The Secret Lives of Fortunate Wives

Title: The Secret Lives of Fortunate Wives

Author: JAZWriter/JAZWriter13

Pairing: Miranda/Andy

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or situations represented through The Devil Wears Prada or Groundhog Day. Nor am I receiving any monies through this story. Any infringement is unintentional.

Rating: R but nothing too graphic

Special Thanks goes to law-nerd, the best beta ever! Besides being quick, she has a gift for zoning in to the areas where I had trouble and providing me with helpful suggestions. She makes my stories better. You should thank her. Really.

Author's Note: This is in response to the Mid-January Challenge presented by i_heart_cuddy to create a story based on the title I was given in January 2010.

What a great challenge! I was also asked by a Janeway/Seven Faction board community member—elentarisil—to create a story using the same style found in two stories I created and posted for that board. Those two STV stories are called I Know You and its companion piece, You Know Me. And, I had been mulling over the idea of creating a Mirandy fanfic based on the idea of the movie Groundhog Day.

Ummm, yeah. So, here it is! Hope you enjoy. Let me know.

Part 1

Sometimes it doesn't pay to get up. I know, I know. You have to get up, at least during the work week. Particularly when you have a job to do. Particularly when that job is to cover the news—because the news doesn't sleep. So, neither can you. Right? But the thing is, sometimes the day starts out bad and gets infinitely worse. Like, unbelievably worse. Like, how the hell could this be real worse. So, the little things that happened today such as stubbing my toe and wearing two different colored shoes with two different heels and staining my skirt with that damn piping-hot coffee I had ordered in remembrance of that certain white-haired editor, She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, and getting hit by a bicycle messenger, those events made me wish I had rolled over and stayed in bed. Because here's the truth: sometimes it doesn't pay to get up.

Bed is infinitely more seductive when beckoning me with a beautiful dream. Certainly better than what my morning has been offering me. Shaking my head to clear the confusion after a jarring impact throws me to the curb, I look up at the cyclist. He apologizes, sneers, and rides off. Well, it isn't like I am unconscious. Just scraped and bruised. I push myself up from the pavement, receiving a helping hand as I grab my Marc Jacobs bag. Luckily nothing has escaped its confines. Looking to my savior, I freeze in shock. Miranda, my Miranda, is scorching me with an all-encompassing glance from my mismatched heels to snow-crusted head. Gosh, she looks just like in that dream I had last night. Attractive, powerful, and compelling. Unlike my dream, she also appears angry. Evidently, angry at me for having the nerve to be plowed into by a bicycle. Hmm. That's the difference between dreams and reality and the reason I should have hit the alarm buzzer several more times. Bed is infinitely more seductive when beckoning me with a beautiful dream.

The confusion I am feeling only deepens. I look at Miranda, her hand, my arm. Miranda, hand, arm—a loop I cannot seem to stop. I am sure I have a rather bewildered or befuddled or down-right "am I unconscious and not realizing it?" look on my face since the editor deigns to say, "Did you smack your little head on the pavement?" She does know I had just fallen down, right? Why is her hand still gripping my arm? Why is she helping me? Why is she appearing concerned and amused and just a little bit happy to see me? The confusion I am feeling only deepens.

I raise my hand futilely. Checking my head, I feel a bump forming but no blood. Phew. No time for hospitals. I have to get to work. As soon as Miranda lets go of my arm. "I'm okay. Thank you." I choose to believe she cares about my welfare. Life is better that way. Looking around I confirm that I am not in front of Miranda's office building, her home, or anywhere else I would normally see her. Nope, just on a busy New York sidewalk about five minutes away from the Mirror. I return my gaze to Miranda while wondering what I should do. She doesn't like idle conversation or even any type of conversation. We can't really just stare at each other all day, not that I would mind. Wouldn't that just cause her to attack, like when looking into any carnivorous animal's eyes? The decision is taken from me when the editor drops her hand and with a nod enters her car. I don't want her to go. I raise my hand futilely.

I wonder whether this day could become any weirder directly before it does. I should know by now. Over the years I have chastised myself numerous times for daring the Universe to make my day even more incomprehensible than it was. It's like walking up the stairs, not realizing you've reached the top, and stepping into air. The result is rather jarring. What the hell was I thinking? Why wasn't I looking? Why was I daring my reality to twist itself just a bit more and then becoming surprised when my challenge was accepted? Stupid little girl. Insipid, thoughtless child. Now I was channeling Miranda's insults in my mind. But, really, had I learned nothing? As I look toward heaven wondering whether my day can become any more bizarre, I hear my name called impatiently. That's when I notice Miranda's car is still idling by the curb, and the older woman is watching me through the half-opened window. "By all means move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me." I jump forward, sliding into the car's confines purely by instinct. I wonder whether this day could become any weirder directly before it does.

