Title: Remembrance

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I do not own The Devil Wears Prada, its storyline or main characters.

A/N: This is a break from the ordinary Miranda / Andy, and I can't promise smut and happy endings. For once, I was able to easily weave Mirandy & my own experiences. That being said, I welcome any reviews, but please be kind. I'm not up for harsh critiques of my life today.

Remembrance

Sipping her coffee, she opened her newspaper. Today was November 11, Armistice Day, Veterans' Day, Remembrance Day. Five years, eight days ago, her grandmother died. Five years, four days ago, she touched her for the first time, sharing an embrace when she returned from the funeral. She looked into her eyes and said, "You poor thing, your eyes—you look so exhausted." Her soft hand caressed her tired cheek, and she held her tightly against her own body. If she weren't being supported by the woman, she feared she would actually collapse to the ground. But somehow, she made it through. Five years ago, on "Armistice Day" as she preferred to call it, she comforted her again, tracing soothing circles on her back. She hosted a dinner party, and even the small crowd was too much for her. She wasn't seated next to her, but something made her get up and ask Jim to switch seats after they had eaten. She wanted to be near her, she wanted to put her arm around her, to comfort her. "How are you doing? her soft voice asked. "You can go lie down upstairs if you'd like." "No, I'm fine. I'm fine," she insisted, not wanting to move from this spot with her comforting hand on her back.

Four years, eleven months, twenty-two days ago, they met for dinner one night. She doesn't remember who suggested it, but she remembers it being the first time she sat in the discreet neighborhood cafe down the block. She remembers struggling to find something to wear, tight jeans, heeled boots, a cashmere turtleneck, and her new jacket. She showed up in loungewear, had very little makeup, and still looked gorgeous. She doesn't remember the conversation. She remembers hugging again on the sidewalk in front of the cafe when they parted ways. The hug seemed to last longer than normal, didn't it? She couldn't be sure. She received so few hugs anymore, she didn't have anything to compare it to.

Four years, eleven months, eighteen days ago, she slipped a notecard on her desk. It was aquamarine with bright red hand-painted poppies, made of recycled paper. In the note, she thanked her. Expressed what was frozen when she saw her in person. She cherished that note, and kept it on her desk every day for the next year, possibly more. She replied with an email, thanking her for the thank-you, explaining that it brought tears to her eyes. It was the first non-business-related email they shared. They communicated back and forth all day, and somehow began talking about dreams. She mentioned her frequent migraines, how she can't sleep, and often has to resort to painkillers. She replied that painkillers give her horrible nightmares, that she has suffered from nightmares since she was a child.

Handwritten notes and emails continued for months, bringing them closer and closer together. Four years, ten months, twenty-eight days ago, she was sitting in her office late one night. "Do you have plans for Christmas?—I mean, the holidays, whatever you celebrate?" she asked. "No, I have no one. The girls are away, and it's just me," she replied. They discussed holiday traditions with family. She complained about her gigantic extended family, while the other woman bemoaned her own dwindling kin. "You know, once, my ex's family threw away my Christmas present because it was addressed to me with my maiden name," she said. "You—your ex?" she asked, hardly hearing the rest of the sentence. She didn't say "ex-husband," and that felt odd. As if she did not wish to reveal her sexuality. "Yes, my ex. I was married, twice actually, but I've been divorced for nearly ten years." More story-telling ensued. She told her about her gay best friend Kevin who lived in San Francisco, who she lived with during college, who she fell in love with once. She talked about her co-workers and peers, and how surprisingly difficult it was to be single. How she constantly felt judged, and how she turned down countless invitations knowing everyone else would be there with their partner. She wanted to find out more about this woman, wanted to really know her, but the fact that she worked for her kept creeping up, complicating things.

