Nigel froze at the sound of laughter. He had come into Miranda’s outer office to retrieve some notes on next week’s shoot that he had inadvertently left on Emily’s desk a few hours before. The last thing he expected was for anyone else to still be working at ten o’clock on a Friday night. But there it was again, unmistakably laugter, rich and deep.

As the realization penetrated his senses that is was Miranda's laughter, he stepped back in an effort to avoid the searingly melodious sound. Nigel could remember hearing Miranda genuinely laugh maybe once in the past twenty years. It was beautiful.

But what was Miranda still doing at the office?

For that matter, what was he still doing at the office? He knew the answer to that question, but shied away from facing the conotations. What did it say about him that he had no where better to be in New York City on a Friday night than standing outside his boss’s office listening to her laugh? What did it say about him, that he would willingly stay with a boss that laughed only once every twenty years? A boss whose every maniacal whim he kowtowed to, jumping at the opportunity to but her happiness and career above his own to such an extent that his personal life consisted of drinking cold cappuccino in a dimly lit room while staring at hundreds of images of depressingly thin, vacnt-eyed models for fun. Where was his John Wayne?

Bitterness, he mused, did not become him.

Nigel knew that he should turn around and leave quickly before he was discovered. But the sound of Miranda’s laughter was too intoxicating. And as her laughter morphed into another sound, something he couldn’t quite place he found himself compelled against his better judgment to angle in behind a garment rack that afforded a relatively clear view into Miranda’s office.

Miranda’s back was towards the door. She was leaning against the edge of her desk, legs spread wide. Her skirt was bunched at her waist, blouse pooled in a crumpled heap on the desk behind her. The soft light of the office made the bare skin of her shoulders and back seem almost iridescent. The image was breathtaking.

Her head was thrown back, eyes closed, hair mussed, throat upturned, and there it was again that sound, not quite a laugh and not quite a cry. It sounded as if a torrent of emotions had become lodged in her throat, each vying for dominance, desperately trying to escape.

Recognition dawned on him. He had made that sound once, a long time ago, when he had been deeply in love; when the parameters of his life had consisted of more than eight and half by eleven sheets of paper. The sound mocked him. Miranda mocked him. He should leave, now. But his feet wouldn’t move. He had to see, had to know who put that sound in Miranda’s throat because he was sure that not one of her three ex-husbands had ever come close.

Miranda was gently panting now. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. He saw her shoulders tense, her back go rigid, and then he heard her unintelligible release. Half scream, half moan, half curse… it took more than two halves to describe the whole of that sound.

Oh God, had Miranda Priestly just come on her desk? He realized he was breathless with the beauty of it all. Now there was the perfect cover for the magazine. He really should leave, but he had to know. Had to know who had reduced the coldest bitch in the fashion industry to a quivering mess on top of her own desk.

"Feel better?"

Nigel knew that voice. It couldn’t be. The voice's owner rose to her feet, wiped her chin with a smirk and gazed at Miranda with a look of love and lust that he wouldn't have thought her bright eyes capable of. But then it had been two years since he’d last seen her and he wouldn’t have thought her capable of maintaining that size four either.

Andy fucking Sachs. The girl who left. The girl who was currently being enveloped by Miranda Priestley’s mouth. And then all the puzzle pieces fell into place.

The weeks after Paris when Miranda had been the foulest he had ever known her. When nothing and no one had been good enough. When she had terrorized ten employees into quitting in the span of three days. Andy fucking Sachs had been responsible for all that.

And then the sudden change in Miranda. The day she had come in as if she hadn’t a care in the world, practically glowing. He supposed Andy fucking Sachs was responsible for that too.

The glow had spread. Miranda was never nice or warm, but those who knew her best, which obviously was not at all, noticed the change. She still demanded scaldingly hot Starbucks, her tongue still dripped satire like Elizabeth Taylor dripped diamonds, but it was all different somehow. If he hadn’t known better he would have said that Miranda’s heart really wasn’t in it anymore when her tongue lashed out at the hapless targets around her. Now he knew for sure, it wasn't.

And the changes at Runway, the peace-making with Irv, the stockholders, and the accounting department, he supposed Andy fucking Sachs was responsible for that too. The magazine was still on top of course, Miranda Priestly was still revered as a fashion institution unto herself, her name still inspired fear and excellence, but well it was different now. He had tried to ask her one day when she had insisted that they stay on budget for shoot. "You can catch more flies with honey, did you know that Nigel?" It hadn't been the answer he was looking for.

Then there were the family vacations—real vacations to quiet places far away from the fashion world. It wasn’t just the vacations though. Although Miranda had begun taking them twice a year, for two weeks at a time. Two god damned weeks, a whole month out of every year! No one could understand it but Nigel hadn’t complained because Miranda had trusted him to keep her abreast of the daily goings on; she had trusted him to act as her man in charge, her Girl Friday, and he had relished the opportunity.

