Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CHAPTER ONE

.o0o.

Andréa Maree Sachs had just moved into her small apartment in New York from her dorm room in Rhode Island. She had graduated from university with degrees in fashion photography and apparel design, had uncovered that she was gay after a particularly jarring party and broken up with her boyfriend of eighteen months in the space of about twelve hours. She had decided, very spontaneously, to move to the Big Apple and try her luck in the fashion industry. Her best friend Patrick had encouraged her greatly to make the move and inspired her to stay with stories of his own success in the photography business. She had unpacked her apartment, cleaned for the weekend, made plans with Patty and decided to go for a walk around the more bustling parts of the city to promote her creativity.

She had caught the subway to Central Park and had wandered into the Upper East side hoping to stumble across a church or cathedral. She had simply wanted to immerse herself in the near tangible emotion of the city. People rushed and hurried along sidewalks, but some simply waded through space and time like they truly had nowhere to be and nothing to worry about. University had been amazing for Andy, and she truly enjoyed the fast-paced movement of the creative arts and how malleable art was, but it was the first-time Andy had observed people that simply floated. She wondered what they would look like photographed, whether they would command the image or simply let the viewer’s eyes do the work and exists as a by-product of the image. She would have to investigate.

As she walked, her thoughts strayed to her ex-boyfriend. Nathaniel was a charming boy, with curly black hair and laughing blue eyes. He had been doing a course in ceramics which Andy always thought was interesting and complex. It was always such a process to mould the shape you had into the shape you wanted, and she believed truly abstract thinkers found the ways to make their shape. Nate, as it had turned out, had wanted to be a chef but failed his culinary course. When she had asked him a few months into their relationship why he was doing ceramics (he had complained about it every time they saw each other), he had said that he threw a dart at a sheet of paper and it had landed on his current course. Andy had hidden her displeasure at that news well, but made it quite clear that she didn’t like to listen to him complain all the time. His ego had been bruised being told off by his girlfriend, but he soon stopped complaining.

Andy had taken a dual degree in fashion photography and apparel design. While she had preferred to have a camera in her hand, a sewing needle came a close second. Nate had said he didn’t see the point in fashion. The purpose was to keep your modesty and that was it, was his attitude. Andy hadn’t done quite so well hiding her displeasure that time. She had told him how clothes were like lots of individual pieces of art that portrayed an emotion or a mood or a lifestyle. She had gone into the history of silk and how it had been revolutionised in the fifteenth century by being used as a canvas then draped over the naked female form, how designers had dubbed women as goddesses and established classes and caste systems, changed people’s way of life. Nate had laughed at her and held his hands up in surrender. He hadn’t broached the topic with her again and she was glad for it.

It was the night of graduation that Andy had lost all of her rather extensive patience. She was impressed she had lasted a year and a half. Nate had failed his ceramics class the month before and was relying on a sizable allowance his parents were sending him every week. He told Andy he wanted to take her out to celebrate her achievement. She had been flattered and pleased that Nate was making an effort to interact with her, especially after the sook he had from failing a course again, and agreed quickly. She had dressed in a skirt she had designed. It was pleated gold silk (a dig at their prior argument) and sat snugly around her narrow waist and shapely hips then flowed like water to her ankles. It might’ve been a very modest skirt if it weren’t for the slits that went to her thighs, showing off her long legs. She paired the skirt with a black lacy bodysuit that had a deep vee in the neckline and showed an enticing amount of cleavage. Her black, polished Louboutin’s completed the outfit and with a touch of smoky-eye and red lipstick, hair in an elegant twist, Andy looked ready to kill.

And she was ready to kill. Kill Nate. When he took her to a sorority party at another university.

Andy had fumed silently for the first portion of her evening. It was when Nate had introduced her as his woman and not by her name that she snapped. She told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was a pig with little regard for the consequences of his actions and she’d rather be single than spend another minute in his dismal company. She had ripped his hand from where it had been hovering on her arse and stormed into the crowd of the party, her skirt flaring impressively. That was when she had met Laura. A pretty blonde girl with green eyes that offered her a drink. When Andy asked why she would offer her a drink (the party was BYO and alcohol seemed a precious commodity), Laura had smirked and told her she would’ve needed one too if she was dating the jerk she had come with. Andy had laughed, drank, danced with then fucked Laura in the upstairs bathroom of the awful party.

Andy had decided that women were softer and less prone to rutting for a few mortifying minutes then slumping on her, exhausted and spent. Laura had given her a delicious cocktail mix, some perspective and a handful of wonderful orgasms. Nate had tried to talk to Andy the next morning, but apart from ignoring his whining while she grabbed her packed boxes from their shared dorm room that Nate was being evicted from, she didn’t have anything to do with him after the party. He had gotten red in the face and called her some unfavourable names to which she told him to grow up and then left. It was the last she had heard from Nate, though she had heard talk from the grapevine that he was in a creative writing course and failing.

After she had spent a week with her family in Ohio, Andy had called her long-time friend Patrick. They had met when Andy was eight and Patrick was thirteen. They seemed an unlikely pair, an eight-year-old girl and a young teen boy, but they were both obsessed with their parent’s cameras and took to wandering around their neighbourhood in small town Ohio, taking photos of the landscapes and the people and the few buildings. They had been inseparable until Patrick went off to a fancy university in France fulfilling his parents’ wish for him to study in their home country. Andy had been heartbroken for weeks after he had left for France and moped shamelessly, to her family’s amusement. She received a letter, though, one day after school which held a phone number and a few photographs of the architecture of an old university. Andy had dialled the number immediately, waking an exhausted Patrick from his sleep in the process.

They had kept in touch all through his course days and his subsequent move to France, even managed to catch up a few times on his visits to Ohio where they would exchange some photographs they had taken in their time apart. Halfway through Andy’s four-year dual degree, her parents had gifted her a plane ticket to visit Patty. She had spent two wonderful weeks with her best friend in such an artistically rich city, taking photos, making memories and eating delicious food (Andy refused to eat escargot, however). It had been blissful for her.

She and Patty had taken to walking around the streets of France at all hours of the day while she was there and taking absurd amounts of photographs. They had even modelled for each other once or twice as they were both studying or had studied fashion photography. Andy grew used to walking around, discovering new places and people on her little adventures, each time experiencing something new. Though she would miss Patrick’s apartment in France and walking the streets with him, she was pleased when he made the move to New York for a job he had been head-hunted for, glad to have him in the country again. It was her love of exploration that Andy decided to take a walk around New York, her new home. She wanted to observe the lives of some New Yorkers, and so she went on her merry way.

It was on this walk around the Upper East side, however, that her life would begin to change.

She had been in the more affluent end of town after catching the subway and was admiring the parks and houses that gave the area an air of prestige. Her expertise didn’t lie with capturing architecture, preferring instead to capture people, but she found herself drawn to the aged buildings of that area and the modern hustle of the people walking by. She was beside a main road at around lunchtime so all sorts of people were wandering past her observant, hungry eyes. Some were in a hurry, some wore grey or black, others bright, vibrant colours. Some were dark, some were very pale and most were in between. There were blonde, black, grey, white, red, brown, purple, blue heads of hair, long and short alike. It was a sort of ordered chaos that Andy had never really seen before.

She didn’t realise it at the time, but when she noticed two little girls trying to run away from an older woman with their hands linked, her day would take an unexpected left turn. She watched in a slow motion of sorts as the girls tripped on an uneven piece of concrete that Andy herself had stumbled over a few minutes before. She hadn’t been running, though, and her hand-eye coordination was a great deal better as far as she could tell by what happened next. From where she had been sitting on a green bench on the sidewalk, she saw the girls teeter on the edge of the pavement and stumble onto the road. Her instincts had kicked in by then and she was halfway to grabbing them from the oncoming traffic when the blaring horn of a car had sounded. She wrapped her arms around the tiny girls, shielding them just in time for herself to be swiped by the side of the car, sending her careening onto the gutter and landing on her back, her body curled protectively around her precious cargo, with a decidedly dull thud, winding herself for a few moments. Her arms were around little shoulders, her hands covering red hair and two precious heads that her hidden in her chest, her breasts having cushioned any impact to their skulls.

She felt the little girls crying and the rushed sound of frantic footsteps, a woman’s voice calling two names. Her eyes were bleary, the buildings she had been admiring were wriggling, and she felt the numbness of shock settle over her body like a cool blanket. Someone called 9-1-1 and an ambulance had arrived. The little girls were still crying and her heart was hurting for them.

“Hush, it’s alright,” she slurred. She was certain she had a concussion and her arms stung slightly, her side felt tender. The EMTs tried to pry the girls out of her arms, but the little angels had protested the idea, which relieved Andy, because she didn’t really want to let them go anyway. They couldn’t be more than five years old.

The ambulance ride was a little fuzzy for the photographer. She knew she had spent it hushing and cooing into little ears and remembered the whimpering dying down. She told them a silly little story and heard the wonderful sound of wet chuckles. She gazed into not quite identical faces. One was narrower than the other, and one had more freckles on her nose. The eyes though were the same. A beautiful, cool blue that reminded Andy of the beach she had gone to in Greece as a child. She held them a little tighter after that.

In the hospital, Andy and the two children she had sort of saved were taken to a room where she could be examined. Her head was clear now, so she knew her concussion was very minor, but her arms were a little scraped. The woman who had been chasing the girls had followed in a cab but was a little delayed. Sat on the hospital bed with a child either side, Andy wondered just how weird her day had gotten.

“You’re pretty,” a very quiet voice complimented from her left. The one with more freckles.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I think you two are the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen,” she said, turning to her right to look the other girl in the eyes too. She was met with pleased grins. A doctor walked in a moment later, a middle-aged man with brown hair greying at the temples and a lipless smile.

“Well, Miss Sachs, you’re not concussed, and your little sidekicks don’t even have a scratch. It’s a surprise, really, considering you were sideswiped by a car. We’ve bandaged and cleaned your arms already and you don’t have any other injuries apart from a bit of bruising where the car hit you and perhaps some sore back muscles.” He looked up from his clipboard to make eye contact.

“You were very lucky, and I can say with some confidence that you saved some lives too,” he said solemnly. Andy paled a little, but kept the calm smile on her face knowing that identical blue eyes were watching her closely. The doctor told her that he’d have her paperwork done and waiting for her at the front desk and she was cleared to check-out whenever. The woman from the street had arrived and was pacing in the hall on her cell phone. She was wincing every few moments at what was being said, so Andy could only assume she was talking to a parent or guardian to the two girls.

“Thanks for ‘tecting us,” the girl on her right said. She was holding Andy’s right hand and playing with a ring she had on her index finger.

“Any time, princess.”

“Am I a princess too?”

“You’re both princesses, the prettiest ones ever!”

Twin giggles filled the room and Andy felt her phone vibrate. It was an alarm she had set for the end of her time to wander as she usually got lost in her thoughts and missed appointments. She was meeting with Patty in an hour and needed to change her outfit. She looked at her clothes and noticed they were torn. Her white fitted pants and red silk blouse had obvious abrasions on the side she had hit the pavement, and her heels, a short pair of black wedges were scuffed beyond saving. She didn’t worry about them much though. The alternative was having perfect clothes and watching the two girls get hit by a car. Andy knew which she preferred.

“Is that your nanny?” Andy asked the girls. She had stood to check her clothing and looked at wide eyes still sat on the bed. They nodded at her.

“I have to get going, I’m afraid. It was very nice to meet such fair princesses,” she said with an exaggerated bow, managing to stifle the wince of pain from her side. The twins giggled at her again and said she was pretty once more and that their mommy was coming any minute now. She kissed each of their hands and bade them goodbye, slipping out of the room and passing the pacing nanny to the front desk. After filling out the paperwork there, only a signature here and a phone number there, she was out of the hospital and on her way to tell Patty how long her day had been. It wasn’t even two yet!

.o0o.

Miranda Priestly was in the middle of a very disappointing run through when her personal cell rang. She had told the nanny, Gina or something else pedestrian, that she should only call in emergencies. It was with this in mind that the woman sent her quivering staff away with an acidic, “that’s all,” and answered the call. She expected to hear some drivel about one of the girls throwing a tantrum about something inconsequential, to scold the silly girl for interrupting her and to be done with it. Instead she was told her babies were in the hospital and that a complete stranger had thrown herself in front of a car to save them from being run over. The ice that Miranda was purported to have in her veins felt less like a rumour and more of a reality when she heard that.

“Why on earth were they in danger in the first place?” She had growled. Miranda Priestly didn’t yell, it would ruin her image, but she didn’t need to yell to place fear into those around or to express her displeasure. And she was very displeased to learn that her babies had been in danger, that they were in the hospital.

“I’ve been surrounded by incompetence since the dawn of time, but your complete lack of judgement when caring for my children reaches new damn heights. When I arrive at the hospital, you are dismissed. I’m not even going to dignify your ineptitude with a final pay check. That’s all,” she hissed, hanging up before the woman could respond. Miranda stood in her office and collected the prints off her desk, her laptop and stormed out of her office. She snapped at her assistants to have her coat and bag, to find a competent nanny and threatened dismissal if Roy was not at the front door by the time she reached ground floor.

She was on the warpath. No one on the trip on the elevator dared to do anything but apologise when the elevator opened on their floor. No one in the lobby dared approach her as she marched across gleaming marble. Roy didn’t even get out of the car to open her door, figuring that she would want as little time wasted as possible. Miranda didn’t say it of course, but she appreciated Roy that way. She snarled the name of the hospital the girls were at and he pulled, rather abruptly into the flowing traffic. Miranda let her thoughts wander.

What condition would her babies be in? Would they be awake? Were they in pain right that minute? For all her posing as a heartless bitch, Miranda was suspiciously close to a nervous breakdown in the back of her silver Mercedes. Roy, bless him, had pulled every secret back way and every trafficless road to reach the hospital in record breaking time. She didn’t wait for him to open the door, she simply let her stocking clad legs carry her into the building. The whole place smelt of disinfectant and despondency, which she despised. Her Prada heels clacked disruptively on the tasteless linoleum flooring to the front desk.

“Twins named Priestly. Where are they,” she bit out. The woman behind the desk seemed to sense the urgency of a mother and was the most efficient person she had encountered in days. She typed speedily and told her what room and what doctor was waiting with them. Not even a nod of thanks was spared for the mousy haired woman as the whirlwind that was the fashion industry’s queen flew in the direction of the elevators. She choked back her disgust at sharing the space with others, even for the single floor she was travelling. The doors dinged, opening to an equally as dismally decorated corridor as the one Miranda had just been in, but the woman was off like a shot, walking with expert precision to the room that held her babies. She took a breath just outside the doors, steeling herself for the sight that would greet her when she entered.

She did not expect to see what she opened the door to.

They were sat on the bed facing each other, playing a hand clapping game.

“Apple on a stick, makes me sick,” they sung.

Miranda, still unnoticed by the two girls, stood stock still as she observed her daughters. Neither were crying, though their eyes were a little red. They had no scrapes, no broken bones, not a drop of blood in sight. She let out a strangled sound that finally drew the attention of her children to her, cutting off a verse about doing the splits.

“Mommy!” they cried together, leaping from their seat and running to her. She met them in the middle of the room and collected them in her arms and forced away the tears she thought might fall from her eyes. She kissed their hair and their cheeks, using her hands to feel around them for any injury she couldn’t see. They giggled and told her to stop.

“The lady that ‘tected us was really pretty, Momma! And she called us princesses!” Cassidy said cheerfully. Miranda looked into the room, almost expecting the woman in question to appear from behind the stretcher bed. It was empty however.

“And she grabbed us real quick, Momma! The car honked but she didn’t care and the car even hitted her and she still holded us!”

“The ambo- the amub-”

“Ambulance,” Miranda supplied, in a sort of relived, confused daze.

“Yeah, that! That came and the man tried to take us out of her arms but she didn’t let em, then we rided the…” Cassidy looked to her mother expectantly.

“Ambulance,” she said again, her chest beginning to loosen from its tense state.

“Yeah! We rided that and Caro was crying-”

“You were crying too!”

“Yeah, well, she calmed us down and told us a funny story about her puppy she used to have!”

“But she said she had to go before, so we said bye-bye and she told us we were the prettiest princesses ever and bowed and kissed our hands,” Caroline, the more subdued of the two, said quietly as though saying goodbye truly saddened her.

Miranda was usually very sharp. She was the woman that controlled the fashion industry, in America at the very least, and was the editor of the world’s biggest fashion magazine. She didn’t get to her position by being dim witted or slow in the least. That being said, however, she was having a little trouble keeping up with what her children were telling her. From what she could piece together, the twins had almost been hit by a car (the thought was still enough to make Miranda’s heart stutter), a woman, as yet unnamed and faceless, had grabbed them, took the hit herself and was collected by an ambulance with her daughters. She comforted them, refused to let them go after the initial accident and kept her babies laughing and happy. They didn’t seem traumatised in the slightest. In fact, they seemed rather disappointed that the woman had gone. No one could argue Miranda was slow or dim witted, but her daughters had just thoroughly rendered her dumb.

“Ah, Ms Priestly. I’m Doctor Sheffield,” a man voiced from the door way. He seemed to be middle aged and carried a calm demeaner. Fitting for a doctor, she supposed.

“Miranda, please, Doctor Sheffield. Can you tell me what on earth happened?” The man smiled at the exasperation in Miranda’s voice, but before she could snap at him he was explaining.

“From what EMTs reported, a collision between a pedestrian at the corner of 76^th and Lexington. I examined your daughters, both were a little shaken after the fact but physically are in perfect health,” the Doctor said, glancing briefly at his clipboard before meeting her eyes again.

“I was told there was another woman?” Miranda asked.

“The pretty one!” Cassidy contributed. Miranda smiled at her, relieved she was her usual boisterous self.

“Ah, yes. She’s checked out,” the Doctor said simply. Miranda quirked a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, frostiness encroaching on her expression.

“I would like her name so I may thank her properly. As I understand it, the woman was hit by a car in the act of protecting my daughters’ lives.”

“Patient-doctor confidentiality, I’m afraid. She’s checked out so I can’t give you any of her details.” The only reason Miranda didn’t threaten his job was because he did sound genuinely regretful at the news, and she didn’t think she had it in her to threaten his career all that effectively. She turned to look at her daughters who were watching the two adults interact with interest.

“And did either of you get the pretty lady’s name?” At the embarrassed look the two shared, she gathered the nameless woman would remain just that. Nameless.

Miranda let out a weary sigh after dismissing Doctor Sheffield, the emotional interruption to her day catching up to her. She gathered her daughters into her arms again, sticking her nose in their hair and breathing in their scent and calming down. The realisation that her babies had nearly died that day did not come to her until late into the night when she was catching up on some work. In that moment, in the privacy of her den as her twins slept two stories above her, Miranda Priestly wept in her gratefulness to a complete stranger for saving her the pain of losing the two most precious things in her universe.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER TWO

.o0o.

As Andy had predicted, Patty didn’t believe her story at first. She was a little late to their lunch date and he’d accused her, good naturedly, that she was making up a fantastic story to distract him from her tardiness. He only believed her after she had shown him her bandaged arms, now covered by her long-sleeved blouse. He felt terribly guilty immediately and apologised for not believing her. She had laughed and waved him away, reassuring him that she wouldn’t have believed it either. Their lunch, in some trendy bistro in Harlem that Andy couldn’t really afford to go to, was delicious and accompanied by the comfortable conversation of best friends.

“So, what are your plans, Rea? Are you going to freelance, or will you apply for a position at a magazine?” Andy chewed her salad thoughtfully, mulling over what both options meant for her. Ideally, she’d freelance for a little while then be asked by a magazine to work for them, but that could take a long time and freelancing wasn’t the most reliable or predictable of career choices for an income.

“I think I’ll freelance for a little while, work on my portfolio and what have you. Maybe I’ll try to make some connections with a few galleries. What would you recommend?”

“I think that’s a good idea, but be careful with which galleries you go to, some of the galleries can be a bit cut throat. I can put out some feelers if you want? I’m sure we could always use more photographers at Runway.” Andy smiled at her friend. Even as children he was always so mild and kind, generous in lots of ways. She had realised that there were times when you had to be not so kind, especially in fashion, and she understood and accepted that. Patty was the perfect example, in her opinion, of retaining kindness in a such a vicious industry.

“I won’t say no to some help from the Patrick Demarchelier,” Andy chuckled. Patty waved his fork at her, hazel eyes narrowing playfully.

Andy did as she said and began freelancing just a few days later after having sorted through the necessary paperwork. She began with smaller magazines. Some about landscaping, better homes and gardens types, a few newspapers that were short a photographer and one gallery that had taken an interest in the portfolio she had submitted. She was making a steady income so far, though she’d rather not be doing so many different jobs to meet her financial needs. Her rent was fine, and she had enough money left over to buy a suitable amount of food, so she had nothing to complain about really. Slowly but surely, as a few weeks rolled by, the newspaper jobs tapered off, a fashion magazine had bought some of her photos of landscapes and one particularly persistent gallery designer had been hunting her down. Her pay cheques were larger and her jobs fewer, much to her relief and Patty’s too.

“I work for the hardest to please woman in fashion and I have more spare time than you,” he had laughed over the phone one Saturday. Andy had rolled her eyes and told him to stick his camera somewhere obvious.

Lily, the gallery designer, had been relentless in her attempts to get Andy to sign with her gallery full-time. She had told the woman several times that she had no interest working on the art display scene and would rather just do the odd job for her here and there. It had taken three weeks of back and forth before the woman got that into her head, much to Andy’s exasperation. She had backed off finally, but Andy was a little less inclined to do jobs for the pushy woman.

Finally, after what seemed like years to Andy but was actually just two months, she got a job for fashion photography. It was for a minor spread with Vogue, and Patty had kicked up a fuss about that, but Andy was over the moon. The woman who had called her had told Andy her name had been floating around on the publication scene and they’d like to see what she had to offer. Andy had squealed in her apartment after the phone call had ended. She called Patty straight after and told him the news, and though he had grumbled that she had to do a shoot for that rag (his words) he was very proud of her for getting a foot in so quickly. They spent the next hour figuring out what she should wear to the shoot which was in four days and agreed to meet up for dinner the next night.

