Hello all, thanks so much for all the words of encouragement. Looks like this story will be going ahead (never fear, the next chapter of FF will be forthcoming in the next few weeks, promise!)
Reviews, comments, statements, descriptions of emotion through interpretive dance are all appreciated & encouraged so long as you stretch properly beforehand.
Yes, she cared; Andy was forced to admit to herself. She cared deeply, perhaps too much. The second admission came as the brunette took in the faint lines around the editor's eyes and mouth that meant the older woman was in pain. The slight slump of the slim shoulders stood in direct contradiction to the terse commands that issued from the pursed lips. Miranda wasn't feeling well and Andy seemed to be the only one to notice as all the others dodged the verbal bullets with the faint hope of escaping a quietly spoken flaying. Their plane back to New York had been delayed by an hour which hadn't done anything to help Miranda's mood which had been awful since Andrea had received her first call of the day at ten to five that morning when the editor had summoned her out of a deep, exhausted sleep to bring her coffee and go over the final itinerary for the day.
Andy supposed others might have been comforted, or at least mollified at the fact that Miranda looked absolutely exhausted as well. But Andy couldn't find any pleasure in the pained way the editor kept removing her glasses to pinch the bridge of her nose. Miranda was in pain and Andy found her own stomach turning at the thought. Huh, who would've thought?
"Just go!" Andy was startled out of her musings when the woman in question waved away the group in front of her irritably, which collectively included Nigel, Jocelyn and the head of Accessories. Andy watched as the other woman winced and then leaned back in the uncomfortable vinyl seat of the first class waiting room, a hand running restlessly over her abdomen as she swallowed with visible effort before rising to her feet as the call came to begin boarding for first class passengers.
Paris to Manhattan after Fashion Week was always a full flight, which meant that Miranda also wouldn't have the luxury of an empty seat next to her. Usually Nigel would take that seat, but an early morning email from a panicked Emily back at the Runway offices meant that Nigel was hunkered down with Jocelyn and the accessories editor attempting to fix the costume jewelry layout that was now in shambles after a labour dispute meant that Amrita Singh could no longer supply the necessary pieces that had made up a large portion of the collection. And that was how Andy found herself sitting next to an extremely agitated Miranda Priestly on the seven hour direct flight from Charles De Gaulle to JFK.
The botched layout, while problematic, was nothing that couldn't be dealt with or hadn't happened before, which made Andy wonder at the level of the editor's distress. It was then that she noticed the older woman was breathing in and out very slowly through her nose.
Miranda had her mouth shut tightly against the rising feeling of nausea that ached in the back of her throat as she fought it uselessly, willing her stomach to settle even as the throbbing pain in her head made it impossible to do as each piercing twinge set off an answering call in her abdomen.
Ignoring the fact that the 'fasten seatbelt' sign was still in effect, she stood up from her seat and made her way to the back of the first class section of the plane, which thankfully had its own restroom separate from business and coach. Shutting the door firmly in the faces of the protesting flight attendants, Miranda turned on the tap to drown out any noise before doubling over in the cramped space and surrendering the meagre contents of her stomach to the septic system as she was violently ill, the pounding pain behind her temples only increasing her vertigo as she fought to regain control.
Eyeing her reflection in the mirror with a critical gaze after she was finished, Miranda fixed her appearance as best she could, having left her seat so quickly she hadn't taken her bag which contained her makeup and other toiletries. It would have to do; she doubted anyway that anyone other than herself would be able to find something amiss. She hadn't counted Andrea though, she realized, cursing her own lack of foresight as the younger woman's eyes widened as she approached their seats.
Andy watched with a kind of horror as Miranda exited the cramped restroom. To the outside world, or the untrained eye, Miranda looked as flawless and composed as ever – not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her outfit. But Andy had made it her job to notice, to see these things so that she could anticipate the mercurial editor's needs, often succeeding in doing so before the other woman knew herself it was what she wanted.
Anyway, to Andy, the woman who exited the airplane lavatory was certainly not the imperturbable and collected front that was perhaps fooling the other Runway staff and passengers. There was an almost indiscernible sheen of sweat covering the editor's face with tiny droplets beginning to bead at her hairline which Andy could see from the darkening silver strands, was also damp with sweat. Beneath the flawlessly applied makeup, Miranda's complexion was pale and had taken on a grayish, almost green tinge. It was also Andy who noticed how Miranda all but fell into her seat, gripping the hand rests tightly as she tried to relax and close her eyes discreetly in the hopes that would ease the awful dizziness.
Andy was more than a little alarmed at how ill Miranda appeared to be. This was a woman who had sat through a showing at 8 centimetres dilated with twins, if the stories were to be believed, and having heard them from Nigel himself, who had been there at the time, Andy was prepared to bet they were. She had also seen Miranda look all but unaffected after a bad batch of shellfish during last year's New York Fashion Week had decimated every single senior member of Runway staff, the editor included.
"Miranda," Andy kept her voice low as she leaned over to speak, gesturing to the phone in the other woman's hands that she was now trying to answer emails on. "Why don't you close your eyes for a little while. Please."
