Work Text:
For the first time in a long time, Andy felt free. Not just that--she felt happy. Downright giddy. As if getting away with doing something naughty. In a sense, she was. Turning her back on her boss in the middle of a work day, throwing her ringing work phone into a historical monument, and proceeding to waltz down the streets of Paris could constitute, at the very least, as naughty.
Surely there were other, better ways to resign from a job, but none that felt this empowering. Finally, she was taking her life back into her hands, and with every step she made across the cobblestone ground, she felt the chains loosening a bit more.
Nate had been right. Her friends had been right. Even Miranda had been right. This job had changed her, so gradually she hadn't even noticed. It had turned her into a person she'd never wanted to become, so far removed from everything that mattered to her, that she'd always stood for. It had made her a self-interested, egocentric person without compassion or a moral compass who would do anything to promote her own agenda without stopping to consider the bodies she trampled on on the way. In one word: a clacker. She even had the stilettos to show for it.
But that was all about to change, starting now. As gradual as her transformation had been, the best way to return to her good, old self, she decided, was cold turkey. She'd already made the first, vital, and incredibly satisfying steps; next, she needed to get as far away from France as quickly as possible and leave this glamorous hell behind her. And Miranda Priestly could shove it.
The next five days passed in a pink, warm haze. With a feeling of triumph, Andy re-packed in her lavish suite, taking great pleasure in tossing most of her newly and freely acquired Parisian couture on the bed and closing the door on it.
The flight back to New York set her back a pretty penny from her own bank account, but it felt good to remove herself from a world that disguised its evilness with perks. It felt like freedom, even as she found herself trapped in the middle seat in coach.
The familiar smell of New York City when she exited JFK--garbage, burned street meat, and urine all combining together into a distinct odor--was like a breath of fresh air. Tilting her head to the sky, she closed her eyes, smiled, and inhaled it deep into her lungs. And promptly gagged.
Even the streets looked prettier. The masses on the sidewalks seemed to be walking in a dance-like rhythm, the homeless people looked happier, the rats' squeaking sounded like music.
Andy returned to her apartment, and just for a second, her joy faltered. Same as she'd left it, the place was empty and quiet, vacated of its original occupant, who'd apparently been in such a rush to get away from Andy, he'd left her the apartment he'd welcomed her into.
Breathing deeply, Andy shook her head and renewed her smile. She was all about new beginnings now, and the future looked bright.
That same day, she unpacked her bags, then hopped in the shower for a good hour and a half, reveling in the notion that, for once, she had all the time in the world. No crazy schedule, no threat of her phone ringing six times in one hour, no one to summon her at a moment's notice; just pure bliss.
The next day, she e-mailed her résumé to five different publications. The day after that, she sent it to three more.
On Friday, she opened one of her most frequently used kitchen drawers and stared at the take-out menus inside. Then she thought better of it, slammed it shut, and decided to do something she hadn't in a long time: cook.
With that newfound resolution, she derived great enjoyment from wandering Union Square Greenmarket and picking out fresh vegetables; various cheeses; a nice, long baguette; and for good measure, a beautiful bouquet to revive her empty apartment. She put it in water as soon as she got home, stepping back to appreciate the vibrant colors, then set out to sorting the newly purchased ingredients and improvising a concoction to the sound of music from her iPod. At the end of the day, she had a very nice dinner indeed.
Saturday was a beautiful day. An almost perfect day, even. The sky was clear and the air was warm, but not too warm. As a treat, courtesy of her abundance of free time, Andy decided to do what any sane, non-workaholic person would do and enjoy the space and greenery of Central Park. It was a little bit of a ride on the subway, she'd have to change trains, but it would be worth it for the feeling of utter freedom and vitamin D.
Mind made up, she picked out a pretty, floral summer dress and very flat shoes, thank you very much. Deciding to be that person, she also added a big sun hat. Her bag she packed with her phone, her iPod and earbuds, a novel she'd purchased a year prior and never gotten a chance to start, a bottle of water, and some fruit. Grabbing a pair of sunglasses, she slid them over her eyes, just short of skipped toward the door, opened it, and came face to face with Miranda Priestly.
She didn't yet have her fist in the air, ready to knock, but if she was startled by the sudden welcome, she didn't show it. Andy, on the other hand, just stifled a yelp, but a gasp did escape her lips. Suddenly, the euphoria of the last few days felt like naught but a blurry dream, because as she stared into Miranda's flinty, icy-blue eyes, it all came screeching to a halt.
And then the weight appeared, the one pressing down on her chest and slowly sinking into the pit of her stomach. The one composed of guilt, shame, embarrassment, indignance, anger, and most of all in that moment, fear.
"Always ready to anticipate my every need," observed Miranda, as calmly and nonchalantly as if Andy had simply handed her a cup of coffee in the office. The next moment, she let herself into the apartment.
Of all the emotions Andy was feeling, indignance temporarily won center stage. "I didn't invite you in," she pointed out, scowling at Miranda's back.
"Gotta love those Midwestern manners," commented Miranda and deposited her handbag on the kitchen table, promptly scanning her surroundings with what had to be internal judgment.
Taking off her sunglasses, letting down her bag, Andy asked, "What are you doing here? How did you know where I live?"
"Is that all you have to say to me?" asked Miranda, slowly turning to face her.
No. Andy had a lot to say to her. Ever since their last shared ride, and in the days following, she'd collected a multitude of insights she'd love to throw in Miranda's smug face. Only she couldn't remember any of them now, not when Miranda was standing right in front of her, surreal in her designer clothes in the middle of a Lower East Side apartment; not when she was directing that frosty look at Andy.
