A Drabbic (Too long for a drabble, too short for a fic)
Title: Sunlight On the Garden
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not a farthing to my name. No Miranda either.
A/N: Title and lines of poetry from Louis MacNeice’s poem, “Sunlight On the Garden”, which can be found at the end. Unbeta’d, short and rather pointless. Oh, and yes, realistically morose. Or morosely realistic. I cannot decide which. Sue me.
The sunlight on the garden/ Hardens and grows cold
She meant to say that she couldn’t keep hurting her. She desperately wished to tell Andrea that she simply could not bear to watch the planes of her face soften and melt, like ice cream in the sun, wide eyes growing wider as another in a long line of unkind words whirred like a dervish through the space between them.
She longed to tell the girl that she was so exhausted, so tired of fucking things up that there were days that she wondered how she managed to navigate the room under her own power.
What came out was: “You need to go. I simply cannot do this anymore.”
When all is told/ we cannot beg for pardon.
The surprised hurt in the girl’s face always gave her pause. She had shattered every moment of tenderness, stripped bare every gesture, laid waste to every one of Andrea’s softly spoken words of love. Broken them as casually as the Lalique tumbler that slipped from her fingers to splinter into a thousand pieces against the marble floor of the kitchen.
And Andrea still managed to look surprised. As if this time, magically, by the grace of a far more generous God than Miranda ever believed in, things would be different. As if all the accidental smiles and shared glances, all the teasing brush of fingers and all the teasing brush of lips could somehow reshape Miranda into a woman who knew how to be happy. Into a woman who knew how to love.
“I’m sorry, Andrea. I just can’t do this.”
When the girl was gone, Miranda knew that she would sit very quietly and commit to memory all the things she knew of Andrea Sachs. Force her mind to catalog each moment, each still, frame by frame, the pain of it fresh and sharp and heady. Odd, really. She wanted to tell Andrea that she loved her. That Andrea had made her life as close to content as she had ever experienced. That she wished she could be what Andy deserved. Or at least, what she wanted.
As the girl turned to leave, Miranda took in a deep breath and spoke.
“Tell anyone and I will ruin you.”
We are dying, Egypt, dying/and not expecting pardon.
The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold;
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.
Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.
The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying
And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.
Louis MacNeice
Author: Fewthistle
Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not a farthing to my name. No Miranda either.
A/N: Title and lines of poetry from Louis MacNeice’s poem, “Sunlight On the Garden”, which can be found at the end. Unbeta’d, short and rather pointless. Oh, and yes, realistically morose. Or morosely realistic. I cannot decide which. Sue me.
The sunlight on the garden/ Hardens and grows cold
She meant to say that she couldn’t keep hurting her. She desperately wished to tell Andrea that she simply could not bear to watch the planes of her face soften and melt, like ice cream in the sun, wide eyes growing wider as another in a long line of unkind words whirred like a dervish through the space between them.
She longed to tell the girl that she was so exhausted, so tired of fucking things up that there were days that she wondered how she managed to navigate the room under her own power.
What came out was: “You need to go. I simply cannot do this anymore.”
When all is told/ we cannot beg for pardon.
The surprised hurt in the girl’s face always gave her pause. She had shattered every moment of tenderness, stripped bare every gesture, laid waste to every one of Andrea’s softly spoken words of love. Broken them as casually as the Lalique tumbler that slipped from her fingers to splinter into a thousand pieces against the marble floor of the kitchen.
And Andrea still managed to look surprised. As if this time, magically, by the grace of a far more generous God than Miranda ever believed in, things would be different. As if all the accidental smiles and shared glances, all the teasing brush of fingers and all the teasing brush of lips could somehow reshape Miranda into a woman who knew how to be happy. Into a woman who knew how to love.
“I’m sorry, Andrea. I just can’t do this.”
When the girl was gone, Miranda knew that she would sit very quietly and commit to memory all the things she knew of Andrea Sachs. Force her mind to catalog each moment, each still, frame by frame, the pain of it fresh and sharp and heady. Odd, really. She wanted to tell Andrea that she loved her. That Andrea had made her life as close to content as she had ever experienced. That she wished she could be what Andy deserved. Or at least, what she wanted.
As the girl turned to leave, Miranda took in a deep breath and spoke.
“Tell anyone and I will ruin you.”
We are dying, Egypt, dying/and not expecting pardon.
The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold;
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.
Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.
The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying
And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.
Louis MacNeice