Chapter Text
Andy Sachs knew many things.
She knew that dragonflies spent most of their lives living underwater as nymphs. She also knew that octopuses had three hearts – which was crazy.
What she didn’t know, was why Miranda fucking Priestly thought that good old Andy Sachs from Cincinnati was anything like her at all.
You could have left in Paris, the voice inside her head screamed. And yeah, she could have.
But she didn’t. She knew, or she liked to believe, that a woman could be both successful and happy. And she was going to make something of this job, make something of herself, and be happy while she was at it. Because Miranda Priestly was so wrong.
Yeah, she wanted this life, and yeah, she made a few dumb choices. But that didn’t mean that she couldn’t be happy too, did it?
“Uh, mam? I’m gonna need you to order or leave, because there’s a line right behind ya”, The barista drawled.
“Sorry, just the usual please, and for the love of God, make the coffee hot this time?”
“Okay, no need to be so uptight about it.”
Andy rolled her eyes, grabbed Miranda’s coffee, and sprinted to Runway before it the coffee dropped to the freezing cold temperature of 99 degrees rather than its usual hundred.
“Goddamit, Andrea! Why does it take you so long to get a coffee?” Emily’s voice greeted Andy the moment she stepped back into headquarters.
Sure, Andy was basically first assistant now, but not on paper. So, she still had to do the mundane task of getting Miranda her coffee first thing in the morning from time to time.
Even after profusely apologizing to Emily, she still just rolled her eyes and went “Oh, fuck off,” and ran to Miranda’s desk to place her coffee.
Andy really thought life sucked sometimes. No Nate, no Lily, no Doug, not even Emily, who used to treat Andy as a half-friend before the whole Paris fiasco.
“Andrea, get in here,” Miranda’s voice called out.
“Yes, Miranda?”
“I need you to fetch the twins’ new piano from Carl, also, confirm dinner with Stephen at the Ritz tonight.”
“Yes, Miranda.”
That was when Andy noticed a faint purplish hue at the top of Miranda’s neck, which her high-as-molly-gets-you blouse didn’t fully cover.
Well, someone had fun last night, she thought to herself.
Ever since Miranda and Stephen had decided to ‘rethink the divorce’, as they liked to put it, Miranda had had more lunches with him than ever and wore such highly necked tops that Andy thought she’d suffocate (probably to hide the hickeys). Come to think of it though, this was Miranda’s first lunch date with Stephen in weeks; nowadays, she spent so much time at the office (which meant Andy spent so much time at the office), that they went home by midnight.
“Is there some reason why you’re gaping at me Andrea?” Miranda’s voice snapped her out of her reverie.
“Sorry, Miranda. Here are finalised seating charts for the luncheon tomorrow.”
As Andy handed Miranda the clipboard with the seating charts, their hands brushed and Andy felt a heat rise to her cheeks. Hate so strong, its burning me up, she thought.
“That’s all.”
Come over at 9, the text read.
You bet I’ll come at 9, Andy smirked at her flirty response to Christian.
What started as a one-night stand in Paris, soon became a two-night stand, then a third, and a fourth. Now, hate sex with Christian was normal – well, as normal as hate sex could get. In public, Christian and Andy were mortal enemies.
But in private, well, that was a different story.
They did it in every corner possible. They snuck off to the bathrooms at any common work events, once did it at an empty bar, and much to Andy’s disgust, even at a back alley.
“Honey, need I remind you that you need to be working?” Nigel’s snide voice called.
“Sorry Nige, just got distracted for a minute.”
“Ah, well is it our blonde French distraction again? God, he really can’t seem to keep you away, can he?”
Andy rolled her eyes.
Of course, Nigel disapproved of this. He was the only one she’d trusted with this.
He also thought it was toxic. Well, maybe it was.
“Nigel, it’s just a rebound thing from Nate. You know that. Also, he’s really not that bad. And he’s great in bed. What more can a girl want?”
“Ugh, TMI, Six! Well, you sure he just wants a fling? Because he’s been into you for what, like a year now?”
“I don’t know, Nigel. Maybe he wants more. I don’t though, also, the thought of Miranda finding out about us makes me want to die. She knows Christian was involved in the whole Paris drama.”
“I don’t even want to think about that. Anyway, if she finds out babe, you’re toast. So just mull over this whole fling situation you’ve got going on.” Nigel said, and walked back over to the art department.
Andy sighed. He was right, he knew that. She knew that too.
She knew that sooner or later, she’d have to define things with Christian, and she dreaded that. Ever since Nate, she’d been trying to fill a void that she didn’t know what she could fill with. Hell, she didn’t know if a void existed or not, or if she just made it up.
She didn’t feel bad after he left, she felt relieved. She felt free, as though nothing could stop her now, and that thought made her feel like shit.
Well, everybody wants this, the voice inside her head said.
No, no, she didn’t want this. She wanted happiness, because she was so different than Miranda in every way possible right?
Right?
The conversation shed been dreading to have sooner or later, came sooner.
Much sooner.
At 9 pm sharp, Andy went to Christian’s with a bottle of vodka.
“Hey, Miranda-girl. Oh, and you brought vodka. I’m already loving this.”
“Hey.” Andy’s voice dropped an octave. She then set down her bottle of vodka on the table and pushed Christian against the wall and locked her mouth on his.
After about a minute of making out, she started unbuttoning her shirt, and to her surprise, Christian clamped his hands on hers to stop her.
“Andy, do we really have to do this every night? I mean, can’t we just talk for once?”
Oh. Holy. Shit.
Okay, we were doing this.
“Uh, sure, what do you want to talk about?” she nervously asked. She tried to ignore the flood of shame that washed through her.
There was nothing more embarrassing than trying to hit third base and being stopped.
Christian took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to cut to the chase here. What are we, Andy? I mean, seriously, we meet atleast three times a week, do whatever this is, pretend we hate each other in public, and- "
Andy tried to drown him out.
Well, they were finally having this conversation and Andy didn’t know what to say.
Sure, she liked Christian, but was she really ready to commit to another relationship again?
No. She knew that.
She also knew he knew that but he had to hear it from her.
“- and well, I hate to do this to you, but – Andy are you listening to me?”
“Huh? Yeah, I am?”
“Well then tell me- what the fuck are we?”
“Christian, I really like you.” Okay this was hard. Very hard.
“I think there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“Well, yeah. I really do like you. But I’m not sure if I’m ready to get into this whole relationship thing right now.”
“Excuse me? This whole ‘relationship thing’?”
Shit.
How many times had she had to find out the hard way to not call things ‘things’ and stuffs ‘stuff’? Miranda would be really fucking disappointed right about now. She could almost picture the look of disdain on her face.
Why was she thinking about her bitch of a boss in the middle of an argument with her not-just-one-night stand? Okay Andy, snap the fuck out of it.
Focus.
“Sorry. Its just, after Nate-“
“Yes, Andy, I’m well aware that Nate was difficult. But I’m not Nate. I’m me. We’re us.”
Shit. He was grovelling. God, did Andy hate when they grovelled.