Seeming to read her mind, Miranda dismissed her own question, but she certainly didn't let her off the hook. "How's being unemployed treating you?" she asked lightly, then looked around her again with an expression that was definitely judging.
Again, Andy could find no words to respond, so she simply hung her head. On some level, surely, she'd known the consequences of her actions would catch up with her sooner or later. She hadn't expected them to show up sooner, and she hadn't expected them to manifest as Miranda Priestly standing in her kitchen, looking two seconds away from murdering her with a mere look.
"So quiet," Miranda mocked, unperturbed. She started slowly touring the apartment like an inspector mentally cataloging every detail and every fault. "What happened to all the usual rambling?" She ran a finger across the countertop, raising it to check if it came out dusty. "Run out?"
"I'm sorry," Andy managed to extract from her clogged-up throat at long last, the sound so small and meek she wanted to bury herself. "I'm not sorry I left, but I'm sorry if I..." What? Did it wrong? Just several days earlier, she'd prided herself on a genius execution. Hurt Miranda? As if she had the power to do that.
Again, Miranda read her mind. "If you what?" she demanded, trapping Andy under her gaze.
"I didn't have a choice," whispered Andy.
With an audible intake of breath, Miranda looked away. "You didn't have a choice," she echoed, clearly not buying what Andy was selling. "Again."
Cheeks reddening, Andy was transported back to the car ride in Paris, to Miranda rebuking the same claim then as well. Throwing the ugly truth in her face. How could she articulate to Miranda that yes, she'd chosen to quit the way she had, but if she wanted to salvage any semblance of the person she knew and wanted to become again, she'd had no choice but to do it that way?
"Look, I can't take it back. I can just say I'm sorry and hope--"
"'Hope it doesn't hurt my chances of getting another job. Hope I still get a recommendation for a future employer. Hope I don't get blacklisted,'" Miranda guessed before penetrating her with another look. "Did I miss something?"
Swallowing, Andy said nothing. Bizarrely, it hadn't occurred to her to worry about all those things, but now she certainly did. Perhaps she'd meant to say that she hoped Miranda would forgive her, but why would she do that, and why would Andy need her forgiveness? In fact, when she thought about it, why would Miranda waste her time on, according to Andy's calculations, the very day she'd returned from Paris and show up at her house to confront nothing but a lowly assistant who'd quit? Miranda likely had dozens already lining up to take the job, and Andy had never done much more than get coffee and pick up dry cleaning.
"Well?" Miranda's low, cool voice brought her back to the moment.
"I don't know what you want me to say," she whispered.
Sparing her one more glance, Miranda made another round of the kitchen. "Disappointing," she murmured. "A writer without words." Her tone was as soft and calm as when she eviscerated poor employees from behind her desk, and it sent a shiver down Andy's spine that she shouldn't have had to feel in the comfort of her own home.
"If you came here to bring me back--"
"You will never work at Runway again," Miranda cut her off, her voice dropping down to a near-whisper, its temperature falling right along with it. For those few seconds, she finally let her real ire show.
"Then I don't understand--" Andy began, but Miranda was already closing the distance between them, the side of her mouth twitching upward for a single second. The closer she got, the harder it became to breathe, and then she was standing so close Andy could smell her elegant perfume, see the tiny pores underneath her makeup, feel her warm breath on her face. When Miranda reached her hand up, she stopped breathing altogether, freezing like a marble statue.
But Miranda didn't touch her face. In fact, she didn't touch her at all, but the hat Andy had forgotten she was wearing was removed from her head, ruffling the hair underneath it in the process, and she watched in mortification as Miranda turned it in her hands, studying it, looking almost amused. "Planned a day outside, did you?" she asked with a small, sardonic smile like the ones she used to aim at Andy when she'd say something particularly idiotic and infuriating to her. "Did I foil your plans?"
"I'm not sure why you're here." Andy's voice quivered just slightly. If it wasn't an apology Miranda was after and she wasn't trying to convince her to retake the job--
"I've seen the way you look at me," Miranda began casually, apropos of nothing, bringing her thoughts to a grinding halt. Then she proceeded to stroll the apartment again, holding the hat to her chest. "At the office. And, well, outside of it," she added with a lazy hand gesture.
"What?" Andy let out almost inaudibly, her whole face warming up.
"Granted, I didn't think there was much to it. Believe it or not, you were hardly the first to be... infatuated." With a gentle motion of her hand, the hat was tossed onto a sofa cushion before Miranda's gaze found Andy's again, unyielding. "Nor will you be the last."
Taking a seat on the armrest, she crossed her legs at the knee. "But you were different, weren't you?" She stroked her hand up and down the back cushion, almost sensually. "So eager to please. To lend a helping hand, a listening ear. To be there for me. Most people can't get away fast enough, but you kept coming closer."
"It was my job," Andy whispered, unable to produce a louder sound, "I never--"
"Shh-shh." Miranda shook her head with a slight frown. "Don't dig yourself a deeper hole by lying."
Shutting Andy right up, she rose to her feet, picking up where she'd left off, "So then it begs the question: why would someone like you leave?"
Too terrified to speak, too dumbstruck to find the words, Andy could do nothing but listen to her increasing heartbeat as Miranda began to cross the room to her again. She looked like a lioness about to pounce on her prey, and Andy felt like a timid, little mouse rooted to the spot in a paralyzing panic, helpless to do anything but let herself be consumed.
