Somewhere In The Crowd: Part 4
-Somwhere in the Crowd-
A Secret Valentine for i_heart_cuddy
Rating: R
Pairing: Miranda/ Donna
Summary: A triple threat crossover, featuring our lovely Miranda, the seductive Donna, and the killer blackout from Flash Forward
Disclaimer: I don’t own the movie or the book or any of the characters, most depressingly, Miranda is not mine. I play in the Runway universe, and sometimes it is kind to my fantasies
A/N: Blah. This part is a little shorter than the others, but if it'd continued past this point, the chapter would have been a MONSTER. Rather than keep you who read it waiting, I decided short was sweet.
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 1
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 2
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 3
Elias-Clarke Building, November 6th, 7:15:46
Caffeine, Miranda complained silently, fingers kneading her temples. I need caffeine.
It had only been one week since Runway- as much as was possible, given the circumstances- resumed it’s usual business. The November issue had barely made the stands, and the pitifully thin edition was a testament to just how slowly the city of New York was lurching towards recovery. Now, with only three weeks until the December issue was due to go to print, the editor in chief was wildly scrambling to return her magazine to it’s previous standard of excellence. She was uneasy, and frustrated; Miranda Priestly did not scramble.
The editor gazed distractedly at the proofs littering the usually pristine surface of her sleek, glass desktop. Lacombe’s work was quality, the photo’s evocative; but they had lost weeks of work, and given the current climate of the city, Miranda found that the work she now had at her fingertips was off; the tone was off.
She sighed, exhaling through her nose, and removed her glasses to wipe distractedly at the lenses, which weren’t actually dirty. Her ire with the photography situation deepening, she swiped the proofs into a messy pile beside the vase of fresh, sweetly scented calla lilies, and slouched gracefully into her high backed leather office chair; if she didn’t have a latte in her hand within the next five minutes, she mused, she might, quite dramatically, slip into a caffeine-withdrawal induced coma. Whoever Nigel had approved as her replacement assistant was certainly taking her sweet fucking time.
As if summoned by Miranda’s growing dissatisfaction- which had reached critical- a lanky brunette traipsed into the office, coffee’s in hand, blowing hair out of her face as she sped towards the editor with the beverage that would possibly spare her measly life.
Miranda stared. This wasn’t happening.
“Hi Miranda,” Andy offered quickly, and frazzled, set the latte on the desk.
The editor stared at it as though the take-out cup had suddenly morphed arms and legs and had begun doing the Charleston on her desk; she then looked at Andy in much the same fashion. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Andy frowned. “You were expecting someone else, I take it?” Miranda continued to stare at her as if a horn was growing out of the journalist’s forehead. “Nigel didn’t tell you.”
The editor found her voice. “Obviously.”
The young woman’s heart fell at the chill in her former employer’s tone. Hell- she hadn’t been expecting Miranda to fall all over herself; conversely, she hadn’t expected the object of her misplaced affections to be so pissed, either. Although, ’pissed’ was generally Miranda’s default.
“Nigel figured it would be okay,” Andy offered, beginning to feel intensely stupid. “But if you don’t want me here, I can-
Miranda cut off the intended guilt trip. “What happened to your job at the Mirror?”
Andy chewed her lip. I just wanted to be near you. “I wanted to help you out. It’s only temporary, right?”
The older woman grabbed her latte; her desperation for caffeine having increased tenfold at the sight of it’s deliverer. “You didn’t answer my question.”
The journalist riled. “Should I have to? I’m available, I’m here, and if that’s a prob-
“Andrea,” Miranda warned. “If you are attempting to endear me to the prospect of your reinstated employment within this magazine, I suggest that you modify your tone.”
Honestly, who did the girl think she was- showing up here, telling her off for asking a simple question; a question she certainly had a right to ask, given the fact that Miranda had most likely gotten her the job in the first place; giving her a recommendation instead of black-listing her in New York’s publishing sphere.
Andy dialled it back a notch. “Look,” she began quietly. “I’m taking a hiatus from the Mirror. Writing has been difficult- well, impossible, really- and I just wanted something familiar. Something I know I can do well. And, like I said, I wanted to help you out.”