The shoot had gone fabulously in Andy’s opinion. It was a very small shoot, two models and about three outfits per model, but it was a taste of what Andy wanted to be doing for her career, and she loved it. The set was in a large room with only white walls and floor, the lighting exceptionally harsh (no doubt a strategic move to see how she would cope without any natural lighting), and the outfits stiff and structured. The models, Maria and Sofie, were both a little taller than Andy, Maria a limber black woman with shaved white hair and Sofie, a Taiwanese woman with long, bright red hair. Andy made sure to interact with them with the guidance required of a photographer. Her vision was to create a softness in their poses and expressions to counter the harshness of everything else in the shoot. Half lidded eyes and slightly parted lips gave sex appeal and a feminine gentleness that the clothing lacked with its overdone shoulder pads and rigid angles.

She had taken over 100 photos in an hour then called for a break for the models and for herself. Another few shots from an angle Andy had been considering and she called for a wrap. Some had been a little surprised by her efficiency, but she paid them no mind, working to disassemble all the attachments to her camera and eject the memory block to give to Mollie, the woman in charge of overseeing the shoot and the one to have called Andy initially. She wouldn’t be editing her own photos this time around for some obscure reason that Mollie had given her in vague half sentences but Andy suspected it was so they didn’t need to pay her as much.

“I’m looking forward to seeing your pictures, Miss Sachs. You seemed to have done some great work today,” she said a little sternly. She looked to be in her late thirties with short brown hair and blue eyes that had the precision of an eagle. Andy thanked her for the opportunity to which Mollie almost smiled. She was assured she’d receive her payment in the next three business days and she would receive and email when the spread was printed in the issue it was intended for. Andy thanked her again, bid Maria and Sofie goodbye after exchanging numbers with the two vivacious women and went on her way. She made her way from the venue of the shoot to the nearest subway and headed home, keen to relax for a few hours before heading out for drinks with Patrick.

Two days later, as promised, Andy received her payment and just about passed out from shock. She had made more money on that shoot alone than she had been making a fortnight with all her other jobs. Patty laughed at her naivety when she called him at work and told her that it was even a little less than what she should’ve gotten for the number of photos she took and reminded her it was discounted because she didn’t edit anything. Andy had been floating the rest of that day, and decided to take Patty out for drinks, even texting Maria and Sofie if they wanted to catch up that night. The models had agreed to cocktails at some fancy bar in Upper Manhattan that Andy and Patty would head to after Pat finished at work.

The bar was a little on the empty side, it being a Wednesday night and all, but Andy liked the atmosphere and Sofie swore by the apple martinis. After the introductions had been made between her three friends, both Maria and Pat having worked together on one previous occasion, the night had flowed seamlessly. Sofie, for all her seeming to be reserved and quiet was a riot after half a martini, telling ridiculously embarrassing stories of herself at failed shoots or her regretful career in cheerleading in high school. Maria had revealed that she was studying computer science as well as having a career in modelling, and the money she made was paying for her degree. Andy and Pat had tried to one up each other with childhood stories of the other which Andy won, naturally. Andy had laughed and drank with people that she genuinely enjoyed and was a little disappointed when the night came to a close. Sofie and Maria both lived within a block of the other, so they decide to split a cab, and Patty lived closer to the bar than Andy, so she decided to crash with him. He had kept pretty sober, only having one apple martini when Sofie insisted, as he had work, the next morning. Once getting to Pat’s much nicer apartment, Andy crashed in the spare room in one of Pat’s larger t-shirts and just her underwear.

When she managed to open her eyes the next morning, there was a note, a couple of pills and a glass of water on the designer bedside table. She took the pills and guzzled the water, clearing her head a little from the dull fuzziness the martinis had left her with. Pat had written that there was leftover fruit salad and some yogurt in the fridge for her to have for breakfast and that he’d talk to her on the weekend as the latest issue was coming to a head at Runway. She ate, cleaned herself up, then caught a cab to her apartment, leaving a note of thanks on the fridge with a cute little drawing of a teddy bear attached.

She spent the day going through her emails and adjusting her portfolio with the photos that she had been told were in the issue of Vogue she had shot and taking out some of the older photos from newspapers and lesser known publications. She received an email saying that the Vogue issue was released to print and would be on shelves the next day, but an issue would be delivered to her home for her to have. She smiled at the news, hopeful that this would really get the ball rolling for her. She could hardly wait.

When she did collect the issue from her mail slot in the lobby of her apartment building, she noticed the small spread had been extended from the designated one page spread to a three-page layout. She was ecstatic to see her name and the bottom right of the page and so pleased that they chose the angles that really let the softness of the models contrast with the severity of everything else. It was some of her best work, she thought.

.o0o.

It had been a few months since her scare with her daughters, but Miranda had bounced back after her late-night cry in her home. She wished she had caught the woman before she had left to thank her properly, but it was not meant to be. The weeks following saw some rather pleasant work from one of her photographers, Patrick. She assumed he had been having some fortune in his private life but didn’t think of it again after her initial musings. The rest of her staff were just this side of disappointing, and they were all just scraping by in her mercurial moods. She had been wanting something fresh though, something new in her magazine that she didn’t currently have. She thought about firing and rehiring all her positions but dashed the thought away as soon as it came. Even she couldn’t manage to retrain an entire staff and get the due issue out in time. She was a genius, not a miracle worker.

It was another bland morning when Miranda arrived at her desk in her office to the fanned-out issues from her rival publications. She always saved Anna’s till last, for either something to scoff at or something to begrudgingly consider. Today, it was the latter. About half way through the usually lacking issue a spread about some heretofore unknown designer laid out across three glossy pages. The setting was a monstrosity. All artificial, industrial lighting and the most horridly rigid outfits Miranda had ever seen. They were black and red and checkered and striped and all manner of clashing patterns. From what she could tell from her years of experience, the whole shoot should have been an abhorrent offense to the fashion world. And what surprised Miranda almost into expressing her shock facially, was that it wasn’t an offense at all.

The expressions on the model’s faces were so soft and gentle, their poses so dainty and feminine that the harshness of the clothing seemed to suit them. The lighting, while it should have been intrusive, highlighted the sculpted cheekbones and parted lips of the pretty faces. Miranda was in some sort of artistic trance, taking in every detail of the women and the angles and of the camera and the clothing. Of course, she had seen pretty faces before, and she could certainly do without the clothing, but the artistry involved in shooting these things was something she wanted. And Miranda Priestly always got what she wanted.

She was really pretty, Momma! And did either of you get the pretty lady’s name? Well… almost always.

Anna had made it too easy for her, placing the name of the photographer in the spread. This Andy gentlemen would not know what hit him when she offered him a trial shoot. She would make him a household name. If he could deliver, that is. She nodded to herself, calling one of her assistants and demanding several things in rapid fire and giving the vaguest details she could manage. She couldn’t do all the work, could she? No.

After lunch and another painfully beige run through, Miranda was informed that the Sachs gentleman had replied to their email and had agreed to do a shoot the coming Monday. Miranda would not be there to oversee the shoot as the girls had ballet recital she would be attending, but she had hope, lived on it, that it would be a success. Perhaps she would benefit from having Patrick and this Andy fellow working together? Something for her to consider, anyway. She worked through the rest of the day and the next, keeping her magazine number one and only having to come in once on the weekend to resolve an issue. The rest Nigel could handle. She spent most of her weekend working and when she wasn’t working she was taking her daughters to the park or watching a movie with them in the media room and reading to them each night before bed. Every day she had with them was a blessing that she had nearly missed out on and it was all thanks to an infuriatingly nameless, faceless woman somewhere in New York. Miranda would not be forgetting the gift of her children anytime soon.

She had been steadily avoiding going on a third date with some Wall Street suit that she had met several months ago at a soiree. Stephen was a nice enough man, but with the recent shock of her daughters nearly losing their lives, she had learned to savour the time she had with them, rather than seeking out a father figure for them. They didn’t need another parent figure, they just needed their mother. And she wouldn’t be taking them for granted again any time soon. Eventually, she simply told Stephen that she was too occupied with her children and her job to properly cultivate a relationship with him, and he had been quite the gentlemen about being let down. He had wished her luck with her work and complimented her on being a dedicated mother and they had hung up the phone, remaining friendly and amicable. Miranda had been relieved to know that he had reacted maturely, knowing he had been quite invested in a relationship. Such a good mood was she left in that after the ballet recital on Monday, she let the girls get a small ice cream from their favourite parlour, and even indulged in a lemon sorbet herself. She’d had no calls from Nigel interrupting her girls tiptoe around a stage in their adorable tutus and had no urgent emails to reply to when they got home. She was a little surprised to know that the shoot had gone so well but decided not to dwell on it and instead enjoyed the company of her two favourite people.

It was on Wednesday that Miranda got the layouts from the shoot on Monday, and she truly nearly smiled in front of Nigel when she received them. The images were works of art. Flawless and beautiful, doing the models and the setting and the clothing such justice that it truly made Miranda’s heart speed up. This, she thought, is why I love my job. She had waved Nigel away, his smug smile not even detracting from her good mood. She savoured every photograph, finding only two faults in ten photos. Usually she found two faults at the least in each photo that wasn’t Patrick’s. He and this gentleman had a gift with a camera, and she simply could not pass up the opportunity to hire this artist.

“Emily,” she called. Bright red hair and startlingly bright eyeshadow clacked hurriedly into her office, notebook out and hand poised and ready to take orders.

“Push back my two o’clock appointment to three, move up tomorrow’s run though to now, confirm Patrick for the Hudson River shoot in two weeks and tell whoever brought that yellow beret into the last run through that they’re fired. Call Smith and Wollensky’s and order my usual, I’ll have sugar free peach iced tea this time, and the butter and herbs I had the time before last. Find and call that furniture shop and purchase the painting I liked the other week and email this Sachs man and confirm him for the shoot next week on Friday,” she said, not so much as taking a breath in between. Emily was frantically writing into her notepad, still ready to continue when she finished speaking. Icy blue eyes looked into the hesitant green eyes of her first assistant.

“Emily, do get that child out of the building as well. If you cannot find me a competent second assistant then I will have to rehire both positions, and I really have too much to do as it is. I’m not reaching for the stars am I, Emily?”

“N-No, Miranda. I’ll do that right away.”

“See that you do. That’s all,” she said with a flick of her wrist.

She was tired of having tepid coffee on her desk in the mornings, tired of having to wait so long for some scarves, but most of all, she was tired of being tired. Can people not just perform their job? If everyone at Runway worked to the same efficiency that her new photographer used, she might be able to have a whole weekend to herself with her girls. She returned to her work, deciding on her favourite photos to use in the spread and reluctantly being done with the task. It was at that moment that Nigel flounced into her office in his usual flamboyance.

“Wonderful aren’t they? I was mesmerised by the entire process,” he said, seating himself in the visitor’s chair opposite Miranda’s. She looked up from her laptop, her glasses perched on the end of her aquiline nose.

“He’s a genius, Nigel. We need that kind of vision. I’m getting sore eyes from seeing so much lack of direction,” Miranda mused. Nigel, while being her employee, was also the only adult in her life currently that she could have blatant and intelligent conversation with. She had glanced back at her laptop in time to miss the mischievous gleam enter his brown eyes.

Nigel had also made the assumption that Andy Sachs was a man and had been very surprised to see a gorgeous, well-dressed woman at the shoot introduce herself as Andy. He knew that name wouldn’t last a second once Miranda met her, predicting that such a boyish nickname for such a lovely specimen of femininity would be offensive to the fashion maven. He decided to have some fun, though, and let Miranda believe that Andy was a man, let her be surprised by just how manly Andy wasn’t.

“He’s already agreed to the shoot. I sent the email myself, got a reply in three minutes.” Miranda’s eyes adopted a pleased gleam.

“I don’t want him for the odd shoot, Nigel, I want him working at Runway. Anna will want to snap him up and the Coles woman will let this talent of his wilt and die at that rag. He needs a publication that has some dignity.” Nigel grinned at Miranda, realising how set her heart was on this woman. In all honesty, he thought Miranda needed some semblance of female interaction that wasn’t Donatella or her daughters or her assistants. He was a great judge of character and he liked Andy. Or Six as he called her, thanks to the fact that she had the whole shoot set up in a record six minutes, so certain was her vision and effective her direction.

“He’s been looking to get into the fashion industry since he moved here a few months ago. I’m sure he’d be delighted to accept a job offer. We just have to make sure it’s better than any other offer out there.” Miranda nodded, focussed on her laptop but still listening to her friend and colleague. Nigel was an asset to Runway and to Miranda, she trusted his judgement implicitly.

“Do what needs to be done, Nigel. Don’t disappoint me,” she said, far more mildly than if it were anyone else. He smiled and stood form his seat, bowing dramatically and flouncing out in his eccentric suit. She admitted silently that she would be lost without that man.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER THREE

.o0o.

Andy’s life had gone off the handle since the Vogue issue came out. From doing odd jobs here and there for newspapers and galleries, she had gone to being head hunted for fashion shoots for some major magazines. She had been approached by Elle, Marie Claire, Vogue for a second smaller shoot, and to her unending joy, Runway.

“Patty! Runway wants me to do a shoot! It’s a dream, Patty!” Patrick had squealed with her for half an hour on the phone, both overjoyed at her fortune (Pat scoffed at that word and demanded she call it talent). She had a shoot to do on Monday that Pat had heard about and might have covered if he weren’t already doing another two-day shoot at Battery Point. He knew that Miranda had seen her work in Vogue’s recent issue and as he predicted, Andy had been asked to fill in for him. She had asked him whether he knew who would be overseeing the production and he had said Miranda had some personal appointment to attend so the Fashion Director and most fabulous gay man Patrick had ever met, Nigel Kipling would be present. She had asked for advice on what to wear and after some lengthy conversation on the pros and cons of wearing a skirt, Andy had decided on high-waisted white pants with flared hems, a lacy corset in a dark blue and matching closed-toe high heels. With minimal makeup and her hair in a pretty, low bun, Andy had made her debut onto Runway’s pages.

When she met Nigel, a bespectacled bald man in a very busy suit, he had seemed a little surprised to see her. She thought for one heart stopping moment that she was there on the wrong day or they hadn’t meant for her to come after all, but he had assuaged her concerns by smiling charmingly at her and introducing himself as the god of fashion. She had laughed and shook his hand before looking at what she had to work with. They were in an old industrial building with high ceilings, exposed black bricks and exposed wooden support beams with tall glassless windows. She knew that every magazine was doing this kind of thing, but none of them were immersing the fashion into the locale when they chose brick and wood. Andy had directed the models swiftly to arrange themselves around the beams, using them but not distracting from them either.

“These beams are your props, ladies. Make them shine, but make them make you shine, too,” she directed. Nigel had whistled lowly at her after a few minutes of briefing the models and preparing the space, tasking someone with adding sheer white curtains to the windows.

“Six minutes! That’s a record,” he had grinned. She smiled back, amused at his enthusiasm. She hadn’t minded when he had referred to her as Six for the rest of the day. She found it sort of endearing that he had bestowed upon her a nickname so soon after meeting her.

When the shoot was finished, Nigel and the models had clapped for her, forcing an embarrassed blush to flush her cheeks. She smiled brightly and waved everyone off before going through her usual routine of disassembling her camera and isolating the memory block, so she could edit and send in the photos. She was about to leave when Nigel called for her.

“Six! Leaving so soon? And without a goodbye?” She had laughed at him and shook his hand good naturedly before exchanging emails with him and going off on her merry way. The shoot felt different to the Vogue one. Vogue had felt like a test, very rigid and a little dispassionate in their execution. Runway’s shoot, whether the magazine or just Nigel, had seemed lively and exuberant. The models seemed ready to pose exactly how she wanted them and allowed her to explain herself, the props people took her orders with a respectful efficiency and Nigel seemed to enjoy teasing her and the many angles she adopted, but never made her feel like she was being mocked or belittled like some other publications had done. She had thoroughly enjoyed herself and hoped and prayed that she would be offered another opportunity to work with Runway again.

Her wish it seemed, came true.

Nigel had emailed her two days later and offered her another shoot the next week on Friday, stating that his boss was very pleased with her work and wanted more of it. She had teared up, sent a thanks to whatever guardian angel or deity was watching over her and texted Patty with the news. She texted Sofie and Maria as well, but both were in different countries on a shoot and unable to text her back as promptly as usual. Patty told her this was a good indication that she’d be offered a job at Runway. She told him that she was expecting to get an offer from Vogue as well but if Runway offered, she’d take it.

“Duh,” Patty had replied. “A million photographers would kill for that job.”

She did a few more jobs in the first half of the next week, but the second half was dedicated to furniture shopping for her sparsely decorated apartment. Patty had been over to stay the night and said to her if she didn’t get a more comfortable couch he wouldn’t be back. She had called him weak and he had sniffed delicately, telling her he was sophisticated, but she wouldn’t know much about that. She rolled her eyes every time she recalled the memory. She had indeed bought a new couch and had it delivered and some new bedside tables and had bought a new fridge as well but scheduled the delivery for the next week. Before she knew it, Friday had rolled around for her, and after a long discussion the night before with Patrick, she already had an outfit planned. They would be shooting in Central Park near a fountain, so high heels would be acceptable. She decided against a skirt again, opting for tight, high waisted pants with gold embellishments, a white ruffle neck blouse and a red blazer with angled shoulder blades. She wore simple black heels to match and let her hair fall to the middle of her back in a simple plait and allowing a few wisps to escape and frame her face. Makeup simple and with a few minimalist rings on her fingers, Andy was ready to go.

She arrived a little early and met Nigel, asking for a little debrief on what the direction of the shoot was, how many models were present and how many photos he’d like to have.

“Not even two weeks, Six, and I’ve missed you,” Nigel said jovially. She laughed and got her camera out of the bag she’d brought to start assembling in and configuring the settings to suit the light in the park.

“I missed you, too, Nige. Life’s dull without your suits.”

“I’m a slave to fashion, Six.”

“I thought you were the God of fashion?” Nigel grinned at her and called the models to assemble then introduced Andy. He explained that she was the ring leader today,  to which Andy had guffawed, and then clapped his hands twice to move them along.

The shoot was much busier than any other Andy had done, but she took it in stride and led the models into poses she wanted them, allowing the natural lighting to do lots of the work and using the locale to her advantage. The models were all relatively pliable and only a few were a little rude, but Andy’s unwavering smile and guidance seemed to mellow them. It was several hours later that the shoot was being wrapped up that Nigel appeared next to Andy who was disassembling her camera.

“We want you at Runway, Andy.” She had looked at him, noticing how serious his expression was, and how genuine. It was the most serious she’d ever seen him.

“If you’d have me, I’d be honoured,” she said just as genuinely. His eyes sparkled in triumph. She shook his hand and after promising to be in touch with her, she bid her friend and now colleague, goodbye. She was sure she had the dopiest grin in the history of humankind on her way home. She was too dazed to even think to call Pat and knew he’d be busy at a shoot anyway. Everything was finally shaping up for her and she was just so pleased.

She went grocery shopping at the Walgreen’s a block away from her building and stocked her fridge before cooking herself some dinner and reclining on her glorious new couch. She opted against turning the television on, enjoying the silence of her apartment and the rush of blood in her ears from her good mood. She did decide, however to open her laptop and get some work done editing photos, altering her portfolio again and doing some correspondence. She edited half a dozen photos before finalising her portfolio and finally checked her emails. She sent a reply to her parents’ weekly email checking in on her and finalised some follow up emails to some jobs she did earlier in the week. She replied to another one from Lily declining yet another job offer for her, leaving out the niceties this time around.

At the top of her inbox was an email from Nigel with the promised offer of a two-year contract available for extension when it expired and a shoot for the coming Tuesday at Central Park again. Andy, still dazed, sighed dreamily and printed the contract to read though in the morning and confirmed she’d be there Tuesday. The other email was from Mollie from Vogue offering her a contract as well. She hummed in contemplation before deciding to print it off too to be read in the morning. For now, she’d undress, shower and perhaps read for a few hours before sleeping. She’d had a big day after all.

.o0o.

Miranda, in the privacy of her empty office, grinned like the cat that got the cream. It was Monday, and Miranda had the two things she wanted the most for her magazine. She had pages of beautiful photos from the shoot the previous Friday and as Nigel had informed her, a signed contract from one Andy Sachs. Human resources had already added him to the database, given him an email address and access to the building. From what Nigel had said, he had been in complete control of nearly twenty models and managed to get all of them to fit together like a puzzle piece. They artfully draped over parts of Central Park that complimented the clothing so well, Miranda had been speechless for a few moments. This man really was a boon to her and Runway in her professional opinion (and it was professional). She’d set her heart on attending the shoot the next day and planned to do just that, eager to see the man in action. The girls were home for the day from their prep school, but Miranda had the nanny to watch them.

She was due home to her Bobbseys in a few moments, so they could have an early dinner and watch a movie as was their Monday night tradition nowadays. The girls had been so excited that she was spending more time at home that her heart broke a little. She knew that her daughters missed her when she was working, she missed them too, but she didn’t realise how much time she spent away from them. She had been adamant that her schedule be revised, and so Emily had rearranged her appointments to allow more home time. If she spent a few hours working after they went to sleep, well, it was worth it. Tonight, they were watching a new Barbie movie that they were obsessed with. She didn’t care what they watched as long as her babies were happy.

She stood from her desk, gathered the layouts and her laptop and strutted out of her glass fortress.

“Bag, coat,” she snapped. The newest assistant was proving to be slightly more capable than the last in that her coffee was hot now, but she still had a long way to go. She heard Emily call Roy without being prompted to which Miranda was pleased with, though she didn’t show it. The car trip was as efficient as usual, thanks to Roy’s navigation skills. She was at her door within half an hour of leaving Runway which was good time considering the traffic in her district. She opened the door to a less than pleasant sound, however, and her mild mood was instantly shattered.

One of her daughters was crying very loudly, the other was yelling that she wanted her Mommy. Miranda moved swiftly into the kitchen area where the noise was coming from to see Caroline crying on the floor with a bloody finger and Cassidy holding her around the shoulders and yelling for her mother while glaring at the nanny that was looking for what Miranda assumed was the medical kit.

“What is going on,” she hissed. Three faces snapped to her, but she only focused her furious eyes on the floundering woman in the corner of the kitchen.

