Title: Letters

A/N: I'm not totally satisfied with this, but I hope you like it anyway.

You knew this day was coming.

Truthfully, you had known it was coming for a while now. You could feel the change in the air, you could see it when you looked at her. Somewhere within the last year Andréa had matured significantly, and her time at Runway was bound to come to a close. You just had not known that day would be today.

Damn it.

She had mentioned in passing about speaking with the editor of the New York Mirror and asking for a letter of recommendation. She'd met said editor, Greg something or another at one of your functions, and impressed him with her charm and resume, aside from doing some free-lancing in her own time. She was quite good, even you had to admit that to yourself.

Admittedly, you didn't have much faith in her at the beginning, but she's proven you significantly wrong. You had to stop yourself from wishing that you had been a little less truthful in that letter of recommendation, knowing that any publication would be trying to scoop her up quickly with such a glowing report from Miranda Priestly.

Oh, well.

Except it wasn't that simple. What exactly are you supposed to do without Andréa? Things just ran impeccably smoothly when your first assistant had become so adept at anticipating your every need or desire. Of course Emily was good, but it's not hard to see that Andréa was much better. Jessica, the new second assistant was passible you supposed, but it would be a while before she was anywhere near an impressive level. Sigh. You don't have a choice now. Andréa is leaving. And you can do nothing to stop her.

And her letter of resignation that sat mocking you on your desk just seemed so final. It was clean, crisp, and to the point, but managed to still contain Andréa's comforting personality. It told you the basics: she was leaving in two weeks, she would find and train a new girl to be second assistant, and her three years at Runway had been by far the most influential in her life. The thought of that last part makes your chest ache a little but you would rather not analyze why.

Three years. Dear God, had it been that long? You supposed that seemed pretty accurate. Andréa was no longer the awkward arrogant girl who stumbled in with the wind from Northwestern simply because Auto Universe captured her attention even less than Runway. A year was what was required of her, but she stuck around for two more. It's quite apparent that she's beginning to outgrow this position, and it's time for you to let her go.

She's matured beautifully, developed her own writing style and sense of fashion, but managed to still keep her friendly, open persona. You are going to miss her. And if you were reading correctly between the lines of her resignation letter, Andréa was going to miss you as well.

Being the editor of Runway without Andréa by your side is like trying to do it all without your left hand. It's possible, but not something that sounds pleasing in the least. You shouldn't feel such attachment, but everything about her pulls you in without your permission. You can be cold, and calculating, and brutal. But Andréa somehow understands that this is just you in pursuit of pushing your magazine to be the best it can possibly be. She's not intimidated, or put off, and you are immeasurably grateful.

Two weeks. That's how much time you have to wrap your head around this. You hope at the end of these two weeks the urge to pull Andréa close and kiss her senseless every time she walks by suddenly disappears.

You didn't think it would be this hard.

People always say that leaving anywhere is difficult. They say that change is difficult as well. But you've changed and left behind many parts of your life within the last few years seemingly without even blinking an eye. You left Cincinnati behind with a wave of your hand and a big dream in your head. You left behind your old relationship with Nate over two years ago when he expressed that he didn't like who you'd become. When your old friends inclined to agree with him, you left them behind too. Gone with the wind. Now, you knew that you were better off for it.

There were new friends to fill in the holes of the ones that were gone, and new experiences to sit alongside old memories. People change and grow and move on all the time. So surely leaving Runway is no big deal. Right?

Wrong.

For all intents and purposes, Runway had been your whole life for these past three years. You can think of the time in happy, candid snapshots if you daydream long enough.

With little effort you can think up the time you and Nigel got so drunk on his strong vintage wine that you switched clothes, waking up with raging, mean, headaches and bruises you couldn't explain. Or the moment Emily walked in the office wearing a one-of-a-kind printed Chanel blouse you brought back from Paris fashion week, and you knew you were forgiven. Some of your favorite moments were from evenings filled with dinner and drinks, unwinding with your co-workers – the only people who truly knew the story of your plight.

