Title:  Bookends
Rating: PG
Pairing:  Andy & Alan, (implied Miranda/Andy, Denny/Alan)
Summary:  DWP/Boston Legal Crossover.  Five meetings between Andy and Alan in a waiting room. 
Disclaimer:  I am not the creator of the characters in this story.  The credit for The Devil Wears Prada goes to Lauren Weisberger, for the novel she wrote in 2003 and to 20th Century Fox, for the movie produced in 2006.  The credit for Boston Legal goes to David E. Kelley and ABC.  "Preserve your memories; they're all that's left you." is from the song Bookends by Simon & Garfunkel.  The David Bowie song referenced in this story is called Fantastic Voyage.
A/N: watergal has my deep thanks for taking the time to assist with my many grammatical errors!  She has helped make this a better story and I'm super grateful.

I.

They had been coming to New York-Presbyterian’s Taub Center for six months the first time he saw her.  Six months had led him to the realization that nurses wore ugly shoes; that every cliché about hospital waiting rooms was justified; that life was indeed profoundly unfair.  This last was not so much a realization but a revelation of something he had long suspected to be true, but never understood until this exact moment.  Standing alone in front of the coffee machine it had washed over him like a tidal wave and he slammed his fist into the panel in front of him.

“Maybe if you ask it politely?”

Startled, he turned, a retort poised on his lips, only to be confronted with a disarmingly charming pair of female eyes—big, brown and crowned with a set of lashes that made parts of him twitch.  More than that though, they were filled with concern.  And suddenly he wasn’t alone in front of a coffee machine.  He rubbed his hand.

“Are you alright?”

“Fine, why do you ask?”

“Well you seem to be having an altercation with a vending machine.”

“What this?”  He held up his hand, “I do that every so often just to stay in shape.”

That made her smile.  She tilted her head and ran a nervous hand through her hair.  She had beautiful hair.  “Well if you wouldn’t mind taking a break from your routine, I was hoping to get some coffee.”

“Of course.”

She slid past him and he smelled petals.  She was like spring.  He admired her shapely backside and long legs.  She was dressed immaculately.  And that reminded him of Denny and where he was and once again there was a hole in his chest.

Coffee in hand Ms. Spring smiled at him again.  She raised the paper cup to her mouth and took a sip.  The light drained from her eyes and she ran her tongue over her lips.  He thought maybe she had a hole in her chest too.

“It’s never hot enough is it?  My name’s Alan by the way.”  She was staring at her coffee and gave no sign that she had heard him.  “Hey, are you okay?”

“Oh.  What.  Sure, I mean I’m fine.  Alan right?  My name’s Andy.  Nice to meet you.”

A nurse appeared from around the corner, “He’s all set Mr. Shore.” 

Alan turned to Andy and smiled, “Duty calls.”

She nodded and followed him back to the waiting area.  Another nurse was wheeling Denny down the hall.  “Your father?”

Alan shook his head, his smile turned inward and his eyes focused on a point just above Denny’s head.  “No.  Not my father.  He’s just my friend.”

He was surprised when he felt a hand on his elbow.  “I’m sorry.”  And he could tell she was.  And for the first time in several years those words didn’t make him feel contempt. 

“Thank you.”  And he moved off to collect Denny before he started pinching bottoms.

II.

“Well hello there.”

Andy looked up from her book.  “Hello again.  It’s Alan right?”  She actually looked pleased to see him.  No one was ever pleased to see him anymore.

“I’m not disturbing you am I?”

“Of course not, please sit down.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice.  “No coffee today?”

“No, I’ve lost the taste for coffee.  I’m dying for a cigarette though.”

“You smoke?” 

“No, but before you showed up I was seriously thinking about starting.”

“Really?  And why is that, if I you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’m not sure really.  The futility of life maybe?"

“Indeed.”  He regarded her more closely.  It had been two months since their meeting at Starbucks, his nickname for the vending area, and she looked smaller.  “Well Andy, I’m by no means an authority on the subject, but I can recommend a fine cigar or two if you’re interested.”

“Oh, so you smoke then?”

“No, but I used to.  My taste for cigars has gone the way of your taste for coffee.” 

The absurdity of the conversation made them both laugh.  They shared a companionable smile and Alan realized he had been anticipating a second meeting.  There was something about Andy, a light that radiated from within her.  She was guileless.

“So Andy what brings you here today?”

