Bound By The Life She Left Behind | PG13 | The Devil Wears Prada
Title: Bound By the Life She Left Behind
Prompt: "My Immortal" by Evanescence
Fandom: Miranda/Andy, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: take_itback
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1230
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: WARNING: This is a death fic. I repeat: there is character death. That said…this sucked to write. I tend to avoid these fics. I never read them and I most certainly don't write them. I have no idea if I managed to accurately portray this or if I wrote this in a way that evokes emotion. I've been sick, so all errors/bad writing are all mine! Please do let me know what you think.
-
"Mom…" Caroline says, picking up the phone off the floor in the hallway where it fell at Miranda's feet.
Miranda blinks several times, staring past her daughter, staring through her. "Yes?"
"Are you o--"
Miranda raises a hand and Caroline immediately snaps her mouth shut, knowing better than to speak when she's been silenced. The twins exchange glances when Miranda turns around and disappears into the office.
Andrea's office.
Miranda twists the lock with a click, blocking out the concerned, hushed whispers passing between her daughters. She feels cold.
Andrea's office is as she'd left it that morning. It's cluttered in a way that almost seems to have a method about it. Organized chaos, Andrea calls it.
Called it.
Having to change her tense usage is going to be an inconvenience.
Having lost her wife to a freak accident is going to be considerably worse.
She licks her lips. They're dry, as is her tongue, which results in an uncomfortable sensation like sandpaper on her forearm. She wishes she had a glass of water, but the thought of ingesting anything, even liquid, makes her feel nauseas.
Miranda makes her way to the desk and turns on the small lamp that is positioned over the laptop. She nudges the mouse and watches as the screen comes off of power save. There are a few documents open. Miranda carefully saves each one and closes them. She stares briefly at the image on the desktop -- a candid shot from the wedding -- before she shuts down the computer. She snaps the screen shut, listening to the resounding click like a final punctuation on a sentence.
There are papers and post it's scattered around the desk, and Miranda begins to sift through them all. Call D on Fri to remind abt bball game. Editorial due by 5. Dinner with M Thur at 8. She pauses to stare at a few of the scribbled notes -- half-completed lists, scratches where she must have been attempting to rescue a dying pen, a heart enclosed around an M. She throws them all away save for the heart, which she tucks in the pocket of her D&G slacks.
She pulls together the loose, scattered pieces of paper and fastens them with a paperclip before placing them in the drawer in which she keeps--kept--her files. There is an empty folder in the front and she slips them in. She slides the drawer shut, enjoying the clunk as it closes.
As Miranda reaches for a book that's tented over the pencil holder, she smells it.
Andrea's perfume.
It wasn't a special perfume, not like the one specifically made for Miranda by Givenchy. Andrea never wanted such luxuries. She favored a perfume from a department store that she had worn since she was sixteen. It was an ordinary perfume, one that Miranda smelled on various women for years. It was common.
But somehow, it smelled differently on Andrea than it did in the bottle. Her flesh warmed it, infused it with something uniquely Andrea.
Miranda will never smell that again. She will never be able to recreate it. She knows that, over time, the scent lingering in the air in this office and on Andrea's clothes will fade.
Her knees begin to shake and she has to sit down. She lowers herself into Andrea's leather desk chair. It's cold. Miranda presses her finger to her lips and closes her eyes.
Andrea's gone. Dead.
That morning, she had leaned over Miranda's side of the bed and pressed a kiss to her lips. It was simply the type of brief, comfortable kiss shared between a couple that had been together for eight years. It wasn't a goodbye kiss. Miranda will never have that luxury.
It disgusts her to attempt to wrap her mind around the notion that Andrea will not be returning home. It feels wrong, against nature.
Miranda is not used to feeling so much. She had never been particularly inspired into getting in touch with her emotions.
Until Andrea.
Miranda takes a deep breath, and then another. She pinches the bridge of her nose, presses a finger to her temple.
She decides that quiet reflection isn't going to help and instead stands up once more, pulling up the tented book and putting it away on the top shelf. She picks up a few more misplaced books, caressing her finger over the cracked spines. She places the cap back on the fountain pen that is sitting atop a steno pad, and beside it she notices Andrea's watch beneath an envelope containing this month's telephone bill.