Is this how Miranda felt every time she had disappointed her and begged for forgiveness?
“Lets give this a try Andy. Me and you. Figuring things out. Please.”
Andy felt a surge of pity for the guy. She knew it wouldn’t work out. It probably never would.
She had to do it.
She had to tell him. If only he shut the fuck up for like, fifty seconds so that she could start the good old ‘Its not you, it’s me’ trick.
“Andy, like I said, we’re us.”
“Christian, there’s no easier way to put this, but there’s no us.”
Okay the bomb was dropped. Now all she had to do was wait for the aftershock and catch the flying shrapnel.
“What the fuck, Andy? Then what is this?”
“Christian..” she began.
“No, no, I see how it is. Its been, what, three months since this whole arrangement began, and this was all just mindless sex to you?”
“No, it’s just- "
“Andy. I really don’t know what to say. I get it. Work comes first. You cant do commitment. I'm just the warm body keeping the bed unmade until you figure out what you actually want.”
“Christian, just let me explain.”
“No, its okay. I think- I think I’d really love if you went home now Andy.”
“Don’t do this, Christian.”
“Just go home, Andy.”
Andy was stuck. Part of her wanted to explain, to try and make things right. Another part of her just wanted to go home. She opened her mouth one last time to try and make things right, but with impeccable timing, her phone began to ring.
It was the telltale ring that she had kept just for Miranda, so that she could never miss her calls.
“I'm sorry, I have to take this.”
Christian scoffed, gave her the bottle of vodka back, and proceeded to shut the door, kindly, but firmly, with a sad little smile.
“I’ll see you soon, Miranda -girl. Take care of yourself.”
Andy felt tears prick her eyes, but they could wait. Work calls.
“Hello, yes Miranda?” she said as she walked down Christian’s street towards home.
“I need you to get the twins new boogie boards, since the last ones you got were so incredibly…inadequate.” the cold voice drawled, not caring that it was almost midnight.
“Uh, sure Miranda. Did they mention what was wrong with the boards?”
“Figure it out, Andrea. My God, are you incapable of independent thought?” Bitch, Andy thought to herself.
“No Miranda, sorry Miranda. I’ll get it done.”
The phone clicked on the other end and Andy knew she was dismissed.
As Andy walked down the cold streets of New York, she finally let the tears run. She didn’t know why she couldn’t commit to anyone anymore. Maybe it was the aftereffects of Nate, a man she thought she’d marry one day. Maybe it was because it was Christian was an ass to Miranda.
When she finally reached home and went to bed, she thought about her long ass day, her conversation with Christian, and how she’d have to search the stores tomorrow to find ‘adequate’ boogie boards for her boss’ spoiled ass kids.
She thought about Christian’s sad smile while closing the door, and guilt pegged at her.
You want this life, choices are necessary, the cold voice in her head drawled.
“For fuck’s sake!” she growled into her pillow, and turned over.
Just as Andy dozed off, she woke up to Miranda calling her.
At 1am.
Wow. Talk about professional.
“Hello, Miranda?” she croaked, unable to hide the grogginess from her voice which Miranda had for sure noticed.
“Andrea, I won’t be attending the luncheon today, inform Irv.”
“Uh, sure Miranda. Anything else?”
She waited.
Until a foreign voice interrupted.
“Hey, whatcha doing on the phone, M’randa? Come on. Now.” The voice slurred.
Stephen.
Of course. Drunk again. Double of course.
Sometimes Andy wondered why that douchebag was still hanging around.
“Almost done,” Miranda replied. But there was something in her voice that Andy had never heard before.
A slight tremor. Uncertainty. Andy had never heard Miranda uncertain. She was always so sure of herself, even if to a bitchy extent. But never uncertain or scared.
Well, she couldn’t hang up, because she wasn’t sure if Miranda was done doling out instructions for her. So, she did the only thing her sleep addled brain saw fit. “Miranda? Anything else?”
“Shit. No, that’s all. Goodnight.” And then she hung up.
Woah.
Two things – Miranda swore? That meant Andy had heard something that she wasn’t supposed to hear – Miranda having a home life.
Ugh. She rolled her eyes at the thought of Miranda saying ‘shit’, as if Andy didn’t know she existed outside Runway. Whatever.
Second, GOODNIGHT??? When the fuck had Miranda ever had basic manners or courtesy towards anyone except, well, anyone?! Was she so flustered that it brought out the human within her?
These thoughts kept swirling inside Andy’s mind until she drifted off to sleep, where Miranda haunted her yet again, surprise surprise.
"Put Demarchelier on the phone," a cold voice drawled. Miranda strode past Andy after dumping her million ton fur coat directly on her brand new work MacBook.
Eh. It's not like it was Andy's property anyway.
Andy was glad there was no mention of their previous night's phone call. Although, she'd really have to start scouring New York for 'adequate' boogie boards sooner or later, before Miranda's twins would point it out again.
After a few seconds (thirty, to be exact, or Miranda would explode out of impatience), she replied with a helpful lilt to her voice, "I have Patrick! Also, Sophie says that he's been thinking about a new concept for the Christmas spread."
"Sophie? Who?" Miranda called out, and Andy could picture the slight raise in her eyebrow.
She walked over to Miranda's desk and said, "Sorry, Sophie's his new assistant."
"Assistant of the week, you mean. For some reason, Patrick can never make them stay." Miranda said with a slight scoff.
For a second, Andy thought there was someone else in the room. Nigel, Jocelyn, Simone?
No. Just Andy.
Why was she talking to her, of all people?
Okay, think fast. Say something super witty or cool or whatever.
Instead she said, "Yeah, I wonder why," in the most sarcastic tone ever it would have put Jimmy Carr's to shame.
Miranda raised her eyebrows.
"And why is that, Andrea?"
She gulped. "Well, its just that Patrick has a new 'concept' every week, and that really fuc-messes up his schedule, so I don't think he's a charm to work for."
"Well, it's not like I'm a charm either, is it? My assistants stay a year, at the least."
Oh. Fuck. Andy had dug her own grave for that one.
"I mean, I wouldn't say that, Miranda. Your work ethic's quite impressive, I find that admirable at times," she stuttered.
"My 'work ethic'? Andrea, are you insinuating that Patrick Demarchelier lacks work ethic?"
Miranda's eyebrows were raised so high, Andy thought they'd disappear behind her coif of hair. She had an..amused look on her face.
Fuck. This sadistic bitch was testing her.
Miranda knew there wasn't a right or wrong answer to such rhetorics. Impossible.
Fighting off the urge to roll her eyes, Andy said, "Well, no. I just think that he should try to work out some of his concepts prior to a shoot, like at least a month prior or even a week, instead of changing the whole vision a few days before. But, who am I to comment on his artistic ability? Never mind."
Miranda was regarding her with a look of intrigue on her face. She then said, in a low voice, "Never mind indeed. That's all."
Andy sighed for what seemed like the millionth time that night. She was, as per usual, waiting around for the Book while Emily happily skipped home.
God, when was the last time Andy had been home before 11?
She decided to sit back against her chair and rest her eyes. For 5 minutes.
