I AM OFFICIALLY RIDICULOUS
May. 20th, 2010 05:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
snowdarkredTitle: A Stitch Away From Making It
Author:
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
snowdarkred Rating/Warnings: PG, minor swearing, fashion
Words: ~5K
Summary: The BAU team. Working at a fashion magazine. Saving the day and looking fabulous while doing it.
Author's Note and Disclaimer: What I know about the fashion industry could fit inside a silver thimble. What I don't know about the fashion industry could fill oceans. The information used in this fic has been gleaned from The Devil Wears Prada, Project Runway, and Bluefly.com, as well as my brief year working at a nonprofit newspaper. I don't really keep up with what's 'in' at the moment, and I don't usually care. This was just a gift to myself for getting my life back on track. The title is, yes, from a Fall Out Boy song. Also, this is my first CM fic.
A Stitch Away From Making It
Doctor Spencer Reid walked briskly at a hurried pace through the halls of BAU. He didn't run, because running was undignified, and that would reflect poorly upon the prestigious publication, but he was in a hurry. He had a mere two hours in which to divert catastrophe, all because Anderson flubbed the only article he was assigned for the month. Spencer would have a word or two with him when this was over, and with JJ and Hotch, and even Strauss herself, so that he may learn the error of his ways, and perhaps be fired. If Spencer couldn't stop the disaster that was about to play out, he would make certain that Anderson would get all due blame.
This is what happens when you break down the chain of command in a fashion magazine.
Spencer swerved to avoid colliding with an over-laden intern. Normally, he'd pause to help her along, but he was a man on a mission, and he couldn't stop for anything. He increased his speed, but not enough so that he could not maintain that he was not, in fact, running. He kept one hand on his diaphragm, trying to make sure that his brown ADAM wool sweater stayed as wrinkle and snag free as possible. Elle would kill him if he looked anything less than perfect.
He made it to Garcia's door without causing any kind of major traffic incident. He took a deep breath, smoothed the collar of the blue Dolce & Gabbana shirt he was wearing, and entered Garcia's domain.
Chaos greeted him. Garcia sat on her throne, the mass of technology spread across her humongous desk creating an intimidating barrier between her and her minions. Spencer wove his way past the bustling assistants and graphic designers that crowded the place. Most got out his way, recognizing him and reacting accordingly.
“Garcia!” he said loudly as he approached. “Garcia, I need you to pull Anderson's article.”
The blonde looked at him over her glasses, both eyebrows raised. The light from her computer screens illuminated her; she looked absolutely terrifying. Spencer knew that the people in her division lived in a heady mix of love and fear.
“Garcia,” he said again. “I need you to—”
“Oh no, mon ami,” she said. Her fingers typed effortlessly across her keyboard. “I have to get these mock-ups to Rossi in an hour, plus Inhabit decided that they wanted a full-page ad instead of a half-page, which is totally screwing the lace-nails article to hell. I can't just pull an article without Strauss's say so.”
“Yes, but—” Spencer protested.
“No-no, my sweet, fifty-eight minutes until deadline.”
“Anderson decided that my edits and fact checks were unnecessary,” he said quickly. “We can't run the article he sent in. We either change it now or change it after Hotch and Strauss see it.”
He had to hand it to Garcia; she took it relatively well. After letting out a small scream of frustration—which sent her minions scrambling double time—she began jumping from computer screen to computer screen, typing and rearranging whatever was in front of her. “Please tell me you brought me something else to put in its place.”
“I brought you something to put in its place,” he said obediently. He slid his flashdrive through a gap in the computers. Garcia snatched it up like a woman possessed; they had less than an hour to completely rearrange the July edition.
After thirty minutes of feverish working, along with a fair amount of juggling between three different departments, the problem was fixed. Anderson's article on Asian fads was pulled, and Spencer's quicky history of fashion was put in its place. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. They didn't have time to go back through and completely rewrite Anderson's mess. At least they had adverted the immediate crisis.
Just another day at the office.
