Chapters 1-4/? When the Night Falls on You
Title: When the Night Falls On You
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: PG
Chapters: 1-4/?
Words: 4,538 (This will be at least a 30,000 word tale before it is done)
Disclaimer: All rights reserved to all the much wealthier people who own Miranda Priestly. They know who they are. I am quite certain that I could make much better use of Miranda and Andrea, but alas, this will have to do. No profit made.
Author's Note: This story veers a bit off course with the last scene in Paris. Well, quite off course. It is a long story and to be honest, I have not finished it yet. I have decided that I am going to start posting it in parts, which will, hopefully, give me the needed impetus to finish it. Well, if any of you like it, that is. Otherwise, it may have the opposite effect and throw me into a state of despair and I will toss the whole thing in the garbage. Hence, why I am posting in parts.
People to whom I owe at the very least a first born child or alternatively, a small island in the South Pacific: My lovely cadre of beta readers, all of whom are immensely generous, talented, wonderful women and who have put up with my bouts of insecurity without demur. Well, not much demur. chilly_flame, darandkerry, tremblingmoon, seftiri, and of course, the instigator of all this, flying_peanuts.
When the Night Falls on You
Fewthistle
An A/U, taking off from the final scene in Paris.
I.
Miranda Priestly had never been one for contemplating the mysteries of the universe. To be honest, for most of her life, she simply didn’t have the time. Also, she had learned long ago that sitting about musing on things that one was incapable of changing accomplished nothing except leaving one feeling morose and helpless, two emotions in which Miranda never indulged. Well, almost never.
She had found herself indulging in both this evening, staring from the window of her hotel room at the myriad lights of Paris. A sheaf of papers lay stark, white, and accusing on the small Louis XV table behind her: divorce papers, courtesy of her soon-to-be ex-husband. Her third ex-husband. If she didn’t watch out, she thought sardonically, she was going to give Liz a run for her money. The thought did little to lift her mood.
Nor did the view. The Eiffel Tower stood in the distance, as the steady glow of lights melded into a gauze of yellow and gold that lay across the city. The picture perfect scene was just that, picture perfect. Miranda knew better than most people that pictures were flat, two dimensional representations of a three dimensional world.
They never showed what happened on the other side of the pristine image presented: the ugly, messy side. The side where models didn’t show up, where sets were damaged, where budgets ended up as nothing more than vague guidelines. The side where love grew cold and bitter, where angry words were shouted across what was once a shared bed. The side where people left you.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t expected this. She had expected it from the moment the ring slipped onto her finger; she had almost heard it in the swell of orchestral music as they walked back down the aisle. She just wished that Stephen had the common courtesy, the courage to tell her face to face, in New York. Not by messenger, not as she attempted to keep a hand firmly on the reins of the sometimes headstrong world of fashion she controlled. Not here. Not Paris.
But then, she shouldn’t really be surprised. Stephen was always fond of the dramatic, given to volcanic eruptions and grand gestures; what could be more of a gesture than to serve her with divorce papers amid the swirl of Paris fashion week. Coward.
Turning away from the window, Miranda dropped gracefully onto the Empire settee, pulling the warmth of her robe a little tighter across her chest. She was through with the tears that had fallen unbidden at the sight of the divorce petition. She knew that those tears were more about failing once again than for the end of a marriage that had been gasping laboriously for breath for more than a year now. It was hard to stomach yet another failure in what was hardening quickly into a string of personal failures, with no end in sight.
Three husbands, all of them different in temperament, in personality. And yet, those three marriages had all ended in acrimony and divorce. Doing a simple algebraic equation the twins could have mastered left Miranda with the solution at which she always arrived, regardless of the other variables.
Her.
In each equation the only constant was her. Three husbands, each representing a different sum for y and yet, the problem always ended with the same answer.
3(y + x) = bitter recriminations, horrible public accusations and ugly divorce. Since y was a changing variable, it had to be x that was the problem. X = Miranda Priestly, wife extraordinaire, she thought cynically.