It was the fact that Miranda Priestly, who had always doted on her girls to a fault—there was an office betting pool for kicks among the long-time staffers as to whether Cassidy and Caroline would turn out more like Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan, or the Olsen twins—became a good and devoted mother. No one did the girls homework anymore. And aside from the rare necessary night out, everyone knew that Miranda had to be home by seven for dinner and family time. She had even allowed Caroline to join the school basketball team. And when the girls actually began coming to Runway occasionally, to surprise their mother, they hugged and talked like a real family.

When he had read that Miranda and her first husband had resolved their long-simmering custody battle peacefully, he had been floored. Just like that, after years and years of viciousness, they had sat down at a table with their daughters present and worked it out. They had been heralded as an example of unselfishness, of putting their children first. And suddenly, acting like adults instead of like squabbling, insolent children had become the chic thing to do in every uptown divorce and custody battle. Andy fucking Sachs he knew now was responsible for that.

Yes, he was sure that if he looked closely enough at the changes in Runway, in Miranda, in her daughters over the past two years he would find Andy Sachs, with her hideous poly-blend and corn chowder ass, at the center of it. Why was it making him so angry? His job had become more pleasant. Everyone around him was happier, and he had to admit a bit more productive, if that were possible. Runway was doing better than ever.

He was torn from his thoughts; they were talking now. Miranda had pressed her forehead to Andy’s and was holding the back of Andy’s head with her hands. Her lips parted. "Do you know what a nightmare that past three weeks have been? Missing you. Needing you. Worrying about you every second of the day?"

Her voice was barely above a whisper and Nigel could hear the desperation, hear the tears that she had shed earlier. And for the first time he took in the bags that had been unceremoniously dropped on the floor of Miranda’s office, Andy’s--stylish he had to admit--rumpled travel clothes, and the dark circles under her eyes. He hadn’t followed Andy’s career. He remembered hearing something about a reference Miranda had provided for some newspaper and aside from the fact that Nigel had been amazed she’d provided one at all he hadn’t really given it a second thought.

He couldn’t afford to. Those weeks after Paris had been difficult for him, more than difficult. And the thought that Andy fucking Sachs had walked out on Miranda and her career, walked out on principle, in part it was rumored because of him, had made part of him hate her. He had cursed her and called her stupid with the rest of the office. Internally he damned her for her courage, her impudence, and above all, her freedom. One thing was for certain: he had never wanted to see her again.

But here she was. Rubbing soothing circles on Miranda Priestly’s bare back and whispering soothing words into her ear. "Ssh, Miranda it's okay. I’m home and I’m fine. This story will be incredible. It will earn me a new job on my own merits. Maybe even The Times."

He heard Miranda suck air through her teeth. She pulled away from Andy slightly and looked over her young lover's shoulder. Nigel supposed she was gazing at their reflection in the office window. "I never thought," she paused, "I never realized when I told you that you would have to step on people to get to the top, that you would first have to step on me."

Andy looked puzzled. "Miranda?"

"Andrea." She reached out and ran her hand along Andy’s chin. "Andrea I want you to have the world. I would give you the world if it were in my power to do so. I just, it’s just these past three weeks, I’ve never felt so empty."

Andy sighed. "Miranda, I love you. And contrary to what you might believe, I am not just like you. I can and will have my career and you at the same time. You, this, our life, it means more to me than anything."

"Then tell me you won’t take another overseas assignment. Promise me that you won’t put your life in jeopardy. You do know they kidnap, torture, and kill journalists over there don’t you! I may work with a pack of backstabbing harpies, but at least I only need to worry about the metaphorical knife in my back. Have you given any thought at all to what would happen to me, to the girls, if something happened to you? Have you given any thought at all to us or do we now permanently ride back seat to your ideals?"

Andy pursed her lips. She looked a bit exasperated. "Miranda. Miranda Priestly look at me." To Nigel’s surprise Miranda looked up at Andy, her face cast in stone. "Miranda, there are no guarantees in life. No matter how much you would like there to be. You know what my job involves. And I know you understand my need to go after the story wherever that might be, whatever it might cost me. You.  You give me the strength I need to chase my ideals. You, the girls, us, our family propels me forward. Everyone should have this, or have the opportunity for this, and you and I both know we live in a world where that is so far from the case that…Miranda I love you. I love you so much it makes me crazy, you make me crazy. There are no promises I can make, no guarantees except this," and she encircled Miranda with her arms and placed a kiss on the top of her head, "I will love you with my whole heart until my last breath."

Nigel didn’t stay to hear more. He walked to his office in a daze. As he set his notes down he realized he was crying. Just a little bit, but it was enough. Maybe tomorrow he would offer his resignation or ask for a two week vacation. He wasn’t sure which. Andy fucking Sachs and her god damned courage. Miranda fucking Priestly and her what? Courage. Suddenly Nigel knew what he needed to do. He picked up his phone and dialed.  "Hello James, its Nigel…"