A/N: This is a long one. Much longer than I had first planned. I hope you enjoy it. The phrase "the opposite of inspiration is expiration comes from the novel Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson.

Andy—POV

"Yes, darling?" a soft male voice with a British accent drawled out of the intercom. The receptionist, a skinny woman with geometric purple hair wearing a slashed black leather dress gave Andy and Marc, the photographer a doubtful look. "There's a girl here…she says she's from Runway?"

"Oh yes. Today is the 29th, isn't it? Send her up, Zinnia."

The intercom clicked off. Zinnia rose and led Andy to a creaky elevator. Once they were inside, an awkward quiet descended. It wasn't like riding with Miranda, where silence was an enforced rule. Zinnia shuffled her feet and gazed up at the ceiling, down at the floor, at the panel of buttons; anywhere but at Andy. Thinking she might be shy, Andy ventured, "So, how long have you worked here?"

"Two years" Zinnia cleared her throat.

"Do you enjoy it?"

"Yes."

"I like your boots." They were royal blue, a shade so deep that it verged on purple. Andy planned to ask her if Dorian made them and when they might be available for sale, but Zinnia only rolled her eyes. "You needn't bother to suck up to me. If you have any questions, ask Dorian. "

Andy felt her cheeks flame at the rebuff and glanced at Marc. He jerked his head in Zinnia's direction and mouthed, bitch. It made Andy feel a little better.

The elevator stopped at the fourth floor and the doors squealed open. Zinnia led the way into a bright workroom where several young men and women were sewing, cutting, and measuring pieces of red satin. In the center of the room a thin, shirtless man with a black Mohawk was circling a dressmaker's dummy swathed in more of the pink satin. Or maybe "swathed" was the wrong word: the material had been cut into thin ribbons that appeared to be held together by tiny rhinestone buckles.

"Dore" Zinnia spoke gently, going over and laying a spidery, black-nailed hand on his back. The man looked up; his eyes were as blue as Zinnia's boots. "Ah yes. Thank you, Zinny."

Zinnia walked back to the elevator without another word. Dorian Steele smiled and beckoned Andy closer. "So you're Andrea Sachs."

"Yes, I am". Andy had a bad feeling about this. The designer said her name as if he knew who she was.

"Welcome, blessed child!" Dorian placed his hands lightly on Andy's shoulders and drew her forward to kiss her cheek. Andy returned the greeting cautiously. Of all the reactions she had expected, this was not one of them. "Um. Thanks. So, where would you like to do the interview? We also need to get a few photos."

"Right here!" Dorian spun around on one foot, his arms outstretched. "This is the very womb of my creation! And it faces West! That makes it a West Womb!" he went off into a gale of laughter as Marc and Andy looked at each other.

"Okay. How did you get started designing?" Andrea took out a small mini-corder and turned it on. She had discovered in her college days that a recorder allowed interviews to progress smoothly and that she often caught subtle nuances of a subject's personality once she played the tape back.

"No."

"No?"

"No dear one, this is NOT how we begin. I already know that Miranda is being questioned by the powers that be. She wants to know why, or rather, Elias-Clarke wants to know why, so let's begin with my religion."

"Okaaay", Andy said guardedly. She was beginning to have grave doubts about this assignment. Dorian Steele might be brilliant, but he definitely wasn't all there. "What is your religion?"

"I am a servant of Aphrodite. Beauty and love in all its forms. If pain is pleasure, and given as a gift from one person to another, then pain is love, do you see?"

"Is he high?" Marc mumbled under his breath. "It certainly gives you something to think about!" Andy said loudly, praying Dorian hadn't overheard him. "And you express this through your designs?"

"Of course. Look…" Dorian skipped over to a nearby table and pulled out the April issue of Runway. There on the page was the layout the fashion press had gone wild over. Models barely clad in white suede dresses were arranged in a lovely garden, and each and every one of them was in a bondage pose, although no bondage equipment was visible. One stood against a marble column with her wrists crossed over her head, looking over her shoulder at another girl who wore a white mask. Another model sat in a chair with a tiny smile on her lips as a blonde girl playfully covered her eyes from behind. All of the girls' outfits bore one tiny scarlet jewel somewhere: near the neck, at the hip, in the small of the back.

