New fic: Keeping Christmas, PG-13, Miranda/Andy, Part I
Title: Keeping Christmas
Author: chilly_flame
Rating: PG-13 for the occasional curse
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything related to the Devil or Prada, alas. I don’t own “A Christmas Carol” either, which is even sadder.
Notes: Many thanks to politic_x for the firm nudge in the direction of this prompt, although it took about ten days longer to finish than I’d hoped. Also, huge thanks to Xander, who guided me through a journey that was far more challenging than I anticipated.
The prompt: Miranda/Andy - A Christmas Carol take off, girlie_girl_23. Hope it’s something you like!
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“I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!"
Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
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Part I.
The office is silent. Outside, snow falls even as the sun tries to break through the clouds.
“Miranda, are you sure you want to--”
Miranda looks up at Nigel, and his face freezes before her eyes. Any softness in his expression vanishes, starting with the half smile he’d worn only seconds before. The chill extends north centimeter by centimeter, until he’s gazing at her with blank features.
“Okay, then.” Nigel turns and strides out of the room.
Miranda opens her mouth briefly before she shakes her head. What Nigel thinks, or what he says outside this office, doesn’t matter. The magazine needs work, and it can’t wait, no matter what bloody day it is. She spots the open calendar at the left corner of the desk, noting the date circled: December 24th.
Today.
No one gets today off, and no one gets out early. Miranda has been very clear with her staff: it’s not only a full workday, but it’s also likely to be a late night. Tomorrow she has to accept as a lost cause, though she had tried to convince the HR department otherwise. She’s been soft enough on her staff, allowing them to come in at 9:00 instead of 8:00 today. Besides, a fair number of her staff are the absolute opposite of Christian, therefore it shouldn’t matter that Miranda wants them to work on Christmas Day. But her efforts were in vain, and her staff will be home tomorrow, lazing about, overeating and doing god knows what, while Miranda plans to work a full day at home.
“Andrea,” Miranda says, and she listens as her first assistant scurries into the office, instantly at attention. Miranda doesn’t look up, instead flipping through the storyboards of this disaster of a layout. “I expect you to be in the office until I’m ready to leave. Is that clear?”
“Of course, Miranda,” she breathes. Her tone is one of concern, which causes Miranda to finally lift her head. “Is everything all right?”
That sets off warning bells. “Of course. What could possibly be wrong?”
Andrea glances over her shoulder, as if checking to see if anyone is within earshot. “I just know that,” she lowers her voice, “the girls were supposed to be home, waiting for you. For Christmas. They’ve been looking forward--”
“Everything is fine,” Miranda says coldly, although everything isn’t. Just yesterday the girls declared they were leaving two days early to see their father, and that nothing Miranda did would stop them, including calling the police. They were clear that they’re sick and tired of never seeing her, and wondered why she always insists on having them stay with her when she’s never home anyway. Lastly, they said that their dad has agreed to take them both for the entire summer, and that he’s already talking to his lawyer about getting the custody agreement amended.
Andrea stares, her brown eyes wide and filled with an intense sympathy that Miranda absolutely cannot abide. It makes her blood boil, even though Andrea deserves none of her ire. Of all her employees, Andrea is the only one who gives her all one hundred percent of the time. The fact that she’s brilliant, and beautiful, and attentive, has not escaped Miranda either, although she’s paid (not very handsomely) to be attentive, so it doesn’t matter.
Miranda inhales. “Is there a reason you are still standing here? Don’t you have enough to do that you have to gawk like an idiot?”
Andrea’s eyes shine; there are tears, and she watches the pale column of Andrea’s throat as it works. “No, Miranda.” She turns and leaves, and Miranda hardens her mouth into a straight line.
A few hours later, Miranda has fired two people for asking to go home. Another has quit, throwing a pile of papers at her before departing without gathering his things from his desk. After that, no one comes to her office, or even passes by unless summoned. Miranda likes it this way. She works in silence, fixing everything that is wrong, wrong, wrong with this decrepit issue.
She glances at the telephone. She is tempted to call her daughters, but she tells herself they don’t deserve her time. Not after they’ve abandoned her.
“Miranda?”
Miranda jumps. Andrea is standing right in front of her, that stupid, sad expression still on her face. “Sorry I scared you. But it’s nearly seven. Can I order something for you to eat? I know a few others are getting a meal too--”
“Not on the company,” Miranda says.
“No, not on the company,” Andrea replies slowly. “I’d be happy to bring something in--”
“I’m not hungry. If you need to eat, the cafeteria downstairs should still be open.”
Andrea sighs. “It’s not, but that’s beside the point. You should really eat--”
Miranda stops her cold, lowering her voice to frigid levels. “I don’t know what’s going on, what with my underlings telling me what to do, all day long. Can you explain why that is, Andrea? Please, I’d really like to know.”
There’s a pause, until Andrea opens her mouth. “I’m worried about you, Miranda.”
Miranda raises an eyebrow. Andrea has never said anything even remotely like this to her before, and it’s disturbing. “Well, don’t.”
“I can’t help it. I see you’re hurting, but I don’t know what’s happening, and you haven’t eaten all day, and we both know what you get like when you don’t eat--” Andrea stops babbling for a moment at Miranda’s little gasp, then she goes on, louder this time. “Oh, come on, your brain turns to mush, which explains why you’ve been on a rampage!”
On any other day, Miranda would have laughed. Today, she ponders whether or not to fire Andrea for insubordination.
“I know you’re thinking about firing me, but please, Miranda, I care about you-your health, your happiness, everything. You’ll laugh at me but I consider you a friend, even if I’m nothing at all to you.” Now the tears are back in those giant brown eyes, eyes that could swallow Miranda whole if she’d let them. “It’s horrible to watch you suffer like this. We all care, everyone in this office, and when you--”
“Go home,” Miranda says flatly.