Four years, ten months, fifteen days ago, she opened up to her even more. She had sent several Christmas cards and a letter since she was spending the time with her family, away from her. She received no response, until finally, the day after Christmas, a long email appeared in her inbox. She talked about her brother, her demented mother, her dead father. She spoke of loneliness and depression, and her deep gratitude for the outpouring of kindness she found with her. She signed it "Love you, xx M." All she wanted to do was hold her and take away her dreams, love away her tears. From that moment, she never wanted anything more than to make Miranda happy, to bring a smile to her face.

She responded to the email that day, her emotions stirring, not seeming to taper. In reply, she explained how much she missed her, how much she wanted to be there with her to hold her hand, to provide company to her solitude. The next day, she wrote again, a quite devastating email. Andrea doesn't remember the details, but she remembers the one word that stood out to her above all else: boundaries. Miranda was nervous, scared, and wanted boundaries. Wanted professionalism. But Andrea read that she did not want her in her life.

Four years, ten months, eight days ago, she returned to New York, and she met her at the cafe again, this time for lunch. Andrea brought flowers and apologized for overreacting to the "boundaries" email. Miranda listened as Andrea explained why they could keep doing what they were doing, how she wanted to be friends.

Four years, ten months ago, she kissed her cheek for the first time. Miranda knew Andrea was spreading herself thin. She had already dropped down to a size two, and Miranda was concerned that she wasn't getting the sleep and nourishment she needed. She called Andrea and asked her to stop by on a Saturday morning. When Andrea arrived, she ushered her into the kitchen and made her eat the very light lunch she had prepared of hummus, tandoori, and a light salad with a peppery lemon vinaigrette. Andrea was shaking as she ate, blaming it on the cold weather. Miranda handed her the cardigan she had been wearing. Andrea put it on. With the smell of Miranda enveloping her, she shivered even more, which caused Miranda to run upstairs and return with a down comforter to wrap around her. When Andrea left, Miranda wrapped her arms around the woman and hugged her. Andrea wasn't dreaming, it was an extremely long hug, and her face was buried in Miranda's neck. She pulled back slightly and looked into her eyes, kissing the young woman softly on the cheek before pulling her back in for a hug, sighing softly, contently.

Over the next three months, Andrea found herself going home with Miranda more often, staying for dinner, or just sitting around doing work while Miranda looked through the book or something. Just spending time together. And they always parted with a hug and kisses on the cheek, and even "I love you." One night, it was nearly two o'clock in the morning and they sat at Miranda's kitchen table, drinking tea. Andrea was working on creating the contact spreadsheet for Miranda's upcoming trip to Paris. Miranda was struggling to juggle fifteen tasks, none of which she would accomplish with her headache. Andrea stood behind Miranda's chair and softly kneaded her shoulders. Miranda surprised her with a moan. "Don't stop," she said, "that feels so wonderful." Andrea didn't want to stop. She wanted to massage every inch of her body, but didn't know how to say it.

Four years, eight months, three days ago, Andrea needed to find something to wear for a writers' conference. Miranda had been encouraging her to submit some of her work, but Andrea was so busy with Runway, she didn't have time. Still, she wanted to attend since she knew others who would be speaking. Miranda offered to help her select an outfit one evening. They headed to the Closet, and Miranda pulled a few smart, sophisticated garments for Andrea to try. There was a rather large dressing room in the back of the closet, much like at department stores, except the walls were movable cloth panels. Miranda handed Andrea the garments and followed her to the dressing room. Andrea thought Miranda would maybe stand outside, and was quite surprised when Miranda followed her into the dressing room and took a seat on the small chair in the corner. She was glad she was wearing matching bra and panties today, and glad she was not in a thong. She quickly slipped her own clothes off and tried on the items Miranda held, trying to avoid eye contact or conversation. In the mirror, though, she could see her staring at her body, eyeing her up and down, licking her lips.