"This is the Eden of love" Dorian said softly, his eyes shining. "In this world, they serve desire but there is innocence too. That's why I chose white leather. There must be softness, but control as well. These blooms are only just opening. They are not ready to go outside the garden yet, but the red says they will in time. The red is the future."

Andy looked at the picture and understood. As crazy as Dorian seemed, he was right about these designs. Even though the dresses were skimpy they did give off an air of innocence. Maybe it was because the skimpiness came from the fact that the material was mostly open: the leather had been cut so that the bare skin of the models was covered by what almost resembled Persian fretwork, so delicate that if Andy hadn't known better, she would have thought she was looking at some new kind of lace. No wonder Miranda had pounced on this designer! And no wonder Irv was fit to be tied…Irv was strictly commercial and this was art.

"It's beautiful."

"Isn't it?" Dorian trailed a fingertip reverently over the photo. "Goddess bless Miranda Priestley! She understands. And she sent you! That's a very good sign."

"I'm glad you think so. Have you always been interested in Greek mythology?"

"Greek. Egyptian. Indian" Dorian smiled. "I've always loved the elder days. But when I say that I serve Aphrodite, it doesn't just mean that. I believe that love is a force. Pleasure is a force. Beauty is a force. I am one of the creators of that force. I send beauty into the world. Every time someone sees something beautiful—a painting, a waterfall, a house, a girl, they come away feeling touched with grace. That is what I seek to create: that touch of grace."

Andy studied the red material on the dressmaker's dummy. The rhinestone buckles glistened like tiny stars, while the red was deep and soft. "Can I ask about that one?"

"Ask anything you like, Miranda's Treasure. I may not answer all of your questions, but you may ask. Would you like some coffee? Or tea?"

"Coffee would be nice" Andy avoided the question uppermost in her mind by sheer force of will. "How will these new designs of yours express your vision?"

"Cream? I have five kinds. I love it. I get the darkest coffee I can find, then overlay it with cream. Spices too, to enhance the experience. Cinnamon. Chili."

"Cream sounds good" Andy tried to keep from groaning in frustration. Charlotte hadn't been kidding about this guy. He was an artist, but Andy was clearly going to have to use some of her best writing skills to get any sort of narrative structure for the article. Talking to Dorian Steele was like talking to a river. Things flowed past and through him, rarely stopping long enough to take on concrete form, every now and then throwing off tantalizing sparkles of light.

"The new designs are the First Blush. Blush from the palest shell pink, to that over there." Dorian nodded at the dummy. It will take a while. I don't do my designs in any sort of chronological order." He poured dark, rich-smelling coffee into three cups from a small coffeepot and added cream to two. He raised his eyebrows at Marc, who shook his head. "Black."

"I thought so" Dorian murmured. "You like to stay clear, keep your gaze sharp, man of the eagle-blue eyes."

"Kind if helps when you're a photographer. And by the way, eagles aren't blue."

Dorian laughed and saluted them with his cup. The coffee was delicious. It was hazelnut flavored with a just a touch of something else, something that was warm on Andy's tongue. After a minute or two, she identified it as ginger.

"I was never trained", the designer said suddenly.

"To do what? Make coffee?"

Dorian waved a hand dismissively. "As a designer. I never went to any sort of a school for it. I could never bear school when I was young. All I had was needles and scissors and visions. My mother sewed all our clothes and she taught my sister. Zinnia taught me."

"Zinnia is your sister?"

"Oh yes. I could never do without Zinnia."

"She seems…" Andy paused, remembering the woman's rudeness. "…protective."

"She is. Oh yes, she is. But it's all right. I'm all she has in the world. She was seventeen when our mother died and she had to go to work. She looked after me all while we were growing up. Mum was always at the factory. Zinnia would cook and sew, and I would help. I made her a hat once. For church. It had paper lilacs on it. She wore it until it fell apart. I was so happy. We lived in an ugly, ugly place. That hat was my first effort at making beauty."

"You're from England?" Dorian nodded. "What part?"