Stopping before her once more, just shy of invading her personal space, Miranda narrowed her eyes and tilted her head to the side. "Did I get it right?"
"Yes," Andy breathed out. There was no point in lying, was there? Miranda had always been able to see through her like a window and call her bluff.
It had been a stupid crush like all crushes. It had been impossible, too, for a variety of reasons ranging from their professional relationship to their age gap to both their sexual orientation to the fact that neither had even been available. But it hadn't stopped Andy from seeking Miranda's presence, her approval; from basking in the heat her scrutinizing gaze engulfed her in; from wanting to hear the sound of her voice and smell the scent of her perfume and watch the tantalizing sway of her hips. And when Miranda would smile at her, sincerely and genuinely, that had been the best feeling in the world. The first time had been right after her makeover, when Miranda first witnessed her new and improved self. There was something so thrilling about receiving validation from someone who validated no one. And from that day on, Andy had been hooked.
It wasn't necessarily something Miranda had done, but the way she'd made Andy feel: the strange yet undeniably pleasant sensation she would get whenever Miranda perused and ultimately approved of an outfit; the intoxicating scent she left behind her that Andy had always hoped would stick onto her clothes; the clenching inside her stomach whenever Miranda would play with her glasses or touch something with her elegant fingers or completely change the tone of her voice while speaking to her daughters on the phone.
It hadn't been romantic or sexual per se. She'd never dreamed or yearned or felt about her the way she had about Nate. But she'd be lying if she said she hadn't thought about her at all.
"So then," Miranda continued, taking a step even closer and downright suffocating Andy, "why did you leave?"
Croaking, Andy answered, "This job wasn't for me--"
Tsking, Miranda repeated, "Why did you leave?"
"I didn't want to be the kind of person to--" she started over, but watched Miranda's eyes close in exasperation. She tried again before she could be interrupted, "What I did to Emily--"
"Why," Miranda interrupted all the same, "would someone who wants to be there for me... leave--"
"You," Andy exhaled with the weight of the realization, the puzzle pieces finally falling into place.
"There goes the lightbulb," Miranda said airily.
"You're not asking me why I left Runway," Andy voiced Miranda's unspoken words in astonishment. "You're asking why I left you."
"Well?"
"I didn't--" Mean to. Think about you. Think at all.
"Do you know how many people get to see me cry, Andrea?" Miranda asked quietly. "Hear about my marriage problems? About my children's sadness?"
"Um..." Andy gulped, feeling like the lowest creature on Earth. Miranda had bared her heart to her, and the next moment, Andy had gotten up and walked away.
"Don't calculate too hard."
"No one," she whispered in shame.
"And yet you did. And yet you left, when I needed you. You didn't even stop to think what it would do to me." Miranda's hand rose again, and this time it stopped at Andy's chest, where a few strands of hair lay loosely. She grabbed the tips, rolling them between her fingers, staring into Andy's eyes. "You didn't stop to think that I might need you, then more than ever." Andy's chest heaved with every passing second, her breath leaving her lips shallowly, her skin heating up and reddening. When Miranda's hand left her hair and settled, light as a feather, on her cheek, she nearly passed out, her eyes fluttering shut.
"You didn't stop to think, Andrea," Miranda whispered, "that I might feel the same."
Andy's eyes snapped open just in time to see Miranda's face moving closer. Before she could close the gap, Andy surged forward, and then they were kissing. She was kissing Miranda. And Miranda was kissing back, her lips moving against Andy's own, as soft as clouds. She smelled incredible, a combination of her luxurious perfume, hair and body products, and makeup, all somehow complementing each other flawlessly. And when she parted her lips slightly and licked at Andy's lower one, past the initial shock that resulted in a gasp, Andy discovered that she tasted amazing, too: just a hint of coffee, just a hint of sweetness, and something intoxicating that Andy couldn't name and had never felt before.
"Oh," she gave a quivering moan when Miranda's kisses lowered to her neck, fingers pulling down one strap of her dress to expose more skin to her hungry mouth. Her other hand slipped beneath the hem of the dress, and Andy was so grateful in that moment that she'd picked a nice pair of underwear.
"I never, um..." She gulped, growing wetter the closer Miranda's fingers got. "I mean, with another woman." They were really doing this. It was really happening. If Andy thought about it too hard, she wouldn't have the courage to go through with it. So she decided to simply turn off her brain.
Detaching from her neck, all Miranda said was, "Take this off," and proceeded to help drag the dress up Andy's torso while the latter lifted her arms, leaving her in her bra and panties. Andy figured it was only fair they shared the same state of undress, but before she could do anything about it, Miranda's arms were around her hips, pulling her flush against her body, and she was being walked backward into the bedroom, feeling Miranda's breasts, her body heat, her pulse.
She hadn't been as turned on in a long time as she was the moment she was pressed into the mattress by Miranda's body, and that included her drunk interlude with Christian earlier that week. Miranda's mouth promptly found the rise of her breast, and as she kissed and licked her way to the bra cup, Andy used the distraction to undo the large belt accessorizing her dress. While Miranda reached behind her back for the clasp, Andy's feeble hand lowered a sleeve down a shoulder to get her first taste of her skin.
