FIC: 1 + 1 = Window [the devil wears prada, caroline, cassidy, andy/miranda] 1 of 3
Um, how does this analogy work for you: The Devil Wears Prada fandom is like a really really shiny piece of tinsel... A really really SMALL shiny piece of tinsel (seriously - there are about ten people in it). The problem: IT'S JUST SO PRETTY I CAN'T LOOK AWAY.
The result - fic!
Summary: Caroline was born first. [Caroline and Cassidy, Miranda/Andy]
Word Count: 5 000+
Disclaimer: Nu-uh.
AN: Anyone who gets the title reference wins mad props and cyber cookies. And if no one can, well then… that just confirms my suspicion that my elementary school education was very, very weird.
1 + 1 = W i n d o w
[1 of 3]
Caroline was born first, an hour and forty-five minutes first, at six o’clock. That meant she was born an hour and forty-five minutes and two-months too early. Daddy still always said that she had come “Just in time for dinner,” like it had been normal and perfect instead of frantic and worried, nurses in and out of the hospital room. He only ever said it about Caroline because Cass was born after seven, too late for supper (even though sometimes, afterwards, without Daddy, they ate after seven and once after nine).
The way he told the story, it sounded like when Caroline popped out he and Mum had had just enough time to eat a steak by candlelight before Cass came along. Caroline had always imagined the scene like this: their mother rocking both of them to sleep, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. Of course, that isn’t anywhere near the truth.
When she first came out, Caroline had experienced a moment of indecision and refused to breathe for four whole minutes. “Wasn’t sure if we were good enough,” said Daddy, and Caroline liked that idea - her baby-self holding her breath, deciding.
Cass breathed right away, probably because she was already late. Cass always did everything fastfastfast. But it didn’t matter because they were too small anyways; Mummy and Daddy couldn’t take them home. Instead they spent their first month in an incubator, on their backs beside each other like upturned beetles. And maybe they remembered this feeling of helplessness, later, because they never turned anything on its back that couldn’t get up again (this mostly meant bugs in the garden at the old house, but sometimes people too).
As they grew up, they would learn their mother did not share the same philosophy.
When they were seven, the nanny, who they were disturbed to find out did not know Mary Poppins personally, let them watch The Parent Trap. They liked it because there were twins in it and they had red hair too. Plus it had real people, not just moving pictures which were for babies.
Mum wasn’t happy at all when they told her afterwards, even though it was a really good movie and didn’t have any sex or kissing, except at the end, but that was okay because you needed a kiss for the happy ending. But when they explained this to Mum she said “I see” even though there wasn’t anything to look at, and sounded mad but didn’t send them to their room.
The next day they had a new nanny, and Mum wouldn’t bring the old one back even though they cried and screamed and Cass ripped a page out of The Book.
The new nanny didn’t know Mary Poppins either.
After a week (they taped the page back into The Book with Mum’s help and she didn’t seem to be mad anymore), they decided to try again. Caroline only had to pretend-cry for five minutes before Mum said Alright, alright, I’ll watch it with you, just let me get my glasses.
She had already explained it to them, all about divorce and how she and Daddy still loved them and it wasn’t really going to be that different, just separate houses, and could they understand? But Caroline and Cass couldn’t, because there were problems like Pancakes (Daddy made them and did the syrup smile and did Mum know how?) and Bedtime (Daddy tucked them in and when he went down the stairs they all called Goodnight back and forth until he got to the bottom, and he had to say Goodnight last or else it was bad luck, but Mum never shouted and so how would they hear her?).
They were hoping that watching The Parent Trap might help Mum remember some of these things. Maybe she would even change her mind. So when it got to the end, Natasha Richardson crying while she kissed Dennis Quaid for the first-time-all-over-again, Cass said “Look, Mummy.” But Miranda was considering the page-six spread and she didn’t look.
