Somewhere In The Crowd: Part 9
-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- this is the second to last part (the last part WILL be posted tonight, because I am on an EPIC roll of fic-completion). Hope you all enjoy, and I aplogise for the conglomeration of angst, crack, and mush in this chapter. It kind of all had to happen.
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 1
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 2
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 3
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 4
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 5
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 6
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 7
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 8
Central Park, December 8th, 11:12:31
Donna wandered into the 79th street entrance of Central Park, and glanced around for the familiar figure of Miranda Priestly. Off in a field, she noticed a woman with a massive, energetically galumphing St. Bernard, and had to double-take when the crest of white hair above a high-collared jacket identified the casually dressed figure as Miranda.
Donna smiled to herself, and wandered closer to the unlikely pair, snow gathering in the cuffs of her jeans.
“Hello,” Miranda smiled, resting her hand on the other woman’s arm. “Did you find us all right?”
Donna nodded. “Yes- you’re directions were great. Do you live far from here?”
The editor shook her head, the curls of her bangs falling into her eyes. “Not at all. East seventy-third. We’re just around the corner.”
The innkeeper returned the woman's smile, and was about to comment when Miranda’s dog decided she was feeling left out of the greetings and leapt towards Donna, her massive paws landing on the woman’s chest and flattening her on the ground. The editor smirked and half-heartedly tried to call Patricia off.
“I thought you said,” Donna wheezed, “that she was a dog, not a Saskwatch.”
“She’s really remarkably well-behaved,” Miranda commented dryly.
“I can see that,” Donna offered sarcastically, trying valiantly, but with little success, to remove a heavy forepaw, which at present was painfully squashing her left boob into a pancake.
“Patricia, komma här!” Miranda directed clearly. The dog retreated to her side, tongue lolling in a contented smile. “Patricia, sitta!” Patricia sat, albeit on Miranda’s foot. Wincing, the editor glanced at a smirking Donna, who was trying to massage the left area of her chest back into shape. The minxy fashionista patted the St. Bernard’s massive head fondly. “Close enough.”
Donna laughed, and grabbed the other woman’s hand when Miranda offered to help her up. “You didn’t mention the dog was multi-lingual, either.”
Miranda made a rueful expression. “She’s not. Patricia only actually responds to Swedish, anything else is a fluke. When the girl’s father and I got divorced, I wanted them the first Christmas, and I took them to a ski resort called Vallåsen, in Sweden. That’s where we found the much smaller, much cuter version of this ungainly creature.” Miranda’s features softened into a look of concern. “Did she hurt you?’
“Nothing a breast implant won’t fix,” Donna quipped cheerfully. “I’ll have Tanya put me in touch with her plastic surgeon. So“ she continued cheekily, “Patricia is Swedish. Even the dog is a cosmopolitan.”
Miranda made an abused face. “Twin six year olds, a puppy, at Christmas time. Could you foresee an alternative?”
Donna took a shaky breath. Did Miranda just mention twins? The other woman stared at her with a quizzical expression, and the blond collected herself quickly. Now was not the time to be delving into the future. “You’re just a big softy, aren’t you?” she denounced the editor fondly.
“That’s an accusation I haven’t heard,” Miranda said, running her fingers around Patricia‘s ears. “Shall we walk? I wanted to show you the Shakespeare Garden.”
The two women, accompanied by a wandering Patricia, made their way along the meandering path through the park.
“So you’ve been living in Greece,” Miranda began somewhat awkwardly. She really didn’t have any talent for small talk.
“I was touring with my band,” Donna offered.
The editor looked surprised. “You were in a band?”
“The Dynamos,” the innkeeper expanded. “I was twenty- and we were in Greece. I met this guy, we really hit it off, then he tells me he’s actually engaged, and takes off. I went into rebound mode, and wound up pregnant with my daughter, Sophie.”
Miranda took a moment to absorb the influx of information. “And you stayed in Greece?”
Donna sighed heavily, and looked over her shoulder under the pretence of checking Patricia’s location. “My mother told me not to bother coming back. She was such a good, devout Catholic. Besides,” she continued stoically. “I had work on the mainland. After I had Soph, when she was about three, I bought a rundown Villa on an island and turned it into a business- quaint romantic getaway shtick, you know the deal. Anyway, I’ve lived on KaloKairi for nearly twenty years.”
“So what about you?” Donna asked. “What’s the back story of the Miranda Priestly?”
Miranda grimaced. “Born in England to working class, Jewish parents- I hated the thought of being stuck in one place my entire life, to stagnate. I’ve always wanted more. So I dropped out of high school, took off to France, and interned at a fashion house. Opportunities presented themselves, I took them- somewhere along the line, I changed my name.”
“You did?” Donna asked, sounding surprised. Miranda nodded, clearly reluctant to divulge. The blonds’ eyes twinkled mischievously, and with a cajoling, coy smile, she sidled closer to Miranda. “So what’s your real name?”
