Just A Silly Phase 1/1
Just A Silly Phase 1/1
Title: Just A Silly Phase
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Emily, Emily/Nigel friendship
Rating: PG 13
Genre: General/Romance/Humor.
Disclaimer: Characters are property of the film and their distributors. I do not claim to own them.
Summary: Emily likes attention. She can't help it if she does, but she is most definitely, absolutely, positively, not in love with Miranda Priestly. That would be stupid.
Author's Notes: There isn't enough Miranda/Emily out there. I like the idea of them, so I've decided to write happy little one-shot. Set in the backdrop of Andy's early days. Mostly from Emily's POV.
**************
I'm not in love
So don't forget
It's just a silly phase I'm going through
I like to see you, but then again
That doesn't mean you mean that much to me
Don't tell your friends about the two of us
I'm not in love no-no
*********************
Emily likes attention. She can't help it if she does. it's a known fact. Her parents know it, all her boyfriends have known it (all her girlfriends too). But she is most definitely, absolutely, positively, not in love with Miranda Priestly. She refuses to even consider it. Where would she possibly get all the attention she so desperately desires? And not to mention...stupid. That would be stupid.
That would be...SO stupid. Not to mention, probably the equivalent of pushing her career off a cliff with a cheery shove.
She should hate Miranda, in fact. She should hate her stupid--though brilliant--ugly--gorgeous--delicious ass with every fiber of her being. She should be talking trash about her boss because she loathes her, because she treats her like crap. She should be talking trash about her boss because she truthfully, just cannot stand her. She should NOT, however, be talking trash about her boss because she's completely and utterly devastated about not being able to see her tonight for the fourth night this week.
She, also, should not be completely trashed on an empty stomach, blabbering nonsense to Nigel and anyone in a ten foot radius who will listen because she is upset--some might say jealous. Thankfully for her, the bar is pretty loud tonight and the corner table she and Nigel occupy is pretty much drowned out by the crowd.
"And you know, this new girl, Andy, she can't do anything right, I don't know why she doesn't just fire her!" She nearly shouts over the chatter and music to get her point across, holding her glass to her lips and drinking the tangy gin. She nearly tips over, and that's hard to do when she's sitting in a spacious leather upholstered booth, but she almost does and she has to brace herself with one hand on the backrest as she continues, "She wears these ugly clogs, Nigel! CLOGS!" She yells with disgust, "How can Miranda stand to look at those all day!"
Nigel, who is presumably three sheets to the wind and slumped over their table, mumbles against his arm, where his head is resting, toying with an empty martini glass with his free hand, "I like Andy. She's like a doll. I can dress her up in anything and she will wear it like she's wearing a gown. Every day."
Emily is not impressed, in the least, and she sneers at the bald head on the table, "You're drunk and delusional."
At this, Nigel lifts his head now, brow furrowed in inebriated offense as he replies harshly and in one pause-less sentence, "YOU'RE drunk and delusional that blouse is fantastic!"
She glances briefly at the ruffled top and, her chin quivers, because yes, it is fantastic, and why hasn't Miranda noticed? "I know it is, Nigel." She whines, "I'm pretty fucking fabulous, period."
"You are. You are very fabulous. You're every gay man's wet dream. Like a drag queen with no penis."
"I just--" And then the song starts and she glares at no one in particular. Air. She glares at air.
I'm not in love
So don't forget
it's just a silly phase I'm going through...
"Who the bloody hell thought it would be a good idea to play this song?" She protests.
It is during a cheesy 70's song she used to love when she was a little girl, that Emily makes the biggest mistake since the last one and pulls her phone out of her purse.
"What're you doing?"
"I am calling Miranda, and I am giving her a piece of my mind--" She grunts as, in her drunken state, she can't seem to figure out the password to unlock her phone screen, and finally she throws it back in her bag, "Stupid phone is broken."
"Good. Do not call Miranda."
"Give me your phone," She demands, snatching it from the table. Even in her state of poor judgment, she knows the number by memory and doesn't bother searching Nigel's contact list, dialing instead. She sits up straight, holds the phone to her ear and waits impatiently. It rings two times and she's sent to voice mail. Gritting her teeth, she draws in a few sharp breaths and starts speaking as soon as she's signaled to do so, "Miranda. It's me. Emily. I just wanted to tell you, that I am not--a TOY you can pull off a shelf whenever you feel like playing and then leave it strewn on the floor when you've grown bored of it. In fact!" She signals a passing waitress for another drink and continues, stumbling a bit before her elbow finds the table, "In FACT, I--will probably pick someone up tonight. Some hot---gorgeous man--or woman for that matter because...I an SINGLE and the--sexual world is my oyster. So you have fun with your dull husband and I will have fun with the rest of New York City because you don't own me and--" Apparently, the time limit on a voice mail message has been exceeded and she glares at the phone before dropping it back on the table. The room is spinning, but she feels satisfied, "That'll teach her, Nigel."
"Mm-hmm." He nods against a new drink she didn't notice him get, "Who knew alcohol was a fertilizer for cojones."
But Emily has stopped listening as she's gulping down a Cosmo like she's getting paid for it.
***
The thing about drinking until everything tastes like water, is this; point A is where one stands on the border between super drunk and you-did-something-stupid drunk. Point B is when one wakes up the following morning in an unknown area, in an unknown bed, with an unknown sleeping somebody.