That takes the wind out of Andrea’s sails. She sags. “Am I fired?”
“No. I said go home. My mental health is none of your concern. And send everyone else out as well. I’m certain no one’s getting anything accomplished anyway, so I might as well save on overtime.” Miranda blinks, and waits for Andrea to react. When she doesn’t, Miranda repeats, “Get out.”
Andrea swallows. “Oh-okay,” she finally breathes. “Merry Christmas, Miranda.”
Miranda waves a hand and looks down at the Book. Humbug, she thinks.
She doesn’t notice when Andrea leaves, or anyone else. Nigel neglects to stop in and say goodnight, as he usually does. But soon, she can tell the place is empty, just from the feeling in the air. Peace. Quiet. Calm. She is alone, and it’s better this way. It always has been, and tonight will be no different.
She goes back to work.
---
“What?” Miranda says, lifting her head off the desk. She looks around; the desk lamp is on, but other than that, the office and hallway is entirely dark. That’s not normal, but perhaps there is a blown fuse, or the maintenance workers shut off the lights early.
She glances at the clock-it’s just midnight. At some point she must have dozed off. It doesn’t matter, since she has nowhere to be. Only an empty house awaits her. Perhaps she should just stay the night here.
There’s an odd sound, like something dragging on the marble floor. It makes her wonder if the maintenance crew is still here. She frowns but ignores it, until the sound grows so loud she can’t any longer.
Standing in the door to her office is someone she hasn’t seen in almost twenty years.
Stan Elias.
Stan has been dead since 1989, the year Miranda took the reins of Runway. He promoted her to the position she currently holds, and he worked harder than anyone she’d ever met in her life.
She remembers the day he dropped dead of a heart attack in his office at age 62. Miranda mourned him briefly, appreciating that he’d taken such a chance on a 32-year-old upstart with no experience running a magazine. She had plenty of fashion experience, of course, after ten years moving up the ladder, but other than her trademark dedication and flawless style, there was nothing particularly special about her. But Stan saw something-perhaps it was her unquestioning belief that she would one day rule the fashion world-that made him take a chance. He was not disappointed, and Miranda always hoped that the stress around her hiring hadn’t contributed to his early death.
Not that he’d been very nice to her. He was no surrogate father. In fact, he was terrifying. But Miranda had never minded being afraid of people; she simply acted as if she could do anything. And 99% of the time, she succeeded.
All of these things flash through her brain as she stares at the strange vision of Stan Elias, his skin gray and wrinkled far more than it had been in life. Which makes no sense, since of course he is dead, and there’s no way he is here now, tonight, in Miranda’s office.
“Hello, Miranda,” Stan says, and his voice sends a shock of recognition through Miranda. It is him, except there’s something wrong with his clothes- “You don’t believe in me, do you,” he says.
She gasps a little. He’s read her thoughts. “I must be asleep.”
He laughs then, and it’s a sound she’s never heard before. Not a bad sound, but it raises the hair on the back of her neck. “You’re not asleep,” he says, moving closer. His trousers are torn, shredded really, and as he shuffles forward she realizes there are wires wrapped all around his body, binding his neck, arms and legs. He has very little range of motion, which is why it’s taking so long for him to reach her desk. “You must notice that I wear the chains I forged in life.” He chuckles softly, ruefully. “I spent every day of my last thirty years at work. I never took a single vacation day, or weekend day for that matter, without making a phone call. Now, and always, I pay for my ignorance.” He pauses and strokes his chin in a frightening, familiar manner. “You, too, will wear chains of your own making. You already do. It is Christmas Eve, and here you are, alone. Can you not feel the weight of them bearing down on you?”
Miranda laughs, but any pleasure is absent from the sound. Instead she recognizes her own fear, but believes if she ignores this spectre-
“You will soon be visited by three spirits,” Stan tells her, and at this, Miranda relaxes. She feels utter, immense relief.
“Oh really,” she sighs, leaning back in her chair. “Three ghosts. Christmas past, present and future, right?” She grins, staring at the ceiling, dismissing Stan. “I really am asleep.”
Stan leans forward, straining against his bindings. “This is your last chance and hope, Miranda Priestly. I have watched you for many years as you have pulled away from the road you were meant to travel. Only a single soul who knows you has prayed for your return to the true path. It is because of this individual that I am here. Because you are worthy of a second chance, but you must seize it now! Take what I offer, Miranda, or you will be sorry.”
She lowers her chin, and gazes into Stan’s gray, dead eyes. “Shall I expect the first spirit as the clock strikes one?”
Stan’s face fills with pity. He nods. “You will see me no more. But Miranda, heed my call. You are bound for--”
“Yes, yes,” Miranda says, waving a hand. “You’re dismissed, Jacob Marley. I look forward to waking tomorrow with a very, very funny story to tell my children. They just watched that silly Bill Murray movie last week.” When Stan doesn’t move, Miranda says, “That’s all.”
Stan tilts his head as if stretching, then his whole body rises from the floor and floats. Miranda can’t help but be astonished as he moves toward the window, drifting through it without a sound.
Again, the sensation of terror strikes her; she is covered in gooseflesh. She feels very much awake, which is the most troubling thing of all. She pinches herself so hard that she leaves two sharp slices in her arm that fill with shallow lines of blood. This doesn’t do a single thing to bring Miranda out of whatever fugue state she must be in.
After a few minutes of waiting for something to happen, she leans back in her chair and shuts her eyes. Almost against her will, she falls asleep.
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Part II.