You remember Miranda. Your mind is painted with times in the back of Miranda's town car, when her witty remarks made you laugh without your permission and the pretty, pleased smile that graced her features. You reminisce about her at galas and charity functions wearing gowns that she complimented, versus it being the other way around. Sometimes you can remember nothing else but her swaying backside in tight pencil skirts of all colors. You think of the way she says your name, and how you never, ever want her to stop. You can recall, even though you may not want to, the moment you fell in love with her.

You've no doubt spent more waking moments with Miranda Priestly than she probably cared to admit. And now, that time was regrettably coming to a close. You could practically do this job in your sleep, and that's why you knew it was time to move on. You majored in Journalism, god damnit, not hoity-toity skinny girl fashion. Although in retrospect part of you wishes that you had, because that would give you an excuse to stick around a little longer.

How was it, that one woman makes you cling so desperately to everything that you had come to this city claiming to despise?

You've never cared about fashion, not really, because you never had a reason to. To be honest, you still mostly don't. Nate never cared about your dumpy cheap sweaters and shaggy unflattering haircut, and you like to think that in spite of those things Miranda would have still kept you around. Clothes and makeup don't determine how you do your job, they just make sure you don't embarrass your boss in the process.

But it's not even about the clothes, it's about how she looks at you while you wear them. You think of how Miranda's eyes sparkle when she sees you in boots of any kind, and that one time she told you (out loud!) that Chanel worked wonders for your figure. Those clothes are what made her notice you, they made her see you. She went from not giving you a second glance, to looking at you with appraisal from your bangs to your toes.

You think that without the free rentals from The Closet that you might have devoted entire paychecks to designer clothes if it meant that Miranda would give you that daily nod of approval.

You worried over your letter of resignation far longer than you slaved over your final article of the Daily Northwestern. You didn't want to risk saying too much and freaking Miranda out, or not saying enough and have her be put off. It's a very fine line. But how exactly were you supposed to say to your boss I feel like I am better with you, and I want to stick around and show you exactly how. Possibly forever.

The solution is simple: you don't. And just hope to heaven that she somehow just gets it.

Everything will be taken care of in preparation of you leaving, you've made sure of that. You wanted Miranda to miss you, but you didn't want her to flounder completely in your absence. Before that letter even made it to her desk you had begun interviewing hopeful candidates for the position of second assistant. After looking through about thirty resumes you finally found a few girls that you hoped Miranda wouldn't chew up and spit out in a day. You wish these girls had sent in pictures so you could tell which ones looked the sturdiest, knowing your boss could smell weakness.

You've made lists. Particularly, lists of crucial things that no one ever told you. They contain such gems as, Miranda's coffee order and how it better be scalding hot, unless the new girl is prepared to wear it around after her boss throws it at her. You write down every name of every contact person you can think of – designers, photographers, makeup artists, caterers, dog walkers, personal shoppers, that one guy from that one store Miranda likes - everyone. Hunting for these people when you needed them was a job in itself, and you want this transition to be as seamless as possible.

You tell the new girl to text Roy whenever she senses that Miranda may or may not be leaving the building. They guy is literally paid to drive around New York City all day, its better he be ready than in some obscure location facing Miranda's wrath over the phone.

The hypothetical new girl gets warned that for every function she must know the names, hobbies, and sordid details of anyone who seems remotely important. She is warned that Miranda will most likely choose to wear something timeless, beautiful, and black, and she had better choose something that compliments it, because Miranda Priestly is anything but tacky.

You leave out a few particular details, probably because you are the only crazy person on the planet who faces the next set of specific problems. You do not tell the new girl to brace herself for when Miranda takes the first morning sip of the latte you've brought her, and how the contented hum she lets out makes you want to caress her cheek and kiss her coffee tainted lips.