“I- I was cutting the veggies and Cassidy grabbed the knife and cut her finger.” The woman, Miranda didn’t care to recall her name, tried to sound confident in her answer. She failed under the penetrating gaze of the Ice Queen, however.

Miranda moved to the other side of the kitchen and opened the bottom cupboard to reveal the first aid kit. She opened it to find the band aids and an antiseptic wipe for her daughter’s cut. It wasn’t deep, and it wasn’t bleeding very much, but it had to sting, and Caroline hated the sight of blood. She turned her head to the still woman, her rage apparent on her face.

“You’re fired,” she bit out.

“Wha- but I-”

“You allowed my daughter the opportunity to injure herself in your carelessness and failed to recall where the items to tend to her were. Get out.”

The woman didn’t waste any time in collecting the few things she had and making a beeline for the door. It closed audibly, but Miranda was already too busy taking care of her distressed baby. She hushed and cooed gently, telling Caroline that it wasn’t so bad and that the blood would be gone soon. She whimpered when the wipe was applied but had stopped crying by the time the band aid was on and was only sniffling. Cassidy sat beside her, with her arm still around her shoulders and trying to distract her twin. Miranda’s heart warmed at the sight, though she was still a little shaken from seeing her daughter so upset.

“It’s alright, Bobbsey. Look, all better,” she said softly, lifting the finger to her mouth to press a kiss where the sore was covered by the band aid.

“Thanks, Mommy,” Caroline whispered softly. Miranda smiled and told them she would order pizza to make them feel better. The girls rejoiced and moved to the drawer that held the coupons (something the twins enjoyed collecting and using, to Miranda’s amusement). Miranda stood from the floor of her kitchen and began to clean the half-made dinner the nanny had been making when she arrived. She realised that she now had to either not go to the shoot tomorrow, or take the girls with her, or hope Emily could procure another nanny by the morning. She would never be able to watch her daughters and overlook a shoot at the same time. She decided to call Emily during the movie.

Barbie was a roaring success according to the girls, but by the time the film had finished Caroline and Cassidy were asleep on their feet. Miranda ushered them up the stairs to the bathroom where teeth were brushed, and pyjamas were donned. The girls still shared a bedroom and Miranda allowed it. When she had found out she was having twins, she had made appointments with professionals, so she could fully anticipate the slightly unique needs of twins. One such professional had advised her to let them share their spaces with one another for as long as they wanted. Caroline and Cassidy had practically rioted when Miranda suggested separate bedrooms when they turned four and she hadn’t brought it up again since.

“Mommy has to go to work tomorrow, Bobbseys, and you both will have to stay here with a nanny,” Miranda explained when they were under their bed covers. They were displeased but too tired to argue with her. She felt a little guilty about waiting until they were sleepy, but really, she didn’t think she could handle a tantrum. She’d had a big day after all.

Breakfast was a messy affair as it usually was with rambunctious twins. They had pancakes for breakfast with strawberries and blueberries, the normally quiet dining room filled with the excited chatter of two five year olds.

“Momma, can we get a puppy?”

“No, Bobbsey. Not until you’re older,” was apparently the opposite of what the girls wanted to hear. After several minutes of their best puppy dog eyes, Miranda told them in her stern voice that if they didn’t stop asking, they wouldn’t get one at all. They had pouted and begrudgingly gave goodbye kisses to Miranda before going to their playroom while Miranda cleaned up after breakfast. She was placing the last dish in the dishwasher when the front door opened. Emily had been told to hire a new nanny so the twins could stay home but Miranda could still take Emily to the shoot with her. It meant, unfortunately for Emily, that the assistant had to find a nanny with less than ten hours on the clock. The older brunette woman with Emily seemed acceptable, but Miranda would take few chances.

“They’ve had breakfast, there are snacks for them in the fridge and lunches premade for them. They are not allowed to go to the park, they are not allowed to have a puppy and they are not allowed to have the television going all day. You will call me every hour on the hour and update me or you shall never again find work in this city, am I clear?”

“Yes, Miranda,” Grace or Gillian or whatever she said her name was replied serenely.

“Emily, with me.” 

Roy, ever dutiful, was waiting for her, tipping his hat to Miranda to which she usually nodded back. Fully ensconced in the luxurious car, Miranda began to feel the onset of her excitement at meeting Mr Sachs (privately, of course, Emily didn’t need to see that). She had been wondering what he would be like for a few days now. Would he be tall or short? Blond or brunet? Bald? She only hoped he had a good sense of fashion for himself. Too many times has she met someone with a gift in one area that completely lacked vision in another. Thankfully, due to her home being relatively close by to Central Park, the ride didn’t take long, and Miranda was making the short walk to the venue of the shoot.

“Miranda!”

Miranda turned her head to the spectacled face of Nigel, grinning like a loon as he was wont to do. He walked over from where the tents were set up in his fancy loafers, wearing a monstrosity of a suit with a white scarf draped artfully around his shoulders. He looked at Miranda, ridiculous grin back in place and a mischievous glint in his eyes and Miranda knew something was going very well indeed and he was about to brag.

“Well, Nigel? Is he here yet?” Alarmingly, Nigel’s grin grew.

“Oh, not yet, Miranda, but he will be.”

“You’ll be sure to point him out to me when he arrives? I want to see what Jocelyn has planned and scare her into doing it right the first time. God knows we don’t need another Barbados incident.” Nigel chuckled at her disdainful tone.

“I’ll point him out, Miranda. Don’t you worry.” She nodded once and was walking towards the largest tent, where if one listened closely, panicked shrieking could be heard from within. Everyone knew to follow the shrieks if you wanted to find Jocelyn. Miranda’s heart wasn’t in terrorising her employees just then, though. She was rather preoccupied trying to figure out what had Nigel so suspiciously joyful.

Perhaps the photographer was gay?

Miranda moved on quickly and began working her magic over everyone, that is to say, bossing everyone around and complaining to Nigel about incompetence, occasionally making Jocelyn whimper and Emily stutter.

The moments before the photographer arrived was always the calm before the storm in Miranda’s opinion. It was when people got their first instructions that chaos often ensued. Something about fulfilling an order perfectly was difficult for some people, Miranda reconciled, especially when she was the one giving the orders.

“I changed out the A’Lin for the Jenyouin before you arrived,” Nigel said from her side in the tent. Miranda glanced at him then back at the table of jewellery that she was perusing, making final selections (read: vetoing the hideous pieces that had been preselected by some moron).

“Fine,” Miranda said with a wave. Nigel was the only person that consistently had vision and she trusted him implicitly with pieces of her magazine. Not all of it, obviously, but more than she trusted to anyone else. It was why they had been colleagues for so long and why they worked so well together. It was also why she knew Nigel was up to no good about the photographer. She had no time to really think about it in her whirlwind of brilliance, but she could tell by the failingly nonchalant glances Nigel kept sending her way.

The photographer had to be gay.

“There you are,” Nigel exclaimed across the tent. Miranda turned elegantly on her heels to the opening of the tent spotting the newcomer immediately.

Some woman, dressed to kill (good god, those boots), was idling at the tent flaps looking like she belonged there. She smiled widely when she caught sight of Nigel and nodded to Miranda before striding over. Miranda observed the feminine sway of her hips, the easy gait and the professional but flattering attire the woman wore. She looked like she fitted in well enough with Miranda’s Runway crowd, but she had never seen this woman in her life.

And god damnit, why was Nigel grinning?

The brunette, quite pretty, Miranda noticed, moved to greet Nigel, commenting on his suit and how he looked slightly mad with all the patterns.

“It’s in, Andy, darling.”

Miranda’s synapses clicked together almost audibly. Andy. Andy Sachs was not a man, and not handsome. He was a she. She was beautiful, especially in the almost tailored green dress that complimented her dark hair. He was a she and Nigel was dead to her.

“I do sincerely hope Andy is not your given name.”

Sable eyes (huge eyes, Miranda thought offhandedly) turned to her and instead of dimming at her icy register, Andy the Woman smiled and laughed good-naturedly. She stuck out an elegant hand which Miranda didn’t bother to take.

“Well, it’s Andrea, but everyone calls me Andy.”

How do the girl’s cheeks not ache with how wide she smiles? Miranda’s own were sore just looking at her.

“I think you’ll find easily enough, Andréa, that I am not everyone.” Miranda was often proud at how cold her pitch could be at times, but this woman had been bleeding colour back into her career, and there was no reason for her to be so caustic. Indeed, she had no reason to take out her embarrassment on this brilliant, shiny, pretty thing, but she was the editor in chief of the world’s best magazine and she had a reputation to uphold. She was expecting Andréa to drop her smile and nod obediently as everyone else did when they heard that tone (apart from the still grinning man beside her).

She wasn’t expecting an even warmer smile and a friendly wink.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Miranda,” she said before turning and unpacking the out of season bag that held what appeared to be a laptop and notebook. Miranda was still staring even as Andy walked out of the tent and to the cameras already set up.

“Surprise,” Nigel murmured, holding back his laughter.

“Enough out of you. Get away from me,” she bit out.

Nigel only laughed as he strutted out of the tent.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FOUR

.o0o.

Andy was making her way to where her third shoot for Runway would be taking place, but it would the first as one of their official photographers. She was excited to say the least, and as she walked, she didn’t even lament her decision to wear heels to the park. Well, they were boots. The most beautiful pair Andy owned, in fact. They were so tall they were still covered by the mid-thigh, dark forest green dress she wore. She paired both with a sleek dark brown jacket and a long, dangling silver necklace. Slung over one of her narrow shoulders was her bag that carried her laptop and notebooks to keep a record of her processes. She had packed a snack and some water as well, as the shoot would be over many hours and Andy didn’t always have an opportunity to sit and eat like everyone else.

She was looking forward to the bigger shoot and to using some of the cameras she had never been able to afford when she was a student. It was one of the more prominent reasons why Andy had chosen to work with Runway over Vogue: Runway had a wider and more quality selection of cameras to use and didn’t require her to purchase them on her own. Patty had told her that as a freelance photographer she was fine to just use her own cameras but now she was officially Runway property she had to be more serious about her selection of cams. It was intimidating for her, of course, to go from her own technology to using an array of different cameras depending on the shoot, but she was too excited, too peaceful to be anxious about it.

She was glad her boots were comfortable for her, because by the time she saw the Runway tents at the shoot location she had been walking for twenty minutes. She checked the time and was pleased to note that the official shoot didn’t start for another half an hour and she would have plenty of time to set the scene the shoot required. She wandered over to the main tent, excited to get started and letting her confidence wash over her. She was a really good photographer, she was already hired, and she had already made good impressions. She just needed to find Nigel and get started.

“There you are!”

Andy looked to a table laden with jewellery to see Nigel and who could only be Miranda Priestly. She smiled and ambled over, not unaware of the considering gaze trailing over her clothes as she approached.

“Nigel your suit! It’s crazy!” She leaned in for air kisses, aware of the bewildered gaze of her boss’ boss.

“It’s in, Andy, darling.”

“I bet,” she laughed.

After a beat where Andy was sure she was about to lose some of her composure, a soft, commanding voice caught her attention.

“I do sincerely hope Andy is not your given name.”

Looking at Miranda Priestly was not something Andy had really thought would be too noteworthy. Of course, the woman was very beautiful, her hair especially recognisable with its trademark colour and style. Of course, she was well dressed (as could only be expected, Andy imagined) and of course, her presence was striking. But where stood a legend to the media and the masses, Andy saw a remarkable business woman rather than some sort of deity. It was why she felt confident enough to offer her hand for shaking. She wasn’t surprised or offended when it wasn’t received.

“Well, it’s Andrea, but everyone calls me Andy,” she offered lightly. She had a feeling that Miranda wasn’t one to partake in nicknames, and she was right.

“I think you’ll find easily enough, Andréa, that I am not everyone.”

And that was true, Andy thought. Miranda Priestly was not just anyone. She was not some nameless, faceless woman with no notable achievements. She was the queen of her self-made queendom and Andy only had respect for that. Miranda, Andy mused, was a powerful woman, but perhaps more incredibly, she was a woman. Well, Andy was a woman, too, and not about to be cowed by an ally in a male dominated world.

So, she winked, and she grinned, and she said something rote and a little routine and walked out of the tent. She didn’t know how she kept her cool throughout the process, but she knew if she was to ever receive the respect of Miranda Priestly, she’d start by being an equal. She vaguely recalled Nigel laughing and following her out, but he went to see how the models were holding up in the makeup tent.

“How do you do that?”

Andy turned behind her towards the caustic British accent and was met with a thin, beautiful woman with red hair and a vaguely arrogant expression on her face. Andy smiled and stuck out her hand to shake. She heard some amused voice in her head remark “You can take the girl out of Ohio,” and not surprisingly it sounded just like Patty. Andy was pleased when her hand was shaken regardless of the woman’s polite distaste.

“Do what?” she asked. A sniff and the hint of rolled eyes.

“That. How do you make it all work?”

Andy looked around her. The Runway crew were packing up the equipment, the models had already disbanded, the clothing had been loaded up into their cases and into the several vans and trucks in the vicinity. The only thing remaining untouched was the large white tent that housed the leaders of the shoot, all debriefing and wrapping things up.

Andy turned to the woman, whose name she still had not received. “Well, I tell them to do something and they do it, I guess,” she shrugged. The woman didn’t dare frown for fear of wrinkling her pretty face, but Andy understood that she wanted to.

“It’s all very impressive, is what I mean,” the woman said shortly.

“Thank you, miss…?”

“Charlton. Emily Charlton. I’m Miranda’s first assistant,” she redhead said. She was oozing pride, so Andy nodded and smiled and pretended to look very impressed with her.

“I’m Andy Sachs.”

“I know,” Emily replied pointedly before sauntering off towards the still erected tent. Andy wondered what she meant but dismissed the thought when her computer dinged alerting her to its’ completion. She shut her computer, grabbed the memory block for Nigel to take back to ‘HQ’ as he called it, and made her way to where her bag was inside.

Focussed speaking hummed within the white tarpaulin where Nigel, Miranda, Ms Charlton and another blonde woman stood talking amongst themselves. By the jewellery table was a smartly dressed black man accounting for the myriad of necklaces. She walked quickly to her bag that was on a large fold-out table and packed away her computer, pulling out her muesli bar as she went. She placed the memory block by Nigel’s coat and began walking out of the tent to head home.

“Six,” Nigel called from where he stood, “lunch next week, darling, I’ll be in touch.”

“Sure! See you then,” she called, sparing a glance to Miranda who was watching her trying, Andy assumed, to look disinterested. Andy smiled and waved to her in what was probably the dorkiest gesture she’d ever made before she scurried off and out of sight as quickly as she could. She had played it cool (perhaps even a little cocky which was outside her norm) but truthfully, Miranda was intimidatingly beautiful, and she was brilliant at what she did, and Andy just wanted to do right by her. She had so much respect for the woman that made the possibility of her working in her dream job a reality. And, yeah, maybe she did want to make out with her, but that was neither here nor there.

‘It was neither here nor there’ became her mantra for the next several days whenever she thought about Miranda Priestly. And she thought about her often.

“Hello,” Andy said after answering her wailing phone.

“Free tomorrow, Six? It’s due to be as slow a day as Runway could ever manage and god knows I could use some sane company after the week I’ve had.”

“The week you’ve- Nigel it’s Tuesday,” Andy said through her chuckles.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Six. Time moves differently at Runway. Now are you free or no? Miranda’s on a tear and I have another spread to save.”

“Tomorrow works for me. Where do you want to meet?” Andy dashed away the thought of meeting at Runway in case she might see Miranda again.

“The Capital Grille, near the corner of west 51^st and sixth. Does that-” Nigel was interrupted by what sounded like multiple voices barging into his office at once.

“Shit,” he murmured under his breath, “Andy, darling, I’ve got to go but pencil me in for twelve tomorrow.”

“Good luck,” Andy called just before the dial tone.

“An outfit,” Andy decided, standing from her couch and walking to her bedroom. She refused to admit to herself it was to distract from thoughts of Miranda. She just wanted to figure out what she was wearing. That’s all.

“Here is your table, ma’am,” the handsome waiter said, pulling out her seat for her. Andy smiled her thanks and looked around the almost pretentious interior design of the restaurant Nigel had selected for them. Her lunch companion was late and had texted her to let her know he’d be ten minutes behind schedule. She opened the menu to peruse what was on offer.

So, The Capital Grille was a touch fancier than Andy would dare luncheon at, and it was very, very expensive, even with her fatter pay check. But she liked Nigel and she could afford it if she was frugal for the next while. She wondered briefly if Miranda had ever eaten there. It seemed the sort of place she might dine at. For all the attraction Andy felt towards Miranda, she acknowledged that the woman was a little pompous and slightly rude from their first interaction. Andy liked it though, sort of in the way a straight girl might like a bad boy. She was infinitely grateful that Nigel arrived when he did to save her from her progressively more insane thoughts.

Air kisses and a quick hug and both were seated with wine in their glasses and meals ordered. Nigel seemed to be a regular customer by the service.

“Okay, spill,” Andy said after Nigel fourth sigh in about ninety seconds.

“Miranda’s been changing up the spreads this last two days like we don’t have lives outside Runway,” Nigel lamented. Andy raised a brow and smiled, and she sipped her wine.

“Oh, ha ha,” Nigel mocked, “so, maybe I don’t have a life beyond Runway but that’s not the point.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Well, you didn’t need to. I spend all my days deciphering Miranda’s facial expressions that I could be a human lie detector at this point. She’s been so hectic since the shoot last week.” Both took a break from talking to begin eating the meals that had just been sat before them. Andy was relieved that it was the best salmon she’s ever had because it was costing her an arm and a leg.

“The photos you took have been the only things safe in her recent rampage,” Nigel continued. “I’m impressed I could even make it for lunch,” Nigel said after his first bite of steak. The blaring tone of his phone sounded as he uttered the last syllable.

“Some sick joke, I’m sure,” he said as he answered. “Miranda?”

Andy looked up from her plate to observe Nigel’s face. His eyes were shut, and an incredible sense of resignation flowed outwardly from his posture.

“I’m at lunch at Capital with Six, Miranda… Bring her? I’ll check.”

“Miranda’s moved a preview up, so I need to go but you can come if you want to,” Nigel says with as little exasperation as he can manage. He seems to urge her to agree with his eyes, so she nods and says, “sure”. It’s for purely selfless reasons she agrees, too. Purely selfless.

“Alright,” Nigel sighs, looking mournfully at his barely touched meal. He raises his hand and just like a movie, someone appears by his side with the bill.

“Oh, here, Nige,” Andy says, rummaging around her purse for her card to pay for her meal.

“Absolutely not, Six. I asked you to lunch so I’ll pay,” he said, brandishing his card with a flourish. “As quick as you can, Anton,” he says to the waiter who nods and glides away.

“I’ll pay next time then.” Nigel rolls his eyes as he gathers his coats and scarf. “If you insist, Six.”

“I do,” she says as she adorns her princess coat over her simple black dress. She was glad she’s spent so much time perfecting her outfit now that she was going to see Miranda. The classic black dress, heels and coat never went out of fashion, even if it wasn’t as on trend as Miranda might expect of someone.

“Sir,” Anton said as he returned with Nigel’s card and receipt. Nigel nodded and pocketed both before gesturing for Andy to precede him. Once out of the restaurant’s building, Nigel hailed a cab and rushed Andy inside before telling the cabbie the address and to “drive like you stole it” which the cabbie took to heart.

“We’re seeing a woman called Alice’s work today. She’s had some pieces that have been exceptional, but her designs seem confused or poorly thought out. Miranda likes her work well enough but will never be satisfied unless Alice can produce perfection on every garment.”

“And she’s there to help her?”

“Well, not exactly. If Alice doesn’t impress her today, then she won’t be in Runway’s pages.”

“Wait, just, not included at all? That seems unwise if she has pieces that are good enough.”

“Six,” Nigel said turning to face her in the back of the cab. “Miranda’s not interested in ‘sometimes perfect’ or ‘almost perfect’ or anything that isn’t just ‘perfect’. If she told every designer how to properly design clothes, then she’d never be able to make an issue by the deadlines.”

Andy nodded. She knew that hard decisions needed to be made all the time, and so far, Miranda had been making the right ones.

“As it is, Miranda likes Alice’s line so far but there are pieces she can’t believe were made by the same woman, they’re that bad. Miranda’s been guiding her into realising what mistakes she’s making but apparently it’s slow progress and Miranda is not renowned for her patience.”

They pulled up on a sidewalk and rushed into a tall building, up an elevator and into a large and loud show room where a group of people were being seated. Andy spotted Miranda’s white head of hair instantly.

“Come on,” Nigel said, walking ahead of her. She followed him further into the room, looking over to the sewing stations where half a dozen people were milling around. Andy remembered the fevered dream that was her last semester of her apparel design degree and was immediately hit with a wave of fatigue just thinking of it. She swore she felt phantom pinprick pains from the sewing needles she used to use.

“Nigel,” Miranda said softly. “And Andréa,” she said almost as an afterthought.

“Miranda,” Nigel and Andy said in unison. Miranda looked expectantly at Andréa, perusing her outfit. A subtle nod and Miranda sat at the three-person sofa behind her, Nigel perching next to her. Andy looked around for a seat behind the sofa where a line of other Runway employees were talking amongst themselves.

“Sit down, Andréa,” Miranda murmured from her left. She looked to the older woman as she gestured to the unoccupied seat on her other side. Andy tried not to get butterflies from the offer (even if Miranda was still as rude as she was last time). She moved to the sofa and sat as far from Miranda as she could so the woman couldn’t complain about her proximity.

“Thank you for coming,” a blonde haired, dainty woman stood before them and said. She explained that her vision for her line was to bring a summer’s brightness to her winter apparel and how she had tried to execute it. Several pieces were modelled and were exquisite, Andy thought to herself. There was a gown that Alice presented nervously that Miranda and everyone else pursed their lips at. Andy agreed with the general consensus that it was messy and disjointed, but she could easily see where Alice had gone wrong.

“It’s the only one that I can’t seem to fix,” Alice said as plainly as she could. Andy felt that bleeding heart of hers rear its head.

“The sash,” Andy thought privately. Everything about the dress in individual components was fine, but assembled, it was messy and far too busy. It had stayed in her mind while Alice wrapped up the preview and Miranda and Nigel were busy speaking to each other in exclusive whispers that maybe Alice could save the garment with a slight alteration to the sash. She stood from the sofa and walked over to where Alice was talking to some of the people sewing. She sounded morose.

