson’s collected poems.
It was purple, the book. He had read that poem aloud to her, sitting by the fire. She hadn’t paid a lot of attention at first; it had been something about knitting and colors. He explained the poem, it was so simple - was Emily Dickinson truly that simple? - and said it was like the two of them; cochineal for her because she was younger and more ‘lively’. He had obviously identified strongly with the topic, because he returned to that poem many times.
That first time, Miranda thought that the whole thing felt so ridiculous - the thought of him knitting, how seriously he read and how obvious it was that he had bought the book more for himself than for her… He was such an emotional man, that one! She burst out in laughter, and laughed and laughed.
It had been fun. It was one of the better memories of her first marriage.
“You’re smiling”, Andy observed.
“Yes”, Miranda said. “Something about Emily Dickinson always cheers me up.”
“I don’t think she’s supposed to be funny”, Andrea commented with a small frown.
Miranda just shrugged and smiled. No, it wasn’t funny. She was just beginning to realize it, actually. She doubted she was ever going to become a great reader of poetry, but now that Andrea was in her life and made her so happy giddy smiles and other completely unexpected things, she was beginning to see why someone would want to recite poems to their beloved significant other.
She made a mental note not to make fun of her first husband in her thoughts again, if she ever thought about him and his silly love for purple books, roses and romantic settings.
Those things were quite nice, actually. If they were shared with the right person.