Work Text:
Life goes back to its usual pace.
In mid December the office is particularly trafficked.
Her days are as busy as ever, filled to the brim with meetings and calls and showings that leave her feeling even more frustrated than usual.
She wakes up every morning before sunrise, and goes to bed late at night, when her body is too exhausted to function. She spends the time in between working — doing what she does best.
Some days, she feels so tired she can barely keep herself standing by the time she finally gets home — but it's ok. It all pays off in the end.
The new issue of Runway thrives as usual under her expert eyes.
She sits at her desk and holds the magazine in between her hands. She lets her fingers brush over the shiny cover.
She mustn't think too much of how her heart trembles when she comes home to an empty house every night.
And if her body feels too cold at night, as she lies in a bed that seems too big, she tells herself it’s just a matter of weather — the winter’s quickly approaching, after all.
She ignores the ache in her back, and the constant migraines, and tells herself that this thing right here in her hands — her ambition, her hard work, her legacy — is enough.
It has to be.
*
Irv Ravitz stops by, one late afternoon.
Miranda’s had a migraine since early in the morning. The white spot in her vision has slowly widened through the day, and is now taking away half her vision.
She can't really focus on anything that’s going on around her.
When he enters her office, she can barely take sight of the small smile on his face — a bitter, angry one.
His words come out quiet and menacing, and Miranda struggles to understand what he’s saying.
He talks about the dangers of getting in his way. About possible troubles for her.
Miranda thinks he manages to look more ridiculous than scary.
“You won”, he says right before leaving — as if the events from Paris were a generous concession from him rather than an accomplishment on her part. “But I won’t be so benevolent a second time”.
That night she stands in the middle of her kitchen, as the remaining lights from the day fall into the marble floor in the square shapes of the window.
She puts away the food prepared by her cook, and takes two aspirins instead.
As she closes her eyes, forcing the headache to disappear, she thinks of victory, of what it means to win, of what it means to lose.
You won.
Miranda doesn’t feel much like a winner.
*
Caroline calls her on the weekend. The sound of her voice warms her heart like sunlight.
She says they’re having fun at their father's. That the new dog is not as nice as Patricia, but at least he can play fetch without risking a heart attack.
They don’t talk about Cassidy, even if Miranda feels herself itching to ask, beg even, to talk to her even if just for a few seconds.
They had a fight, the day right after she came back from Paris.
Cassidy had been furious about the divorce. Things had escalated to the point where her daughter had shouted that she hated her, that she didn't want to live with her anymore.
Miranda had been too stunned, too shaken to react.
She wishes she could talk to her now — now that the shock has faded, and the pain has settled deep inside her chest, cold and heavy.
She'd tell her: I’m sorry. It’s not my fault. Sometimes marriages just end.
She'd beg: Tell me how to fix it, and I’ll do it.
The call comes to an end shortly later, with a silence Miranda wishes wasn’t present in between them.
Caroline lets out a sigh that seems to hide unsaid words.
She tells her daughter she loves her, because she needs her to know. Because she wants her to know that it’s ok, that she understands how it feels when your family is torn apart, and you feel like you’re being pulled on both sides, about to break in half at any time.
A whisper is murmured against her ear right before the line disconnects.
I miss you.
She lets herself be held together by the words for the rest of the day.
*
Numbness follows her around the house, like a dark blue weight on her shoulders.
It walks with her all the way to the office every morning, and stays there all day.
It's there, hovering over her, as she sits in her car.
Traces of it are inside her coffee in the morning, in the whisky she sips at night, in the food she barely touches anymore.
Miranda knows she hasn't felt alive for a while, now.
She's been living like a ghost — dissatisfied, empty and cold, moving through the corridors of a house she doesn't recognise, following the routine of a life that doesn't feel like hers.
What had once been her safe place from an unhappy home is no help either. The office is a constant mess of lights, and noise, and every little thing seems to bother her astronomically.
Some days, the weight is heavier than usual, and numbness becomes unbearable anguish. It swirls endlessly through her body, cold and sharp, with no way out — she doesn't have time, nor strength, to allow herself to feel it.