Pinching myself, I squelch the resulting squeak. What world have I landed in? How is it I am sitting in Miranda's car as we travel to some unknown destination? Why is she staring at me as if I am the best steak she has ever seen and is ready to devour it—me? I swallow reflexively. She smiles like the cat to the canary. Surreal. Impossible. Miranda seems to…desire…me. Me. "Where are we going?" I ask just to get her hot eyes off my breasts. Not that I mind all that much, but she is making the few brain cells still working roll over, showing their tender bellies in supplication. Her answer echoes through my mind, captivating me. I must be dreaming. There is no other explanation. What can I do to wake myself up? Pinching myself, I squelch the resulting squeak.

Over the past year I have seen Miranda often. Entering or exiting Elias-Clarke, designer showrooms, fancy soirees, and high-profile benefits, it wasn't hard to get my Miranda fix. At night I exchanged my harsh, lonely reality for my dream—Miranda's complete, affectionate attention. These dreams were not always sexual, although I awoke one morning to the feeling of her thumb and forefinger pinching my clitoris. I throbbed for quite some time while attempting to blink away that glorious sensation. Nevertheless, in most of my dreams we share a comfortable, trusting bond. In the beginning of one dream we sat across from each chatting (chatting!) amiably; by the end of our dreamy day we sat side-by-side holding hands as we confided our deepest secrets. The bond was palpable. Whether asleep or roaming New York trying to track down the latest lead, I live for Miranda's presence even as I fear her rejection. Because I fear that at some point she will confront my desertion during her time of need. At some point she will take notice of me and demand an explanation. Over the past year I have seen Miranda often.

Memories dull as time passes. In that way, memories and dreams are very similar. They are vivid when first experienced but fade even as we review them over and over again. Senses, so essential at the time, can no longer feed the mind with incoming information, and time erodes the details of delicious moments. Like the way Miranda pronounces my name. How could I have forgotten that particular inflection, that lingual caress, that unique pronunciation? Oh, how I'd missed that, how I'd missed her! Gazing into ice-blue eyes, I realize how much I'd given up, who I'd given up, all under the guise of integrity. Her voice and her smell, her gaze and her aura—I'd traded them in for a colorless, senseless life. Although I utilize some hard-earned lessons nowadays, I'd blocked out the impetus of them all—Miranda. All to protect myself. And when finally I felt strong enough to call forth my Runway experiences, I had found them to be mere shadows bereft of the details needed to taste those moments fully. I felt robbed of something precious, something I needed. Someone I needed. My life is pale, my past bland. Memories dull as time passes.

She reaches for my hand and watches me keenly. I am trying to keep up as I had always attempted while in her employ. I am having just as much trouble as I have always had. Seated on Miranda's lounge listening to her incredible words, I feel sensation sweeping me away. No time to call for help, no time to take a deep breath, I drown without fight, succumbing to my fate. She has missed me, she tells me. For a long time the editor chose not to recognize why she felt so lost, so empty, so forlorn. Eventually, though, she accepted the truth. She wants me near her. She needs me back in her life. I pull my hand away, fearing what I have to say will anger the older woman. Miranda will have none of that. She reaches for my hand and watches me keenly.

The air shivers with her passionate words. I shift away, afraid to voice my concerns. I am insecure; can't she understand? Miranda is so far removed from me, even while she professes her affection. How can I hope to accept what she offers when I have so little to trade? She and I live in different worlds. I cannot hope to be her equal. If I tried to join her on her pedestal, I'd surely fall off as I bowed before her. The idea of romance, of allowing herself to be vulnerable may seem exciting and different and freeing, but one day too soon she will question herself. She will wonder what possessed her to seduce me with her promises. She will want to end what she has begun, and I will be left struggling to breathe each moment without her. Miranda's ardor is thrilling but out of character. Perhaps she has seduced herself with such visions. But we all must awaken from our dreams. We all must adhere to our self-imposed constraints. We all must acknowledge what is best for ourselves. I want so much to accept her offer. Yet I fear to do so will become my destruction. The air shivers with her passionate words.