Between point A and point B, a million scenarios could occur. Mostly inappropriate occurrences, consisting of poor decisions and the consumption of alcohol past the point of inebriation and more along the lines of alcohol poisoning. Table dancing, for example, might take place, drunk dialing, shots of whiskey, chased by a bottle of beer that won't mix well after countless pink, blue and clear drinks all served in a martini glass. From point A and point B, a lot of things may be forgotten, mentally misplaced or left out. This is mostly for future humiliation purposes.
And as Emily wakes up at point B, all she remembers is walking into the bar with Nigel and getting a table.
She's awake but her eyes don't open. She doesn't think that's possible because her eye lids seem to be super glued shut. She is also suffering from a horrible case of cotton mouth and as she clicks her tongue to the roof of her mouth, she has the very distinct feeling, that if she forces it and opens her eyes, she will, in fact, throw up.
She groans and then freezes at the sound of even, steady breathing beside her. She's mortified. Not because there might be a naked body next to her, she would congratulate herself on that, but because she doesn't recall, in the slightest, picking someone up. She remains very still as she tries to remember, but her mind is a fog of alcohol and dancing and the task is proven impossible. She wonders, if perhaps, she could be at Nigel's. It would definitely not be the first time they have woken up next to each other.
Holding her breath, she opens one eye. White ceiling, red bedside lamp. Was Nigel's lamp red the last time? Slowly she opens the other eye, she turns slowly to her left and releases a heaving sigh of relief at the bald head greeting her.
The heaving sigh is proven to be a huge mistake, however, because she instantly feels sick and nearly falls out of bed, fully clothed, scrambling for the bathroom.
Her knees slide, ungracefully, on the white bathroom tile before the toilet eventually stops her, and she's soon hunched over the marble bowl, emptying the Tuna sandwich and apple slices she had the day before, and she thinks, maybe some of her intestines as well.
Her stomach flexes and contracts until it's nothing but air coming out and she hangs there, over the bowl as she sloppily reaches over and flushes the toilet. She thinks she might be drooling and winces at what she must look like, dressed in wrinkled Chanel, bare foot, her hair a mess, dry heaving over a gay man's toilet bowl.
"You look like a very expensive hooker," Nigel mumbles sleepily behind her. She waves him off without a glance as he yawns and scratches his bare belly. He's seen this before. Not many times, but it's happened more often lately. Saturday night rolls around and Emily discretely drops by his office for no more than a fifteen second announcement that she feels like drinking and demands he accompany her because he also needs a drink.
They don't talk as much as act. And Nigel indulges her because on some dark, twisted level, they're friends. They both seem to suffer through their mutual adoration for Miranda Priestly. Miranda Priestly who adores no one in return, but sucks up every human emotion from the people around her without expressing any herself. He knows Emily is sleeping with her. He's known for a while. And while, she only alludes to it when she's piss drunk and stumbling in her Jimmy Choos, he indulges her in pretending he has no idea once they're sober. Still, today, she looks especially wrecked.
He doesn't recall them falling into his bed or how they got there, but that's how it always happens. He recalls Emily whining that she doesn't want to be alone. So he imagines, that's what took place. She will refuse to wear pajamas, begrudgingly let Nigel take off her shoes and then, she will collapse on his bed, not having removed a stitch of clothing and will sleep until noon the next day.
At least, she doesn't snore.
"You okay?" He asks with a tilt of his head.
She nods and groans inwardly. She hears Nigel pad across the bathroom tile and she simply reaches out to take the tissue she knows he's holding out for her. She wipes her mouth clean, though it does nothing for the disgusting bitter taste in her mouth, dabs her eyes dry and slowly lifts her head, eyes still shut as she falls onto her butt and pushes her body back until she's sitting against the bathtub. She rests her head on the edge of it and breathes out, "I feel like shit run over."
"Don't look, I'm going to piddle." He tells her warningly.
"Ew--" She grimaces, but keeps her eyes closed nonetheless, the sound of Nigel relieving himself in her ears. She wonders when exactly it was that they became Will & Grace. She hears the toilet flush, hears the faucet run and the shut. She looks up then and sighs once again.
Nigel is squeezing toothpaste onto two brushes. A blue one and a pink one. The pink one is Nigel's.
"Here. Brush." He tells her, handing her the blue toothbrush.
They brush in silence for a couple of minutes, Emily's movements are painstakingly slow, almost lazy, as her mouth fills up with foam and she mumbles with difficulty, "I didn't even get laid..."
Nigel snickers and spits, stepping aside as the redhead crawls across and braces herself on the small sink before spitting and rinsing her mouth, then resting her cheek on the cold counter edge.
"When did men stop trying to pick me up at bars?" She asks miserably, blue eyes looking pleadingly at Nigel before she adds, "Since when do I have a toothbrush here?"
"I got it after the last time. I don't want you using my toothbrush after you've thrown up a river."
She groans again.
He laughs, patting her head warmly before heading out, "You want some coffee?"
"Please!" She calls after him. She stops and gags, holding her hand up to her mouth, closing her eyes until the vile sensation is gone.
The smell of eggs makes her stomach churn but the steaming cup of coffee wakes her up almost instantly. She offers Nigel a grateful smile and an appreciative hum as she sips slowly.