The weeks go by, almost unnoticed, as the world seems to slowly close into itself, tightening around her, stifling and suffocating.
She goes through her days, her shoulders slumped with tiredness, quietly wishing for darkness to fall around her, for night to finally come.
All she wants to do is crawl, exhausted, under the covers, hide her face under the pillow, and force herself to fall asleep.
And disappear, just for a while.
*
Her therapist tells her she should stop blaming herself for everything that goes wrong in her life.
Sometimes you can't control things.
Miranda doesn’t tell her that she’s tried, and failed many times. That if there’s a thing she'll never truly free herself of, it’s her mother’s Catholic guilt.
Or that control is the one thing she does best. That the lack of it scares her to death.
“How are you feeling?”
Miranda thinks Dr. White asks questions that are too obvious, and too difficult, in their enormity, to be answered.
There's something wrong with me, she wants to say.
There's a black hole in my chest that keeps me awake all night, and is there to greet me every morning.
I feel like I'm breaking apart in front of my own eyes and I don't know how to stop it.
Her hands distractedly busy themselves with the pendant of her necklace. “I’d rather not talk about it”.
*
The divorce proceeds with little hazards.
The smile on her lawyer's face is almost wicked as he explains how they're going to carry out.
He tells her not to worry. That there's nothing Stephen can do, that she'll get everything.
Her fingers fumble with the papers in front of her. The proof of Stephen's infidelity sits there, black on white.
Text messages — that's all it takes to confirm something she's suspected for long but never got around to seek for herself.
The humiliation cuts deeper than she expects it to.
She won't allow it to hurt, won't allow herself to cry over it.
She'll turn pain into fire, and she'll use her fury to keep herself afloat during this fight.
*
On New Year’s eve, she finds herself lying on her living room floor.
Her entire body feels spineless. A mass of flesh put together, with no way to sustain its own weight.
There's a bottle of wine sitting next to her on the floor.
She does not remember how she ended up here. Probably loneliness-induced desperation.
The weight that's been following her around for weeks is sitting on her chest, pushing her down. Miranda can almost feel it slowly seeping through her skin, settling inside of her.
Something heavy and dark, something that reminds her of a black crow, of insomnia, of disappointment.
Something entirely unhappy.
She wishes she could cry and despair, let it out somehow — but her body feels incapable of it, too stoic, too spent, even for emotions.
The fire of the stove is slowly dying. She should put some more wood.
Her eyelids are heavy with exhaustion.
She's so tired.
*
One of Runway's editors publishes an essay on fashion and feminism.
Miranda exits her office at 9pm, exhausted, but reluctantly attends the book presentation anyway.
She offers a polite smile, and a short applause at the end.
She personally congratulates Martha, as it is expected from her, before hitting the bar. She'll stay for a few minutes more, and then she'll leave.
"Miranda".
When she turns around she is met by the sight of a smiling Andrea Sachs.
Her heart skips a few beats for reasons she chooses not to investigate.
She offers a nod, quiet and controlled. "Andrea".
The girl's smile seems to only widen, and she sits down next to her.
The proximity makes her skin tingle uncomfortably. Miranda doesn’t understand what's happening to her.
"Can I offer you a drink?", Andrea asks, tilting her head to the side.
Miranda thinks she's rarely seen a sight so beautiful.
She doesn't leave until the end of the event.
*
The face in the mirror is in constant movement.
Her edges blur into one another as she tries to focus on her own familiar features.
Her hand slightly shakes as she points a finger at her reflection.
"You need to stop", she hisses quietly.
The figure in the mirror smiles back wickedly.
"You need to leave me alone", she continues. It comes out more desperate than angry.
Miranda doesn’t know who she's talking to. If she's angry at her own self, or if she’s started thinking of the dark thing living inside of her as a different entity.
She shouldn't have drunk so much.
She thinks of Andrea, of her easy smile. Of her slender fingers as she scribbled her number on a piece of paper. Of her obvious joy at the prospect of possibly seeing her again.
She thinks of her behavior through the night, of the unexpected, fragile feeling of happiness bubbling in her chest, one almost unfamiliar in its long absence from her life.
Her breath comes out labored. She looks down and tightly grips the edges of the sink with both hands.
