Archive of Our Own

Nigel had always assumed that if he ever got the chance to see Paris on his own, instead of as an extra limb on Miranda Priestly's body, he'd quite enjoy it. He wasn't quite sure he'd feel the same about Venice. He considered himself a fashionable, but fastidious man, and it had always seemed to him that Venice was basically one enormous open sewer.

So, it wasn't such a loss that he was stuck in a hotel suite with Miranda and Andy during Carnivale. The sounds of festivity and revelry were enticing, true, but he was slightly (only so slightly) past the age when they would have proved an irresistible temptation. Besides, Miranda was right. The faxed layouts for next month's issue were unqualified disasters and they had to be fixed immediately. It was no great loss to be here instead of outside.

Unfortunately, he couldn't say that Andy felt the same way. She took dutiful notes, and scurried off whenever Miranda thought of something she wanted, and always returned with alacrity and a smile on her face. But Nigel caught her, more than once, casting longing glances towards the windows: towards the lights and music and laughter.

Get used to it, he thought. He'd like to be able to tell her that once she'd paid her dues as a lowly assistant, served her time, then she'd be able to go out and have all the fun at Carnivale that she wanted. But how could he say that, after eighteen years in a senior position at Runway? If she stuck around, she wasn't going to have any more fun than he was. And, judging by the crestfallen looks that occasionally crossed her face, she knew it. She still hadn't learned to wear her poker face at all times, and it was all too obvious that she was thinking, 'The biggest night in one of Europe's most famous cities and I am stuck in here with YOU two.'

He hoped she'd find the sacrifice to be worthwhile. He did. Mostly.

"Andrea," Miranda said, without looking up from her notes, "call Fabian."

Andy dialed the cell phone. Miranda hadn't explained what she wanted. She hadn't needed to. Andy had been at Miranda's beck and call for nearly two years now, ascending to the lofty heights of first assistant (after ousting one Emily Charlton), but sometimes Nigel was still surprised at how good she was at it. She could, it seemed, do anything, and Miranda expected her to. She was rarely disappointed, either. Nigel had never seen anything like it before: for the first time in memory, Miranda and an assistant worked, not as master and slave, but almost as a team.

Even on the rare occasions when Andy missed some detail, or admitted some impossible errand was, in fact, impossible, Miranda's reactions were unexpectedly mild. Once, Nigel had distinctly overheard Miranda saying to Andy, "Well, I suppose you did your best." She'd introduced Andy to all the right people. She'd shown her off at parties. She trusted her to look after the twins. She had, in fact, been miffed when Andy hadn't been available to accompany them all to Belize for Easter because her sister had been getting married or something silly like that.

There was no doubt about it: Andy Sachs was in like Flynn.

Nigel pitied her a great deal.

So, anyway, that was the night when everything went straight to hell.

It was midnight. Witching hour, Nigel thought. Miranda leaned back in her chair, for the first time showing signs of exhaustion. She rubbed her fingers against her forehead, where her makeup was starting to crease and settle into the fine lines beneath.

Andy and Nigel exchanged cautiously hopeful looks. They were both, Nigel could tell, about to drop dead. If Miranda was tired, then there was every possibility that they would all actually get some sleep tonight.

Miranda turned towards the window, tapping her chin with one be-ringed finger. No wedding ring, though. Not anymore. The sounds of Carnivale outside were still going strong. Stronger, even, now that the Italians and tourists had been drinking all evening.

Then Miranda glanced at Andy, who was leafing through her notes. Miranda had that look on her face, a look Nigel had surprised on a couple of occasions before: yearning. Hunger.

It made him shudder. Of course he'd be the last person to cast aspersions on anything even remotely gay, but there was something different, something wrong about this. He almost wanted to shield Andy from that desperate craving in Miranda's eyes. He was very glad Andy hadn't been able to go to Belize.

Don't ruin it, he thought, wishing fiercely that Miranda could hear his thoughts. Don't fuck it up. Just take what you can get, for once.

Andy looked up from her notes, but Miranda had already brought her face back under control. Andy realized she was being watched, and blinked sleepily even as she tried to pretend she was fully alert. Nigel had to concede that she was cute as a button sometimes. The fluffy kitten to Miranda's prowling tiger.

"Let's go," Miranda said.

Nigel and Andy stared at Miranda as she rose from her chair, smoothing out her Gucci skirt. For once, even Andy seemed clueless. "Um," she said.

"Where are you going at this time of night?" Nigel asked, taking pity on her.

Miranda shot him a look. "We," she said, "are going outside. Or do either of you have urgent appointments elsewhere?"

Nigel knew that tone. By now, so did Andy. They were already rising to their feet. "Okay," Nigel said, letting his voice drawl with the barest hint of skepticism. He was the only one who could get away with that around Miranda. "And what are we doing outside?"