"What are you doing today? Any plans?" She asks.
Nigel shrugs through a mouthful of scrambled egg whites as he scrolls through his phone and answers sarcastically, "It's Sunday. Today is for the lord, so maybe I'll go to church."
Emily nods, "Let's go shopping. I have a new credit card begging to be slid into smithereens and Barney's is calling my name."
His mouth opens to reply, but he shuts it, looking perplexed as he reads his call history, He frowns and wonders out loud, "When did I call Miranda? Did I butt dial her?"
"Dun know--" Emily replies, lifting the blue coffee mug to her lips. She takes a particularly large sip and just as the dark liquid slides off the back of her tongue and is making its way down her throat, she remembers the song and Nigel's phone and the alcohol. The coffee goes down her windpipe instead and she chokes, coughing the large gulp of coffee back into her mug as it also spurts out her nose, "--oh god..." She squeals.
Nigel stares back in disgust, "What are you--" But he laughs anyway before handing over a paper napkin, "--you okay? You're very graceful this morning."
She coughs again, and shakes her head, her eyes wild and horrified, "You didn't call Miranda, I did. Nigel, I called Miranda. I called Miranda...I--oh shit..."
His smile fades and his face falls in realization, "Oh, shit..." He stops and watches her cough a few more times and choke on what remains of caffeine are lingering in her throat and he laughs again. He can't help it. It's funny.
She glares. "Nigel!" Cough, "It's not funny!"
"It is though..." he laughs again, "--so you called her, so what?"
"That was stupid, Nigel. It was so stupid. She's going to kill me. She's going to--" End things, she finishes in her head. Tears well up in her eyes, but she shakes them away, "--she's going to fire me."
He looks on sadly as she wipes her eyes free of tears and he sighs. He does not like the way Miranda plays with Emily. The girl is devoted to Miranda. Whether that's a healthy thing or not, is beyond him, all signs point to no, but he knows Emily truly and honestly just wants to make Miranda happy. She thrives on succeeding. But not succeeding career wise, not succeeding professionally. But succeeding as Miranda's property. As Miranda's Emily. Her name has become a title, more than an actual name at Runway. it isn't someone's name. It isn't a person someone thinks about when hearing it mentioned. It's a job title. Miranda's Emily. Her property. Every one who comes after her will be "the new Emily". They will have to fill her shoes and they will be nameless until they're deemed worthy. Nigel supposes there's something poetic about the whole thing. Poetic or degrading. He hasn't made up his mind yet.
Emily seems to live on that, though. He isn't sure she even knows who she is outside of Miranda's galaxy.
"She won't fire you," he assures her. She isn't listening, "Hey! Red!" When she looks up, he smiles, "She hardly ever checks her personal messages anyway," He lies. Miranda checks every single message. Personal and professional. Of course, in her life, the two are one in the same. There is no dividing line. He knows it. Emily knows it.
She nods anyway, her blood still running cold, "Yeah. You're right." He's wrong. But she appreciates the effort.
"Go home and get dressed, I'll meet you at Barney's in an hour."
She nods, but she's pale--more so than usual-and there's a blank stare in her eyes. Nigel hopes she makes it into a cab safely.
***
Monday morning has Miranda in a bad mood. She has started off the week with an argument with Stephen, her coffee was freezing cold. And she will not hear otherwise. Warm is not hot and that's that.
The message she woke up to Sunday morning was not satisfactory in the least. She. Is not. Amused.
Jealousy isn't attractive. Not to her. She does not like the idea that her significant others feel they posses her. Not that Emily is significant. On top of that, Emily has never--NEVER--in the past taken the liberty of calling her. That is not how this little arrangement works. Miranda calls, of course. Their meetings are scheduled around her availability and usually, late--very late--at night, when she can slip away. She will come to Emily's little loft and take up two or three hours of her night before leaving and expecting the redhead to bright eyed and early at work to greet her with a steaming hot cup of Starbucks coffee. That is the extent of it.
No questions, otherwise, no meaningful conversations, NO phone calls, and most definitely no drunken threats of any kind. Miranda does not like that. She does not like that one bit.
And where, she wonders, did Emily find the courage to leave such a message? Surely, it couldn't have been Nigel, whose phone she used to leave such a deliberately obnoxious message. No. He may know about them, but he would never intervene. Perhaps it was pure, unadulterated alcoholic bliss. And all of New York City, as Emily so thoughtfully put it.
She goes through the day the same way she always does. With a packed schedule, too packed to stop and think, and a ruthlessly steady head.
Emily has been smart to stay away. She's kept to herself mostly and has kept the new girl--Allissa? Anica? Daniel?--busy with her usual errands, cowering away at her desk, answering phones and taking appointments.
Good. Miranda does not care if she doesn't get to see that overly dramatic red hair. She does not care to see those bright, blue eyes, almost fearful at looking at her for too long. No. She does not care at all.
Something resembling a sneer escapes her and she shakes her head, realizing she's been staring at The Book for about twenty minutes now without having made a single note.
Irritated with herself, she calls for a sacrificial lamb, "Emily?" She beckons softly.