Her voice breaks.
"Please don't ruin this".
*
Nigel comes around on a cold night of late January as they sit in her office, trying to solve a last minute issue with some photographs.
He tells her he understands what she did. That he was hurt. That he needed some time to get over it, but that now he's ok.
Miranda looks down at her desk covered in papers, and thinks she doesn't deserve a friend like him.
His eyes bore into hers for the entire duration of their meeting. He appears to be seeing right through her, to be able to see something inside of her, that something sad and ugly she's been trying to hide.
He doesn’t ask. She doesn't tell.
But at one point his hand grabs hers and offers a gentle squeeze.
One that tells her I'm here. That there's no pressure to talk — just the reassuring, calming notion of his presence.
She lets out a sigh. "I'm a bad friend", she says.
Nigel doesn't hesitate. "No, you're not".
*
The coffeehouse is busy on a Saturday afternoon.
Miranda sips her latte and lets the taste of it linger on her tongue, sweet and warm.
Andrea prefers tea.
Andrea prefers small, local cafes. She prefers to not use any makeup, and to wear ankle boots rather than high heels. She prefers text messages over calls, and is insistent in using little emoticons Miranda is not quite sure how to feel about.
Andrea doesn't fit in her world and yet Miranda reasons she hasn't felt this comfortable with someone in a long time.
Talking to Andrea is easy. Easier than it should be. The girl likes to talk, but she seems to enjoy listening to her even more.
Miranda ends up revealing parts of herself too soon for her liking. To her wonder, Andrea does not appear surprised by anything she's being told.
It's like she expects her to be exactly who she is — like she already knew, beforehand, everything about her.
She puts down her mug, and glances into brown, kind eyes. Something in her itches, almost burns, ignited by a sudden desire to open her heart to this woman, to let her see right inside her chest with no curtains to hide behind.
She wants to tell her everything.
That her loneliness has been unbearable. That she's afraid the empty pit in her stomach is going to eat her alive. That she's quite sure her daughters don't like her.
That life as she knows it doesn't feel enough anymore.
That she's tired. So tired.
She wants to tell Andrea that she's not the woman she used to know. That everything is different, that her facade is falling apart, that she's nothing but the shell of who she used to be.
That she'll only disappoint her.
As if sensing her doubts, Andrea reaches forward, and gently takes her cold hand in between hers.
Miranda looks down at their fingers, brushing against one another, before glancing up once again into Andrea's reassuring eyes.
"I'm glad we met again", Andrea says, carefully, her cheeks slightly flushed. "I have missed you".
Miranda feels her heart skip a few beats at the words, and at the sight of the honest, tender smile on the woman's face.
Something inside her melts, leaving her feeling calm, and peaceful, in a way she hasn’t in so long.
She nods, and offers Andrea a smile in return. "I have missed you as well".
*
Work has been draining her.
Miranda knows how much it takes to run a magazine, knows the effort and commitment one must put into it for it to thrive.
She's been doing it her whole adulthood after all, had carved every aspect of her life around it.
Something's changed though, along the way.
Something's been shifting right in front of her, and she's been too busy, too distracted to notice.
The sense of accomplishment that used to fill her with pride after every successful print seems to have left her, to have succumbed under the fatigue, the constant scheming, the long hours.
No longer does she feel triumphant when she gets her way, when she strikes deals, when sales go up.
All she feels is a hollow, poor feeling, one that leaves her unsatisfied.
One that tells her, for the very first time, that maybe, orienting her entire life around this, no matter how meaningful and important to her, is not worth it.
It is not enough. Not anymore.
*
Andrea walks through her second floor hall, looking around herself in wonder.
Her presence in her house fills Miranda with something she cannot explain. Something warm and tingling.
But there's also something else. A trepidation, an uneasiness that's been keeping her on her toes.
She had not planned to have Andrea here. She had thought she had more time before that would eventually happen.
But then during an exchange of texts she had confessed to feeling lonely, and Andrea had all but surprised her, appearing on her doorstep only half an hour later, with a smile that had her going weak at the knees.
As she follows Andrea through the corridors, she frantically looks around, praying in the absence of anything compromising lying around, anything that could tell Andrea here, look, this is the house of a broken woman.