"Educating Andrea," Miranda said, heading for the door. "Or did you think I hadn't noticed those pitiful glances out the window?"

Her voice couldn't have been more scornful if she'd been talking about Janice Dickinson's latest exploits. Nevertheless, Nigel knew exactly what she was doing: giving Andy an unprecedented gift. They shared another astonished glance.

Nigel supposed it was possible, just possible, that Miranda wanted to see Carnivale for herself. He supposed it was also possible that the moon landing had, in fact, been faked.

"Well, come on," Miranda snapped, and they jumped to follow her.

Venice didn't smell very good. Back to the sewer thing. But Andy didn't seem to mind as they headed down the street outside the hotel. She was dazzled, Nigel could tell, by the fireworks, and the street performers tossing flaming torches, and the revelers in their magnificent masks and costumes.

"I knew a guy in college who was doing his Master's in costume design," Andy said. "For the theater. He was obsessed with Carnivale at Venice. I wonder if he ever made it here."

"I'm eaten up with curiosity," Miranda said, and drew them both towards a sidewalk café. "I am in no mood to wander, so you will have to be content with people-watching. And I don't want to see one more woe-is-me look for the rest of the week."

"You won't," Andy said as they located a free table. Her eyes were shining. "Thanks, Miranda."

Miranda rolled her eyes, but not before Nigel saw the hunger flash in them again. He made sure to take the table's middle seat.

A harried-looking waiter came over. Nigel waited for the inevitable order of seltzer water. He hated seltzer water.

"Something red," Miranda said.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

They'd gone through three bottles of wine by now, and it had been hours since the hasty dinner in Miranda's suite, consumed over layouts and photographs. It was two in the morning.

Nearly twenty years, and Nigel had never gone out drinking with Miranda Priestly. He'd certainly never seen her tipsy before. He had to concede that it was quite an experience. Almost fun, in fact. And Andy was certainly having a splendid time. She was even cuter when she was drunk. He'd tried to stay sober himself, but well, it had been a long time since he'd had the opportunity to loosen up and relax, even if it was with Miranda.

"I wonder where the masks came from," Andy said, draining her glass. The waiter brought over a fourth bottle. "I mean…you're purging yourself of your sins, right? Or something. Is it because you're embarrassed?"

"I'm not embarrassed," Nigel proclaimed. The café was tilting strangely around him. "Miranda, tell the tables to stop leaning. We are not in Pisa."

"You can't hold your liquor, Nigel," Miranda said, refilling Andy's glass, and then her own. "Why does this not surprise me?" But her own hand was none too steady. "So. I, um, masks. I don't know." She shook her head and put the bottle back down.

"What happens when you catch yourself in the mirror, when you're wearing a mask?" Andy wondered, leaning her head back and staring up at the night sky. Her Tiffany necklace caught the light; an exquisite little thing that Miranda had requested, and then decided she 'didn't want.' Subtle. "Like, do you know it's you?" Andy continued. "And how can you be sure?"

"Did you fail philosophy class?" Nigel asked, taking a deep gulp of what was, frankly, an indifferent red. "I'm just curious."

"I didn't fail anything," Andy said indignantly. "I had a 4.0. I graduated summa something. Some of something. No. Complete. I graduated with everything."

"Except a job," Miranda said snidely.

"You're mean," Andy said, leaning over the table. "Mean, mean, mean." She laughed.

"I'm not mean," Miranda said, and then lifted her nose in the air. "I'm fabulous."

Nigel and Andy burst out laughing. "Here, here!" Nigel said, and they all three clinked their glasses together.

"This is fun," Andy said. She was already one-third of the way through her new glass. "I like having fun."

"Don't get used to it," Nigel slurred, and then realized he was slurring. "I mean…fun. That's not what life is about."

"Masks," Miranda said, looking thoughtful. "We need to do a spread on those."

"See?" Nigel asked, giving Andy a broad wink.

"Because…Andrea has a point," Miranda said, leaning back in her chair. "We all wear them, don't we? No, wait. I'm not doing that. I hate philosophy." She took another drink. "This is bad wine."

"You let the waiter pick," Nigel reminded her. "It's not our fault."

Next to him, Andy began to sing softly. "I love Venice in the springtime. I love Venice in the fall."

"Paris," Miranda said. "It's Paris."

"I love Paris too," Andy said. "I love Venice in the summer when it sizzles."

"I bet it smells even worse," Nigel said. "I've never seen Paris."

"What the hell," Miranda said.

"No, no, I know what he means," Andy said, waving her hand, and drank. She didn't explain further.

"Nigel is drunk," Miranda said helpfully. "Do not listen to Nigel. He's been going to Paris since before you were born." She suddenly looked sad. "You are very young."

