Somewhere In The Crowd: Part 5
-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: Okay all- for those of you who have been asking when Miranda and Donna will meet: this isn't it. *hides* I PROMISE, the next chapter (posted shortly) is the time and the place.
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 1
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 2
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 3
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 4
Elias-Clarke Building, November 6th, 7:23:46
Andy watched curiously as a very satisfied Irv Ravitz waltzed out of Runway’s central office, a fuming Miranda in his wake. She hovered near the edge of her assistant’s desk, the toe of her shoe tapping lightly against the floor, revealing her impatience.
“Andréa.”
The young woman cringed. During her tenure at the Mirror, Andy had slowly forgotten how much the mispronunciation of her name irked. Initially, the exotic interpretation had seemed a gracious gift, compared with the thoughtlessly tossed out Emily’s of her earlier days. However, as the months drew on, each time Miranda called her ’name’, Andy wanted to crawl under her desk and sulk. Once, in a fit of suicidal brilliance, the second assistant had even considered writing her name down on a tag, phonetically correct; plastering it to her chest. She resisted.
“Andréa…” Miranda didn’t sound impressed. But then, neither was Andy.
The young woman gazed out from under a shock of dark hair, and prepared to deal.
“Irv has taken it upon himself to, very generously, gift me with the responsibility of hosting a benefit at the beginning of December, to raise funds for New York victims of the blackout. Now-” Miranda affixed her assistant with a glare, “you are not to mention this to anyone, but at this point, I cannot possibly hope to devote the required level of attention to planning such an event; the magazine would suffer. I want you to take this on, in my stead.”
Andrea tried to be flattered by the trust Miranda was exhibiting, but it was difficult, under the circumstances; this was a massive leap in her responsibilities as an assistant, one she would not likely see appropriate financial compensation for- and beyond that, she wasn’t sure her currently shattered self-confidence was up to the task. Andy thought forlornly back to the afternoon at Miranda’s townhouse, just one day after the blackout; the closeness, the comfort.
Andrea had thought, perhaps stupidly, that she had been freed of her attraction to Miranda after leaving the woman in the lurch during Paris fashion week; such was not the case. When the blackout had struck, the young woman’s first thoughts, of course, had been about her family. Closely following, however, was a deep fear that something could have happened to her former employer, and barring that, the older woman’s children.
Directly after assuring the safety of her parents and sister, a distraught Andy had contacted Nigel, openly begged him to tell her Miranda was okay. Her relief had brought her to tears, and Nigel, who had long suspected that the plucky little writer had a ‘thing’ for the Dragon Lady, had mentioned he was going to see the woman in question later the next day. That was when he arranged the meeting at the editor’s townhouse. That was when Andy had jumped into Miranda’s arms like an ill-trained dog. And that was when Andy Sachs realised she had a serious problem.
She wanted Miranda Priestly.
So, she had leapt at Nigel’s suggestion to temp for the injured Lyla, hoping that somehow just being nearer Miranda would be enough. All Andrea had wanted- no, needed- was to be closer to Miranda; fetch coffee, run errands. And now this, business as usual.
The journalist realised she must have been sitting there, dumbly, for quite some time, when-
“Andréa.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, before she could think better of it.
Miranda actually looked taken aback by the bright flare of the younger woman’s short fuse going off. She said nothing. Andy didn’t look like she was finished.
“You’ve known me for over two years Miranda,” the journalist qualified, dark eyes flashing. “You’ve heard dozens of people say my name the way it’s meant to be said, hundreds of times. And yet you keep calling me ‘Ahn-drey-ah’ like I’m some sort of freakin’ french mermaid or something. I know my name isn’t exotic, or particularly pretty- but as I can’t see you calling me ‘Andy’ like anyone else who gives a shit about my feelings, the least you could do is say my name properly. Or isn’t it good enough for you?”