Miranda sighed. When she had said she wanted to be there for the young woman, she had not envisioned the young woman interpreting that it somehow meant Miranda wanted her to be here. Yet, once more, the editor found herself succumbing to a compassionate, if somewhat unrealistic, compulsion to give Any a break.
God, she was really going soft. Maybe it was time for her to start thinking about retirement.
The journalist was cringing at the myriad of unpleasant expressions parading across the older woman’s face.
Then again, she smirked, maybe not.
“Get Lacombe on the phone, make sure she’s ready to start re-shooting the spread for the December issue. Then get me Patrick, for reasons unbeknownst to me, Demarchelier has decided his line isn’t ready for preview next week, so god knows it’s been left to me to stroke his already over inflated ego. That’s all.”
Andrea blinked, nodded once, and turned inexpertly in her reinstated Jimmy Choos, smiling as she hurried back to her desk.
Everyone seemed to be talking about the possibility of ‘changing the future’, ever since that FBI agent had thrown himself from the height of the bureau’s Los Angeles’ office roof in his -possibly misguided- attempt to spare the life of an innocent woman he’d not even met yet-
And for a terrifying moment, Andy had wondered if by back-talking La Priestly, she’d managed to do the same; a different kind of death; career suicide. But, it seemed to Andy as she sat behind the familiar desk, the fates were locked in her particular case.
Andrea sat comfortably, making the requisite calls and connections, but came to a full stop mid-conversation with Brigitte Lacombe when the chairman himself entered the main office of Runway and strode purposefully past the assistant’s desk into Miranda’s inner sanctum; without pause, without introduction. He closed the door behind him.
“Good morning Miranda.” His tone was jovial which, more often than not, meant he was about to make things difficult.
“Irv,” Miranda offered curtly, sliding her glasses down her nose for the sole purpose of glaring at the little egomaniac over the rims.
He smiled benignly. “I have a favour to ask of you.”
A favour? Irv Ravitz didn’t ask favours. He commanded- at least, he tried to. More often than not his impotently executed directives were side-stepped, reformatted, or all out ignored; most especially by Miranda Priestly.
The editor in chief allowed a gracefully sculpted eyebrow to ascend towards the swooping silver forelock. “And that is?”
Irv sat, his pompous ass the first in years to acquaint itself to one of the two ill-used chairs flanking the business end of La Priestly’s long, slim desk. The little toad continued to smile, and Miranda had to quite forcibly resist rolling her eyes, settling instead for a sip of the quickly cooling latte; already half-way to tepid.
“How long has it been since Runway hosted a benefit?”
Miranda frowned. “The first of October,” she recounted quickly. “We hosted the breast cancer awareness benefit at the Guggenheim. Is there a point to this?”
Irv inspected the garish onyx ring adorning his left ring finger. “The board of Elias-Clark would like to organize a benefit for victims of the blackout. And,” he looked at her pointedly, “as the editor in chief of EC’s flagship publication, I want you to plan and host the event.” He paused, almost sure he’d seen the woman across from him sink a little further into her chair under the weight of the added responsibility. “You’ve got class, Miranda. It’s legendary. You need to do this thing.”
Miranda had indeed wilted slightly, the added burden of a benefit, coupled with her harried race to improve the falling quality of the magazine; it didn’t seem at all possible, she would be stretched too thinly.
“No one can do what I do,” she murmured half to herself, resignation setting her jaw tight. Miranda pushed her glasses back up her nose. “Was that all, Irv?”
The chairman clasped the chrome arms of the chair in which he sat, launching himself to his feet, a grin wide on his face. “Thank you, Miranda. The board would like the date to be set no later than the second of December.” He nodded cordially, and headed for the door. As Irv moved to cross the threshold to the outer office, he turned in afterthought. Miranda glanced up, half her attention already focused back on the photographs littering her desk.
“Yes?”
Irv smiled again. “It’s going to need a name; the benefit. Something meaningful, but not too flashy.” And with that, he was gone.