Later, when they were upstairs and tucked in (and they still couldn’t hear Mum’s Goodnights, not after she got down past the sixth step) Caroline said, “Maybe it’s better this way.” And it might have been, because there were no more fights or Daddy yelling and Mum being really quiet. Then Cass said, “Wanna pierce ears?” and they almost did it, just like in the movie, but got caught when they went to get the needle. Mum didn’t yell. They wished that she would.
The next week, they had a new puppy to go with their new nanny.
They were eight and a half (and eight and a half and an hour forty five minutes) when Mum married Stephen. Their loyalties were divided because he wasn’t Daddy, but they got to be flower girls at the wedding and so they couldn’t completely hate him.
“Maybe just a bit, then,” said Caroline. “But not really, because of the cake.” (They had seen the wedding cake already, and it was layers and layers of icing flowers and froth.)
“The shoes,” Cass said. She meant them as a reason to hate Stephen. And they were - patent leather, round-toed and for babies. The girls wanted to walk down the aisle strewing flowers in platform double high heels, like models in The Book, but Mum said, no, you’ll trip, and Stephen said, aren’t they a little young.
“Okay, more than a bit,” Caroline agreed, and pulled at her drop-pearl earrings. (Mum had let them do that too, after the puppy.)
“A bit and a quarter,” said Cass, who had just finished reading the Big Book of Science and Math’s section on fractions. She wanted to be an astronaut, which Caroline thought was stupid because the suits were really ugly and hardly anyone took your picture.
“Whatever.”
Cass stuck out her tongue and then Mum was calling that it was nearly time to start. When the organ music began to play they didn’t trip, not all the long way down the aisle, but. The shoes were still ugly.
None of Mum’s assistants could ever tell them apart, even though it was really easy. Caroline had more freckles and she was (maybe) a bit fatter. Cass had a scar (from the incubator: she learned to roll over first). But that wasn’t really a problem; it was funny when people mixed them up, because it meant they were too dumb or lame to know any better. And the assistants always got so nervous - one time one of them cried.
No, the problem was that everyone, even people who could tell them apart like Grandma and Stephen and Mira the cook, always called them ‘the twins’. Like they were one thing and it didn’t matter about the scar or the freckles. Only Mum got it right; she said “Caroline” and “Cassidy” and “girls” and she knew.
Because they were separate. There were separate thoughts and separate ideas and separate colouring books. Caroline liked strawberries and Cass didn’t - she didn’t like the white middles, they didn’t taste like anything and it was like cheating. It meant the strawberry wasn’t really all berry, but berry and space.
These things were important. Mum knew and she only ever put strawberries on Caroline’s ice cream Sundays.
Once, Daddy mixed them up. They were nine. It was only a moment before he realized; he laughed and shook his finger at them, like they were somehow being naughty by having the same face twice. “But the freckles,” Cass whispered when he went to get more pizza.
“He just forgot,” said Caroline. “And you’re sunburned, besides.”
“It still isn’t-” But then Daddy came back with one cheese slice and one pepperoni (pepperoni made Cass sneeze and that was another difference, just as important as the scar and the freckles and the strawberries) and they stopped talking about it.
Later, after bedtime (Daddy’s Goodnights were loud enough, even from the kitchen), Caroline said, “No, it isn’t.”
At least once a week - twice if Mum got home from work on time - they all had to eat dinner. Together. As a family. And that was hard sometimes because Caroline and Cass still didn’t know quite what to do with Stephen. There were too many questions and nearly no answers.
Was it okay to let him do the Goodnights, or would Daddy mind? Did they have to listen to him? Could they walk around in pyjamas when he was home, or did they have to get dressed? When Mum was mad at him should they be mad too? Could he make pancakes?
Stephen didn’t seem to know what to do either. He still used a syrup-voice when he talked to them, all chirpy and high-pitched. It was a voice for babies and Patricia. They couldn’t think of a polite way to tell him this, and so mostly they just shut their ears and nodded along.
“Girls,” he would say, “how was school?” He said it like it was rehearsed, something he knew he should be asking but wasn’t really sure why, a phrase in another language - the pronunciation was right but there was no meaning behind it.