Miranda knew that she had intimacy issues, that she had control issues, that she had issue issues. Her last four shrinks had all been kind enough to point this out, as if Miranda were incapable of even the most minor attempts at self-awareness. She also knew that despite an ability to see the subtle shadings between cerulean and indigo, between Persian and cobalt, that she had a pronounced inability to distinguish between love and simple need.
She knew as well that despite often Herculean efforts to adapt, she managed to sabotage almost every single relationship she had: from the never-ending string of housekeepers and assistants to dilettante friends and an increasing number of husbands. The thing that kept her awake at night, the thing that haunted her was that she had no idea how to stop. She had no idea how to be anyone other than Miranda Priestly.
And she didn’t know if she cared enough to try anymore.
II.
It was never a good idea to become too attached to one’s boss. Andy Sachs was aware of this in theory, even agreed with it in principle. It was in practice that things got dicey. Because it was perfectly clear that the theory had never met Miranda Priestly. Never been skewered by her startling blue eyes. Never heard that damnably sexy voice say its name, the way Andy heard hers every day: Andrea.
None of which made a damn bit of difference, the theory informed her. After all, it changed nothing. Andy was still Andy. And Miranda? Miranda was a force of nature. Elegant, brilliant, gorgeous. Married. Impossibly sexy. Not that Andy thought of her that way. Well, not often. Okay, rather more often of late, but still, it made no difference. Miranda was….well, Miranda.
And Andy was just that, just Andy. Andrea Sachs, second assistant. Not particularly elegant, although she had improved under Nigel’s guidance. Relatively smart, but still usually two steps behind Miranda’s amazing mind. Presentable, but barely so beside the hundreds of beautiful women that paraded through Runway daily. In short, she fell short.
Except that in the past few months, Andy had managed to be the one thing that Miranda wanted, the one thing that no one else seemed to be able to be: good at her job. So here she was in Paris, City of Lights, at the very heart of the fashion industry’s most important season. Despite the fact that she had yet to actually see much of Paris beyond the interiors of fashion houses and reception rooms, Andy had never been anywhere more exciting. The fact that Miranda Priestly was the source of most of the excitement had not escaped Andy’s notice.
It was funny, really. She had spent the better part of the last year attempting to reconcile the rapidly shifting range of emotions that Miranda seemed to provoke in her. From her initial disgust at Miranda’s arrogance and high-handed methods, to righteous anger at the other woman’s callous disregard for nine tenths of the human race, to a shaky, burgeoning respect for Miranda’s brilliant mind and abilities, Andy had found her own reactions shifting like sand in a hot desert wind.
And now this. This feeling that had robbed her of breath with its unexpected arrival a few months ago. This desire, not exactly sexual, but decidedly intimate. This desire to know Miranda. Really know her. Not cursory glimpses of emotion, not random bits of conversation, but to know her. Know the thoughts coursing through her mind, know the feelings hidden behind that shield of ice blue.
Talk about outrageous desires.
Andy knocked on the door to Miranda’s suite and receiving no reply, let herself in. She stopped short in the doorway of the suite’s living room, shocked to find Runway’s editor-in-chief sitting on the settee, face free of makeup, hair damp, clad only in a soft gray robe. Her eyes were reddened from crying and her expression was one that Andy had never seen before, had never dreamt that she would ever see: lost, pensive, melancholy. Miranda looked sad.
Yet, sad or not, those eyes still managed to cut a wide swath right through Andy, tightening the muscles in her throat, sending her stomach into a sharp, pitched roll as Miranda glanced up and met Andy’s astonished look.
“We need to go over the seating, uh, chart for the luncheon.”
Fumbling a bit, Andy attempted to keep up the pretense that this was a perfectly normal situation, when clearly the denizens of hell were breaking out their winter parkas. “Okay. Um, yeah, sure. I have it right here.”