Only five.
But five turned to twenty and she was abruptly woken up by Ron from the Art Department. At 11:30. Of course.
"Sorry to wake you up, but at least you get to go home now, " he said.
"Oh, goody, I get to go home at midnight" Andy bit back sarcastically.
He sheepishly smiled at her before leaving and Andy packed up her stuff. She decided that today she'd take advantage of Roy, who drove Miranda's car, and would ask him to directly drop her home from the townhouse.
Andy twiddled her thumbs in the back of the town car, Miranda's look of intrigue still etched into her head, and how badly she'd want to see her amused again.
Snap out of it, Andrea, we hate her and she probably doesn't give a fuck either.
When she finally arrived at the townhouse, she shivered, partially because of the cold (Christmas was coming, finally) and partially for how it was so big, and the way it loomed over her head.
She took a deep breath, turned the key, and stepped in.
The change was monumental.
Sure, the townhouse had central heating, and had the comfiest couches, but something was deeply wrong. Andy heard raised voices.
Well, it was none of her business. She was always haunted by her first time there, and how she'd witnessed Miranda's argument with Stephen.
This felt the same.
She wondered what the twins would be doing, hearing such raised voices so often, and felt a surge of pity for them before she reminded herself it was none of her business. After all, Miranda's marriage was fine, why else would they rethink their divorce? Why else would Stephen move back in?
As she was leaving, she heard a vase smash.
Her heart stopped for a moment.
What the fuck was going on?
She couldn't leave now, something in her body was physically stopping her from doing that. But she couldn't go up either.
That would be sacrificial suicide and Andy wasn't sure Miranda would be so lenient if she saw her lurking upstairs again.
So she did the only thing that felt right to her. She stopped behind the foot of the staircase, at a sort of blind spot, maybe? From here, she could see everything upstairs, but she wouldn't be spotted.
That was when she heard everything, and saw Miranda.
God, Miranda.
Andy had never seen Miranda, or for that matter, anyone, look so scared, miserable, and positively feral at the same time before.
Miranda's hair was mussed, no, tousled, like she'd pulled it out herself out of anger. The first few buttons from her perfect Calvin Klein blouse from the morning were open, her earrings hung on for dear life, and her face.
Oh God, her face, Andy thought to herself. It was so pale, it redefined white.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, and that was the part that got Andy.
They were just like in Paris, and she felt like she was intruding something, which she definitely was.
She turned to leave again, and that was when she heard Miranda cry something out.
Woah, Miranda never raised her voice, like, ever. This must be serious.
"What in the ever-loving Christ has gotten into you Stephen? What the fuck is your problem?" Miranda screamed.
"You, bitch, you are my goddamn fucking problem!"
"Get out of my face," Andy heard Miranda hiss. She had never used this tone before, not even while firing people, not even when talking about Irv.
"Oh yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Stephen growled.
They were standing in front of a coffee table, with a few photo frames.
Stephen swung his hand in anger and knocked one over, the glass shards flying everywhere, all while Miranda stood stock still. One of the flying shards scraped by her jawline, just under her ear, drawing blood.
It was at a spot nobody would even notice, but Andy did.
Just then, Andy's blood boiled. Who the fuck did Stephen think he was? Okay, maybe Miranda wasn't Andy's favourite person in the world or something, but still, she felt her heart go out to her boss.
Stephen growled some not-so-nice insults under his breath and went back in. Miranda, however, stood. She just stood.
Miranda was always moving in some way or the other, even when she was sitting. But she never stood still, and seeing her like this was so unsettling, so vulnerable, even more than that night in Paris. Miranda slowly started picking up the shards of broken glass and wiped her forehead with a trembling hand.
She leaned against the wall and slumped down in the most miserable slouch that Andy had ever seen.
Andy knew that she had to go home now. She was definitely intruding.
Miranda sighed deeply and loudly and pinched her hand at the bridge of her nose. Andy knew that was a tell-tale sign of someone who was going to start crying horribly very soon, and she did not want to be there to witness that. She hoped the twins were asleep.
Shit. The twins. Did they hear everything?
Andy then breathed a sigh of relief when she remembered that the twins were at their dad's, and decided that she too, should just go home.
She quietly opened the front door, and relief washed over her when it didn't make a sound.
"Roy, can you take me home?" she asked.
"Sure, no problem."
The rest of the car ride went by in total silence. Andy's mind, however, was anything but silent. It was buzzing with questions, and for some godforesaken reason, she couldn't get Miranda and that look, out of her head, yet again.
When she got home, all she wanted was to rant to Nate about this job and this boss that had somehow taken over her entire life.
She called out, "I'm home!"
Oh.
She remembered Nate had left.
So did Christian.
Lily.
Doug.
Doug's boyfriend, Steve.
Her parents would too, considering the way she'd been icing them out because of work.
Work.
That was all she did these days. Work.
Worked her ass off to not be rewarded, received a shameful salary, and paid a shit ton of rent that she was sure would bankrupt her someday.
She plonked herself down on her shitty couch, turned on her shitty T.V., in hope to watch a shitty reality show, all while drinking shitty wine, but she just couldn't get the events of that night at the townhouse out of her head.
She reminded herself to be grateful that although life sucked right now, and she wasn't in a relationship, at least she didn't have to deal with the crappy fights and explaining herself and her work schedule because of Miranda.
What would Miranda be doing right now?
Would she be crying? Bullshit. Miranda never cried.
She'd probably be working on the Book, and thinking of errands to dump on Andy the next day.
Meanwhile, Andy had no one.
She probably never would too, if this was her life.
That thought got her, and suddenly, all the memories from the previous months flowed back to her, and she cried.
She couldn't remember the last time she cried. Not just a few tears, but like really, really cried.
Her choking sobs reverberated all over the thin walls of her fuck-ass apartment, while she rocked herself to sleep, crying some more at the thought of how touch starved she was.
She thought of her mom, and how she'd soothe her to sleep, and remembered that her mom was an 8 hour flight away.
She was going to go back to Cincinnati, she would rather die than spend Christmas alone.
She finally called her mom, who picked up on the second ring.
"Honey, is everything okay? It's almost 2 in the morning" her mom's worried voice said.
That got her. She forgot the last time she'd talked to her mom.
"Mommy? Can I come visit for Christmas?"
"Of course you can, baby, are you sure things are alright? You want Dad or I to come get you?"
Tempting, but no. She couldn't leave Miranda- what the fuck- work right now.
"No, Mommy, I'm good. I just missed you, that's all."
"Well, if you insist, hon. How's work treating you? Not so hot, I think, considering you're calling crying at 2am."
"Spot on, Mom," Andy said, switching back to 'Mom' than 'Mommy', a babyish version of the name.
"How's your boss, by the way?"
The thought of Miranda gnawed at Andy, she really didn't want to talk about her, at all.
"Eh, I don't know. Same old, same old."
"Well, if you don't mind bunny, can I ring you in the morning? You should get some sleep too, didn't you say you were out the door by 6:30?"
"Shit, yeah Mom. It was nice talking to you, I'll see you on Christmas. Goodnight."
