When the Night Falls On You: Chapters 18 and 19
Title: When the Night Falls On You
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: PG/R
Chapters: 18 and 19/?
Words: 4,340 (33,698 for chapters 1-19 linked below.)
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.
Chapters 1-4
Chapters 5-8
Chapters 9 and 10
Chapters 11, 12, and 13
Chapters 14 and 15
Chapters 16 and 17
XVIII.
That night Andy found it difficult to sleep. It wasn’t merely the content of Miranda’s revelation that sent the thoughts swirling through her mind like a runaway tornado, but the sheer fact of it. Miranda Priestly had told her something she had never shared with anyone else, something personal, something that allowed Andy a fleeting glimpse of who Miranda really was. Each moment of conversation, each stray bit of information, each opinion, each idea, had afforded Andy a hint into the woman inside the icon. Like wiping clear a spot in a fogged up window, Andy was allowed to see what few others had seen and she found it intoxicating.
She found Miranda intoxicating.
The growing feelings of attraction that slowly had been overtaking her for the past few months had finally morphed into a steamroller, laying waste to her fears and inhibitions, to the safety of her half-hearted claims of heterosexuality. She wanted Miranda Priestly, wanted her more than she had ever wanted anything or anyone. She wanted to explore every elegant, sensuous inch of her and then begin all over again. It was a sobering realization, and yet, with it came such immense clarity.
When she was seven years old, Andy’s parents had given her a talking doll. Its mouth moved, and words came out when you squeezed its stomach. Andy had an overwhelming desire to take the doll apart and find out what made it work; find the intricate mechanisms that allowed that piece of plastic and rubber to form sounds, to mouth words. She realized that she wanted to do the same with Miranda: take her apart and see inside. See all the mysteries hidden from the world; all the quirks and secrets, all the fears and insecurities; all the moments of triumph and shame that had shaped Miranda. As if in knowing those things she could calm the spreading fear that possessing and being possessed by Miranda Priestly might just destroy her.
Or save them both. Not that Andy was convinced at all that Miranda shared her feelings. Nor did she have the first clue whether or not Miranda was interested in salvation.
Still, Miranda’s actions for the past few weeks had made it obvious that she no longer regarded Andy as a mere assistant. It was what, exactly, she was to Miranda now that troubled Andy’s sleep. That, and the annoying voice in the back of her head that suggested that perhaps it was time to take the bull by the horns and find out.
The next day, aside from acerbically issuing orders, Miranda barely spoke to her, her expression inscrutable, although Andy did notice at odd moments that Miranda’s gaze focused rather pointedly on her.
In the car on the way to James Holt’s, Miranda sat staring out the window, body tense, her face turned away from Andrea, lips faintly pursed. There had been no sign from her all day, in tone of voice or expression, that Andy was anything but an employee, and a slightly incompetent one at that. No half smiles, no conversations, and worst of all, no brief, tantalizing touches. Andy didn’t know whether to scream or cry.
She tried to convince herself that Miranda was simply embarrassed about sharing part of her past with Andy. Andy had realized long ago that Miranda had a habit of retreating into herself when things became emotionally unruly for her, and the fractured biography she had recounted to Andy last night surely had to fall within the realm of emotionally unmanageable. Eventually, once she realized that Andrea wasn’t going to hold her hostage with the information, she would get over it. At least that was Andy’s hope. But the day after was exactly the same. And the day after that.
No talking that didn’t relate to Runway. No looks of fond amusement directed Andy’s way. Nothing to indicate that the past three weeks had been anything more than a figment of Andy’s imagination. Andy felt shame and anger wash over her as, once again, she sat next to Miranda in the car. A meeting with Carlo at Gucci this time. Miranda hadn’t even acknowledged her existence, aside from a peremptory “Andrea. Coat. We’re leaving.” With the screen up behind Roy’s head, it felt as if she and Miranda were encased in a bubble of metal and glass; silent and empty, while the chaos of the world swirled just outside the steel of the car door.