"Birmingham. Nothing but smoke and noise and grayness."

"So it was kind of a reverse inspiration? The place was so ugly you wanted to create beauty?"

"A reverse inspiration, yes. The opposite of inspiration is expiration. Yes, Birmingham was an expiration."

"When did you come to America?"

"Four years ago. We started off with a tiny store. One of Zinnia's friends owns it. Mostly vintage, but she likes my things. Pretty soon, she put me on the store website. I still make accessories for her."

"That's good"

"Would you like to be in one of my pictures?" Dorian asked suddenly. Andy spluttered into her coffee cup for a moment. "Uh, that's very nice of you but I'm not a model."

"No. Your eyes are too wide and joyful. You have kissing lips; most models have lips like razors and their eyes are cold. You're like Audrey Hepburn."

"Thanks" Andy said slowly. She studied Dorian's face to see if he was serious. It looked like it; his blue eyes gazed innocently back at hers.

"Here" the designer got up and trotted over to a rolling rack. He pulled out a white sheath with a delicate black border around the neckline and handed it to Andy. Put this on. You're a size four, right?"

"Right. How did you know?"

"I know. Try the dress on. There's a little alcove over there" he pointed to a curtained recess behind one of the work tables. Andy looked at Marc who shrugged.

Taking the dress from Dorian's outstretched hand; Andy made her way into the alcove. It was nothing more than a box made out of more racks with curtains on them. Inside was an ornate full-length mirror. She changed carefully, folding her slacks and top so they wouldn't wrinkle and being extra-gentle with the dress zipper. The dress was another suede number. Dorian must have a fetish for the stuff. When she looked in the mirror, Andy was surprised to see that it fit her perfectly, hugging her curves in just the right way before falling to just over her knees. It was sleeveless, with a sweetheart neckline, but any claim it had to demureness ended below Andy's armpits and around her middle. Long slits in the front and back were filled with more pierced leather, just like the model's dresses in Runway. The piercing was more subtle, and the leather had even been dyed black at the top to match the banding, but Hepburn had definitely never worn anything like this. I can't even wear underwear with this thing, she thought. Her cotton panties were clearly visible through the piercing.

"Sweet child, come out so I can see you!" Andy felt like sinking into the floor. Muttering a silent prayer that she could somehow buy Marc's silence, she stepped out of her undies and pulled the curtains open.

Dorian clapped his hands when she came out. "Oooh, that's so lovely! Please do reconsider!"

"I think Audrey Hepburn is stretching it a bit" Andy said ruefully.

"Oh no! Not at all. We just need to fix your hair. Come here."

Andy did as she was told while Marc looked pointedly at his watch. Dorian sat her down and pulled a brush from his back pocket and began pulling it through her hair. "Sheila!"

"Yeah?" asked one of the sewing girls, who was watching with an amused smile.

"Pins, please."

Sheila came over with a handful of bobby pins and Dorian expertly fastened Andy's hair into a twist. "I can't wait for mine to grow back out" he confided. "It was almost down to my waist! Then I broke up with my lover and cut it all off in a fit of heartbreak. The only way to salvage it was to shave my head, so I did. And do you know, my skin felt so smooth and velvety I decided I just had to do some work with suede."

Sheila smiled at Andy's worried expression. "Don't worry, he's harmless. He does this to us all the time."

"And where is your blue streak, Sheila? I gave it to you for a reason" Dorian shook the brush at her. "There!" he said to Andy. "Do you have lipstick? If you do, put some on and go look at yourself!"

Andy didn't have lipstick, but she dug some gloss out of her purse and rubbed it on her lips before returning to the alcove. When she looked in the mirror, she was amazed to see that she did look sort of like Hepburn, minus the gloves, diamonds, and long cigarette holder. Dorian had left a few tendrils of hair to curl by her ears. Holly Golightly gone punk. She had to admit that she liked it.

"Well?" said Dorian's voice outside the curtains, making her jump.

"It's amazing!"

"Of course it is. And you are the only one who should wear it, so I'm giving it to you. Now come back to us, your eagle-friend wants to take his photographs."