"Language, Andy," her mom reprimanded. "But yes, I'm excited to see you already. Goodnight, I love you."
"Love you too."
Woah.
That made her feel tons better.
Why had she neglected her parents so much these past few months? Of course, there was only one answer- Runway.
But that didn't matter now. All that mattered was that Andy was finally going to go home in a week, not think about Miranda, wear her comfy albeit torn pj's. She'd eat her mom's casserole, and not question the amount of carbs or fat or God-knows-what in it. She'd see her dad, and Rachel, and Jim, her fiancé. She'd be home.
She held that thought, and finally went to sleep, Miranda far away from her mind.
Or so she thought.
"Andrea, why were you eavesdropping?" Miranda drawled.
"S-Sorry Miranda, I was worried about you," she croaked.
"You were worried? About me?"
"Yeah, I was."
Miranda looked at her with passion and lust in her eyes, a look Andy had never seen before, but once she saw it, she only wanted it to be directed towards her, to shield that look from the world, for nobody to ever see it.
Miranda walked over to Andy, and Andy embraced her with open arms. Miranda perfectly fit in them, like she was moulded just to be there. She was about five inches shorter than Andy, so her nose perfectly burrowed in the nape of Andy's neck.
Perfect. So, so perfect.
Something rang. The phone.
"Don't you think you should get that?" Miranda said.
"No, Emily can," Andy replied.
"I really think you should get that, Andrea."
With that, Andy shuddered. A full-body shudder, and she woke up in a cold sweat.
Fuck.
A dream, that's it.
A highly inappropriate dream, but still, just a dream.
But something was ringing wasn't it? Shit.
Her phone. And Emily was calling.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
7am.
Andy had overslept, of course.
"E-Emily?" she croaked out.
"Where the fuck are you Andrea? Well, I don't really care because you're in luck, Miranda's not here until 9 today, but seriously, get here. You can't just dump all the morning errands on me because you're suddenly the favourite," the Brit growled.
"Shit, sorry Em. I overslept. I had a crappy eve-"
"Andrea, what part of 'I don't care' do you not understand? Get. Here. Now."
With that, she hung up.
Andy jumped out of her bed, hopped in the shower, and then it hit her.
The most mundane tasks of them all, and she'd gone and forgotten it like an idiot.
The boogie boards.
She got out of the shower and called Emily again. She picked up on the second ring.
"What is it? Where are you?"
"Sorry Em, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to reach by 9 too."
"Are you joking, Andrea? Why?"
"Again, I'm sorry. Miranda had told me to get the twins new boogie boards or whatever since the old ones were so 'inadequate', and I completely forgot. Also, why do a pair of twelve year olds have so many opinions about boogie boards, when it's not even close to spring break?"
Emily sighed, "For God's sake, Andrea, just get the boards, and get here soon."
"Yeah, but I'll have to drop them off at the townhouse first, right?"
"Shit. Yes."
"Why's Miranda gonna be late today, by the way? Is she good?" Clearly, the horrors of what she'd witnessed last night had still not left Andy's mind.
"What? I don't know. It's not like she explains shit, is it?'
"Guess not. Sorry, I'll try my best to get there soon."
Emily huffed and hung up.
Andy quickly threw on An ivory ruched-seam silk blouse from Valentino tucked into a charcoal pencil skirt, layered under a floor-length taupe trench from Burberry(it was almost Christmas, after all) with her four-inch black Blahnik slingbacks. She was running out of time, and in her haste, didn't do her hair.
She looked at herself in the mirror, then at the trench coat, and smiled. It was something she'd bought with her fourth paycheck in order to fit in with the Clackers. Nate had chuckled, but was proud nonetheless. Oh, if only they knew back then.
No time for breakfast. She sprinted downtown, because who buys boogie boards from Manhattan? That's crazy, even for Miranda. Besides, she'd bought the original ones from the Upper East Side, and since they were so fucking 'inadequate', she'd buy them her way now.
As she sprinted downtown, towards Paragon Sports, she wondered how many times she'd go out of her way for twelve year old twin girls. Once, I'm done with this crap, I can finally be a journalist. Hell, I can even work at Runway, she thought to herself.
That was when she realised that maybe that wasn't such a bad idea after all. Sure, working with Miranda sucked, but she'd really like working with someone at the Art Department, like Nigel. She'd come to like fashion and understand and enjoy its history.
But for now, boogie boards.
After a full ten minutes of interrogation about the 'EPS Foam Core' or a stiff 'Crescent Tail' with the nice guy John, the surfer, she finally picked out a mint green board for Cassidy, and a bubblegum pink one for Caroline. She'd figured out their favorite colours when she did their projects. Caroline's books and supplies were usually bubblegum pink, and Cassidy's were some shade of green.
She realised she forgot to thank Jim. She sheepishly said, "Sorry, I haven't even thanked you yet. These are for my boss' kids. I'm her assistant."
"Oof, must be some hard to please kids then, if you're downtown asking about the firmness of the tail," he chuckled. "I know this might seem weird 'cuz we just met, but you wanna catch a drink sometime?" he added.
Andy blushed, "Oh, um, I'm sorry, Jim. I'm sure you're a really nice guy, but I'm not really looking for anything right now."
"Yeah, I get it, me too. Can I still get your number though? I'm down for casual."
What was the problem with these men?
"Listen Jim, I'm really sorry but I have to go, I have to lug these out to my boss's house and then catch a subway to the office."
"No problem. You want some help with those boards?"
Hell to the fuck no. If Miranda saw Andy with a guy, a complete stranger, carrying boogie boards to her house, she'd raise hell on Andy.
"No, I'm good. Don't think my boss would appreciate that, haha."
"If you're sure," Jim said.
Andy said goodbye and caught a cab and tried fitting the boogie boards in while mumbling an apology-slash-explanation to the merciless driver.
Once she finally reached the townhouse, she caught her reflection in the back of the cab. Shit, she looked like a mess. Her hair couldn't be fixed, so she patted it down, and adjusted her lipgloss and straightened her trench coat.
8:37am. Fuck.
She'd have to sprint again, to Runway after this, in hope to get there before Miranda did. And of course, with her luck, it started drizzling.
She opened the front door with the spare key she had from last night, and oh, holy fuck.
Miranda stood right in front of Andy, buttoning the final button on her coat, paired with a tasteful white turtleneck and navy trousers (were high-neck tops making a comeback again, or what?). She raised an eyebrow at Andy, and that was when it dawned on her how stupid her probably looked right now.
Her hair, though in desperate attempts to be patted down, was crazy to the point of frizzy. Her face was flushed from the cold, and her trench was a bit damp at the shoulders from the drizzle, all while balancing two very coloured, very neon, boogie boards between her arms.
Miranda just looked at her, waiting for an explanation as to why her second assistant was at her house with two surfboards at 8:40am.
"S-Sorry Miranda, I completely forgot to get new boards for the twins, so I went downtown and got them and I thought I'd drop them off here first, instead of luggin' 'em over to the office," she stammered. She also cursed her Midwestern accent that always slipped out when she was nervously rambling.