Andy silently berated herself. She should have known better than to think it would last. She should have realized that Miranda had simply been amusing herself, and now she no longer found the diversion or Andy amusing. After all, everyone knew that Miranda enjoyed playing with people, enjoyed the thrill of the game. Except that it hadn’t felt like a game, hadn’t felt like a game at all. It had felt real. The quirky conversations, the transitory glimpses inside the layer of ice with which Miranda shielded herself, the brief touches that had left Andy breathless and quivering with awareness; all those things had left marks, like electrical burns along Andy’s skin. Surely, even Miranda was incapable of such callous deception. At least the Miranda that Andy had just begun to discover.
Closing her lids against the tears that threatened to flood her eyes, Andy forced herself to take a deep breath, then another, the air burning like acrid smoke as she expanded her lungs. She had meant it when she told Miranda that she was no longer afraid of her. However, that did little to calm the stampeding rhythm of her heart. Miranda had treated her as an equal, someone worthy of her time and maybe, just maybe, her affection. It was time Andy started to act like one.
“Miranda?”
“Yes, Andrea?” The tone was deceptively mild, given the stormy look those blue eyes currently held.
“Um, are you upset with me, about, you know, the other night?” Andy knew she was stuttering a bit, knew that she sounded less than confident, but it was the best she could do right now.
“Why would you think that, Andrea?” Miranda swiveled to face her, her expression blank, only the bright glow of her eyes giving any indication she was the least bit interested in the conversation.
“Well, the fact that you haven’t spoken to me in three days. Aside from issuing orders and demanding things, that is.” Andy felt her skin flush at the ill-advised choice of words, but there was no taking them back. Apparently she was more upset about Miranda’s behavior than she had thought.
“That is what I do. Issue orders, demand things, and foolishly cling to the hope that they will be done correctly.” Miranda replied quietly, her eyes never leaving Andy’s. “Tell me, Andrea. Have you suddenly been rendered mute in the past three days?”
“Me? Um, no. I don’t know what you...,” Andy began, only to pull up short at the look in Miranda’s eyes. Hurt. Miranda looked hurt. In a stunning flash, comprehension dawned on Andy, and her mouth dropped open in what she was certain was an unfortunate look for her. An onslaught of possible reasons inundated Andy’s brain, all swept aside by the most obvious answer: Miranda had been waiting for her to say something.
As she watched the light bulb go off over Andy’s head, Miranda’s lips twitched at the corners and with a rather exaggerated eye roll she turned her face back towards her window. The set of her shoulders, even the tilt of her gloriously silver head gave Andy all the information she could have wanted. In fact, looking back over the past three days, Andy realized that Miranda had been this edgy and irritated for days now. She had just been too preoccupied with feeling sorry for herself and cursing Miranda for being so unfeeling to notice that, in fact, Miranda was feeling quite a lot.
Mentally berating herself for being so slow and also for giving in, if only in her mind, to the suggestions that Emily had made, that nearly everyone had made, that Miranda Priestly was incapable of honest emotion, Andy closed her eyes and tried to focus on how to fix this.
“Miranda, I’m sorry. I guess that it didn’t even occur to me that I could start a conversation,” Andy said softly, turning her body fully on the wide seat so that she could see Miranda’s profile against the tinted windowpane.
Miranda’s only response was to tilt that patrician nose a little higher in the air, the full lips beneath it narrowed to a thin line.
Drawing in a shallow breath, Andy plunged in deeper. “Please, Miranda. This is all so new, this being able to talk to you. I guess I was so used to you talking to me about things, that I didn’t stop to think that maybe you might want me to talk to you. That you might need me to say something first.”
Again, her words were met with silence from the other side of the car. Andy dropped her head to her chest, as if she could no longer bear the weight of it, a ragged sigh escaping her lips.
“It’s exhausting to always be the one to ask questions, Andrea. To always have to be the one in charge of everything. When I asked you if you were still frightened of me the other night, you assured me you were not. I, foolishly, I see now, took that to mean that you were willing, or at least able, to meet me halfway. And given what I shared with you, I again assumed, perhaps unwisely, that our interactions would become a bit less proscribed.” Miranda’s voice was so quiet that Andy leaned forward to hear it, her hand coming inadvertently to rest on top of Miranda’s.