Andrea stops halfway through the living room and turns around.
She seems to notice her turmoil.
She frowns, reaches to take her hand in between hers. "What's wrong?", she asks, her eyes boring into hers.
Miranda looks down at their hands, unable to meet wide, worried eyes. She hopes Andrea doesn’t notice how clammy her hand feels right now.
What's wrong?
She wants to say: I don't want you to see what I've become.
But she doesn’t want to scare Andrea away.
She wants to beg: please don't leave.
But she can't ask her that. It's too soon.
There's another part of her, one that wants to tell Andrea to walk away. To get out of this house and run as fast as she can, before she has the possibility to fall into the mess that is her life.
She wets her dry lips with her tongue, and finally meets Andrea's eyes.
"Lately, I-", she ends up saying, her voice slightly chocked. "I have not been feeling quite myself".
Andrea's hold of her hand tightens as she takes a step forward. She is so close now, the proximity drives her crazy. Miranda feels dizzy as Andrea’s perfume invades her senses.
Delicate fingers gently stroke the entirety of her hand. Andrea's touch is warm, and something inside her trembles with affection.
Then, with a tenderness that almost breaks her, Andrea brings her hand up to her lips and places a gentle kiss on her palm.
Oh.
"Miranda", Andrea whispers, her voice sure and tender at the same time. "I'm not going anywhere".
Her breath catches in her throat at the certainty of those words.
All her fears wash away in an instant as she looks at Andrea, unable to drift away from kind eyes.
Who are you? — she wants to ask.
How can you know me so well?
Something inside her shatters.
She hides her face behind her hands, and lets the tears fall.
"C'm here", Andrea whispers, her arms moving with no hesitation around her shoulders, holding her so close, so dearly, like one would a child.
And Miranda does feel like a child. A lost, lonely creature, learning all over again how to cry, how to feel, how to let herself be swept away by her emotions.
"It's ok", Andrea whispers against her hair before kissing her temple. "It's ok, let it go".
The surge of emotions washes over her, like a tsunami, letting out everything she's been keeping inside for so long, pushed down and hidden in the deepest corners of herself.
It takes her a while to calm down, but Andrea never lets go of her.
Then, just like after a storm, her body relaxes, finally, a sense of calm pervading her.
Andrea leans back and gently dries her tears, her thumbs delicate on her cheeks.
*
Her lawyer paces in front of her desk in nervous movements, clearly failing in his attempts to remain calm.
Miranda watches with interest the raging veins in his temples. She wonders how much further could she anger him before they'd pop off.
"We have proof", he tells her, shaking his head. "There's nothing his lawyers can do-"
She stops him, once again.
Her mind's made up. It has been for days.
In the calm of her study, she had found those papers. She had read them, once again.
Without the fresh sting of rage stacked against her chest, she had noticed something new.
What she had assumed a sordid affair, was apparently so much more.
The words shared between her husband and his colleague spoke of tenderness. Maybe even love.
Stephen had not been a spineless, greedy liar, looking for shallowness.
He had fallen in love. He had found, in the misery that was their marriage, understanding, and kindness, in someone else.
Miranda finds she cannot blame him for trying to be happy.
She meets her lawyer's eyes. "I told you, I want it to be as civil as possible".
*
They're sitting on Andrea's couch.
An old film's playing on the small screen in front of them, but Miranda's too tired to focus on anything but the hand gently brushing against hers.
"Do you want me to pause it?", Andrea asks, quietly.
Miranda shakes her head, and blinks a few times. "No, no", she says as she tries to remain awake.
She leans further against the back of the couch, and tries to keep her eyes open.
Sleep comes anyway. When she opens her eyes next, her cheek is resting on a firm shoulder.
She quickly sits up, clearing her throat — but Andrea's hand moves to her arm, and gently helps her lie down against jeans-clad legs.
Miranda doesn’t know why she came here straight from the office, why she called Andrea in the first place when she knew just how tired she's been feeling all day.
She doesn't know why Andrea insisted on her coming anyway, even as Miranda told her she was not really feeling up for conversation, or any interaction at all — for anything really, that didn't involve sleeping.