"Shouldn't you be at work, Andrea?" Miranda said in a voice that could freeze lava.
"Yeah, I know, but I kinda overslept, and Emily's got it all under control. I told her I'd get there by 9. I'm sorry, Miranda, I didn't think you'd be home," Goddamn, fuck it. Why did she tell Miranda she overslept? What in God's name was wrong with her?
"You...overslept?" Miranda sneered.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, I'll be mindful next time."
Miranda rolled her eyes and muttered "such incompetence", under her breath, which Andy chose to ignore, for the sake of her own mental well-being. She opened the door to leave, and Miranda followed, thumping the Book down at Andy.
She tried to scurry over towards the subway station, and that was when her heart stopped.
"Andrea, where do you think you're going?" Miranda called out.
"Uh, catching the subway?"
"Nonsense. Roy's here already."
"No, Miranda, I can go by the subway, I'm good," she stammered out. Woah.
"Don't be daft, I'm not going to let the Book be exposed to whatever plague that subway station carries," she sneered in disgust.
Well then, you can carry it yourself, bitch, Andy thought. But whatever, she'd take a free ride in Miranda's bougie-ass town car over the stinky subway any day.
"Uh, sure. Thanks, Miranda," she said.
"Hmm," Miranda mumbled absentmindedly as she started going through her phone the moment she slipped into the car.
As Andy sat down, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the cut from the photo frame under Miranda's ear. She wouldn't have even noticed it if she wasn't looking for it. Why she was looking for it, well, even she didn't know the answer to that question.
The cut had started to scab a bit, it must have been pretty deep, and Andy felt a tidal wave of pity for the woman next to her.
She often felt bad for Miranda, even when she was cussing her out. In reality, Andy really began to see Miranda after Paris. She knew that she would burn the world down for her kids- she also knew that she'd probably gone and set her ego aside and asked Stephen to reconsider the divorce. She knew that Miranda was probably stuck in a loveless marriage after what she'd witnessed the previous night, but she stayed so that the kids would have a father figure.
Sure, a normal person who claimed they 'weren't anything like Miranda' wouldn't have put in so much time to psychoanalyse her, or probably even succeeded at that. But Andy vowed to herself that whatever happened, she would never ever be like her.
And she totally wasn't.
Yeah.
Once they arrived at Runway, Andy prepared herself for the usual barking of orders-but she got none of that. Instead, Miranda seemed subdued that day. Well, Andy didn't blame her. Her face was pale underneath all that makeup, her mouth was pressed in a thin line, thinner than usual. Sure, Miranda's eyes were the same icy ocean blue, but the bags underneath were so pronounced that even the best concealer couldn't cover them up.
"About bloody time," Emily muttered as Andy stepped in. She hadn't gotten off with Miranda in the elevator- she didn't have a death wish.
"Good morning to you to Emily," she said sarcastically.
"Oh, do spare me the cynicism Andrea," Emily retorted. She proceeded to go on a full-blown rant about how she had to deal with Jocelyn and Simone all morning, and how Irv had cancelled lunch with Miranda, which, apparently, Andy had to break the news to Miranda about that. Goodie.
"Okay Emily. Anything else?" Andy muttered.
"Yes, actually. You need to go to Gucci and pick up the 1998 crocodile pumps and matching wallet. Apparently, Nigel and Miranda have a new vintage 'vision' for next February's spread."
Whew. Doable. "Sure, I can do that. Anyone I need to ask for for the pumps and wallet?"
Emily had the most sadistically pleasant look on her face that Andy knew this wasn't going to be good.
"No, but there is one more thing you need to get as well."
Emily paused. Of course.
She was waiting for Andy to ask her so that she could deliver the news with glee.
"What is it?" Andy asked, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.
"Westwood."
"Go on.."
"Vintage blood red coat. Sold out in '89. Only 200 were made. Fur on the collars and cuffs, wooden buttons. Looks a bit like a joke at first glance, but once you see it, you really start to admire the craftsmanship. Did I mention only 200 were made, and that it was sold out in '89?"
What the fuck.
"You have got to be kidding me, Emily. Miranda said she wanted this?"
"Absolutely. Hope you fail," she snickered and walked away.
Suddenly, all the pity that she had for Miranda in the morning evaporated into thin air. How the fuck was she supposed to get her hands on a vintage Westwood, of which only 200 were made? Was Miranda off her rocker?
Wait. How did she know Emily wasn't just making some bullshit task up to screw her over?
She'd been vicious after Paris, Andy wouldn't put anything past her. She knew the only other alternative was to ask Miranda herself.
And, considering what she'd seen last night, Andy coming and asking her questions would do wonders for her mood. But it had to be done. She tentatively walked over to Miranda's outfit.
"Uh, Miranda?"
"Hmm," she grunted in acknowledgement.
"Sorry to bother you, but Emily told me you wanted a vintage Westwood for the cover shoot?"
"Ah, yes. The Westwood. What about it?"
"Only 200 were made?"
"Andrea, may I ask why you're barging into my home first, then my office, and stating obvious facts on top of it?"
Yikes.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, but just to get this clear, you want this specific coat only? And the archive is unwilling to lend it?"
"Yes, Andrea," she snapped. "I suggest you get to it fast, contact private buyers, do something. I want this coat on Naomi by next Monday."
"N-Next--"
"That's all."
Andy was going to crash out. What in the ever-loving Christ was going on?
Nigel.
The only one who had answers.
She ran her way down to the Art Department, almost knocking down Jackie from Features, when she finally spotted Nigel.
"Nigel, please help me. Please."
"Oh, Six. I don't think I can handle a second glow-up," he snidely remarked.
"No, Nigel, you don't get it. I'm serious. Miranda wants some sort of Westwood archive that sold out in fucking 1989. What is going on?"
"Ah, yes. It's Miranda's way of showing the world vintage, is never replaceable, that she, is never replaceable. Her way of telling Irv too, that nobody can do what she does. Hell if I know what goes on in her head sometimes."
"As inspiring as that sounds Nigel, I'm the one that's been tasked to get this straight-up artifact. Can I at least see what it looks like?"
"Sure thing," he said as he slid over a grainy picture of a very red, very Westwood coat. Andy half-expected it to be like the usual stuff she saw on the runway, absolutely ridiculous looking in the name of 'avant-garde'. But boy, was she in for a shocker.
The coat was, on first glance, a bit weird. Brown fur on a blood red trench? With wooden buttons?
It was asymmetric. Double-breasted, padded-ish shoulders, it certainly wasn't beautiful in the conventional sense. But Andy couldn't look away from it. She wasn't sure if she should bow down to it, or wear it. The brown fur spilled across the front-not fashionable, but something almost animal-like. But it worked.
"She's art, darling," Nigel broke her out of her spell. "Whatever we can say about Miranda, she knows what's up. So get your hands on this, Six, and fast."
"Yeah, I will," she replied absentmindedly.
The search began. Andy was chained to her desk, sorting through website after website, even contacting the Westwood archives who said, 'No ma'am, I don't care who you work for, it's heavily insured.'
