New fic: Unfinished
Unfinished
Rating: PG
Pairing: Andy/Miranda
Disclaimer: They’re owned by Fox and Lauren Weisberger. Lucky bastards.
Notes: Here’s a pre-Secret-Santa-exchange offering unrelated to the holidays. Started out as quite a different concept but I was appropriately talked into shifting things around a bit so as not to be glum. You can all thank Xander, who also assisted with the title. Sondheim can be so helpful at times like these!
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Nigel sat down in the Henry Miller Aeron that Miranda favored at home. Some days he wondered if she spent more time working here than she did at the office.
Looking at the evidence scattered around him, it was probably true. He shook his head.
He felt hollow, jittery. Too much coffee and too little sleep over the last 36 hours left him exhausted, and he was only just getting started. The girls were at the hospital, waiting with their father for news, good or bad. But though Miranda lay in a bed hooked up to wires and drips and god knew what else, life went on. Runway went on too, even if it seemed like the pulse of the magazine had paused the moment Miranda dropped to her knees in the hall on Wednesday.
It was a heart attack. She was healthy, fit, ate well and did everything right. Except sleep or relax. Stress, the doctor suggested, and family history. Had Ms. Priestly taken a vacation recently? Nigel winced when he answered in the negative. When Miranda went on vacation, she worked. It was simple. Her life was Runway, and everything else came second, including herself.
She was paying for that now.
To his shock, seeing Miranda in the hospital bed was the most jarring, terrifying thing Nigel ever experienced. Though both his parents were in good health, he’d seen grandparents pass away. That said, they were old. And they looked old all the time, so when his Pop got sick and spent a month getting sicker at Bellvue two Christmases ago, it wasn’t so strange. It was sad, and painful, and when Pop died, it was all right. A relief even.
But Miranda, who seemed to rule the world, was much smaller, and paler, and more fragile than he could have believed. In the bed, she was… deflated. Defeated. She looked her age, though well-preserved and unaltered by plastic surgery. Her skin was gently lined yet pristine, and more like porcelain than ever.
He wondered if she dreamed of coffee. Or the magazine. Or her children. Or of another life, one she wished she had.
He realized as much as Miranda drove him crazy and made his life difficult, he cared very much about her. The thought of life without her made his chest ache. He prayed that she would live. He might be one of the few in the city doing so tonight.
No matter. He had work to do. Somewhere in this pile of papers were the notes on the Austin shoot, and he had to find them. If this was one of the last issues of Runway that Miranda would touch, it would reflect her every wish.
He started in the left corner of the desk, flipping through pages and folders carefully. By the time he got halfway through, he hadn’t had any luck. A red folder caught his eye and he slid it out from under the stapler; it looked well-thumbed and worn. Maybe this was it?
When he opened it, he stared at the page on top and wondered exactly what he’d found.
Something he shouldn’t be seeing, certainly.
Of course, he knew what it was. He recognized sketches as well as the next person. But he thought Miranda didn’t put pencil to paper anymore; she almost never discussed the fact that she’d once been a dedicated art student. He knew that detail because after twenty years, one learned things about one’s boss that others were not privy to. She’d been a talented artist, and still was; now and then she’d sketch a favorite from a designer’s collection, and Nigel would marvel at her quick skill.
Those sketches were doodles. This, she’d spent time on, assuming it was Miranda’s work. But there, in the corner, was evidence enough--handwritten notes about the Japanese fashion spread put together not three weeks prior. She must have jotted them down as she’d drawn this image of a woman’s neck, and hair, and shoulder peeking out from under a bed sheet. The hair was dark, the face hidden, but it was an elegant shoulder, drawn with affection and care. It was intimate, and beautiful.
Underneath that drawing was another of the same woman sitting at a windowsill looking out through the glass. Her hair fell in waves down her back, and it was as if she was waiting for something. Or someone. But one section was bare, and Nigel wondered what had prevented Miranda from completing the picture.
The third drawing made Nigel's jaw drop, because he did not believe what he was seeing.
The very pretty face of Andrea Sachs stared up at him, smiling gently, with love in her eyes.
The image was unmistakable. And it made no sense at all.
He hadn't heard from Andy in ages, though they'd kept in touch a little bit after she started at The Mirror. He had no idea what she was doing now, or if she was even still in town.
But Miranda was drawing sketches of her. Romantic, graceful sketches that spoke of hidden desire. But was it mutual? Was this a one-sided fancy or were they… involved?
At that moment, the Austin shoot seemed entirely inconsequential.
Part II.