She was soft and smooth, so different and so much better than any man who'd previously shared Andy's bed. Who had she been kidding all along? She'd wanted this for the longest time, exactly this. Miranda's skin was incredibly hot, too. If Andy hadn't known better, she would have thought she was running a fever. As it was, there wasn't much room for thought in her sex-muddled brain as her bra came off and Miranda's lips found her nipple. From that moment on, there was only panting and moaning and begging for more. Miranda, just this once, was generous and listened to Andy's pleas. When she sat back on her knees to pull Andy's damp panties off, Andy was neither embarrassed nor self-conscious in her nudity; only excitement overcame her for what was to come, and Miranda's smoldering look made her shiver with its promise.
Miranda didn't make her wait long. Perhaps she was just as eager to dive in, so to speak. And dive she did; Andy had to gather every bit of control not to go off like a rocket the second her mouth descended on her, sucking and licking like a woman starved. With a long, high-pitched moan, she undulated against the bed, throwing her head back and rocking to the movements of Miranda's lips and tongue. If this was also her first time, she certainly was not giving it away.
"More," Andy cried, clutching Miranda's shoulder until she was sure to leave a mark. But just then, the unthinkable happened: Miranda stopped. To the sound of Andy's disgruntled groan, she daintily wiped her chin with the back of a finger, as if simply getting rid of an unruly drop of water. The chin stayed somewhat shiny, as did the entire area around her lips, and Andy, who'd raised her head to see why her pleasure had been cut off, dropped it back down at the sight, made lightheaded with the eroticism of it all.
She was still bucking her hips unconsciously in search of a renewed contact when Miranda's body covered hers again, and before she could make sense of the situation, she got to taste herself on Miranda's tongue. The sound that left her throat then, straight into the kiss, was one she would never be able to emulate once she'd returned to herself.
The kiss stopped, for just a moment, and in that moment Andy opened her eyes to see Miranda's staring at her. They weren't cold anymore, weren't stony; in fact, they looked completely different than they did on a normal day, with the pupils heavily dilated and the blue somewhat darker. And they took Andy in with such softness and warmth as a hand came up to sweep aside her bangs before settling on her jawline. Rubbing their noses together once, she came down for a renewed kiss, this one slower and sweeter, and at the end of it, two fingers replaced her lips. Andy immediately understood what was expected of her and took them into her mouth, sucking and licking and running her tongue between the both of them, all the while keeping her eyes locked on Miranda's.
The fingers left her mouth with a wet trail, and the next time they touched her, they were shoved unceremoniously inside her, stealing her breath away. From then on, Miranda set a fast, vigorous pace that pushed Andy's body closer and closer to the wall and elicited noises she hadn't even known she was capable of producing. When it was over, however--when lights began to go off behind her eyelids and her muscles spasmed uncontrollably and even her toes curled--there was no sound, only gaping lips and an elongated neck and hands holding on for dear life.
Her vision was still hazy when she came down from her high, the world just a bit wobbly around her. And Miranda was still on top of her, drawing her hand from between her thighs and bringing it up to her mouth for a second, sharper taste. Moaning, Andy generously shared the taste with Miranda next, the kiss sloppy as she concentrated half of her already mushy brain on the task of lowering the zipper on the back of Miranda's dress. She decided to forego her afterglow to try and give as good as she'd gotten. With that in mind, she placed one hand in the center of Miranda's back, weaved the fingers of the other through her short hairs, and flipped them.
Miranda's hands were on her biceps as soon as she found herself beneath her, stroking up and down with a look of utter trust. She put up no fight when Andy helped her slither out of the dress, nor did she waste time opening her legs in wordless invitation.
Andy couldn't believe her luck. Five days ago, she'd thought she'd never see Miranda again; now the latter was not only letting her touch her, but wet enough that Andy knew she wanted it as well, craved it as much as she did. It all had to be a dream--life never worked out this perfectly--but if it was, Andy was going to spend every second enjoying it before inevitably waking up.
Miranda's walls around her fingers were velvety soft and deliciously tight, drawing her in and not letting go. Her nipple against Andy's lips was taut and hard, and every time Andy flicked it with her tongue, it released a keening moan that sounded so unlike the Miranda who had shown up on her doorstep earlier that afternoon, that Andy found herself falling deeper and deeper into the abyss. She wanted to keep doing this forever: get to feel the marvel that was this woman's body, extract sounds no others would ever get to hear, revel in the wonderful notion that only she got to do this.
"Is it good?" she sighed against Miranda's neck, increasing the pace of her hand. She wanted to ask, "Am I doing it right?" before realizing how quickly it might dry Miranda up--and before realizing that she must be doing something right if Miranda's undulations and panting breath were any indication.
Miranda, in response, grabbed the side of her face, brought it up from her neck, swept her hair away, and planted a bruising kiss on her lips. Then she proceeded to pant and whimper against said lips as Andy's thrusts grew faster, her body movement matching them. Andy knew it was time she upped her game, brought them to the finish line, and angled her hand. It was a little challenging to coordinate and finesse, but to Miranda, it didn't seem to matter. As soon as Andy's thumb touched her clit and proceeded to rub, she was gone, clenching around her fingers, holding on to her head and shoulder, crying out into her mouth.
Andy only stopped when Miranda began to loosen her grip and wriggle away, and by then, her fingers were cramping and looked as wrinkly as if she'd taken an hour-long bath. But it was beyond worth it to see the pink blotches covering the entirety of Miranda's body, the smudged makeup around her eyes and nonexistent lipstick, the completely disheveled and debauched state of her once perfect hair. Andy took it all in, elbow propped up on the mattress and eyes shining with her inability to believe she was getting to see something this marvelous.
"That was amazing," she said, unable to control her grin and not trying to.
