Job Security
Feb. 3rd, 2009 11:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chainofcloversTitle: Job Security
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: R?
Disclaimer: These characters are certainly not mine.
“Hello, Miranda,” Andy Sachs said warily, and walked quickly away from the rushing water of the fountain so she could better hear the inevitably outraged reply.
“The car is waiting where you left it and the driver is expecting you back. Just get inside; I’ll deal with you later.”
“O-okay,” Andy choked, and that was all she had time to say before Miranda hung up the phone.
Andy didn’t hurry as she walked back to the car. She stepped slowly and carefully, her head turning from side to side as she relished the crowds of people, the pretty Parisian sights, and the strange feeling of freedom that lingered in her stomach even though, for all she knew, she was walking toward her own execution. All too soon, the vehicle was in view. The driver nodded tersely as he rushed to open the door. His hurrying seemed to indicate that he’d been warned—this one might try something, this one might break away.
Miranda didn’t come back to the car for nearly an hour and a half. The driver was illegally parked, so he engaged in an endless cycle of driving around the block and pausing near the doors of the building. Andy was infuriated by the fear that crept into her thoughts as she wondered if this trip around the block, or this one, would be the final one before Miranda would unleash her murderous calm. She was fearful for herself, angry for Nigel, and increasingly perplexed as to why she was throwing herself back at Miranda’s side. She tried to slow her thoughts down long enough to compose a speech for Miranda about why she ran away—no—chose to leave, but knew the task was futile when she saw Miranda making her way down the stairs and toward to car. Miranda seemed composed as ever, not even pausing to brush her hair back from her face when the wind mussed it. Even nature couldn’t challenge Miranda’s public sense of poise. However, as soon as the door closed on the fascinated crowd and Miranda settled herself in the seat next to Andy, it was obvious for the second time in less than twenty-four hours that that famous poise wasn’t immune to absolutely everything.
They were deep into traffic before Miranda opened her mouth.
She stared at the back of the front seat and breathed “God damnit,” barely audibly. She turned to face Andy, her eyes piercing but not blazing. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered hoarsely. “Do. Not. Leave. Me.”
Andy nodded, but her vocal chords felt trapped under layers of ice. It was at least a minute before they thawed out enough for her to answer unthinkingly, “Don’t make me feel like I have to.”
Miranda spent the rest of the drive back to the hotel staring out the window, her hands pressed together until the veins in her pale wrists popped a rich blue, and her fingers were splotched red with the pressure. When Andy dared to look in the direction of Miranda’s head, she could see their reflections in the glass. Miranda eyes were vacant and her lips were so pursed they had practically disappeared. Her own face was fainter because of the distance from the window, her eyes wide and expectant. In spite of her anger and all the bad blood between her and Miranda, Andy felt the same way she had the evening before, when Miranda’s porcelain shell had fractured briefly but unforgettably. Andy had wanted to reach out, to hold onto Miranda for a moment, to set her back on earth.
She couldn’t do that. But as the car sped expertly through the city, it occurred to Andy that Miranda’s almost desperate-sounding admonition was akin to something like job security. It was time for Andy Sachs to make some changes.
***
For most Runway employees, any residual excitement from the trip to Paris evaporated seconds after the first post-Paris workday began at Elias-Clarke. Miranda was colder than ever, even more stingy with praise, and would not entertain even the most well-intentioned request that she regale those who had been left behind with tales from the Parisian runways. “We have a magazine to produce,” Miranda would softly intone. “We have our own shoots to schedule…why does it seem like no one is working?”
Privately, however, Andy retained plenty of excitement. She was flawlessly attentive and hardworking during the weeks following the return from Paris, but secret knowledge made even the latest nights more bearable. She could call up the feeling of walking away from Miranda, and it would pulse dangerously through her body. The only thing more vivid was her recollection of Miranda’s own desolation, the strange faraway gaze. She felt guilty, but there was something thrilling about having been exposed to Miranda’s pain. Those awful moments in Paris had infused her with confidence.
