Just another fic from the vault, this one written for somniesperus's V-Day fic challenge last year on the Devil Wears Prada comm on LJ. Betaed by my lovely friend severuslovesme, and made entirely of crack. You've been warned.
Miranda always cut a dashing figure, but now, with one arm draped artfully across the table and the other supporting her chin, glasses dangling from her fingertips, she surpassed 'impressive' and made a beeline straight for 'downright intimidating.'
Thankfully, there were at least a few people in the building who could face that look and come out relatively unscathed.
Unless, of course, they were bringing unwelcome news.
…
"You're pregnant." Miranda didn't sound surprised so much as annoyed. "This is going to wreak havoc with the Paris schedule."
She shuffled a few papers around on her desk, glancing back up only after she realized that her guest had not yet departed. She raised an eyebrow, obviously awaiting an explanation for this aberrant behavior.
"Is that all you have to say?" her guest finally choked out, the words slightly squeaky and not nearly as assertive as they had been intended to be.
"What did you expect, my congratulations? Or perhaps you want me to make concessions for you because of your 'delicate' state?" Miranda's eyebrow had nearly disappeared into her hairline at this point, and her lips were in danger of thinning away to nothing.
Two hands landed, with unnecessary force, perhaps, on her desk, rattling the vase of lilies settled on the corner. Miranda lifted her head to find herself staring into the face of a quite possibly deranged employee.
"I'd like you to acknowledge the fact that this is a scientific impossibility!" Nigel hissed the last two words, leaning even closer and glancing around the office to make sure he hadn't been overheard.
Miranda waved her hand, as if dismissing all the laws of science at once. "Surely you're just being dramatic? It's not like I haven't done impossible things in my life."
Nigel wished that he had hair to tear out. "I'm not talking about terrorizing models into posing in uncomfortable positions for hours on end, or wrangling another budget increase from Irv Ravitz. I'm talking about the fact that I am currently growing a child where there shouldn't even be anything to hold it!" He threw his hands up into the air, panting slightly, but deflated when Miranda seemed unfazed by his outburst.
Miranda shook her head. "Well, you're the one who got yourself into this situation. Maybe next time you'll think before you do something rash, like getting yourself pregnant." With that, Miranda made a shooing motion with her hand, ushering him out of her office. "Be sure to inform Emily about this development before you go back to doing your job."
Nigel was left gaping at the top of Miranda Priestly's head as she looked over photo spreads. He ran his hand over his face, sighed deeply once, and, when that didn't get a reaction, turned and left the room.
No one would look at him, instinctively sensing the brand of Miranda's disapproval on his forehead, and he reached his office unaccosted by a single smile or word of greeting. He flopped down in his chair, tilting back until all he could see were the (stylish, of course) fluorescent lights on the ceiling.
Nigel sighed again, wondering why there was no sympathy for a pregnant man like there would be for a pregnant woman. He finally acknowledged it – he was pregnant; honest-to-goodness, crazy biological impossibilities notwithstanding, pregnant. And that, he knew, came part and parcel with bloating, morning sickness, and stretch marks.
Oh, God, these fabulous pants were never going to fit his horribly distorted body ever again. This was an unmitigated disaster. He grimaced at the thought and came to a decision.
He was going to kill Joshua when he got home.
No need for condoms, his ass.