Her light dimmed.  And then she squinted her eyes at him and pursed her lips.  He wouldn’t have thought her capable of producing such a look.  “You’re a reporter aren’t you?  Look Alan, if that’s even your name, I don’t know what story you’re after here or what your game is, but make no mistake about it if you print one word about Miranda Priestly I will personally make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.”

She was gathering her things and he wanted to reach out and stop her, comfort her, but truthfully he cared too much about his arm to risk it.  “Andy, it’s okay.  I’m not a reporter.  I’m a lawyer.  And I’m here for the same reason you are.”

She glared at him warily.  Who she was hit him then and he remembered now the papers that ran story after story for months a few years back.  He looked at the woman in front of him, the hurt that shone in her eyes, the set of her shoulders, the sudden appearance of a myriad of fine lines across her face and he felt like shooting something.  Denny would be proud of that.

A minute or so had passed in which Andy had relaxed a bit and blinked a few times too many.  She was still looking at him through glassy eyes with a hint of disbelief.  “And what reason is that?”

“False hope.”  He offered those words with all that he was.  He could never be called guileless, but he strived for honest sometimes.

"Is there any other kind?"  She sat back down.  "I'm sorry Alan.  It's just, it's..."

He laid his hand on her arm.  "Say no more."
 

III.

“What no flowers?”  Andy looked up from the journal she was writing in and favored him with a glowing smile.

“You know I left them in my other jacket with the chocolates.  How’ve you been Alan?”

“Great and yourself?”  He bent over and embraced her neck in a one armed hug before sitting down.

“Fabulous.” 

He nodded and shut his eyes.  The sound of Andy’s pen scratching across the page was soothing.  After their last meeting, they felt like old friends.  It was good to have a friend again.  He dozed off. 

He felt something jabbing him in the side and woke with a start.  “What the…”

“You were snoring.  Ten minutes under and snoring like a dragon.  What’s your secret?”

Alan rubbed his hands over his face and up through his hair before resting them on top his head.  “Two years of eighty to a hundred hour weeks right out of law school taught me to get my sleep wherever I could.”

Andy looked disgusted.  “And I thought being Miranda Priestly’s assistant was rough.”

“It seems to have worked out alright for you.”   He tried to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively, but it didn’t work. 

Andy was laughing out loud.  “Stop it Alan, you look like a hideously demented rabbit.”

“I’ll do anything to make a pretty girl laugh at me.” 

“I believe you would.  I should introduce you to Miranda.”

“That bad?”

“Moody doesn’t even begin to cover it.  I had to switch to plastic silverware.”

“Mmm, I see.”

“The worst part is she wasn’t even appalled.  My Miranda would never suffer sporks gladly.”

“She’s still your Miranda.”

“Sometimes.”

“Dignity is valuable, but our lives our valuable too.”

“In the event this fantastic voyage turns to erosion and we never get old?  David Bowie.”

“Right.  You don’t seem the type Andy."

“Yeah and I don’t smoke either, but you're not exactly quoting Keats there.”

“No offense meant.  You just seem a bit too young perhaps to be a real fan."

“Come on Alan, it’s David Bowie.”

“You’ve got me there.”

They were silent for a moment.  “It’s the losing her in pieces.  It’s the watching her lose herself.  It’s all the firsts we should never have had.  The first time she looked right through me and didn’t know my name.  The first time she wandered off and got lost.  The first time she surrendered.  This disease, it's…”

“Mad Cow.”  She was sniffling and he took hold of her hand and gave it a squeeze.  She looked at him with those huge brown eyes brimming with tears and suddenly nothing else mattered but making her smile again. 

“Mad Cow?”

“That’s what Denny always called it.”

“I like it.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Andy was writing again when he returned.  She looked up at him and smiled.  “Alan I’m sorry about before.”

He shook his head, “Don’t be.  Here.”  He handed her the bag he was holding.

“What’s this then?”

“For you; open it.”

She pulled out the tissue paper and reached inside.  A moment later her hand made contact with a furry ear and she pulled a fluffy white teddy bear out of the bag.  He wore a red shirt with pink hearts on it that said "get well soon."  There were little pink bows by each of his ears.

“Oh Alan he’s lovely.  I think I’ll name him Bernard.”

“I think he’s a she.”

“Does it really matter?”

“I guess not.”

“But you shouldn’t have.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day Andy.”  He sat back down and was dozing again in minutes.

IV.