“My legal name is Miranda Priestly, but,” Miranda sniffed, “I was born- and don’t you dare laugh- Miriam. Miriam Princhek. My god, I hated that name. Anyway- I worked at several publications, until I was editor in chief of the French Chic- and then I moved to New York to take over Runway.”
“You don’t have an accent,” Donna remarked sceptically, shoving her hands in her pockets.
“Of course I do,” Miranda argued. “I’m speaking ’American’ right now.”
The innkeeper shot her companion a disbelieving look. “I don’t believe you.”
Miranda took a calming breath and prepared to make a complete fool of herself. Snubbing her nose with a careless thumb, she launched into her retrospective performance. “Gawdon Bennet! ‘Ere I am, standin' on display, an' you don’ adam’n eve it?”
Donna snorted, but the editor was in full swing now. “Jesus Donna! I'm tellin' you, I was born wivin spittin' distance ov Bow Bells, an' you're tellin' me you don't believe it? Know what I mean?”
Donna shoved a mittened hand against her mouth, and almost suffocated herself trying not to laugh. Miranda was not to be swayed from her hilarity, however, and exhibited no sympathy towards her gasping friend.
“Lawd above!” the fashionista offered expansively. “What is it? The shoes? The bee 'ive 'undred jonny rollar trousers?”
“Quit it-” Donna wheezed, “I’m gonna pee my pants!”
“Awright geezah!” Miranda drawled. “You're a sweet girl, Donna, but 'ere I figured you was in'elligent, an' all. Sorted mate.”
Donna doubled over, hiccoughing and gulping for air. She couldn’t help it. Miranda Priestly, standing there in her Prada pumps, killer jeans, and high collared jacket, spewing Cockney, was far too incongruous an image for her mind to handle.
“Something funny?” Miranda inquired innocently, reverting mercifully back to her ‘American’ accent.
Gasping, choking, Donna slowly reined herself in and sniffed, wiping at her eyes.
“May I continue?” the editor asked imperiously.
Donna nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“So anyway-” Miranda smirked, all to pleased at how thoroughly she had reduced the other woman to hysterics. “I took over Runway, met the girl’s father, got married, and had the twins at 39. I was seven months pregnant, huge,” the silver-haired woman paused to make an expansive gesture in front of her stomach, “and convinced I wasn’t going to live through the labour. Two weeks later, I was fine, but,” Miranda suddenly became very serious, all evidence of her previous light-heartedness evaporating with alarming speed. “No one except the girl’s father knows this- The girls aren’t twins- they were triplets. I lost one.”
Miranda wandered over to a nearby bench and sat down tiredly, staring off into the bare branches of the surrounding trees. Donna paused, and after a moment of indecision begat by fear, joined her.
“She was just too small,” Miranda offered sadly. “I blamed myself, obviously. Too old to carry, too much stress. She was too small,” she repeated forlornly. “And there was nothing I could do, no sacrifice-the-mother-to-save-the-child deal to be made. Greg wanted to move on, but for a long time, I couldn’t. I accused him of seeing Cleo as surplus, asked what he thought of Cass or Caro- if one of them was extra, too. It ended our marriage. But,” Miranda sniffled, betraying her heavy emotions. “Why should I complain? I have two beautiful, healthy girls.”
Donna removed a mitt, and reached for the other woman’s hand, holding it gently across her lap. “I’m so sorry, Miranda.”
The editor shook her head, and dashed the tears out of her eyes with her free hand. “It was a long time ago, and here I am, going on like this- and you-” She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t bring up Donna’s dead husband.
The blond squeezed the other woman’s hand more tightly; brushed her thumb over the crests of Miranda’s whitening knuckles. “Hush,” she soothed. “It isn’t a competition, honey.”
“Are you negotiating degrees of bereavement with me?” the editor offered through a wobbling smile.
“All I’m saying,” Donna began softly, “is that things like that, the loss of a child- they don’t just go away, no matter how much time has passed.”
Miranda nodded, and squeezed back meaningfully. “And how are you doing?”
The blond fidgeted with the corner of her scarf, and stood, pacing slowly around the bench. The editor, keenly feeling the loss of the warm hand in hers, fell quickly into step beside the agitated woman, and daringly reinstated her fingers between Donna’s.
“It’s still so surreal,” the innkeeper whispered strangely. “We were married for less than a year. He was out of my life for twenty years, and I mourned that particular loss. I lived like a freaking nun. This somehow feels familiar, but,” Donna stopped walking and looked into the other woman’s warm grey eyes, “I know he isn’t coming back this time. I don’t sleep well anymore, without that hope. Other than that- I don’t know. I’ve upended my entire life, and it’s easy to pretend that this is some sort of strange, extended holiday- that KaloKairi will be the same if I go back.”
“Have you considered talking to someone about this?” the editor prompted carefully. She was more than willing to listen to anything her companion had to say, but she felt unequipped; inadequate.
Donna waved off the suggestion flippantly. “Lots of people lost someone, Miranda.”
“So why are you less worthy of help?” the editor countered adamantly.
“I’m- I should be able to work through this,” Donna scoffed. “I always have been. Besides,” she smiled bravely. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
Miranda frowned. “I’m not exactly quality ‘listener’ material. Anyone on the street would tell you I’m a cold-hearted, career-obsessed bitch.”