Andy’s first instinct was to pull her hand back, as a rush of heat spread across all the skin touching Miranda, like she had accidentally placed her hand on a lit burner. The hitch in Miranda’s breathing however, stopped her movement, and Andy allowed her hand to remain resting on Miranda’s, reveling in the feel of her skin under her own.
“You weren’t wrong. I’m sorry for being a little slow. I wish I could explain how honored I am that you told me that about your family. I promise to ask the next time you seem upset, and I swear, you won’t have to be the one to start every conversation, okay?” Andy assured, as, in an act of extreme bravery, or stupidity, she traced a pattern with one finger along the back of Miranda’s hand.
“Slow? More like glacial. And you know how that thrills me, Andrea,” Miranda snorted, the corners of her lips quirking into a ghost of a smile as she leaned back against the car seat. With the rise of an elegant eyebrow, she asked, “So?”
Andy couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up as the land beneath her feet leveled out and stopped shaking. Dragons indeed.
XIX.
“Emily, what in God’s name has happened to your leg?” Miranda paused as she walked by Emily’s desk the next Friday morning, eyebrows drawn down sharply as she gazed at Emily’s fishnet stocking clad legs.
“Oh. I got my cast off yesterday afternoon. Thank God. Talk about bloody horrendous. I don’t think I could have taken one more day of it,” Emily answered quickly, the words spilling out before she could censor them.
“Mmhhm. Well, considering that now one leg is significantly thinner than the other, perhaps next time you could arrange to get a full body cast and do away with the endless dieting,” Miranda murmured, a slightly malicious gleam in her eye as she turned and walked into her office.
As the wave of hurt from Miranda’s remark washed over her, Emily found that ironically, and no doubt pathetically, there was certain merit in the suggestion. She had been amazed how a month inside that damned cast had reduced the size of her calf. She had also been appalled at how incredibly long the hair on her leg had grown and that the skin now was the color of the underbelly of a flounder. Hence the stockings. Still, it was wonderfully stick-like. Perhaps there was a way to get the other one in the same spindly condition without using those fucking crutches for a month.
“Emily. Get me Patrick. And get Nigel in here so that he can explain to me this monstrosity of a mock-up for the Boston shoot,” Miranda ordered, settling into her chair and opening her email, more form than substance as she stared at the screen, not registering the curves and lines that melded into words.
Andrea was at Chanel, picking up samples for Runway’s holiday edition. Miranda found that a lack of physical proximity to the younger woman did little to aid in her concentration. The fact was, the girl had completely ruined Miranda’s ability to think about any of the things that she needed to think about: budgets and deadlines and a myriad of details that went into running a successful magazine. Instead, Miranda found her thoughts straying to the sound of Andrea’s laugh and the long line of her throat as she tilted her head back, eyes crinkled in amusement at something Miranda had said. To the silken feel of the skin at Andrea’s wrist, where the pad of Miranda’s thumb rubbed gently as their hands brushed in the car. To the thick, fragrant fall of dark hair that left Miranda clenching her hands to stop herself from touching, wanting to feel the cool weight of it between her fingers.
All thoughts that had no place in Miranda Priestly’s ordered life. Pathetic really. Since when did she allow her emotions such free rein and when had she ever sacrificed a moment’s sleep on something so juvenile as desire? How in the name of all that was holy had this happened? Her divorce wasn’t final, Irv was still snapping at her heels, her daughters were entering that most terrifying of stages, pre-pubescence, she was surrounded by incompetence and now, now she had become rather deeply infatuated with a woman half her age, one who worked for her. Somewhere Miranda’s life had taken a marked left turn and she was damned if she knew what to do about it.
Or even if she should.
She had spent the past twenty years of her life defining beauty, and for what? To her unending dismay, she found herself in a nation overrun with strip malls, NASCAR, and golden arches on every street corner. Somewhere along the way, she had become Van Gogh, painting stars for a sightless world; Maria Callas bringing Puccini to an audience rendered deaf by the blare of car horns and the shouted conversations of total strangers. The perfect lines of a gown, the vibrancy of color, the utility of form, had soothed and consoled her, made all the rest, the lost friendships, the three failed marriages, even her own perceived imperfection at motherhood, bearable because she had been given the gift of prophecy, the task of telling an often ugly, ignorant world what was truly beautiful.