---
Derek tilted his head one way and then the other. Endless racks of designer clothes surrounded him on all sides. The model stood delicately on Pedro Garcia stilettos, the Alberta Ferretti dress she was showing draping gracefully around her thin frame. Derek made a twirling motion with his index finger and the model spun accordingly. $3,685 dollars was steep for the average BAU reader, but if they put in the splurge featurette, they might manage to squeeze it into the August issue. The Pedro Garcias were definitely in; the shoe was a gorgeous peep toe with an iridescent green feather overlay: daring but beautiful. The whole outfit was certainly something that they should hang on to.
“Thank you, that's all,” he told the model. “Go to Greenway, alright? Do not stop to eat a salad, do not pass go, do not pass two hundred dollars. Go straight to Greenway and tell her that I said to put these exact clothes into Wardrobe. Do you understand?” One does not simply let an eighteen year old walk off wearing an outfit that cost over four thousand dollars.
He turned away as she clomped out of the room. His assistant, Rebecca, stood at a discreet distance from him, a clipboard nestled in the crook of one arm and his coffee, black, in the other. Her assistant stood to her left, a Blackberry clutched in her trembling hands. The assistant's assistant stared at Derek like he was God; it was making him uncomfortable. He was used to it outside of the BAU headquarters, but his office was supposed to be sanctuary.
“Alright, what's next?” he asked. Rebecca checked the clipboard, and her assistant tried and failed to discretely snap a photo of Derek with the phone.
“Well, Mrs. Strauss is holding the review of the July edition at three, final version to be approved by five. The Antonio Berardi party is tonight, but the Kor party is scheduled for ten—”
“Put me down for the Kor party,” Derek said. He walked over to one of the racks and began browsing through it, looking for something to catch his eye. “What else?”
“Mr. Hotchner's son turns six next week,” she continued. “You received your invitation to the party yesterday. Ms. JJ also sent out a memo that all photos from Paris Fashion Week are due by two. Dr. Reid sent a reminder ten minutes ago that if employees don't follow his edits, he will introduce them to a new level of humiliation and unemployment.” Derek snickered, wondering who had ticked off BAU's resident genius. “Mr. Rossi emailed you a reminder about the Milan deadline, and Ms. Garcia sent you an invitation to an early diner at The Carlyle.”
Derek plucked an Armani men's shirt from a rack and held it up to the light. He rubbed the collar fabric between two fingers and squinted at the the stitching along the seams. “Tell Rossi that I'll have the selections by the end of tomorrow. Send Garcia an acceptance, but tell her I won't be free before seven at the earliest.”
“Yes, sir. Oh, and your mother forwarded some new pictures of your sisters,” Rebecca added. She flipped through the clipboard one-handed and glanced at her watch. “You have an appointment with Ms. Greenway in seven minutes.”
“Alright,” Derek sighed. He replaced the shirt where he found it and took his coffee from her. “Go ahead and forward the pictures to the developing center; I want some new shots for my album. I'm heading to the Wardrobe now.”
“Very good, Mr. Morgan,” his assistant bobbed, jotting down a few notes. She may be nearly archaic in record keeping, but she really was efficient.
Derek left his office, with its carefully controlled chaos, and plunged into the wild abyss of the hallways on Deadline Day (known not-so-affectionately as D-Day by the staff). Behind him, Rebecca began chewing out her assistant for inappropriate behavior in front of the boss; what was she thinking, how could she do something so unprofessional, and did she know how many people wanted the job she had right now? She should count her lucky stars that she wasn't bagging groceries and shopping at Wal-mart, honestly.
Derek smiled and went on his way.
---
Aaron “Hotch” Hotchner sank into his chair with a grateful sigh. He'd sent all three of his assistants off on errands, trying to stem the panic that always flooded in the day before print. Rossi's first mock up was spread out over the desk, covered in red markings. He'd heard that the rookie, Anderson, had made some kind of near fatal mistake, and that Reid and Garcia had had to pull a fast one with his article. Hotch made a note to look into Anderson; he had to have screwed up big time for the mild-mannered Reid to send out such a scathing email.
Hotch looked at the framed photographs that lined his desk. They were the only items in his spacious office that he had any hand in; the rest was meticulously put together by the top furniture designers in the country, if not the world. Each carefully ajar seat cushion and artful watercolor on the walls was someone else's idea. It was impressive, but impersonal. It wasn't Hotch.