The twins would have a silent telepathic argument, the loser of which, it was understood, would have to answer the question. Cass lost more often than Caroline, mostly because she couldn’t raise her eyebrows as high.
“Alright,” they would say, or “Fine.” And Stephen would nod and say Good, good, and Mum would sit quietly by, cutting up her meat.
Patricia and Cass had a special understanding. Between them was a longstanding tradition of staring contests, an epic battle of wills extending back to when Patricia was just a puppy. Cass would stretch out on the ground alongside Patricia and look into her big brown doggie eyes and Patricia would look right back. Their longest time so far was twenty-six minutes (Patricia lost - she looked away at her food dish, which was the same thing as blinking so Caroline could shut up). There was a running tally up along the inside of one of the kitchen cabinets, down where Mum would never, ever see. Patricia was woefully behind - she was easily distracted, more often than not by her own tail.
This was what Cass was doing the night they met Mum’s newest assistant. She and Patricia were locked in silent battle on the landing outside the girls’ bedroom while Mum and Stephan fought one flight below, bits and pieces of their argument floating up the stairs like angry soap bubbles. Stephan’s I don’t think you understand’s and You never listen to my side’s were threatening to break Patricia’s concentration; her ears kept perking up.
“Winning?” asked Caroline from the bedroom. She was sucking in her stomach for the mirror, pyjamas hiked up. She was on a diet of her own invention that didn’t let her eat muffins or eggs except on Fridays (and also sometimes on Tuesdays, because it was hard to make it through the whole week). It might’ve been working, but she needed Cass to stand beside her to check.
“Just about,” said Cass as Patricia’s ears swivelled wildly.
“Meant downstairs.”
“Oh.” Cass listened. “Can’t tell; she’s being too quiet.”
“Bad?”
“Maybe.” Cass narrowed her eyes as Patricia snuffled softly. “He’s mad about work again.”
“Duh. I mean,” Caroline dropped her pyjama top and turned, “I mean, is it like how it used to be, with Dad-”
The downstairs door opened and Patricia lost spectacularly as she skittered away into the playroom. “Scaredy-cat,” murmured Cass. Stilettos clacked across the entryway and then paused. Too long.
“New girl,” whispered Caroline, and they were against the railing in a second.
It was almost no fun; she actually asked them what to do. Afterwards, lying in bed, Cass said “Maybe we shouldn’t’ve-” and Caroline said “Probably not.”
Together, they had a special way of reading books. Caroline would read the first half and Cass would read the second and then each would summarize her section for the other. For Cass, The Secret Garden would always, until they very end of her days, start with “So there was this girl, Mary, and she was really ugly, like, really ugly, and when her parents died everyone forgot about her… And d’you remember that rhyme, Mary, Mary, quite contrary…” And The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe began “There was a magic wardrobe and inside it was a lamppost- Okay, wait, let me start over. Okay. So, there were four children, and their names were…”
Cass was pretty sure Caroline didn’t change any of the beginnings. They always fit, plot points matching and loose ends tying up with pretty bows. But Cass didn’t need her endings to match with anything and so sometimes she just… moved things around.
The first time was The Little Mermaid. They were seven, and Caroline was looking at her impatiently, wanting to know what happened to the mermaid after her tongue was cut out (cut out, not just her voice taken away like in the movie, but cut out), and Cass couldn’t bring herself to tell the truth. Instead she had changed it so the mermaid married the prince on a beach filled with singing seashells, and everyone in the kingdom from abstained from eating fish then on, the end. And then they read Charlotte’s Web, and Cass had just had to make it so Charlotte and Wilbur lived out their final days together in the barn. And after that came Bridge to Terabithia…
It had spiralled on from there. It became like a job: Cass would read all the sad endings so that Caroline didn’t have to, then change them so they were brighter, prettier, softer around the edges. If Caroline knew, she never said anything.
Harry Potter was one of the only book series that they each read individually, mostly because it was hard to remember all the plot points. They were extremely excited to receive the unpublished manuscripts for obvious reasons, but also because it meant that a one Andrea Sachs was still gainfully employed.