"Getting older every day," Andy laughed. "That's what my grandmother says. No. That's wrong. She says she's getting younger every day. I think you have to get older before you can get younger though." She blinked. "Wait. What?"

Nigel watched in fascination as Miranda reached across the table and grabbed hold of Andy's hand. Andy frowned in confusion, but didn't pull away. "You be careful," Miranda said, and for the first time, even through his own haze, Nigel realized how completely drunk she was. No fewer than ten sheets to the wind. And no wonder--she never drank to excess, she wasn't used to it. "Be careful," Miranda repeated.

"Okay," Andy said. "Careful about what?"

"I don't know," Miranda said, and pulled away so quickly that she slopped her wine on the table. "I don't think I know anything."

"Maybe nobody knows anything," Nigel said thoughtfully. "Maybe that's why we have wine."

"Are you an Italian, Nigel?" Miranda inquired. She kept glancing at Andy.

"Puritan," Nigel said. "I can't drink worth a damn."

Andy giggled. "You can't be Puritan," she said. "You're gay."

"My family was," Nigel said. "And I only used to be gay. I haven't had sex in two years. So now I'm not anything."

"Sex is overrated," Miranda said.

"We sell sex," Nigel said. "Sex is our bread and butter. And wine."

"A glass of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou," Andy said.

"Bread has carbs," Nigel said sternly, because he'd just remembered that.

"It's not all about sex," Miranda said. "We sell…taste and elegance…thing." She shut her eyes. "I think. Also, clothes."

"I miss sex," Andy said sadly. "Nate was really good at sex. Christian too. I mean, I guess he was, at least he was, once."

"I don't ever want you speaking to Christian Thompson again," Miranda said. "I don't like him. Stay away from him. Maybe that's why you need to be careful. Hmm."

"I haven't," Andy said. "I never saw him. Seen him. See? After Paris, I mean. The Paris before this last one, I mean." She sighed. "My year's almost up, isn't it? As first assistant."

Miranda lowered her head and looked at the table. She didn't reply. The mood became unexpectedly somber.

"You've been good to have around," Nigel said.

"Thanks," Andy said, and gave him a lopsided smile. "You're nice. And she's mean." She laughed again. "I don't mean that. Sorry." She blinked, and said, enunciating precisely, "I think I've had enough now."

"Yes," Miranda said. She reached into her purse and dug out some money. "This should cover it."

"Thank you very much, Miranda," Andy said, sounding like an elementary school teacher imparting etiquette lessons to a bunch of kids.

The streets shifted and swung on the way back to the hotel. Andy took hold of Nigel's hand, and they balanced each other out. It had been a long time since Nigel had been drunk, and he resolved to enjoy it before the inevitable morning regrets. All around them, the party was still going strong. Nigel knew, from past experience, that the streets wouldn't really be quiet until about four in the morning, if then.

"You know, carnival," he said helpfully, "carnivale, if you will, is about having fun before Lent. When you give stuff up."

"I know that," Andy said.

"What would you give up?" he asked.

"In the morning," Andy said, "I bet I'll say wine."

"But now," Nigel insisted.

"That's easy," Miranda said. They were back at the hotel now. The bellhop, wide-eyed, held the door open for them. "You'll give up Runway. And Nigel. And me."

"No," Andy said, sounding hurt. "That's different."

"Is it?" Miranda stopped at the elevator doors, and pressed the call button. The door dinged and slid open almost immediately. "You can ride with me, Andrea," she said generously.

Some part of Nigel's mind remained intact enough to send up a danger signal. "I will too," he said.

"Yeah," Andy said, and leaned against him with a laugh. "I want Nigel to come too."

"Well, come on then," Miranda said, and they tripped in after her before the door could close. "God, you two are pitiful." She stared at the buttons for the various floors and gave a puzzled frown. "Um."

"Four," Nigel said, and Miranda pressed the button for the fourth floor. The elevator moved with a startling jerk, and Miranda stumbled backwards into Andy, and Nigel, still holding Andy's hand, crashed into the elevator wall right along with them.

"Ow," Andy said.

Miranda gently pushed her off, and then gave her a very long, very serious look. "You're beautiful," she said. "You are very beautiful."

Andy blinked, and then beamed. "Thank you," she said. "So are you." She turned to grin at Nigel. "And you. We are all very beautiful people." She leaned her head on Nigel's shoulder, and reached out to take Miranda's hand with her free one. Miranda did not object.

"Don't fuck it up," Nigel said to Miranda, before he realized he was speaking out loud.

She frowned at him. "What?"

"I, I don't know," he stammered. The doors slid open. Fourth floor. They left the elevator, and stood in the hallway, staring at each other.