The business was grinding and draining. Rossi had briefly fled his publishing job nearly nine years before to become a full-time photographer and writer. Elle had had an emotional breakdown and had to transfer divisions to lessen the stress. Gideon had up and left one day, never to be heard from again. It was the Job, and it took a certain steeliness of soul to do it, day in and day out.
As it was, it had cost him his relationship with his wife—ex-wife. A spouse can only be expected to put up with so much before the absences and excuses become insurmountable.
There was a soft knock on the door. JJ stuck her head in, her long blonde ponytail falling over one shoulder. “Can I come in?”
“Yes, please do,” Hotch said, sitting up. He motioned for her to take her customary seat across from him. She did so with a sigh that echoed his own. She rubbed her temples gingerly with one hand.
“I can't wait for this day to be over,” she said. “It feels like its been Tuesday for years.”
“And yet our work is not done,” Hotch agreed. He admired JJ's “antique white” Free People blouse, paired with black black pinstripe, wool gabardine trousers by Michael Kor. JJ always wore the best, and she didn't even resort to the Wardrobe to do it.
“No, we still have to go to the meeting with Strauss in,” JJ checked her watch, “an hour. Where we will spend two hours going over something that you could do in half the time.”
Hotch sighed again. He wouldn't argue with JJ's statement, though if he did, he would most certainly bring up that Erin Strauss was one of the most efficient and accomplished Editor-in-Chiefs that the fashion industry had ever known. She made Miranda Priestly look like a college newspaper editor. But, this meant that the staff meetings for the monthly issues were absolutely grueling.
“How's everyone pulling things together?” he asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.
“Reid and Garcia sorted out some issue with an ad spot and a writer who didn't follow direction—I'll be dealing with that after the meeting—and Morgan's got the Milan fashion picks almost wrapped up. Reid is about to unleash unholy hell on the writing staff, but that's to be expected. Rossi's sleeping with another intern, but I've already had a chat with the girl, and she's knows that legal is just waiting to sink their teeth into her, so there shouldn't be any problems there.”
Hotch snorted. Rossi's affairs were legendary. It was rumored that the man had once single handedly derailed a Dior fashion show when his first ex-wife and his second ex-wife got into a spat and his current girlfriends had joined in. It was all very soap opera.
“Prentiss ripped the morons over at the Inhabit advertising department a new one about some stunt they tried this morning; I'm sure we'll hear about that at the meeting. Kevin says that our sales have increased by 2.3%. And, lastly, Will has added two new advertisers to our accounts, so we may have to increase the pages of the August issue to accommodate them.”
Hotch made a few notes in his iPhone to bring that point up in the next inter-department meeting. It was JJ's job as Executive Director to keep everything straight, but it was Hotch's job to make sure that everything ran effectively. He checked the time again. (Everyone in the business was always checking the time. There was always a deadline coming up.)
“Do you want to run out and get lunch?” he asked. “If we call ahead, we can make it to Boulud's and back in time for the meeting.”
“Yes,” JJ agreed, like that was what she had been waiting for. It probably was. Will was tied up with Garcia, trying to get the ads into the July issue; JJ usually ate lunch with him.
One of Hotch's assistants had returned while he and JJ had been talking; he paged her to come in. “Go tell one of the drivers that we want to go pick up lunch,” he told her. She nodded and slipped out again. The car would be waiting for them by the time they got downstairs.
“Shall we go?” Hotch offered JJ his arm.
“Let's,” JJ said. She laced her arm through his and the two of them exited his office.
---
Elle Greenway had never considered herself a nervous person before she started working in the fashion industry. However, she had gone from being Head Advertising and Associate Director to being in charge of the Wardrobe, the largest depository of fashion in the world—or at least New York. After two years in the hot seat of the HAAD department, she'd finally broken and retreated to a more behind-the-scenes position.
(Those fools over at Runway could suck it; BAU was top-bitch in the industry, and anyone who tried to deny it was obviously so out of touch as to be considered fashion retarded.)
“Ms. Greenway?” one of the interns announced from the entrance. “The photographer for the shoot is here.” An attractive man who looked to be in his mid-thirties stood slightly behind the intern. He looked curiously around the packed room, but he didn't show any surprise at the sheer volume of clothes that filled the large series of rooms known simply as the Wardrobe.