The train pulled into the station next to Grandma’s house just as Cass finished reading the part about Fred’s death. Cass sighed. She would have changed that for sure.
Part the Second.
Part the Third.
The result - fic!
Summary: Caroline was born first. [Caroline and Cassidy, Miranda/Andy]
Word Count: 5 000+
Disclaimer: Nu-uh.
AN: Anyone who gets the title reference wins mad props and cyber cookies. And if no one can, well then… that just confirms my suspicion that my elementary school education was very, very weird.
1 + 1 = W i n d o w
[1 of 3]
Caroline was born first, an hour and forty-five minutes first, at six o’clock. That meant she was born an hour and forty-five minutes and two-months too early. Daddy still always said that she had come “Just in time for dinner,” like it had been normal and perfect instead of frantic and worried, nurses in and out of the hospital room. He only ever said it about Caroline because Cass was born after seven, too late for supper (even though sometimes, afterwards, without Daddy, they ate after seven and once after nine).
The way he told the story, it sounded like when Caroline popped out he and Mum had had just enough time to eat a steak by candlelight before Cass came along. Caroline had always imagined the scene like this: their mother rocking both of them to sleep, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. Of course, that isn’t anywhere near the truth.
When she first came out, Caroline had experienced a moment of indecision and refused to breathe for four whole minutes. “Wasn’t sure if we were good enough,” said Daddy, and Caroline liked that idea - her baby-self holding her breath, deciding.
Cass breathed right away, probably because she was already late. Cass always did everything fastfastfast. But it didn’t matter because they were too small anyways; Mummy and Daddy couldn’t take them home. Instead they spent their first month in an incubator, on their backs beside each other like upturned beetles. And maybe they remembered this feeling of helplessness, later, because they never turned anything on its back that couldn’t get up again (this mostly meant bugs in the garden at the old house, but sometimes people too).
As they grew up, they would learn their mother did not share the same philosophy.
When they were seven, the nanny, who they were disturbed to find out did not know Mary Poppins personally, let them watch The Parent Trap. They liked it because there were twins in it and they had red hair too. Plus it had real people, not just moving pictures which were for babies.
Mum wasn’t happy at all when they told her afterwards, even though it was a really good movie and didn’t have any sex or kissing, except at the end, but that was okay because you needed a kiss for the happy ending. But when they explained this to Mum she said “I see” even though there wasn’t anything to look at, and sounded mad but didn’t send them to their room.
The next day they had a new nanny, and Mum wouldn’t bring the old one back even though they cried and screamed and Cass ripped a page out of The Book.
The new nanny didn’t know Mary Poppins either.
After a week (they taped the page back into The Book with Mum’s help and she didn’t seem to be mad anymore), they decided to try again. Caroline only had to pretend-cry for five minutes before Mum said Alright, alright, I’ll watch it with you, just let me get my glasses.
She had already explained it to them, all about divorce and how she and Daddy still loved them and it wasn’t really going to be that different, just separate houses, and could they understand? But Caroline and Cass couldn’t, because there were problems like Pancakes (Daddy made them and did the syrup smile and did Mum know how?) and Bedtime (Daddy tucked them in and when he went down the stairs they all called Goodnight back and forth until he got to the bottom, and he had to say Goodnight last or else it was bad luck, but Mum never shouted and so how would they hear her?).
They were hoping that watching The Parent Trap might help Mum remember some of these things. Maybe she would even change her mind. So when it got to the end, Natasha Richardson crying while she kissed Dennis Quaid for the first-time-all-over-again, Cass said “Look, Mummy.” But Miranda was considering the page-six spread and she didn’t look.
Later, when they were upstairs and tucked in (and they still couldn’t hear Mum’s Goodnights, not after she got down past the sixth step) Caroline said, “Maybe it’s better this way.” And it might have been, because there were no more fights or Daddy yelling and Mum being really quiet. Then Cass said, “Wanna pierce ears?” and they almost did it, just like in the movie, but got caught when they went to get the needle. Mum didn’t yell. They wished that she would.
