The righteous anger, part I
The righteous anger, part I
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own them.
The indignation was a good, healthy reaction in times of adversity; it was proper and civilized response to a perceived injustice.
Instead of drowning the perpetrator, for example, it made you walk away and drown the phone, all the while smiling with smug satisfaction of a moral victor.
The raw anger though, the kind that would come afterwards was, oh, so much better. The righteous anger, Andy was discovering, was an incredibly potent emotion.
It propelled Andy through the crowded streets, all the way to the Plaza Athenee, without even wobbling once on her 3-inch heels. It took her through 25 minutes of throwing the clothes haphazardly in her bags. It carried her through scribbling a short resignation letter on a hotel memorandum, and slipping it under the door of Miranda's room. It even got her to a supposedly cozy hotel the taxi driver eagerly recommended.
The anger felt empowering. Therefore, with some assistance of cheap red wine, she fully unleashed it; she paced the damp, dark room, occasionally made a point waving her arms around and, frequently, spilled the wine in process. She cursed Miranda; she cursed stinky freesias and hot Starbucks, seasoned steaks, Klein skirts and Christian Thompson for a good measure. She cursed her own stupidity for caring for a woman who ultimately did not care for anyone. She cursed at Miranda’s cold beauty that made Andy’s breath catch until almost hyperventilating. Most of all, she cursed her shattered image of the previous night that made Andy realize just how much she really cared.
It was only when the rage abated, when all the adrenalin finally run its course, when she stopped and slightly woozily posed that ultimate question - now, what? - that she realized the magnitude of what she had done.
She’d screwed up, big time. And she wasn’t even referring to her career. She’d given up on her right, however flimsy, to pose the questions and hear the answers. She had ruined something, probably irreparably, when she wasn’t ready for it to be over.
Even if J.R. Rowling had been writing a new book, she doubted it would have helped.
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Hope sprang eternal, however, which was why she was slipping through the fountain at 1 a.m., diving desperately for the damn phone. She couldn’t go back without it, could she?
Already, she had fished out 25 euros change, a glittering no-name sandal which, for a short but ecstatic moment, felt like a phone under her toes, a broken umbrella - did they not clean these things ever? She was cursing in panic, stumbling on the slimy fountain floor. A crowd was assembling around the edges of the pool and she, briefly but fervently, wished for a City of a slightly less light.
It was awkward trying to rummage around, her left hand occupied with her Jimmy Choos - there was no way she was leaving them unattended - and at the same time trying to stop her own bag from strangling her. The early autumn nights were cool and the water was downright cold. Damn. No one ever bothered to mention the consequences of grand gestures.
Suddenly, she felt the familiar rectangular shape under her searching fingers.
She yelled in triumph and crowd cheered with her. Such lovely people, Andy thought, loving the world all over again. A steadying hand even helped her out of the water.
It was only when she glanced at the polite gentleman that she noticed the uniform and a mighty frown.
"Mademoiselle?"
"Oh, shit."
"American. Naturellement." Immediately, he pulled out a notebook. "The fine for swimming in the fountain is 50 euros. Passeport, s’il vous plait?"
"Wait a minute!" Andy said indignantly. "I was not swimming!"
He glanced down the dripping edge of her tunic and her soaked pants, an eyebrow disappearing under the blue cap.
"I was trying to find my phone! Look!" Andy waved it in his face.
"Bien sur. A phone which you dropped while swimming in the fountain." The policeman helpfully supplied, swiping away the drops from his cheek.
"I. Was. Not. Swimming." She said through clenched teeth. She welcomed the swell of familiar anger boiling in her stomach. Everything felt clearer when she was angry.
"And how did you drop it then?" The policeman asked smugly.
"I threw it in!" She said, triumphal. So there!
"Ah." He nodded with understanding. "The fine for littering is 50 euros."
"Aargh! Look, mister, I had a very, very bad day!" She got into policeman's face. "So don't give me that shit..."
"And you are disturbing the public order," He carried on undaunted. "The fine for which is..."
"I don't care for the fine! I was not disturbing anyone! I was just trying..."
"And you are drunk." He sniffed. "On cheap wine at that. I think, mademoiselle, you will come with me."
The crowd cheered again.
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