Breathe, Miranda told herself firmly. Andy’s less than tacit outburst had, predictably, provoked a tsunami of indignant rage in the editor; all her fur was rubbed the wrong way, and it was taking an inhuman amount of repression to quell her instinct to hiss, to unsheathe her claws. Andrea had lost a friend in the blackout; she was shaken, distraught. Allowances had to be made. And beyond that, Miranda realised, there was an uncomfortable kernel of truth in the disrespectful diatribe. She sighed.
“My office,” she directed shortly. “Now.”
Andy stood weakly; the anger having fled, certain she was about to be fired, or worse.
“Sit,” Miranda offered, gesturing towards the small charcoal sofa. She closed the door.
Andy was nearly squirming with discomfort. “Miranda, I-
“No, no-” the editor interrupted calmly. “You’ve had your little soliloquy. It’s my turn.” Miranda rounded on the young woman, hands at her hips, and thinking better of it, sat on the couch. It wouldn’t do to have this conversation, stalking around like a wildcat on speed. Andy stared at her, mouth slightly agape.
“You should know,” the older woman began quietly, “that I don’t suffer disrespect; being sworn at in my own office.” Andy nodded, and became particularly interested in her lap. “That being said,” Miranda continued, her voice gentle, “I‘m sorry. I didn’t realise it bothered you.”
Andy’s head snapped up, her large eyes bright with confusion. She back-peddled furiously. “It doesn’t so much- not really. I’ve just been so tired. I can’t sleep since Lily- since she-
Miranda held up a silent hand, staving off the guilt ridden excuses. “Don’t lie to me. You voiced an opinion, albeit crudely- so stand your ground.” Grow a backbone, she almost added, but it sounded unduly harsh, even in the space of her acerbic mind. “I’ve apologised, a feat only my daughters have had the pleasure of accomplishing.” She sighed, brushed her sweeping silver bangs away from here eyes. “And as I see it, you have two options. You can either accept my apology and give me a second chance. Or,” she smirked, “you can offer up a final ‘fuck you’ and remove yourself from my office. I, personally, would prefer the former.”
Andrea sat, stunned, unmoving. Hearing the expletive uttered amidst Miranda’s usual eloquent turn of phrase had been strangely delicious. Never mind the blatant admittance of a mistake made. It occurred to her she should probably offer a response at some point.
“Me too.”
Miranda smiled. As in full on, apoplexy-inducing smiled. “Do you prefer ’Andy’ or ’An-dree-ah’?”
The journalist blinked. The editor‘s expression was currently wreaking havoc on several of her baser senses. “Taking your abhorrence for nicknames into account,” she began with a cheeky grin, “we’ll start with Andrea. Maybe ’Andy’ is something to look forward to. By the way,” she added more solemnly, “I’m sorry I swore at you.”
“Consider it forgotten,” Miranda offered, though slightly perplexed by the girl’s choice of words. Something to look forward to? The editor was aware of the younger woman’s attachment to her; aware in the sense that one would realise the blossoming affectations of a full blown crush. That was an uncomfortable conversation for another time. “And, you can absolve your deplorable language by taking on the arrangements for the benefit.”
Andrea grimaced.
“Stop whinging,” Miranda commanded softly. “I have absolute faith in your ability to meet my expectations, and I invoke the precedent of a certain impossible manuscript as proof of your competence.” The older woman stood from the couch and habitually adjusted the wide leather belt hugging her waist. “I’ll expect updates on your progress, and,” she added, a wry smile colouring her eyes an endearing shade of cyan, “you’ll need to come up with a name for the whole thing. I’m sure there are still echoes of wordsmithian aplomb rattling around in that pretty little head of yours, so come up with something brilliant.”
“That’s all?” Andy teased boldly. To her delight, Miranda replied with a warm peal of laughter.
“No, actually, it isn’t. I am in desperate need of a replacement latte. The one you brought earlier slipped from tepid to frigid somewhere in the middle of Irv’s grovelling declarations of my legendary classiness.”
Andy snorted. “Your wish is my command, oh classy one.” With a flourishing bow, she exited the office.