The next week, they had a new puppy to go with their new nanny.
They were eight and a half (and eight and a half and an hour forty five minutes) when Mum married Stephen. Their loyalties were divided because he wasn’t Daddy, but they got to be flower girls at the wedding and so they couldn’t completely hate him.
“Maybe just a bit, then,” said Caroline. “But not really, because of the cake.” (They had seen the wedding cake already, and it was layers and layers of icing flowers and froth.)
“The shoes,” Cass said. She meant them as a reason to hate Stephen. And they were - patent leather, round-toed and for babies. The girls wanted to walk down the aisle strewing flowers in platform double high heels, like models in The Book, but Mum said, no, you’ll trip, and Stephen said, aren’t they a little young.
“Okay, more than a bit,” Caroline agreed, and pulled at her drop-pearl earrings. (Mum had let them do that too, after the puppy.)
“A bit and a quarter,” said Cass, who had just finished reading the Big Book of Science and Math’s section on fractions. She wanted to be an astronaut, which Caroline thought was stupid because the suits were really ugly and hardly anyone took your picture.
“Whatever.”
Cass stuck out her tongue and then Mum was calling that it was nearly time to start. When the organ music began to play they didn’t trip, not all the long way down the aisle, but. The shoes were still ugly.
None of Mum’s assistants could ever tell them apart, even though it was really easy. Caroline had more freckles and she was (maybe) a bit fatter. Cass had a scar (from the incubator: she learned to roll over first). But that wasn’t really a problem; it was funny when people mixed them up, because it meant they were too dumb or lame to know any better. And the assistants always got so nervous - one time one of them cried.
No, the problem was that everyone, even people who could tell them apart like Grandma and Stephen and Mira the cook, always called them ‘the twins’. Like they were one thing and it didn’t matter about the scar or the freckles. Only Mum got it right; she said “Caroline” and “Cassidy” and “girls” and she knew.
Because they were separate. There were separate thoughts and separate ideas and separate colouring books. Caroline liked strawberries and Cass didn’t - she didn’t like the white middles, they didn’t taste like anything and it was like cheating. It meant the strawberry wasn’t really all berry, but berry and space.
These things were important. Mum knew and she only ever put strawberries on Caroline’s ice cream Sundays.
Once, Daddy mixed them up. They were nine. It was only a moment before he realized; he laughed and shook his finger at them, like they were somehow being naughty by having the same face twice. “But the freckles,” Cass whispered when he went to get more pizza.
“He just forgot,” said Caroline. “And you’re sunburned, besides.”
“It still isn’t-” But then Daddy came back with one cheese slice and one pepperoni (pepperoni made Cass sneeze and that was another difference, just as important as the scar and the freckles and the strawberries) and they stopped talking about it.
Later, after bedtime (Daddy’s Goodnights were loud enough, even from the kitchen), Caroline said, “No, it isn’t.”
At least once a week - twice if Mum got home from work on time - they all had to eat dinner. Together. As a family. And that was hard sometimes because Caroline and Cass still didn’t know quite what to do with Stephen. There were too many questions and nearly no answers.
Was it okay to let him do the Goodnights, or would Daddy mind? Did they have to listen to him? Could they walk around in pyjamas when he was home, or did they have to get dressed? When Mum was mad at him should they be mad too? Could he make pancakes?
Stephen didn’t seem to know what to do either. He still used a syrup-voice when he talked to them, all chirpy and high-pitched. It was a voice for babies and Patricia. They couldn’t think of a polite way to tell him this, and so mostly they just shut their ears and nodded along.
“Girls,” he would say, “how was school?” He said it like it was rehearsed, something he knew he should be asking but wasn’t really sure why, a phrase in another language - the pronunciation was right but there was no meaning behind it.
The twins would have a silent telepathic argument, the loser of which, it was understood, would have to answer the question. Cass lost more often than Caroline, mostly because she couldn’t raise her eyebrows as high.