Miranda carefully extracts the watch, smiling to herself as she observes the silver hands tick around the square face. Andrea had been looking for the watch that morning; it was the last thing she asked Miranda about before telling her she loved her and bolting out the door. Andrea always had been one to misplace things in plain sight.
Miranda runs her fingers delicately over the worn leather. She never did like this watch. She'd purchased it four Christmases ago along with a very expensive white gold dress watch. Andrea rarely wore it, citing that it was too nice to wear to a newspaper office. This watch she wore daily.
The watch fits effortlessly around her own slender wrist. She fastens the leather cuff and stares once more at its face, watching as the minute hand slowly makes its way around in a full cycle.
It seems wrong that time should continue to pass in a world in which Andrea no longer exists.
She looks around the empty room. She looks at the desk, with its ongoing work that will cease to be finished. She looks at the pictures on the walls, the memories, the life captured in a single frame.
Andrea isn't coming back.
She thinks of the call she received, of the accident that happened. She tries to picture the crowded underground subway station, the throngs of people shoving and the almost synchronized chaos. It could have been anyone to be pushed in front of the oncoming train. It could have been anyone, but it was Andrea.
There are a hundred things to do. There are phone calls to make, tedious tasks to be performed. Her body is at the hospital. She will have to collect her or have her sent to a funeral home.
The image assails her harder than Miranda expects.
A sob erupts from Miranda's throat before she is entirely prepared for it. It wracks her entire body. Every cell within her unites in that moment to mourn the loss of the one person Miranda can't live without. She curls her arms around her stomach, the pain and nausea so intense that she wants nothing more than to disappear, to cease existing in the way that Andrea has. She wants to cry until there's nothing left, cry until Andrea is with her again.
In that moment, Miranda Priestly feels everything she ever knew begin to crumble. She had never believed much in love, in companionship. Andrea had forced her to believe differently, forced her to open her closed heart and make room for a human being other than her daughters.
She hates Andrea for putting her in this position. She hates her for making her feel weak and tiny and defeated.
She hates Andrea for leaving her alone.
---
Prompt: "My Immortal" by Evanescence
Fandom: Miranda/Andy, The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by: take_itback
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1230
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: WARNING: This is a death fic. I repeat: there is character death. That said…this sucked to write. I tend to avoid these fics. I never read them and I most certainly don't write them. I have no idea if I managed to accurately portray this or if I wrote this in a way that evokes emotion. I've been sick, so all errors/bad writing are all mine! Please do let me know what you think.
-
"Mom…" Caroline says, picking up the phone off the floor in the hallway where it fell at Miranda's feet.
Miranda blinks several times, staring past her daughter, staring through her. "Yes?"
"Are you o--"
Miranda raises a hand and Caroline immediately snaps her mouth shut, knowing better than to speak when she's been silenced. The twins exchange glances when Miranda turns around and disappears into the office.
Andrea's office.
Miranda twists the lock with a click, blocking out the concerned, hushed whispers passing between her daughters. She feels cold.
Andrea's office is as she'd left it that morning. It's cluttered in a way that almost seems to have a method about it. Organized chaos, Andrea calls it.
Called it.
Having to change her tense usage is going to be an inconvenience.
Having lost her wife to a freak accident is going to be considerably worse.
She licks her lips. They're dry, as is her tongue, which results in an uncomfortable sensation like sandpaper on her forearm. She wishes she had a glass of water, but the thought of ingesting anything, even liquid, makes her feel nauseas.
Miranda makes her way to the desk and turns on the small lamp that is positioned over the laptop. She nudges the mouse and watches as the screen comes off of power save. There are a few documents open. Miranda carefully saves each one and closes them. She stares briefly at the image on the desktop -- a candid shot from the wedding -- before she shuts down the computer. She snaps the screen shut, listening to the resounding click like a final punctuation on a sentence.
There are papers and post it's scattered around the desk, and Miranda begins to sift through them all. Call D on Fri to remind abt bball game. Editorial due by 5. Dinner with M Thur at 8. She pauses to stare at a few of the scribbled notes -- half-completed lists, scratches where she must have been attempting to rescue a dying pen, a heart enclosed around an M. She throws them all away save for the heart, which she tucks in the pocket of her D&G slacks.