Satisfied with the execution of her- albeit rusty- conflict resolution skills, Miranda reinstituted herself behind the glass desk in her office, still smirking at Andrea’s hammed-up departure. Perhaps Nigel was as smart as he looked.
Suddenly, Andy rushed back into Miranda’s office, having been gone no more than twenty seconds.
Perhaps not.
“Are you lost?” the older woman asked, partially annoyed, but mostly amused.
Andy shook her head, silky bangs mussing over her eyes. “What about ‘Beacon’?” she queried breathlessly.
Miranda digested the suggestion for a split second before nodding; then she smiled. A thrillingly succinct approval; the only smile on record since the famous stand-alone given to Tom Ford in 2001.
Andy grinned in reply, far too pleased with herself to school her features. Then she frowned. She had a name for the event; fine. But she had nothing else; nothing, and only three weeks to find a venue, hire musicians, design the interior of the space…
Andrea, without a word, tore out of the office.
A New York Penthouse, December 1st, 3:11:49
Donna gazed into the floor length mirror disinterestedly, sandwiched between her has-been backup girls; no amount of grousing, it seemed, was going to get her out of this.
“I think this one’s lovely,” offered Rosie, moving behind the blond to pull the fabric of the dress closer to her friend’s body. Donna had lost weight; she hadn’t been eating much, and the brit felt her own part in that failure keenly. “What do you think, sweetheart?”
Donna squinted at her reflection, she looked sallow and worn; she didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. “It’s fine, I guess,” she commented listlessly. “I’m still not sure why you’re dragging me along to this thing. I won‘t fit in there, and I‘m certainly not in the mood to be gallivanting around a gala with a bunch of snobs.”
Rosie shared a worried look with Tanya, and the lanky woman threw an arm around Donna’s shoulders almost boisterously. “It’ll do you good to get out, honey. You’ve been holed up here, barely speaking to anyone, for over a month.” Tanya gentled her tone. “It’s not healthy.”
Donna sighed, and tossed the gown she had been holding in front of herself on the nearby bed. She was losing this battle. “I don’t see the point of even attending this thing,” she tried, valiantly, to secure her release. “It’s a fundraiser, isn’t it?”
Tanya nodded, not sure where Donna was leading the conversation.
“Well,” Donna continued shortly. “I don’t have any funds for them to raise, now do I? I’m completely broke, living out of your home like some hobo. You’re already paying for my admission to this thing, and there is no way I’d be able to bid on anything in the silent auction. So,” she queried, railing against this misplaced sense of duty, “I repeat. What’s the point?”
Rosie sensed the coiling tension between her friends, and stepped in diplomatically. “The point, lovey, is that we’re worried about you.” Donna waved off the admission, but the short haired woman wasn’t deterred. “Tanya is right. You’ve been hiding out. And while it’s understandable- we both know how much you loved Sam- it’s been almost two months.” Rosie wrapped her arms around Donna’s waist affectionately.
“We love you, and we know you’re struggling. But you can’t stay in bed for the rest of your life, honey. Besides,” she continued, feeling her friend lean back into her, “this thing isn’t just about the money. It’s a memorial to those who were lost; a display of solidarity, if you like. We don’t want to force you into doing something you don’t want to do but,” she gave Donna a gentle squeeze, “this evening might be good for you. It might help.”
Donna, conceding defeat, turned in the short woman’s arms and leaned forwards to bump foreheads with her cajoling friend. “You should have been a lawyer.”
Rosie snorted, kissing the other woman soundly on the cheek. “A vegetarian lawyer? That’s practically an oxymoron.”
Forcing a weak smile, Donna grabbed the deep turquoise gown off of Rosie’s bed and evacuated. In passing, she saw Sophie standing in her own room in front of the mirrored closet doors, evaluating outfits. At the moment, the young woman held a white, strapless cocktail number in front of her slight form, and a disinterested Skye shot Donna a helpless little look when he caught her standing in the doorway.
She shook her head, and didn’t have to extort the small smile that curved her lips.
