Chapter Text
The first thing Andrea Sachs had learned about working at Runway was that there was no such thing as being finished.
Not really.
There were moments when the office quieted, when Miranda's schedule was under control, when the latest round of samples had been sent upstairs, when the phones stopped ringing for a precious ten minutes and Andy could finally sit down.
But finished?
Never.
There was always another call. Another garment. Another coffee. Another completely unreasonable request that became her problem the second she answered the phone.
The difference, after nearly a year at Runway, was that Andy no longer panicked about it.
She simply did it.
She had learned the rhythm.
She knew that when Miranda walked into the office with pursed lips, she was already dissatisfied with something. She knew which look meant Why are you still here? and which meant I am not finished.
But she not only learned about Miranda’s body language, but Emily's too. That one had taken longer.
Emily Charlton could communicate an entire paragraph with a glance.
A frown meant incompetence. Sometimes incomprehension.
A raised eyebrow meant a silent question.
A narrowed stare meant hurry up.
And, on rare occasions, a brief nod from Emily meant acceptable.
And on even rarer occasions, she would smile.
It was imperceptible, really. If you weren’t Andrea, you probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all. It was always brief, barely there, usually after Andrea made some comment meant to be a joke or a touch of irony. And sometimes, just sometimes, though no one laughed or reacted, the corner of Emily's mouth would lift ever so slightly.
Very, very slightly.
Andrea had also learned that Emily was not quite as heartless as she appeared.
That was perhaps the most dangerous thing about her.
Because every once in a while, unexpectedly, Emily would eventually do something nice.
Slide a stack of papers toward Andy without comment because she'd already organized them. Quietly tell Andy that Miranda was in a particularly bad mood before sending her into the office.
Once, when Andy had been working for hours, the phone never stopping ringing, Emily had dropped a sandwich beside her keyboard.
"Eat."
Andy had looked up.
"Mmh?”
Emily had given her a flat look.
"You haven’t eaten yet. Eat.”
It took Andrea a few seconds to thank her but, eventually, she did and ate.
"Don’t make it weird”, she had said before walking away.
That was Emily: harsh, demanding, terrifying, and occasionally kind. Andy had long since stopped being surprised by her.
She was surprised, however, by how pretty Emily was. That was something she had never quite managed to get used to.
Because how such a pretty face could be so intimidating.
It wasn't even that Emily was conventionally beautiful, although she certainly was. It was more the way she carried herself.
Emily Charlton never looked like she had accidentally ended up somewhere. She looked like the world had arranged itself specifically to accommodate her. It was as frustrating as it was irresistible.
Andy had caught herself staring exactly twice and both times she'd immediately looked away.
Because Emily was her coworker. A particularly intimidating coworker.
A coworker who would probably murder her if she ever found out Andy had been thinking about her cheekbones.
But, lately, it wasn’t Emily’s cornflower blue eyes highlighted by her smoky eye makeup that got her staring.
It was something else entirely. Someone else, actually.
Serena.
Andy wasn't completely sure when Serena had started spending so much time at Emily's desk.
It had probably been gradual. A few conversations here. A question there. A joke that made Emily laugh, like actually laugh.
Nothing strange. Nothing Andy could reasonably object to anyway.
And yet, for the past few days, Serena seemed to have developed an almost supernatural ability to appear wherever Emily was. And with her came Andrea’s frustration.
That afternoon, Andy looked up from a stack of invoices the moment she heard her coworker voice:
“Em’, you’re not going to believe who I just saw!”
And just like that, she was on Emily’s lap.
Well, she wasn’t really. But, to Andrea, it felt all the same.
Emily was typing, but there was the faintest hint of amusement on her face while her friend was laughing.
Andy's eyes dropped instantly back to the invoices.
She stared at the same line for several seconds. She hadn't read a word.
It was ridiculous.
She knew it was ridiculous.
Because why would she care if Serena was there, huh? Why would it matter to see Emily laugh when Andrea barely gets a smile from her? Why would she care to see the both of them get along so smoothly?
She didn’t care. Why would she?
"Andrea."
Andy looked up immediately.
Emily was staring at her.
"Yes?"
"The invoices."
Andy glanced down, frowning.
"What about them?"