Elle strode to the door and greeted the photographer with a handshake. “I'm Elle, and you must be Tony,” she said with a smile.
“That's right,” Tony grinned. “I'm glad that I finally have a chance to work with the infamous staff of BAU.”
Elle arched an eyebrow. “Infamous?”
“Well, yes,” the man shrugged. “You guys single-handedly took over Fashion Week in the great coop of 2005. You set most of the current trends in the industry. You employ a staggering number of people across the world to keep track of what's hot and what's not.”
“At least part of that is due to me,” Morgan said. The pair turned to greet the final member of the meeting. “Hi, I'm Derek Morgan. And you're—”
“Call me Tony,” the photographer interrupted. “I don't do well with formality.”
“Ah,” Morgan said. Elle glared at him, trying to signal that he should behave and not pull any of his straight-man-in-a-gay-fashion-world macho crap. If he did, she would turn him over to Hotch for scaring away another fantastic photographer.
However, it appeared that her worry was unfounded. Tony seemed to dismiss the attitude as irrelevant. He turned courteously to Elle and requested that she show him the clothing selections that Mr. Morgan had made for the shoot. Elle could practically hear Morgan's teeth grind together.
Elle had had the rack set aside earlier, guarded by an alert intern so that none of the designer pieces walked off in anyone's hands before the shoot. People tended to think of things in the Wardrobe as up for grabs, which was simply not true, and if Elle ever caught anyone taking anything from her archives, she would execute them on the spot.
Tony looked over the clothes and the pictures of the models who had been chosen to wear them. He talked with Morgan a bit about lighting and hair styles. Elle kept one eye on the army of interns that maintained the delicate balance inside Wardrobe while occasionally interjecting her opinion into the discussion. To his credit, Tony always considered her suggestions with grace, and Morgan, to his, never shot her down completely like he had at other times. Neither man wanted to appear to be the asshole in this situation; each was waiting for the other to mess up.
Elle rolled her eyes at the male posturing. It happened no matter what field you're in.
Once most of the details were sorted out—the exact shade of white in the background, the presence of male models, the amount of film that would be used—Elle had a few of the interns cart the rack off to the photography level, so that the models could start getting dressed. The shoot was scheduled for five-thirty, and it was supposed to be wrapped up by seven, but these things always run over. Hopefully, the July issue meeting would be over by then, and Morgan would be able to make his dinner date with Garcia.
Morgan and Tony shook hands as they parted ways for a few hours. Morgan had a staff meeting to get to, Tony had a shoot to prepare for, and Elle had Wardrobe to manage, which was three times harder than it sounded.
Most people can't even keep their own closets in order. Imagine keeping over twenty rooms worth of closets neat and tidy, organized by designer and year. Yeah. It was that hard.
---
Emily Prentiss was the first one into the conference room. Natalia, her assistant, had met her halfway there to hand off her notes on current and potential sales strategies, as well as the profiles of all current and potential advertisers, along with her smart phone. The conference room was sleek and modern, with no sign of personality. A large flat-screen television took up one wall, and the wall opposite from the door was nothing but solid glass. She could see the city, with all its hustle and bustle, beauty and dark places.
The door opened, and Morgan stepped in, his black Hugo Boss sunglasses hooked into the collar of his brown What Comes Around Goes Around merino-cashmere sweater. Emily smiled and motioned for him to take the seat next to her.
“How's it been going?” she asked.
He shrugged and rolled his eyes and began complaining about Rebecca's new assistant and how she had taken photos of him without permission. “I'm going to ask Rebecca to fire her next time I see her,” he said. “I deal with too much crap to add another stalker to it.”
“Maybe you should give her another chance,” Emily suggested. She liked being the voice of reason in this hectic and eclectic business.
“How many chances am I supposed to give her?” Morgan asked. He set his cellphone and editorial notes on the smooth surface of the oval table; the phone began buzzing immediately, but both of them ignored it. They were in a meeting, technically, and if it was anyone within the company, they'd just send a lackey instead of a text. “I have to have people that I can rely on.”
“She's new, isn't she?” Emily prided herself on remembering this sort of information. She was no Spencer Reid, but she wasn't dumb either. “Give her time.”