With a long inhale, Miranda stretched against the rumpled sheets, and on the exhale, let out the word "Yes." Next, she rose from her position incredibly gracefully for someone whose naked body had just been pleasured so thoroughly and lowered her feet to the ground. Andy's smile didn't quite falter, but her eyes followed in question as she began redressing herself in the garments scattered across the floor.
"Where are you going?"
"What's it to you?" replied Miranda in nonchalance, and just a touch of its previous coolness began to seep back into her voice.
"Well... I thought we might... I thought you might stay over." It was Saturday after all. They had most of the weekend left, and Andy could already picture them spending it in bed, learning to know and please each other's bodies. Miranda's response, however, wiped the smile straight off her face.
"No, thank you. I got what I came here for."
"What's that?" asked Andy with a sinking feeling.
Zipping up her dress, Miranda turned to face her. The look on Andy's face must have told her she didn't need to elaborate, just as the flinty look back in her eyes gave Andy the answer. Snatching her belt from the edge of the bed, she said, "Hurts being left. Doesn't it?"
Speechless, Andy watched her fasten the belt around her waist, all the while pinning her with that deadly, arched-eyebrow look. Her brain couldn't work fast enough to comprehend the events of the last hour, but a lump was already forming in her throat, a stinging sensation settling behind her eyelids. "You're not being serious right now," she said shakily.
"Don't look so sad." Miranda cocked her head aside patronizingly. "Now we're even." With that, she was out of the bedroom, and while Andy's legs were too frozen to move, her body too shocked to react, she heard her pick up her bag, open the front door, and let it slam shut behind her.
For long minutes, Andy remained in bed, propped up on her elbows, staring incredulously into space. In that time, her eyes had welled up beyond the ability to see anything through the screen of tears, and her breath had begun to leave her in shaky, heavy gasps. And finally it dawned on her. And when it did, she dragged herself up against the wall, pulled the blanket up to her chest, and sobbed.
Staring up at the enormous skyscraper above her, Andy counted the rows of windows all the way up to the seventeenth floor, as if she could see inside from where she was standing. In her hand, her security pass was clutched so tightly its sharp edges left their dents in the skin, yet it didn't hurt half as much as the pain she was already feeling.
Walking through the revolving doors, she turned the bruising card in her hand, praying like hell that it was still working. If it didn't, the alternative would be having security call up the Runway offices, where they'd promptly be instructed to take Andy out back and shoot her in the back of the head.
She let out a sigh of relief, temporarily evading death, when the card let her through the turnstiles. Before she could change her mind, she entered the elevator, pressed the button for the seventeenth floor, and stepped as far away from the doors lest she should get the urge to flee at the last moment.
In the time it took the elevator to pass through the floors, her trepidation gradually evaporated. Instead, she was reminded why she was there to begin with, and hot, white anger took its place.
Nobody seemed surprised to see her, nobody stared. Perhaps they didn't know yet that she was no longer working there; perhaps they didn't care. Emily, however, did know, and she did care, enough to stare at Andy with fire in her eyes as the latter barged through the doors of the anteroom.
"Excuse me, just what do you think you're doing here?" she hissed, but Andy ignored her, striding straight into Miranda's office and stopping at the entrance. Emily was quick to follow, as quick as she could be with one dysfunctional leg, but not quick enough to stop Miranda from noticing Andy. If she was surprised by her presence, she was hiding it well. In truth, Andy guessed she'd been expecting her.
"I'm sorry, Miranda, she just barged in--"
"Leave," Miranda calmly said.
No one budged, but Emily jutted her hip and leaned more heavily on a crutch, staring expectantly at Andy. Andy, for her part, kept her eyes on Miranda, who kept her eyes on her, even as she said, "She means you."
A sneer answered her until Miranda's gaze detached from Andy's to aim a pointed glare at Emily, making the sneer vanish and a blush as bright as her hair appear instead. Fumbling, she limped out of the office without another word.
"Close the door," ordered Miranda before going back to her work, as if she'd merely summoned her assistant into her office for a mandatory performance review. Andy did as she was told, but only because she would suffer just as much humiliation if anyone heard their conversation. As soon as they were alone, however, she stayed put.
"Did you make all this way just to stand there and stare?" Miranda asked, still writing in her notebook.
Andy's hands trembled at her sides. In the time she'd had since Saturday to calm down, she'd done no such thing. The remainder of that day had been spent feeling miserable and violated and trying to wrap her head around everything that had happened. Sunday had been for stewing and crying and throwing things around and using every shred of self-control she possessed not to march to Miranda's house and slap her across the face. Today, her palm still tingled with the desire to do so, but more than anything, she wanted to know-- "Why?"
Capping her pen, Miranda set it on top of the page and looked up with an eye roll. "Why what?"
"Revenge?" Andy answered her own question. "That's what it was all about? That's why you came to my house?"
"Don't pretend you didn't enjoy it even a little bit," Miranda said apathetically, inspecting her nails while Andy gaped at her in disbelief. "I seem to recall you did."
"That's what you have to say to me?" she breathed.
"Don't play games you can't win. That's what I have to say to you."
"This is a game to you?!"
"You needed to learn that actions have consequences. Now you can move on with your life. I wish you the best of luck."
Eyes shifting restlessly around the room, Andy began to feel them water, her chin quivering. "That's... evil," she choked. "Who does that? How heartless can you be?"
"You should have known not to mess with me," said Miranda, her face hard.