And for the most part, people listened. At least, she told herself, the people who mattered listened. She couldn’t quite put her finger on when that had ceased to be enough; when she had become interested in pursuing beauty for herself and not merely for the huddled masses wearing last years Chanel. She suspected it had come the moment she opened her hotel room door in Paris to discover that Andrea had not left her, after all.
Perhaps it was finally time for Miranda Priestly to discover something beautiful that belonged only to her.
For the past few weeks, Andrea had stayed in the evening after she brought the Book. She had told Roy that she liked the fresh air and the walk to the subway, and so he simply dropped her at the door of Miranda’s townhouse and went home. For Miranda’s part, it was still strange to have the girl walk purposefully down the hall to the study, hand Miranda the book with a gentle, luminous smile, and then, as if she had been doing it for years, wordlessly cross to the sofa, tuck her feet up under her and read while Miranda made her corrections. When the corrections were complete and every little sticky note was in place, Miranda would move from her chair to the other end of the sofa, her voice silvery in the half-light of the study as Andy laughingly told her little anecdotes about her day or read her excerpts from the article or book she was reading, their voices blending in the quiet of the room as they talked. Then, reluctantly, Andrea would call a cab and head home.
It was all marvelously, terrifyingly domestic and mundane. Still, Miranda couldn’t help but dwell on all the things that could go wrong. All the things that might just stop this…whatever it was…from becoming anything more than a pipedream. Like the twins and their behavior last evening.
The girls were usually in bed by the time Andrea arrived, but last night the Book had been early and the twins were still awake when she slipped into the house. Two identical red heads had followed her progress as she put the dry cleaning away and then made her way confidently down the hall. They had waited for Andy to leave and when her departure wasn’t forthcoming, sneaked down the sleek wood of the hallway to peer around the corner of the study door. The scene that greeted them was not what they expected: their mother, ensconced in her favorite chair, glasses perched on the end of that elegant nose, book on her lap as she studied every inch of every page, while Andy sat, curled up like a cat in the corner of the sofa, head resting on one hand as she scanned the pages of a novel, her eyes darting quite often in their mother’s direction.
The twins met each other’s eyes in surprise, and Cassidy gestured with her head for Caroline to follow her back upstairs. They had just turned to go when their mother’s voice stopped them in their tracks.
“Girls.”
“Um, hi, Mom,” Cassidy began, reaching back to drag Caroline into the room with her. It had been their experience that two targets were always better than one.
“I may be mistaken, but I distinctly remember telling you both goodnight half an hour ago,” Miranda said sternly, eyes narrowed as she gazed at the girls’ faces. “What, pray tell, are you doing down here and why are you peering around corners?”
“Well, we heard Andy come in and since we were still awake, we thought we’d ask her if she’s okay. Since the incident, I mean. We haven’t seen her since then. But then she didn’t come back out, so we thought we’d better see if everything was okay,” Caroline explained, the soft planes of her face and wide, round blue eyes giving her an air of innocence that her mother was fully aware was patently false.
“I see. Then why didn’t you simply come in and ask her?” Miranda asked, one eyebrow nearly reaching her hairline as she gazed at her children.
“Well. We, um. Why is Andy here, anyway?” Cassidy had clearly decided that the best defense was a good offense.
Miranda didn’t answer immediately and she felt the weight of three sets of eyes on her, two the same clear blue as her own, one of deep espresso. Her first instinct was to tell her daughter that it was really none of her business and that the fact that Miranda wanted Andy there was enough, but she quickly pushed the thought down. These were her children and given the upheaval of the divorce and the constant press coverage of their lives, they deserved a better answer.
“Andrea is here because I like having her around. I enjoy her company,” Miranda said finally, her eyes focused on the twins, although she was aware of the glow that came to Andy’s face at her words.
“But she works for you,” Cassidy reminded, her voice dismissive, her expression puzzled. “You see her all day. Why do you want her here at night?”
Miranda sighed deeply, her eyes slipping shut for an instant. She had hoped that this conversation would be a long way off, after she had decided what exactly it was that she and Andrea were doing, after she had finally categorized and properly labeled all the wayward emotions currently cavorting around her brain. So much for hoping.