“Alice? Hi,” Andy said after getting the woman’s attention.

“Oh, hi. Andrea was it?”

“Just Andy, actually. I just wanted to, uh…” Andy trailed off at the hopeful look in Alice’s eyes. Andy couldn’t understand why Miranda would forsake the whole line for one fault in an incredibly designed line.

“The gown isn’t good, but it isn’t unfixable,” Andy said quickly. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I know a way, if you want some help?” Alice was already nodding before Andy even finished.

“Yes, please! I’ll get the gown from Marissa,” Alice said before disappearing behind a large rice paper divider and returning with the ruby coloured garment. Alice laid it down on the table in front of them and stepped back for Andy.

“Are you okay if I-”

“Andy, honey, my career is in your hands. If you want to make changes, please do it while Miranda is still here.”

Andy nodded and moved to grab scissors. She made a few confident cuts and removed the sash easily, then quickly fashioned a deep vee neckline into the gown with some coarse cutting and quick sewing skills, then sewed the material from the sash to sit loosely across the front of the gown, where breasts would sit, from shoulder to shoulder. It took her just over ten minutes before she held up the garment to show Alice.

“So, the sash didn’t work because you already had a waistline that eluded to having a vee neckline. Just a few aspects of the gown were incongruent with others, but, hey, it happens,” Andy said.

“Oh my god, thank you!” Andy smiled winningly and waved her off.

“Six?”

Andy turned to see Nigel and Miranda watching her interestedly.

“Do you have five more spare minutes? We’ve made some quick changes,” Andy said to Miranda.

“No more than that,” Miranda said simply. It was honestly more than Andy thought she’d give.

“Get that on Marissa ASAP,” Andy said, pushing the gown into Alice’s hands before returning to her seat beside Miranda on the sofa.

The gown looked completely different now that it had been altered. Andy acknowledged that her sewing was not perfect, but damn, she’d done it in ten minutes. She hadn’t had to sew that fast since her last semester in art school.

“Better,” Miranda said quietly. Alice looked relievedly to Andy and guided Marissa away to change so she could reinforce the quick sewing. Miranda turned to her suddenly and looked at her for a prolonged moment before speaking.

“You may have just saved her career,” she said softly. “It’s now an acceptable gown.”

“She just needed ten minutes of guidance,” Andy said, looking away from the piercing eyes, willing her heart to stop beating so fast. “And besides,” Andy added, “everything else was wonderful.”

“But not that gown.”

“No one produces perfect content every time,” Andy said.

“I do,” Miranda said bluntly. “So, do you.”

Andy turned her body to Miranda.

“You’re right, but for every good photo I take there’s a hundred that aren’t good. And for every issue you perfect, there are several mock-ups that precede it that you edit. We all have to work and draft and alter our crafts. Sometimes we have assistance,” Andy said looking to pointedly Nigel who was talking to Ms Charlton several feet away. “And sometimes we don’t have that luxury,” Andy said, smiling at Alice who was busy sewing.

Miranda was watched her curiously, her head tilted, her brow furrowed. She was beautiful, Andy thought.

“A late lunch, I think,” Miranda said abruptly.

“Pardon?”

“I interrupted your luncheon with Nigel for this,” she waved a hand around the general vicinity as she adorned her own coat. “I missed lunch myself,” she said walking over to Nigel. “Lunch,” she said to him simply. He nodded and followed her out, Andy following behind him.

“Le Bernardin,” Miranda said once they were on the street. Miranda stepped gracefully into a silver town car and drove off while Nigel hailed another cab for him and Andy.

“What did you say to her?”

“She was a little arrogant,” Andy started. She raised her hands to stop the lecture she knew was coming from Nigel. “And she has every right to be as someone that is the best at what she does,” Andy continued. “But the truth is, Nige, she doesn’t do her job alone. She has fantastic support in you and the rest of her staff that work so hard for her, but she critiqued Alice’s work like Alice had the same support. She doesn’t, and that’s what I explained to Miranda.”

“You’re ballsy, Six. I wouldn’t tempt Miranda’s anger like that too often.”

“I think she’s marvellous, Nige, but she’s been at the top of her game with all her employees for so long that she forgets that some people start with only themselves. I think the awareness is important and I think her invitation to lunch meant she agreed,” Andy finished.

“You’re something else,” Nigel said as the cab pulled up to the curb.

Miranda arrived with them, waiting just beside the cab while Andy paid the fare before Nigel could.

“Six,” Nigel said exasperatedly.

“Oh, hush. You paid for lunch and the cab over this side of town.”

“Really, you two, do stop bickering,” Miranda said airily before walking ahead of them and into the restaurant. The inside of Le Bernardin was warm and intimate, the lighting low and the music easy. They were immediately noticed and led to a table with a modicum of privacy and provided a wine selection and menus.

“Have you ever eaten here, Andréa?” Miranda asked. She hadn’t touched her menu and something in Andy told her it was because she frequented the place enough to know what she wanted.

“I haven’t, but I’ve heard great things from friends that have.”

“You’d like the striped bass, Six,” Nigel said from behind his menu.

“How do you know? We’ve only had one meal together,” Andy laughed.

“By the way your eyes lit up when you saw that salmon at Capital, I know you’ll like the bass,” Nigel said with a sly grin.

“Seafood is your favourite?” Miranda asked.

Andy launched into a story about how rare a seafood meal was in her house and how her sister liked crab more than fish but Andy preferred fish. And Miranda, surprisingly, listened with rapt attention, watching the gestures Andy made and smiling slightly when an anecdote was particularly humorous. Andy and Nigel talked for most of the lunch with Miranda chipping in occasionally. Andy and Miranda got into a debate about the 2002 Oscar de la Renta collection of coats that had revamped fur lined winter-wear and whether it was inspired by mainstream television like Sex and the City or not. Both were so absorbed in the other’s arguments that neither noticed Nigel’s sudden realisation of what, exactly, he was witnessing.

“Fashion is both revolutionary and reactive, though, and I think a show that Patricia Fields is the costume director for would inspire and motivate designers to create,” Andy said after her last bite of fish. Miranda sipped her wine leisurely.

“I agree but Oscar creates for people, not a single person that only exists in a television show.”

“You call him Oscar?” Andy quoted. It was the first time she’d seen Miranda chuckle.

“Very clever,” she said lightly.

Just as suddenly as the lunch began, it ended with both Miranda and Nigel being summoned by their colleagues and employees to return to Runway.

“Thanks for coming, Six,” Nigel said after a hug goodbye.

“No problem, Nige, I had fun.”

Miranda stepped closer to her after Nigel had released her and bussed her cheeks in the dainty air kisses Andy thought were exclusive to royalty.

“I’m glad you could come along, Andréa. We’ll have to do lunch again,” she said, stepping back and walking away to the town car that had just pulled up. Andy had stopped still, looking to Nigel for an answer for Miranda’s sudden warmth. Nigel rolled his eyes and shrugged. “I’ll call you,” he said before slipping in the car and closing the door.

Andy, in an introspection common to walking around a city, came to terms with the impossible fact that she, photographer and general mess, was attracted to the city’s most unpredictable woman.

“Huh,” she said quietly.

Shit.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER FIVE

.oOo.

Miranda’s Monday morning had been about as pleasant as it could have been. She had woken after a restful sleep, had breakfast with her beautiful children, and selected an outfit for herself that was particularly fetching (even more so than usual). It was probably why her workday that Monday would be the worst on record for a while, she supposed. The contrast of such a lovely morning and then an absolute travesty following it only exacerbated the matter. And everyone on the Runway floors sure felt her ire.

“You’ve had more than four days to bring me an acceptable spread with acceptable photos and yet,” Miranda trailed off, her tone dangerous. This was the fourth – or was it the fifth? – spread she’d had to veto that day alone. Everyone was manically fulfilling her orders, moving with haste and precision as they should have done to begin with. At this rate, the whole issue was useless, and if she was going to salvage it, the gutting of the issue would have to be immediate.

“No, it’s hideous. Get rid of it immediately,” she said to a selection of photos Jean had placed on her desk. She almost sighed in relief when Nigel breezed in, only slightly panic-stricken.

“I hear we’re scrapping everything? Urban Jungle too?” He said in lieu of a greeting.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, “It’s the only decent thing I’ve seen so far." Nigel’s brow furrowed for a moment then smoothened out.

“The Hudson shoot?”

“It’ll do.”

“Seems like we’ve got work to do then, no?” Miranda, quietly of course, was extremely grateful for Nigel’s optimism considering the situation. She nodded and flicked her wrists to dismiss everyone from her office.

Good grief, she had lots to do.

Naturally, an upheaval like the one she declared that Monday meant she and all her employees were working themselves to the bone to meet their deadlines on time, all going home late (Caroline and Cassidy were heartbreakingly pouty to hear she’d be working more the next few days) and then coming to work early to start over on Tuesday.

By midday, Miranda had almost convinced herself she was actually a deity sent from editor in chief heaven.

“I want the Givenchy accessories redone this afternoon and the trends spread re-edited in time for tomorrow’s debrief, then have Michael send all the completed articles to Louise so her team can redesign spreads four, nine, ten and thirteen. Send Lucia and her team to Nigel’s office so he can make sure she doesn’t make any more stupid mistakes. There really is only so much I can handle in the way of incompetence.”

Miranda watched with a bored eye as Emily made notes of her instructions. It was a small blessing, she imagined, to have an assistant as dedicated as the redhead.

“Have my lunch delivered from that place with the scallops and get me Patrick on the phone,” she finished with a disinterested wave.

It’s hard to be so brilliant.

Nigel was taking longer than usual to pick his phone up (he usually answered on the first ring, but she had heard three rings before he answered).

“Miranda?” She rolls her eyes, as if the man hadn’t memorised her number in the twenty years he’s had it.

“Alice’s preview is in half an hour, where are you?”

“I’m at lunch at Capital with Six, Miranda,” he said, as if she should know that. Well, maybe she did know he’d be at lunch with Andréa, but that meant nothing.

“For heaven’s sake, Nigel, the preview is in,” she paused to check the time, “twenty-seven minutes. Bring Andréa if you can’t bear to part with her,” she huffed. She most certainly did not feel a flutter of hope in her chest at the prospect. Really, it was absurd to think that she had met the woman once and hoped to see her again so soon. Positively absurd, Miranda agreed.

“Bring her? I’ll check.”

Nigel’s muffled voice sounded, then just a hint of the clear, soft voice of his lunch companion.

“We’ll be there in twenty,” Nigel says after a beat. Miranda refrained from grinning and hung up.

“Coat, bag,” she calls from her desk. She’s suddenly very pleased to be going to Alice’s studio, and the whole way there in the car, she tries to convince herself that it’s got nothing to do with her impromptu company.

Stepping into Alice’s studio, she surveys the relatively tidy work stations and the women seated at them who are trying not to stare at Miranda and the dozen or so people she’s arrived with. Alice greets her, two air kisses as is the custom, and her trademark grin that seems to be comprised of more nervousness than genuine pleasure. Miranda’s glad Alice can tell this isn’t a visit for visit’s sake.

The sound of the door opening and shutting rises above the cacophony of the rest of the room. Miranda waits a moment before turning to see Nigel who looks far more relaxed since she saw him that morning.

“Nigel,” she greeted. And there, stood behind him was Andréa, classically beautiful in a black dress, heels and a flattering coat. “And Andréa,” she said softly, trying not to stare at the brunette. The dress was plain, of course, and the coat was obviously designer, even if it was such a common design. Miranda felt her neck tilting to facilitate a nod before she could catch it. How interesting that Andréa could wear something so safe and yet still look so uniquely beautiful.

She shook herself from her thoughts and moved to sit on the couch provided for her and Nigel to sit at. It was a lucky thing, Miranda thought, that Alice only had a three-seater to offer. Nigel moved to sit to her right, as was his usual spot, but from her periphery, Miranda could see Andréa looking behind the couch for a spare seat with the rest of the Runway employees.

“Sit down, Andréa,” she said hastily. The woman sat as far as the small couch would allow. Miranda tried not to look into that too much, Andréa was probably respecting her space, after all.

Alice began the preview shortly after and introduced the various dresses she had designed. Miranda scrutinised them all rapidly, finding all of them acceptable, even enjoying some of the eccentric twists in some of the styles. But there, at the very end, was a dress so confused, so mismatched it was an insult to look at. What was she thinking, Miranda thought, to use that waistline and cover it up with a ridiculous sash?

“It’s the only one that I can’t seem to fix,” The girl said. On that, she and Miranda could agree.

The conclusion of the preview urged Miranda to turn to Nigel and discuss what they had seen, as had been their routine for years now. Miranda trusted no one’s judgement more than Nigel’s (apart from her own, naturally).

“It’s all so different, and no other publications, even blogs, are doing anything like this in their pages,” Nigel said, which was true enough. Alice had potential, Miranda knew, but she had no time to pick up for designers where they slacked.

“She loses her vision with her designs half way through a line, Nigel. She’s not consistent enough. Runway has a commitment to excellence, as you know, and as unique as she is, she is not one hundred percent.”

Nigel sighed and cleaned his glasses. Miranda recognised the mannerism as something he did when he disagreed with her.

“Is the one gown enough, though, Miranda? Everything else is so fresh,” he murmured, readorning his round spectacles.

“You know the answer to that, Nigel,” she said. Nigel understood the tone of her voice as being final and made no move to argue with her. Having no reason to stay further, Miranda and Nigel stood, both turning to their left, expecting to see Andréa in the near vicinity. Miranda turned to Emily to demand where the brunette had wandered off to when both hers and Nigel’s eyes were drawn to the gown the woman in question was holding up to show Alice by the sewing tables. Miranda stared, quite unsure as to what exactly she was looking at.

Where before she would have seen a poor excuse of a skirt and neckline tied together by an incompatible sash, she saw a dress both unique and flattering in its composition.  

“So, the sash didn’t work because you already had a waistline that eluded to having a vee neckline. Just a few aspects of the gown were incongruent with others, but, hey, it happens,” Miranda heard Andréa explain.

Her heart seemed to beat a little faster once she realised that Andréa altered the gown. Honestly, what couldn’t the girl do?

“Six?”

Andréa turned her head to look over and ask, “Do you have five more spare minutes? We’ve made some quick changes,” to Miranda. Usually she would never allow any extra time for a designer unless it was her idea, but she found that she couldn’t quite justify saying no when those big, brown eyes were imploring her to say yes.

“No more than that,” she managed to say. The grateful grin she received was oddly very worth the inconvenience of waiting further.

Seated again, Miranda observed the altered gown. The needlework was obviously rushed, the cuts crude and hurried, but it was admittedly a much better design than the first. Miranda realised that nearly everyone was waiting for her verdict, which she gave with a succinct, “Better.”

When the gown was away, and Nigel was busy talking with Emily and Lucia, Miranda turned and perused Andréa for a prolonged moment.

“You may have just saved her career,” she said softly. “It’s now an acceptable gown.” Miranda could barely understand the slight frown at her words and was loathe to admit she was disappointed when those dark eyes were no longer focussed on her.

“She just needed ten minutes of guidance. And besides, everything else was wonderful.”

“But not that gown,” Miranda countered. She was sensing that Andréa had something to say to her, something she might not like to hear.

“No one produces perfect content every time.”

“I do,” Miranda said bluntly. “So, do you.” She was delighted when Andréa turned to her again, even if it was to disagree.

“You’re right, but for every good photo I take there’s a hundred that aren’t good. And for every issue you perfect, there are several mock-ups that precede it that you edit. We all have to work and draft and alter our crafts. Sometimes we have assistance,” Andréa said with an obvious gesture to Nigel who was getting Emily to take notes for him. “And sometimes we don’t have that luxury,” the brunette finished, smiling over at Alice who was busy sewing.

It was a rare thing, Miranda acknowledged, that someone dared to be contrary with her. It was even more rare for that someone to have any strain of genuine sense in their argument. Andréa made a very good point, Miranda realised, though she wished she didn’t. Miranda did know she had help, as incompetent as the lot of them were from time to time, she did manage a perfect issue every month, on time in full. Perhaps she should be more aware of others?

If she was as aware of others as she was of Andréa, then maybe some good would come of it. And Miranda was aware of the brunette. Aware enough that she knew that Andréa was firmly against the arm rest of their sofa to avoid being too near Miranda (which was still oddly disappointing to her). What a ridiculous thing, to crave the close proximity of a near stranger.

So, make her not a stranger, her subconscious suggested.

“A late lunch, I think,” she heard herself announce.

“Pardon?”

“I interrupted your luncheon with Nigel for this.” She stood and grabbed her coat, not daring to look at Andréa in case she might decline the offer (if Miranda could even call it that, which she assumed she couldn’t). “I missed lunch myself,” she added, as if that made the near demand any more acceptable. She walked over to Nigel, “Lunch,” she said to him simply, figuring she might as well be consistent in her demands. Nigel, far more used to her than anyone else, nodded and followed behind, Andréa on his heels.

“Le Bernardin,” She said once they were outside. She retreated into her town car not a moment after, telling Roy where to go. She sighed once the car began rolling.

She recalled all her interactions with Andréa since they had met (which was easy, since it was only the second time they had interacted) and realised with a grimace that she may be coming across as less than pleasant. It’s hardly her fault, of course, what with Nigel winding her up for weeks before her first meeting with Andréa, who really is very beautiful. And then today, when everything that could have gone wrong with the current issue was going wrong. She could scarcely be expected to be jovial under such pressure. But, of course, she can be expected to be less caustic, especially toward someone who only seems to be solving her problems every time they meet, and even when they don’t.

And Andréa really does bring a professional joy to her that she had been missing far too often in recent months. The care and finesse Andréa possessed was a commonality they shared, Miranda supposed. She could indeed see the similarities she and Andréa had, but they halted almost everywhere else. The brunette seemed to walk around oozing a kindness that Miranda couldn’t afford to have. She was generous with her time and advice, and certainly confident enough to call people out when they were deserving of it.

“How interesting,” Miranda murmured. And then a lightbulb went off behind her steel blue eyes.

Andréa was interesting! And Miranda in some lapse of judgement had been standoffish and almost dismissive of her. It was an uncomfortable realisation that she had in the back of the town car, that she wanted Andréa to like her, and she wanted to know Andréa further than what she would if she carried on the way she was.

Well, Miranda thought as the car pulled up beside the restaurant. Time to be charming.

And Charming she was, with a capital ‘C’.

“Really, you two, do stop bickering.”

Well, once they got inside, at least.

“Have you ever eaten here, Andréa?”

Miranda was concerned that that was the best she could think to ask. Really, she thought, how long had it been since she needed to be genuinely charming? The younger face of her first husband flashed through her mind for a moment. About fifteen years, some bitter, lovelorn voice informed. And, of course, the girl hadn’t eaten there. It was an expensive restaurant even by Miranda’s standards, and she only ate there when she really felt like it or she had to schmooze.

Thank god for Nigel Kipling, though.

“You’d like the striped bass, Six,” he informed.  

“How do you know? We’ve only had one meal together,” Andréa laughed. Miranda thought it was a perfectly attractive sound

“By the way your eyes lit up when you saw that salmon at Capital, I know you’ll like the bass,” Nigel said with a sly grin.

“Seafood is your favourite?” Miranda asked, her interest genuine.

Miranda was quietly delighted when Andréa launched into some tale of her youth when she looked forward to her favourite foods. Miranda had noticed that Andréa often gesticulated in excess, had seen it when she directed models at photoshoots. She had never liked the exaggeration that came with processes of photography, how ridiculous the photographers looked and moved, but on Andréa it was endearing and engaging. She let herself fade in and out of the conversation, satisfied with listening to Andréa and Nigel talk nonsense in only the way those two could.

To Miranda’s delight, Andréa continued to interest her, continued to surprise her with her knowledge. Andréa mentioned a liking to Sex and the City, which Miranda only tolerated for the fashion, and how the show was revolutionising fashion for women, and fashion for designers.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Andréa, no designer, barring Donatella perhaps, watches that awful show. Even if the artistry in the clothing is palatable, the plot line is hideous.”

“But that’s just not true,” Andréa grinned, “de la Renta’s 2002 line featured heavily in coats and caftans and animals print after Carrie wore them in Sex and the City. He might not have watched the show or waited on pins and needles to see what Carrie would wear, but he certainly followed the trend in his own designs.”

“If anything, Andréa, he inspired the show. Fashion is often linear,” Miranda said, sipping her Riesling.

“Fashion is both revolutionary and reactive, though, and I think a show that Patricia Fields is the costume director for would inspire and motivate designers to create.” Miranda hummed in acknowledgement. She tried not to note how satisfied Andréa looked after her meal, but it was very distracting.

“I agree but Oscar creates for people, not a single person that only exists in a television show.”

“You call him Oscar?” Miranda rolled her eyes and chuckled, only a little embarrassed to have known the reference at all.

“Very clever,” Miranda conceded, looking into dark,smiling eyes.

Perhaps the world needed a spread on the depth and beauty of brown eyes? They seemed very important to Miranda in that moment, important enough to miss the knowing look Nigel shot her, and the almost pained sigh he heaved behind his wine glass. Yes, Miranda thought. A spread on the new Starlight Lancôme palette with emerald greens and navy blues and glittery coconut pinks with full, dark eyes. Yes, she decided. It sounded lovely.

“Jocelyn?”

Miranda pulled herself from planning her latest idea to the present. A present in which Nigel’s face was pulling itself into the expression he has when he’s frustrated. Miranda knew, and was very disappointed to know, that their little lunch was ending, and she’d go back to Runway and solve a million problems and possibly not see Andréa for another few weeks. Unless…

“We’ll be there,” Nigel sighed, waving a waiter over.

“Put that away, Nigel,” Miranda ordered Nigel who had his wallet out as the bill arrived. She placed her credit card between the sleek leather.

“Thank you, Miranda, you don’t have to-”

“Did you enjoy it, Andréa?” Miranda interrupted with an upturned brow. She knew the answer already, of course.

“Yes, very much,” Andréa said.

“Then it is my pleasure.” Oh, what a smile, Miranda remarked privately as Andrea's lips stretched into a gleeful expression. Perhaps the Lancôme lipstick line could feature, too. On the plumpest of lips, naturally.