Four years, six months, twelve days ago, Andrea chose to celebrate Miranda's birthday on a Saturday, two days prior to her actual birthdate. Andrea had spent over a month planning this, and wanted the gifts to be perfect. Of course, Miranda could afford anything she wanted, so the gifts needed to be special. Miranda suggested they drive an hour out of the city and go to a small movie theater. An international film was playing, one that she particularly wanted to see. Andrea wanted to cook dinner for her, so Miranda suggested they make one of her mother's favorite recipes, one that she didn't really know how to do: cabbage rolls. Andrea arrived at Miranda's that afternoon. The plan was to make the cabbage rolls, waiting until they returned from the movie to bake them. Andrea brought Miranda's gifts over and laid them out on the table in the downstairs living room, knowing Miranda would not see them. Miranda drove to the theater, choosing to take her old Jaguar, circa 1980. It was a stick-shift, and Miranda was probably the slowest driver she had ever been with, but she didn't mind because it meant more time with her in the car. Once they were cruising down the highway, Miranda moved her hand from the gearshift and placed it on top of Andrea's hand, resting on her leg. They held hands the entire ride, Miranda softly stroking Andrea's hand with her thumb. When they returned, Miranda put the cabbage rolls into the oven, set the timer, and met Andrea downstairs with a bottle of wine and two glasses. "I'm so glad you were born," Andrea said, "Happy Birthday, Miranda." After they clinked glasses, Miranda noticed the wrapped gifts on the table. "What are these?" "Just little things for you, Miranda." Miranda reluctantly opened the gifts. It had been years since she received gifts that someone had put a lot of thought into, even wrapped. The most important gift, the one Andrea worked so hard on, confused Miranda. It was a small wooden chest. Inside were hundreds of small pieces of paper. Affirmations, reminders, inside jokes, all in Andrea's handwriting, all entirely personalized. It had only really been six months since they grew so close, and it was as if every memory was documented somewhere within this box. Tears fell from Miranda's eyes as she read some of them. She hugged and kissed her, and then it was time to eat. They each had about two glasses of wine, and Andrea was sitting next to Miranda on the couch, resting her head on Miranda's shoulder, Miranda's arms wrapped around her. They talked and sat in silence for a long time. Eventually, Andrea slowly turned around and kissed Miranda on the cheek, then began trailing kisses down her jawline, down her neck, telling Miranda how much she loved her. Miranda softly pushed Andrea away. At arm's distance, she said, "Andrea, you're drunk, sweetie." "I am not!" she protested. "Sweetie, why don't you go upstairs and lay down for a while?" "No! Fine, I'm leaving," Andrea said. She couldn't take Miranda's rejection, not like this, not without explanation. Instead of facing her fear, she walked away and cried herself to sleep.

Four years, two months ago, Andrea left Runway after completing her year. With Miranda's help, she landed several high-profile interviews, and choose a position as a staff writer at Time magazine. Miranda promised they would stay in touch, that they could still email and text, and that they would still be able to get together for dinner and such. They did live in the same city, after all. But a month went by, and Andrea had not heard from Miranda. She sent emails telling her about her new job, describing the horrid fashion sense her editor had, asking Miranda how the new issue was coming, but she received no reply. Not even acknowledgment. Nigel and Emily answered Andrea's emails to them—they both reassured her that Miranda was busy and would probably respond when she had time. But, that never came. Week after week, Andrea received nothing. It was as if she did not exist.

One night, four years, twelve days ago, Andrea was taking the subway home from one of Lily's gallery shows. It was past midnight, and Andrea had been drinking. Still, she wanted nothing more than to talk to Miranda. She sent Miranda an email from the subway that night, simple, apologetic, reiterating that she loved her and missed her, asking her if they could meet for coffee at the neighborhood cafe in the near future. Miranda responded, and said she would be there Saturday at 12pm.

