Title: Hands of the Devil, pt 2
Prompt: a continuation of where you left off
Fandom: Bea/Miranda, The House of Eliott/The Devil Wears Prada
Requested by:
kitnkabootle Rating: PG13
Word Count: 802
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were. Please don't sue.
Author's Note: *crawls under desk* This was hard to write. I am not even super happy with it, hence the hiding. I hope you like it nevertheless. Let me know what you think. Part one can be found
here.
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For a dressmaker, Beatrice Eliott is having difficulty explaining why her hands are so unsteady. She's designed dresses for highly influential women in the past, so why should the woman standing before her be any different?
The fact that it is Miranda Priestly more than likely has something to do with it.
She slides a pin into the silk fabric, tacking the hem at the bottom of the dress a little higher, per Miranda's request.
"Lovely," Miranda says, turning slightly to see the effect of the altered hemline in the mirror. "Yes, that will do."
"Wonderful," Bea replies, getting to her feet. She sets down the pins and clasps her hands together in an attempt to steady them. "If you'd like, I can have one of our girls finish pinning the bottom. You'll get a better idea of how things work in the workroom."
Miranda waves a dismissive hand. "I'd prefer you to finish. I'd like to see what you can do."
"You realize, Ms. Priestly, that a fashion house is only as good as all of its employees."
Miranda gives a little laugh. "Miranda. And a fashion house does not exist without a figurehead. You are the Eliott, after all."
"One of the Eliotts. You have yet to speak with my sister. Perhaps you'd like--"
"All in due time, Beatrice." Miranda turns to face the mirror again, her fingers smoothing along the band of cloth across the low-waist seam. "Why are you so hesitant to take your share of credit for the work you've accomplished?"
Bea frowns and looks away. She chastises herself for allowing her nerves to get the better of her and forces her eyes to meet the editor's. "I'm hesitant because I'm not the only woman who works in this fashion house. I refuse to take credit for team effort."
"How noble of you." Miranda sneers.
Something inside Beatrice snaps. She steps in front of the editor and clenches her fists. "I don't care if you're the queen of the damn editing world; I will not be spoken to like that in my business. You have no right to presume that I will cower before you. You came to me to be in your magazine, not the other way around. The House of Eliott will survive with or without your patronage."
Miranda starts as if slapped and Bea squares her shoulders, preparing for retaliation. Miranda's eyes are cold, unreadable. Bea holds her breath while she waits.
"No one," Miranda begins slowly, "has ever spoken to me in such a way." She sticks her tongue in her cheek, her eyes roving over Bea's figure. "It's refreshing."
"Excuse me?"
"You impress me very much, Beatrice." Miranda laughs quietly. "Very much indeed."
Bea rolls her eyes and throws her arms up in a helpless gesture. "Is this some sort of a test? Are you even really interested in featuring us, or are you just playing games with me?"
"I don't play games, Miss Eliott," Miranda says as she disappears behind the folded screen. "This offer is not everlasting."
"I don't understand, Miranda. What is it that you want from me?"
"I want," Miranda says, her voice dropping to a low, breathy octave, "to be impressed." She snaps the dress over the top of the screen and begins to redress in her own clothes.
Bea swallows. "You say I've accomplished that."
"So I have."
Biting her lip, Bea feels the tension boil in her stomach. For all of her wavering on the offer, Bea had been intending to accept. "I hope I haven't offended you. I just…I'm sure you can appreciate how difficult it is to run a business and to make beneficial decisions. Had you been a man saying these things, it would not have been difficult to get the wrong impression."
Miranda steps out from behind the screen, perfectly put together in her jacket, skirt, and blouse. Her silver forelock grazes over her brow and Bea once again feels the urge to tuck it aside.
"Do not misunderstand me, Beatrice." She picks up her clutch from the small table and stands before her. "I do want you. Very much, in fact. However, that fact is not contingent on this business arrangement. I intend to have you in my magazine and in my bed." Miranda's eyes flash and Bea feels as though her heart has ceased to beat. "Good day to you, Beatrice."
When she's gone, Bea is left with nothing more than the scent of her perfume and the weight of her words. Though she is still the one with the decisions to make, she feels as though Miranda Priestly wields all of the power. As she gathers the dress in her hands, still warmed by the editor's body, Bea considers that Miranda may soon have her after all.
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