The new Emily walks in, in a blinding hurry, wide eyed and wild haired, horrendous outfit. What is this girl's name? At any rate, there is nothing for the girl to do, really. So, Miranda simply gives her a once over, making sure to point out, with a single glance, just how horrible that outfit is, before saying, "You may got for the day."
The brunette scurries out and Miranda sighs, lounging back in her chair. There is no way she will be able to concentrate.
She tilts her wrist up and reads the time; 7:30. It's only fifteen minutes before she very angrily makes her resolve to go see Emily and completely hates herself--and Emily--for it. What is she going to do? Explain herself? Absolutely not.
*******************
By 8pm, Emily is halfway through a bucket of ice cream and knee deep in tears, sitting in front of her TV, watching some black and white romance film starring Cary Grant. While she will most likely hate herself for months for the ice cream, she figures, it's low fat, so it's not that bad. Something else that isn't at all logical, she uses as a reassuring strategy. She keeps her work clothes on throughout the whole ordeal, everything down to the four inch heels that started killing her feet at around two in the afternoon. She figures, if she's going to indulge, she might as well be uncomfortable in every other physical aspect.
Halfway through a particularly romantic on screen kiss, she rolls her eyes and freezes at the insistent knocking on her door. She wonders if it's Nigel. But Nigel would have called. There is a second set of knocks, more persistent than the last, and she sets her ice cream down on the coffee table, grabbing a tissue on the way to dab at her eyes as she heads for the door, "Coming..." She calls.
Miranda is standing on the other side, hand on her hip, coat hung over her arm. And pissed as hell.
"I don't appreciate being called in the middle of the night, waking up to a little jealousy fit." Her words are carefully spoken, pointedly, and direct.
"I'm sorry, Miranda--" Emily starts quickly, "--I was--so drunk and--and--I don't know what I was thinking."
"No you were not thinking." Miranda cuts in, then gives Emily a look that asks "are you going to block the entrance all night or can I come in?".
The redhead quickly steps aside, holding her breath while Miranda waltzes in. As soon as the door is closed and she's prepared to offer another apology, Miranda turns sharply and beats her to the punch.
"You don't have special privileges--"
"--I know--"
"--you don't call me in the middle of the night because you feel you have the right--"
"--I know--"
"--and you do not..." Here, Miranda takes a breath and rolls her shoulders back uncomfortably, "...sleep with other people."
Beat.
"Oh."
Miranda bites her cheek and waves her hand around dismissively, averting her eyes, lips pursing, "I don't sleep around, and I would appreciate it if you would sustain from doing so as well. Explaining a Sexually Transmitted Disease to my husband, would not be a pleasant occurrence."
"Oh..." Emily's face falls and she nods.
Miranda's gaze falls on the near empty bucket of ice cream and she draws in a sharp breath before looking back at the nervous, saddened eyes staring back shyly, "And you are not--a toy..." She rolls her eyes as if it is the most painful action, to speak this very sentence, "--if you were, you would be a very entertaining one, but you are not. So, we will have no more of that. No more binge drinking. There is no point"
Emily tries not to smile. She feels Miranda eye her outfit from head to toe, but for the first time in a week, she sees her size up more than the three different designers she's sporting. She's looked at her. Emily, the girl. Emily the person, not Emily the job title. She shivers. "Right."
"Did you--" Miranda clears her throat, assuming Emily should just know what she's thinking, "...Saturday night?"
"Did I--" Emily frowns, trying to decipher what this woman could possibly be expecting as an answer. And then it dawns on her. Miranda is jealous. And she's asking if she slept with anyone, fulfilling her promise to bed everyone in the city, "--oh, no I didn't. I slept with Nigel."
Miranda's confused.
"Not had sex with Nigel, I mean, slept. Literally just slept at his place."
Miranda seems relieved, or at least satisfied and she nods. She looks around once more and for a second, Emily wonders if Miranda wants to stay.
"I should go--" She states before Emily can extend an invitation.
"Okay."
"But, I want to make sure we are clear about this."
"As crystal," Emily assures her. She realizes this is probably the longest conversation they've ever had that was not work related or one sided. She likes it. She wonders if Miranda would be opposed to a quickie against her front door.
And then Miranda kisses her. She cradles her neck and pulls her forward. It's sweet, and hot and hard all at once and Emily now knows what it's like to have her breath taken away. When they pull apart, Emily is panting, Miranda's got a slight blush creeping up her neck and they both seem to have run out of things to say.
"I should go," Miranda manages in a strained tone.
"Yeah."
Once at the door, Miranda looks over her shoulder and asks, "What is New Emily's name?"
"Uh--Andy--Andrea."
"Hmm."
"She's uh--horrible and useless, I know..." The younger woman replies, rolling her eyes, but mostly doing a horrible job at hiding her obvious jealousy towards the pretty brunette.
Miranda smirks briefly and adds before leaving, "Emily, jealousy is not attractive."
She disappears into the hallway and Emily finds herself smiling as she closes the door, "Yes it is, it's bloody hot..."
As she reclaims her seat in front o the television again, she kicks off her shoes, relishes in the instant comforting sensation and wiggles her toes as she settles against the cushions, ice cream on her lap.
As much as the thought tries to creep up on her, she fights it and tells herself that there is no possible way she is in love with Miranda Priestly. No way in hell. And there is no way Miranda Priestly could possibly be in love with her. That would be stupid.