“Alright,” they would say, or “Fine.” And Stephen would nod and say Good, good, and Mum would sit quietly by, cutting up her meat.
Patricia and Cass had a special understanding. Between them was a longstanding tradition of staring contests, an epic battle of wills extending back to when Patricia was just a puppy. Cass would stretch out on the ground alongside Patricia and look into her big brown doggie eyes and Patricia would look right back. Their longest time so far was twenty-six minutes (Patricia lost - she looked away at her food dish, which was the same thing as blinking so Caroline could shut up). There was a running tally up along the inside of one of the kitchen cabinets, down where Mum would never, ever see. Patricia was woefully behind - she was easily distracted, more often than not by her own tail.
This was what Cass was doing the night they met Mum’s newest assistant. She and Patricia were locked in silent battle on the landing outside the girls’ bedroom while Mum and Stephan fought one flight below, bits and pieces of their argument floating up the stairs like angry soap bubbles. Stephan’s I don’t think you understand’s and You never listen to my side’s were threatening to break Patricia’s concentration; her ears kept perking up.
“Winning?” asked Caroline from the bedroom. She was sucking in her stomach for the mirror, pyjamas hiked up. She was on a diet of her own invention that didn’t let her eat muffins or eggs except on Fridays (and also sometimes on Tuesdays, because it was hard to make it through the whole week). It might’ve been working, but she needed Cass to stand beside her to check.
“Just about,” said Cass as Patricia’s ears swivelled wildly.
“Meant downstairs.”
“Oh.” Cass listened. “Can’t tell; she’s being too quiet.”
“Bad?”
“Maybe.” Cass narrowed her eyes as Patricia snuffled softly. “He’s mad about work again.”
“Duh. I mean,” Caroline dropped her pyjama top and turned, “I mean, is it like how it used to be, with Dad-”
The downstairs door opened and Patricia lost spectacularly as she skittered away into the playroom. “Scaredy-cat,” murmured Cass. Stilettos clacked across the entryway and then paused. Too long.
“New girl,” whispered Caroline, and they were against the railing in a second.
It was almost no fun; she actually asked them what to do. Afterwards, lying in bed, Cass said “Maybe we shouldn’t’ve-” and Caroline said “Probably not.”
Together, they had a special way of reading books. Caroline would read the first half and Cass would read the second and then each would summarize her section for the other. For Cass, The Secret Garden would always, until they very end of her days, start with “So there was this girl, Mary, and she was really ugly, like, really ugly, and when her parents died everyone forgot about her… And d’you remember that rhyme, Mary, Mary, quite contrary…” And The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe began “There was a magic wardrobe and inside it was a lamppost- Okay, wait, let me start over. Okay. So, there were four children, and their names were…”
Cass was pretty sure Caroline didn’t change any of the beginnings. They always fit, plot points matching and loose ends tying up with pretty bows. But Cass didn’t need her endings to match with anything and so sometimes she just… moved things around.
The first time was The Little Mermaid. They were seven, and Caroline was looking at her impatiently, wanting to know what happened to the mermaid after her tongue was cut out (cut out, not just her voice taken away like in the movie, but cut out), and Cass couldn’t bring herself to tell the truth. Instead she had changed it so the mermaid married the prince on a beach filled with singing seashells, and everyone in the kingdom from abstained from eating fish then on, the end. And then they read Charlotte’s Web, and Cass had just had to make it so Charlotte and Wilbur lived out their final days together in the barn. And after that came Bridge to Terabithia…
It had spiralled on from there. It became like a job: Cass would read all the sad endings so that Caroline didn’t have to, then change them so they were brighter, prettier, softer around the edges. If Caroline knew, she never said anything.
Harry Potter was one of the only book series that they each read individually, mostly because it was hard to remember all the plot points. They were extremely excited to receive the unpublished manuscripts for obvious reasons, but also because it meant that a one Andrea Sachs was still gainfully employed.
The train pulled into the station next to Grandma’s house just as Cass finished reading the part about Fred’s death. Cass sighed. She would have changed that for sure.
Part the Second.
Part the Third.