Who Asked You to be a Martyr?

Author: XV

Pairing: Mirandy (eventually)

Rated: PG13

This is a very belated Secret Santa present for GT22 What I want: Andy/Miranda - angst lots of anger. It can come from anywhere you want - Ending can be up to you happy or sad dealers choice!

A/N 1 Hmm, I actually did say I don't do angst very well, but I totally appreciate the dedication and organisational wizardry of SGR in trying to match us all up the best she possibly could given the requests on hand, both for stories and offers to write. So given her dedication I can but try my very best. Hope it's at least a little bit acceptable GT22.

A/N 2 Copious amounts of "thanks" and oodles of "damn you're good" to quiethearted for beta scanning this little starter.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to whoever owns DWP, lucky sods, so they're rolling in the gelt, not me. The characters etc. aren't mine but I'd sure as hell put in a bid if they ever came up for sale. No profit, yadda, yadda, if TPTB didn't know what to do with the characters they should have consulted the Rabid Lesbian Horde, yadda, jabber, rhubarb, I dare ya to sue me, I'd love the opportunity to read femmeslash smut out loud in court.. Pfffftt!

The tiny pellets of water splashed haphazardly against the back of the young brunette as she sat beside the famous Parisian landmark. She had been sitting there for so long that her slightly bared shoulders looked as if she had just stepped out of the shower and the delicate material of her dress was now plastered wetly to the length of her back. And yet, she didn't seem to notice or care about her current physical condition.

Heaving a deep sigh, she glanced back to the rippling pool, convincing herself she could see the glinting hint of silver from her cell phone, taunting her with her rash behaviour. She briefly wondered if it would be worth taking an impromptu paddle in the fountain to retrieve the Blackberry, but decided it was probably useless now anyway.

Giving another gentle sigh, Andy Sachs turned from the fountain, picked up her bag and started to slowly walk away continuing the journey that had started 2 hours earlier when she had turned her face away from her job, Runway and Miranda Priestly.

Andy straightened her shoulders and gathered up what she believed were her bruised and battered ideals. She was going to prove that she was nothing like Miranda Priestly. She knew she'd made her bed and now, well now she needed to get it back to New York so that she could start to lie in it.

Arriving back at the hotel, she asked the concierge if Miranda had returned to the hotel and was assured that she hadn't. It would appear that the editor had stuck to her schedule and was therefore presumably in the front row of the Gaultier show at that very minute.

Andy headed to her room mentally calculating how much time she had to pack her things, contact Nigel and get herself to the airport. Where she hoped to find a flight to New York she could actually afford.

As she packed she took special care to only take those clothes and accessories that she had originally brought with her on the trip. When she was done she couldn't help comparing her two pitifully small pieces of luggage and the great pile of boxes and bags in various shapes and sizes that held samples from just about every great fashion house and designer in the world.

Staring at the mound she felt as though she were looking at her own 30 pieces of silver. Her blood money for her betrayal of Emily. She shivered as she heard Miranda's voice in her memory, 'You already have...to Emily.' And then again, that voice of pure silk, but the sharp as a razor words, ' Everyone wants to be us.'

With the memory of those words, Andy felt the familiar rush of indignation and anger flow over her. Who did that woman really think she was? What she'd done to Nigel was despicable, and what she'd gotten Andy to do to Emily was just as bad. But it ended here, and now. There was no way that Andy was going to allow herself to become a mirror image to the devil that was Miranda Priestly. And with a renewed sense of purpose she began to gather all the boxes and bags together, carefully writing a name and address on each and every one of them. When she'd finished she went to the telephone by her bed and made a call. While she waited to be connected, she began muttering an angry mantra.

"There is no us, Miranda. There is no us."