FIN.
Title: Just A Silly Phase
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Emily, Emily/Nigel friendship
Rating: PG 13
Genre: General/Romance/Humor.
Disclaimer: Characters are property of the film and their distributors. I do not claim to own them.
Summary: Emily likes attention. She can't help it if she does, but she is most definitely, absolutely, positively, not in love with Miranda Priestly. That would be stupid.
Author's Notes: There isn't enough Miranda/Emily out there. I like the idea of them, so I've decided to write happy little one-shot. Set in the backdrop of Andy's early days. Mostly from Emily's POV.
**************
I'm not in love
So don't forget
It's just a silly phase I'm going through
I like to see you, but then again
That doesn't mean you mean that much to me
Don't tell your friends about the two of us
I'm not in love no-no
*********************
Emily likes attention. She can't help it if she does. it's a known fact. Her parents know it, all her boyfriends have known it (all her girlfriends too). But she is most definitely, absolutely, positively, not in love with Miranda Priestly. She refuses to even consider it. Where would she possibly get all the attention she so desperately desires? And not to mention...stupid. That would be stupid.
That would be...SO stupid. Not to mention, probably the equivalent of pushing her career off a cliff with a cheery shove.
She should hate Miranda, in fact. She should hate her stupid--though brilliant--ugly--gorgeous--delicious ass with every fiber of her being. She should be talking trash about her boss because she loathes her, because she treats her like crap. She should be talking trash about her boss because she truthfully, just cannot stand her. She should NOT, however, be talking trash about her boss because she's completely and utterly devastated about not being able to see her tonight for the fourth night this week.
She, also, should not be completely trashed on an empty stomach, blabbering nonsense to Nigel and anyone in a ten foot radius who will listen because she is upset--some might say jealous. Thankfully for her, the bar is pretty loud tonight and the corner table she and Nigel occupy is pretty much drowned out by the crowd.
"And you know, this new girl, Andy, she can't do anything right, I don't know why she doesn't just fire her!" She nearly shouts over the chatter and music to get her point across, holding her glass to her lips and drinking the tangy gin. She nearly tips over, and that's hard to do when she's sitting in a spacious leather upholstered booth, but she almost does and she has to brace herself with one hand on the backrest as she continues, "She wears these ugly clogs, Nigel! CLOGS!" She yells with disgust, "How can Miranda stand to look at those all day!"
Nigel, who is presumably three sheets to the wind and slumped over their table, mumbles against his arm, where his head is resting, toying with an empty martini glass with his free hand, "I like Andy. She's like a doll. I can dress her up in anything and she will wear it like she's wearing a gown. Every day."
Emily is not impressed, in the least, and she sneers at the bald head on the table, "You're drunk and delusional."
At this, Nigel lifts his head now, brow furrowed in inebriated offense as he replies harshly and in one pause-less sentence, "YOU'RE drunk and delusional that blouse is fantastic!"
She glances briefly at the ruffled top and, her chin quivers, because yes, it is fantastic, and why hasn't Miranda noticed? "I know it is, Nigel." She whines, "I'm pretty fucking fabulous, period."
"You are. You are very fabulous. You're every gay man's wet dream. Like a drag queen with no penis."
"I just--" And then the song starts and she glares at no one in particular. Air. She glares at air.
I'm not in love
So don't forget
it's just a silly phase I'm going through...
"Who the bloody hell thought it would be a good idea to play this song?" She protests.
It is during a cheesy 70's song she used to love when she was a little girl, that Emily makes the biggest mistake since the last one and pulls her phone out of her purse.
"What're you doing?"
"I am calling Miranda, and I am giving her a piece of my mind--" She grunts as, in her drunken state, she can't seem to figure out the password to unlock her phone screen, and finally she throws it back in her bag, "Stupid phone is broken."
"Good. Do not call Miranda."
"Give me your phone," She demands, snatching it from the table. Even in her state of poor judgment, she knows the number by memory and doesn't bother searching Nigel's contact list, dialing instead. She sits up straight, holds the phone to her ear and waits impatiently. It rings two times and she's sent to voice mail. Gritting her teeth, she draws in a few sharp breaths and starts speaking as soon as she's signaled to do so, "Miranda. It's me. Emily. I just wanted to tell you, that I am not--a TOY you can pull off a shelf whenever you feel like playing and then leave it strewn on the floor when you've grown bored of it. In fact!" She signals a passing waitress for another drink and continues, stumbling a bit before her elbow finds the table, "In FACT, I--will probably pick someone up tonight. Some hot---gorgeous man--or woman for that matter because...I an SINGLE and the--sexual world is my oyster. So you have fun with your dull husband and I will have fun with the rest of New York City because you don't own me and--" Apparently, the time limit on a voice mail message has been exceeded and she glares at the phone before dropping it back on the table. The room is spinning, but she feels satisfied, "That'll teach her, Nigel."
"Mm-hmm." He nods against a new drink she didn't notice him get, "Who knew alcohol was a fertilizer for cojones."
But Emily has stopped listening as she's gulping down a Cosmo like she's getting paid for it.
***
The thing about drinking until everything tastes like water, is this; point A is where one stands on the border between super drunk and you-did-something-stupid drunk. Point B is when one wakes up the following morning in an unknown area, in an unknown bed, with an unknown sleeping somebody.