Roy was only a few seconds out when they reached the sidewalk. Miranda convinced herself she was not disappointed to be leaving so hastily. She had work to do, after all.

“Thanks for coming, Six,” Nigel said beside her, pulling Andréa into a short embrace. It was endearing, Miranda supposed, to see Nigel so at ease with a new friend.

“No problem, Nige, I had fun.”

Miranda only hesitated for a second before deciding that she would not be leaving with just a verbal goodbye from the bewitching woman. Stepping into the girl’s space, she bussed her cheeks to Andréa’s (they were incredibly soft, she was abashed to note).

“I’m glad you could come along, Andréa. We’ll have to do lunch again,” she said, not belying an ounce of the hope that they would do just that with her tone. She slid into the car before Andréa might have the chance to decline her open offer, only having to wait a moment before Nigel slid in beside her.

“Runway, Roy. Quick as you can,” Nigel said. Roy nodded and pulled out into the traffic.

“She’s incredible, no?” Nigel said. Miranda, busy looking out the window trying to seem unphased, hummed her agreement and said nothing more.

“I didn’t realise she was so good at alterations until this afternoon,” he continued. Miranda remained silent.

“In fact, I had no idea she was so brilliantly informed about fashion and film and design and a number of other things you and I both enjoy. She’s a treasure, I think.”

“Nigel, is there a question you’d like to ask me? I’m certain you know how I feel about idle chatter.”

“You’re smitten, Miranda.”

Miranda whipped her head around so fast, Nigel was surprised it didn’t fly off her shoulders. Her forelock fell daintily over her eye and with a swipe so effortlessly graceful, she placed it back to her browbone.

“I beg your pardon?”

Miranda was astounded to see Nigel simply grin at her, his eyes sparkling in the same mischief he had about him before she met Andréa. She squinted her eyes at him menacingly and to her utter dismay, his grin only widened. He even chuckled! At her!

“I liked you much better when you were just a timid assistant editor, Nigel,” she huffed.

“No, you didn’t,” he said softly, his smile gentler, the kind he gave her when she needed a friend. Her squint melted away, her glare softened. She sighed.

“No,” she agreed, “I didn’t.”

“She’s great, Miranda. And I think she’s greatly suited to you as well,” Nigel offered. It was always this way with the two of them, neither really stating what they meant but always being understood anyway.

“She’s young, Nigel. Much younger than I am,” she murmured. As loyal as Roy was, she didn’t really care for him to know what was going on in her personal life.

“But she’s smart, and she works hard, and she’s beautiful. All things you enjoy,” he added with an eyebrow wag. If he were anyone else she might have pushed them out of the car, but as it was Nigel, she simply laughed and nodded.

“She is.”

“You’re smart, you work hard and you’re beautiful. I’m sure she likes those things in a partner, too.”

“Careful, Nigel, anyone would think you like me,” she teased, her tone dry.

“God forbid,” he chuckled.

They had no more time to talk once the car arrived at Elias-Clarke, both of them needed on the 17^th floor and at different departments, but Miranda was, dare she say it, thoughtful the rest of her day. She replayed Andréa’s words at the preview and acknowledged that, yes, her staff does support her enough for her to do her job. She replayed a lot of Andréa in her mind, actually. The way she sat beside her in the preview, legs crossed, leg bouncing. She way she focussed so completely on who she was talking to, the way she smiled when Miranda allowed an extra few minutes for Alice.

The girl was stuck in her mind like gum to a shoe, though she didn’t mind all that much. She considered if her life at the moment could even afford to include a romantic interest, especially a woman and especially as she had just told Stephen not six months before that she was not looking for a relationship.

“Mommy, how come you’re not married like Daddy?”

Miranda looked down to Caroline who was fighting sleep, all tucked into her bed.

“Mommy doesn’t have anyone to marry, Bobbsey,” she said softly. Her daughter’s nose scrunched up and Miranda’s heart ached with its perfection.

“Want you to be married, though. You don’t wanna be married?”

Miranda thought about the question before she answered. She had been married once before, to the girls’ father, and while it had not ended happily (they were amicable enough now after their divorce, thank god), Miranda had very much enjoyed being someone’s wife. She had adored the feeling of being half of a couple, having someone to come home to. She really just didn’t have anyone to marry, someone who could challenge her and support her and who she could cherish and support in return. But she had her daughters, and though a partner to love would be the cherry on top, she would be satisfied with her girls.

“Well, darling, I-”

Soft snores interrupted her.

Well, Miranda thought, that really is all.

“Goodnight, Bobbsey,” she whispered before slinking out of her daughters’ room.

“If you’re going to do this, Priestly,” she murmured to herself at her desk. The Runway office was clear, and she was just about to head home. “You’ve got to do it right.”

On the sticky note beside her she wrote a single sentence for Emily to handle come morning.

Schedule lunch with Andréa next week.

“Charming with a capital ‘C’,” she grinned, stalking out of her office.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SIX

.oOo.

Andy had been doing a lot of thinking in the last few weeks. She had been busy with work, editing photos, attending meetings at Runway and going to the odd lunch with Miranda. And by odd, she didn’t mean irregular, she meant odd. The woman was fabulous, to the point, beautiful. She was also a very busy woman but was spending nearly two hours every week luncheoning with Andy, always at a lovely restaurant, and always paying (Andy had tried to pay through some subtle subterfuge but was informed the bill had already been taken care of each time). If Andy didn’t know better, she thought she was being wooed.

Well, she hoped she was being wooed, because she was becoming accustomed to seeing Miranda so often. She was becoming accustomed to being the centre of Miranda’s attention for a short time, too. It was a heady thing to be the sole holder of a gaze so intense, to have the undivided attention of someone who could be doing a thousand, a million other things. But, no, Andy sighed, a stupid grin on her face, Miranda was focussed on her. They had started texting lightly as well after their second lunch. Sometimes it was to figure out times to meet, sometimes it was Miranda sending a text bemoaning the incompetence of her employees. Sometimes it was Andy sending a photo from a shoot she thought Miranda might like.

Light texting had evolved into short phone conversations every few days after their third lunch. It had been a natural sort of progression, Andy guessed, for just a pair if friends(?) but Miranda was certainly not just anyone. Andy did try, though, not to exclude her from doing juvenile things such as a phone call to moan about colleagues.

“Really, Andréa, there’s no attention to detail. It’s as if they’re not aware of the difference between gold yellow and fire yellow.”

“Some junior writer that doesn’t know when to use a comma, and another that doesn’t know when not to use a comma. God, where do these people come from?”

“If we don’t luncheon soon I am liable to commit homicide and I really cannot afford to stain the carpets. They’re cream, Andréa. Blood stains would never come out.”

Miranda’s quick wit, her dry humour, her dedication to beauty and perfection… Well, they were all things that perhaps some misinterpreted and considered poor qualities, but Andy was only ever impressed by her friend(?). It had become more difficult, however, to not stare at Miranda when they did see each other, to not look at her lips as she speaks or to fall too far into arsenic blue eyes or to hang pathetically off every word the woman says. It’s really hard to not fall a little bit in love with Miranda Priestly.

Andy barely manages it.

She’s not stupid, of course. She knows when she’s being flirted with, has been flirted with many times before, but there’s something different about being the subject of a woman’s flirtation. Perhaps because men are so rarely unclear about what they want, so often they are looking for romance or sex or both. With women, as Andy is slowly discovering, there are soft nuances, compliments that aren’t quite given from a friendly eye, rather an appreciative one, a lustful one. It is all a much subtler game than she’s used to, but she thinks she’s getting the hang of it.

Tentative flirtation from Miranda (Andy refuses to say it’s just her imagination at this point) will hopefully become blatant sometime soon. She imagines that it must be her to bridge the gap, and she is prepared to do that, tonight of all nights. She had explained to Patty the game plan for the evening, and he was very much on board (he always was keen for romantic strategising. Andy blamed it on his love for rom-coms.). That night, the annual Runway benefit was taking place at The Waldorf-Astoria, a “fancy as a cat in a suit” (Patty’s words) venue where only her best get-up would be acceptable.

So, there she stood, in front of Patty’s full-length mirror in his swanky apartment, looking over herself one last time. Nigel had accosted her on one of her rare days when she was at Elias-Clarke and told her under certain terms that he had a dress for her that she was not permitted to say no to. And why would she? Bedecked in golden Armani scales that clung to her skin, her figure, feminine and slender was on show. Her classic features (“huge features,” Serena had commented when showing her how to perfect her makeup) were complimented by kohl and liner, her eyelashes dark and long, her lips glossed to perfection.

“Whoa.”

Andy turned to see her oldest and dearest friend suited handsomely. His dark hair had been styled in a classic slicked quiff, his fashionable if quirky bowtie and his glasses pulling together a vaguely Clarke Kent-ish resemblance. “Rea, you look… très belle.”

“Merci,” she grinned. “We’re going to be late if we don’t go soon.”

“That’s what I came in to say. The car’s here.”

She turned to look one last time at herself before nodding.

“Onward and upward?” Patty winked.

“Oui.”

The Waldorf-Astoria’s entrance was a mess of paparazzi who had not received journalist passes to the event, arriving guests and security guiding a clear path to the interior of the hotel. Andy, who had been to a few parties in swankier parts of town, had never been to an event so… affluent. Questions were shouted at her from all directions, who she was, who she was wearing, what her place in Runway was, what she thought of Miranda. She kept silent through it all, of course, but it was a dizzying experience.

They had met with Nigel and Miranda’s first assistant (who insisted Andy call her Emily) once inside the ballroom. Nigel was dressed as chaotically as usual, Emily in something very chic, and black as was the expectation of an employee at such an event.

“Oh, Six, if I weren’t gay you’d be in trouble,” Nigel said, eyeing her dress appreciatively.

“And if I weren’t gay, you still wouldn’t be able to handle me,” Andy winked. Emily sputtered, Patrick simply rolled his eyes.

“Lucky us, then,” Nigel said, raising his glass to clink with Andy’s.

Privately, beyond the joking with her colleagues, Andy wondered when Miranda might be arriving, what she’d be wearing, if she’d even have a moment to spare for Andy tonight. She was not delusional, she knew that Miranda was the belle of the ball, and every man and his dog would be vying for an opportunity to simply be seen with the queen of fashion, but some small, stubborn part of Andy hoped she might be able to score a simple greeting. Just something to tide her over until next they spoke.

Speak of the devil, Andy thought wryly, as a ripple of excitement slithered through the guests. Miranda glided down the staircase, elegance and grace and an absurd amount of sex appeal. Andy had a hard time not letting her tongue loll out of her mouth, but she held herself in check. Miranda was wearing a timeless vintage style obviously designed by Valentino. Cinched at the waist and accentuating already curvaceous hips, her black gown drew the eye of everyone in the room. Paired with a wide, black belt with an ornate golden buckle, and a delicate fur wrap nestled upon narrow shoulders, Miranda Priestly was truly the queen in the room.

“I’ll try to make sure she gets a chance to talk to you,” Nigel said to her quietly, nodding to Emily to move to Miranda’s side.

“Huh?” Andy said, intelligently, still a little distracted by Miranda’s collarbones.

“I’m giving you a golden opportunity, both with the dress and with Miranda, to get this romance on the road.” Nigel moved in front of her, blocking her view and capturing her attention.

“You look hot, she’s always in a good mood for the Runway benefit, and she’s been hoping you would make a move for weeks.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders, looking seriously into her wide eyes. “Do not fuck this up, Six.” And then he turned on his heel and strode away to Miranda’s side, who still hadn’t noticed her.

Miranda’s been waiting on me to make a move?

In a daze, she and Patty make some rounds around the room, Patty stopping to talk to whoever he wanted to and Andy staying thoroughly locked in her thoughts. She thought on all the lunches Miranda had invited her on and taken the time to go to and how valuable the woman’s time was. It hits her like a tonne of bricks that Miranda had been the one each time to schedule those lunches and felt ashamed that she had not reached out just as often. She absently laughed at some joke she didn’t hear and remembered to sip her champagne every now and then to keep up appearances. She thought she was doing a pretty good job.

She looked up from her now stale champagne to see why everyone in the small group she was in had gone silent. For a moment she thought she’d missed a cue, and everyone was waiting on her to answer or react, but none of them were looking at her at all. Their gazes were trained on someone behind her. She turned slowly, as elegantly as she could in her tall heels, and was met with the socialite smile and curious gaze of the subject of her deep ruminations. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nigel capture the attention of the people Andy was standing with, offering her and Miranda a modicum of privacy.

“Andréa,” Miranda said, moving to buss their cheeks in greeting, touching softly but enough to suitably wipe Andy’s brain of all intelligence. She tried not to get dizzy from how good Miranda smelled. “You look positively darling this evening.”

“There are no words for…” Andy gestured hopelessly to Miranda’s general appearance, not bothering to moderate the expression of adoration she knew she wore. She swallowed quietly and looked up into Miranda’s bright eyes.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Andréa,” Miranda smiled sociably.

“Even to a dinner? Next week?” was not what she had planned to say, but it sounded rather smooth considering her prior ineloquence. Miranda’s eyes widened slightly, as did her smile.

“I might need to be flattered into it, but I’m not opposed,” she said flirtatiously. Andy, now back in the driver’s seat and in charge of her mental faculties, felt some confidence bubble forth. Her posture leaned to one side accentuating the curve of her waist (which Miranda’s eyes certainly darted to), her champagne glass rested artfully in her hand and gave her an air of casual grace with which she hoped to seduce Miranda the tiniest bit.

“I’m sure I could convince you, anyhow,” Andy said. A raised brow meant Miranda was intrigued.

“And how will you manage that, Andréa?” Miranda said haughtily.

Uncrossing her right arm from under her bust, Andy let her hand fall to Miranda’s elbow, cradling it gently in her hand before leaning into Miranda’s space under the pretence of sharing a private word should anyone be watching them.

“The trick,” she whispered, letting her breath brush against Miranda’s neck is soft puffs. She heard the slightest intake of breath and felt her heart bump in her chest. “Is to go in boldly with an offer,” she continued, watching goose bumps rise on Miranda’s neck, “That you simply can’t refuse.”

When she leaned back to look at Miranda, the woman’s eyes were wide but not suspiciously so. Her breathing was deep and slow, measured. Her lips were still upturned slightly in a pristine smile, but her lips were parted, the smallest hint of her tongue darting to her bottom lip. Andy feels powerful in that moment. She feels sensual and flirty. She feels like she could do anything if she only puts her mind to it. She feels like she’d really, really like to go on a date with Miranda.

“So, Miranda,” she says casually, letting some of the husk in her voice shine through her softer tone, “Will you go to dinner with me?” She manages to refrain from biting her lip as she asks (she has lipstick on, and she feels it would be slightly corny).

“I-” Miranda clears her throat delicately, “I’d love to,” she says, her dove grey eyes gliding over Andy’s glowing face. “Only if you try not to look so smug,” she adds. Andy morphs her face into an endearing imitation of Miranda’s ‘business face’ as Andy had referred to it one lunch. Miranda’s laugh is light and tinkling, drawing several admiring eyes their direction. Andy doesn’t blame them.

“What have I gotten myself into,” Miranda murmured through her smile. Andy breathed a soft laugh and watched as Miranda was guided to more adoring partygoers by Nigel (who winks none too subtly and eyes her up and down).

The rest of her evening is spent thinking about Miranda, and all that she knows about her. Anyone who has spent any amount of time with the woman knows she adores her daughters and spends as much time with them as she can. She loves her job, though it can be trying on her patience at times. Andy knows Miranda is open to criticism when it’s constructive and not blameful, and it’s a quality that she appreciates (especially after her last, disastrous relationship). They were both career women, that Andy knew, but they were both smart, both mature and in control of their own actions, so navigating a relationship would only be as challenging as they made it.

As she sips her fresh flute of champagne, Andy feels the alcohol and her excitement bubble pleasantly in her belly. If anything, Andy is looking forward to knowing Miranda, to perhaps, one day soon, loving Miranda.

“There you are,” Patty says from beside her. “I’ve been looking for you. It’s nearly nine, I thought you might be a little hungry.” He offers her the small plate of appetisers in his hand to her, which she grabs gratefully. Her feet are sore, she is hungry (perhaps for something a little more substantial than little tarts with rhubarb compote), and as glamourous as her dress is, it really isn’t as glamorous a feeling to wear scales as one would think.

“Actually, Patty, I’m gonna head home in a minute,” Andy said around a bite of some haloumi… thing. It was delicious, even if she had no idea what she was eating.

“You’re not feeling well?”

Andy smiled at her friend’s care and patted his arm to reassure him that, no, “I’m fine. Just want to get more comfortable.” He nodded and began to lead her back to the coat room to grab her simple fur coat.

“I’ll wait with you outside.”

“No way, Patrick. Go back inside, enjoy yourself. I saw you talking with a handsome suit, now get back in there and tell me all about it tomorrow,” Andy said, pushing the man back through the main hall from the cloak room as he tried to disobey her. He eventually gave in.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” were Andy’s parting words before she turned and stalked out of the building. It was chilly outside and her dress and coat (if it could be called a coat being a single length of fur over her shoulders) didn’t offer much protection against the cooling temperatures. She decided to call a cab and try to get out of the cold as fast as possible. She was grateful there was no paparazzi crowd like when she arrived.

“Hello? Yes, I need a cab to the Waldorf Astoria. What do you mean? Not covering this street because of the Runway event? That’s ridiculous, what do you- hello? Damn!”

“Oh, such language, Andréa.”

Andy turned to see Miranda stood, coat adorned over her lovely shoulders, at the doorway of the hotel. She glided forth towards Andy’s still form, her phone still to her ear even though no one was on the line.

“Pardon me, then,” she said, grinning flirtatiously.

“Are you having car troubles? Is your driver late?” Miranda inquired.

“No, the taxi company said-”

“Taxi?” Andy chuckled at how aghast Miranda sounded, as though catching a taxi might have been an insult to her personally.

“That will not do, darling,” Miranda said, looking intently at Andy’s mouth, just as a silver Mercedes pulled up in front of them. She leaned forward, much like Andy had done a few hours earlier, to whisper into her ear. “You’ll ride with me.”

“Okay,” Andy said dazedly. Miranda really did smell wonderful.

It was a delicious sort of agony to be seated in a warm, comfortable car with Miranda nary two feet away from her. She was imagining all sorts of scenarios where she leaned across the short distance and finally tasted Miranda’s mouth. Finally felt the other woman sigh against her lips, felt the curve of her hip in her grasp, felt Miranda’s hands run through her own dark hair and pull her closer-

“Andréa?”

“Huh?”

Turning to the knowing gaze, Andy flushed and murmured an apology for not listening.

“Don’t apologise, darling. Promise me you might consider actually doing whatever you were thinking of?”

Andy nearly groaned. She thought she was in control of herself, thought she could do all the seducing and all the catching off guard, but she liked Miranda like this: Bold. Even if it only happened in short bursts, Andy liked when Miranda was open with her intentions.

“I’m not sure it would be a good-”

“Please, Andréa,” Miranda whispered. She looked so soft, and so beautiful leaning back into her seat, reposed like some Grecian deity set in marble. And how could anyone, let alone Andy, resist such a plea?

Well, the answer was, she couldn’t.

Kissing Miranda, even in the back of a private town car, was so simple, so rememberable. The soft sighs that Miranda breathed into Andy’s mouth and the pleased hums that vibrated along Andy’s lips to her breastbone were like nothing else she had ever experienced. Kissing had always been an enjoyable activity for Andy in her previous relationships, and she liked to do it often, but kissing Miranda, who she had so much chemistry with, was new for her. She quickly grew more confident in the kiss and took control of it, turning Miranda’s head so she could get the best angle for them both.

She didn’t care about where they were driving, didn’t care about the driver being suspicious of what was going on behind the divider, she didn’t care that, technically, she hadn’t been on a date with Miranda yet (they had been romancing each other for weeks as it was, so that had to count for something). Andy, truly, didn’t care about anything but the soft, pliant lips against her own and the desperate, clingy hands on her shoulders. Not even that her lungs were crying out for air.

Miranda pulled herself away suddenly, taking large gulps of air and licking her lips, her eyes, darker now with passion, staring at Andy’s face in wonder and lust. Andy similarly looked at Miranda as she took heaving breaths. Andy decided she would rather be kissing Miranda still, and bent down to kiss along the older woman’s jawline, peppering feather-light, teasing presses of her lips. She moved further along to a bejewelled ear, nipping it then soothing the sting with her tongue, lavishing the sensitive skin around it with open-mouthed kisses and scrapes of her teeth. The sounds Miranda made were muted; her gasps, her moans, her groans. It was heady for Andy to know that Miranda could hardly control her volume.

When Andy reached an exposed collarbone, defined and soft on her tongue, that she pulled back, realising just how out of control she was getting. If she carried on, Miranda would be stripped of her dress in the back of her own car, and there was no way Andy was about to be so undisciplined with Miranda, especially regarding this. Apart from the harsh pants from each, the back of the car was silent, heavy with indecision on both Miranda’s and Andy’s part. Miranda, as both were aware, had not yet told the driver (who was driving towards the townhouse) that Andy was to be dropped home. Both were aware that they could decide to forsake Andy’s return to her own apartment altogether and simply go inside for a nightcap, or a chat, or a few orgasms that they each wanted to give to each other.

Andy looked at the long neck, still unmarked, and the sharp jawline and the high cheekbones of her almost-lover. She looked at her hair and how it swooped over her browbone, how her eyes were made lighter by her eyeshadow, how her nose leaned ever so slightly to the left. She looked at swollen, uncoloured lips and at the tongue that was running along her bottom lip, chasing the tingles as Andy was. She wanted to see her underneath the dress, wanted to take her, to give herself, wanted to wake up with her in the morning in a bed. By the ring of blue around large, blown pupils, Andy could guess that Miranda wanted that, too.

But, more than she wanted any immediate gratification, Andy wanted to fall in love with Miranda, to savour her and this phase of their evolving relationship. She wanted Miranda to be in love with her when they made love the first time. And, as much chemistry as they had, as well as they got on and as much as they were already friends, Andy was not yet in love with Miranda, and she knew Miranda was not yet in love with her. She sighed, almost silently now that her breathing had calmed, and braced herself to tell Miranda that she would not be going into the townhouse that night.