Miranda looked at Andy. She couldn't disguise the hunger now. It was all over her, on her face, in her eyes, in the tilt of her body, naked and raw. Andy blinked innocently at her. Miranda opened her mouth to speak.

"Let me walk you two back to your rooms," Nigel said.

Nigel wanted to cut his own head off, for various reasons.

The first was that it hurt so goddamned much. It hurt to keep his eyes open. It hurt to move.

The second was that he obviously never used his head for anything useful. In fact, he used it to make stupid decisions. He used it to make decisions that were so fucking stupid they made the Donner Party seem like a well-planned expedition. He'd be better off without it. He'd be better off dead.

"We will never," Miranda whispered, sounding like she was two seconds away from ripping his head off for him, "speak of this again."

Nigel rubbed his hand over his face, and pried his eyelids open again to look at her across the expanse of the bed. Her eyes were bloodshot, although he couldn't tell how much of that was hangover and how much of it was pure, misery-fueled fury. He didn't want to know.

Between them, Andy Sachs slept peacefully on. She was the only one who was completely naked.

Two straight women and one gay man had ended up in bed together. Nigel tried to console himself with the idea that at least some kind of gayness had taken place in his general vicinity, but it didn't help a hell of a lot. He mouthed the word, 'Okay,' to Miranda.

"It never happened," Miranda whispered, her voice thick and rasping.

This time, Nigel mouthed, 'Gotcha.'

Miranda touched Andy's hair with one shaking hand. Nigel couldn't tell if she was trembling from emotion, or because her synapses weren't connecting properly. Then she looked at him, and, as one, they very, very carefully began untangling themselves from the bedclothes. He was still wearing his pants, although they'd been shucked halfway down his thighs along with his underwear, and his shirt, although it was unbuttoned. Miranda was in a similar state of dishabille. He looked away as she covered herself as best she could, and concentrated on adjusting his own clothes, and then on finding his shoes. He still wore both socks.

Miranda slipped into her own shoes while Nigel tiptoed around the bed. Suddenly, Andy stirred. Nigel and Miranda both froze in place, hardly daring to breathe.

Andy sighed, and snuggled more deeply into the bedclothes. Miranda's mouth quivered, and then she jerked her head towards the door. Nigel followed her out, being as quiet as possible. At least it was Andy's room.

He shut the door soundlessly behind him. When he turned around, Miranda was giving him the scariest look he'd ever seen. Which was really saying something.

"Your job," she said hoarsely, "is to convince her, should the need arise, that nothing happened last night. Nothing."

Nigel blinked. "She's naked," he said.

"Work with that, then. Tell her she came home with some man or other--but. Not. Us."

"But she'll remember," Nigel said helplessly.

"It was a drunken hallucination," Miranda said. "We went out. We drank too much. The rest is up to you." She actually looked like she was about to cry. Nigel looked away.

"Fine," he said, although it wasn't fine at all. "We, uh…we have that meeting at two." He looked at his watch and tried to make his eyes focus. "It's eleven-thirty."

"Right." Miranda rubbed her hands over her face. She pressed her lips together, and, all unbidden, the phrase Suck-starting a Harley leapt to Nigel's mind. He really, really wanted to kill himself then.

"I want a Harlequin spread for June," Miranda said, keeping her hands over her face. "Make some notes on that." She turned away. "I'm--I'll see you at two." Then she glared back at him, fiercely. She was not crying, for which Nigel thanked his one remaining lucky star. "Remember: nothing."

"Nothing what?" Nigel asked.

She gave him a long look, and then nodded in approval before heading off down the hall, her gait as purposeful and steady as somebody who'd never had a single glass of wine. Nigel knew better, of course. Because no matter what he said, no matter what he was supposed to do to convince Andy otherwise, he remembered. Remembered Miranda's sloppy kisses, the noises she made, and most of all, her drunken, desperate confessions of love and desire to Andy, which Andy had not returned except to smile woozily and say, "Oh, well, that's all right," before letting Miranda kiss her again while Nigel--

Yes. Better by far for Andy to believe none of that really happened. Nigel understood that now. Maybe, when it came to looking out for her, he could do something right, at least.

He headed down the hall in the opposite direction, towards his own suite. He wanted a hair of the dog. And then to pass out in his own bed and hope like hell that maybe, when he woke up, he wouldn't remember what happened either. Finally, a one-night stand in Europe--and it was with the boss and the nubile assistant, females both. Life really wasn't even a little bit fair.

He didn't care what Miranda said, or what needed to be done for Runway. He was going out again tonight, and he was going to find a bar, and he was going to cruise some guy, and do a little of what he should have been doing all along.

But even after that…well, Nigel didn't particularly care for Venice. He had the feeling that wasn't about to change anytime soon.

Fin.