Donna winced at the other woman’s harsh self-assessment. “They obviously don’t know you- or want to. It’s more fun to villainize someone, honey.”
“Maybe,” Miranda conceded, desperate to shift the conversation away from herself, from her failings as a human being. “I’ve come to terms with it all. But I’m in a demanding business- what happens if I can’t always be there, when you need to talk?”
“Then I wait a little while. I’ve waited this long.” Donna offered a warm smile. “I like talking to you, too.”
Winter Sundays
Donna and Miranda had been meeting in Central Park every Sunday, sometimes with, sometimes without Patricia, to walk the paths, to talk, to spend time knowing one another. Neither woman had spoken much of their unlikely connection, and neither wanted to.
Miranda often found herself wondering if the closeness between them had been brought about by the flash forward, by the feelings she experienced six months in the future. But the editor had always felt above influence- she could think for herself.
Yet something possessed her to tell Donna about Cleo- the only person she’d ever divulged her painful secret to. She could’ve told the twins- maybe she would, when they were older- but what good would that do them? Some ethereal vision of a lost sister; removed; disjointed. And it had felt good to talk about it, to admit her guilt to someone she felt wouldn’t judge her. Because everyone judged Miranda Priestly, like they knew her, like they had the right.
Similarly, Donna, being fairly wily, was beginning to mount suspicion that the suave editor of Runway was the woman in her flash forward. Late at night, as she lay awake in bed, she found herself conflicted as to how quickly Miranda was becoming a fixture in her new life.
She could understand Miranda’s involvement in her future in several months; their rapidly developing rapport seemed so natural. But the ex-innkeeper struggled to reconcile Miranda’s friendship with her flash forward. If that woman was Miranda, the way Donna felt about her then was something far more than friendship. Donna knew she was prone to ‘rebound’ behaviour- but honestly, that vision, that snapshot of the future had not been about bouncing off of potential lovers like a lost ball- it was different; it was sincere.
By proxy, neither woman had talked about their corroborating visions. Miranda was convinced that Donna had not seen her; terrified that she would shatter what was developing between them. And Donna, while curious about Miranda’s vision, and her own, was still too wary of how her future actions would reflect on her as a person; she was still consumed with guilt for moving on after the death of her husband.
It was one such Sunday. The weather was mild, the light cool, a gentle snow was falling. The day was grey, and the warming air surrounded them like a soft wool blanket.
Donna and Miranda were in the park, sans dog, meandering easily around one of the parks several outdoor rinks.
The editor, on a strange whim, looked suggestively towards the figures gliding across the ice in the distance. “Let’s go skating,” she suggested offhandedly.
“Skating,“ Donna mused reluctantly. “I‘ve been living in Greece for the past twenty years, hun. No skating. I’ll break an ankle.”
“You won’t,” the other woman offered, her tone light; coy. “I’ll help you. If it’s awful, we can stop.”
Donna was hard pressed to refuse. Miranda had never asked her for anything. In fact- Miranda didn’t ever ask anyone for anything, she demanded it. And the almost shy way which the editor voiced her desire to skate quickly overwhelmed any of Donna’s misgivings.
“I’ll go,“ Donna acquiesced slowly, “So long as you promise that if I break anything, you will be the one stuck pushing me around in a wheelchair for however long it takes my fractured limbs to heal. Got it?”
“We’ll hitch Patricia up to a sled,” Miranda joked, sensing triumph. “And start a new trend.”
Donna grumbled something unintelligible, and set off towards the rental hut on the far edge of the rink, a less than modestly gloating fashion editor grinning in her wake.
Miranda pushed the blades of her skates against the ice, shifting her weight from leg to leg, moving lithely backwards, beckoning Donna with outstretched hands.
Her companion, who moved slowly towards her, wore a grin of small triumph- until a fast moving man in a pair of beat up hockey skates swerved too close and knocked the blonds’ precarious balance out of orbit. Donna wavered for a moment, before toppling spectacularly backwards.
"Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?" Miranda fell quickly to her knees beside her spread eagle friend, hands assessing for injury.
Donna, who had yet to open her eyes, opened them then. "I'm fi-" she began, vision filled with an ethereal image. "I'm...fine..."
Her lips worked, but coherent speech eluded her. In the cool grey light of the winter's sky, Miranda appeared in a halo of silver hair, her ivory skin shimmering. Concerned blue eyes, piercing in contrast, looked down at her as flecks of snow glinted, floating down around them. As if driven by the same gravity, pulling the crystals of ice towards the earth below, Miranda leaned down, pressing her mouth gently against her friend’s, her nose cold against a soft, warm cheek.
With a sort of reverence, the editor pulled slowly away, and opened her eyes. Donna lay there in a kind of limbo, her body thrumming hotly in contrast against the ice. She searched Miranda's eyes, and the editor sighed again, her breath warming, as if in apology, the place where her chilled nose had pressed.