Miranda’s eyes closed, a small frown creased her brow. “Shh,” Miranda said, bringing her palm to cup Andy’s jaw. “I know,” she continued. Andy relaxed a little and pulled Miranda close enough to embrace her for the last few minutes of the ride, needing the contact before they parted. When the driver pulled to a stop out the front of Miranda’s home, the older woman detached herself reluctantly, then again hushed Andy before she could speak.

“Andréa, if I don’t leave this car right now then you will not be going home, and I will not be waking alone,” Miranda warned. Andy gulped, wishing for just a moment she wasn’t so traditional as to insist on waiting to have sex together. Miranda pressed a button on the centre console and instructed the driver to take Andy home before giving Andy a heated, lingering stare from head to toe. Andy felt her thighs clench and her breath hitch, both noticeable to Miranda. With a moment of eye contact, dark brown to turbulent blue, Miranda whispered a goodnight, not waiting for Andy to return the sentiment before stalking across the sidewalk and up the few stairs to open the door. She doesn’t turn to wave which doesn’t surprise Andy. It’s probably a good thing, considering Andy is ‘this’ close to getting out of the car to follow Miranda inside to continue ravishing that lovely neck among other things.

Andy slumps back as they pull away from the home and drive in the direction of her apartment. It’s not a long drive, which she is grateful for. Once in her apartment, she all but rips off her dress, only bothering to hang it up because it’s not technically hers, before wiping off her makeup in a blaze of accuracy and efficiency. When she falls into bed, she’s still warm from the car (and not from the heater), and she can still feel a dull throb at the apex of her thighs. It’s a fast, and ultimately unsatisfactory climax that she manages to wring from herself, only thoughts and the lingering scent of Miranda getting her across the line.

She rolls onto her side, keen to fall asleep and try to dream about Miranda and what she might have done if she had just gone inside with her. She’s in the foyer, kissing Miranda’s neck again in her head when her stomach rumbles. She groans and drags herself to the kitchen to look for something quick and simple to eat to stave off her hunger until morning. As she crunches down on some yoghurt and granola, she can’t help but pray that the next week comes in the blink of an eye. She already misses Miranda and feels sulky and frustrated at herself.

Damn me and my stupid ideas, she grouses into her bowl. She’s annoyed to admit that the granola is, in fact, delicious.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER SEVEN

.oOo.

“Think of the devil,” Miranda said as she answered the phone.

“Thinking of me again, babe?”

“Don’t be arrogant, darling, it doesn’t suit you. And don’t call be that horrible nickname.”

“Yes, Miranda,” Andy said, not sounding repentant at all.

“How are you?”

Miranda sank back into her office chair as Andréa began relaying details of her day. She was like balm to Miranda’s frayed nerves from all the stupidity she had to put up with. Since she and Andréa had begun dating, Miranda estimated that at least half of her staff had been saved from being fired. Nigel and perhaps Emily had been the only ones to notice much of a change in her day to day behaviour, but she had changed since Andréa had taken her to dinner several weeks earlier.

It had started out as a disaster, both Miranda and Andréa could admit. There had been a freak storm that had lasted all of twenty minutes but had ruined Miranda’s hair and practically melted Andréa’s makeup off her face. The restaurant that Andy had selected, a quaint Italian restaurant that the brunette swore by, had closed that afternoon due to the head chef’s nonna being hospitalised. Miranda’s shoe had broken on a cracked bit of sidewalk and Andy had nearly lost her arm after it had gotten caught at an odd angle in the taxi they shared back to Andy’s.

They had laughed about it once they got to Andréa’s apartment which was closer than the townhouse (the twins were at home and Miranda had been very upfront about waiting until she introduced Andréa to her children which Andy understood). Their first date had been less of a ‘romancing in a family owned and run restaurant’ and more of an ‘order in and wear pyjamas’ type. Miranda felt younger than she had in years wearing a pair of Andy’s sweat pants and a tank top, both their lovely dresses being put in the washing machine when they arrived. Andréa had apologised profusely at the poor turn of events, but in between bites of pad thai and coconut rice, Miranda had reassured her there wasn’t anywhere else she’d rather be.

Takeout at the table became tv on Andréa’s very comfortable sofa and laughing at the ridiculous characters in an old comedy show that happened to be on. Miranda thought she should have felt strange to be on the brunette’s lounge in anything less than her usual cutting attire, sans makeup or hairspray. But Andréa, beautiful Andréa who smiled and laughed at whatever she pleased, had never made her feel uncomfortable. She felt she had grown as a person, certainly as a boss, since she met the brunette. And how enchanting it was, Miranda mused, to grow with someone you adore.

“Well, what a first date, huh? Talk about a series of unfortunate events. I’m sorry it turned out so underwhelming-”

She had leaned in and kissed the remorse away from Andréa’s tone (Miranda had been looking for an excuse to kiss the woman all night).

“I do mean it when I say,” she informed between kissing Andréa and leaning back to look her in the eyes, “this has been the most wonderful first date I’ve ever been asked to.”

“Bet you say that to all the girls you go on dates with,” Andréa had teased. “Just the cute ones,” Miranda had countered.

“Miranda, are you listening to me?” Andy said, still on the phone.

“No, not even a little bit.” She smiled at the boisterous laugh from the other end of the call.

“At least you’re honest. What were you thinking about?”

“I was thinking about the wonderful ending to our date,” Miranda purred. And it had been wonderful, but Miranda was again left without any release. She had done nothing but berate herself for letting Andréa go home after the benefit… How delicious that night could’ve been, she’ll never know.

“Ms Priestly,” Andy said emphatically, “You are at work!” Miranda smiled again as she peered out of her office from her desk. She had sent Emily and the most recent clown of a second assistant home an hour before and set to work on the Book from her office. The girls were with their father for the weekend and would stay there until Miranda returned from Paris Fashion Week which she was set to leave for on Tuesday. It meant she had five days of no twins at home until she left, and while she enjoyed having time to herself, she did miss them terribly while they were apart.

“How did you know I’d be at work?”

“You said the twins were going to be with their dad, so I figured you’d be working late,” Andy said. It was such a simple thing, Miranda supposed, for Andréa to know about her, but that the brunette knew her so well touched her heart.

“I suppose I did,” she murmured. “I want you to meet them,” she blurted. Andréa had gone silent on the other line, and though Miranda was seldom nervous about anything, Andréa had the ability to make her second guess a lot of things she did. She disliked it for the disruption to her usual mode of ‘full steam ahead’ but she liked that she was letting Andréa into her heart bit by bit.

“You’re sure?” Miranda swallowed thickly and nodded before she realised Andréa couldn’t see her.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I can’t wait to meet them, Miranda,” Andréa said softly, earnestly. The moment was heavy with the mutual realisation that the relationship with were building was about to take another step toward serious commitment. Miranda had taken the time to explain to Andréa that she never introduced her dates to her children unless she was sure of them. Since their father, there hadn’t been anyone that Miranda had thought compatible enough for that. Until Andréa. She hoped – good god, how she lived on hope – that it wouldn’t end up being a mistake on her part.

“I know, darling,” Miranda said as softly and earnestly as Andréa had.

“Have you eaten?”

“No, Andréa, I have not eaten,” Miranda said crisply, shedding the weight of the moment passed. Andréa was very firm about eating properly after Miranda had mentioned once in passing that she forgets to when she’s busy. “You’re always busy,” Andréa had replied incredulously. Since then, she had been calling at random moments during the days to remind Miranda to eat, to take care of herself. Miranda had asked about it on their second and most recent date (at Andréa’s apartment again due to poor weather) why Andréa felt the need to call her just to talk about eating a meal.

“Because I care about you, silly,” she had replied before heaping a pile of pasta onto her plate. The transparent response had shifted something in her chest at that had been rigid since her divorce. She had forgotten, after being a mother to her girls and being the editor in chief of the finest fashion magazine in the world, that she liked to be looked after every now and then. She liked to be doted on, to be the one to follow, to just sit back and experience a moment instead of being in control all the time.

“Well,” Andréa said as the distant ding of an elevator sounded, “You’re a lucky lady, then.”

Miranda, who had looked back to the Book and remained oblivious to the elevator, hummed questioningly into the phone. “Mhm,” Andy hummed back mockingly, “Because I got your favourite,” she said before hanging up. Miranda pulled the phone away from her ear in disbelief that Andréa had hung up on her for no reason when she saw movement from the outer offices. And there was Andréa, dressed impeccably with a radiant smile and a bag of what Miranda assumed was food. Her favourite, she repeated in her head. Her stomach growled in anticipation.

Miranda stood as Andréa walked in, as beautiful as the first day Miranda had laid eyes on her, and bent to greet her with a sweet kiss. Miranda hummed delightedly and pulled the brunette in for a second, longer kiss. Blue eyes were as bright as brown eyes were dark when they pulled away from each other, breathing slightly laboured.

“Hey, babe,” Andréa said cheekily. Miranda rolled her eyes before clearing her desk enough for the bag of food Andréa had brought with her. They had only done this once before, the last time the twins were with their father for a weekend, but it felt like they had been doing it for far longer. It was a winning feeling, Miranda decided, to be known by another. And as Miranda watched the taller woman move her things to the precise place she herself would put them, Miranda truly felt that Andréa (sweet, attentive Andréa) knew her.

“Sit down, Miranda. Relax for a little while.”

She did just that.

“So,” Andréa said after her last bite of her pad thai, placing her plate on the low coffee table, “Are you all packed for fashion week?”

Miranda, who finished her food before Andréa, swallowed her mouthful of Pellegrino. “No, not yet,” she replied evenly. Andréa frowned confusedly, taking only a second to think before smirking at Miranda with that same glint in her eye that Nigel got sometimes.

“You’re a last-minute packer, aren’t you?”

Miranda huffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Andréa.”

“Who, me? I’m not the one who packs at the last minute,” the brunette said from beside her on the lounge in Miranda’s office.

“I don’t pack at the last minute.”

“You’re a terrible liar, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” Miranda said, “It’s so corny.”

“Or what?”

Miranda turned her head to look at Andréa, noting the way her own cheeks warmed at the low, seductive tone the brunette had adopted. And when did she move so close?

“Do you want to know what I think, Miranda,” she purred into Miranda’s ear. God, Miranda thought. It had been too many days since she had seen Andréa, too many days since they had been able to do this. She shivered as Andréa’s breath ghosted over neck near her ear, warm and seductive. “I think,” Andréa said, leaning in to kiss Miranda’s lobe softly, eliciting a quiet gasp, “that you,” she murmured against Miranda’s neck, leaving goose bumps in her wake as she drifted to Miranda’s parted lips, “like it.” Miranda’s brain (now useless) urged her forward to capture plump lips with her own.

“Missed you,” Andréa hissed between frenzied kisses. Miranda could only moan. “Shh,” the brunette urged. If Miranda was coherent she might have laughed at how useless the hushing was, because in the same breath the Andréa had shushed her, she had also grabbed onto the dark hair at Miranda’s nape, tugging gently to find a better angle. Miranda, melted into the lounge, could only cling at Andréa’s shoulders as she was so fond of doing.

“God, Miranda,” the brunette moaned, skating her lips down Miranda’s neck, to the sides where her pulse thundered and back, leaving Miranda to pant uselessly up at the ceiling. This, was all her mind could think. This was what she needed after staring at the Book for so long. This was what she needed after being apart from Andréa for too many days. This was becoming too little for her to live on. She needed more, and damnit, she was not going to tell Andréa to go home a second time. She shouldn’t have done it a first time.

“Home,” she gasped dumbly. Andréa liked her collarbones, liked to nibble along them and suck lightly at her pulse. It was too much, even for Miranda’s formidable mind. She tugged at the thick auburn hair and pulled that sensuous mouth away from her skin. The harsh, disgruntled sigh had Miranda rubbing her thighs together fruitlessly. “Home,” she managed to say again, looking into dark, blown eyes. Miranda swallowed at how endless they seemed, how needful she was as she looked into them.

“Come home with me,” Miranda panted, looking down at plump, swollen lips and feeling her mouth dry at what it was capable of. “Andréa,” she begged softly.

Looking up into the slightly lighter eyes of her not-yet lover, Miranda groaned and fell forward into a lovely, slender shoulder. Andréa caught her and held her in an embrace, chuckling at Miranda’s disappointment.

“I have to be at a sunrise shoot tomorrow, Miranda,” she explained into silver hair. Miranda grumbled unintelligibly into a sharp collarbone, biting it gently in retaliation. The sharp gasp, one part surprise, two parts arousal was worth it.

“You always do this,” Miranda complained, nuzzling where she had bitten her not-yet lover. “You kiss me so hotly,” she said into Andréa’s neck, feeling slightly drunk with the surge of power she felt at the sight of the brunette swallowing harshly. “You kiss my mouth, my neck, my chest,” she murmured, drifting closer to Andréa’s jaw. “And then,” she whispers, nudging the sharp jawline and moving to still swollen lips, leaning in very slowly…

She pulled away abruptly, ceasing all contact with Andréa before leaning back into the arm of the sofa, reclining like she wasn’t just begging the brunette. “And then you leave me hanging,” she said with a frustrated moue. Andréa squinted at her, but Miranda remained unapologetic. She knew, down to her bone marrow, that Andréa would be a fantastic lover. She could tell by little things, like how Andréa flicked her tongue inside Miranda’s mouth as they kissed, and by the way Andréa’s lips mouthed at her jaw, and by the way her teeth tugged at her lobe. But, to Miranda’s never-ending frustration, Andréa had stalled them each time they might have taken things further. She knew that Andréa was attracted to her by the way her eyes would roam her face and her neck and peer into her eyes and linger on her mouth, but she seemed reluctant in some way regardless.

“Andréa,” she said lowly, savouring how dark eyes snapped to hers from her mouth. “On Wednesday I leave for Paris, and I refuse to go abroad for nine days without having had you before then,” she said. Her hand had been fine for when she needed release, and it would be fine again if Andréa did not take her before she left, but Miranda did not want to wait any longer than she already had.

“I want you,” she said quietly, trying very hard not to think about all the ways she wanted Andréa. “And though I adore how you care for me, I’m not delicate, not made of porcelain. Don’t make me wait any longer, darling,” she beseeched softly. Andréa cleared her throat before speaking.

“I really do have a sunrise shoot tomorrow, and then one on Sunday as well. Do you want to stop by my apartment in the afternoon? It’ll probably be the last time we’ll be able to see each other before you go to Paris. I’ll make you lunch, and we can spend the afternoon together. You can stay the night if you want.” Miranda’s eyes narrowed at Andréa.

“Will you make me sleep in the guest room?” Andréa smiled.

“No, Miranda,” she said leaning in close. Miranda kept her eyes narrowed to let the brunette know that her seduction wouldn’t work a second time (they both knew she was full of shit). “I’ll need you very close for what I’m planning,” the minx continued.  Miranda held up a finger to stop Andréa in her tracks.

“No more kissing until tomorrow. You don’t play fair, Andréa Sachs,” she admonished lightly. The brunette laughed softly and leaned further into the couch. Miranda eyed her silhouette greedily, immediately regretting her decision to cease any more kissing until the next day.

“When am I going to meet the twins,” Andréa asked excitedly. Miranda, leaning back herself, smiled at her lover’s sincere interest in her daughters.

“After Paris, naturally. The Saturday after? I know the Kors shoot is the Thursday. Do you think you’ll have some free time?”

“For you and the girls? Always.”

And really, Andréa didn’t play fair at all. Saying things like that and making Miranda err only just this side of in love, and she hadn’t even met her daughters. Was she lucky? She felt that way. They continued to talk in low tones about all that Miranda was going to be up to in Paris while Andréa was busy on shoots and coming in to the office to help the rest of the staff that would stay behind. Andréa really did support her in so many ways, not just personally.

When Andréa yawned and blinked in a way Miranda had decided was adorable, she finally told her pretty dinner guest that it was time to go home for her.

“What about you? It’s nine already,” the brunette said as she gathered their dinner plates and tidied the coffee table.

“I still have at least an hour of work to do before I’m leaving. Stop that, I’ll put them in the dishwasher in a moment.”

Andréa turned to her to make her distaste known for Miranda’s decision on a late night. “Don’t stay too late,” Andréa urged softly. “Or if you do, make sure you sleep in tomorrow,” she added. Miranda, averse to taking orders from anyone, especially to do with her work, nodded with an indulgent smile for her lover. She wondered what the difference was between Andréa and her ex-husband telling her not to work late was. She decided it was the motivation behind the demand; Andréa asking for Miranda’s sake rather than her own as opposed to the twins’ father, who got frustratingly ‘traditional’ once they were married, insisting on a homemaker for a wife.

“I won’t wake a moment before seven,” Miranda promised. Andréa nodded and stood, pulling Miranda up with her and into her arms for a firm hug. Andréa was very good at hugging, Miranda had discovered on their first date. She was warm, and slightly taller than Miranda, perfect for tucking into and relaxing against her long neck.

“Am I allowed to kiss you goodnight, or do I have to wait until tomorrow still?”

Miranda knew she was kidding, but she really did think about it. She’d be setting a terrible precedent if she caved to Andréa like this and kissed her, but then again, she’d be kissing Andréa, and how terrible could that ever be?

“Just once. I’m still mad at you.” Miranda’s eyes were drawn to Andréa’s mouth as it smirked dangerously at her.

“I wonder what it’s like being in bed with Mad Miranda.”

“Keep up this teasing, Andréa, and you will certainly find out,” Miranda harrumphed.

“You’re right,” Andréa said, leaning down to peck Miranda on her mouth softly, chastely. Miranda hid her disappointment considering it was her fault for all the chasteness. “I should get going so you can finish up,” Andréa added, brushing her knuckles against Miranda’s cheek in a tender caress before stepping back and gathering the dirty dishes from their dinner. Miranda didn’t bother to berate the girl for it, Andréa liked to be helpful to her.

“Make sure you get home at a reasonable hour, okay? I don’t want you to go to Paris already tired,” Andréa reminded. Miranda nodded and gave the brunette a small smile, sad to see her lover go but knowing it was for the best. Andréa needed to rise very early, after all. Miranda sat back at her desk and looked at the Book once Andréa had left. Although she was tempted to simply go home herself and sleep, she powered on so she wouldn’t have any work to do for the rest of the weekend. She wanted to spend all her free time with Andréa before she had to fly away to Paris and spend eight days in a whirlwind of colour and pomp.

She worked for over an hour but eventually got the rest of her editing finished and headed home. She called her own car and grabbed her own bag and coat, and once outside, she opened her own door to the car. When she made it to her front door she hesitated on the stoop. She hated how empty her home is without her girls, and frequently wished that she had at least some company. Perhaps she’ll get that dog the girls want after all.

“None of those tiny little things, though,” Miranda muttered as she walked through the door. She grimaced at the memory of Paris Hilton and her little handbags and even littler dogs sat in them. “No,” she continued, walking into her kitchen to see a stack of colourful papers on the dining table. She moved toward them and saw, with a very fond smile, that her daughters had left her some of their drawings. She had been delighted with how much they drew, especially recently, and revelled in their excited explanations of what was what. Even if they were incredibly gifted children (in Miranda’s humble opinion), she couldn’t quite decipher some of the shapes.

She recognised the shapes on these papers, though. It was always the same, and always included in the drawings. A blob of brown with a big curved line for a grin, a red rectangle and black outline below to detail a woman. The girls had taken to calling her the Car Lady, for obvious reasons, but she was still an unknown face and name to Miranda. She had worried when the girls first drew the Car Lady, had taken them both to see a “special friend of mommy’s” (a children’s therapist) and made sure they were not traumatised from their ordeal. She had been reassured that Caroline and Cassidy seemed perfectly contented, even when asked directly about the incident.

If anything, Miranda thought as her shaking hand trailed the exaggerated smile and big black eyes of the Car Lady, it had affected Miranda the most. Still did. Even now, nearly six months after the accident and she still felt her chest tighten in crippling fear and anxiety, still woke sometimes in the night to make sure her babies were okay and sleeping soundly. She wanted to be able to move on from that fear, so once a month, every month, she met with Dr Shiloh and spent an hour working through her premature grief, as Dr Shiloh had referred to it. She was getting better, but it was a working process.

The drawing not only depicted Car Lady, but Caroline and Cassidy, too, with Miranda and… Miranda squinted her eyes on the extra blob. She laughed when she finally realised it was a dog (a very big dog, too) sitting next to Miranda. She placed the drawing on the fridge, so she could look at it again in the morning and every day until she left for Paris before heading upstairs to get ready for bed. She wanted to be well rested for the day after, so she could spend the afternoon and evening with Andréa.

Usually Paris Fashion Week was a great boon for her that she looked forward to very much, but this year, she wanted nothing more than to have her daughters and her almost – damn her – lover close to her. As she washed her face and changed into her night clothes, Miranda fantasised about Andréa and the girls colouring together, talking with each other and laughing about something inane. Miranda’s heart settled into a gentle ease at just the thought. As she fell to sleep, eager to see the morning come, Miranda barely realised that she had just imagined all the people she loved in one room.

She’d even imagined a dog.

The next morning began with the morning sunlight streaming merrily through Miranda’s windows and the suffocating silence of a daughterless house. It wasn’t often she got a morning to just laze about, but even then, when she did have one, the idea of being idle and alone was not a tempting one. So, she got up, made herself breakfast while admiring the newest drawing on her fridge while she did so. By ten she was out her door and on her way to her weekly yoga class. She wasn’t so fond of the idea of plastic surgery as some of her peers in the fashion industry were, but Miranda valued having a healthy body and, in turn, a healthy mind. Both necessary when staying at the top of her field. And the yoga really does keep her feeling young, even into her forty-second year.

That day of all days, she was extra glad for the class, too, because otherwise she’d simply sit at home and wait until it was time to go and see Andréa. She had received a good morning text from the brunette at five am and an accompanying photo of the predawn light where Andréa was doing her photoshoot. It was little things like that that made her heart flutter and her knees weak (particularly troublesome when one attempted the downward facing dog).

She had responded with a photo of her breakfast (coffee and eggwhites with feta and spinach) and an accompanying greeting of her own. Since then, she had not heard from the photographer which was only to be expected since the girl was very driven in her career, but she could not deny the stab of disappointment when she finished her yoga class and checked her phone to see no correspondence from her favourite brunette.

