Chapter Text
Howling to the moonlight on a hot summer night. Singin' the blues while the lady cats cry
"Wild stray cat, you're a real gone guy". I wish I could be as carefree and wild
But I got cat class and I got cat style
It reads 02:03AM on the clock by the side table with flowers when Miranda walks out the door accompanied by her monstrous and lovely Saint Bernard, named Patricia. It’s late, of course she knows. But it was months (God, if she was being honest, even years) that she groomed the habit of losing herself in the hours when editing The Book, and since this was one of the very few nights the girls got to be with their dad, she kind of let that going on for too long of late (the editing, she meant). So, it’s almost late enough for a new morning starting at Runway and Patricia still needed a walk – Frankly, it’s brainless and negligent second assistant’s fault. Former second assistant, for the matter! Even Emily knew better.
And Patricia could be very annoying when in need of a walk. Specially this odd night. So they went outside for what Miranda promised herlsef to be at maximum a fifteen minutes walk (from and to home counting) and by the time Patricia was almost done with her very inconvenient business, something even weirder happened.
Mrs. And Mr. Anthony Fitzgerald’s townhouse was a little picturesque. It was bigger in height than the Priestlys’ one and very colourful. There were days that Miranda find it quite irksome; others that she thought it was almost pleasant. It depended much of the season of the year (and somehow, of wich husband she had by her side). This special night, it wasn’t the house that caught the EIC’s attention. Not the color, much less the huge pearly blue handrails that curl in on themselves at the bottom of the steps. No, far from it! Miranda had just walk fat steps by the dumpster, (wich in avarage days she would be caugh dead before near) when she heard a strange noise coming from inside. A loud, confused hiss – one of a kind she'd heard only one other time in her entire life: a far and very missed time once her girls were still todlers imitating the Aristocats' kittens around the house. It was cute and kind of hard to be reminded, but if something, in that moment, only made Miranda’s brows furrowed even more. What in the name of God was that?
By the time she was close enough to find out, Patricia started to bark uncontrollably around the trash, making Miranda jumping from her own skin. In a moment, the calm and peaceful St. Bernard that Miranda knew and loved had disappeared to give way to a eighty-pounds-monster that with its (freshly trimmed) claws hacked its way through Miranda to the metal box, knocking its owner over through the action. Then, Miranda was on the floor trying to putting herslef together back again and Patricia, that mind you, had just visited her expensive cleaner that same day, was inside the half open dumpster, fighting whatever was that made that sound.
With a claim of realization, back on her feet, Miranda full opened the dupster lid and took a glimpse of what was inside. Probably a raccoon. Maybe, in her worst nightmares, a rat or a possum – There was no other animal she would dare to think. She had met worst kinds, of course, but that was just another memory she wouldn’t like to revisit.
For a second she had only seen Patricia's fur inside of it and for the sounds she was making she was winning the fight over by far. Sadly, the poor animal minding it own business inside it’s home, was making incredibly awkard sounds. Very Human And Real Sounds! Miranda grown desperate when she imagined a small kid being eviscerated by her guard's dog.
So being very pale and with and too loud for an inner type of voice, she said:
“Patricia!” And the dog, though distracted, turned it’s head to her. She was scandalized! Patricia hadn’t done something like it ever since she was just a small puppy and the only thing that brough that kind of bad in her were Cats! Urgh, Patricia loathed cats! “Outside, now!”.
And she put effort to give her best Ice Queen’s eyes to that bigger and in very bad sheets dog. One that made Patricia withers and let go of whatever her teeth were holding. Then, it only took a quarter of second for the crying coming from the dumpster subsided and then almost stopped. With that, Miranda approached her face from the box even more, as a guarantee that the poor animal was nothing more than that - a poor animal that, if it was badly hurt, Miranda would make a point of calling Emily for help – No matter what everyone seemed to think, she wasn’t that heartless.
What she found there, in Mrs. And Mr. Anthony Fitzgerald’s dumpster, in the corner of a homey street in a expensive neighborhood, was nothing alike what she was expecting, though. She was five feet far from the dumpster when she realize she couldn’t believe her own eyes. Was that a full adult woman? Were that furry cat ears glued to her head?
[...]
It's conveniently handy for Miranda to be a hell boss when it's a quarter to three in the morning and Emily needs to bring Miranda a cup of boiling coffee and an almost five-page survey of cats in dumpsters. The Cat Lady – Miranda wasn’t thinking much of what to call it yet, but if she were, that would be breathtaking, was hiding inside the office downstairs and for the sounds it was making, it was scared and trying, usulessly, to escape (just as Patricia was trying to enter it). But Miranda was too in shock to think about anything but her foam latte and the pages in front of her. Too in shock to even get mad as she would, normaly, with Emily prone to babbling.
“-I’m not as fond to moggys myself, but there’s everything anyone could know about them, Miranda. Is there anything else I could do for you?”.
“That’s all”. The coffee was almost lukewarm by now, and she would bark loud orders to bring another, and to Emily put herself together so she wouldn’t ever dare to looking like an orphan in couture again, but once she thought twice about it she had already closed the door and was walking her way down to her office once again. Almost marching, lost in conteplation. Could this night be real? Had she slept once again in her chair, while editing The Book? It was the only pretty acceptable option, wasn’t it? That was it, she would open the door and there will be no sign of a terrified cat woman gnawing on her Boca de Lobo sofa reinvented in real leather. It couldn’t be! Those kind of things wasn’t real. She was a woman growing old and that dumpster in the corner of Mrs. And Mr. Fitzgerald was only a fragment of her imagination!