You neglect to mention that failing to give Roy enough notice for Miranda's retrieval will result in her angrily sulking on the sidewalk outside of Elias-Clarke, ready to toss an insult at whoever happens to be standing closest. Your replacement doesn't need to hear about your urge to smooth away the displeased frown line that is sure to appear on your boss' face, or how she sometimes looks adorable when she's angry for no reason.

There are plenty of reasons you leave these minute details tucked neatly into the back pocket of your brain. The principle one being that you do not want to be locked in an insane asylum by your (now, almost former) boss for the foreseeable future. How would you start a writing career from a mental hospital, anyway?

The remainder of your time at Runway is coming to a close, and you have no idea how to face it. The best course of action, of course, is denial. If you pretend to not care, it will perhaps start to work eventually. You should feel happy, right? This was a horrible, stifling environment, filled to the brim by brainless people with questionable morals. You met no one and did nothing of importance. You will not miss it at all.

Yep.

You'll keep telling yourself this. You will try, the hardest you can, to believe it.

Somehow life happened and a week has gone by. Just seven more days, and Andréa will be gone. You know in the back of your mind that it's not right to feel such despair, but you can't push the feeling away.

You've never been one to believe in a happy ending. However at this moment, you are so remarkably unhappy, that this cannot possibly be the end. This is the first time you've had to try so actively not to sulk. It's no one's fault that your assistant is a talented writer, who was bound to move on some time. It is no one's fault that the time has presently come.

Nigel is the only man brave enough to not only step into your lair, but to ask you personal questions once he gets there.

"What's up with you? You're in a mood." He says this casually while placing a mock-up layout in front of you, in a way that you can ignore him if you want. He won't be offended.

You are surprised, but school your features into your default mask of indifference. For some unknown reason you choose to sort-of answer him. He's one of the few people who shows genuine concern towards you. "Some people would argue that I am always 'in a mood,'" you say in reply. You kind of want to wipe the affectionate smirk off of his face for knowing you so well.

Minutes pass, and the layout has your stamp of approval pending your suggested changes. Nigel begins to retreat, but stops and looks at you long and thoughtfully. Years of practice and focus have disciplined you not to squirm. "You know," he murmurs and cocks his head to the side, "You don't actually have to let her go."

You give him your coldest glare, and he offers a shrug and a smile in return.

He's right. Damn it all, not only is he right, but he knows, and he's smug. You should have known someone was bound to see through the cracks and realize that your heart isn't as cold and stony as you make it seem. You're in love with Andréa, and you've got to tell her. All you need now, is a plan.

You make a mental note that if this turns out right, you will send a gift of whatever he wants to your oldest and dearest friend.

You expected the last day of your career at Runway to be a solemn occasion. However, the world does not in fact revolve around you, because tomorrow the magazine will continue to produce excellence – with or without you aboard.

The day passes much too quickly for your tastes. Designers call, you answer. Miranda commands, you fetch. Everything goes on just as it should. Well, it does until your boss mentions casually as you hand her a photo fax from Demarchelier, "Andréa, I'd like for you to deliver the book this evening."

Huh. That's weird. Book duty has been Jessica's job for a year now, and suddenly on your last day, the task once again belongs to you. Your face looks confused, you're sure, but a raised eyebrow from Miranda prompts you to just smile and nod.

When you pass Jessica's desk she just gives you a look that says "better you than me," as she slips the key off her keyring. Well at least it's certainly not the weirdest thing you've done in the last three years. Heck, one more night of dropping off the book for old time's sake won't kill you. It might even give you some closure.

It's a surprise that anyone bothers to throw you a "bon voyage" party at all. Some of your friends have made it clear that they don't read the New York Mirror and that they think you're crazy for leaving. Plenty have warned you that no matter how boring your new job may be, boxy pant suits are always a no and that plum-colored lipstick will be very in this season. Don't forget. You laugh encouragingly even though you know that soon couture fashion will probably be the least of your concerns.

