Disclaimer: I own nothing of consequence to this story, especially not all the lovely ladies.
Warning: This story is FEM SLASH. That means that there will be ladies admiring other ladies' lady parts in a lustful and naughty manner. If this bothers you, you're in the wrong fandom. Also, YAY bewbs!
Pairings: Established Miranda/Andy (because they are legendary and I love me some Mirandy), and Serena/Emily, because they are a vastly understated pairing and deserve more lovin' and attention.
AN: This story does start out with a somewhat dark atmosphere, but one common theme in my writing is healing, either of physical wounds or wounds to the psyche and soul. I tried to write this issue in as realistic and accurate a manner as possible (and spent many, MANY hours researching the medical aspects), but any and all mistakes are mine.
AN the II: I really, truly owe this story to Brithna (one of the geniuses of this fandom with an AWESOME array of AWESOME stories!) who proved to be the best source of encouragement I've had. Being told to shut up, sit down, and write was what really allowed me to turn this little story snippet in my mind into a fully-fledged story. THANK YOU AGAIN WOMAN!
This is more or less an introduction to the main body of the story (which will be much longer), which should be posted within the next week or two. If you have questions or comments and you don't wish to leave them in a review, feel free to message me. I'm always happy to sit down and chat about my favorite gals. :)
A trembling, wraith-like hand reached out, flattening against the cold, slick surface of the mirror and wiping away the condensation. Weary and dull blue eyes stared back at her, pale face framed by tendrils of dripping wet hair. The muscles in her neck stood out sharply as she turned her head from side to side, searching for some miracle in the mirror instead of her own reflection.
A draft from the open bathroom door set her shivering and, little by little, cleared the mirror, exposing more of her obscenely unattractive body with every passing moment. Tears gathered in the young woman's eyes as they left her own face to roam down the emaciated lines of her body.
The hollow of her throat was deeper than it should have been, the muscles that formed it thin and ropey. Her ribs were painfully visible, rising and falling with every breath taken. Even without sucking in her stomach, she had no problems pinching her bottom ribs between her thumb and forefinger. Below the flat plane of her stomach protruded the iliac crests of her pelvis, and between them, farther down, neatly trimmed auburn curls covered her mons pubis.
The rest of her body was blocked from her view in the mirror by the counter, but she knew their shape well enough.
Grotesque. The reflection in the mirror was bloated and grotesque. Her body was bloated and grotesque.
Treacherous, too. Even now hunger burned in the pit of her stomach, sending flames of searing pain to lick the entire length of her esophagus to the back of her mouth. All her body ever wanted to do was eat, eat and gain weight, and it threw the most impressive temper tantrums when she wouldn't enable it.
She tasted bile in the back of her throat and forced the waves of nausea into submission through sheer force of will. The sensation passed after a few moments, but heartburn redoubled its efforts, bringing tears to the woman's eyes.
Her body hurt. Hurt so fucking badly she almost wanted to give up and give in. She almost wanted to scream 'To hell with Paris, someone fetch me something loaded with carbs and smothered in chocolate!' in the middle of Elias-Clarke's lobby, but her sanity held fast and she carried on.
Tired of looking at the monstrosity in the mirror, she glanced up at the single photo tucked into the upper right-hand corner of the mirror, a glossy eight by ten of the Arc de Triomphe, lit perfectly in all its nocturnal glory. Paris. The only goal keeping her from throwing in the towel, kept her rising from her bed every morning at the insistence of her insidious cell phone alarm. Paris Fashion Week was only a scant eight weeks away.
Ten months ago cruel and fickle fate had sent an executive assistant and a negligent cabby to tear her dreams from her. The assistant she had grudgingly forgiven and eventually befriended, but the cabby she had taken to court. Distracted and exhausted as she had been that hellish and fateful morning, she had walked out into traffic without looking, but by some ironic twist of fate she had done so in a legally designated crosswalk. There were less fortunate places for a pedestrian to be struck by a car than a small strip of paint and pavement where they had the right-of-way.