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: Okay all- for those of you who have been asking when Miranda and Donna will meet: this isn't it. *hides* I PROMISE, the next chapter (posted shortly) is the time and the place.
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 1
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 2
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 3
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 4
Elias-Clarke Building, November 6th, 7:23:46
Andy watched curiously as a very satisfied Irv Ravitz waltzed out of Runway’s central office, a fuming Miranda in his wake. She hovered near the edge of her assistant’s desk, the toe of her shoe tapping lightly against the floor, revealing her impatience.
“Andréa.”
The young woman cringed. During her tenure at the Mirror, Andy had slowly forgotten how much the mispronunciation of her name irked. Initially, the exotic interpretation had seemed a gracious gift, compared with the thoughtlessly tossed out Emily’s of her earlier days. However, as the months drew on, each time Miranda called her ’name’, Andy wanted to crawl under her desk and sulk. Once, in a fit of suicidal brilliance, the second assistant had even considered writing her name down on a tag, phonetically correct; plastering it to her chest. She resisted.
“Andréa…” Miranda didn’t sound impressed. But then, neither was Andy.
The young woman gazed out from under a shock of dark hair, and prepared to deal.
“Irv has taken it upon himself to, very generously, gift me with the responsibility of hosting a benefit at the beginning of December, to raise funds for New York victims of the blackout. Now-” Miranda affixed her assistant with a glare, “you are not to mention this to anyone, but at this point, I cannot possibly hope to devote the required level of attention to planning such an event; the magazine would suffer. I want you to take this on, in my stead.”
Andrea tried to be flattered by the trust Miranda was exhibiting, but it was difficult, under the circumstances; this was a massive leap in her responsibilities as an assistant, one she would not likely see appropriate financial compensation for- and beyond that, she wasn’t sure her currently shattered self-confidence was up to the task. Andy thought forlornly back to the afternoon at Miranda’s townhouse, just one day after the blackout; the closeness, the comfort.
Andrea had thought, perhaps stupidly, that she had been freed of her attraction to Miranda after leaving the woman in the lurch during Paris fashion week; such was not the case. When the blackout had struck, the young woman’s first thoughts, of course, had been about her family. Closely following, however, was a deep fear that something could have happened to her former employer, and barring that, the older woman’s children.
Directly after assuring the safety of her parents and sister, a distraught Andy had contacted Nigel, openly begged him to tell her Miranda was okay. Her relief had brought her to tears, and Nigel, who had long suspected that the plucky little writer had a ‘thing’ for the Dragon Lady, had mentioned he was going to see the woman in question later the next day. That was when he arranged the meeting at the editor’s townhouse. That was when Andy had jumped into Miranda’s arms like an ill-trained dog. And that was when Andy Sachs realised she had a serious problem.
She wanted Miranda Priestly.
So, she had leapt at Nigel’s suggestion to temp for the injured Lyla, hoping that somehow just being nearer Miranda would be enough. All Andrea had wanted- no, needed- was to be closer to Miranda; fetch coffee, run errands. And now this, business as usual.
The journalist realised she must have been sitting there, dumbly, for quite some time, when-
“Andréa.”
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, before she could think better of it.
Miranda actually looked taken aback by the bright flare of the younger woman’s short fuse going off. She said nothing. Andy didn’t look like she was finished.
“You’ve known me for over two years Miranda,” the journalist qualified, dark eyes flashing. “You’ve heard dozens of people say my name the way it’s meant to be said, hundreds of times. And yet you keep calling me ‘Ahn-drey-ah’ like I’m some sort of freakin’ french mermaid or something. I know my name isn’t exotic, or particularly pretty- but as I can’t see you calling me ‘Andy’ like anyone else who gives a shit about my feelings, the least you could do is say my name properly. Or isn’t it good enough for you?”