Four years, ten days ago, Andrea arrived at the cafe just before noon. Miranda was not there yet. When she arrived, Andrea smiled broadly and stood to hug the woman. Miranda responded, but this hug was short, quick, and included air-kisses. They sat down and Andrea immediately asked, "What's wrong, Miranda?" "Well, I might as well get it over with. I can't keep doing this. I need to find friends my own age. I appreciate what you've done for me, but it cannot continue. I mean, I still am interested in how you're doing, how your life is, but we cannot continue…this." Andrea was shocked. Tears streamed down her face, and she was glad she chose to wear large sunglasses. She was frozen. All she could do was nod in agreement, when every part of her body wanted to shout that it wasn't fair, that she wasn't too young, that they were so good together. "So, how is your grandpa doing?" Miranda casually asked. "Okay," Andrea answered, this time not at a loss for words, but rather, hurt. How could Miranda push her away like that, then go on to ask personal questions about her family? Andrea checked her phone, then quickly made an excuse to leave. She couldn't sit there with her anymore. She couldn't stare at that beautiful smile, knowing she would never have her, could never be friends with her. As she walked away, she realized all at once, that she was madly in love with Miranda, and that Miranda just broke her heart.

The next few weeks, Andrea sent Miranda a variety of emails, texts, and voicemails. She left Miranda a screaming, crying message, and the next day, left a crying apologetic one. She was all over the place, but knew Miranda would not respond. She replayed the last eight months in her mind over and over. Didn't Miranda make it clear she wanted this? Wasn't Miranda practically hitting on her—definitely flirting? Didn't Andrea make it clear what she wanted—even though now she realized she wanted all of Miranda, she wanted to taste her everywhere and possess her.

Three years, eleven months ago, Andrea showed up at Miranda's home. It was nearly ten o'clock at night. Andrea quietly knocked on the door, and Miranda answered right away. Andrea handed her a Christmas card and a small gift—a book, about the scientists of the Manhattan project. Andrea knew Miranda's father was a physicist working to create the Atomic Bomb, and knew this issue was close to her heart. Miranda thanked her for the card and gift, and asked her to come in and sit. Miranda brought Andrea a mug of cider and sat in her chair, talking to Andrea who was perched on the sofa. They made small talk. It was awkward. Miranda was so at ease, as if nothing had changed between them. She genuinely smiled when she looked at Andrea, and once Andrea got up to leave, she gave her a tight hug, lingering with her arms around Andrea's stiff body. Andrea didn't return the hug—she couldn't. She was so confused. All she wanted for the past few months was to feel Miranda, to hold her again, but she couldn't. Andrea went home sobbing on the subway, unable to hold back her emotions any longer. Miranda had mentioned needing to be a Runway early the next morning to review the Book, which had not been delivered. Andrea set her alarm and planned to be at Runway at 6am She needed to see Miranda, needed to have a real discussion with her one last time.

Three years, ten months, thirty days ago, Andrea arrived at Runway before Miranda and took a seat on the couch in her office. Within ten minutes, Miranda arrived, shocked to see Andrea there. "How did you get in?" she asked. "The security guards liked me." "Oh. I'm very busy this morning. I can't—" "No. Two minutes. I deserve two minutes, Miranda." Miranda nodded and tossed her coat and bag on her chair, then moved to sit next to Andrea on the couch. "Miranda, I just want to know why. Don't give me that bullshit thing about age. I just need to know why you're pushing me away. What I did wrong. I need to take something away from this other than pain." "Oh, sweetheart," Miranda said, reaching over to take Andrea's hand. "This is for the best. You need to find people your age, too. I'm not good for you." She reached her hand up to cup Andrea's right cheek, softly stroking with her thumb. "You'll understand. Give it twenty years." "But I don't want to wait twenty years!" "Sweetheart, you'll see," Miranda said with tears in her eyes as she got up and returned to her desk. Andrea silently stood and walked out of Miranda's office. She didn't know where she even found the strength to walk. When she reached the main doors, the doorman quickly hailed her a cab, seeing she was about to collapse.