Between point A and point B, a million scenarios could occur. Mostly inappropriate occurrences, consisting of poor decisions and the consumption of alcohol past the point of inebriation and more along the lines of alcohol poisoning. Table dancing, for example, might take place, drunk dialing, shots of whiskey, chased by a bottle of beer that won't mix well after countless pink, blue and clear drinks all served in a martini glass. From point A and point B, a lot of things may be forgotten, mentally misplaced or left out. This is mostly for future humiliation purposes.
And as Emily wakes up at point B, all she remembers is walking into the bar with Nigel and getting a table.
She's awake but her eyes don't open. She doesn't think that's possible because her eye lids seem to be super glued shut. She is also suffering from a horrible case of cotton mouth and as she clicks her tongue to the roof of her mouth, she has the very distinct feeling, that if she forces it and opens her eyes, she will, in fact, throw up.
She groans and then freezes at the sound of even, steady breathing beside her. She's mortified. Not because there might be a naked body next to her, she would congratulate herself on that, but because she doesn't recall, in the slightest, picking someone up. She remains very still as she tries to remember, but her mind is a fog of alcohol and dancing and the task is proven impossible. She wonders, if perhaps, she could be at Nigel's. It would definitely not be the first time they have woken up next to each other.
Holding her breath, she opens one eye. White ceiling, red bedside lamp. Was Nigel's lamp red the last time? Slowly she opens the other eye, she turns slowly to her left and releases a heaving sigh of relief at the bald head greeting her.
The heaving sigh is proven to be a huge mistake, however, because she instantly feels sick and nearly falls out of bed, fully clothed, scrambling for the bathroom.
Her knees slide, ungracefully, on the white bathroom tile before the toilet eventually stops her, and she's soon hunched over the marble bowl, emptying the Tuna sandwich and apple slices she had the day before, and she thinks, maybe some of her intestines as well.
Her stomach flexes and contracts until it's nothing but air coming out and she hangs there, over the bowl as she sloppily reaches over and flushes the toilet. She thinks she might be drooling and winces at what she must look like, dressed in wrinkled Chanel, bare foot, her hair a mess, dry heaving over a gay man's toilet bowl.
"You look like a very expensive hooker," Nigel mumbles sleepily behind her. She waves him off without a glance as he yawns and scratches his bare belly. He's seen this before. Not many times, but it's happened more often lately. Saturday night rolls around and Emily discretely drops by his office for no more than a fifteen second announcement that she feels like drinking and demands he accompany her because he also needs a drink.
They don't talk as much as act. And Nigel indulges her because on some dark, twisted level, they're friends. They both seem to suffer through their mutual adoration for Miranda Priestly. Miranda Priestly who adores no one in return, but sucks up every human emotion from the people around her without expressing any herself. He knows Emily is sleeping with her. He's known for a while. And while, she only alludes to it when she's piss drunk and stumbling in her Jimmy Choos, he indulges her in pretending he has no idea once they're sober. Still, today, she looks especially wrecked.
He doesn't recall them falling into his bed or how they got there, but that's how it always happens. He recalls Emily whining that she doesn't want to be alone. So he imagines, that's what took place. She will refuse to wear pajamas, begrudgingly let Nigel take off her shoes and then, she will collapse on his bed, not having removed a stitch of clothing and will sleep until noon the next day.
At least, she doesn't snore.
"You okay?" He asks with a tilt of his head.
She nods and groans inwardly. She hears Nigel pad across the bathroom tile and she simply reaches out to take the tissue she knows he's holding out for her. She wipes her mouth clean, though it does nothing for the disgusting bitter taste in her mouth, dabs her eyes dry and slowly lifts her head, eyes still shut as she falls onto her butt and pushes her body back until she's sitting against the bathtub. She rests her head on the edge of it and breathes out, "I feel like shit run over."
"Don't look, I'm going to piddle." He tells her warningly.
"Ew--" She grimaces, but keeps her eyes closed nonetheless, the sound of Nigel relieving himself in her ears. She wonders when exactly it was that they became Will & Grace. She hears the toilet flush, hears the faucet run and the shut. She looks up then and sighs once again.
Nigel is squeezing toothpaste onto two brushes. A blue one and a pink one. The pink one is Nigel's.
"Here. Brush." He tells her, handing her the blue toothbrush.
They brush in silence for a couple of minutes, Emily's movements are painstakingly slow, almost lazy, as her mouth fills up with foam and she mumbles with difficulty, "I didn't even get laid..."
Nigel snickers and spits, stepping aside as the redhead crawls across and braces herself on the small sink before spitting and rinsing her mouth, then resting her cheek on the cold counter edge.
"When did men stop trying to pick me up at bars?" She asks miserably, blue eyes looking pleadingly at Nigel before she adds, "Since when do I have a toothbrush here?"
"I got it after the last time. I don't want you using my toothbrush after you've thrown up a river."
She groans again.
He laughs, patting her head warmly before heading out, "You want some coffee?"
"Please!" She calls after him. She stops and gags, holding her hand up to her mouth, closing her eyes until the vile sensation is gone.
The smell of eggs makes her stomach churn but the steaming cup of coffee wakes her up almost instantly. She offers Nigel a grateful smile and an appreciative hum as she sips slowly.
