Coco Chanel 1/?
Title: Coco Chanel
Rating: boring, so far
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Lauren Weisberger, except for Coco Chanel, she belongs to herself.
Author's Note: This is crack. I had really hoped to have this finished for Halloween, but that didn't really happen. So here's the first part, I hope to have it done by the end of the weekend, but no promises. Happy belated birthday to Telanu.
Prologue
It had long been said that something needed to be done about Miranda Priestly. The unshakable giant of the Runway enterprise had gone far too long without some sort of real enjoyment in her life.
“She’s just going through the motions,” Balenciaga said in rather thickly accented English.
“Nonsense,” Versace waved a heavily ringed hand. “She was doing that when I knew her. She’s fine.”
“Been divorced twice,” Poiret said. “That’s something.”
“The collapse of a marriage says nothing of love,” Madeleine Vionnet said sagely.
“Says the expert,” Balenciaga said waspishly.
“The point is,” Dior said quickly. “It’s affecting her work.” He pulled the early layouts of the September issue out of their case. “See, there’s no life here.”
“Well, it’s not dead,” Versace said. “I like Nigel’s juxtaposition here.”
“Nigel does not make the final decisions.”
“I like Nigel.”
“You just like him because he looks good in pants.”
“People,” Balenciaga held up his hands. “Settle.”
“Sometime has to be done,” Dior said.
“Fine,” Versace said. “What?”
“Andrea Sachs.”
The rest turned. “Beg pardon?” Dior raised an eyebrow.
“Andrea Sachs,” Coco Chanel repeated.
“Isn’t that,” Dior flipped through his notes. “Her assistant?”
“Bad skirts,” Balenciaga said.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Chanel,” Voinnet said. “I believe I might be missing the point.”
“The point,” Chanel sniffed, “is that Andrea Sachs is the one.” She waited for the looks of comprehension and delight, but only received blank stares.
“Are you sure?” Poiret said warily.
“You’d better be completely sure,” Dior said. “Because we only have twenty four hours and if it doesn’t work we have to wait till next year. And I’m not sure we can put it off another year, things might not survive.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Voinnet rolled her eyes. She turned to Coco, “How do you know?”
“Because,” Coco said softly. “I was in a very similar situation once myself.”
6 am
Every once in a while, Miranda had a dream about Coco Chanel. Under pressure, Miranda might admit she had perhaps an unhealthy interest in the deceased demigoddess of fashion, so the fact that Chanel haunted her dreams wasn’t completely random. The dreams were usually innocent situations, in Chanel’s Paris apartment (which Miranda had seen on a private tour) or walking on a street in Paris. Once they had sat together in the front row of a show while Coco commented idly on the current state of fashion. But the dream Miranda was currently in the middle of was not like the others. This was not an innocent dream. Coco Chanel was in her bed. They weren’t having sex, but from the twitch between Miranda’s legs the idea wasn’t totally out of the question.
Coco glanced around the room, “I like this apartment,” she said. “You have had it quite some time, no?”
“Um,” Miranda swallowed. “Eight years.” She’d bought it just after she divorced her first husband.
“How long since sex in this bed?”
Miranda choked. “Well - ” Her marriage with Stephen, now over, had not been what anyone would call a passionate affair. Sex with him had been akin to watching Sesame Street at age fourteen; it was charming, but there were better things to do. But when she looked back over the three years he had lived with her, it was an embarrassingly small number.
Coco arched an eyebrow, the effect was delicious. “How long has it been?”
Miranda forced herself to look indignant, “That’s really none of your business.”
Coco laughed, “Very well,” she chuckled. “Ms. Priestly -”
“Miranda,” she muttered.
“Of course, darling,” Coco toyed with the sleeve of Miranda’s nightgown. “I’m here to warn you.”
Miranda frowned at her.
“One gains certain, how’d you say? privileges, when they die. Most people use them to protect the institutions they build while they’re alive. I know Monsieur Jefferson is still trying to save that silly piece of paper he wrote.”
“Thomas Jefferson?”
“Oui.”
Miranda’s alarm blared. She woke with a groan and rolled over to turn off the buzzer.
“What an offensive sound.”
Miranda froze, she had just been having a dream about Coco Chanel in her bed and, she rolled back over, Coco Chanel was still in her bed.
“How?”
“It’s Halloween,” Coco smiled smugly. “Marvelous things happen.”
“Mom!” They could hear one of the twins coming up the stairs.
Miranda gasped against her will, “Get out,” she muttered to Coco. Coco didn’t move. The door flew open and Cassidy put her hands on her hips.
“Caroline ate all the Fruit Loops,” she said. She didn’t seem to notice the other woman in her mother’s bed.
“You weren’t supposed to have those anyway,” Miranda said. “I didn’t want your - ” she broke off. Coco Chanel was drawing patterns on Miranda’s exposed hip. Miranda glared at her, a glare that would have reduced any of her employees to a quivering heap of muscle tissue, but it seemed to have no effect on Coco Chanel. Typical.
“Mom!”
“What?” Miranda jumped.
“Cereal,” Coco said helpfully.
“Yes,” Miranda pulled the comforter up to her chin. Coco snorted. “Your father -” The patterns continued, Miranda squirmed. “Your father wasn’t supposed to buy them, have cornflakes.”
“But it’s not fair,” Cassidy said. “Caroline got good cereal.”
“You’ll have the same thing tomorrow,” Miranda said quickly. “Go eat before there isn’t time for any breakfast at all.”
As soon as the door closed Miranda rounded on Coco. “That was completely unacceptable. Why couldn’t she see you?”
“There would be no fun in that,” Coco murmured. She leaned closer until her nose, deathly cold, of course, brushed Miranda’s cheek. “Love today, you must make love today. It is imperative.” Then she was gone.