“Yes, Andrea does work for me and yes, I do see her all day. However, that isn’t the same. During the day I’m extremely busy, as is Andrea, and so we do not have a chance to talk or simply sit quietly, as we were doing when you and your sister decided to conduct your late night surveillance. It is possible to work with someone and be friends with them, as well,” Miranda tried to keep her tone patient and calm, sensing that this was a watershed moment in the future acceptance of Andrea by the girls. In whatever capacity she might appear. “Do you understand, Cassidy?”
The frown that creased Cassidy’s forehead looked so much like the one she saw when she looked in the mirror, that Miranda was tempted to chuckle, seeing her own expression reflected back to her on that small, freckled face.
“So, Andy’s your friend?” Caroline had decided that it was time to speak up before Cass said something she might regret, something along the lines of what came tumbling out of her mouth as Caroline shut one eye in a sympathetic wince.
“But you don’t have friends, Mom.” Cassidy’s eyes went wide, wishing she could take the words back, as she watched her mother’s lips purse into a thin line.
“Yes, she does,” Andy said firmly, speaking for the first time since the twins had entered the room. “It’s just that usually your mom is too busy to see people. That’s why it’s nice for her, and for me, to be able to spend a couple hours here in the evening. Kinda like when you come home from school, and even though you just left your friends, you call them or text them, because you were at school and in class and you couldn’t really spend time with them and talk, right?”
Miranda felt the corners of her mouth turning up in a little smile, despite her irritation with Cassidy. Andrea was good. Miranda could see the light of comprehension dawn in both her daughter’s eyes. Caroline even nodded her head almost amicably in agreement.
“Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” Cassidy said begrudgingly. She didn’t sound completely convinced and Miranda was certain that this would not be the last conversation that she and the girls would have about Andrea and her presence in the house and in Miranda’s life, but it would suffice for now.
“So, I believe you two are supposed to be in bed,” Miranda intoned firmly, brooking no argument.
The girls hugged her and said their goodnights, again. Caroline told Andy good night as well. Cassidy simply glared at Andrea and following Caroline, disappeared into the hall, the slap of her bare feet against the wood floor loud in the quiet house.
Sinking back against the cushion of the chair, Miranda smiled wryly at Andrea, who appeared a trifle unsettled, no doubt by the look that Cassidy had directed her way.
“I suppose that could have been worse,” Miranda murmured, running a hand across her forehead, sweeping back the lock of hair that fell gracefully across it. “I’d love to declare it a victory, but I am afraid I am going to have to settle for a draw.”
Andrea didn’t answer, and Miranda could not see the expression on her face as Andy stared intently at the pattern on the thick Persian rug. Miranda was tempted to pick up the Book again and resume her corrections when Andrea finally raised her head, a frown pulling her eyebrows into a deep “v”.
“Miranda. I know that you told the girls that we’re friends, and we are, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that, well, I was hoping that we, I mean…,” Andy began, her voice taking on a sing-song rhythm as she grew more nervous. Miranda interrupted her before she started babbling.
“Andrea, it’s late and I haven’t even begun to go over the Book yet. And to be honest, one conversation about the nature of our relationship is all that I can handle in one night. The girls are going to a sleep-over tomorrow night. We can discuss this, us, then, if that’s alright with you?” Miranda thought that she did an admirable job in keeping the sudden rush of uncertainty that rolled over her out of her voice.
“Us?” Andrea squeaked, the word seeming to echo in the silence of the room.
“That is the proper plural pronoun when discussing yourself and another person, is it not?” For some reason, Miranda found herself unable to resist teasing Andrea, even when it was clear the girl was a bit frazzled. She should probably get used to it, Miranda thought dryly. “Tomorrow, Andrea. Now, I really must get this work done.”
Andrea had reluctantly nodded her assent, although Miranda could almost see the words threatening at any minute to fall from those full lips.
“Tomorrow.” Miranda had intoned, not glancing up from the five or six glaring errors on the page.
Now, staring at her computer screen and trying to force her brain to comprehend the various words and symbols, Miranda had to tamp down the feeling of dread that stole over her. Tomorrow had come and she had about five hours to figure out what the hell she was going to say.