For the next three years, Andrea cried herself to sleep each night. She dated, but none of the men she met even came close to Miranda. No one was as caring, as warm, as witty, as smart, as beautiful. Andrea tried, but couldn't do it. Even touching herself at night, imagining Miranda, did not help. It only left her more frustrated than ever. She sent several emails, a few postcards over the past few years. None were returned, but she received no replies either. Each and every day, she thought about Miranda at least once if not more. When she was at a loss for words, the only words on her tongue were "I love you, Miranda." Sometimes, when she was writing and trying to think of what to type next, her fingers would automatically type, "I love you, Miranda." Everything in the world reminded her of Miranda. At one point, she tried hating Miranda, even going so far as to pretend she were dead. Andrea kept post-its on her mirrors at home that said "Miranda is a bitch" and "I hate you, Miranda," but after seeing those day after day, she only felt guilty for betraying her love. All of her co-workers knew about this mystery woman Andrea was in love with, and despite their attempts to help her get over Miranda, nothing worked. Andrea had not seen Miranda since that December day, just over three and a half years ago. She hadn't seen her since, but any time she saw a woman whose profile looked similar, she practically jumped out of her skin. She didn't know what she would do if she saw her, and didn't have a plan, either.

One month, twenty-five days ago, Emily got married. Andrea kept in touch with Emily, and was happy for her friend who was madly in love with her fiancee John. Emily's wedding was a posh affair, and Andrea found herself without a date, so she politely declined the reception, but told Emily she would be sure to attend the church service. Andrea arrived at the church early. She didn't know that Emily was catholic. Actually, she didn't know about any of her coworkers' religious beliefs. She was ushered into the fifth pew on the bride's side, and was seated next to people she did not recognize. She took a deep breath, smoothed out her emerald sheath-dress and clutched her jacket tightly around herself. The service began, and Emily looked more beautiful than ever. Weddings always made Andrea cry. Thinking of Emily often reminded her of Miranda, but today, she would deal with that later. Today was about Emily and John, two friends for which she was indeed grateful. At the Sign of Peace, everyone in the church turned around to shake hands with each other, some sharing a small hug. Andrea watched as Emily greeted John's family, and as John hugged Emily's mother and brother. Andrea anxiously turned to the side to look around the church. It was very full, and others were being overly friendly during this part of the mass. That's when Andrea heard it. Nigel's voice, and Serena's reply. They were sitting in the row directly behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of white hair and sunglasses on porcelain white skin, and her striking profile. Andrea quickly turned to face front, visibly shaking. Did Miranda notice her? She was so close. It had been so long. During communion, Andrea bent her head down as if in prayer when she went up to the altar. On her way back, she avoided making eye-contact with Miranda, who was no doubt still seated. At the end of the mass, ushers were directing people so each row would file out in an orderly and timely fashion. Andrea couldn't face it. She didn't want to stand in the back of the church and run into Miranda. She excused herself and ran out the side exit, running through the church courtyard and across the street, where she sat on a bench and could still see the procession on the steps of the church. Her hands were dripping with sweat, and her entire body was twitching. She wanted to see Miranda so badly, but her fear of rejection held her back. What's worse, she thought, being forced to live with her memories, or trying and failing, and having her memories tainted forever? Shortly after Emily and John returned inside the church for photos, Andrea hailed a cab and headed back to the safety of her apartment.

Every day since then, Andrea thought of writing Miranda another email. It had been over two years since she last attempted to communicate. It would have made sense to send a simple email, that she noticed her at the wedding and it was nice to see her, hope all is well. But she couldn't do it. Miranda must not want to hear from me, Andrea thought. But then she remembered the look on Miranda's face, how happy the notes and emails made her, and she knew that was not true. So, here she was, sitting by herself, drinking her coffee, staring at the date on today's newspaper.

November 11. Armistice Day, the day marking the end of the first world war. Remembrance Day, when we remember all we lost during the war and where we've come since. For Andrea, it would always be a reminder that Miranda was and always would be a part of her life, whether she chose to participate or not. Eventually, Andrea knew she would cave and write to Miranda again. Perhaps, someday, she thought, after she was ready to pass Runway on to someone else, perhaps then, she would respond. Until then, all Andrea could do was hope and move forward, one step at a time, filling the cracks in her heart with memories of love.

THE END.