Okay.
After two continuous hours of scouring the Earth, she finally found something. Or someone.
Alessandra Moretti.
An Italian widow in her late 40s, who somehow had this exact coat, and all Andy needed to do was contact her. She immediately reached out to her butler, Austin, which on hindsight was such a weirdly normal name for a butler, and finally got a chance to meet Alessandra.
Now all she had to do was tell Miranda this and take a break for a drink with Alessandra. And tell her her lunch with Irv was cancelled. Fuck. She was supposed to leave in 15 minutes.
"Uh, Miranda?' she squeaked.
"What?"
"I'm so sorry, but Irv cancelled lunch in the morning. I was supposed to tell you, but I got distracted with finding that Westwood for you."
She expected a biting comment, or an order to get steak from Smith&Wollensky's, or something. Just not a quiet, "No problem."
NO PROBLEM?
What?
Miranda didn't do 'no-problems'. Something was seriously wrong, Andy could feel it. But she also had to tell Miranda about her meeting with Alessandra.
"Also, I tracked down an owner of that coat. Her name's Alessandra Moretti. I'm supposed to meet her for drinks in about 20 minutes. I'm pretty sure I can get you that coat by day after tomorrow."
"Day after?" Miranda inquired.
She was impressed.
"Yeah, turns out it wasn't that hard to track a private buyer after all. I should leave now, though."
"Yes, you should."
As she was leaving, Andy caught Miranda looking at her the same way she did when they were talking about Patrick. Some sort of amused intrigue on her face.
Andy arrived at the St. Regis bar 5 minutes early. She thought it was better to arrive before Alessandra, to make a good impression. She was mentally preparing herself to be utterly bored and make small-talk with some random middle-aged widow, but instead, what she saw or rather who she saw, almost sent her into a coma.
A woman with auburn hair, slightly whitening near her neck walked in. She had green eyes, almost like a cat's, which widened in recognition as she saw Andy and began walking towards her,and was wearing a skin-tight black halter neck dress (Andy guessed Chanel), paired with a leopard print trench coat (probably Cavalli), with 6-inch black Louboutins.
She looked like she meant business. And she probably did.
Andy felt severely underdressed, even in her 2000$ Burberry trench, and 600$ Blahniks, which probably paled in comparison to the cost of Moretti's outfit, something Andy didn't even want to think about.
"I see I've taken you by surprise," Alessandra said in a husky Italian accent. Shit, this woman was straight out of a dream. "Alessandra. I take it you had scheduled this meeting earlier today?"
"Y-yeah," Andy croaked. She remembered her professionalism. "Sorry, I'm Andrea Sachs, Andy."
"Ahndraya. Nice name," Alessandra said. She said her name almost exactly like how Miranda did, except she rolled the R's. It was kind of hot.
"Thank you. Well, Alessandra, I'm Miranda Priestly's assistant, and well, I'm here to talk to you about a coat that you own."
"Do go on."
"Yes, it's a vintage archival piece. Vivian Westwood. Made in 1989, sold out in 1989. Quite popular. Wooden buttons, fur on the cuffs, the works."
"Hmm. Yes, one of my most prized possessions. If you don't mind me asking, Ahndraya, why are you asking me?"
"Yeah, so here's the thing. Miranda has a vision for our February cover, vintage, and I'm aware that it's not even Christmas yet, but we need to start shooting in about a week's time. And we, at Runway, believe that your coat will really tie the whole thing together. We'd love if you'd loan it out to us, just for a day or two's shooting, and we'll get it back for you in perfect condition. You'd also probably get a mention in the fine print, too," Andy said, all while running her hands along the stem of her wine glass.
Alessandra regarded her for a few seconds, then sipped her martini, and finally asked, "What's in it for me?"
Andy was prepared for this question. "I was hoping you’d tell me what you want."
She looked impressed, probably at the fact that Andy hadn't used the usual flattery tricks on her. She said, "Fine. Have a drink with me tonight."
That's it? Andy was shocked.
"Oh, sure," she replied.
"One drink and the coat's yours," Alessandra smirked finishing her martini.
Holy shit. Was she flirting?
Andy didn't know how to react to that. She wasn't into women, that was crazy. She liked men. But there was something to Alessandra that she couldn't refuse.
They said their goodbye's and while leaving, Alessandra had the gall to air-kiss Andy's cheeks, and wink at her?
Okay, rich people were crazy.
"I'll meet you here at 9," Alessandra said before she turned and left, walking as thought she hadn't just asked out a girl who was half her age.
Andy practically skipped back to Runway to tell Miranda the good news. When the elevator doors opened to her floor, she was met with Emily.
"Where have you been?" she barked.
"Westwood," was all Andy could say with a smirk as she saw Emily go 2 shades of red and gape at her. She knew that it was in the bag.
She entered Miranda's office with the same confident stride she'd had when she'd first worn the Chanel boots, when she'd acquired that impossible Harry Potter book. Miranda could feel the confidence in the air. She looked up, and asked, "What?"
"It wasn't as horrible as I thought. Alessandra's cool with lending it out for a day or two."
Miranda's eyes widened in shock before she covered up the look on her face. "Really?" she asked. "And what did she want in return?"
Shit. Andy didn't know how to approach this. With all the confidence she could muster up, she said, "A drink with me."
Miranda's eyes widened again, but not in shock, in something else that Andy couldn't put her finger on. "Really," she said coldly. Not a question. A statement.
"Yeah," Andy replied, equally as coldly. Couldn't Miranda ever appreciate that Andy did her job better than probably everyone at Runway? Would a thank-you be so physically hard for this bitch? Instead, she said, "All's fair in business."
Immediately she realised that she'd obviously treaded into dangerous territory. Something in Miranda's expression snapped and she said, "Leave."
Andy was shocked. What the hell? She'd done the damn job, in one day too at that, if not a thank you, she didn't expect Miranda to dismiss her like that. Suddenly, rage filled her entire body. She obviously couldn't confront Miranda about it, she didn't have a death wish, but she did roll her eyes at Miranda pointedly, and turned on her heel, and walked away.
She didn't have the time to sit around psychoanalysing everything Miranda said or did. She sulked around for the rest of the day before remembering she promised Alessandra for dinks that night and went to the Closet, hoping to find Nigel there, and she did.
"So, about the glow-up thing," she started coyly.
"No," he replied, equally as coy.
"No, this is different, I swear. I tracked down the Westwood trench, and--"
"Good for you, Six. I bet Miranda's proud," Nigel interjected.
"What? No, actually, she's the opposite. I'll tell you later. Anyway, the only thing the private buyer wanted from me or Runway in return, was a drink with me," she finished.
"Ooh la la, a man with a vintage trench and he's into you? Hit the jackpot, Six."
"Yeah, so here's the thing. Her name is Alessandra and she's 48 and widowed."
"Six!" he gasped. "I did not know you swung that way!" he said, at an attempt to sound scandalised.
"I don't," Andy said. "But she was nice, and she seemed kinda lonely, so I couldn't just say no, could I?"
