Three Times Miranda Priestly Lost
Fewthistle
Author's Note: The prompt for this called for three of something. Three days, three anniversaries. These are three defeats…or victories, depending on your vantage point. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes mine.
I.
Miranda hated epiphanies. They were trite and exhausting and highly overrated, as far as she was concerned. God knows, they never made life easier. Easier would have been going on exactly as before. Easier would not have included the momentary hitch in her breathing whenever that horrible girl strolled into her office in those damned boots. Easier would most definitely not have included the rather extensive fantasy that followed the sight of Andrea prancing about in thigh-high Chanel. A fantasy that involved the slow, seductive removal of said boots, along with several other articles of clothing.
She should have simply ignored it, that moment of shining clarity that had pulled her from the drowsy sanctity of those first waking moments, yanking her upright in bed with a startled gasp. After all, it wasn't all that peculiar was it, to lie in bed and happily look forward to seeing one's assistant? Miranda was fairly certain that many people must feel that way. That she was not and had never in her wildest imaginings been one of them was merely incidental. Andrea was good at her job. She made Miranda's existence marginally less chaotic, a fact for which Miranda was grateful.
Yes, that was all it was. Gratitude. Except simple employer/employee gratitude rarely involved fantasizing about the removal of blouse and skirt and bra and panties, followed immediately by the caressing of silken skin. And the tasting of bee-stung lips. Combined rather nicely with the savoring of every individual sigh and moan of pleasure. All of which Miranda had been imagining, in great detail, when her moment of insight struck.
Damned girl. If she simply had not worn those boots. Or that low-cut, flimsy Michael Kors blouse. Or just about anything other than that horrific cerulean sweater. Miranda had been safe with the sweater. And the comfortable shoes. And the Midwestern farm girl hairstyle. She wasn't safe anymore. In fact, she was most assuredly behind enemy lines, hunkered down, under constant fire. She knew this had to be true, because clearly, wanting the girl was not enough for her traitorous brain. No. As if lusting after a woman half her age wasn't sufficiently humiliating.
No, Miranda had to fall in love with her. Or so her blinding instant of personal clarity would have her believe.
Ignore it. That was all there was to it. Ignore the tingling in her fingers where they brushed Andrea's along the edge of her coffee cup. Ignore the slow blush that crept up her throat as she contemplated impossibly long legs. Ignore the warm feeling that spread across her chest when the rotten girl smiled at her.
After all, no one said that epiphanies had to be obeyed. Or even acknowledged.
Damn girl.
Damn boots.
II.
Andy watched as the shadows crept along the street, the last yellow rays of sunlight fleeing home, like small children called in to bed. In a room downstairs, two red haired children sat, books in hand, waiting, just as she sat waiting, for the soft snick of the lock downstairs. For the sound of stilettos against the hard wood of the entrance hall. For the weary lift of feet on the stairs.
Miranda was late, but then, what was new about that? Miranda was always late, at least for them. She was invariably fifteen minutes early for Donna Karan, or for Lagerfeld. Even for Irv. It was only for the three people who loved her most that her famed punctuality came up short. Andy desperately wanted to believe it was because Miranda trusted them, her and the girls. Trusted that no matter what she did, they would still love her. Trusted that they would forgive her.
But Andy knew that wasn't true. Miranda had simply grown resigned long ago to the fact that she disappointed people. Not work people, of course. Work people hated her. Despised her. Found her lacking in any semblance of normal human emotion. But they weren't disappointed by her. In her.
No, that was reserved for the people who loved her. And Miranda resented it. Failing, that is. Expecting to fail. Being expected to fail. So she grew defensive, she lashed out. Never having considered the possibility that she might not fail, she just stopped trying.
How could Miranda ever change the way she lost, if it never occurred to her that she might win?
The avenue was dark now, bats circling the streetlights, darting in and out of the lamp like sparks, flashes of ember that died in the surrounding gloom. A single set of headlights made their way down the quiet street, gliding to a halt in front of the townhouse. Andy watched as Miranda slid wearily out of the car. Her head was tilted back, eyes raking across the front of the house, taking in the lights from the study, from the girl's rooms. Even from the window, Andy could see her take a deep breath and square her shoulders, a soldier marching in to meet the enemy.
Andy wondered, as she made her way to the stairwell to wait for those soft footfalls, if Miranda would ever realize that the only enemy inside these four walls was herself.
III.
"I'm sorry, Miranda. I just can't stay here. Not anymore." Andy's voice was barely a whisper as the pale light of a winter afternoon fell along the plush carpet. "You win."
"What precisely do I win, Andrea?" Miranda's face was white and still, the flash of her blue eyes the only thing alive.
"You just win. You get to be right. I mean, isn't that what you always wanted? To be right about every fucking thing?" There was little anger left in Andy's voice. She was too tired to muster anger now, not after all this time.
"And what exactly is it that you think I wished to be right about, Andrea?" If she hadn't been paying attention, Andy might have missed the hurt woven into the lowered timbre of Miranda's tone. But Andy had always paid attention.
So had Miranda.
"I'm not going to have this same fight again. I just can't do it. I give up. I surrender. Here's my flag. Please, just let me go, okay?" Andy felt lightheaded, the way she had as a child when she sliced her hand open on a broken bottle, the blood running hot and thick down the soft skin of her wrist.
"No."
"Miranda. Please, don't make this harder than it is." Andy could see the stubborn set of Miranda's lips, white and pinched in displeasure. Years ago, that look would have terrified her. Now it simply made her sad.
"I will not stand by and let you throw away the past three years."
"Miranda, somewhere along the way, you turned this love affair into a battle. One of us had to lose."
"Only one, Andrea?" Miranda turned away stiffly, her hand trembling slightly as it lay along the back of the couch. "I must admit, for the supposed victor in all of this, I am not feeling particularly triumphant."
"I know," Andy whispered again, the tightness in her chest making speech difficult. The tears that she had thought were long past began anew, slipping over the curve of cheekbones to silently fall.
For most of her adult life, Miranda had tried to be happy. She really had. And yet, she had always failed. It was as if she lacked the gene for happiness, a missing chromosome that left her emotionally stunted, unable to hold on to the feelings of joy that hung suspended in the air, just beyond her grasp.
This was not going to be one of those times. For once in her life, she was going to hold on.
"What about a truce? A cessation of hostilities?" Miranda said with renewed energy, chin raised as she met Andrea's eyes.
"Hostilities? Miranda, I'm not your fucking enemy. I never was," Andy said mournfully, a look of resignation on her face.
"I know that, Andrea. I've always known that. I wasn't referring to you and me. Merely to me." Miranda told her gently, crossing the space between them to take Andrea's hands. "What if I admit defeat?"
Andy looked into clouded blue eyes and saw in them Miranda's white flag of surrender. Not a perfect peace. Perhaps not even a lasting one.
Still, it was a peace that Andy could live with. Because it sure beat the hell out of living without Miranda.