Smiling, Donna reached up and pushed the soft wave of hair away from Miranda's eyes, searching; seeing something, not regret, but fear. Gently, Donna pulled her friend down to her mouth, the second kiss less marred by shock, lips pressing, breaths enthralled with one another warmly.
Miranda pulled away again, wearing what she was sure must be the stupidest grin ever to grace her austere features. She was surprised by, but not unwelcoming of the tears stinging her eyes. Finally.
"My ass is freezing," quipped Donna suddenly, struggling to find purchase on the slick ice; struggling to say anything.
Miranda, grateful that the silence was broken, offered a cursory glance at the back of the other woman’s jeans. "Looks pretty hot to me," she murmured.
Donna flustered a little, then getting a hold of herself, slapped the editor's thigh playfully, losing her balance again in the process. She rested in defeat on the rink.
Miranda rolled her eyes heavenward, snowflakes gathering on her lashes; melting on her warm cheeks. “Come home with me?” she implored suddenly.
Startled, Donna quirked an eyebrow. It wasn’t that she was unwilling- but what exactly had the other woman just asked her, because it had sounded an awful lot like a ‘let’s go back to my place’ line.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Miranda warned, grinning. “Yet. My girls are home, and I do need to feed them supper.”
The blond blushed spectacularly, and Miranda, feeling benevolent and not a little turned on, leaned forwards and graced her companion’s pouting mouth with another kiss.
“Okay,” Donna mumbled against the gentle onslaught. “Okay.”
Miranda and her guest entered the townhouse quietly. Donna, who was overwhelmed by a wave of déjà vu didn’t noticed the twin heads peering blatantly over the banister.
“It’s her,” Caroline whispered loudly.
Miranda watched in maternal fascination as Cassidy rolled her eyes.
“I know, silly. I told you mom would bring her home eventually.”
Donna, who was only just getting accustomed to the familiar surroundings, followed Miranda’s fond gaze towards the stairs.
“It’s them,” she whispered, staring unabashedly at the girls leaning over the railing.
The editor chuckled, and gestured for her daughters to descend. “This,” she said, taking one girl under her arm, “is Caroline. Note the freckle above her left eyebrow. And this,” she grabbed her other daughter and patted her affectionately on the head, “is Cassidy. Her eyes are a bit greyer than Caroline’s. If you mix them up, they’ll never forgive you.”
“Mom,” Caroline whined, taking in Donna’s fearful expression. She turned towards their flabbergasted guest. “She’s kidding, Donna. If you mix us up more than once, we’ll never forgive you.”
“Freckle, Caroline,” the blond recited dutifully. “And grey eyes, Cassidy. Got it.”
Miranda smiled, and brushed Cassidy’s bangs out of her eyes. “I’d introduce you Donna- but it seems as though that would be a bit redundant at this point.”
“Duh,” Cassidy offered singularly, and grabbed Donna’s hand. “Want to come see our rooms?”
The blond cast an inquisitive look towards her friend, and when Miranda nodded indulgently, followed the girls up the stairs.
Half an hour later, when all the stuffed animals had been introduced by name, and all the posters had been ranked in order of the hottest actor, Donna found herself sitting around a large, marble island in the kitchen, picking at her plate of chicken kiev and sautéed french beans.
The twins chatted animatedly, and Miranda watched the scene with one eye, assessing Donna’s subdued demeanour with the other. When the food was gone, and the dishes sat expectantly by the sink, the editor shooed her children upstairs to finish their largely ignored homework, and pulled her guest towards the sitting room.
“You were quiet through dinner,” Miranda commented carefully. “Are you okay?”
Donna nodded distractedly, her attention focused on a family photo which sat on a nearby side table. “Did you see me?” she asked finally, her voice quiet.
Miranda had been dreading this moment; had been dreading trying to explain to this woman how much she knew. “I did, yes.”
Donna nodded, and continued to stare at the photo. It was a picture of Miranda and her girls, all three engrossed in what appeared to be a marathon of cookie-baking. “I saw you, too. But I didn’t see your face. I wasn’t sure until you brought me here. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Miranda leaned forwards and caressed the other woman’s face, turning her head until their eyes met. “I didn’t want to say something that would influence our interactions. I didn’t want to focus on something that hadn’t happened yet.” She sighed, and shifted closer towards Donna. “I wanted to understand you now, in the present. I didn’t go looking for you, my darling. But I found you.”
Donna nodded, and pressed her face into the other woman’s soft hand. “I’m so glad she turned out to be you,” she murmured, tears gathering in her eyes. “I thought, for the longest time, that she had to be you. But I was drowning in my own guilt, too frightened to question anything, too scared of what being with you would mean.”
“And do you feel guilty now?” Miranda asked quietly. Everything suddenly hung in a precarious balance.
“I don’t know,” Donna admitted, gazing searchingly into the other woman’s eyes. “But whatever else I’m feeling right now, I want you.”
Miranda bit her lip, failing to repress the soft smile spreading like a warm light across her features. She leaned against her friend, her companion. Her lover. Lacing her hands together on her lap, blond waves tickling her nose, she sighed contentedly. “I want you, too.”