"Uh, yeah, you could have. But whatever, that conversation's gonna need a few drinks."
What did he mean? "Nigel, I'm serious, I'm straight. I said yes because first of all, the only thing she wanted in return for that coat was a drink. Second of all, I'm meeting her at 9, I'll be done by 10 and leave for the townhouse at 10.30 to deliver the Book. This could kill my time. Two birds with one stone, you know?"
"I don't but okay. Why do you need my help anyway?"
"She's like really glamorous. I need something to wear, I promise I'll return it tomorrow because this," she said pointing to her outfit," is not going to cut it."
"Okay."
And that was that.
Within 10 minutes, Andy stepped out in a daringly short black minidress from Chanel, channeling her inner Alessandra, paired with thigh-high stilettos, much like the Chanel boots from her first glow-up. Her hair was teased up in a messy-but-still-classy bun, with silver hoops dangling from her ears. She looked good, good for drinks, but not suggesting anything more.
"My work here is done," Nigel said after spinning her around.
She kissed him on the cheek and left. When she was leaving, people stared. Like really stared at her. She caught the very gay Matthew ogling her as she left too. She felt like a million bucks, and probably looked like a million bucks too.
When she reached the St. Regis, Alessandra was already waiting.
Andy smiled sheepishly, "I hope I haven't kept you waiting for a while,"
"No, I must say, the wait was worth it," Alessandra replied, fluttering her eyelids.
Andy was flattered, but nothing more. She ordered a martini this time, taking Alessandra's lead, and they began talking.
"So, tell me about yourself," Alessandra said.
"Oh, uh, I'm Andy, haha, I'm from Cincinnati, Ohio. I came here to New York to pursue journalism and I'm working for Miranda because it's going to open a lot of doors for me. Your turn."
"I'm widowed, no children, I'm from Rome, and right now, I want to take you out for drinks again," Alessandra said.
Woah.
She was forward with it, Andy would give her that.
All she did was smile tightly again and say, "Thanks, but I should tell you, I don't swing that way, Alessandra. But if I did, I would take you up on that offer."
Alessandra smiled too. "I can wait, Ahndraya," she said in a sultry voice.
"No, I think you've misunder--"
Her phone rang. Nigel. Shit, the book must be ready, it had been an hour already.
"I'm so sorry, I have to take this."
As she suspected, the Book was ready and she had to leave. So much for a peaceful drink.
"Alessandra, I'm sorry, but I have to go. I really hate to cut this short," Andy rambled.
"No problem. Until we meet again, Ahndraya," Alessandra said, and she actually kissed Andy's cheek, not just air kissed it, she actually kissed it. Andy felt a shiver run down her spine. Alessandra saw it, too. She winked and said, "I told you I can wait," and left.
Andy sprinted towards Runway, for what seemed like the millionth time that day, and tried not to think about Alessandra. She'd never been talked to like that by a woman, and it felt - strange? Uncomfortable? But also, what the fuck?
These thoughts swirled around in Andy's head, even when Nigel handed her the Book.
"I take it drinks were 'awakening'," he said.
"Not funny, Nigel. I'll tell you tomorrow," she said before calling Roy.
In the car, Roy, who was always a sweetheart asked, "You good, Andy?"
And honestly, Andy didn't know. All she knew was that no matter how hot Alessandra was, she wouldn't want to meet her again for a while. So, she just smiled and nodded her head to a very disbelieving Roy, but he let it go and didn't push further.
Once they reached the townhouse, both Andy and Roy knew that something was terribly wrong. There were shadows moving in the doorway, and she could hear yelling. Again.
She bit her lip and met Roy's glance in the rear-view mirror. Their eyes met, and both of them were wondering if they should just go back. That was when Andy saw Stephen open the door, and Miranda was saying something, trying to keep her voice under control.
"By all means, you can leave," she said, her voice trembling in rage.
"Bold of you to think I'd want to stay here, you frigid bitch," he snarled. He was drunk again. Andy sometimes wondered how that man's liver was coping.
A surge of rage washed over her, for some inexplainable reason. Even Roy looked pissed.
Miranda then muttered, "The girls are here. Watch your tone, Stephen, if you walk out that door, you're not coming back."
"I better run out this fucking door then, yeah?" he slurred.
Andy wondered how Miranda hadn't seen the town car yet, and that was when she realised they'd parked in front of a tree, that was obscuring the car.
She told Roy, "I think I should wait for, like, 5 minutes before I go. You know, to let her control herself till then,"
Roy nodded understandingly, "Yeah, makes sense," before closing his eyes. God knows he needed some rest, his days were longer than Andy's sometime.
Five minutes turned to ten, and Andy finally got up. She hoped Miranda wouldn't see her, considering the fact that she wasn't exactly in 'appropriate workplace clothing', even by Runway's standards. She took a deep breath, and unlocked the door.
Everything was fine. The lights were off, so she assumed everyone had gone to sleep. She couldn't exactly turn on the lights in Miranda's house, so she just used the flashlight on her phone, and hung up the dry cleaning and left the Book on the table.
As she was leaving, she hadn't turned off her flashlight yet, so she turned around and it pointed it straight at Miranda.
A very still Miranda.
She was leaning against the stairwell, her back facing a railing, and she was facing Andy. She was asleep, or at least, she looked asleep. Her body had slumped over, and her face looked eerily calm by her standards.
Andy couldn't hide her shock, and she loudly gasped, "Holy fuck!" Miranda had scared the shit out of her.
Miranda's eyes fluttered open, and her eyes widened in shock as she looked at Andy too. Her face wasn't that good at hiding her shocked expression this time around. Sleep would do that to you.
She registered where she was, and immediately tried (and failed) to compose herself. Her eyes were red, a detail Andy pretended not to notice.
"How eloquent of you," Miranda muttered.
"I-I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-to wake you, or- I was just bringing in the Bo-", Andy rambled on.
"It appears," Miranda continued, "that you have developed a habit of entering my home at inconvenient timings."
Inconvenient?
Okay.
"I'm really sorry, Miranda, I should go," she stuttered.
"When you're done rambling, Andrea," Miranda scowled, "I'd like you to contact Leslie and Samuel and arrange a meeting for tomorrow morning."
"S-Samuel?"
"My lawyer, Andrea," Miranda looked like she wanted to bite Andy's head off, "God, were you always this incredibly dense?"
Ouch.
"Right. I'll arrange a meeting with them tomorrow," Andy said.
Miranda mumbled a distracted "Hmm," under her breath, and Andy knew she was dismissed. But something tugged at her. She couldn't just leave, with Miranda simply slumped against a stairwell. It felt wrong. But staying also felt wrong. So, she did the unthinkable.
"Miranda, are you okay?" Andy nervously asked after around 5 minutes of silence.
No response.
"M-Miranda?" she obviously had a death wish.
Again, no response.
That was when Andy noticed that they were surrounded by darkness, except for the light from her phone's flash. She tentatively pointed it at Miranda, just to see that she had completely relaxed herself over the stairwell, she was fully leaning on it. Her eyes were wide open, and her chest rose and fell, as she took in deep breaths.
