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Hi everybody. This is my first DWP fanfiction and before we start, I want to say, that English is not my first language. I therefore apologize in advance for spelling errors or issues regarding the correct use of tenses as well as possible grammar issues. I use Word with spell check for writing and an additional dictionary for words I don’t know. It’s been way over a decade since I graduated from college and had to use English in everyday life, therefore I hope you can forgive me possible errors and may take a liking in this little story anyway.
I have been a fanfiction author for 12 years, but mostly in the German Sailor Moon Fandom, but Mirandy has got me in a strong chokehold and I wanted to share my little story. Oh…and I took the liberty and changed the ages of Miranda, Andrea and the twins. Not a specific reason, but I could work better with this adjustment. In this story, Miranda is 45, Andrea recently turned 29 and the twins are 14. Paris happened 18 months ago, but the story doesn’t take place in 2006; it takes place in 2025 and therefore Runway also has a digital presence. Like I said, not a specific reason, I just want our darling ladies to have the modern amenities. As well as the pain in the butt that can come with social media. ^^
I try to upload as often as life allows.
Pain.
All-consuming and heavy.
Pain everywhere in her body.
So much pain in her head.
Much more in her chest.
Black specks at the edges of her vision.
Breathing felt like burning.
Her pulse raced, her limbs felt heavy.
She coughed.
A strangled sound, colored in pain.
The room around her was spinning and nausea was rising up fast.
Cold. She felt cold.
A layer of frost seemed to cover her. Shallowed her. Dragged her down.
She felt like she was about to perish by cold. Except for the fire in her chest. The excruciating pain.
By god, her lungs were burning like a thousand suns.
Another cough. Hands flying to her chest. Trying to claw the damn pain out of her.
Wheezing. Weeping. She couldn’t breathe.
“Mom? Mom what’s wrong?” “Hold on, we get help!”
She heard them. Her daughters. Her loves. Her miracles.
Soft, beautiful voices, distorted by fear. Too loud. Too fast.
Tears cascaded down her cheeks. She wanted to reassure them, that she was fine. That this was nothing. That she had just shallowed wrong. That something else than pain had kept her awake. She wanted to apologize for waking them. For worrying them. And assure them, that she would be ok. That she had to be ok.
Even if it felt like falling. Like failing.
Like dying….
She coughed again, horrified when red specks covered her sheets. When she could feel blood dripping down her lip. When it felt like her lungs were being seized.
Being crushed in a death grip.
She chocked on the next cough, clutching her chest again, shaking more violently than a tree in a storm. Reality and the sense of belonging in her own body eluded her.
Everything went black.
Miranda Priestly never felt herself hitting the floor next to her bed.
***
The insistent ringing of her phone roused Andrea Sachs from her sleep and blindly, she searched for the shrilling device.
Who the hell called her at four thirty in the morning?
The journalist tried to dampen her dry throat, unsuccessfully sleep drunken rasping out: “Lo? Andy Sachs?” “Andy? Andy help.”
Within a heartbeat Andy sat up straight in bed. Completely awake.
“Cassidy?”
Why would Miranda’s daughter call her? Why did she sound so terrified?
What the flying fuck had happened?
“Cass, sweety, what’s wrong?” “It’s Mum…Andy…she…she…”
The brunette heard a sob and then another voice. “Mum couldn’t breathe. She was coughing and wheezing and clawing at her chest.” “Caro, is she awake?” “Not anymore. Andy help us!”
The young teen wailed, voiced stained with tears. The journalist was already up putting on her clothes in record time. “I’m coming girls. It will be ok. Wait for me.” Andy hung up, grabbed her briefcase, keys and her jacket, not caring a wit for the downpour. Dialing already.
“911 what’s your emergency?” “I need an ambulance to 130 East 73rd Street, Upper East Side. Unconscious 45-year-old female after severe breathing issues.” “We’re coming.” Andy disconnected the call, pulled the door behind her shut and ran down the three floors of her appartement house, not trusting the elevator to bring her down fast. She practically hauled herself into her car. Well….Doug’s car, but he was in Miami with his current boyfriend and Andy couldn’t give a damn if she wanted at the moment. Nothing else was important.
Nothing else was more important than Miranda.
Nothing else would ever be more important than the woman she loved more than life itself.