The trademark Priestly glare was back in place. “By all means, move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me.”
“Okay.” Andy said pleasantly, ready to make whatever changes Miranda wanted, her senses telling her that whatever was wrong, incensing Miranda further was nothing short of suicidal.
“So... first of all, we need to move Snoop Dogg to my table.” Miranda ordered, her voice lacking its usual note of absolute assurance.
“But your table's full.” Despite the warnings going off in her head, Andy knew she had to point out the obvious to Miranda, just in case it wasn’t as obvious as she thought.
The patented “you cannot possibly be that stupid” look was quickly followed by, “Stephen isn't coming,” spoken in such a low tone that Andy wasn’t certain she had heard correctly.
“Oh, Stephen is... so I don't need to fetch Stephen from the airport tomorrow?” Andy knew that she sounded like an idiot, but for some reason, she couldn’t help herself, captivated as she was by the intense vulnerability that seemed to be radiating off Miranda.
Andy was expecting a sharp retort, but instead, Miranda said quietly, drops of bitterness falling from her voice like rain from a rooftop, “Well, if you speak to him and he decides to rethink the divorce... then, yes, fetch away. You're very fetching, so go fetch. And then when we get back to New York, we need to contact, um... Leslie to see what she can do to minimize the press... on all this. Another divorce... splashed across Page Six.
“I can just imagine what they're going to write about me. The Dragon Lady, career-obsessed. Snow Queen drives away another Mr. Priestly. Rupert Murdoch should cut me a check... for all the papers I sell for him. Anyway, I don't... I don't really care what anybody writes about me. But my... my girls, I just... It's just so unfair to the girls. It's just... another disappointment... another letdown, another father... figure... gone. Anyway, the point is... the point is... the point is we really need to figure out where to place Donatella because she's barely speaking to anyone.”
Miranda seemed to shake herself free for a moment.
“I'm so sorry, Miranda. If you want me to cancel your evening, I can.” What Andy really wanted was to reach out to Miranda, to touch her hand, her arm, offer her the comfort of another human being, but she feared that like reaching out to a wounded tiger, she was most likely to pull her arm back minus at least a few fingers.
Andy wasn’t disappointed.
“Don't be ridiculous. Why would we do that?” Miranda asked caustically, although it was all too clear to both of them what the answer to that question was.
“Um, is... is there anything else I can do?” Andy stood diffidently, trying, as she so often did with Miranda, to not to take it personally. Especially tonight.
“Your job. That's all.” Dismissed again.
Except that for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Andy didn’t turn and leave.
The laser-like glare she received should have been ample evidence that a hasty retreat was in order, but Andy stood her ground, unwilling to go, despite Miranda’s clear instruction to do so. Not without saying one last thing. Not without saying the one thing that she knew she shouldn’t say. The one thing that sent her hurtling at top speed toward the concrete barriers that provided the boundaries for her relationship with Miranda, so that all Andy could do was brace herself for impact.
“Stephen’s an idiot to leave you.” Andy waited, head down, eyes fixed on the carpet, silently counting the seconds before the explosion. But the explosion didn’t come.
Finally mustering the courage to look up, Andy was shocked to see Miranda regarding her thoughtfully, no hint of the rage that Andy had expected to see on her flawless face.
“Eventually, Andrea, everyone leaves,” Miranda stated wryly, her voice smooth and even.
Only her eyes betrayed her. Eyes that met Andy’s unflinchingly, the blue of the irises all the more distinct against the slightly reddened lids. There was a faint stain of defeat against that brilliant blue, barely noticeable unless you knew where to look; but Andy had made the study of Miranda’s shifting moods and mercurial expressions her life’s work this past year and so she saw it, almost hidden behind the bright banner of challenge.
“Everyone leaves, including you.” The unspoken words hung between them like the fog that even now lapped the dark waters of the Seine.