"I quit a job," Andy snapped, her voice rising as a tear slipped out, and then another. "I did nothing to you personally, and yet what you did--"
"What did I do, Andrea?" Miranda tilted her head.
"You knew how I felt, and you took advantage of it. You knew it was my first time!" she cried. "How I wanted it. What it meant to me. All so you could use me and then toss me and for what? For not wanting to be your assistant?"
Miranda's blank stare told her everything she needed to know. She could cry and throw accusations all she wanted, but there was no getting to her heart because there was nothing there. Someome who could do what she'd done could never feel sympathy, because they had no conscience to begin with. Andy had always been scared of Miranda, but she hadn't known just how scared she should be.
"You are mean, and you're cruel," she accused through her tears. "And to think that for the past six months, I've been not only putting up with your behavior, but also defending it to people. You've done some really crappy things in the time I've known you, but this just takes the cake."
Pursing her lips, Miranda picked her pen back up. "Are we done here?"
"Were you even listening to me?" Andy spluttered.
"Hard not to with that shrill, whiny voice," she said discontentedly, making Andy's eyes widen and her lips gape.
Wiping away her tears, she looked away, murmuring, "You really are the devil." In an instant, Miranda's gaze jumped up to her, eyes blazing and lips pinched.
"Now I know why Stephen left you. You're gonna die alone," Andy threw one last parting shot, getting a morsel of pleasure out of the ability to be just as cruel, but mostly feeling sick to her stomach.
"Get out," Miranda hissed.
"Happy to." She sent her a seething, hateful look before reaching for the door. "I never wanna see you again."
As she left without a backward glance, Miranda remained in her seat, staring after her, shoulders losing their tension and slouching.
Andy knew who was at her door without having to look through the peephole, which was why she steadfastly ignored the knocking. The knocking, steadfastly, continued.
"Andrea, open up, I know you're in there," Miranda's low, disembodied voice said. "I'm not leaving until you open this door."
Against her better judgment, Andy relented and flung the door open. "What?" she snapped.
Miranda, unfazed, brushed past her and into the apartment. Once the door had closed, she rounded on Andy. "How dare you come to my place of work and speak to me that way?"
Hands going to her hips, Andy set her jaw. "That's a weird way to apologize."
"I have nothing to apologize for," Miranda seethed. "I simply gave you a taste of your own medicine."
Andy's arms fell to her sides as she stared incredulously. "You're deranged!" she exclaimed. "You think what you did is in any way equal to my quitting? Just how twisted is your mind?" Before Miranda could shoot back, she added, "And did you think I would just take it lying down?"
"I gave you what you wanted, didn't I?" Miranda replied with calmness that completely contrasted the fiery rage with which she'd barged into the apartment. The only remaining evidence was in the flames still dancing in her eyes. "Or did you expect us to cuddle afterward?" she continued patronizingly. "For me to ask you to be my girlfriend? Buy you flowers and chocolates?"
Even though Andy felt tears begin to prick her eyes for the second time that day, she ground out, "You have no right to speak to me that way. I no longer work for you."
"Yes, you've made that abundantly clear, haven't you?"
"I didn't ask for any of this. You're the one who came to me, in case you forgot. In fact," Andy continued, taking several steps toward Miranda. She'd had a lot of time to think about it in the miserable remainder of her weekend. "You came here first thing after Paris. I knew your itinerary for the week, remember?
"So what was it?" she feigned ignorance while Miranda's chest started to heave, whether in anger or something else, she couldn't quite tell. "You got off the plane, left some poor underling with the task of taking your suitcases back to the townhouse, and came straight to my apartment? I mean, the twins were probably still at their dad's and Stephen was certainly not waiting for you at home."
At the second mention of her crumbling marriage, Miranda's eyes darkened. At her reaction, Andy's shoulders squared with a dizzying feeling of triumph. She took another step forward. "Or did you just not care about anything other than coming here?"
Miranda had put aside the urgency of seeing her soon-to-be-ex-husband for the first time after getting served, the need to reunite with her children after a week apart and break the news to them, the mountain of pressing tasks the post-Paris Runway issue required taking care of, all so she could exact her revenge on Andy. "Why was my punishment more important than all those things?"
"I couldn't very well let you believe you'd escaped unscathed," Miranda's tone lowered dangerously as she, too, took a step closer, "now could I?"
"You wanna know what I think?"
"Not particularly."
"I'll tell you anyway. I think it wasn't punishment at all," said Andy, refusing to break eye contact and refusing to let Miranda do the same. "I think you were telling the truth. That you wanted it just as much."
With a small, sarcastic smile, Miranda allowed, "If that's what helps you sleep at night."
"I sleep very well remembering how I made you feel," Andy lied. In truth, she'd slept very poorly the last couple of nights.
Looking away first, Miranda retreated with a sigh, settling against the sink. "If you've made it this far without ever faking it, you may just be the only woman on Earth."
"I think you're faking right now," Andy answered confidently. She couldn't let go of the memory of Miranda's fingers holding on to her lest she should otherwise fall apart; her body convulsing around her while her cries sounded as if she'd been waiting for that moment her whole life; the unwontedly tender look in her eye as she'd gazed at Andy after rocking her world.
Miranda's lips pursed, but she didn't rebuke her. "Don't mistake a physical reaction for something else."
"The things you said had nothing to do with physicality," argued Andy. "Or were you just lying to get me in bed?" Miranda's mouth opened to reply, but Andy didn't give her a chance. "'Cause I find it kinda... I don't know, insane of you to drop everything and come here, and say all those things, and then take your clothes off and let me see you at your most vulnerable, and let's not forget put yourself through the harrowing experience of having sex with your ex-assistant, all so you could get back at me for quitting my job."