She had shaken off her disappointment, put her phone back in her purse and walked out to where her car was waiting for her. Once she got home she got straight into the shower, changed into something comfortable before selecting an outfit to arrive to Andréa’s in (complete with her loveliest lingerie) then opened her emails and did her best to distract herself.

It was around half twelve when Miranda checked the time on her computer, noting with some disdain that it was already so late in the day and Andréa had not called her yet to summon her to her home.

“Think of the devil,” she said, picking up her phone not even one ring in when Andréa’s name popped up.

“Are you going to answer like that every time,” came the amused response. Miranda frowned slightly at how tired her girl sounded.

“Are you alright, darling?”

A heavy sigh and some flustered background noise muffled through the line, and Miranda had the sinking feeling Andréa was about to cancel their date.

“Should we reschedule our date,” she asked, wanting to be the one in control of the situation. She hated to be cancelled on and hated when people had the opportunity to do just that.

“No! No way,” Andréa said emphatically. “I’m just- no, Michael the lighting doesn’t need to change, I need more stands for the models- Jesus, no not the metal ones!” Miranda waited patiently for Andréa to sort whatever problem had arisen while she herself tamped down the stringent of arousal that had ignited her in lower belly.

“Sorry, baby,” Andy sighed tiredly. “I’m leaving here in an hour whether these idiots have their shit together or not,” Andy gritted out. Miranda’s arousal faded into concern, knitting her eyebrows and stilling her mind from anything but her girl. “Do what you need to, darling. Don’t work yourself into a panic under any circumstances, alright?” Miranda said. “Do you want me to come and help,” she asked after a beat. She didn’t usually go to shoots unless she wanted to (which was rare) or she was needed to solve some tiny problem that no one else had the sense to sort out (far more common).

“No, that’s okay. It’s practically – Michael, for god’s sake, not the metal stands!  – sorted anyway.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I withhold my reservations about that,” Miranda said, huffing a short laugh. She had wanted to break Andréa’s tension, relax her for a moment before she had to return to whatever fools, the Michaels and otherwise, were sabotaging her brilliance.

“I’ve got it under control,” Andréa said shortly. Miranda hadn’t thought she was talking to her at first, but then Andréa kept speaking. “I don’t need you to come and, you know, fix my problems for me. I’ll message you when I’m done,” she said before hanging up on a dumbstruck Miranda.

She pulled her phone away from her ear to check that, yes, Andréa really had just hung up on her. Miranda blinked disbelievingly at her phone screen, now dark from being unused for too long. She had never heard Andréa talk like that to anyone, and never at her, snappish and short and, and –

Miranda placed her phone down and ran a hand through her hair once, twice, before returning to her work and removing her upset from her mind, focussing on an email from Zac Posen. Just a few minutes had passed before her phone dinged an incoming message. Checking it, and hating how her heart fluttered (one-part anxiety, two parts excitement), she saw a single line from Andréa: That was really horrible of me and I’m so sorry… Well, Miranda thought bitterly, she wasn’t wrong. Another ping and then: If you still want to come over I’ll be home in half an hour. I understand if you don’t… xx A.

Miranda rolled her eyes at the silly girl. She would not see Andréa for two weeks if they did not spend time together that day and of course she was not going to stay home, even if Andréa had upset her. She responded something short, I’ll see you soon with perfect grammar, something inexplicably icy to make Andréa squirm, and not in the way she’d prefer. Miranda finished her task, packed her computer and a few more overnight things. She called her driver and told him to be outside in five minutes, not giving another option but that. She was in her car and on her way to Andréa’s just twenty minutes after the brunette’s text. She was, just the once, glad Andréa lived five and a half New York miles away and would take forty minutes for her to get there. Andréa would be expecting her forty-five minutes earlier than Miranda would arrive, and Miranda hoped she spent those minutes thinking of a way to apologise for her outburst.

If it were anyone else, Miranda would literally never deign to speak to them again. Would never bother with any pathetic apology or simpering up to her good graces again. She didn’t ever have a tolerance for the level of disrespect that Andréa gave her, but she was also not stupid. She knew Andréa had not called her because Miranda was technically her boss, but because Miranda was someone she trusted to make her feel better. She therefore had to react to the unexpected outburst as Andréa’s… girlfriend…? As a personal relation, anyway. Even then, Miranda realised, she usually blew off any apologies from her significant others, always too eager to be in good graces with her partner and dismissing her own feelings.

But really, Miranda thought, she had every right to be upset, and she was. A little with herself (she wanted Andréa to find happiness in her presence) but mostly with Andréa for being unreasonable. As the car pulled up to the curb where Andréa’s apartment building was, Miranda decided that for the first time since she had been married, she was going to communicate her feelings, no matter how vulnerable it would make her feel, she would not let whatever she had with Andréa fall apart later on from poor foundations in their communication.

She had buzzed in, been shown to the elevator with her bag, and risen to Andréa’s level six apartment, all while thinking deeply, obsessively about how she wanted to fix the issue at hand. She was barely aware of Andréa opening the door to her apartment and guiding her inside, asking her if she was okay several times, each question going unanswered.

“Miranda!”

Looking from the middle distance to Andréa’s eyes, Miranda realised she had not greeted her host. “I’m upset,” she said, instead of the ‘Hello, darling’ she had planned on saying. Andréa’s big eyes were already sad were and looking at her with a foreign sort of remorse in them, one Miranda wasn’t typically used to seeing aimed at her.

“I know, and I’m so sorry I upset you,” Andréa said, her voice was thick like she was emotional, and Miranda realised that Andréa’s eyes were red-rimmed and a little bloodshot. This was very different to how it usually went for Miranda. The few times she had mentioned her feelings with her partners over the years (sparse as they were), Miranda had had to explain why she was upset before her partners ever understood how they had hurt her.

“I was really tired and upset, but that’s never an excuse to talk to you like that. I promise to try never to do it again. It was majorly unfair and I-”

“Darling,” Miranda interrupted, stepping into her taller partner’s space and placing her hands on her arms, stroking them up and down soothingly. “Thank you for your apology,” she said softly, “You are forgiven.” Andréa bit her lip and nodded slightly, pulling Miranda closer for a tight hug. Miranda felt the brunette’s shaky exhale, a sure sign of her anxiety loosening in her chest. Miranda immediately felt guilty for making Andréa anxious about when she was going to arrive.

She was constantly being surprised by Andréa, pleasantly so each time, that Miranda still had to get used to not treating Andréa as she had treated others over the years. Miranda was used to jumping the gun with romantic interests and committing to them too quickly then finding faults in them she had not realised existed. She was used to fighting to be heard by her partners, used to pushing her feelings to the side because she detested conflict in her personal relationships, used to expecting an apology but never truly receiving one. Andréa was, as the day had proven, not a perfect partner, not a perfect person, but she had genuinely apologised to Miranda without Miranda having to ask her to. To Miranda, that meant the world.

“Now, listen,” Miranda said into Andréa’s shoulder, “I’m not upset about it anymore. You apologised, and I have forgiven you, so don’t be upset with yourself, alright?” She said, pulling back to look into sable eyes to reinforce her point.

“Okay,” Andréa whispered, most of her sadness leaking from her eyes into relief. Miranda mourned to see a little bit of her guilt remain, but she knew Andréa would not let herself get carried away with her emotions again any time soon. Miranda leaned up to Andréa tellingly, to which Andréa smiled and kissed her thoroughly, mumbling, “I missed you,” into Miranda’s lips. “Missed you, too.” The brunette leaned back, opening her mouth to say something when a yawn overtook her.

“What time did you wake up,” Miranda asked, looking at her small watch face and seeing it was nearly two in the afternoon. “Four,” Andréa said, yawning a second time.

“Go get changed,” Miranda ordered, pulling away from Andréa to collect her bag from the foyer they were still stood in.

“Huh?”

“Pyjamas, Andréa. We’re taking a nap.”

“We are?” Miranda raised a brow that clearly said, ‘are you being daft on purpose’, to which Andy replied, “Right. Pyjamas,” before turning and disappearing to her bedroom across the living room. Miranda, not willing to waste any more time, opened her bag to retrieve her nightclothes and changed right there in the foyer, folding her clothes and placing them neatly in the bag and carrying her heels in her hand. She turned, once dressed in slinky sleep shorts and a flowing shirt and walked to where Andréa’s bedroom was.

She knocked on the open door, only really to announce her arrival rather than to ask permission to enter. Andréa was in a large cotton tee that had some band name half washed out of the fabric and a pair of boy brief panties. Miranda, perpetually aroused by the brunette, had to wet her lips and distract herself from impure thoughts. Andréa yawned largely again, pulling Miranda from her musings on if tearing underwear was as easy as it was in some more mature novels Miranda would never admit to having read. Her first priority, she admonished, should be Andréa and getting her to sleep.

“Is it okay if I wear this,” comes the drowsy voice of the wilting brunette.

“Get into bed, Andréa, you’re becoming delirious.”

It was with some satisfaction that Miranda watched as Andréa did just as she was told. Miranda, even though she had never actually been in Andréa’s bedroom, walked around with more ease than maybe she had a right to. She placed her bag on a large armchair that Andréa had in the corner of her room near her closet, placed her heels beside the seat and crossed the room back to the left side of the bed which they had discovered on their first date was Miranda’s preferred side. The brunette, so lovely in the living room of her home, had remarked that she preferred the right side and they must have been fate.

“Yes, it must have been,” Miranda whispered, climbing into the comfortable bed. She placed her phone on the bedside table and rolled over to grab Andréa and relax for their nap. The brunette, already halfway to sleep, rolled right into Miranda’s arms and settled into her neck, kissing lightly where her lips had landed before falling into sleep immediately. Miranda refrained from laughing at how endearing Andréa could be. She decided instead to card through thick, auburn hair, slightly wavy and completely silky to the touch. She spent her first time in Andréa’s bed doing only that, brushing gently through brunette waves and untangling the few snags. She was, dare she say it, perfectly content to just lay there, cradling Andréa’s head on her shoulder and listening to the deep, even breaths and soft snores of the woman she most certainly loved.

How could anyone, Miranda thought, be content to simply exist with someone, and not think it love?

It no longer surprised Miranda that she fell in love so quickly. She was used to being intoxicated by someone when she let herself (the last time was her ex-husband), used to diving in too far, too fast and eventually having the relationship fall to pieces. This time she promised herself she would not do that. And she had. She had not introduced Andréa to her daughters, had not gone with her out to a public restaurant, had not told any of her friends that she was dating someone. The only person that Miranda had been unable to hide her attraction from had been Nigel, and she was sure Andréa had only told her friend, Patty. It was the slowest romance that Miranda had ever partaken in, but it was also the most fulfilling, even compared to her ex-husband, whom she had loved terribly when they were together.

Miranda inhaled, breathing in the scent of Andréa and the air of her home and exhaling. She was a woman in love, and she reserved her right to sigh like one.

“Why are you sighing like that, Elizabeth Bennet,” Andréa mumbled from beside her. Miranda huffed and chuckled.

“No reason, Mr Darcy,” she replied wittily. Andy laughed softly, cuddling further into Miranda’s neck and kissing the smooth skin there. Miranda tried not to react but failed miserably, gasping softly and regretting it as soon as she felt Andréa’s lips curve into a smirk against her skin.

“Why are you awake? It’s only been,” Miranda looked over to the clock on Andréa’s other bedside table, “Oh. It’s been a little over two hours.”

“I feel completely revitalised,” Andréa said huskily against a collarbone (one of her favourite parts of Miranda’s body, she had guessed from their previous encounters).

“Oh?” Miranda managed. She was too tense, too hopeful that this might finally be the moment Andréa stops fucking teasing her.

“Mhm. I’m feeling very energetic… I think I know just how to spend my energy,” Andy murmured. Under the blankets, Miranda felt a long, slender leg hook over her hip. Just a moment after, Andréa was straddling her and looking down from her perch hungrily at the outline of Miranda’s breasts through her night shirt. Miranda didn’t have the breath or brain capacity to admire how beautiful Andréa looked in the dying afternoon sun that glided through the windows. She could only grip Andréa’s hips in her hands, squeeze them and moan on a whisper of breath.

No words were spoken as Andréa leaned down and began kissing Miranda’s neck and ears and jaw, kissing her on the mouth but only chastely through her heavy breaths. Miranda closed her eyes, scrunched her face in pleasure as her lover (finally her lover in every sense of the word) fondled her sensitive breasts through her shirt and bra. It all seemed to happen in a blur that her shirt and shorts were removed from her, her panties and lace bra as well, leaving her naked beneath her girl, who stared at her for a long moment.

“Lovely,” Andréa whispered through rose coloured lips, “breathtaking.”

“Oh,” Miranda shouted as lips wrapped around her nipple, her tongue lapping roughly, a touch possessive. And she didn’t stop there, didn’t bother to tease Miranda into begging as she had already been doing for weeks. She just let her mouth lead, from Miranda’s breasts to her collarbones and back to stiff nipples, then down a midsection, nipping and sucking, leaving blushed marks upon pale flesh that Miranda hoped she would carry with her to Paris. There was not pausing, no needless teasing when Andréa got to her goal. The only pause on the brunette’s behalf was to make smouldering eye contact with Miranda, both to check she was still comfortable and to nearly stop Miranda’s heart with its intensity.

“Hold on, baby,” she said, so hotly Miranda could never be upset at the pet name. Andréa guided Miranda’s hands into her hair where they immediately anchored and gripped. Andréa shivered, “Just like that, baby.” Then her mouth was quite preoccupied with other, better things. And Miranda, who had had someone go down on her many times before, was moaning like she’d never received pleasure in her life. Every suckle and sweep of Andréa’s thorough tongue pushing her quickly to her edge and holding her there for far too long for Miranda’s liking.

“Andréa!”

“Yes?”

Miranda knew it was too good to be true that Andréa might just let her come. “Darling, please,” she whined.

“So well behaved,” Andy cooed before using dextrous fingers and her flexible tongue to give Miranda a fucking break from the tension (pun all the way intended). Choked gasps heralded her imminent orgasm, and this time, Andréa didn’t slow down or toy with her. She doubled her efforts, holding Miranda’s hips down as best as she could.

“Fuck!”

Miranda couldn’t manage another word once her orgasm locked her lower belly and thighs in pleasure. She could only grip Andréa’s lovely hair and try not to fly out of her body. After several moments suspended in pleasure, Miranda finally sunk back into the mattress, pulling at Andréa to come up to her. The brunette greeted her with a satisfied smile and a glistening face. The tremble in the long legs, and the flush of pink from her cheeks to her chest was the only tell to the brunette’s acute arousal.

“Oh, darling,” Miranda said as throatily as she could, “I’ve made a mess,” she whispered, leaning in and kissing her own come of Andréa’s beautiful face. She was not averse to her own flavour, but it had been a long while since she had indulged, so to speak. She tasted wonderful from Andréa’s lips. A desperate whimper fell from her lover’s mouth as she pulled away a little. Miranda, being far kinder than Andréa had been to her, guided the younger woman to her offered thigh, manoeuvring so that Andréa’s hot, very wet womanhood was rubbing along her flexing muscles. Andréa collapsed forward at the first touch, leaning her forehead against Miranda’s and staring into arsenic eyes, moaning and whimpering through her quick, intense orgasm. Not once did they cease their staring, not once did either falter in the emotions they made apparent to the other.

Sliding to Miranda’s left and back to her place in the bed, Andréa stared and stared, Miranda staring straight back. The brunette looked mystified, like some great philosophical question had been posed and she had the answer but was too unsure to share it. Miranda knew exactly how she felt.

“I know, darling, I know,” Miranda cooed, kissing soft, pliant lips. “I love you, too, Andréa.”

Andréa pulled her so fast into an embrace that Miranda felt winded for a moment. “I know, I know, I know,” she repeated. Over and over into brunette hair and pale skin and dark eyes.

I know.

When Miranda woke (she had not remembered falling asleep, maybe after her third… or was it fourth orgasm?) Andréa was nowhere in sight. She heard the front door open, then close, snippets of distant conversation then the sounds of plates and glasses. No cutlery, she observed in her blissed-out haze. The bedroom door opened to reveal Andréa with two boxes of pizza, plates, glasses, and a drink all in her arms. With great aplomb, the brunette carried everything to her bedside table then turned to wake Miranda, only to smile when ocean eyes were already upon her.

“Good evening, sleeping beauty,” she greeted happily. Miranda hummed and blinked slowly at her lover. She was dressed in just a robe with her hair down and mussed. She looked thoroughly fucked (which she was) and terribly hungry (not for a more thorough fucking, sadly). Miranda’s own stomach growled once the smell of pizza hit her nose. She thought about what sort of woman at forty-two ever ate pizza in bed, then figured she was about to be the type.

“What about the sheets?” She asked, accepting a plate of three pieces of pizza, and a cup of diet Sprite. Andy snorted.

“Baby, the sheets are ruined anyway.”

Miranda conceded that point and took a bite of her pizza, delighting in the calorie count she never usually permitted herself. She figured she had worked for it, though.

“Tell me about the shoot,” Miranda said after another bite and settling in to listen to what had all gone wrong with the shoot. Apparently, just about everything, was the answer. The van with all the lighting had gotten lost on the way, one of the models had vomited from a nasty cheese cube which had made three other models lose their empty stomachs. There was, apparently, a festival three days before near the location so not only was the ground littered beyond acceptable, there was also glass everywhere from beer bottles. It was a nightmare, Andréa had said, and she hadn’t slept well during the night or really caught a break since she woke at four that morning.

Their conversation ventured from topic to topic as only people who are comfortable with one another can manage, slowly turning into Andy asking Miranda what her itinerary looked like for Paris. Busy, was all Miranda had replied with. Gathering their empty plates and glasses, Andy dashed out of the bedroom to leave the dishes somewhere for later and put the leftovers in the fridge before returning to bed, as naked as Miranda expected her to be.

It was some hours later and nearing midnight when they were showered, sated and sleeping, still wrapped around each other. They woke early, both rising after some luxurious minutes spent kissing in bed, and eating breakfast beside each other at the breakfast bar, neither much willing to think about the distance they’re about to experience. Perhaps Miranda shouldn’t have insisted they see each other before she left… Now they had to be so far apart, Miranda hated to think just how far-

“Hey,” Andréa said, guiding her jaw to turn in her direction where a soft kiss was waiting for her. “It’ll be over before you know it, then we’ll have dinner with the twins and we won’t be so busy. Okay, baby?” And damnit, but her heart warmed at that horrible pet name. “Okay,” she said with certainty. She hoped at least some of it was genuine.

Time, after she left Andréa’s, seemed to hiccup between flying by and dragging immeasurably slowly. She only had Runway, packing (damn Andréa but she was a last-minute packer) and talking to her girls to distract her. The girls, enjoying their time with their father, used every opportunity available to them to ask for a dog. The distractions had worked, though. By the time she was sat in her plane seat beside Nigel, sunglasses donned and waiting for take-off to Paris, Miranda felt she had aged. Thoughts of their weekend together had kept her buoyant (as had the small hickies Andréa had left on her, all in coverable places, naturally). She was making everyone nervous with how smiley she had been. Well, all except Nigel.

“You’re sickening, Miranda,” he snarked from beside her in his seat. To him, her expression was nothing less than smug. She had mentioned that she had enjoyed her weekend very much, with an all too telling glint in her eye. He had groaned and walked away from her when she told him on Monday. It seemed he still hadn’t managed to forget it all.

“Oh, Nigel,” she purred triumphantly, sliding her sunglasses down her narrow nose, “envy isn’t your colour.”

Nigel could only scoff.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER EIGHT

.oOo.

Paris Fashion Week sucked.

That was a fact that Andy knew, not because she was there, and the couture was not to her standards, but because Miranda was there, and the couture was not to her standards. The variety that Miranda had wanted was lacking this season and put Miranda in such a foul mood that she tended to create work for everyone around her including herself. It meant that, on the other side of the world, Andy couldn’t even call her girlfriend and hear her voice. It meant that for nine days she hadn’t spoken to her lover. So… Paris Fashion Week sucked.

“Not even a peep from her, Pat. She’d texted me, like, a day into the whole thing saying she’d be super busy and probably wouldn’t be able to talk anyway, but the complete silence is the worst.” Patrick, busy at another shoot in Africa, of all places, sighed heavily into the scratchy receiver.

“She’s a queen of a kingdom and she has to, for only a few weeks in a year, hold court. You, as her loyal consort will just have to exercise some patience.”

Andy could only whine at him. Of course, she was being childish and of course she hated that she was being that way, but she and Miranda had been so close in lots of ways before she went to Paris and now they hadn’t talked at all. It just… sucked. But Patrick had a point and had made her feel better by saying she was a consort, so she adjusted herself and held on to the reality that she only had to wait until the weekend to see Miranda. And she’d finally, finally meet the twins. She had a new lease on life after that realisation.

“Patty, you’re a saint,” she said, grinning, “I love you.”

“Je t’aime, pretty girl. Now let me get back to work,” he said before hanging up. Andy’d bet anything he learnt that from Miranda.

The last three days until Miranda’s return dragged a little less slowly, but it still felt like a lifetime until her phone finally, blessedly, rang.

“Welcome home, baby,” she smiled into the phone. The long, weary sigh she was met with made her own soul feel heavy. It was nearly eleven and even without travelling across the world after the busiest week of the year, Andy knew Miranda would be exhausted.

“I want to sleep for a week,” Miranda said quietly. Andy chuckled and said something vaguely comforting. “I’m mourning the fact I didn’t tell you to meet me at the townhouse on my return,” Miranda said with all her dignity (she grumbled it adorably, but Andy would never say).

“Rookie error on your part.”

“Quite.”

“How was it all, anyways? I want to know three really good things and three things you never want to see again.”

“Well, Marchesa was inspired…”

It was an unfamiliar bliss to listen to her significant other ramble on about their passion with all the sincerity in the world for Andy. She listened avidly as Miranda talked in great detail about the ready to wear collection and how spring had been almost woven into the dresses… how grateful she was to not see a single floral pattern anywhere near the collection. “The second dress and the second one piece, I made a note to have them up made for you to your measurements,” Miranda mentioned casually, moving on faster than Andy could ask more. “Loyal consort,” Andy supposed.