The burning in her chest intensified, drawing her out of the nightmare of the previous year and into the nightmare of the present. Blinking her eyes against the forming tears, the woman reached forward to pull the mirrored medicine cabinet open and retrieve one of the many bottles of chewable Tums she had scattered about her apartment. She tipped the bottle upwards, rattling it slightly until two tablets fell into her open mouth. She chewed quickly, swallowed, then studied the nearly empty bottle for a brief moment before tapping two more tablets into her open palm and popping those in her mouth as well.
The Tums took the edge off, but only just. That was fine, though. The burning sensation had dulled enough that she could ignore it and hopefully catch a few short hours of sleep before the tablets wore off and the pain woke her again.
She closed the medicine cabinet, carefully avoiding any part of the reflection as she walked out of the bathroom and into her bed room. Though her hair was still dripping slightly, she had stood in front of the mirror long enough for her goose-pimpled skin to dry. Blue eyes cut across the room to her dresser, but the thought of the effort it would require to walk across the room, pull the drawer containing her nightwear open, clothe herself, close the drawer and make her way back to her bed seemed impossible to muster. She barely managed to set the bottle of antacid on the nightstand before her trembling body collapsed onto the bed.
It took several long, agonizing minutes to muster the strength to pull the sheets out from under her massive and useless body to cover herself. The effort left her feeling even more exhausted than before.
She had made it through another day on just a handful of calories. If she could only keep this up, then…
Then some day, even I could be beautiful, she thought to herself as two obese tears trickled from the corners of her eyes, beautiful.
"Sorry! Sorry I'm late." Emily wheezed, pulling out the only empty chair at the table for four, next to Serena and Andy, and across from Nigel, who raised an admonishing brow.
"Nice of you to finally join us." He drawled.
"Oh, stuff it." The red head huffed, "I was running errands and lost track of time."
"Even absent you were still better company than Serena has been." The fashion director smirked at his fellow department head. The Brazilian's head was down, staring intently at the iPhone screen streaming the Brazil vs. Japan women's soccer game live from the London Olympics. Serena heard him, but chose to ignore the jab, instead wincing visibly as her beloved soccer club fouled yet another of Japan's players.
"I dunno Nigel, I feel like this has been a learning experience." Andy grinned at her blonde friend mischievously, "Today we have discovered that our mild and peaceful Serena is capable of both scowling and glaring, and she can swear fluently in at least three languages."
Serena raised her head to demonstrate aforementioned glare at the co-conspirators. "Brasil is a better team than this."
Serena's countenance was normally so tranquil that very few people knew how to truly read her, but Emily was practiced, and she could see what their companions couldn't; Serena was legitimately upset. Honestly, Nigel and Andy should have been able to see that as well, but soccer was nowhere near as revered in America as football was in both England and Brazil, so the Americans perhaps shouldn't be expected to understand how important this game truly was.
"At least your beach volleyball teams are doing well." Andy said with a smile. Nigel might keep needling until he felt he had had his fun, but the reporter was never one to drag out teasing.
"This is true." The Brazilian sighed, tapping the 'home' button on her phone perhaps more forcefully than necessary to minimize the window. "Maria and Talita can always be counted on." Serena paused briefly, then continued on in a slight smirk, "And Argentina has been doing poorly."
"They still dance better than you do." Nigel smirked again as he sipped his wine.
"Keep heckling Serena and I'm sure that tomorrow some dilapidated fishing boat is going to be pulling your mangled corpse out of the East River." Emily drawled, nodding her thanks as the The Park waitperson set a glass of ice water before her.
"Seriously Nigel, you know better than to joke about Samba." Andy shook her head in mock dismay at her partner in crime.
"Oh, fine, fine. Spoil all my fun, why don't you." Nigel leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Dinner should be served soon anyways." Serena offered diplomatically, already overcoming her displeasure at her country's poor showing.