If she'd expected her words to stump Miranda and make her drop her act, Andy was disheartened to see the smile back on her face, just as ingenuine as before. "Maybe I'm just that petty."
"Or maybe you're just as evil as everyone says," replied Andy, hurt and nonplussed by her stubbornness. Was it really more important to her to win some stupid ego war--or worse, keep Andy's heart battered and bruised for the unspeakable crime of wanting a better future for herself--than to pursue what they'd started two days prior? Only minutes ago, Andy had almost been ready to reconcile; now she just wanted Miranda out of her house and out of her life. She wanted to forget this person had ever existed.
Miranda, however, made no move to exit either. Her eyes narrowed as her hands came up to wrap around the porcelain edge of the sink. "What?" Andy spat the longer her silence stretched on, daring her to fight back.
"It's so easy, isn't it?" Miranda said lightly.
"What?" Andy repeated bitterly.
"Blaming everyone." She tilted her head. "Looking at everyone's faults but your own. You always thought you were better than all of us. Big, smart Andrea Sachs with no experience and ugly shoes coming to teach us a lesson."
"I never thought that," Andy maintained through gritted teeth, feeling her pulse quicken with her fury.
"No, no, you did," Miranda calmly insisted, unbothered by her reaction. "You had your morals. And ideals. And you had the life experience of..." she paused on a breath, searching the space around her with her eyes while pretending to remember the vast list of accomplishments Andy had to show for herself, "twnety-something years of existence?"
At her sides, Andy's hands bunched into fists while Miranda pushed away from the sink. "Have you ever, Andrea, stopped to think that maybe the whole world isn't at fault? That maybe it's actually just you? That maybe you're the evil one?"
"How am I evil?" Andy forced out, her voice choked with rage and humiliation.
"You never answered my question," Miranda said in lieu of an answer.
"What question was that?"
"Why did you leave?"
"What does it matter?" Andy's jaw clenched, her brow furrowing. "You got what you wanted--you said so yourself--so I don't owe you anything else."
Miranda, it seemed, didn't hear a word. "I'm not even talking about how unprofessional your actions were," she said haughtily, beginning to wander the small space. "No two weeks' notice, no replacement at the ready; you barely waited for the car to stop. Poof--gone. For all I knew, you could have been kidnapped by aliens. And I'm not even talking about that."
Feeling at home, she stopped by the floor lamp in the living room, fingering the lampshade, and continued, "I thought you'd grown enough. That you were bright enough. That you understood. For Christ's sake," she chuckled to herself, "I told you I saw myself in you. Can you imagine how many employees have heard that from me?"
Turning to Andy, her eyes had softened, as well as her tone. "You really... I envisioned great things for you. You could have made it big in this world."
"I didn't want that," Andy heard herself say, her voice quiet and hoarse. "Not if it meant doing what you did to Nigel, and what I did to Emily. I didn't want to be selfish like you."
"Hmm," Miranda hummed, her lips stretching into a knowing smile. For some reason, she looked amused by the insult. "You are selfish," she said as plainly and as serenely as if she were telling Andy she was beautiful. "You can lie to youself all you want, but you have always only thought of yourself."
Her anger kicking back in, Andy moved toward the door to show Miranda the way out. "I don't have to listen to this."
"Of course you don't." Miranda chuckled, stopping her in her tracks. "Because then you might have to take a look at yourself and realize that you're just as bad as everyone you look down your nose at."
"That's rich of you," Andy threw. "You can't possibly compare one bad thing I did to the... infinite list of stuff you do and say on a daily basis."
Looking unperturbed, Miranda made her way back into the kitchen. "I do what I need to to get work done." She picked her bag up from the table. At the notion of her leaving, Andy sighed in relief at the same time her chest tightened with dread. "But at least I'm self-aware. I don't pretend to be nice."
Staring after her, Andy was too stunned by the insinuation, and by indignant rage, to retort as she watched her open the door and walk out without so much as a "goodbye" or making the effort to close it behind her. Spurred into action, she yelled into the corridor, "I'm nice! I'm so nice! On my worst day, I'm nicer than you!"
Her exclamation seemed to capture only the attention of her neighbor and his two young children, coming up the stairs. They stared at her as if it were their first day in the insanity of New York City, which was her cue to slink back into the apartment and slam the door shut.
Inside the privacy of her home, Andy allowed herself to feel her anger to its full capacity, and that translated into banging cupboards, kicking chairs, and tossing small objects. But as the evening wore on, the initial fury began to fade and Miranda's words, in its stead, echoed louder in the empty apartment.
Miranda had called her evil, as if Andy had been the one to do the hurting. She'd called her selfish, as if Andy had been the one to consider only her own interests. Of course she hadn't considered Miranda's; why should she? Miranda had been her boss, and Runway was, at the end of the day, a major company. At no point had Andy been under the illusion that she wasn't dispensable; the magazine would continue to do just as well without her breakneck coffee runs. In all her months there, she hadn't gotten from it anything that would justify abandoning her morals and ideals for, only emotional abuse and foot blisters. She had no reason to feel contrition for leaving that job.
But Miranda's words kept gnawing at her. The insinuation that they were very much alike, that Andy was no better than Miranda, that her holier-than-thou attitude was nothing but a sham--that she carried that attitude in the first place--was, at first, infuriating. But as she collapsed on her sofa, remembering Miranda in the same position, slumped in her gray robe, face clear of makeup and reddened with tear residue, it just left her with a gaping hole in her stomach, slowly filling with acidic bile.