Rating: boring, so far
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Lauren Weisberger, except for Coco Chanel, she belongs to herself.
Author's Note: This is crack. I had really hoped to have this finished for Halloween, but that didn't really happen. So here's the first part, I hope to have it done by the end of the weekend, but no promises. Happy belated birthday to Telanu.
Prologue
It had long been said that something needed to be done about Miranda Priestly. The unshakable giant of the Runway enterprise had gone far too long without some sort of real enjoyment in her life.
“She’s just going through the motions,” Balenciaga said in rather thickly accented English.
“Nonsense,” Versace waved a heavily ringed hand. “She was doing that when I knew her. She’s fine.”
“Been divorced twice,” Poiret said. “That’s something.”
“The collapse of a marriage says nothing of love,” Madeleine Vionnet said sagely.
“Says the expert,” Balenciaga said waspishly.
“The point is,” Dior said quickly. “It’s affecting her work.” He pulled the early layouts of the September issue out of their case. “See, there’s no life here.”
“Well, it’s not dead,” Versace said. “I like Nigel’s juxtaposition here.”
“Nigel does not make the final decisions.”
“I like Nigel.”
“You just like him because he looks good in pants.”
“People,” Balenciaga held up his hands. “Settle.”
“Sometime has to be done,” Dior said.
“Fine,” Versace said. “What?”
“Andrea Sachs.”
The rest turned. “Beg pardon?” Dior raised an eyebrow.
“Andrea Sachs,” Coco Chanel repeated.
“Isn’t that,” Dior flipped through his notes. “Her assistant?”
“Bad skirts,” Balenciaga said.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Chanel,” Voinnet said. “I believe I might be missing the point.”
“The point,” Chanel sniffed, “is that Andrea Sachs is the one.” She waited for the looks of comprehension and delight, but only received blank stares.
“Are you sure?” Poiret said warily.
“You’d better be completely sure,” Dior said. “Because we only have twenty four hours and if it doesn’t work we have to wait till next year. And I’m not sure we can put it off another year, things might not survive.”
“You’re being dramatic,” Voinnet rolled her eyes. She turned to Coco, “How do you know?”
“Because,” Coco said softly. “I was in a very similar situation once myself.”
6 am
Every once in a while, Miranda had a dream about Coco Chanel. Under pressure, Miranda might admit she had perhaps an unhealthy interest in the deceased demigoddess of fashion, so the fact that Chanel haunted her dreams wasn’t completely random. The dreams were usually innocent situations, in Chanel’s Paris apartment (which Miranda had seen on a private tour) or walking on a street in Paris. Once they had sat together in the front row of a show while Coco commented idly on the current state of fashion. But the dream Miranda was currently in the middle of was not like the others. This was not an innocent dream. Coco Chanel was in her bed. They weren’t having sex, but from the twitch between Miranda’s legs the idea wasn’t totally out of the question.
Coco glanced around the room, “I like this apartment,” she said. “You have had it quite some time, no?”
“Um,” Miranda swallowed. “Eight years.” She’d bought it just after she divorced her first husband.
“How long since sex in this bed?”
Miranda choked. “Well - ” Her marriage with Stephen, now over, had not been what anyone would call a passionate affair. Sex with him had been akin to watching Sesame Street at age fourteen; it was charming, but there were better things to do. But when she looked back over the three years he had lived with her, it was an embarrassingly small number.
Coco arched an eyebrow, the effect was delicious. “How long has it been?”
Miranda forced herself to look indignant, “That’s really none of your business.”
Coco laughed, “Very well,” she chuckled. “Ms. Priestly -”
“Miranda,” she muttered.
“Of course, darling,” Coco toyed with the sleeve of Miranda’s nightgown. “I’m here to warn you.”
Miranda frowned at her.
“One gains certain, how’d you say? privileges, when they die. Most people use them to protect the institutions they build while they’re alive. I know Monsieur Jefferson is still trying to save that silly piece of paper he wrote.”
“Thomas Jefferson?”
“Oui.”
Miranda’s alarm blared. She woke with a groan and rolled over to turn off the buzzer.
“What an offensive sound.”
Miranda froze, she had just been having a dream about Coco Chanel in her bed and, she rolled back over, Coco Chanel was still in her bed.
“How?”
“It’s Halloween,” Coco smiled smugly. “Marvelous things happen.”
“Mom!” They could hear one of the twins coming up the stairs.
Miranda gasped against her will, “Get out,” she muttered to Coco. Coco didn’t move. The door flew open and Cassidy put her hands on her hips.
“Caroline ate all the Fruit Loops,” she said. She didn’t seem to notice the other woman in her mother’s bed.
“You weren’t supposed to have those anyway,” Miranda said. “I didn’t want your - ” she broke off. Coco Chanel was drawing patterns on Miranda’s exposed hip. Miranda glared at her, a glare that would have reduced any of her employees to a quivering heap of muscle tissue, but it seemed to have no effect on Coco Chanel. Typical.
“Mom!”
“What?” Miranda jumped.
“Cereal,” Coco said helpfully.
“Yes,” Miranda pulled the comforter up to her chin. Coco snorted. “Your father -” The patterns continued, Miranda squirmed. “Your father wasn’t supposed to buy them, have cornflakes.”
“But it’s not fair,” Cassidy said. “Caroline got good cereal.”
“You’ll have the same thing tomorrow,” Miranda said quickly. “Go eat before there isn’t time for any breakfast at all.”
As soon as the door closed Miranda rounded on Coco. “That was completely unacceptable. Why couldn’t she see you?”
“There would be no fun in that,” Coco murmured. She leaned closer until her nose, deathly cold, of course, brushed Miranda’s cheek. “Love today, you must make love today. It is imperative.” Then she was gone.