Patricia was still roaring at the wooden door and her snout was still rubbing the entire length of the handle, however. And with each step Miranda took toward her sanctuary, the shrill complaints coming from inside the room grew louder and warmer. It was as if the thing on the other side had grown balls and been very angry and upset about being trapped. Like a real suspicious cat. Miranda couldn’t help but feel dizzy. What had she been thinking when she decided to brough whatever that was, inside her house. The house her kids called home that many amount of years! It was only a dream! Only a fever dream! And the first thing she would do when awake was to find herself a space on her own agenda for a sesson with her therapist.
“Patricia, en garde!” and as she had always done, Patricia follow the order of Miranda. “Bed, now!” The former one was harder to the dog obey, but after some seconds, it did anyway. And just like that, Miranda found herself in front of the door holding back for the pandemonium that might (or might not) be waiting for her on the other side.
Once the door was open, there it was, curled up beside her Koket table as if expecting the worst. It had long woody strands that fell over her face in a disorganized way, like a fringe cut by blunt scissors; it was dressed in cerulean blue coveralls, almost too small for her, and it was staring at Miranda with an expression that, although she took pride of always reading people too well, Miranda could not decipher. Maybe because that thing was anything but human? Miranda took a step back, almost losing balance. There it was too, staring at Miranda almost as if she had eyes of her own. A pair of furry ears, triangular in shape, pointed and drooping like bat ears. As black as the empty darkness outside the house. The editor's hands found her own chest and rubbed it and right there, was that she first saw the tail curling behind the anemic body of the cat lady —also as dark as the ears. All this together could've only sound as mockery to the reality always presented to Miranda. As if to say: you've never seen anything like me before.
And Miranda had never really seen it.
And for long minutes that felt like years between them, they both looked at each other, a little dazzled and a little frightened by what they saw in each other's eyes.
[...]
“Can you use simple words?”. Cat lady was silent for longer than Miranda enjoyed and the day was starting to outshine the night they had found each other. As she expected, though, she was answered with pure and not as much blissful silent again. “Of course, I had to find myself an other problem to fetch. As the magazine in ruins wasn’t enough trouble to endure”. Her hand had cut the air right in front of her face, and tired she had walked to the table to fetch the book, left where it was before that whole story had started. She couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of the clock on the wall. It reads 4:21AM. “I hope you got in terms with leading me to have an awful beggining of day. You got a weird scar on the face from my dog and I got another sleepsless night – just what I wanted.”
Cat lady's head was still glued to Miranda’s and her tail hung straight in the air, slowly letting of curling. Miranda almost find it amusing and as perceived it, could only think of herself as silly. And Miranda Priestly could never be silly. “Oh my, now I’m talking to half breed specimes that can’t even understand me, this needs to mean the much of ugliness I’ve seen in this edition finally had affected my brain cells, how could it not? Maybe I should call Emily, she’ll have to know how to get rid of you. New York’s authorities are supposed to deal with it, not me, that’s for sure”.
To talk about authorities and letting this big humanoid cat loose, made something shine inside her big doe eyes. Almost as if...
“You do understand me, don’t you?”. Miranda that was confortable sitting in the chair, appreciating a cup of dark and almost solid coffee had sit straing and accusatory, as she had done many times before in her glass office at Runway. “What’s your name?”
The Cat Lady remained silent, but had walk slowly, almost safely, to Miranda. Until they were half palm far from each other. Smelling something, the Cat Lady wrinkled her nose carefully and with both hands pressed to the floor, shook her head for a long minute, until a glittering pendant escaped her collar, showing a name carved in metal. Miranda's trained eyes narrowed and without thinking twice she reached out her hand to reach for the necklace. The cat woman was startled by the action and staggered back, making terrifying sounds like when in the Dumpster. Miranda threw up her hands in her defense as she had never done before. It was awkard as it could be and Miranda was angry, for the first time in a long time she had felt uncomfortable, but she breathed strongly and carefully, trying to react as she would if it were Cassidy or Caroline there - her precious twins.
“You need to get close so I can read. I’m not touching it if you don’t want to.” She said, leisurely. But when it took more than some minutes to the half-breed get closer again, Miranda very known for her patience at small pace started to grown impaciently. “Since we are in each other presence for that long, you should know I’m not crazy about repeating myself. Or explaining myself, for that matter. If you don’t like me calling you thing than you should let me read your name. The promise of no touch still remains – you were living in a dumpster for crying out loud and you sure smells like it. I really can live without touching you”.
Weirdly, that put the Cat Lady closer to Miranda than before and without thinking twice the Editor brought her face closer again until she could truly read what was written on the ID tag. In upper case, over a cartoon drawing of a fishbone, it read in sloppy letters: Andrea.
And even weirder, Miranda Priestly could only think how it matches her beautifully.
“I see you enjoyed my harsh words. You’d be a first, Andrea”. And Andrea, though still in dark from Miranda perspective, had enjoyed the way that odd woman had said her name – like it meant something more than nothing. “You need a bath and I doubt I’ll be able to leave you alone for the day, at least not before you eat something”.