“She's fully qualified and should know better.”
“You know, I'm on to you,” she said. She narrowed her eyes at him while swiveling slightly in the leather-upholstered office chair. “You like to pretend that you're some asshole, but deep down inside, you're just a really nice guy. You won't ask Rebecca to fire her.”
“Bite your tongue,” Morgan grinned. The double doors opened again, and Reid and Garcia entered together. There was another round of greetings, and the pair sat across from the other two, their backs to the glass wall. They left the far end of the table free. Emily smiled over at Reid, who had immediately reached into his Linea Pelle messenger (brown leather with silvertone hardware and whipstitch trim, very classy) and began pulling out carefully organized files. He stacked them in front of him, keeping the edges as aligned as was humanly possible. Emily shook her head at him and joined in Morgan and Garcia's conversation—which was more like flirting anyway.
Morgan was still complaining about his assistant's assistant. “She wasn't even succeeding at being subtle about it,” he said.
“Poor baby, people always objectifying you,” Garcia said without a trace of irony. “Give me her name and I can ruin her life in two clicks of a smart phone's keybroad.”
“Whose life are you going to ruin?” Hotch asked from the doorway. The group turned to see the older man and JJ in framed between the double doors. Hotch looked suspiciously at Garcia, who blushed and adjusted her Gucci glasses.
“Rebecca's assistant is sexually harassing our Morgan,” Garcia defended. Her pigtails bounced on her shoulders. “I have to do something to defend mon ami's honor.”
“I don't need anyone to defend my honor!” Morgan exclaimed, scandalized. Emily laughed loud enough that Morgan felt justified punching her (lightly) on the arm.
“The social construct that men must defend their own honor, and not allow a female to do it for them, is a strong one, even in this supposedly liberal modern age,” Reid said. He brushed his hair out of his face, leaving it to curl around his ears.
“Which is Reid-speak for, 'Morgan's manhood is offended,'” JJ translated. She and Hotch took their seats near the front of the table. Reid beamed at them before returning to his files. Hotch began questioning him about his department's progress, and JJ delved into a debate about Gucci versus Prada with the others.
These were the people who made the fashion world go 'round.
---
Dave was late. Dave was very, very late.
He walked slowly, steadily through the bright halls of BAU Industries. Under one arm, he carried a thick bundle of loose magazine spreads, with post-it notes and color-coated flags hanging off pages. It was 3:15 PM, fifteen minutes after Strauss's meeting was supposed to start. He was late, and so was the July issue.
However, David Rossi never rushed anywhere. He was meticulous in everything he did, be it dressing or designing or taking photographs. He wouldn't wrinkle his pristine Versace shirt, or crumple his Theory blazer, or cause a single crinkle in his William Rast jeans (except those that were artfully placed there by the designer, but that was fashion, not sloppiness).
The meeting was in the Charta Conference Room, on the twenty-first floor. Dave was on the tenth floor, and he held in his hands the sum of a month of feverish work, which was due fifteen minutes ago. Strauss would be furious, but Dave could care less. He wasn't doing this job for the salary; he had more than enough money to never set foot in a fashion show again unless he was there purely as an invited guest.
The elevator door dinged, announcing that his ride had arrived. Dave strode between the sliding doors, his back straight and head held high. He was a god among men. The doors started to close, and Dave heard a high, feminine noise of protest from further down the hall. He thrust his free hand out, catching the doors and causing them to glide back into place. A young, attractive woman—a Greenway/Wardrobe lackey by the pile of clothes in her hand—scrambled through the gap and collapsed against the far railing, panting. Expensive designer shirts (Alara, $125 each) fell to the floor in a ten thousand dollar heap.
The doors binged closed, and Dave stooped to help her pick everything up. He could be a little later.
---
Penelope Garcia looked around the oval table, a smile on her face. These were her people, laughing and joking and enjoying themselves in the brief respite before Strauss arrived and the meeting began. Rossi ambled in nearly thirty minutes after everything was scheduled to start. He sat next to her, since he was technically her supervisor, though it didn't feel like it most of the time. They had a healthy respect for each other's talents, even if they had wildly different work styles. Rossi was talking about something, but Penelope wasn't paying attention.