Ah, good. They had already ordered without Emily. She wouldn't have to endure any disapproving looks from her companions for declining to order anything.
Two minutes later saw Emily trying valiantly to contain a hateful scowl as a pair of waitstaffers set two large platters and a stack of individual plates on the table.
"Mmmmm." Nigel hummed appreciatively, "The Crispy Calamari with chipotle aioli smells divine."
Emily's stomach roared rebelliously, an imperious demand for its hunger to be appeased. The Brit watched dispassionately as both Nigel and Serena helped themselves to the artisan squid. Andy helped herself with some enthusiasm to the second party-sized platter, the Buffalo Mozzarella Grilled Cheese with marinated tomato.
Emily took a deep draught from her glass of water, swallowing loudly to drown out the chorus of appreciative noises coming from both Nigel and Andrea. At least Serena was showing a modicum of restraint.
Setting her glass down, Emily glanced to the side in time to see bright hazel eyes narrowing slightly in reproach.
Normally Emily would be more gentle towards her dearest friend, but she wasn't remotely in the mood to be chastised, and leveled her own glare at the Brazilian in return in a clear warning to back off. Serena opened her mouth as if to say something, but bit back whatever words were on the tip of her tongue and turned her attentions to enjoying her own meal.
Andy was happily oblivious to the brief battle of wills but it didn't escape Nigel's keen notice. Emily's eating habits, or lack thereof, really, were a point of contention between the two women. Her blatant disregard for her own well-being was the only matter he had ever seen the steadfast friends truly argue about, and it was very unusual for the Brazilian to let herself to forfeit the issue so quickly.
"Emily, both of these dishes are exquisite. Aren't you going to eat something?" The fashion director raised his eyebrows as he gestured towards the spread with his fork.
"It's fine." Emily tried to seem casual as she waved her companion off, "I had a bite earlier. I suppose I'm just not in the mood for The Park's menu today."
Bullshit, Nigel thought to himself, but he was not deterred. The meddlesome eccentric saw an opening and was more than happy to dive right in and stir the Brit up further.
"That's unfortunate. Are you sure there isn't something else we could use to tempt your fickle palate? There's a Farmers' Market nearby, you know. I'm sure we could find a nice, plump Brazilian coconut or two for your plea-" the end of Nigel's statement was interrupted by a sharp yelp and the screeching scrape of Nigel's chair scooting backwards over the flagstone floor of The Park's Atrium dining area.
Andrea watched on, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing aloud, impressed that Serena had managed to deliver a savage kick to Nigel's shin without actually appearing to move. Her tranquil expression never changed, and the path of her fork from the plate to her mouth had gone uninterrupted.
"Was that really necessary?" Nigel hissed at the Brazilian through a pained grimace. Oh, they would be exchanging words after dinner.
"Hmm?" Serena's affected curiosity and wide-eyed innocence were Andy's undoing, and she clapped a hand over her mouth to cover a string of snorting giggles.
"It's not funny, Six! Woman kicks like a damn horse!" Nigel snapped, pulling his chair closer to the table again, but angling it farther out of Serena's reach.
"You had it coming." Andy muttered under her breath, too low and quiet for the confused Emily to discern.
She had missed the double entendre in Nigel's statement, her mired, clouded mind and erratic attention span unable to put the pieces of the puzzle she had been gathering of Serena's attraction to her together. It seemed like every time Emily had a moment of clarity where her nutrition-deprived brain could make the connections between wayward comments, lingering glances, and other pieces of evidence, light would seem to defy the laws of physics to glint off of the white gold wedding band the Brazilian occasionally wore, and Emily would once again lose her train of thought and her chance at comprehension.
Serena might only sporadically wear her wedding band, but she was married, and therefore couldn't possibly return Emily's attraction.
Nigel knew better, and had no qualms about attempting to sabotage Serena's attempts to keep her own attraction unnoticed.