Andy began to test the limits of her newly secure position. She never gave Miranda cause to question the quality of her work or her commitment to Runway, but she knew full well that in Miranda’s office, personal carriage and presentation were nearly as important as job performance. Andy began to bring her breakfast into the office, trying to remain calm and collected as she munched a bagel or doughnut at her desk. Emily, on crutches and slighter of figure than ever, was aghast the first, second, and third time these breakfasts occurred. But Andy only grinned and kept eating. She also started to bring back some items that had hung, frumpy and shameful, at the back of her closet for months. She made sure to pair the clunky heels or ill-fitting skirts with pieces impeccably selected by Nigel, never wearing more than one fashion disaster at a time, but she made no effort to hide the reappearances of these Old Andy artifacts. Nigel made virtually no effort to hide his scoffing laughter, Emily appeared incensed as usual, and none of the other staff dared question Miranda’s little favorite on her wardrobe choices. But these reactions mattered little to Andy in comparison to the attention she was getting from the devil herself.
When Miranda’s critical eye lingered over the fattening breakfasts, Andy made sure to raise her eyebrows and smile a winning smile. When Miranda inspected Andy from head to toe, smirking or frowning depending on the severity of today’s faux pas, Andy had no qualms about smirking or frowning right back. And before innocently asking “Is there anything I can do for you, Miranda?” she sometimes dared to gaze blatantly at the curves and sophistication of Miranda’s body. Unless Miranda actually wanted to utter something as embarrassingly hypocritical as “Why are you looking at me?” or “Keep your eyes off my body,” there was nothing at all she could say.
After a couple of weeks, Andy began to wonder if Miranda might be enjoying these newly indulgent breakfasts and awkward stare downs. On one occasion, Miranda had been unable to hold back a tight-lipped smile until she could turn around and head back toward her office. It was time to bring out the big guns.
The cerulean sweater had always been roomy, but even with the bagels and doughnuts it was surprisingly large on size-four Andy. It seemed especially baggy after she paired it with tight black slacks, gorgeous leather boots, and tasteful silver earrings. She knew Miranda had no early meetings that Friday morning, and could hardly wait to see her reaction as Andy strode into her office with piping hot Starbucks. Nothing could have prepared Andy for Miranda’s response, however. Andy set down the coffee, smiled, and said, “Good morning, Miranda.” Miranda quickly turned a genuine gasp into a pathetic imitation of throat clearing, rasped “Come here,” and then got up herself and walked around the desk toward Andy. Her eyes filled with tears—tears!—and she reached out and grasped the hem of the sweater between her thumb and pointer finger. The other three fingers grazed Andy’s hip, but as quickly as she made contact she pulled her hand back. “I’m sorry, ah, never mind,” she said lamely. “Things have been…” she trailed off.
Andy took a few steps backward, toward the office entrance. “No, I’m sorry. I’ll just…be at my desk.”
Miranda nodded, looking confused. The vacant eyes and the creases around her mouth were back, but Andy felt nothing resembling confidence.
***
That night, Miranda returned to the townhouse after a long dinner with a few executives from Anne Klein and was greeted by the pajama-clad Cassidy and Caroline. “We’re just about to watch Nanny McPhee, Mom! Will you watch with us?” Cassidy asked. “Can we make popcorn? Please?” added Caroline.
“I’ll come watch in a few moments; you two get started. Mother needs some time to herself. And yes, you can share one bag of microwave popcorn.”
“Yesssss!” the girls cried, as Miranda laid her coat on an end table and headed to the master bedroom. She was glad the girls were in good spirits; she’d had to break the news of Stephen’s departure the night she got back from Paris, and they’d been practically impossible to handle for days. More than once, she walked past their bedroom doors at night and could hear crying coming from Caroline’s and television from Cassidy’s. Miranda was always torn between trying to comfort Caroline and telling Cassidy to shut off the TV, but the only time she’d tried both, neither girl would talk to her or look her in the eye. She wondered if they needed space, and made a mental note to find a book or article on pre-pubescent daughters coping with divorce. She hadn’t found the time yet, and was relieved that at least tonight they were having fun and getting along with each other.