Breathe, Miranda told herself firmly. Andy’s less than tacit outburst had, predictably, provoked a tsunami of indignant rage in the editor; all her fur was rubbed the wrong way, and it was taking an inhuman amount of repression to quell her instinct to hiss, to unsheathe her claws. Andrea had lost a friend in the blackout; she was shaken, distraught. Allowances had to be made. And beyond that, Miranda realised, there was an uncomfortable kernel of truth in the disrespectful diatribe. She sighed.
“My office,” she directed shortly. “Now.”
Andy stood weakly; the anger having fled, certain she was about to be fired, or worse.
“Sit,” Miranda offered, gesturing towards the small charcoal sofa. She closed the door.
Andy was nearly squirming with discomfort. “Miranda, I-
“No, no-” the editor interrupted calmly. “You’ve had your little soliloquy. It’s my turn.” Miranda rounded on the young woman, hands at her hips, and thinking better of it, sat on the couch. It wouldn’t do to have this conversation, stalking around like a wildcat on speed. Andy stared at her, mouth slightly agape.
“You should know,” the older woman began quietly, “that I don’t suffer disrespect; being sworn at in my own office.” Andy nodded, and became particularly interested in her lap. “That being said,” Miranda continued, her voice gentle, “I‘m sorry. I didn’t realise it bothered you.”
Andy’s head snapped up, her large eyes bright with confusion. She back-peddled furiously. “It doesn’t so much- not really. I’ve just been so tired. I can’t sleep since Lily- since she-
Miranda held up a silent hand, staving off the guilt ridden excuses. “Don’t lie to me. You voiced an opinion, albeit crudely- so stand your ground.” Grow a backbone, she almost added, but it sounded unduly harsh, even in the space of her acerbic mind. “I’ve apologised, a feat only my daughters have had the pleasure of accomplishing.” She sighed, brushed her sweeping silver bangs away from here eyes. “And as I see it, you have two options. You can either accept my apology and give me a second chance. Or,” she smirked, “you can offer up a final ‘fuck you’ and remove yourself from my office. I, personally, would prefer the former.”
Andrea sat, stunned, unmoving. Hearing the expletive uttered amidst Miranda’s usual eloquent turn of phrase had been strangely delicious. Never mind the blatant admittance of a mistake made. It occurred to her she should probably offer a response at some point.
“Me too.”
Miranda smiled. As in full on, apoplexy-inducing smiled. “Do you prefer ’Andy’ or ’An-dree-ah’?”
The journalist blinked. The editor‘s expression was currently wreaking havoc on several of her baser senses. “Taking your abhorrence for nicknames into account,” she began with a cheeky grin, “we’ll start with Andrea. Maybe ’Andy’ is something to look forward to. By the way,” she added more solemnly, “I’m sorry I swore at you.”
“Consider it forgotten,” Miranda offered, though slightly perplexed by the girl’s choice of words. Something to look forward to? The editor was aware of the younger woman’s attachment to her; aware in the sense that one would realise the blossoming affectations of a full blown crush. That was an uncomfortable conversation for another time. “And, you can absolve your deplorable language by taking on the arrangements for the benefit.”
Andrea grimaced.
“Stop whinging,” Miranda commanded softly. “I have absolute faith in your ability to meet my expectations, and I invoke the precedent of a certain impossible manuscript as proof of your competence.” The older woman stood from the couch and habitually adjusted the wide leather belt hugging her waist. “I’ll expect updates on your progress, and,” she added, a wry smile colouring her eyes an endearing shade of cyan, “you’ll need to come up with a name for the whole thing. I’m sure there are still echoes of wordsmithian aplomb rattling around in that pretty little head of yours, so come up with something brilliant.”
“That’s all?” Andy teased boldly. To her delight, Miranda replied with a warm peal of laughter.
“No, actually, it isn’t. I am in desperate need of a replacement latte. The one you brought earlier slipped from tepid to frigid somewhere in the middle of Irv’s grovelling declarations of my legendary classiness.”
Andy snorted. “Your wish is my command, oh classy one.” With a flourishing bow, she exited the office.
