Disclaimer: I do not have ownership of anything to do with Devil Wears Prada but the content of this story is entirely my own.

A/N: This work is purely fiction. Any events and characters depicted in this story are not and cannot be based on real events (for many obvious reasons!) but may, to a degree, reflect some ideas portrayed in other published works of fiction. If you prefer not to explore certain concepts or if you are looking for an easy read, this may not be the right story, however, I hope you give it a shot regardless.

Thanks to my wonderful girlfriend for helping fill my current beta gap.

You always make everything so much more than it would be without you.

"Dying is like getting audited by the IRS - something that only happens to other people ... until it happens to you." – Jerome P. Crabb

1985

The blare of the cell phone struggles to cut a swath through tendrils of fog, the irresistible siren servants of the land of dreams reluctant to relinquish their cobweb of seduction. Jerkily rubbing her bleary eyes with her right hand, her left one automatically corrects the stubborn Ford Taurus which once again veers off its path. Eyelids at half mast as soon as she lowers her hand, the routine motion of raising the paper cup to her lips yields only bitter dregs of long cold espresso.

"Fuck."

The insistent pealing of the phone continues to pierce the eerie stillness of the darkness around her. When her lower eyelid begins to twitch insistently, she concedes defeat, a sharp staccato "What?" the only acknowledgement spared for the hapless caller.

"Are you there yet?"

"You have three seconds. I know even you don't expect an answer to such an inane question."

"I felt the baby kick."

The twitch of the eyelid becomes a steady throb, Miranda's jaw involuntarily clenching as her teeth grind together. "You and I both know that's impossible. What's this really about?"

"I don't think I can do this."

"You can and you will."

"But –"

"But I don't have sex without protection. You lost any right to a but the moment those eight words failed to leave your lips." The hitch in the caller's breath, the ragged sighs, the choked sob… all waft a wave of rancid guilt into Miranda's mouth. "Look, I am going to be there in two days, okay? We'll get through this. Together. I promise."

"I'm scared, Mimi."

Again the movement is involuntary, the stern set of the jaw relaxing into a smile which barely turns up the corners of her lips. "Do I need to sit on you again like I did in 7th grade?"

The burst of manic laughter is sodden with tears, "I am pretty sure I can take you this time."

"I wouldn't bet on it."

"And no-one ever bets against Miriam Princhek, do they?"

The hint of uncustomary elusiveness startles Miranda – part pride, part sheer sarcasm, part something else she can't quite put her finger on. "Me sitting on top of you is about to become the least of your concerns."

"Of course, how could I forget that we're not good enough? I do apologise, Ms Priestly."

"We're not doing this, Katya. Not now."

"You have something better to do?"

"No. But what I can do is end this call at any moment."

"Okay, I'm sorry. I really am." An uncomfortable silence drags on for several heartbeats before the solemnly whispered, "For everything..."

The tendrils of fog suddenly become much more alluring, more insistent, Miranda's destination dramatically changing from the longed for world of sleep to the repugnant one of fear. "What are you talking about?"

"I can't do this, Miriam. I won't."

"Then we'll discuss it when I get there. If you really want to," an uncoordinated sweep of a hand over her face masks the grimace of distaste which distorts her features momentarily, "keep this baby, we'll talk about… options."

"No, we won't, we both know that. When you get here it'll be just like the old days. And then bam, the Miriam effect will make this baby just another problem which simply… disappears."

"Katya…"

"It doesn't matter anyway. It's too late."

The bleakness in her sister's voice traverses the states; bleeds across the airwaves until each tiny, dense particle clogs Miranda's every pore, restricting breath. "What have you done?"

"Maybe you should… turn around."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"The guy, he told me that I'll still look pretty… after. It's why I didn't jump or slit my wrists… I wanted you to remember me as I was… like I just went to sleep… like I'm just sleeping… Then maybe…" The hesitant voice trails off momentarily and Miranda's blood stills for the longest, most terrifying five heartbeats of her life. All breath rushes out in one long exhalation as the thready tone resumes. "I wish I'd tasted snowflakes one more time… had ice cream instead… wasn't the same though…"

"I am calling the hospital, someone will be there in 20 minutes, and I want you to stay on the line, okay? Whatever you do, keep talking. Do you remember when father brought Gus home for the first time on Christmas Day? How happy you were, how he wouldn't leave your side? Can you believe that was 1965? Twenty years ago but I still remember it like it was yesterday."

"Can't call the hospital if you are talking to me."

The concrete logic in the faltering cadence is what finally breaks her, stinging moisture blurring Miranda's already overtired eyes. "Then you are going to pick up the phone, do you hear me? I'll just be two minutes. Then I am going to call you and you're going to pick up the phone. You will pick up that damned phone. Do you hear me?"

"I told you it's too late, Miriam."

"It's not."

"They won't find me in time."

"Goddamnit, Katya, please… please tell me where you are… I can fix this…whatever it takes… I'll make it work…"

"I am not a picture to correct, Miriam. Not a skirt that simply requires the matching of a perfect belt. Your whole existence, your world, is colour - - life. Mine? Mine is only ever shades of grey. I thought maybe… but that won't ever change now, don't you see?"

"I'll bring you colour, all of them, any one you want."

"It doesn't work that way. You can't infuse colour where none is meant to be."

One mournful tone bleeds into another.

"Katya… Katya…? No, not right now… come on…work, damn it… FUCK!"

The garish beeping screams shrilly in her ear before it's suddenly cut off. The horror of the abrupt silence stills her for so long that when the solution sluggishly swims to the forefront of her mind, she explodes into action. Reaching across and underneath the passenger seat, Miranda fumbles for the spare battery she's always kept there, hand encountering the tips of her Prada work shoes, the worn crease on a box of tissues , a sheaf of paper...

Pull over.

Ignoring her common sense she contorts herself even further, stretching with fingertips which frantically scramble over every newly found object.

It'll just be for a second.

A different inner voice whispers in her ear: one whose dulcet tones are impossible to ignore, unfeasible to resist. She unbuckles the seatbelt, arching up and backwards to search the darkness whose yawning maw obstinately refuses to give up its only worthwhile secret.

You need a light.

Caught in a snare of rashness, misplaced confidence, and most of all – emotion, her hand twitches momentarily, then lifts from its position on the wheel to reach for the tiny bit of plastic up above. The bright illumination stings her eyes anew; Miranda reflexively blinking to bring once vague shapes into stark relief.

There, wedged almost fully underneath the seat.

Even as her eyes regard the battery triumphantly, an insistent tugging pulls at the edges of her consciousness.

You didn't reach the switch.

The time in which it takes to reach the right - - the only possible conclusion, there's but a second left, her gaze snapping round to absorb the inevitable scene unfolding just beyond her windshield. Her vision is instantly impeded by the blinding glare of twin lights; the blare of the horn screams an insistent warning she can't possibly react to; the blurry outline of shapes in the other car blends together into one incomprehensible, macabre, jumble.

The split second Oh shit is followed by the screeching groan of metal, a rapid forward motion, a burst of utterly excruciating pain…

And then… just welcome darkness.