She headed upstairs to the master bedroom, and ran a bath while she took off her heels, suit, and stockings. The water was so hot it distracted her, but once her body had adjusted to the heat the day’s events came rushing back. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the marble edge of the tub. Andrea’s face floated onto the projection screen behind her eyelids, and the feel of that damn sweater ghosted between her fingers. Miranda was typically exhausted at the end of the day, and was rarely moved to touch herself, but tonight the same fingers that had so thoughtlessly clutched at Andrea Sachs slipped between her own legs. The water was slippery, but she was quick and rough in her motions. There was no love in it, and when she came only a couple of minutes later the orgasm was sharp but dissipated before it could warm up her insides. Unsatisfying, she thought. Ridiculous. She laid limp in the tub until the water grew cool, feeling restless and old and not even bothering to wash.
She was sitting on the couch in between her daughters, who were being uncharacteristically clingy and cuddly, when she heard the door creak open. It was Andrea, with the Book, and although every ounce of sanity left in her tired mind suggested she stay right where she was, she walked from the TV room into the foyer just as Andrea was hanging the dry cleaning in the hall closet. “Give the Book here, please,” she said, and Andrea started and turned toward Miranda. Her coat was partially unbuttoned, but there was no cerulean in sight.
“Oh, good evening, Miranda,” she said slowly, as if she were trying to read Miranda like a complicated novel and carry on mundane conversation at the same time. She looked Miranda up and down as she handed over the Book, and as Miranda set it on an end table, she looked down at her own silk slippers, comfortable but tailored slacks, and gauzy sweater. “Sorry to bother you.”
“No, no, I’m just watching a film with my girls, and—”
“Miranda?” Andrea swallowed noticeably. “Were you…all right today?”
Miranda narrowed her eyes, and opened her mouth to put Andrea back in her place, but remembered the bathtub and the sweater and her displaced anger instead. She shook her head slowly from side to side.
“I didn’t think so,” Andrea said softly. She stepped forward, shut her eyes, and placed her hands firmly on either side of Miranda’s waist. The only sound audible was the quickened breathing of the two women.
“Oh God,” Miranda said. Andrea was still wearing those boots, and Miranda was several inches shorter. She tilted her chin upward, but even with her ability to safely edit her memories, she would never be able to take credit for the kiss. It lasted for less than a second, and ended with Andrea rushing wordlessly from the townhouse, but it happened, it did happen, and it wasn’t the last.
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: R?
Disclaimer: These characters are certainly not mine.
“Hello, Miranda,” Andy Sachs said warily, and walked quickly away from the rushing water of the fountain so she could better hear the inevitably outraged reply.
“The car is waiting where you left it and the driver is expecting you back. Just get inside; I’ll deal with you later.”
“O-okay,” Andy choked, and that was all she had time to say before Miranda hung up the phone.
Andy didn’t hurry as she walked back to the car. She stepped slowly and carefully, her head turning from side to side as she relished the crowds of people, the pretty Parisian sights, and the strange feeling of freedom that lingered in her stomach even though, for all she knew, she was walking toward her own execution. All too soon, the vehicle was in view. The driver nodded tersely as he rushed to open the door. His hurrying seemed to indicate that he’d been warned—this one might try something, this one might break away.
Miranda didn’t come back to the car for nearly an hour and a half. The driver was illegally parked, so he engaged in an endless cycle of driving around the block and pausing near the doors of the building. Andy was infuriated by the fear that crept into her thoughts as she wondered if this trip around the block, or this one, would be the final one before Miranda would unleash her murderous calm. She was fearful for herself, angry for Nigel, and increasingly perplexed as to why she was throwing herself back at Miranda’s side. She tried to slow her thoughts down long enough to compose a speech for Miranda about why she ran away—no—chose to leave, but knew the task was futile when she saw Miranda making her way down the stairs and toward to car. Miranda seemed composed as ever, not even pausing to brush her hair back from her face when the wind mussed it. Even nature couldn’t challenge Miranda’s public sense of poise. However, as soon as the door closed on the fascinated crowd and Miranda settled herself in the seat next to Andy, it was obvious for the second time in less than twenty-four hours that that famous poise wasn’t immune to absolutely everything.
They were deep into traffic before Miranda opened her mouth.
She stared at the back of the front seat and breathed “God damnit,” barely audibly. She turned to face Andy, her eyes piercing but not blazing. “Don’t leave me,” she whispered hoarsely. “Do. Not. Leave. Me.”