It was three months before he saw her again.  She was in the same chair scribbling away.  Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she appeared to have shrunk further.  Just like Denny, just like him—they were all shrinking--all the time.  Gravity: It was science he supposed.  “What’s that you’re working on?”

“Alan!  I was hoping to run into you again.  Bernard sends his regards.”  Her smile did not reach her eyes.  “It’s a book.”

“Ah so you’re a writer.  Am I in any danger?”

“It’s not that kind of book.”

“What kind of book is it then?”

“A beginner’s guide to dementia and dating.”

“Mad Cow 101?”

“Sort of.  But for us.”

“Well we are the ones who’ll remember to read it.  May I?”

Andy handed him the pages; her handwriting was lovely.  Alan selected a page at random and began to read.  And then he read another and another until several minutes had passed.  “Andy this is…this is good.”

“You needn’t sound so surprised.”

“No it’s not that.  This is warm and smart.  It’s honest.  And it’s funny.”

“Well, I can’t take all the credit.  I was greatly inspired by Runway and her ilk.”  He looked puzzled.   “You know those insipid little articles on love and dating they’re always running.”

“Sure, like 'Ten Fantastic Variations on the Blow Job that Your Man Will Love!'”

“What magazines are you reading?  But yes that’s the general idea.  Think of it as 'Ten Sexy Tips to Get Your Lover to Remember Your Name' or 'Is Your Partner Forgetful During Sex?'  Take our quiz inside to see if they have Mad Cow.”

“Has it helped?”

“Yes and no.  I just needed something to do; something to keep me going.  You’ve never stopped working.  So despite everything else at the end of the day you’re still Alan Shore, lawyer.” 

“For whatever that’s worth.”  He remembered the devastation in Denny’s eyes when he was finally forced to leave; it’s what brought them to New York.  A pair of refugees in tailored suits.  Every time he stepped into a courtroom now the guilt of still being able to practice law nearly suffocated him. 

“That’s not the point.  After Miranda resigned from Runway and the story broke…well before that happened I was a journalist.  I hadn’t gotten very far in my career when we got the diagnosis and I would have kept working, but then everything just spiraled out of control and I guess I lost the taste for my chosen profession.”

“They’re not all vultures Andy.”  But he could see in her the fresh faced, intrepid young reporter—a pad in one hand, pencil in the other—ready to champion the poor, the abandoned, the desolate.  He could see the might have beens and was struck for the hundredth time by the injustice of it all.  The world didn’t give a shit about anybody.

“Perhaps not.  But Miranda needed me.  I wouldn’t trade those first couple years during the early stages for anything in the world.  Now, however, I find myself at loose ends.”

“So you wrote a book.”

“It seemed the thing to do.  Maybe it will help someone else too.” 

How she had managed to retain the ability to hope boggled him.  It was like those people who returned to the volcano after an eruption to rebuild.  Alan desperately wanted their faith or stupidity.  He wasn’t sure there was a difference.  “Any chance I could get an autographed copy?”

“I think something could be arranged.”

V.

Four months later they met in the waiting room for the last time.  This time it was he who was sitting down.  Elbows on his knees, Alan cradled his head, eyes squeezed shut to keep out the world.  He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Alan?”

He didn’t want to hear that voice.  He peered up at Andy through steepled fingers.  She sat down next to him.  “I have something for you.”  She retrieved a book from her bag.  "It’s being released on Tuesday.”  When he didn’t move to take it, she reached around him and set it on the empty chair by his other side.  She removed a bunch of yarn from her bag and started knitting.

“What are you making?”

“I think it’s going to be a scarf.  To tell the truth though I'm not sure.  I hate knitting.”

“Then why…”

“The girls, Miranda’s daughters,” Andy amended at seeing his look of confusion, “Cassidy and Caroline, they thought it would be good for me.  So I thought I would make Miranda a scarf with winter just around the corner and all.”

He wanted to laugh.  Miranda Priestly, former maven of the fashion world, in a poorly knit homemade scarf.  “Will you make one for Denny too?”

“I can try.”  Judging from the awkward way in which she held the needles in her hands it would be a Herculean effort.  They settled into a companionable silence. He returned his head to his hands.

“I just want him to die Andy.”  He had spoken so softly he wasn’t sure if he had spoken at all.  But the click, click of his friend's needles had stopped.  Louder now, “I just want him to die.”  It was out.  The thought, the desire that had crept up on his consciousness and eaten away at him like acid for the past couple of months was out.  He felt lighter, if only just.  “A lifetime spent indulging in red meat and single malt and he has to die like this?  Whittled away to nothing.  Stripped of everything, including his name.  And he can’t just die of a heart attack.  Why does all the plaque have to be in his brain?”  His cheeks were wet now.  “He’s holding on to life.  Even this life, because it’s his, because he’s Denny Crane!  I know it.”  His voice hitched in his throat.  “Why won’t he just die?”