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- this is the second to last part (the last part WILL be posted tonight, because I am on an EPIC roll of fic-completion). Hope you all enjoy, and I aplogise for the conglomeration of angst, crack, and mush in this chapter. It kind of all had to happen.
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 1
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 2
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 3
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 4
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 5
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 6
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 7
Somewhere in the Crowd: Part 8
Central Park, December 8th, 11:12:31
Donna wandered into the 79th street entrance of Central Park, and glanced around for the familiar figure of Miranda Priestly. Off in a field, she noticed a woman with a massive, energetically galumphing St. Bernard, and had to double-take when the crest of white hair above a high-collared jacket identified the casually dressed figure as Miranda.
Donna smiled to herself, and wandered closer to the unlikely pair, snow gathering in the cuffs of her jeans.
“Hello,” Miranda smiled, resting her hand on the other woman’s arm. “Did you find us all right?”
Donna nodded. “Yes- you’re directions were great. Do you live far from here?”
The editor shook her head, the curls of her bangs falling into her eyes. “Not at all. East seventy-third. We’re just around the corner.”
The innkeeper returned the woman's smile, and was about to comment when Miranda’s dog decided she was feeling left out of the greetings and leapt towards Donna, her massive paws landing on the woman’s chest and flattening her on the ground. The editor smirked and half-heartedly tried to call Patricia off.
“I thought you said,” Donna wheezed, “that she was a dog, not a Saskwatch.”
“She’s really remarkably well-behaved,” Miranda commented dryly.
“I can see that,” Donna offered sarcastically, trying valiantly, but with little success, to remove a heavy forepaw, which at present was painfully squashing her left boob into a pancake.
“Patricia, komma här!” Miranda directed clearly. The dog retreated to her side, tongue lolling in a contented smile. “Patricia, sitta!” Patricia sat, albeit on Miranda’s foot. Wincing, the editor glanced at a smirking Donna, who was trying to massage the left area of her chest back into shape. The minxy fashionista patted the St. Bernard’s massive head fondly. “Close enough.”
Donna laughed, and grabbed the other woman’s hand when Miranda offered to help her up. “You didn’t mention the dog was multi-lingual, either.”
Miranda made a rueful expression. “She’s not. Patricia only actually responds to Swedish, anything else is a fluke. When the girl’s father and I got divorced, I wanted them the first Christmas, and I took them to a ski resort called Vallåsen, in Sweden. That’s where we found the much smaller, much cuter version of this ungainly creature.” Miranda’s features softened into a look of concern. “Did she hurt you?’
“Nothing a breast implant won’t fix,” Donna quipped cheerfully. “I’ll have Tanya put me in touch with her plastic surgeon. So“ she continued cheekily, “Patricia is Swedish. Even the dog is a cosmopolitan.”
Miranda made an abused face. “Twin six year olds, a puppy, at Christmas time. Could you foresee an alternative?”
Donna took a shaky breath. Did Miranda just mention twins? The other woman stared at her with a quizzical expression, and the blond collected herself quickly. Now was not the time to be delving into the future. “You’re just a big softy, aren’t you?” she denounced the editor fondly.
“That’s an accusation I haven’t heard,” Miranda said, running her fingers around Patricia‘s ears. “Shall we walk? I wanted to show you the Shakespeare Garden.”
The two women, accompanied by a wandering Patricia, made their way along the meandering path through the park.
“So you’ve been living in Greece,” Miranda began somewhat awkwardly. She really didn’t have any talent for small talk.
“I was touring with my band,” Donna offered.
The editor looked surprised. “You were in a band?”
“The Dynamos,” the innkeeper expanded. “I was twenty- and we were in Greece. I met this guy, we really hit it off, then he tells me he’s actually engaged, and takes off. I went into rebound mode, and wound up pregnant with my daughter, Sophie.”
Miranda took a moment to absorb the influx of information. “And you stayed in Greece?”
Donna sighed heavily, and looked over her shoulder under the pretence of checking Patricia’s location. “My mother told me not to bother coming back. She was such a good, devout Catholic. Besides,” she continued stoically. “I had work on the mainland. After I had Soph, when she was about three, I bought a rundown Villa on an island and turned it into a business- quaint romantic getaway shtick, you know the deal. Anyway, I’ve lived on KaloKairi for nearly twenty years.”
“So what about you?” Donna asked. “What’s the back story of the Miranda Priestly?”
Miranda grimaced. “Born in England to working class, Jewish parents- I hated the thought of being stuck in one place my entire life, to stagnate. I’ve always wanted more. So I dropped out of high school, took off to France, and interned at a fashion house. Opportunities presented themselves, I took them- somewhere along the line, I changed my name.”
“You did?” Donna asked, sounding surprised. Miranda nodded, clearly reluctant to divulge. The blonds’ eyes twinkled mischievously, and with a cajoling, coy smile, she sidled closer to Miranda. “So what’s your real name?”
“My legal name is Miranda Priestly, but,” Miranda sniffed, “I was born- and don’t you dare laugh- Miriam. Miriam Princhek. My god, I hated that name. Anyway- I worked at several publications, until I was editor in chief of the French Chic- and then I moved to New York to take over Runway.”