"What are you doing today? Any plans?" She asks.
Nigel shrugs through a mouthful of scrambled egg whites as he scrolls through his phone and answers sarcastically, "It's Sunday. Today is for the lord, so maybe I'll go to church."
Emily nods, "Let's go shopping. I have a new credit card begging to be slid into smithereens and Barney's is calling my name."
His mouth opens to reply, but he shuts it, looking perplexed as he reads his call history, He frowns and wonders out loud, "When did I call Miranda? Did I butt dial her?"
"Dun know--" Emily replies, lifting the blue coffee mug to her lips. She takes a particularly large sip and just as the dark liquid slides off the back of her tongue and is making its way down her throat, she remembers the song and Nigel's phone and the alcohol. The coffee goes down her windpipe instead and she chokes, coughing the large gulp of coffee back into her mug as it also spurts out her nose, "--oh god..." She squeals.
Nigel stares back in disgust, "What are you--" But he laughs anyway before handing over a paper napkin, "--you okay? You're very graceful this morning."
She coughs again, and shakes her head, her eyes wild and horrified, "You didn't call Miranda, I did. Nigel, I called Miranda. I called Miranda...I--oh shit..."
His smile fades and his face falls in realization, "Oh, shit..." He stops and watches her cough a few more times and choke on what remains of caffeine are lingering in her throat and he laughs again. He can't help it. It's funny.
She glares. "Nigel!" Cough, "It's not funny!"
"It is though..." he laughs again, "--so you called her, so what?"
"That was stupid, Nigel. It was so stupid. She's going to kill me. She's going to--" End things, she finishes in her head. Tears well up in her eyes, but she shakes them away, "--she's going to fire me."
He looks on sadly as she wipes her eyes free of tears and he sighs. He does not like the way Miranda plays with Emily. The girl is devoted to Miranda. Whether that's a healthy thing or not, is beyond him, all signs point to no, but he knows Emily truly and honestly just wants to make Miranda happy. She thrives on succeeding. But not succeeding career wise, not succeeding professionally. But succeeding as Miranda's property. As Miranda's Emily. Her name has become a title, more than an actual name at Runway. it isn't someone's name. It isn't a person someone thinks about when hearing it mentioned. It's a job title. Miranda's Emily. Her property. Every one who comes after her will be "the new Emily". They will have to fill her shoes and they will be nameless until they're deemed worthy. Nigel supposes there's something poetic about the whole thing. Poetic or degrading. He hasn't made up his mind yet.
Emily seems to live on that, though. He isn't sure she even knows who she is outside of Miranda's galaxy.
"She won't fire you," he assures her. She isn't listening, "Hey! Red!" When she looks up, he smiles, "She hardly ever checks her personal messages anyway," He lies. Miranda checks every single message. Personal and professional. Of course, in her life, the two are one in the same. There is no dividing line. He knows it. Emily knows it.
She nods anyway, her blood still running cold, "Yeah. You're right." He's wrong. But she appreciates the effort.
"Go home and get dressed, I'll meet you at Barney's in an hour."
She nods, but she's pale--more so than usual-and there's a blank stare in her eyes. Nigel hopes she makes it into a cab safely.
***
Monday morning has Miranda in a bad mood. She has started off the week with an argument with Stephen, her coffee was freezing cold. And she will not hear otherwise. Warm is not hot and that's that.
The message she woke up to Sunday morning was not satisfactory in the least. She. Is not. Amused.
Jealousy isn't attractive. Not to her. She does not like the idea that her significant others feel they posses her. Not that Emily is significant. On top of that, Emily has never--NEVER--in the past taken the liberty of calling her. That is not how this little arrangement works. Miranda calls, of course. Their meetings are scheduled around her availability and usually, late--very late--at night, when she can slip away. She will come to Emily's little loft and take up two or three hours of her night before leaving and expecting the redhead to bright eyed and early at work to greet her with a steaming hot cup of Starbucks coffee. That is the extent of it.
No questions, otherwise, no meaningful conversations, NO phone calls, and most definitely no drunken threats of any kind. Miranda does not like that. She does not like that one bit.
And where, she wonders, did Emily find the courage to leave such a message? Surely, it couldn't have been Nigel, whose phone she used to leave such a deliberately obnoxious message. No. He may know about them, but he would never intervene. Perhaps it was pure, unadulterated alcoholic bliss. And all of New York City, as Emily so thoughtfully put it.
She goes through the day the same way she always does. With a packed schedule, too packed to stop and think, and a ruthlessly steady head.
Emily has been smart to stay away. She's kept to herself mostly and has kept the new girl--Allissa? Anica? Daniel?--busy with her usual errands, cowering away at her desk, answering phones and taking appointments.
Good. Miranda does not care if she doesn't get to see that overly dramatic red hair. She does not care to see those bright, blue eyes, almost fearful at looking at her for too long. No. She does not care at all.
Something resembling a sneer escapes her and she shakes her head, realizing she's been staring at The Book for about twenty minutes now without having made a single note.
Irritated with herself, she calls for a sacrificial lamb, "Emily?" She beckons softly.