Watching the older woman's eyes flash dangerously and her nostrils flare, Andy half-expected the editor to order the emergency hatch opened and one Andy Sachs to be kicked off the plane. But instead, she watched as another flash of pain crossed Miranda's features and she nodded, handing her phone over to Andrea who slipped it into the oversized DVF tote Miranda was using as a carry-on.
Curling her legs beneath her, ankles crossed so that her skirt didn't ride up, Miranda tried to find a comfortable position in which to rest. But despite the roomy nature of the first class seats, ample leg room was still a scarce commodity. Andy watched her out of the corner of her eye, knowing Miranda wouldn't take kindly to the younger woman staring, especially as ill and testy as she was. Andy bit her lip, worrying off the remains of the YSL crème rouge lipstick that Miranda had pronounced as 'not entirely horrible' when she had first worn it to the Met Gala months ago, prompting the younger woman to lay down nearly an entire month's rent on a lifetime supply of the color. She would gladly have offered Miranda her seat as well to stretch out, but she knew the editor wanted, if not outright needed the barrier of another person between her and the rest of the plane and the prying eyes of the flight attendants – who were so eager to disregard their own rules about cell phones when it suited them.
After another long moment of watching the older woman trying to get comfortable, Andy turned in her seat, reaching across to lift the armrest and gently laying her fingers across the delicate bones of the editor's feet, urging her to place them across her lap.
Blue eyes flashed with uncertainty before masking their emotion in a move so practiced that to watch it was almost painful. Andy hid her own visceral reaction to the editor, busying herself instead with rummaging around in her bag until she found what she was looking for – flagging down a flight attendant for a glass of ginger ale and a bottle of water.
Andy held out the pills for Miranda to take, hoping her hand wasn't trembling too badly as their skin touched, Miranda's fingers sweeping lightly over her palm, skin to skin as she took the proffered medication, caused the younger woman to shiver before sending up a prayer that Miranda had been too preoccupied to notice her reaction to the gentle touch, innocent and platonic as it was.
Pulling a soft, grey woven pashmina out of her carry-on, Andy draped the garment over Miranda's shoulders, her heart skipping a beat as Miranda drew the fabric closer to her face and let her gaze soften as blue eyes found brown, silently conveying her thanks.
Miranda slept, or appeared to at least, for the next five or so hours until there was only an hour and a half until they were scheduled to be wheels down at JFK.
"Miranda, Miranda there's only 45 minutes left until we land. Are you feeling any better?" Andy stretched both arms above her head, turning slightly from side to side as she spoke, to work out the kinks in her back from sitting in the same position for so long.
The older woman said nothing, however, pulling off the wrap and standing up so abruptly that Andy didn't even have time to get up from her seat before the other woman was all but crawling across her lap.
Miranda emerged, white faced and trembling again, twenty minutes later from the airplane lavatory, saying nothing as she took her seat once more.
As Andy passed her a fresh glass of ginger ale, she braved the editor's wrath to ask "Miranda, can I call your doc…"
"No," Miranda spoke sharply, donning her trademark sunglasses and avoiding the young woman's concerned gaze, knowing it would only upset her stomach more so than it already was.
She didn't speak again until her car pulled up to the curb outside the airport, where the beleaguered Runway team were standing after securing their luggage, most waiting for cabs back into the city. "That will be all, Andrea. Enjoy the rest of your evening."
With the time difference between New York and Paris, it was only just past seven in the evening. Andy couldn't remember the last time she had had so much not only free time, but 'Runway-free' time to herself. But even that knowledge and the prospect of eating an entire pizza by herself and a Harry Potter movie marathon couldn't keep her thoughts away from the townhouse on the upper east side, where Miranda was all alone, the twins having spent the week at their father's while Miranda was away at Fashion Week.
Her dreams that night would consist of finding herself standing in the astronomy tower of Hogwarts, trapped by Dementors that looked strangely like swooping Valentino gowns while she watched Jacqueline, flanked by Irv and Christian Thompson shoot multiple stunners into the chest of one Miranda Priestly.
Drenched in a cold sweat, Andy awoke suddenly ten minutes before her alarm was set to go off. Groaning, she flopped back against her pillows, her face wrinkling in disgust at the feel of the rapidly cooling damp linen, so she grudgingly forfeited her last ten minutes of shut-eye and began to get ready for the day. It was bound to be an interesting one, that was for sure, Andy's mind mulled over everything that had happened during Paris which all of a sudden seemed so much longer ago than only yesterday. Between Irv's latest machinations, Stephen's divorce papers and the current tension between herself and an injured, booted Emily after the latter had been denied Fashion Week, Andy knew things would be different. But despite her increasing skill and luck at divining such situations as part of her job, Andy found she truly had no idea what this Post-Paris-Paradox would bring.
Damn… Andy turned off the shower only to hear the buzz of her cellphone against the marble countertop of the sink; she was going to need a LOT of coffee to get through the day.