A million moments from the past year rushed through Andy’s mind: all the impossible tasks and harsh words, the never-ending days, the sleepless nights; all the demanding phone calls and Starbucks runs; all the withering glances and caustic comments. All the tests, all the traps, each one designed to shake the ground beneath her feet, to leave Andy teetering on the edge of the abyss, daring her to make that final, desperate leap. All leading to here, to this moment.
Nate’s words had been rattling around inside her head for days now, like marbles dropped into an empty tin can. “The person whose calls you always take? That's the relationship you're in. I hope you two are very happy together.” Until this instant she had been able to dismiss them as nothing more than hurt and anger and jealousy, but as she watched Miranda watching her, she heard the somewhat terrifying click as the final piece of the new and improved Andrea Sachs slid into place.
“I won’t leave, Miranda,” Andy barely recognized her own voice, her eyes caught and held like a rabbit in a cobra’s gaze. “I won’t leave.”
Somehow it came out stronger the second time, aided, no doubt by the determined tilt to her chin. Miranda’s eyes narrowed until they were little more than slits of cobalt in a pale mask. She took a step toward Andy, then another, until there were only inches separating them.
“The only thing I despise more than a coward is a liar, Andrea. Do not make promises you cannot keep,” Miranda’s voice was cold, her stare unrelenting.
“I won’t. I mean, I’m not. I mean, I can keep that promise,” Andrea stuttered slightly, finding the sudden proximity of Miranda, skin porcelain and unblemished, clad in nothing more than a bathrobe, to be less than conducive to articulate thoughts, much less speech.
Miranda’s gaze continued to hold hers, unwavering and impossibly intense. Andy could hear her blood pounding in her ears, could smell the faint scent of Miranda’s perfume, could feel the faint trickle of perspiration that slipped slowly down her spine to the lace edging of her La Perla underwear. Andy had often scoffed at the notion of time standing still, but as far as she was concerned, it had. There was nothing, nothing in the vast expanse of the universe but Miranda’s face, Miranda’s eyes boring a hole through layers of emptiness to her soul.
“Well, you’d be the first to manage it,” Miranda said softly, a faint shadow of something that Andy, despite her months of study, couldn’t quite name ghosting across Miranda’s countenance. In an instant, whatever it was had vanished, apparently along with Miranda’s interest in the conversation.
Without another word, she turned and walked into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her and leaving a deeply conflicted Andy to stare after her, doing what Miranda would no doubt say was an extremely good impression of a slightly lovesick guppy.
III.
The party was everything that a party should be: glamorous, exciting, elegant. Monotonous. Insipid. Boring. Miranda’s list of adjectives was growing longer and far less expansive than it should be, but she found that her thoughts were disjointed, her focus easily lost. The classic lines and gorgeous drape of fabric, the veritable artist’s palette of colors devolved into little more than a swirl of tints and hues, like the inside of an old Victorian kaleidoscope that she remembered loving as a child.
She needed to leave. Miranda never stayed at parties long and tonight would be no exception. Murmuring her goodbyes, she slipped out into the blessedly cool air of the Paris evening, almost welcoming the slight shiver that crept along her spine, scattering some of the fog that had begun to slip through her mind.
Damn, Stephen. Wasn’t it enough to bring their marriage, or what pitiful shreds were left of it, to an abrupt end? Did he have to attempt to sabotage one of the most important times of the year for her? The answer came quickly. Of course he did. What better payment for all the missed dinners and rescheduled evenings, all the real and imagined slights? It was actually a wonder that he hadn’t simply sent a copy of the divorce papers to Page Six and let her find out from the tabloids that her latest foray into wedlock had met an early demise.
The lights of the city, the cars and people, the brief glimpses of life, played along the windows of the limousine; random, incoherent scenes, like snippets from some art house cinema of the absurd. Miranda’s lips quirked in a half-grimace as her mind registered the appropriateness of the simile. A fitting end to an altogether objectionable day. Well, not quite completely unpleasant.