The new Emily walks in, in a blinding hurry, wide eyed and wild haired, horrendous outfit. What is this girl's name? At any rate, there is nothing for the girl to do, really. So, Miranda simply gives her a once over, making sure to point out, with a single glance, just how horrible that outfit is, before saying, "You may got for the day."
The brunette scurries out and Miranda sighs, lounging back in her chair. There is no way she will be able to concentrate.
She tilts her wrist up and reads the time; 7:30. It's only fifteen minutes before she very angrily makes her resolve to go see Emily and completely hates herself--and Emily--for it. What is she going to do? Explain herself? Absolutely not.
*******************
By 8pm, Emily is halfway through a bucket of ice cream and knee deep in tears, sitting in front of her TV, watching some black and white romance film starring Cary Grant. While she will most likely hate herself for months for the ice cream, she figures, it's low fat, so it's not that bad. Something else that isn't at all logical, she uses as a reassuring strategy. She keeps her work clothes on throughout the whole ordeal, everything down to the four inch heels that started killing her feet at around two in the afternoon. She figures, if she's going to indulge, she might as well be uncomfortable in every other physical aspect.
Halfway through a particularly romantic on screen kiss, she rolls her eyes and freezes at the insistent knocking on her door. She wonders if it's Nigel. But Nigel would have called. There is a second set of knocks, more persistent than the last, and she sets her ice cream down on the coffee table, grabbing a tissue on the way to dab at her eyes as she heads for the door, "Coming..." She calls.
Miranda is standing on the other side, hand on her hip, coat hung over her arm. And pissed as hell.
"I don't appreciate being called in the middle of the night, waking up to a little jealousy fit." Her words are carefully spoken, pointedly, and direct.
"I'm sorry, Miranda--" Emily starts quickly, "--I was--so drunk and--and--I don't know what I was thinking."
"No you were not thinking." Miranda cuts in, then gives Emily a look that asks "are you going to block the entrance all night or can I come in?".
The redhead quickly steps aside, holding her breath while Miranda waltzes in. As soon as the door is closed and she's prepared to offer another apology, Miranda turns sharply and beats her to the punch.
"You don't have special privileges--"
"--I know--"
"--you don't call me in the middle of the night because you feel you have the right--"
"--I know--"
"--and you do not..." Here, Miranda takes a breath and rolls her shoulders back uncomfortably, "...sleep with other people."
Beat.
"Oh."
Miranda bites her cheek and waves her hand around dismissively, averting her eyes, lips pursing, "I don't sleep around, and I would appreciate it if you would sustain from doing so as well. Explaining a Sexually Transmitted Disease to my husband, would not be a pleasant occurrence."
"Oh..." Emily's face falls and she nods.
Miranda's gaze falls on the near empty bucket of ice cream and she draws in a sharp breath before looking back at the nervous, saddened eyes staring back shyly, "And you are not--a toy..." She rolls her eyes as if it is the most painful action, to speak this very sentence, "--if you were, you would be a very entertaining one, but you are not. So, we will have no more of that. No more binge drinking. There is no point"
Emily tries not to smile. She feels Miranda eye her outfit from head to toe, but for the first time in a week, she sees her size up more than the three different designers she's sporting. She's looked at her. Emily, the girl. Emily the person, not Emily the job title. She shivers. "Right."
"Did you--" Miranda clears her throat, assuming Emily should just know what she's thinking, "...Saturday night?"
"Did I--" Emily frowns, trying to decipher what this woman could possibly be expecting as an answer. And then it dawns on her. Miranda is jealous. And she's asking if she slept with anyone, fulfilling her promise to bed everyone in the city, "--oh, no I didn't. I slept with Nigel."
Miranda's confused.
"Not had sex with Nigel, I mean, slept. Literally just slept at his place."
Miranda seems relieved, or at least satisfied and she nods. She looks around once more and for a second, Emily wonders if Miranda wants to stay.
"I should go--" She states before Emily can extend an invitation.
"Okay."
"But, I want to make sure we are clear about this."
"As crystal," Emily assures her. She realizes this is probably the longest conversation they've ever had that was not work related or one sided. She likes it. She wonders if Miranda would be opposed to a quickie against her front door.
And then Miranda kisses her. She cradles her neck and pulls her forward. It's sweet, and hot and hard all at once and Emily now knows what it's like to have her breath taken away. When they pull apart, Emily is panting, Miranda's got a slight blush creeping up her neck and they both seem to have run out of things to say.
"I should go," Miranda manages in a strained tone.
"Yeah."
Once at the door, Miranda looks over her shoulder and asks, "What is New Emily's name?"
"Uh--Andy--Andrea."
"Hmm."
"She's uh--horrible and useless, I know..." The younger woman replies, rolling her eyes, but mostly doing a horrible job at hiding her obvious jealousy towards the pretty brunette.
Miranda smirks briefly and adds before leaving, "Emily, jealousy is not attractive."
She disappears into the hallway and Emily finds herself smiling as she closes the door, "Yes it is, it's bloody hot..."
As she reclaims her seat in front o the television again, she kicks off her shoes, relishes in the instant comforting sensation and wiggles her toes as she settles against the cushions, ice cream on her lap.
As much as the thought tries to creep up on her, she fights it and tells herself that there is no possible way she is in love with Miranda Priestly. No way in hell. And there is no way Miranda Priestly could possibly be in love with her. That would be stupid.
FIN.