Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own "Ugly Betty" or any of the characters and/or brand names mentioned. I'm just playing around, like a cat with a mouse. No profit made.
A/N: Okay, guys, so the muse has possessed me yet again. (It's Christmas Break, no classes, YAY.) So anyways, I gotta warn everyone, this fic right here is angst-o-licious—kind of a downer but in a fluffy way, if you like B/D. Which I do. A lot. It'll probably be a few chapters long. Soooo….hope you like!
If anybody had ever told Amanda Tannen that she'd never be as rabidly jealous of anyone in her life as she was of Betty Suarez, she'd have laughed in their face and demanded a hit off whatever they were smoking.
She'd always scoffed at the rom-com notion of the attraction of "inner beauty," writing it off along with the notions of brains and talent as something fugly chicks used to comfort themselves on hot nights with Ben and Jerry.
It would have been infinitely easier to hate Betty, to mock her, had she been a sad sack of Bridget Jones-esque proportions. Betty, as it turned out, was just the opposite in every way. She had an effervescent cheerfulness about her that made being cruel—well, not exactly less fun, per se—but kind of like kicking a puppy or dropping a baby chick into a blender. Plus, she seemed so childlike, always, with her small, plump frame and Bambi-brown eyes and blue braces.
If Betty was at all aware of what she lacked in the looks department (and how could she not be, from Amanda's perspective), she didn't give any indication of it. So, it stood to reason that the first thing Amanda envied of Betty was her flat-out unwillingness (or inability) to give a shit. Amanda herself did nothing but give a shit. She gave a shit about the latest fashions, she gave a shit about hot parties in The Village, she gave a shit about the calories contained in the cheesecake she'd devoured and forgotten to throw up after glimpsing Betty and Daniel leisurely kissing on the elevator before the door shut.
Betty had just gotten her braces off that day, she'd reported excitedly to Amanda as soon as she'd walked in that morning, as if Amanda cared. But she had to admit, Betty looked almost cute, and when she caught herself thinking this, she had to turn away, refusing to be charmed, dazzled even, by that smile. That was the freaking trend nowadays, she guessed, being absolutely enchanted by this open enigma of a little girl. Daniel certainly was. Amanda had overheard Betty saying something inane to him, in her wholly unselfconscious way, that morning about her teeth feeling all slick now. And he'd responded by taking her face in his hands and kissing her, glimpses of tongue here and there, slow and leisurely, feeling for himself, she'd guessed.
This last, of course, was the kicker, such a powerful blow to Amanda's carefully cultivated and much-flaunted ego. Amanda had been so besotted, so full of herself, when she'd first started sleeping with Daniel Meade. But her every effort to keep the other Daniel Meade Girls at bay, to play the top bitch, the Queen Bee in a hive full of many, were met with gentle, deadly, knowing eyes, thinly veiled smirks, and outright giggles whenever she strutted over, bristling, claws out and ready, to warn them to stay away from her man.
But not with Betty. Oh no, when Betty had gently but firmly laid her claim, there was no preening, no bowing up, no catty threats required. No, for Betty, the other girls simply, wistfully, and more than a little quizzically, bowed out, knowing in the way that all women do that it was useless to separate the now ever-intertwined tour de force that was Betty Suarez and Daniel Meade. And Amanda had had no choice but to follow suit.
But she would NOT jump on the Betty-lovin' bandwagon, no way in hell, even though as the days passed her barbs contained less venom than the obligation to do what was face-saving, routine, in-character, in the face of the girl's persistent and unflagging kindness. Not even when Marc, the Judas, started referring to her as his "Little Chimichanga" for Crissakes, with something other than derision and scorn in his eyes.
When Betty didn't come charging into work full-steam ahead one morning, Amanda felt the lack. Not because she missed their morning back-and-forth-give-and-take (Betty could hold her own, she had to admit) or anything, God, no, but Betty was always just there, a colorful fixture even in her absence, since she'd painstakingly carved a place in the heart of Mode. If she didn't belong there naturally, she'd nestled on in for the duration, regardless. But something was different. Something was wrong; even Amanda, who even according to her best friend could barely get two neurons in her brain to fire at the same time, could feel it. So when she got the call that Betty had been caught in the crossfire of a mugging on the e-train, struck by a stray bullet and now lying in critical condition, Amanda went and reported the news to Daniel. She'd never seen him look quite like that before.
She went back to her seat at the reception desk. Marc strolled up with his manic grin, drawing breath, about to tell her whose boob had popped out at some party in Manhattan. She interrupted him, told him what happened to Betty. The grin froze on his face; he then wordlessly turned and went back to his desk in front of Wilhelmina's office. Amanda could see him take out his stupid sparkly inhaler.
There were phones to be answered, with the same company line she'd spit out a million times. She used it now.
"Mode Magazine, how may I direct…how may I…" She stopped and looked down at her hands.
For the first time in her life, she was suddenly at a loss for words.
See? Told you it was gonna be angsty. Next chapter will have a lot more D/B interaction, I promise. Reviews are not only appreciated, they are craved like Amanda craves cheesecake. So please do :)