Andy nodded, but her vocal chords felt trapped under layers of ice. It was at least a minute before they thawed out enough for her to answer unthinkingly, “Don’t make me feel like I have to.”
Miranda spent the rest of the drive back to the hotel staring out the window, her hands pressed together until the veins in her pale wrists popped a rich blue, and her fingers were splotched red with the pressure. When Andy dared to look in the direction of Miranda’s head, she could see their reflections in the glass. Miranda eyes were vacant and her lips were so pursed they had practically disappeared. Her own face was fainter because of the distance from the window, her eyes wide and expectant. In spite of her anger and all the bad blood between her and Miranda, Andy felt the same way she had the evening before, when Miranda’s porcelain shell had fractured briefly but unforgettably. Andy had wanted to reach out, to hold onto Miranda for a moment, to set her back on earth.
She couldn’t do that. But as the car sped expertly through the city, it occurred to Andy that Miranda’s almost desperate-sounding admonition was akin to something like job security. It was time for Andy Sachs to make some changes.
***
For most Runway employees, any residual excitement from the trip to Paris evaporated seconds after the first post-Paris workday began at Elias-Clarke. Miranda was colder than ever, even more stingy with praise, and would not entertain even the most well-intentioned request that she regale those who had been left behind with tales from the Parisian runways. “We have a magazine to produce,” Miranda would softly intone. “We have our own shoots to schedule…why does it seem like no one is working?”
Privately, however, Andy retained plenty of excitement. She was flawlessly attentive and hardworking during the weeks following the return from Paris, but secret knowledge made even the latest nights more bearable. She could call up the feeling of walking away from Miranda, and it would pulse dangerously through her body. The only thing more vivid was her recollection of Miranda’s own desolation, the strange faraway gaze. She felt guilty, but there was something thrilling about having been exposed to Miranda’s pain. Those awful moments in Paris had infused her with confidence.
Andy began to test the limits of her newly secure position. She never gave Miranda cause to question the quality of her work or her commitment to Runway, but she knew full well that in Miranda’s office, personal carriage and presentation were nearly as important as job performance. Andy began to bring her breakfast into the office, trying to remain calm and collected as she munched a bagel or doughnut at her desk. Emily, on crutches and slighter of figure than ever, was aghast the first, second, and third time these breakfasts occurred. But Andy only grinned and kept eating. She also started to bring back some items that had hung, frumpy and shameful, at the back of her closet for months. She made sure to pair the clunky heels or ill-fitting skirts with pieces impeccably selected by Nigel, never wearing more than one fashion disaster at a time, but she made no effort to hide the reappearances of these Old Andy artifacts. Nigel made virtually no effort to hide his scoffing laughter, Emily appeared incensed as usual, and none of the other staff dared question Miranda’s little favorite on her wardrobe choices. But these reactions mattered little to Andy in comparison to the attention she was getting from the devil herself.
When Miranda’s critical eye lingered over the fattening breakfasts, Andy made sure to raise her eyebrows and smile a winning smile. When Miranda inspected Andy from head to toe, smirking or frowning depending on the severity of today’s faux pas, Andy had no qualms about smirking or frowning right back. And before innocently asking “Is there anything I can do for you, Miranda?” she sometimes dared to gaze blatantly at the curves and sophistication of Miranda’s body. Unless Miranda actually wanted to utter something as embarrassingly hypocritical as “Why are you looking at me?” or “Keep your eyes off my body,” there was nothing at all she could say.
After a couple of weeks, Andy began to wonder if Miranda might be enjoying these newly indulgent breakfasts and awkward stare downs. On one occasion, Miranda had been unable to hold back a tight-lipped smile until she could turn around and head back toward her office. It was time to bring out the big guns.
The cerulean sweater had always been roomy, but even with the bagels and doughnuts it was surprisingly large on size-four Andy. It seemed especially baggy after she paired it with tight black slacks, gorgeous leather boots, and tasteful silver earrings. She knew Miranda had no early meetings that Friday morning, and could hardly wait to see her reaction as Andy strode into her office with piping hot Starbucks. Nothing could have prepared Andy for Miranda’s response, however. Andy set down the coffee, smiled, and said, “Good morning, Miranda.” Miranda quickly turned a genuine gasp into a pathetic imitation of throat clearing, rasped “Come here,” and then got up herself and walked around the desk toward Andy. Her eyes filled with tears—tears!—and she reached out and grasped the hem of the sweater between her thumb and pointer finger. The other three fingers grazed Andy’s hip, but as quickly as she made contact she pulled her hand back. “I’m sorry, ah, never mind,” she said lamely. “Things have been…” she trailed off.