And then Andy was kneeling in front of him, and his head was on her shoulder, and Alan Shore cried for the first time since he started down this path with Denny all those years ago.  Minutes passed and Andy was sitting next to him again, holding his hand.  “Denny Crane is the bravest man I’ve ever known.  He’s my best friend.  He’s the great love of my life.”

“I know Alan.  I know.”  And she squeezed his hand tighter.  A minute or two later she let go and rose from her chair.

When she returned she offered him a paper cup.  

“Please tell me that’s scotch.”

“Alright, it’s scotch.”

“Just what I needed.”  The water was cool as it washed over his tongue.  It tasted like crying.  He smiled at Andy.  She sat down again and took his hand.

“Do you know what scares me Alan?  It’s not all of this,” and she waved her long fingers in the air motioning around them, “It’s losing her.  Not in death, but in my own mind.  What will happen when I can’t remember what she smelled like?  What will happen when there’s nobody else to remember the details of our life together?  I don’t want to be alone Alan.  I don’t want to be alone with my own faulty memories.”

“You already are.”

“But if only I remember…”

She was a black hole of pain.  They both were.  “If a tree falls in the forest?”

“Exactly.”

“It still falls Andy.  And your memories still matter.”

p.s.

When Denny finally died, it was not the relief he thought it would be.  Weeks past, and he stopped shaving.  There was so much time now.  Too much time, all to himself.  He was watching another episode of T.J. Hooker—he’d ordered the DVDs online a few weeks ago because Hooker reminded him of Denny for some reason—when he decided to go through his mail. 

Amidst the piles of cards and letters, bills and junk mail he reached for a package.  He’d seen who it was from and he hadn’t felt like opening it until now.  Seeing Andy’s name on the return address had made him ache for his friend—Denny or Andy he wasn’t sure which.

Miranda was dead now too.  It had been in all the papers: pneumonia.  He hoped Andy had been able to finish her scarf in time.  He hadn’t sent flowers or a card.  But he arranged for an iPod filled with David Bowie to be delivered to her the day of the funeral.

He looked around for something to open the box with.  He spied a butter knife on the floor and knew there was a reason he hadn’t been picking up after himself.  Sliding the utensil along the seams he felt the new stitches in his heart coming up along with the tape.  Alan wasn’t sure if the wound had had enough time to heal properly. 

He reached inside the box and his hand made contact with a furry ear.  He smiled for the first time in months.

Eight months later he was standing uncomfortably against the wall at a benefit gala for the New York City Chapter of the Alzheimer’s Association.  Andy, who had become a board member, had addressed the invitation herself.

He was about to give up hope of actually seeing her when he felt a hand on his shoulder.  “Hello stranger.”  She looked radiant.  And he remembered the first time he saw her.

“Andy.  I almost wouldn’t have recognized you outside of a waiting room.  You clean up well.”

“I could say the same for you.  Care to dance Alan?” 

He looked towards the dance floor.  “Why not?  Just don’t expect me to lead.”

They swayed together gently for a few moments and Andy set her head on his shoulder.  “Miranda and I never got a chance to dance together in public.  I’m sure it would have caused quite the stir.” 

He remembered dancing with Denny and the scar across his heart ached.  “You would have made a beautiful pair out here on the dance floor.”  He gently kissed the top of her head.

The slow music gave way to something more upbeat and she looked up at him, “Thanks for coming tonight Alan.  I just wanted there to be one person in the crowd who wasn’t after my money.”

“That bad?”

“I’m not going to complain.  It’s better to have, than have not.”

“It is indeed.  Let’s get a drink.”  He led her over to the bar.  A cool breeze was coming in from the open balcony doors behind them.  “I’ll have a scotch.”

“And for you?”  The bar tender nodded at Andy.

“The same.”

Alan raised an eyebrow, “What no white wine spritzer or champagne cocktail?”

“Please.” 

He began to have an inkling that there may be more here for the basis of friendship than grief.  Glass in hand Andy motioned towards the balcony.  “Care to join me in a bit of fresh air Alan?”

He raised his glass to hers and clinked them together.  “Andy, I believe this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”