Emily's eyebrow lifted.
"They're upside down."
Andy looked at her, then back at the paper between her hands.
They were.
"Oh."
Emily held her stare for another second and Serena snigged. Now, not only Andrea felt ridiculous but also irritated. Just great.
Andy flipped the papers around. Emily turned back to her computer with a slight derisive smile.
Andy pressed her lips together.
She could practically hear the mocking comment in Emily's silence.
She hated that woman. And that meant a lot from her, considering Andrea was barely capable of hating. But she hated Emily, hated her smugness, her rudeness, her beautiful eyes judging her, waiting for her to make a mistake. She hated seeing her perfect face all day long.
But mostly, she hated how much importance Emily’s opinion held in her mind. How much weight she gave to her gaze, to the smallest nod of approval, the briefest flicker of displeasure. She hated it. Hated how much she cared.
Hated her.
She looked back at her work, trying as best as she could to get back to it, but felt her hone buzzed.
She hesitated but decided to ignore it.
Then it buzzed again.
And again.
She finally glanced down.
Nate.
She turned the phone over, not looking at the text.
She didn't have time.
Besides, she already knew what it would be.
Lately, most of Nate's messages seemed to fall into one of three categories.
When are you coming home?
Are you working late again?
Or some variation of:
Do you even have time for me anymore?
She loved Nate. She did.
At least, she was fairly certain she still did.
That was what made everything so difficult.
Because there hadn't been one enormous fight.
There hadn't been some dramatic betrayal or violent realization.
There was simply a growing distance between them that neither of them seemed to know how to close.
Nate wanted more of her time.
Andy understood that. She truly did.
He wasn't wrong to want his girlfriend around.
But sometimes it felt as though he wanted her to apologize for having a career she loved.
And Andy wasn't willing to do that.
She had worked too hard to get here.
She liked Runway.
More than that, she loved it.
She loved the chaos. The impossible deadlines. The fancy clothes.
The energy of New York moving through the office at a hundred miles an hour.
She loved the feeling of finally knowing what she was doing.
And, most of all, she loved being good at it. Fitting in. Being where she was supposed to.
And she couldn't bring herself to feel guilty about that.
***
By seven-thirty, the office had emptied considerably.
The frantic energy of the day had softened into the low hum of people finishing their last tasks.
Andy was still at her desk.
She looked at the clock.
7:37.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time she picked it up.
Nate:
You coming home tonight or should I assume Runway gets you again?
Andy stared at the message.
Her first reaction was irritation.
Her second was guilt.
Her third was exhaustion.
She typed:
I'm coming home.
She deleted it.
Typed again:
I don't know yet. Miranda's still here.
Deleted that too.
Finally, she put the phone down with a loud sight.
"Andrea."
Miranda's voice.
Andy straightened immediately, moving without thinking.
"Yes?"
Miranda sat behind her desk, looking over a series of papers.
"I need these dropped at the office on Fifty-Seventh."
Andy nodded.
"And the samples from the courier need to be collected."
"Sure.”
"And I want the new skirt collection brought up from the showroom."
Andy wrote it down.
"The entire collection?"
Miranda looked up, didn’t say a word, but didn’t need to.
Andy nodded.
"Right."
Miranda returned to her papers.
"And coffee."
She nodded again and walked away.
The Runaway building was huge and luxurious. The main front door was more expensive than Andrea's own apartment, which meant a lot.
She was in the cab when her phone buzzed. Again.
She glanced at it.
Nate.
She sighed. He asked for a picture and she knew exactly what kind but, before she could respond to the message, another notification appeared.
Emily Charlton.
Andy frowned.
Emily rarely texted her.
Not because they didn't communicate, but because Emily generally considered texting an inefficient use of language. She called or waited to see her in person (when it wasn’t urgent, that is).
Andy opened it.
Emily:
While you're out, bring me a coffee.
Andy stared.
A second message appeared.
Emily:
Hurry up.
Andy actually laughed.
Of course.
She slipped her phone into her bag.
"A ‘please’ would be nice" she muttered.
***
It took Andy about an hour to complete the errands.
The courier was late.
The showroom was crowded.
The skirt collection came in more garment bags than she'd expected, forcing her to balance three of them over one arm while carrying Emily and Miranda's coffee in the other.