Flashy? Miranda groused silently. Since when did I do flashy?
A Secret Valentine for i_heart_cuddy
Rating: R
Pairing: Miranda/ Donna
Summary: A triple threat crossover, featuring our lovely Miranda, the seductive Donna, and the killer blackout from Flash Forward
Disclaimer: I don’t own the movie or the book or any of the characters, most depressingly, Miranda is not mine. I play in the Runway universe, and sometimes it is kind to my fantasies
A/N: Blah. This part is a little shorter than the others, but if it'd continued past this point, the chapter would have been a MONSTER. Rather than keep you who read it waiting, I decided short was sweet.
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 1
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 2
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 3
Elias-Clarke Building, November 6th, 7:15:46
Caffeine, Miranda complained silently, fingers kneading her temples. I need caffeine.
It had only been one week since Runway- as much as was possible, given the circumstances- resumed it’s usual business. The November issue had barely made the stands, and the pitifully thin edition was a testament to just how slowly the city of New York was lurching towards recovery. Now, with only three weeks until the December issue was due to go to print, the editor in chief was wildly scrambling to return her magazine to it’s previous standard of excellence. She was uneasy, and frustrated; Miranda Priestly did not scramble.
The editor gazed distractedly at the proofs littering the usually pristine surface of her sleek, glass desktop. Lacombe’s work was quality, the photo’s evocative; but they had lost weeks of work, and given the current climate of the city, Miranda found that the work she now had at her fingertips was off; the tone was off.
She sighed, exhaling through her nose, and removed her glasses to wipe distractedly at the lenses, which weren’t actually dirty. Her ire with the photography situation deepening, she swiped the proofs into a messy pile beside the vase of fresh, sweetly scented calla lilies, and slouched gracefully into her high backed leather office chair; if she didn’t have a latte in her hand within the next five minutes, she mused, she might, quite dramatically, slip into a caffeine-withdrawal induced coma. Whoever Nigel had approved as her replacement assistant was certainly taking her sweet fucking time.
As if summoned by Miranda’s growing dissatisfaction- which had reached critical- a lanky brunette traipsed into the office, coffee’s in hand, blowing hair out of her face as she sped towards the editor with the beverage that would possibly spare her measly life.
Miranda stared. This wasn’t happening.
“Hi Miranda,” Andy offered quickly, and frazzled, set the latte on the desk.
The editor stared at it as though the take-out cup had suddenly morphed arms and legs and had begun doing the Charleston on her desk; she then looked at Andy in much the same fashion. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Andy frowned. “You were expecting someone else, I take it?” Miranda continued to stare at her as if a horn was growing out of the journalist’s forehead. “Nigel didn’t tell you.”
The editor found her voice. “Obviously.”
The young woman’s heart fell at the chill in her former employer’s tone. Hell- she hadn’t been expecting Miranda to fall all over herself; conversely, she hadn’t expected the object of her misplaced affections to be so pissed, either. Although, ’pissed’ was generally Miranda’s default.
“Nigel figured it would be okay,” Andy offered, beginning to feel intensely stupid. “But if you don’t want me here, I can-
Miranda cut off the intended guilt trip. “What happened to your job at the Mirror?”
Andy chewed her lip. I just wanted to be near you. “I wanted to help you out. It’s only temporary, right?”
The older woman grabbed her latte; her desperation for caffeine having increased tenfold at the sight of it’s deliverer. “You didn’t answer my question.”
The journalist riled. “Should I have to? I’m available, I’m here, and if that’s a prob-
“Andrea,” Miranda warned. “If you are attempting to endear me to the prospect of your reinstated employment within this magazine, I suggest that you modify your tone.”
Honestly, who did the girl think she was- showing up here, telling her off for asking a simple question; a question she certainly had a right to ask, given the fact that Miranda had most likely gotten her the job in the first place; giving her a recommendation instead of black-listing her in New York’s publishing sphere.
Andy dialled it back a notch. “Look,” she began quietly. “I’m taking a hiatus from the Mirror. Writing has been difficult- well, impossible, really- and I just wanted something familiar. Something I know I can do well. And, like I said, I wanted to help you out.”