Miranda, with the impeccable couture and the scarily soft voice and the impenetrable façade of a domineering queen, had suddenly become so human that night in her hotel suite. Stripped of all the aforementioned masks, she'd been simply a woman fighting not to lose everything: her husband, her family life, her children's trust, her career, her stability. And she'd seemed drained by the fight.
She'd let Andy see all that. Andy, who was supposed to be a dispensable nobody. She'd sat there before Miranda, listening to her plight, hearing her voice get choked up with tears, and Miranda had let her. The very next day, Andy had abandoned her.
Miranda had been right, and simply admitting that to herself expanded the hole in Andy's stomach. Andy hadn't left a job, and she hadn't turned her back on a major company; she'd turned her back on Miranda, who'd chosen her to bare all to, who was facing an incredibly difficult and painful new chapter in her life, who needed the support. It hadn't been in Andy's job description, but if that kind of assistance wasn't in the list of her morals and ideals, then what exactly had she sought to regain?
She was selfish. It was, perhaps, the most selfish act she'd ever performed, because the others she could excuse. Taking Emily's place, missing Nate's birthday, skipping on hang-outs with her friends--those had all been done in favor of advancing her career, of making something of herself in the world. She could feel bad about them, but she had the excuse. She didn't have an excuse for the way she'd treated Miranda, not one she could live with. She was a terrible boss, but she'd taken a chance on Andy, and if not for her granting Andy that opportunity, none of the other ones would have ever materialized.
So, Andy was selfish. And she was stupid, because she could have had it all: the career, Miranda... She'd come so close. And now she had nothing.
Flopping on her side, she buried her face in a throw pillow, but the tears didn't come. Only because the emptiness inside her had grown to consume her whole.
The New York Mirror's bullpen wasn't particularly large, yet it was crammed with cluttered desks and busy people. Ringing phones, keyboard typing, and incessant chatter lent a soundtrack to the work environment. The newspaper was situated in an old building in Tribeca with only one floor allotted to its offices, and so it wasn't a surprise to find the editor-in-chief's desk, lacking dividing walls and a door, nestled in the middle of the commotion. This paper wasn't exactly Andy's first choice (nor her second or third), but it was a place to start.
"These clips are excellent," said Greg, the editor, while flipping through the portfolio Miranda had never bothered to take a look at. "This thing on the janitors' union, that's exactly what we do here. My only question is... Runway? You were there for less than a year. What the hell kind of a blip is that?"
Andy had expected the question, and so her smile didn't quite falter, even as her chest tightened. "Learned a lot. In the end, though, I kinda... screwed it up," she answered honestly, evading Greg's gaze on the last words.
"I, uh, called over there for a reference. Left word with some snooty girl; next thing you know, I got a fax from Miranda Priestly herself..." Greg seemed to find the incident amusing; Andy, on the other hand, curled in on herself. "Hope it doesn't hurt my chances of getting another job. Hope I still get a recommendation for a future employer. Hope I don't get blacklisted," Miranda's voice echoed tauntingly in her head. She should have known. Miranda wasn't done with her revenge; she'd only just begun, and she wouldn't stop squeezing the life out of Andy until she was nothing but a shriveled mess.
She might as well save both Greg and herself the time and humiliation and walk out, but before she could do that, he continued, "...saying that of all the assistants she's ever had, you were, by far, her biggest disappointment." The words were predictable, but they slashed through Andy's insides like a knife nonetheless.
"And if I don't hire you, I am an idiot," he finished, drawing Andy's stunned attention back to him. "Must've done something right."
Andy didn't wait until she was back in the safety of her apartment; she dialed her phone right from the busy street outside the old building. The call was answered on the second ring, but no sound came from the other end of the line.
"Why?" Andy asked for the second time that week, but this time her voice lacked the strangled, boiling emotion.
Miranda replied just as calmly, "Why do you think?"
The hand holding Andy's phone to her ear shook only a little as she said, "I got the job."
"I figured."
Someone on the sidewalk almost bumped into her, and so she got out of the way, perching on the building's front steps. She needed her equilibrium to say, "I'm sorry."
It was a few moments before Miranda said, "Thank you." And another few before she added, "Me, too." Andy's breath hitched.
Trepidation gripped her, the question clawing at her throat, but she needed to know. "Did you mean it when you said you felt the same?" she quietly asked. "Or was it also part of..."
Miranda's response didn't come, but her silence answered Andy's question, and it slowly began to close up the hole inside of her.
"I meant it," Miranda then said, just as quietly.
It must have been a couple of minutes before either of them spoke again, and even the noise of the city seemed to have quieted down around Andy. Finally, Miranda's voice came back on the line. "I was wond--" She cleared her throat and, with a little more conviction, began anew, "May I come over tonight?"
Andy licked her lips. "I don't think that's such a good idea," she said softly and could hear the disappointment in Miranda's ensuing silence, as well as the understanding. "But you could take me out to dinner instead."
In the time it took Miranda to deliberate her offer, Andy's heart gained such speed that she feared it might burst through her chest. Finally, voice familiarly brusque, Miranda said, "I'll have my new assistant check my schedule," and hung up.
Pressing her lips together to refrain from laughing, Andy let her phone-holding hand drop to her lap and raised her eyes back to the multitude of pedestrians on the street. Their steps seemed synchronized, like a dance. Then she laughed.