It was actually impressive to do so much in so little time.
By the time she got back to Runway, her feet hurt. So did her arms and her head. But everything was done.
She pushed through the glass doors.
The office was nearly silent.
She glanced toward Emily's desk.
Empty.
Andy frowned.
For one stupid second, her mind immediately supplied an image of Serena.
Maybe they had gone somewhere together. Maybe Emily went to her office this time.
The thought produced a strange little twist somewhere beneath Andy's ribs.
She immediately rejected it.
That was stupid.
Andy exhaled.
"Get a grip."
She placed the coffee beside Emily's keyboard then she carried Miranda's collection into her office.
Miranda was still there. Writing something without any glance for her employee.
Andy delivered the garments and coffee, received three more instructions for tomorrow, wrote down two appointments, and finally returned to her desk.
She checked the time.
9:14.
She could go.
For once, she was actually done.
As she passed Emily's desk, she noticed the coffee was still there but Emily wasn’t. Her bag was though, so she hadn’t left the office yet.
Andy didn't think much of it. Well, tried not to.
She gathered her own stuff and only then she remembered Nate’s text. Fuck. She checked her phone and he had already sent another one.
Nate:
Babe, the pic?
A small smile tugged at her lips despite herself.
She hesitated.
She knew what he meant and, truthfully, she wasn't completely opposed to it.
She'd worn the new black lace set she'd bought a few days ago, and she felt good in it.
Maybe this was his way of trying to reconnect.
Andy felt a little guilty for how quickly she'd dismissed his earlier messages.
Maybe she could give him this.
Something small. Something just for them.
She stepped out of the elevator and into the lobby.
The bathroom was nearby.
She glanced around. It was quite late, most of the employees had already left.
A few minutes later, she was inside one of the stalls, trying not to overthink this.
Andrea had always found them absurdly large but was now grateful for every inch of it.
She checked the lock.
Twice. Just in case.
She took out her phone, found a spot where the angle wasn’t so bad and started getting undressed.
She felt uncomfortable, to say the least, but she tried to be as sexy as she could.
The first picture was terrible.
She deleted it immediately.
The second was too dark.
The third made her laugh because she looked far too serious.
She tried again.
This time, she tilted the phone slightly and stood at an angle, letting the black lace show without making the picture too obvious.
She looked at it.
Better.
She took another.
This one from a little farther away, the mirror catching her reflection, way more revealing.
She studied both.
The first wouldn’t be enough, she knew that. The second was pretty good, showing her body, almost every inch, but hiding what was to be hidden. She thought the two of them were good, she thought Nate would like them.
Well, she knew he would.
She selected them and quickly sent them, filling a small rush of embarrassment followed.
"Okay," she whispered to herself.
Done. Quickly, sure, but done.
She also sent a text to Emily, informing her that her coffee was here, and she was welcome.
She pulled her clothes back into place, checked herself once in the mirror, breathed and stepped out.
The cab smelled faintly of leather and rain.
Andy sank into the back seat and finally allowed herself to relax. Her head rested against the window.
Manhattan blurred past her in streaks of yellow and white.
She closed her eyes.
She was exhausted.
But beneath the exhaustion was something else.
Tomorrow would be another day.
Another day at Runway. Another day with Miranda.
Another day of Emily's sharp comments and impossible standards.
Another day of Serena hovering around Emily's desk.
Andy opened her eyes.
She frowned.
Why was she thinking about that again?
She shook her head with frustration and reached into her bag for her phone.
Maybe Nate had replied. Maybe he'd said something sweet. Maybe they could get through this awkward phase together.
Nate:
Coffee? What are you talking about?
Her smile dropped instantly. She frowned, read it again, then once more.
Her eyebrows drew together tighter.
She scrolled upward and saw her own message.
Coffee on your desk, you're welcome btw.
Andy stared at it while realization set in her chest.
Her stomach dropped, her breathing became heavy and she was shaking just a little.
Because if he got this text, this message, if he got the message Emily was supposed to get, then Emily received his message, his pictures.
Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!
She just sends pictures of herself half naked to the person that despises her the most.
Fuck!
To the person she hates.
FUCK!
To the hottest person she knows.
HOLY FUCK.