Holy shit. Miranda fucking Priestly was having a silent, but full-blown panic attack.
"Leave," was all Miranda could muster in-between gasps of air.
What the fuck was she supposed to do now? Andy wasn't going to leave anybody, even Miranda, who'd probably fire her for overstepping, in the middle of a panic attack. She used to get those all the time when her relationship with Nate and her friends started crumbling. She knew it was hell. She wouldn't wish it on her worst enemy.
But Miranda hated vulnerability; she hated witnesses even more. Andy had spent enough time at Runway to know that seeing Miranda Priestly unravel was probably akin to stumbling across classified government secrets.
She didn't know what to do, and that was when she noticed them. Miranda had begun wheezing. Long and slow wheezes, trying to gasp up some air-but she kept mailing miserably.
"Miranda, hey, okay, I'm going to need you to breathe," Andy started.
"I'm," gasp, "trying," Miranda said.
The sound of Miranda Priestly, someone who terrified all of Manhattan, gasping for air, made Andy's stomach twist - in fear, and over something else- care.
She walked over towards Miranda, who gave her an icy look that would have made Andy detonate. But this time, it attempted to mask something else, fear. Not fear by Miranda standards, actual human fear. Miranda thought she was dying. Andy could relate, panic attacks were the worst.
"Andrea," Miranda wheezed, "Go."
"No," Andy said, with a surprising amount of confidence for someone who would probably be incinerated at work tomorrow.
Miranda's hands were trembling, as one of her hands attempted to clutch the railing of the stairwell, and failed immensely. Her whole face had gone pale, and for a moment Andy thought she was going to pass out.
Miranda’s breathing hitched violently again.
"Okay, that's it," Andy said, "Focus on me."
She crouched over towards Miranda, their bodies just inches apart, and Andy could feel the heat radiating from Miranda's body. In an attempt to control herself, Miranda latched her hand on Andy's arm, the one thing that was near to her.
Andy blushed, for some unknown reason.
"Breathe slowly, in through your nose, out the mouth, like this," Andy guided Miranda through it even though it didn't seem to help.
"Not," gasp, "working," Miranda gasped through gritted teeth.
"Okay, take a moment, and tell me five things you can see," Andy said soothingly. Lily used to help her through her panic attacks like this before she, too, became a cause of them.
"What?" Miranda growled.
"Humour me, Miranda," Andy said.
"Fine. Uh," gasp, "the wall."
"Good."
"The stairwell."
"Great."
"You."
Andy's heart warmed. "Perfect. Go on."
"My coat."
"Hmm."
"The Book."
“Okay. Four things you can touch.”
Miranda looked deeply unconvinced, but her breathing had shifted ever so slightly—still uneven, but less catastrophic.
“The railing,” she muttered.
“Mm-hm.”
“My necklace.”
Andy noticed then that Miranda’s fingers had curled tightly around the chain at her throat.
“The carpet.”
“Good.”
A pause.
Then quietly: “You.”
Andy blinked.
“What?”
Miranda was staring downward now, eyes unfocused. Andy realized belatedly that sometime during the conversation, Miranda’s hand had latched onto the sleeve of Andy’s jacket.
Neither of them moved.
The air changed.
Andy became suddenly, acutely aware of Miranda’s hand around her wrist. Of the warmth of it. Of how close she was kneeling between Miranda’s knees now.
Jesus.
Miranda seemed to realize it simultaneously because her fingers loosened immediately.
Andy ignored the strange flicker of disappointment that followed.
Miranda leaned her head back against the railing, eyes closed now, exhaustion carving deep lines through her face. Without the armor fully in place, she looked older tonight.
Human.
Andy hated how much seeing that affected her.
“You should’ve turned on the lights,” Miranda murmured eventually.
Andy snorted softly. “Yeah, because sneaking around your apartment in the dark was definitely my best decision tonight.”
“You have many poor instincts.”
“Thanks.”
Miranda opened her eyes again, studying her strangely.
“You stayed.”
Andy frowned. “Obviously.”
“It was not obvious.”
The quietness of her voice unsettled Andy more than the panic attack had.
Miranda always sounded certain. Even her cruelty had precision. But now she sounded almost—
Tentative.
Andy looked away first.
“Well,” she muttered, “you looked like you were dying, so.”
Miranda’s mouth twitched faintly.
“You exaggerate terribly.”
“You literally couldn’t breathe.”
“A temporary inconvenience.”
Andy rolled her eyes. “You're hyperventilating against a stairwell and it's almost midnight.”
Miranda looked mildly horrified by the suggestion that she was hyperventilating.
"Is that better?" she said, noticing Miranda had calmed down a little.
"As better as it can get," Miranda gritted out sarcastically.
"Okay, that's good."
"You can go now, Andrea," Miranda said, ever the professional.
"Oh, uh, yeah, I should. Have you eaten?"
Miranda opened her mouth to say something, but then it dawned on her- she probably hadn't eaten all morning.
"Miranda, your lunch with Irv was cancelled, and I don't think you had dinner. Have you not eaten all day?" Andy said, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.
"No," Miranda quietly admitted.
Andy took out a crinkled protein bar from her purse. Miranda scowled at both the bar and at Andy in disdain and raised her eyebrow.
"It's this or I go fix you a plate from your kitchen, and I don't think you'd like that," Andy said, surprised at the scolding care in her voice. We hate her, right? the voice in her head screamed.
Miranda took the protein bar from Andy and within a minute, devoured the whole thing. While doing so, she asked, "How did it go with Moretti?"
"Uh, not so professionally," Andy replied honestly, "I left before things took a turn."
"Good," Miranda said. Andy expected her to look shocked but apparently, it was quite obvious to everyone except Andy that Alessandra was going to make a move on her. Miranda then said, "Would you like them to go not professionally?"
Woah. This was dangerous territory. Why was Miranda asking her personal questions? Life was much easier when she was a bitch, which she still was, just not tonight.
"Uh, not really," Andy responded carefully. "I don't, uh, like women like that."
"Hmm," was all Miranda could say.
"I should go now," Andy said.
"Yes, you should."
As Andy turned to leave, Miranda called out, "Andrea,"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
Andy gave Miranda a small smile and said, "I used to have those all the time last month. I know how it feels. Don't worry, I won't mention it to anyone."
"I know you won't," Miranda said, offering her a small, rare smile, which made Andy's entire body feel like she was on fire.
"It'll be okay," Andy offered.
"You really should go, its late," Miranda said, the mask slipping back into place.
And Andy left. Normally, this behaviour would have irked her, but she knew now. She knew Miranda was human, she had panic attacks, and maybe, just maybe, Andy wouldn't mind being like her that much.
The car ride back home was weirdly silent. Roy knew too, somehow, that Miranda's marriage was probably over. Andy was preparing herself for the hell week that would probably follow, and with the divorce coming, Andy would have to bear the brunt first-hand of Miranda's mood.
But for some reason, she didn't mind.
She now knew that Miranda had emotions, she wasn't the 'Ice Queen' that everyone made her out to be. And knowing that- that felt good.