The party itself (if it could even be called that) is a small affair in the conference room by the elevators, as far away from Miranda's office as possible, lest she be disturbed. Some of your co-workers even give you small gifts. Emily even stops in from her new position in the art department, although you get the feeling she was bribed, possibly with cubes of cheese, by Nigel and Serena.

Nigel, being the clever man he is, gifts you with your favorite long leather Chanel boots and a can of corn chowder. Ha-ha. Serena sweetly fills a cosmetic bag with makeup samples from the beauty department. The most surprising gift is Emily's – small glass bottles of her bold nail colors to urge you to "stop being so boring for Christ sake."

All in all, the afternoon is both upbeat and reminiscent in a way that puts a lump in your throat. You try valiantly and unsuccessfully to not feel disappointed when Miranda does not show up.

Your feet are achy and the blouse you're wearing probably looks fantastic, but is becoming exceedingly uncomfortable as the night wears on. Still though, you don't complain while grabbing the dry cleaning and The Book from the backseat of the town car, and climbing Miranda's front stairs. Roy rolls his window down and says goodnight, then prepares to drive away. You try to stop him, but he tells you that he was given distinct orders to leave after dropping you off. For a moment you wonder if you should worry about your life being in danger.

Jessica's key slips easily into Miranda's door, and when you swing it open, the faint smell of her perfume comforts you without your permission. It will hurt tomorrow, when it sinks in that you may never get the chance again to inhale her scent. The dry cleaning goes in the closet by the stairs, and you walk further into the house in search of Miranda, to bring her the book. You assume she wants to talk to you, since Roy was sent scurrying away.

Miranda calls your name in the way that she does, and you drift toward it, almost against your will. Like a sailor to a siren, you are a lost cause. Expecting to find her in the nook by the study, you head there only to find the desk empty.

She is in the kitchen of all places, standing next to a set table – complete with candles – looking beautiful and inexplicably anxious. Nervous is an emotion that looks decidedly strange on Miranda Priestly. You walk into the room and set the book down on the island adjacent to you. The closer you come, the more Miranda looks as though she might just faint.

She wrings her hands and then as if realizing the horrid habit, smoothes invisible wrinkles first down the bottom of her cowl neck sweater, then over her skirt.

It's at this point that you look around the room. The lights are dimmed, and two places are set at the table. Now that you've had a chance to take a breath, the food indeed smells amazing. Once again you look at the woman across from you, hoping for some sort of explanation. This situation looks mysteriously like a date, and your heart may just beat out of your chest if that turns out to be the case.

"Miranda," you start, then run your fingers through your hair searching for words, "What? I… this…" She cuts you off before you can further embarrass yourself.

"Andréa." He voice is surprisingly steady for someone who looks as though they are about to pass out. You know the feeling.

"It has come to my attention," she says softly, "that I have feelings for you." She stumbles at the next part, "Um, romantically."

Her cheeks turn a little pink, and she lets out a breath. Both of you are standing a couple feet away from one another, and it's a good thing, because if you were any closer to her, the smile on your face may have blinded her.

"Well Miranda," you say very softly, knowing she can hear you, "that's a really strange coincidence."

You're feeling bold now, and take a few steps toward her, even grasp her hand gently. "I too am interested in you," You can't help but chuckle a little when you finish, "Romantically."

She looks incredibly relieved, which makes affection blossom in your chest. Her breath catches pleasantly, but she no longer looks like she needs a deep breathing session into a paper bag.

Miranda squeezes your hand in hers gently before letting go, and pulls out one of the chairs for you at the dining room table. You sit far daintily than you ever have, and watch as she takes her own seat. Dinner is comprised of roasted pork tenderloin, crispy red potatoes, and seasoned crunchy green beans. When you mention that it looks and smells fantastic, she tells you that she hopes it compares to a meal prepared by "the cook" (Nate) because she worked hard on it. For you.

At the look on your face, she tells you not to look so surprised that she is in fact capable of completing a task for herself. You worry that you have offended her, but the twinkle in her eye suggests that she was just trying to rile you up. Her signature smirk actually does just that, but in a way that she probably had not intended.