"I'm sorry I'm not being great company tonight", she sighs.
Andrea offers a gentle smile. "It doesn't matter", she says, her fingers brushing back a lock of hair from her forehead. "I'm just really glad you’re here".
Her voice is calm, and sure, as if she meant it when she said she didn't mind her lack of spirit. As if it could really be enough: her presence, here — as if that alone could make her happy.
She looks up.
Brown eyes bore into hers from above, affection shining through them.
Miranda wonders when was the last time that someone looked at her with such tenderness.
She sits up, puts her hands on smooth cheeks, and presses her lips against Andrea's.
Andrea tastes of strawberry lip gloss. Of rose water, and beer, and the future, and something else Miranda can't put her hands on.
Something entirely Andrea.
The kiss doesn't last long. It doesn't need to.
Miranda knows already they'll have all the time in the world to explore this.
She lies back on Andrea's lap, her body suddenly free from the heaviness and rigidity it had carried all day long.
"You're so tired", a voice as sweet as honey whispers, while slender fingers start brushing through her hair. "Close your eyes for a little while".
Miranda does.
*
"They've been living with their father for a few months now".
Miranda doesn’t like therapy. She's not even sure she fully believes in the benefits of it — but one thing she does like is Dr. White's office.
The wide window on the left wall lights up the room in a delicate, almost sacred way. It reminds her of those quiet, early mornings of spring, when the world appears to be in your hands and everything seems possible.
She talks about her daughters. About how scared she is of losing their affection once and for all, of letting them down yet again, irremediably this time.
Having her daughters move out of home is one of the worst pain she's ever felt — and yet there's a certain relief, a certain calm in finally talking about it without pretense, in finally admitting that things are not ok.
"Tell me about your mother".
The peace vanishes so suddenly, with a question Miranda doesn't expect.
An old, unwelcome feeling spreads through her chest.
"Was she a present figure?", the woman asks after a few silent moments. "Was she kind to you?"
Miranda lets out a bitter chuckle.
Bile rises in her throat.
"What do you remember of her?"
Her palm against my cheek.
The constant disppointment in her eyes as she looked at me.
The disdain in her voice as she said she should have never kept me.
The sound of the front door as she slammed it on my face without a second thought.
"Miranda", Dr. White calls, suddenly.
Miranda looks up and meets her therapist's eyes, feeling lost.
The woman offers a smile. Miranda frowns in confusion.
"You are not your mother".
*
Life gets a little bit brighter.
The girls finally come home on a Sunday night, after an emotional phone call with Cassidy.
I'm sorry mom, the girl had whispered through the line, upset. I was just angry, I don't really hate you.
A weight had all but rolled off her shoulders, and Miranda had needed to sit down on her armchair from the sudden lack of balance.
She had tried her best to be calm and reassuring in front of her daughter's clear distress. Her sobs had nearly broken her.
It's ok, baby, she had repeated, over and over again. Mommy loves you.
Now she's tucking her girls in.
The walls of her house look no longer dark, their presence bright like the sun in a cold morning.
She takes a moment to look down at Cassidy, and a smile tugs at her lips.
Her fingers brush back a lock of hair, and she leans down to place a kiss on her forehead.
In her slumber, Cassidy murmurs a quiet love you.
Miranda closes her eyes, the words washing over her like a soothing waterfall.
*
The girls love Andrea.
Her calming, joyful presence seems to perfectly placate Miranda's fear of doing something wrong, of scaring them away once again.
In an attempt to appear the perfect host, she experiments with baking, but the biscuits come out all wrong.
As the girls force themselves to eat them anyway, Miranda thinks she's never felt this happy while failing.
"They're really good, mom".
She chuckles, the sound almost foreign to her own ears. "No, they're not".
Miranda reasons that maybe sometimes control is overrated
They end up ordering.
The conversation flows effortlessly in between them through the afternoon.
Andrea offers herself and her wisdom so selflessly to her girls, and Miranda wonders why did she ever spend so much time thinking kindness to be so unnecessary and futile.
Now Andrea makes a joke, something about a pop star Miranda knows nothing about, but the girls chuckle with amusement.