There was Andrea.
Miranda allowed her mind to linger on the memory of Andrea’s words and the look in the younger woman’s eyes: a look filled with such naïve sincerity, with a depth of honest emotion that even on reflection nearly caused Miranda’s lips to curl into an astonished smile.
Not that she believed the girl. There had been too many people, friends, lovers, husbands, family, who had looked deeply into Miranda’s eyes and promised to never leave her for her to honestly accept the validity of such a transparently counterfeit gesture.
And yet, it was nice to still inspire a little breathless adoration now and again. And the girl had turned out to be more than Miranda could have hoped, despite a few early stumbles. In fact, she had begun to anticipate Miranda’s every want and need, so that a synergy had sprung up between them, one that Miranda had to admit made her job, and her life, a little less chaotic.
And if Miranda caught herself watching Andrea, convincing herself with only a minor effort that her perusals were merely aesthetic in nature, a perfectly natural appreciation for the younger woman’s newly acquired style, her budding beauty, then where was the harm?
After all, Miranda knew that in the end, like everyone else in her life, Andrea would walk away. Especially after tomorrow. She knew that few people, particularly one still as innocent as Andrea, would understand the fierce, almost sexual pleasure that she took in her precisely planned machinations. Andrea would see only the betrayal of a friend, not the capture of her opponent’s king, the assurance of Miranda’s continued position. The assurance of Miranda’s life’s work.
And with it, the assurance that eventually, everyone left.
IV.
If Miranda’s appearance last night had been a shock to Andy, the events that transpired afterwards shook her to the core. First had been the drunken, disastrous decision on her part to sleep with Christian Thompson. Asinine. Idiotic. And yet. She had wanted to be wanted. Had needed to see something other than annoyance and disappointment in someone’s eyes when they looked at her. She couldn’t be blamed if for just a few precious hours, she had allowed herself to feel smart and sexy and desirable.
All transient emotions that fled with the sight of the papers discussing the replacement of Miranda as editor of Runway. From that moment on, things were a bit of a blur and Andy was left with only two or three images, ones that held fast in her mind, refusing to let go. The clearest of these was the look of stunned resignation on Nigel’s face as Miranda announced her coup de grace. The thought that she had raced around Paris trying to warn Miranda left a lingering taste of bile in Andy’s mouth.
Now ensconced against the smooth leather of the limo, Andy felt more than heard Miranda’s words, each syllable a tiny blow pummeling skin that already felt sore and bruised, as if Andy had just emerged from a prizefight. She had trouble focusing on what Miranda was saying, although the immensely satisfied tone of her voice soon captured Andy’s wavering attention.
“I was very, very impressed...by how intently you tried to warn me. I never thought I would say this, Andrea...but I really-I see a great deal of myself in you. You can see beyond what people want and what they need...and you can choose for yourself.” For the second time in twenty-four hours, Miranda had surprised her and the older woman’s expression was again one for which Andy had no reference. If she didn’t believe it to be in the realm of the ridiculous, Andy would be forced to concede that Miranda looked...well, almost fond.
That was a concession that Andy was fairly certain that she couldn’t handle right now.
Andy found herself stammering a response, one directed as much at Miranda’s statement as that damned look on her face.
“I don't think I'm like that. I- I couldn't do what you did to Nigel, Miranda. I couldn't do something like that.”
One of Miranda’s eyebrows crept slowly up her forehead as she spoke, “Mm. You already did. To Emily.”
The taste of bile she had experienced earlier was nothing compared to the bitterness that flooded her mouth as the inherent truth of Miranda’s words registered.
Emily had said it to her that day in the hospital, had she not? “I don't care if she was going to fire you or beat you with a red hot poker, you should've said no. You sold your soul to the devil when you put on your first pair of Jimmy Choos, I saw it.”
She heard her own voice, as if from a distance, stunned, stuttering, attempting to do the impossible: deny the validity of the accusation.