Serena's husband was a deeply unpleasant ass of the highest caliber and her greatest mistake. As Nigel understood the situation, he had played some role in Serena's emigration from poverty in Rio de Janeiro as a gangly teen. The Brazilian beauty had flourished in New York City and come into her own, and though there was no love lost between the couple (and never really had been), her husband saw her as a prize and a possession, one not to be relinquished without a fight.
Nigel had been the one to come across Serena in the Beauty Department after hours the most recent time Serena's husband had refused to grant her a divorce. After nearly an hour and some intense swearing, the Brazilian's frustration and hatred-fueled anger burned itself out and left Serena all but sobbing in Nigel's arms, haltingly confessing her true feelings about both her husband and her dearest friend.
Nigel fully understood why Serena didn't want Emily to be made aware of the attraction. Serena was confident that her feelings were returned by the Brit, but she refrained from encouraging or even acknowledging Emily as anything more than a dear friend. Honestly, she may have completely hidden her attraction to women altogether, all to protect Emily from becoming involved in the perfect shit-storm that was brewing with Serena and her husband at the eye. The situation was going to become much, much worse before it saw any improvement.
Nigel pulled out his phone and tapped keys with more force than necessary before sending the message, letting the phone drop to the table, and helping himself to more calamari.
Andy had just enough time to catch an errant dribble of aioli on her chin with her finger tip and lick it clean before her phone vibrated to announce the receipt of a text message. The brunette rolled her eyes at the lack of subtlety on Nigel's part and slid her phone out of her messenger bag.
I don't see you doing anything to help, read the message glaring at her from the screen of her iPhone. The reporter scowled and slid her phone under the table to type out her reply.
Emily missed the play of expressions flitting across her companions' faces. Her last set of antacid tablets had just worn off and the pain hit her like a blow to her midsection. She clamped her jaws shut on any pained whimper that may have tried to escape and forced her eyes open again.
"If you'll excuse me, I need to run to the loo." The redhead gritted out between still-clenched jaws, grabbing her shoulder bag as she darted up from her chair.
Serena's concerned gaze followed the wraith-like figure as is wove almost unsteadily between tables, but past experience had taught her that Emily would not welcome her concern if she were to follow the clearly unwell woman.
Andy, in turn, was watching expressions of hurt and worry battle for dominance of the Brazilian's mien.
Nigel glanced down as his screen lit up with Andy's reply and frowned slightly when he noticed the length of the message.
Serena asked us to stay out of it. We both know she wants to be with Em. I respect her enough to stay out of her business and let her do things her own way in her own time. If you're not willing to support her and do the same, you and I are going to need to have a serious talk. Be there for her instead of trying to push your agenda on her.
The words were Andy's, but the tone was almost pure Miranda and took Nigel by surprise. He glanced up into the serious brown eyes that met and held his gaze before cutting to the side with a small nod towards the Brazilian. Nigel tilted his head toward Serena, who was looking back at him with a soft but pleading expression.
The fashion director deflated, swallowing his frustration over the situation, and offered his long-time friend a soft smile.
"I'm sorry." He reached forward to take one of Serena's long, graceful hands into his own and squeeze reassuringly. The blonde smiled and squeezed back.
"I forgive you. I know you just wish to help, you busybody." She released his hand to grab him by the lapel of his jacket and pull him close enough to plant a kiss on his cheek. "I am also sorry. I did not mean to kick you so hard."
"I'll probably live." Nigel smirked.
"That is fortunate. I would hate to face Miranda's wrath after killing her right-hand man."
The friends broke into laughter, each easily able to imagine the Dragon's wrath over the entirely ridiculous situation.
It would be a few more minutes before they realized that their companion should have returned by now. It would be another long moment after that before Serena worked up the nerve to follow after her volatile love.
It would take Serena approximately ten seconds to find her voice after slipping inconspicuously into the Ladies Room.
It would only take an instant for the Brazilian's terrified and frantic scream for help to send the diners and restaurant staff into a panic.