You had expected this meal to be an awkward, fumbling event, but you are pleasantly surprised. Miranda Priestly is charming with her composed sense of humor and sharp wit. Not to mention the woman not only cooked a delicious meal for you, but set the mood with lighting, ambiance, and table decoration. Everything she does, she does well.

This night was completely unexpected in the most pleasant of ways. Who knew that Miranda Priestly was an old-school, lady-wooing, soppy-sweet romantic? Certainly not you.

Dinner is finished in a whirl of blushing and good conversation. As it turns out, when Miranda's affection is directed solely at you, your heart tends to beat a lot faster. Or maybe that's just because she suggested you move this meeting into another room. Possibly one with a couch. That you will sit on. Together.

By the time your physical functions have caught up with your brain, Miranda is standing next to you offering a hand to help you out of your seat. You take hers, and use it to pull her closer to your body after you stand. She complies, and accepts your hands on her hips, as her arms wind around your neck. You spend a moment just being close to one another, savoring the shared space after years of being no closer than a few feet apart. The moment itself feels like a deep breath.

It's still somewhat hard to believe that your hands are on Miranda's hips, just inches away from her glorious behind, and her hands are on your neck, caressing it softly at the base, making you shiver just a little. Your stomachs are touching, and if you angled yourselves just right, your breasts could be too. It's not the time for that though, you decide, because you would much rather focus on the enticing lips in front of you, and how to attach them to your own.

It's apparently not as complicated as you thought, because when you lean in to taste her, she's already halfway there. She's used those warm gentle fingers of hers to gently pull you towards her mouth. As far as comparisons go, if Miranda Priestly is a excellent chef, she is an exceptional kisser.

A series of soft, gentle kisses acquaints you with Miranda's mouth. You try to keep things going slow, listening to the sounds she makes. Your intentions are not to rip her clothes off in her kitchen only about an hour after you both confessed feelings for one another. You can't help it though, when these kisses take a turn for the passionate.

Miranda's sucking on your bottom lip, and massaging the hair at the base of your skull, which turns your stomach inside out in the most pleasant way. You faintly recognize a throbbing want settling in between your legs. Your hands at her hips are massaging up and down her ribcage, and her shiver lets you know that she may perhaps be in a similar state.

Air, which seemed fairly unimportant a few moments ago, suddenly becomes quite a pressing need, and your lips come apart with and arousing "pop." You look into the blue eyes of the woman you adore and contemplate your day. It is without a doubt the best last day, of anything, you've ever had.

Somehow you both have ended up in your upstairs study atop your gigantic leather couch. You always knew this massive peace of furniture was good for sleeping, and relaxing, and stretching out with The Book. As it turns out, it also happens to be wonderful for making out.

This make out session started innocently enough, with the two of you facing each other, your left foot and her right still firmly on the floor. However, Andréa's lips were just so soft and warm and pleasingly plump that you couldn't resist leaning in to taste them once again.

You do not know whose hands wandered first, but somewhere after the initial brushing of lips, your hands were on her waist and her tongue was sensually sliding against yours. Andréa leans backwards, taking you with her, and the feeling of her body beneath yours makes you moan. She smiles into the kiss, and it makes you love her just a little more.

Your kisses get deeper and more passionate, and you feel like you might just roast out of your skin. Andréa is letting out these delicious little whimpers, and her hands feel like fire on your back as she grasps at the skin under your sweater repeatedly. Her legs fall open and you sink between them, happy that she was smart and wore pants. You move your kisses from her lips to the side of her neck, and the breathy moan you get in response goes straight to your core.

You don't even want to know how wet you probably are from simply kissing your former assistant. It's your goal to make her even a fraction as turned on as you are, not to mention her amazing breasts have been taunting you all night from the v-neck of her blouse. Not taking your lips from her neckline, you test the waters by moving your right hand from her ribcage higher, inch by inch, until it reaches the underside of her bra. You hear no signs of disapproval, so you boldly lift your palm to cover her breast. Andréa gasps and her hips rise to collide with yours. Oh. You certainly were not expecting that.