She pulls together the loose, scattered pieces of paper and fastens them with a paperclip before placing them in the drawer in which she keeps--kept--her files. There is an empty folder in the front and she slips them in. She slides the drawer shut, enjoying the clunk as it closes.
As Miranda reaches for a book that's tented over the pencil holder, she smells it.
Andrea's perfume.
It wasn't a special perfume, not like the one specifically made for Miranda by Givenchy. Andrea never wanted such luxuries. She favored a perfume from a department store that she had worn since she was sixteen. It was an ordinary perfume, one that Miranda smelled on various women for years. It was common.
But somehow, it smelled differently on Andrea than it did in the bottle. Her flesh warmed it, infused it with something uniquely Andrea.
Miranda will never smell that again. She will never be able to recreate it. She knows that, over time, the scent lingering in the air in this office and on Andrea's clothes will fade.
Her knees begin to shake and she has to sit down. She lowers herself into Andrea's leather desk chair. It's cold. Miranda presses her finger to her lips and closes her eyes.
Andrea's gone. Dead.
That morning, she had leaned over Miranda's side of the bed and pressed a kiss to her lips. It was simply the type of brief, comfortable kiss shared between a couple that had been together for eight years. It wasn't a goodbye kiss. Miranda will never have that luxury.
It disgusts her to attempt to wrap her mind around the notion that Andrea will not be returning home. It feels wrong, against nature.
Miranda is not used to feeling so much. She had never been particularly inspired into getting in touch with her emotions.
Until Andrea.
Miranda takes a deep breath, and then another. She pinches the bridge of her nose, presses a finger to her temple.
She decides that quiet reflection isn't going to help and instead stands up once more, pulling up the tented book and putting it away on the top shelf. She picks up a few more misplaced books, caressing her finger over the cracked spines. She places the cap back on the fountain pen that is sitting atop a steno pad, and beside it she notices Andrea's watch beneath an envelope containing this month's telephone bill.
Miranda carefully extracts the watch, smiling to herself as she observes the silver hands tick around the square face. Andrea had been looking for the watch that morning; it was the last thing she asked Miranda about before telling her she loved her and bolting out the door. Andrea always had been one to misplace things in plain sight.
Miranda runs her fingers delicately over the worn leather. She never did like this watch. She'd purchased it four Christmases ago along with a very expensive white gold dress watch. Andrea rarely wore it, citing that it was too nice to wear to a newspaper office. This watch she wore daily.
The watch fits effortlessly around her own slender wrist. She fastens the leather cuff and stares once more at its face, watching as the minute hand slowly makes its way around in a full cycle.
It seems wrong that time should continue to pass in a world in which Andrea no longer exists.
She looks around the empty room. She looks at the desk, with its ongoing work that will cease to be finished. She looks at the pictures on the walls, the memories, the life captured in a single frame.
Andrea isn't coming back.
She thinks of the call she received, of the accident that happened. She tries to picture the crowded underground subway station, the throngs of people shoving and the almost synchronized chaos. It could have been anyone to be pushed in front of the oncoming train. It could have been anyone, but it was Andrea.
There are a hundred things to do. There are phone calls to make, tedious tasks to be performed. Her body is at the hospital. She will have to collect her or have her sent to a funeral home.
The image assails her harder than Miranda expects.
A sob erupts from Miranda's throat before she is entirely prepared for it. It wracks her entire body. Every cell within her unites in that moment to mourn the loss of the one person Miranda can't live without. She curls her arms around her stomach, the pain and nausea so intense that she wants nothing more than to disappear, to cease existing in the way that Andrea has. She wants to cry until there's nothing left, cry until Andrea is with her again.
In that moment, Miranda Priestly feels everything she ever knew begin to crumble. She had never believed much in love, in companionship. Andrea had forced her to believe differently, forced her to open her closed heart and make room for a human being other than her daughters.
She hates Andrea for putting her in this position. She hates her for making her feel weak and tiny and defeated.
She hates Andrea for leaving her alone.
---