Reid waved his hands energetically while explaining the finer points of chain stitching to Hotch, who had the look of a man humoring a favorite nephew. JJ and Prentiss were ganging up on Morgan's manhood. Morgan caught her eye across the table and winked at her. She winked back.
“Are you even paying attention?” Rossi demanded, though he sounded more amused than offended. “What did I just say?”
“Yadda yadda, ex-wife, blah blah, girlfriend, wha wha, money,” she replied sweetly with a flick of one multi-colored pigtail. Rossi snorted derisively, but he was grinning, so it didn't count.
“She's got you pegged, Dave,” Hotch commented from the end of the table. Reid smiled like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.
“Don't even joke,” Rossi warned, but his words had no real threat.
(Penelope and Rossi had been on much better terms ever since he walked in on her and Kevin sharing an ...intimate moment in the copy-room. He felt that he had found a kindred spirit, even if that spirit was female and clung strictly to monogamy.)
They were just a group of close coworkers, waiting for the boss to show up.
The double doors swept open, and the boss entered.
Strauss was a tall, cold, calculating bitch, but no one could say that she wasn't good at her job. Her Christian Louboutin pumps shone with power, and her whitening hair was styled with expert care. Each nail was professionally manicured; each piece of clothing carefully considered and selected. Strauss ran the BAU magazine tighter than a Navy ship, with twice as much discipline. Foreign dignitaries cowered before her as much as her staff did.
She scared the absolute shit out of Penelope.
“I see you all made it,” Strauss said as she took her seat at the head of the table. She surveyed them over the edges of her glasses, her only concession to age. “Very well. We shall begin.”
Penelope gulped nervously and began fidgeting with her fuzzy-ended, light-up pen.
JJ began detailing the difficulties in production, from the disappearing model for the Bottega Veneta shoot, to the stunt that Anderson pulled with his article on Asian fads, with Reid adding details as he saw fit. Morgan explained, again, his style choices and strategies for the issue, along with the models used for each shoot. Rossi presented the layout, and Penelope was thankful yet again that she was rarely required to speak at these things. Prentiss informed them about the added accounts and what each contract entailed.
Strauss stared impassively out of the glass wall, her eyes unfocused. The team had no indication of whether she was even hearing any of it; the only reason they knew that she was alive was the fact that she blinked periodically.
“...and I rearranged our agreement with Inhabit so that next time they won't spring something like that on us,” Prentiss finished. There was silence.
“It seems like you did very well,” Strauss said finally. “There were problems, but you handled them before they could grow. You managed to get the drafts done on time and please all of our advertisers. Excellent job.”
The BAU team stared at her as if she had lost her mind. Penelope had never heard Strauss give such praise, ever. The blonde checked her watch discretely to see if time had stopped and twisted in her seat to see if the Four Horsemen were galloping through the New York streets, signaling the apocalypse. Time was still ticking, and the only horseman outside was a mounted cop on the corner.
“And that is why I feel comfortable announcing this now,” Strauss continued. She turned in her seat to face the room; Penelope followed her line of sight to find that Strauss was gazing at Hotch. “I am stepping down as Editor-in-Chief and promoting Aaron Hotchner in my place.” She held up her hand to stave off questions. “This has been a long time coming. By the end of next week, BAU Magazine will have a new head, and I will be on an undisclosed tropical island.”
“But, Mrs. Strauss,” Hotch protested. Penelope turned to look over at him. He was frozen in the act of rising from his seat, shocked to stillness.
“Shut up, Aaron,” Strauss snapped not unkindly. She gave him an icy smile, and the team felt the temperature in the room sink ten degrees. “This is my decision, and you can either quit or abide by it. You have been all but running the publication for three months now, and you are doing a better job than I ever did.”
Hotch blushed and sank back into his chair. Everyone was left staring at each other as Strauss rose and swept out of the room in one smooth motion.
“Holy shit,” Morgan said into the resulting silence. He shook his head in disbelief. “Holy shit.”
“What he said,” Prentiss agreed. “Holy shit.”
---
Erin turned her head and looked up at the towering BAU Industries building one last time. They were going to do fine.
----------------
Yeah. I am shameless and unrepentant.