“That's not what I- No, that was- that was different. I didn't have a choice.”
“Oh, no, you chose. You chose to get ahead. You want this life; those choices are necessary,” Miranda stated calmly, the expression in her eyes brooking no argument as she sliced apart the last of Andy’s protestations as easily as a hot knife through butter.
“But what if this isn't what I want? I mean, what if I don't wanna live the way you live?” Even Andy could hear how callow and indecisive she sounded. Miranda most definitely could.
“Don't be ridiculous, Andrea. Everybody wants this. Everybody wants to be us.”
The thread of panic that had been twining itself around Andy’s windpipe grew stronger, threatening to cut off her air as the true magnitude of the situation was finally made apparent. She was sitting in a car, having what could only be called a conversation, a personal conversation, with Miranda Priestly; a conversation that had laid bare every one of Andy’s dearly held principles. Or rather, shown starkly how battered and scarred those principles were becoming.
As the car drew up at their destination, it became blatantly obvious to even the slowest of thinkers that if there was any hope of Andrea Sachs retaining a modicum, a semblance of who she was, of what she believed, she needed to leave. Almost every atom in Andy’s body demanded that she get out of the car and simply walk away.
Almost every atom.
Her words from last night replayed like a broken record in her head, although now she heard them repeated back to her, Miranda’s tone disdainful and faintly mocking.
“I won’t leave, Miranda. I won’t leave.”
So much for promises. Andy knew that if she didn’t leave now, she would be swallowed up by Miranda and her world, like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Better to end up back in Cincinnati than offer up her soul like some virgin sacrifice on the altar, an altar dedicated to the worship of the Goddess of Fashion who even now was preparing to meet the faithful throng.
Stepping from the car, Andy took a few steps, automatically following the slender, elegant line of Miranda’s back. The crowds and the photographers surged around Miranda, as they always did, demanding a quote, a photo and Andy found her steps faltering, slowing until she stopped abruptly, losing sight of all but the faint silver gleam of Miranda’s hair.
From the distance to the top of the steps, Andy could see Miranda turn and look for her, sharp gaze darting quickly over the faces in the crowd. Their eyes met finally and Andy gasped as a shiver ran down her spine. For an instant Andy’s expression was confused, but it soon cleared as recognition dawned. It wasn’t anger or irritation or even disappointment that glimmered fiercely in the brilliant blue of Miranda’s eyes. It was triumph; she had been right. Eventually, everyone left.
“One more such victory and we shall be undone.” Somehow, Andy wasn’t vaguely surprised to learn that Pyrrhus had nothing on Miranda Priestly. As the phone in her hand began to buzz, Andy realized that her ethics were now quite a bit worse for wear. She also realized with sudden clarity that deliberately breaking a promise, especially a promise she had so adamantly defended, just might deal them a crushing, potentially fatal blow. Besides, there was a stubborn, self-righteous part of her that refused to allow Miranda to win.
Not this one. Not today.
Still, she didn’t answer the call. She needed just a bit more time to calm her racing mind and heart before she faced Miranda’s reaction.
Miranda had been right about one thing: Andy did make her own choices and she was going to own this one, even if it killed her. The fleeting thought that she was more than a little too invested in Miranda Priestly already was hastily brushed aside. There was only so much a girl could handle, even if that girl was Miranda’s assistant.
Slipping in a side door of the hotel, Andy stopped at the front desk and picked up the photos that had been couriered over from the Vivienne Tam show. The walk to Miranda’s suite gave her added time to pull herself together. Taking a deep breath, Andy straightened her spine and knocked on the door to Miranda’s room. As it swung open to reveal the elegant figure of Runway’s editor-in-chief, Andy gazed in secret satisfaction at the look in Miranda Priestly’s eyes.
As expressions went, Andy had to admit that the one gracing Miranda’s gorgeous face right now just might be her favorite. Surprise. Miranda was well and truly surprised.
Well, that made two of them.