“You don’t have an accent,” Donna remarked sceptically, shoving her hands in her pockets.
“Of course I do,” Miranda argued. “I’m speaking ’American’ right now.”
The innkeeper shot her companion a disbelieving look. “I don’t believe you.”
Miranda took a calming breath and prepared to make a complete fool of herself. Snubbing her nose with a careless thumb, she launched into her retrospective performance. “Gawdon Bennet! ‘Ere I am, standin' on display, an' you don’ adam’n eve it?”
Donna snorted, but the editor was in full swing now. “Jesus Donna! I'm tellin' you, I was born wivin spittin' distance ov Bow Bells, an' you're tellin' me you don't believe it? Know what I mean?”
Donna shoved a mittened hand against her mouth, and almost suffocated herself trying not to laugh. Miranda was not to be swayed from her hilarity, however, and exhibited no sympathy towards her gasping friend.
“Lawd above!” the fashionista offered expansively. “What is it? The shoes? The bee 'ive 'undred jonny rollar trousers?”
“Quit it-” Donna wheezed, “I’m gonna pee my pants!”
“Awright geezah!” Miranda drawled. “You're a sweet girl, Donna, but 'ere I figured you was in'elligent, an' all. Sorted mate.”
Donna doubled over, hiccoughing and gulping for air. She couldn’t help it. Miranda Priestly, standing there in her Prada pumps, killer jeans, and high collared jacket, spewing Cockney, was far too incongruous an image for her mind to handle.
“Something funny?” Miranda inquired innocently, reverting mercifully back to her ‘American’ accent.
Gasping, choking, Donna slowly reined herself in and sniffed, wiping at her eyes.
“May I continue?” the editor asked imperiously.
Donna nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“So anyway-” Miranda smirked, all to pleased at how thoroughly she had reduced the other woman to hysterics. “I took over Runway, met the girl’s father, got married, and had the twins at 39. I was seven months pregnant, huge,” the silver-haired woman paused to make an expansive gesture in front of her stomach, “and convinced I wasn’t going to live through the labour. Two weeks later, I was fine, but,” Miranda suddenly became very serious, all evidence of her previous light-heartedness evaporating with alarming speed. “No one except the girl’s father knows this- The girls aren’t twins- they were triplets. I lost one.”
Miranda wandered over to a nearby bench and sat down tiredly, staring off into the bare branches of the surrounding trees. Donna paused, and after a moment of indecision begat by fear, joined her.
“She was just too small,” Miranda offered sadly. “I blamed myself, obviously. Too old to carry, too much stress. She was too small,” she repeated forlornly. “And there was nothing I could do, no sacrifice-the-mother-to-save-the-child deal to be made. Greg wanted to move on, but for a long time, I couldn’t. I accused him of seeing Cleo as surplus, asked what he thought of Cass or Caro- if one of them was extra, too. It ended our marriage. But,” Miranda sniffled, betraying her heavy emotions. “Why should I complain? I have two beautiful, healthy girls.”
Donna removed a mitt, and reached for the other woman’s hand, holding it gently across her lap. “I’m so sorry, Miranda.”
The editor shook her head, and dashed the tears out of her eyes with her free hand. “It was a long time ago, and here I am, going on like this- and you-” She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t bring up Donna’s dead husband.
The blond squeezed the other woman’s hand more tightly; brushed her thumb over the crests of Miranda’s whitening knuckles. “Hush,” she soothed. “It isn’t a competition, honey.”
“Are you negotiating degrees of bereavement with me?” the editor offered through a wobbling smile.
“All I’m saying,” Donna began softly, “is that things like that, the loss of a child- they don’t just go away, no matter how much time has passed.”
Miranda nodded, and squeezed back meaningfully. “And how are you doing?”
The blond fidgeted with the corner of her scarf, and stood, pacing slowly around the bench. The editor, keenly feeling the loss of the warm hand in hers, fell quickly into step beside the agitated woman, and daringly reinstated her fingers between Donna’s.
“It’s still so surreal,” the innkeeper whispered strangely. “We were married for less than a year. He was out of my life for twenty years, and I mourned that particular loss. I lived like a freaking nun. This somehow feels familiar, but,” Donna stopped walking and looked into the other woman’s warm grey eyes, “I know he isn’t coming back this time. I don’t sleep well anymore, without that hope. Other than that- I don’t know. I’ve upended my entire life, and it’s easy to pretend that this is some sort of strange, extended holiday- that KaloKairi will be the same if I go back.”
“Have you considered talking to someone about this?” the editor prompted carefully. She was more than willing to listen to anything her companion had to say, but she felt unequipped; inadequate.
Donna waved off the suggestion flippantly. “Lots of people lost someone, Miranda.”
“So why are you less worthy of help?” the editor countered adamantly.
“I’m- I should be able to work through this,” Donna scoffed. “I always have been. Besides,” she smiled bravely. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
Miranda frowned. “I’m not exactly quality ‘listener’ material. Anyone on the street would tell you I’m a cold-hearted, career-obsessed bitch.”