Miranda sighed. When she had said she wanted to be there for the young woman, she had not envisioned the young woman interpreting that it somehow meant Miranda wanted her to be here. Yet, once more, the editor found herself succumbing to a compassionate, if somewhat unrealistic, compulsion to give Any a break.
God, she was really going soft. Maybe it was time for her to start thinking about retirement.
The journalist was cringing at the myriad of unpleasant expressions parading across the older woman’s face.
Then again, she smirked, maybe not.
“Get Lacombe on the phone, make sure she’s ready to start re-shooting the spread for the December issue. Then get me Patrick, for reasons unbeknownst to me, Demarchelier has decided his line isn’t ready for preview next week, so god knows it’s been left to me to stroke his already over inflated ego. That’s all.”
Andrea blinked, nodded once, and turned inexpertly in her reinstated Jimmy Choos, smiling as she hurried back to her desk.
Everyone seemed to be talking about the possibility of ‘changing the future’, ever since that FBI agent had thrown himself from the height of the bureau’s Los Angeles’ office roof in his -possibly misguided- attempt to spare the life of an innocent woman he’d not even met yet-
And for a terrifying moment, Andy had wondered if by back-talking La Priestly, she’d managed to do the same; a different kind of death; career suicide. But, it seemed to Andy as she sat behind the familiar desk, the fates were locked in her particular case.
Andrea sat comfortably, making the requisite calls and connections, but came to a full stop mid-conversation with Brigitte Lacombe when the chairman himself entered the main office of Runway and strode purposefully past the assistant’s desk into Miranda’s inner sanctum; without pause, without introduction. He closed the door behind him.
“Good morning Miranda.” His tone was jovial which, more often than not, meant he was about to make things difficult.
“Irv,” Miranda offered curtly, sliding her glasses down her nose for the sole purpose of glaring at the little egomaniac over the rims.
He smiled benignly. “I have a favour to ask of you.”
A favour? Irv Ravitz didn’t ask favours. He commanded- at least, he tried to. More often than not his impotently executed directives were side-stepped, reformatted, or all out ignored; most especially by Miranda Priestly.
The editor in chief allowed a gracefully sculpted eyebrow to ascend towards the swooping silver forelock. “And that is?”
Irv sat, his pompous ass the first in years to acquaint itself to one of the two ill-used chairs flanking the business end of La Priestly’s long, slim desk. The little toad continued to smile, and Miranda had to quite forcibly resist rolling her eyes, settling instead for a sip of the quickly cooling latte; already half-way to tepid.
“How long has it been since Runway hosted a benefit?”
Miranda frowned. “The first of October,” she recounted quickly. “We hosted the breast cancer awareness benefit at the Guggenheim. Is there a point to this?”
Irv inspected the garish onyx ring adorning his left ring finger. “The board of Elias-Clark would like to organize a benefit for victims of the blackout. And,” he looked at her pointedly, “as the editor in chief of EC’s flagship publication, I want you to plan and host the event.” He paused, almost sure he’d seen the woman across from him sink a little further into her chair under the weight of the added responsibility. “You’ve got class, Miranda. It’s legendary. You need to do this thing.”
Miranda had indeed wilted slightly, the added burden of a benefit, coupled with her harried race to improve the falling quality of the magazine; it didn’t seem at all possible, she would be stretched too thinly.
“No one can do what I do,” she murmured half to herself, resignation setting her jaw tight. Miranda pushed her glasses back up her nose. “Was that all, Irv?”
The chairman clasped the chrome arms of the chair in which he sat, launching himself to his feet, a grin wide on his face. “Thank you, Miranda. The board would like the date to be set no later than the second of December.” He nodded cordially, and headed for the door. As Irv moved to cross the threshold to the outer office, he turned in afterthought. Miranda glanced up, half her attention already focused back on the photographs littering her desk.
“Yes?”
Irv smiled again. “It’s going to need a name; the benefit. Something meaningful, but not too flashy.” And with that, he was gone.
Flashy? Miranda groused silently. Since when did I do flashy?