Andy took a few steps backward, toward the office entrance. “No, I’m sorry. I’ll just…be at my desk.”
Miranda nodded, looking confused. The vacant eyes and the creases around her mouth were back, but Andy felt nothing resembling confidence.
***
That night, Miranda returned to the townhouse after a long dinner with a few executives from Anne Klein and was greeted by the pajama-clad Cassidy and Caroline. “We’re just about to watch Nanny McPhee, Mom! Will you watch with us?” Cassidy asked. “Can we make popcorn? Please?” added Caroline.
“I’ll come watch in a few moments; you two get started. Mother needs some time to herself. And yes, you can share one bag of microwave popcorn.”
“Yesssss!” the girls cried, as Miranda laid her coat on an end table and headed to the master bedroom. She was glad the girls were in good spirits; she’d had to break the news of Stephen’s departure the night she got back from Paris, and they’d been practically impossible to handle for days. More than once, she walked past their bedroom doors at night and could hear crying coming from Caroline’s and television from Cassidy’s. Miranda was always torn between trying to comfort Caroline and telling Cassidy to shut off the TV, but the only time she’d tried both, neither girl would talk to her or look her in the eye. She wondered if they needed space, and made a mental note to find a book or article on pre-pubescent daughters coping with divorce. She hadn’t found the time yet, and was relieved that at least tonight they were having fun and getting along with each other.
She headed upstairs to the master bedroom, and ran a bath while she took off her heels, suit, and stockings. The water was so hot it distracted her, but once her body had adjusted to the heat the day’s events came rushing back. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the marble edge of the tub. Andrea’s face floated onto the projection screen behind her eyelids, and the feel of that damn sweater ghosted between her fingers. Miranda was typically exhausted at the end of the day, and was rarely moved to touch herself, but tonight the same fingers that had so thoughtlessly clutched at Andrea Sachs slipped between her own legs. The water was slippery, but she was quick and rough in her motions. There was no love in it, and when she came only a couple of minutes later the orgasm was sharp but dissipated before it could warm up her insides. Unsatisfying, she thought. Ridiculous. She laid limp in the tub until the water grew cool, feeling restless and old and not even bothering to wash.
She was sitting on the couch in between her daughters, who were being uncharacteristically clingy and cuddly, when she heard the door creak open. It was Andrea, with the Book, and although every ounce of sanity left in her tired mind suggested she stay right where she was, she walked from the TV room into the foyer just as Andrea was hanging the dry cleaning in the hall closet. “Give the Book here, please,” she said, and Andrea started and turned toward Miranda. Her coat was partially unbuttoned, but there was no cerulean in sight.
“Oh, good evening, Miranda,” she said slowly, as if she were trying to read Miranda like a complicated novel and carry on mundane conversation at the same time. She looked Miranda up and down as she handed over the Book, and as Miranda set it on an end table, she looked down at her own silk slippers, comfortable but tailored slacks, and gauzy sweater. “Sorry to bother you.”
“No, no, I’m just watching a film with my girls, and—”
“Miranda?” Andrea swallowed noticeably. “Were you…all right today?”
Miranda narrowed her eyes, and opened her mouth to put Andrea back in her place, but remembered the bathtub and the sweater and her displaced anger instead. She shook her head slowly from side to side.
“I didn’t think so,” Andrea said softly. She stepped forward, shut her eyes, and placed her hands firmly on either side of Miranda’s waist. The only sound audible was the quickened breathing of the two women.
“Oh God,” Miranda said. Andrea was still wearing those boots, and Miranda was several inches shorter. She tilted her chin upward, but even with her ability to safely edit her memories, she would never be able to take credit for the kiss. It lasted for less than a second, and ended with Andrea rushing wordlessly from the townhouse, but it happened, it did happen, and it wasn’t the last.