Encouraged by her actions, you squeeze her breast tentatively, then with a little more force when you feel her nipple harden in your hand. She moans, and turns her head to once again claim your lips. At this point her hands have started to do some wandering of their own. Her focus is no longer on your back, but has now shifted slightly lower to your behind. Those hands dip down your thighs, gathering the material of your skirt and lifting it out of the way. When it's high enough, you think about how her hand will soon be on your ass, and she's about to discover just how ruined your lace underwear has become. You are too turned on to care.

You are unprepared for the surge of arousal that comes when she palms both of your ass cheeks and grinds you into her center. God, it feels amazing, and if things do not slow down, you realize that you are on the brink of coming undone, on top of Andréa, on the leather couch in your study. You are both panting heavily, your hand is on her breast, and she's palming your behind, and grinding your centers together, and you've never been more turned on in your entire life.

She slips one of her legs outside of yours, and as a result you have both clicked together like puzzle pieces. Your knee is against her center, and her knee is against yours and nothing in all the world has ever felt so right. Those fabulous hands of hers are still palming your backside like there's no tomorrow. Andréa looks into your eyes and you are fearful for a moment that she's about to confess something you aren't quite ready to say. "Do you know," she husks into your ear, not missing a beat, "how much I love," she kisses your mouth, and you think she's about to say- "your ass."

You can't help it, you laugh. You toss your head back and laugh at the wonderful beautiful girl who has the gumption to crack a joke in the middle of her driving you crazy. She smiles and looks extremely pleased with herself, but you wipe the smugness off her face, when you suck hard enough on her neck to mark her and make her gasp.

You know you have reached the point of no return, your orgasm being just few minutes away, so you decide to at least reveal a little skin. The buttons on her top fall easily open under your fingers and she's suddenly against the pillows in her bra. Your skirt's zipper comes undone and you're suddenly in your underwear against her thigh. Your clothing is uneven, but it's the least of both of your concerns.

Your hips are moving again, grinding against her and she's grinding against you and you're so, so close. She's palming your bare ass underneath your fancy underwear, and you're palming her bare breasts underneath her bra, and you've both decided that before this night your hands have been wasting time being in any other place. Her thigh's probably a little damp and your leg is too, but the motion of two sets of hips only picks up in frantic speed. God, you're not going to last long at all.

All it takes is her moaning your name, and you explode, feeling her shudder underneath you as well. Wow.

It's a very good thing Andréa is no longer your assistant, because you should not feel the need to snuggle into the smoothness of her neck when she comes down from her high. She's panting but looks all flushed and happy and delicious that you can't really help it.

You know that you should at least move to the bed, but when you suggest this to Andréa she holds your hips in place and asks to stay here for just a little longer. You are happy to comply. You know that from this moment on, you are powerless to deny her anything she may possibly ever want.

Much later you are in bed. You are both stark naked, and Andréa's leg strewn across yours under the covers is keeping you grounded and warm. Your hand is stroking the soft hairs on top of her head, while your mind's wheels spin absentmindedly. You are in a sleepy state of contentment that will lead you to dreamland soon.

Still there is something weighing on your mind before you lose consciousness. In part, you have another person to thank for your current predicament, so you wonder what to send Nigel as a gift for not letting you let her go.

A/N 2: Thank you so much for reading, if you made it this far. I enjoyed writing this.

A/N 3: I can't decide if I will write a second part to it? Maybe, maybe not. It truly depends on if my brain thinks of something else to say, and how busy Thanksgiving will be lol.

A/N 4: I have made a tumblr for my fics, in case not all the drabbles I write make it to . It's hearrtonmysleve dot tumblr dot com. I am taking prompts there always!

A/N 5: As always, thank you thank you thank you all so very very much.

-A