Satisfied with the execution of her- albeit rusty- conflict resolution skills, Miranda reinstituted herself behind the glass desk in her office, still smirking at Andrea’s hammed-up departure. Perhaps Nigel was as smart as he looked.
Suddenly, Andy rushed back into Miranda’s office, having been gone no more than twenty seconds.
Perhaps not.
“Are you lost?” the older woman asked, partially annoyed, but mostly amused.
Andy shook her head, silky bangs mussing over her eyes. “What about ‘Beacon’?” she queried breathlessly.
Miranda digested the suggestion for a split second before nodding; then she smiled. A thrillingly succinct approval; the only smile on record since the famous stand-alone given to Tom Ford in 2001.
Andy grinned in reply, far too pleased with herself to school her features. Then she frowned. She had a name for the event; fine. But she had nothing else; nothing, and only three weeks to find a venue, hire musicians, design the interior of the space…
Andrea, without a word, tore out of the office.
A New York Penthouse, December 1st, 3:11:49
Donna gazed into the floor length mirror disinterestedly, sandwiched between her has-been backup girls; no amount of grousing, it seemed, was going to get her out of this.
“I think this one’s lovely,” offered Rosie, moving behind the blond to pull the fabric of the dress closer to her friend’s body. Donna had lost weight; she hadn’t been eating much, and the brit felt her own part in that failure keenly. “What do you think, sweetheart?”
Donna squinted at her reflection, she looked sallow and worn; she didn’t recognize the woman in the mirror. “It’s fine, I guess,” she commented listlessly. “I’m still not sure why you’re dragging me along to this thing. I won‘t fit in there, and I‘m certainly not in the mood to be gallivanting around a gala with a bunch of snobs.”
Rosie shared a worried look with Tanya, and the lanky woman threw an arm around Donna’s shoulders almost boisterously. “It’ll do you good to get out, honey. You’ve been holed up here, barely speaking to anyone, for over a month.” Tanya gentled her tone. “It’s not healthy.”
Donna sighed, and tossed the gown she had been holding in front of herself on the nearby bed. She was losing this battle. “I don’t see the point of even attending this thing,” she tried, valiantly, to secure her release. “It’s a fundraiser, isn’t it?”
Tanya nodded, not sure where Donna was leading the conversation.
“Well,” Donna continued shortly. “I don’t have any funds for them to raise, now do I? I’m completely broke, living out of your home like some hobo. You’re already paying for my admission to this thing, and there is no way I’d be able to bid on anything in the silent auction. So,” she queried, railing against this misplaced sense of duty, “I repeat. What’s the point?”
Rosie sensed the coiling tension between her friends, and stepped in diplomatically. “The point, lovey, is that we’re worried about you.” Donna waved off the admission, but the short haired woman wasn’t deterred. “Tanya is right. You’ve been hiding out. And while it’s understandable- we both know how much you loved Sam- it’s been almost two months.” Rosie wrapped her arms around Donna’s waist affectionately.
“We love you, and we know you’re struggling. But you can’t stay in bed for the rest of your life, honey. Besides,” she continued, feeling her friend lean back into her, “this thing isn’t just about the money. It’s a memorial to those who were lost; a display of solidarity, if you like. We don’t want to force you into doing something you don’t want to do but,” she gave Donna a gentle squeeze, “this evening might be good for you. It might help.”
Donna, conceding defeat, turned in the short woman’s arms and leaned forwards to bump foreheads with her cajoling friend. “You should have been a lawyer.”
Rosie snorted, kissing the other woman soundly on the cheek. “A vegetarian lawyer? That’s practically an oxymoron.”
Forcing a weak smile, Donna grabbed the deep turquoise gown off of Rosie’s bed and evacuated. In passing, she saw Sophie standing in her own room in front of the mirrored closet doors, evaluating outfits. At the moment, the young woman held a white, strapless cocktail number in front of her slight form, and a disinterested Skye shot Donna a helpless little look when he caught her standing in the doorway.
She shook her head, and didn’t have to extort the small smile that curved her lips.