Donna winced at the other woman’s harsh self-assessment. “They obviously don’t know you- or want to. It’s more fun to villainize someone, honey.”
“Maybe,” Miranda conceded, desperate to shift the conversation away from herself, from her failings as a human being. “I’ve come to terms with it all. But I’m in a demanding business- what happens if I can’t always be there, when you need to talk?”
“Then I wait a little while. I’ve waited this long.” Donna offered a warm smile. “I like talking to you, too.”
Winter Sundays
Donna and Miranda had been meeting in Central Park every Sunday, sometimes with, sometimes without Patricia, to walk the paths, to talk, to spend time knowing one another. Neither woman had spoken much of their unlikely connection, and neither wanted to.
Miranda often found herself wondering if the closeness between them had been brought about by the flash forward, by the feelings she experienced six months in the future. But the editor had always felt above influence- she could think for herself.
Yet something possessed her to tell Donna about Cleo- the only person she’d ever divulged her painful secret to. She could’ve told the twins- maybe she would, when they were older- but what good would that do them? Some ethereal vision of a lost sister; removed; disjointed. And it had felt good to talk about it, to admit her guilt to someone she felt wouldn’t judge her. Because everyone judged Miranda Priestly, like they knew her, like they had the right.
Similarly, Donna, being fairly wily, was beginning to mount suspicion that the suave editor of Runway was the woman in her flash forward. Late at night, as she lay awake in bed, she found herself conflicted as to how quickly Miranda was becoming a fixture in her new life.
She could understand Miranda’s involvement in her future in several months; their rapidly developing rapport seemed so natural. But the ex-innkeeper struggled to reconcile Miranda’s friendship with her flash forward. If that woman was Miranda, the way Donna felt about her then was something far more than friendship. Donna knew she was prone to ‘rebound’ behaviour- but honestly, that vision, that snapshot of the future had not been about bouncing off of potential lovers like a lost ball- it was different; it was sincere.
By proxy, neither woman had talked about their corroborating visions. Miranda was convinced that Donna had not seen her; terrified that she would shatter what was developing between them. And Donna, while curious about Miranda’s vision, and her own, was still too wary of how her future actions would reflect on her as a person; she was still consumed with guilt for moving on after the death of her husband.
It was one such Sunday. The weather was mild, the light cool, a gentle snow was falling. The day was grey, and the warming air surrounded them like a soft wool blanket.
Donna and Miranda were in the park, sans dog, meandering easily around one of the parks several outdoor rinks.
The editor, on a strange whim, looked suggestively towards the figures gliding across the ice in the distance. “Let’s go skating,” she suggested offhandedly.
“Skating,“ Donna mused reluctantly. “I‘ve been living in Greece for the past twenty years, hun. No skating. I’ll break an ankle.”
“You won’t,” the other woman offered, her tone light; coy. “I’ll help you. If it’s awful, we can stop.”
Donna was hard pressed to refuse. Miranda had never asked her for anything. In fact- Miranda didn’t ever ask anyone for anything, she demanded it. And the almost shy way which the editor voiced her desire to skate quickly overwhelmed any of Donna’s misgivings.
“I’ll go,“ Donna acquiesced slowly, “So long as you promise that if I break anything, you will be the one stuck pushing me around in a wheelchair for however long it takes my fractured limbs to heal. Got it?”
“We’ll hitch Patricia up to a sled,” Miranda joked, sensing triumph. “And start a new trend.”
Donna grumbled something unintelligible, and set off towards the rental hut on the far edge of the rink, a less than modestly gloating fashion editor grinning in her wake.
Miranda pushed the blades of her skates against the ice, shifting her weight from leg to leg, moving lithely backwards, beckoning Donna with outstretched hands.
Her companion, who moved slowly towards her, wore a grin of small triumph- until a fast moving man in a pair of beat up hockey skates swerved too close and knocked the blonds’ precarious balance out of orbit. Donna wavered for a moment, before toppling spectacularly backwards.
"Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?" Miranda fell quickly to her knees beside her spread eagle friend, hands assessing for injury.
Donna, who had yet to open her eyes, opened them then. "I'm fi-" she began, vision filled with an ethereal image. "I'm...fine..."
Her lips worked, but coherent speech eluded her. In the cool grey light of the winter's sky, Miranda appeared in a halo of silver hair, her ivory skin shimmering. Concerned blue eyes, piercing in contrast, looked down at her as flecks of snow glinted, floating down around them. As if driven by the same gravity, pulling the crystals of ice towards the earth below, Miranda leaned down, pressing her mouth gently against her friend’s, her nose cold against a soft, warm cheek.
With a sort of reverence, the editor pulled slowly away, and opened her eyes. Donna lay there in a kind of limbo, her body thrumming hotly in contrast against the ice. She searched Miranda's eyes, and the editor sighed again, her breath warming, as if in apology, the place where her chilled nose had pressed.