Caroline meets her eye, a tender smile on her lips. Her eyes shine with approval.
Miranda thinks her kitchen has never looked so bright.
*
Andrea takes her to the beach.
It's a sunny day of early March, and Miranda hasn't felt so carefree in a long time.
The place is surprisingly empty on a Friday.
Miranda walks towards the water as Andrea retrieves a large cloth from her bag and lays it down on the sand.
She's removed her shoes. The water is cold against her feet, but Miranda loves the way it feels against her skin, loves the way the sand tingles her as it slides from underneath her.
A gentle breeze brushes against her face, and she closes her eyes to better savor it. She takes a deep breath and lets the familiar scent of the sea fill her lungs.
Two warm hands take hold of her waist. Miranda lets herself smile as they move forward, circling her abdomen before closing in a gentle embrace.
She covers Andrea's hands with her own, pressing further against the woman's front.
Andrea lets her chin rest on her shoulder, her cheek barely brushing against hers.
They stay silent for a while, bathed in the sun, simply enjoying the wind, the sound of the sea, the retreating waves, the wet sand undernath their bare feet.
Oh, what bliss.
Miranda thinks that she loves life. That she loves it no matter how unkind it has been to her, loves it despite everything.
She loves the sea, and the breeze, and this quiet day of March.
And she loves Andrea.
She lets her head fall back against a steady shoulder.
Andrea tightens her arms around her, and places a kiss on her cheek.
She'll tell her soon.
*
"Are you sure?"
Nigel narrows his eyes at her, his forehead wrinkled in a frown.
Miranda nods. She is.
She's going to take a break from Runway. Indefinitely.
The decision comes to her easily.
When she first thinks about it, one late night at the office, she almost brushes it off as ridiculous. She thinks it to be too colossal, too huge of a change.
She'd feel lost, she thinks. Unprepared, empty even, without the safe facade of her title.
But then she gets home. She opens the front door, and follows the sounds coming from the living room.
The girls and Andrea are sitting on the couch, playing some silly video games. They're laughing and teasing each other.
Miranda feels her heart heavy with affection.
She thinks of what it could be like — to have more time with her girls. To be able to plan a vacation with Andrea, someplace quiet and peaceful. To have more time to simply exist, to dedicate herself to hobbies she used to love but stopped pursuing somewhere in between the chaos of her busy schedule.
It feels almost natural. A logical decision, one that makes sense, one that feels right.
"Aren't you going to miss it?", Nigel asks, readjusting his glasses over his nose.
Miranda shrugs. "Of course I am", she admits casually. "But it's what I must do".
He nods, quietly, before offering a soft smile. His eyes twinkle with joy.
"I'm happy for you".
*
Andrea's skin is soft against her lips.
Miranda kisses every inch of it with delight, losing herself in the feeling, leaving a wet trail from firm ribs all the way down to a smooth waist.
She feels like she's about to explode.
Her hands are busy playing with a soft chest, her fingers stroking over sharp nipples.
Andrea's whines are getting louder as her back arches against the mattress.
"I need you", she begs.
Miranda looks up to meet pleading eyes, and knows she doesn’t want to wait anymore.
Her mouth is greedy as she tastes Andrea, urged to devour her completely, driven by the delightful sounds of her lover's moans.
She's never desired anybody so badly.
The hand in between her hair is firm but gentle as it guides her where she's needed most.
It doesn't take long before Andrea's calling her name in bliss, her body tensing against her before finally relaxing, spent.
One of her hands moves over her lover's thigh, stroking her naked skin, attempting to calm trembling muscles.
She takes in Andrea, flushed and panting. Glowing. The sight is so beautiful Miranda almost feels like crying.
She wants to tell her: you make me happy — so deliriously happy.
She brings herself up, and places a kiss on a rosy cheek. Brown eyes meet hers, and there's something so tender in there it nearly breaks her.
I love you, she thinks. The words burn in her throat, threatening to spill.
She chooses to let them tumble out of her mouth, unafraid.
The smile on Andrea's face is breathtaking in its genuine happiness. Her fingers gently move wet brown locks away from a glistening forehead.
The confines of her heart expand with love.