Smiling, Donna reached up and pushed the soft wave of hair away from Miranda's eyes, searching; seeing something, not regret, but fear. Gently, Donna pulled her friend down to her mouth, the second kiss less marred by shock, lips pressing, breaths enthralled with one another warmly.
Miranda pulled away again, wearing what she was sure must be the stupidest grin ever to grace her austere features. She was surprised by, but not unwelcoming of the tears stinging her eyes. Finally.
"My ass is freezing," quipped Donna suddenly, struggling to find purchase on the slick ice; struggling to say anything.
Miranda, grateful that the silence was broken, offered a cursory glance at the back of the other woman’s jeans. "Looks pretty hot to me," she murmured.
Donna flustered a little, then getting a hold of herself, slapped the editor's thigh playfully, losing her balance again in the process. She rested in defeat on the rink.
Miranda rolled her eyes heavenward, snowflakes gathering on her lashes; melting on her warm cheeks. “Come home with me?” she implored suddenly.
Startled, Donna quirked an eyebrow. It wasn’t that she was unwilling- but what exactly had the other woman just asked her, because it had sounded an awful lot like a ‘let’s go back to my place’ line.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Miranda warned, grinning. “Yet. My girls are home, and I do need to feed them supper.”
The blond blushed spectacularly, and Miranda, feeling benevolent and not a little turned on, leaned forwards and graced her companion’s pouting mouth with another kiss.
“Okay,” Donna mumbled against the gentle onslaught. “Okay.”
Miranda and her guest entered the townhouse quietly. Donna, who was overwhelmed by a wave of déjà vu didn’t noticed the twin heads peering blatantly over the banister.
“It’s her,” Caroline whispered loudly.
Miranda watched in maternal fascination as Cassidy rolled her eyes.
“I know, silly. I told you mom would bring her home eventually.”
Donna, who was only just getting accustomed to the familiar surroundings, followed Miranda’s fond gaze towards the stairs.
“It’s them,” she whispered, staring unabashedly at the girls leaning over the railing.
The editor chuckled, and gestured for her daughters to descend. “This,” she said, taking one girl under her arm, “is Caroline. Note the freckle above her left eyebrow. And this,” she grabbed her other daughter and patted her affectionately on the head, “is Cassidy. Her eyes are a bit greyer than Caroline’s. If you mix them up, they’ll never forgive you.”
“Mom,” Caroline whined, taking in Donna’s fearful expression. She turned towards their flabbergasted guest. “She’s kidding, Donna. If you mix us up more than once, we’ll never forgive you.”
“Freckle, Caroline,” the blond recited dutifully. “And grey eyes, Cassidy. Got it.”
Miranda smiled, and brushed Cassidy’s bangs out of her eyes. “I’d introduce you Donna- but it seems as though that would be a bit redundant at this point.”
“Duh,” Cassidy offered singularly, and grabbed Donna’s hand. “Want to come see our rooms?”
The blond cast an inquisitive look towards her friend, and when Miranda nodded indulgently, followed the girls up the stairs.
Half an hour later, when all the stuffed animals had been introduced by name, and all the posters had been ranked in order of the hottest actor, Donna found herself sitting around a large, marble island in the kitchen, picking at her plate of chicken kiev and sautéed french beans.
The twins chatted animatedly, and Miranda watched the scene with one eye, assessing Donna’s subdued demeanour with the other. When the food was gone, and the dishes sat expectantly by the sink, the editor shooed her children upstairs to finish their largely ignored homework, and pulled her guest towards the sitting room.
“You were quiet through dinner,” Miranda commented carefully. “Are you okay?”
Donna nodded distractedly, her attention focused on a family photo which sat on a nearby side table. “Did you see me?” she asked finally, her voice quiet.
Miranda had been dreading this moment; had been dreading trying to explain to this woman how much she knew. “I did, yes.”
Donna nodded, and continued to stare at the photo. It was a picture of Miranda and her girls, all three engrossed in what appeared to be a marathon of cookie-baking. “I saw you, too. But I didn’t see your face. I wasn’t sure until you brought me here. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Miranda leaned forwards and caressed the other woman’s face, turning her head until their eyes met. “I didn’t want to say something that would influence our interactions. I didn’t want to focus on something that hadn’t happened yet.” She sighed, and shifted closer towards Donna. “I wanted to understand you now, in the present. I didn’t go looking for you, my darling. But I found you.”
Donna nodded, and pressed her face into the other woman’s soft hand. “I’m so glad she turned out to be you,” she murmured, tears gathering in her eyes. “I thought, for the longest time, that she had to be you. But I was drowning in my own guilt, too frightened to question anything, too scared of what being with you would mean.”
“And do you feel guilty now?” Miranda asked quietly. Everything suddenly hung in a precarious balance.
“I don’t know,” Donna admitted, gazing searchingly into the other woman’s eyes. “But whatever else I’m feeling right now, I want you.”
Miranda bit her lip, failing to repress the soft smile spreading like a warm light across her features. She leaned against her friend, her companion. Her lover. Lacing her hands together on her lap, blond waves tickling her nose, she sighed contentedly. “I want you, too.”