“James managed to shape up just in time, but I truly have my doubts about anything else he can throw together. God help his fashion house,” Andy heard Miranda say, her words just this side of coherent. It was nearing midnight and Miranda had basically just relived the last nine days in an hour. Andy was impressed she had made it this long.

“You should go to bed, Miranda. You deserve some rest,” Andy suggested. Miranda hummed in agreement, insisting she was not that tired, but she would go to bed anyway. “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow,” Andy said, “the girls, too.”

“Yes,” Miranda said, the single syllable uttered with such an aching tenderness. “Good night, Andréa.” Then the dial tone.

Damn, she thought, maybe Miranda learned that from Patty.

.oOo.

The small amount of work that Andy had to do on Saturday morning was her last hope against her impatience, and as life would have it, she was extra efficient and finished with hours left until her dinner at Miranda’s. She had tried to retouch some other photos that she had waiting for Nigel, but after retouching the same photo three times unecessarily, she had to step away from her computer. Even the fucking house work was up to date. She was too anxious for a walk, too restless to sit and watch television (Sex and the City was on and reminded her of her first lunch with Miranda). She was, certifiably, a mess.

And Patty was in Africa, goddammit, so she couldn’t call him. Nigel was at his folks’ place for the long weekend Miranda had given to the Paris Fashion Week staff, and though Andy liked Emily and her snootiness, she wasn’t in the mood to be genuinely insulted. Sitting and watching paint dry might have worked better to pass the time, but Andy was too shaky to wield a paint brush. It was no surprise when her phone rang, flashing Miranda’s name on the screen, that she dove to answer it, falling off the couch inelegantly.

“Oof, hello?”

“Andréa? What was that?”

“Uh, nothing, nothing. Just um… I fell off my couch.” Miranda had the good grace not to laugh. She did titter though.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not me so much as my dignity.” Another titter. “Anyway, my acrobatics aside, how are you?”

“I’m thoroughly amused, actually. My lover fell to the ground to answer my call, you see.”

“She fell for you, you say?”

“Oh my god, enough,” Miranda said on a laugh. “I am checking to see that you are still coming tonight,” she added nonchalantly. Andy waited a moment, replaying the question in her head to be sure of her answer.

“You’re bored waiting, too, huh,” she teased knowingly.

“I am nothing of the sort!” (Full of shit, again).

“No? So, you won’t mind if I have to come after dinner after all?”

A beat of silence ensued, Andy could hear Miranda silently spluttering, trying to think of how to respond.

“You fiend,” she said indignantly at Andy’s cackle.

“You’re too cute, baby.”

“You’re becoming daring. Perhaps I’m getting soft.”

“Or perhaps it’s because I’ve been knuckle deep in your-”

“Goodbye!”

Andy still had to wait several hours until she could see her woman, but she’d at least be laughing the whole time.

.oOo.

Knocking on the clouded glass pane of Miranda’s front door was a mildly anticlimactic experience for Andy that evening, only because she didn’t feel a touch nervous at all. She was excited to take this step, to begin melding her life with Miranda’s by meeting her children and having a relationship with them, too. From what she had heard, they were precocious beings of pure delight (Miranda’s humble words), but Andy really didn’t doubt her girlfriend for a moment on that front.

“Right on time,” Miranda said as she opened the door, pulling Andy in by her hand, kissing her on the mouth soundly. Both lingered closely together, breathing the same breath, eyes closed. It had been a really long ten days for Andy, she could only imagine how long it had felt for Miranda.

“Missed me?”

“Don’t be dense, Andréa,” Miranda quipped. Then, “Yes, of course I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Andy said before leaning down for another kiss. “So, do I get the tour?”

Miranda nodded, pulling back and grabbing Andy’s hand to lead her further into the house. The first floor was just the entrance, a half bathroom, a den and small living room. Miranda told Andy she liked to wait for her assistants in the den by the photos of her daughters. Then, the brunette followed the editor up the stairs to another larger living room, this one decked out with a huge plasma television and sound systems for movie nights. There was a small library and sitting space with a guest bedroom, too, with a surprisingly blue kitchen. Andy spied a saucepan on the stove and smelt something delicious from the oven. Something bright caught her eye on the fridge. Moving closer, she realised they were drawings.

“These are cute,” she said, stroking the stick figure that was obviously Miranda.

“The girls like to draw and I like to see them around the house,” her lover said softly.

“So, what’s this one of, then?” Andy said, pointing to the line-up of stick figures with a irregular blob at the end. Miranda didn’t answer immediately. “They were nearly in an accident but someone saved their lives. They like to draw her with us.” Andy could feel the air slow as the news was revealed, sensing that Miranda would be recalling the event. She placed her arm around Miranda, bringing her back to the present and pointing to the blob at the end.

“What’s that?”

Miranda looked to Andy’s finger and laughed. “That’s a dog,” she said between chuckles.

“A dog?” Miranda laughed again, to Andy’s pleasure. A sweet kiss to Miranda’s cheek and Andy pulled them away from any reminders of the girls’ almost-accident.

“Wait, so where are the girls?” Andy asked, moving back to the stove, stirring the gravy gently.

“They’re upstairs playing. I thought you might like to relax here first instead of being bombarded,” Miranda said, wrapping her arms around Andy from behind, resting her chin on the narrow shoulder of the brunette. “They’ll be down soon, though, I’m sure. They love when I make gravy.”

And just like clockwork, stomping at a volume unexpected of children sounded from the curving staircase, with twin calls for “gravy!” which made Andy laugh. She stopped laughing when the children turned around the corner into the kitchen. There, in her girlfriend’s home, were the two precious little girls that she had grabbed from the road all those months before.

They were taller, their hair a little longer and still curling at the ends. One of them had lost a tooth, but other than that, Andy would recognise those girls anywhere. The implication of them being in Miranda’s home hit her like a kick to the chest. The woman in the drawings is her. Car Lady that had labelled her, in Miranda’s neat, flowing script. Holy fucking shit.

It was obvious that the twins recognised her, Andy thought, as she caught them both in her arms. It was, ironically, the same was she held them when they were nearly hit by a car. The thought was just as chilling now as it was then. She cradled them gently, the ringing in her ears fading to hear them both calling to their mother.

“The Car Lady, Momma! You found her!”

“I knew the drawings would help!”

Andy could not move, only smile at their chatter and laugh at the absurdity of the moment. Of course fate would tangle her with Miranda like this. What a harrowing, beautiful coincidence! Turning to Miranda to share her joy, Andy was met with the pale face of her lover, all the colour bled from her already pale face. Even her lips seems colourless, her hair sapped of even the black strands at the back.

“Honey?” For several beats, Miranda said nothing. She simply stared at Andy holding her children, her hand gripping the counter and not seeming to breathe. She blinked once, twice. Andy opened her mouth just as Miranda spoke.

“Girls, dinner is ready. Up at the table, please.”

The girls nodded and pulled away from Andy, grabbing onto her hands and leading her over to the small, intimate table, sitting around Andy and talking at her a mile a minute about how they wanted a dog like hers when she was little, and how they asked their mother but she said not until they were older and that they looked for her when they went for walks and how they didn’t miss Francine, their old nanny and how their new one was much nicer and, oh, would she be willing to join them on walks? Andy was too busy pondering over Miranda’s reaction, and the colourlessness of her tone as well as complexion. She must have convinced the twins she was listening, however, as they made no complaints to her sudden spaciness.

Miranda moved like a robot in the kitchen, making plates of food and bringing them over one by one, placing them in front of the girls first, then Andréa, then her own. Drinks after that. Juice for the twins (Caroline to Andy’s left and Cassidy to her right, she discovered), wine for Miranda and iced water for Andy at her request. All through dinner the girls talked, stopping only to chew and swallow after their mother eyed them both when they talked with a mouth full of food. Andy listened and kept an eye on Miranda, who did not look at her and did not speak. She ate mechanically, sipping her wine on every third mouthful and wiping her lips after every sip. Rinse and repeat.

“Mommy said you take picture for your job, Andy,” Cassidy said, jumping from why her favourite animal was a giraffe to her desire for a haircut to Andy’s career.

“That’s right. I take pictures and some of them go into your mother’s magazine, sometimes I keep them.”

“You take pictures of clothes?” Caroline asked after a bite of cut up potatoes.

“And of people wearing clothes, and sometimes just of people.” Miranda seemed surprised by her answer but didn’t look at her or ask what she meant. Andy had yet to broach the topic of her desire to start freelancing with portraits as well as Runway business. She had a sneaking suspicion that they wouldn’t talk about it that night, either.

“Will you take photos of us!?”

“Cassidy,” Miranda said lowly. “You know how I feel about you both having your picture taken.”

“But you like Andy,” Cassidy argued. Andy could tell that Cassidy was the more dominant of the two girls by the way she stood her ground, even if she was barely three and a half feet. Caroline was not shy, per se, but she definitely did not go against Miranda quite as avidly as her sister.

“That doesn’t matter. Eat your beans.”

Cassidy grumbled, but even if she was more daring, she daren’t go against her mother’s order to eat the only greens she had been served. The young girl swallowed a large mouthful of the vegetables then continued to talk, Caroline (who had eaten her beans before anything else) chipping in every now and then. They mostly asked about dogs.

When they were all finished with their meals, Miranda told the girls to go get changed for bed and to brush their teeth like she had been showing them. She told them to say good bye to Andy. She did not answer them when they asked when they would see her again. The girls did as they were told, hugging Andy tightly and telling her to visit again before moving to Miranda and hugging her as well. Cassidy remained silent, stubbornly refusing to speak to her mother after she had been chastised earlier. But Caroline had no such compunctions. “Thanks for finding Andy, Momma,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear her. Miranda sighed but said nothing, shooing them both up the stairs with a gentle but insistent nudge.

When just Andy and Miranda remained in the kitchen, the silence seemed a weight on Andy’s shoulders. Miranda had not spoken a word to her for over an hour and had refused to look at her for just as long. She wasn’t quite sure why, but she felt that asking would result in Miranda breaking whatever hold on herself she had. So, Andy quietly grabbed the plates from dinner, scraping the little bits of food and stacking them neatly to be rinsed and put in the dishwasher. Miranda had not yet moved from near the stairs.

“Miranda?”

Andy had stacked the dishwasher, wiped the benches and dried the pots and pans that Miranda had washed before serving dinner. She had tidied the dining table, straightened out the salt and pepper shakers and placed the leftovers into a container she had found in the fridge. She stopped to look at the drawing again when the door shut, seeing it again differently to just over an hour ago. It had felt like days since she arrived in Miranda’s home.

Miranda turned her head, not facing or looking at Andy, but signalling she was listening.

“Is, um,” Andy stuttered nervously, no longer calmed by the bight blues in the trendy kitchen. “Is everything okay?”

A ticking of a clock somewhere in the house danced in the silence, to and fro. Andy counted the beats, all consistent and measured. Infuriating. It was 27 clicks before Miranda answered her.

“I think you should go home, Andréa.”

It was another 27 before she moved past Miranda to the staircase. She stopped at the first step, confused but oddly unwilling to clear up whatever tension Miranda was creating between them. But, she didn’t want to leave Miranda’s home without… fuck, without even a word.

“I’ll call you, okay, baby?” The response was immediate, and just as bland as Andy feared it would be.

“Don’t call me that.”

Andy played those words in her head all the way back to her empty apartment.

.oOo.

It was two days after the heaviest meal of Andy’s life and all three of her calls to Miranda had been left unanswered, her texts unopened. She had been into the Runway offices twice but had decided not to confront Miranda there. She was growing more and more anxious and angry as each call and text went unanswered. On the third day when Andy was walking to her office (which she was just realising was actually quite the distance from Miranda’s) she bumped into Nigel who she hadn’t managed to catch up with since Paris happened.

“Nige, hey!”

“Hey, Andy,” he said, somewhat reservedly. Andy frowned. Nigel had never called her by anything other than Six since he coined the nickname. It was a little jarring to hear it from him.

“Everything okay?” She asked. He paused for a moment, studying her face intently before shaking his head and leading her to a small out-of-the-way office, closing the door behind them.

“Is this where you make it look like an accident,” Andy joked. She stopped mid chuckle when Nigel let out a quiet sob and covered his face with both hands. In a moment of shock and uncertainty, Andy watched her friend shake and breathe deeply before guiding him to one of the old office chairs in the room, dragging another old chair beside it, placing her hand on his back and rubbing up and down the way Patty does when she’s crying.

“Nigel, what’s going on?”

It seemed that since Paris, everything for everyone was going tits up, and Andy had no idea what to make of that. She’d ask Miranda but that would be fruitless.

“Remember how I said when your whole life goes up in flames, it’s time for a promotion?” Nigel said after long moments of hiccupping silence. Andy nodded and watched as he pulled his glasses off his face and wiped at them. The action seemed more self-soothing than for any need to clean, Andy noticed.

“Well, it went the other way around,” he said quietly. “In Paris, I mean.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Miranda,” he said, uttering the name like they were in a graveyard and not an old office. “There was a job with James Holt,” he said gravelly. “And I was told, by our reigning queen, that I would be the one to get it. I popped champagne with Emily, I wore my best suit to the James Holt International and Runway luncheon and in front of everyone she gave the job to someone else.”

Andy was speechless, letting the words sink in like lead. Miranda had seemed so bubbly when she first arrived to the townhouse the few days before. Andy couldn’t fathom why that would have been the case if she had snubbed Nigel like that. Nigel, Andy thought, who was Miranda’s most esteemed friend and colleague, and more deserving of such an endeavour than anyone else could have been. And Miranda had taken that from him after building up his hopes. Without remorse.

Maybe, Andy realised with an echoing dread throughout her chest, she didn’t know Miranda as well as she thought.

“I’ve been working here for eighteen years, Andy, and in all that time I have only ever worked with and for Miranda. First and foremost she’s my best friend, but I think I’ve just realised that, to her, I’m just her Art Director.”

Those words said in that tone, the most defeated, heartbroken voice of a friend betrayed, settled within Andy’s rattling heart and stained her vision. Perhaps the most frightening question she had ever asked herself bubbled to the forefront of her mind… Who really is Miranda Priestly? She wasn’t sure what scared her more: the question, or the answer.

.oOo.

Friday evening seemed to tiptoe toward Andy after she had helped Nigel clean himself up from his unexpected breakdown on Tuesday. She hadn’t tried to call Miranda again since, not sure what she would even say after the week she’d had. So tangled was the situation that she could not longer pinpoint when everything when awry. Had it been the moment the twins recognised her? Looking at the painting on the fridge? Or was it in Paris when Miranda had presented Jacqueline Follet at that luncheon as James’ partner? Maybe it was at that first lunch with Miranda.

And, truly, Andy knew it wasn’t her place to chastise Miranda about anything to do with Runway but, fuck, Nigel had fast become one of her cherished friends, and Miranda had really hurt him. She had really hurt Andy, too, by just leaving her calls and texts unanswered, not seeing her at work, not even getting her feedback of her photos from Miranda, but from Lucia who was technically supposed to do it anyway. Andy didn’t want it to feel like a breakup, but what else could it be if Miranda wasn’t acknowledging her existence, and hadn’t communicated her need for space?

She had been thinking herself in circles by Saturday evening, one full week since Miranda had spoken to her, three since they had made love in Andy’s apartment. It felt like a lifetime ago. Perhaps that was why she let her phone ring several times before answering the person she knew was calling her. Accepting the call, she said nothing, no greeting, no yelling, no crying. Just exactly what Miranda had given her in the last week: Silence. All encompassing, weighted silence.

“Andréa?” Miranda said after several long seconds.

“Miranda.” Her tone gave the other woman pause.

“How are you,” Miranda asked awkwardly. Good, Andy thought.

“You know,” she began tonelessly, “I’m not sure.”

“Andréa, I-”

“If you have something you need to say to me then say it Miranda. I’m sick of waiting for whatever you mean to become clear.”

“I… I would much rather speak to you in person, if you are willing?” Andy hated how unsure Miranda sounded. It was so unlike how she was at work, so unlike how she was in general, but Andy was not moved enough to cave so quickly.

“You know, I’m not so sure that’s fair of you to ask.”

“I have never claimed to be a fair woman, Andréa.”

“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Andy snapped. “I have never claimed to be amazing at communicating but I don’t just not pick up calls and ignore texts and avoid my girlfriend.”

“Alright, I deserved that,” Miranda conceded.

“That and more, Miranda. What the fuck was this last week?”

“This is precisely why I want to talk in person,” Miranda sighed. “Will you please come to the townhouse? I… I need to be here to talk to you.”

If Andy was being entirely honest, she didn’t want to go to Miranda’s house and listen to her give excuses or justifications for her behaviour or for Nigel in Paris. But Miranda’s voice, always soft but firm, had an edge of panic, an upward curve of pleading that Andy couldn’t ignore, even if she was really pissed off. And damnit but she was not equipped to ignore that.

“I’m not rushing there. I’ll leave soon and catch the subway.” A sigh, partly relieved and partly resigned to Andy’s hard tone floated through the phone.

“Alright, darling. Be safe.” Andy didn’t respond before hanging up. It made her feel a little bad, but it was too late to apologise.

She wanted to get to Miranda’s to get some answers. She was leaving her apartment as a girlfriend, but she wasn’t sure if she would be returning as one. It fell down to Miranda now, to shed some belated light on the shitshow that had been the last seven days.

Andy really, really fucking hoped it was good enough.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER NINE

.oOo.

Tugging on an outfit that made her look a little more in control than she felt, Andy walked out of her bedroom and to her foyer to grab her keys and wallet, marching out the door as if on her way to war. She felt like she might be doing just that, even if Miranda wanted to do some explaining. There was nothing light about her expression as she caught the subway, purposely not rushing to catch the earlier one so Miranda would have to wait for her just a little longer. It was petty of her, she knew, but she didn’t feel sorry about it at all. Miranda was attractively arrogant sometimes, and other times it was just obnoxious.

Waiting at the same clouded glass felt annoyingly overwhelming as opposed to the first time. The first time she was there for a family dinner, to meet her love’s children and begin forming a relationship with them so they could maybe become a family one day. That idea seemed less stressful because Andy knew she loved kids, knew she loved Miranda and knew that being a unit with them was nothing but the best idea she’d ever heard. This time, she might be leaving the townhouse as a singular, without a girlfriend and certainly without any children by proxy. The idea of not having Miranda and Caroline and Cassidy in her life was the most unacceptable thing she’d ever heard.

When the door opens, and Miranda appears, neither say anything, and neither move to embrace the other. Miranda does hold out her arm to guide Andy further inside, which Andy follows, spine exhaustingly straight and shoulders pointedly steeled. Miranda, Andy notices, seems to pull in on herself in her rust coloured sweater and slacks. She seems small, and though it would have made Andy furious to be met with a steely Miranda, this small Miranda is just as awful.

It’s not unnoticed when Miranda doesn’t lead her any further into the house than the den, choosing the two seater and allowing Andy the option of the armchair or the other seat beside her. Andy selects the armchair, drawing a silent comfort from the fact that Miranda edits the Book, runs her empire from that very seat. They sit without speaking for some long minutes, the seconds ticking enormously in the small corner of the larger home. Andy hates it. She’s about to stand when Miranda finally, finally speaks.

“I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to just listen,” she says blandly. Andy would have told her to shove her story if it weren’t for the emotion swimming in her eyes. Andy nods, and relaxes back into her chair. She imagines the story she’s about to be told is going to be long, but she also kind of wants Miranda to know that she’s going to stay. She thinks it works; Miranda’s hands stop wringing themselves in her lap.

“A little over seven months ago,” she began shakily, “I was in a run-through with my heads of department and a few models, the usual set-up.” She paused for a moment, swallowing. And Andy realised that she was not about to hear some bullshit excuse about previous marriages or Miranda being used to getting her way to explain her week long silence. Miranda was about to tell her something extremely important.

“I got a phone call on my personal cell, which only my ex-husband and the nanny ever uses. I knew it wasn’t my ex, so I picked up the call and was prepared to hear something ridiculous and easily handled, but she…” The rattle of Miranda’s shaky breath made Andy’s fingers twitch with the instinct to comfort. She remained still. “She said they had nearly been hit by a car, that they were on their way to a hospital.” Andy didn’t think Miranda knew she was crying. Her blue eyes, made luminescent by the redness from crying, were fixed in the middle distance, reliving her memory.

“I didn’t get any more information other than a woman was with them, had saved their lives. I’m quite certain that I didn’t breathe from the moment I answered the call to the moment I arrived at the hospital. I walked into their room at the Presbyterian, and do you know what I saw, Andréa?”

“What did you see,” she rasped. Andy could feel the bruising, long since healed. She could remember how winded she was when she fell to the pavement, and how Caroline and Cassidy had cried for most of the ride to the hospital.

“They were just there,” Miranda said quietly, her volume battling with the ticking of the wall clock. “They were playing a game together and giggling in their girlish way… and I could have died from the relief.” She moved her hand over her face, crumpled and teary.

“The doctor,” she continued, “Said they were fine if a little shaky when they arrived, and that their companion had checked out already. He couldn’t give me her name- your name. That was very inconvenient of you, darling,” She said, smiling tremulously, crying still. “They were released shortly after and that night I sat with them and waited until they had fallen asleep. It was late by then, but I came down here and sat where you are now, and I cried.” Andy swallowed the thickness in her throat and gripped the arms of her seat. “I thanked that stranger for grabbing my children when she did. I thanked her for saving their lives. But Andréa,” Miranda said, stifling a sob, “I thanked that woman for saving me from grieving my children.”

Shit, Andy thought as her first tear fell from her eyes.

“I wanted so terribly to meet you,” Miranda said, “To give you anything you wanted in return for your actions. And then we met, didn’t we Andréa?” She turned her eyes, now laser focussed onto Andy. “We met twice, I think,” she said airily. “Once at that photoshoot, and once again in my kitchen a week ago.”

Andy sat and stared at Miranda, and nodded, not trusting her voice enough to speak.

“But I was relieved when we didn’t meet,” she added. “Because if we didn’t meet then I would never have to relive that phone call, that car ride, that night. But then there you were. In my kitchen, holding my daughters and all I could see was you grabbing them away from a car, away from their-“ her breath hitched. “from their death.”

When Andy’s hands twitched a second time she did not stop herself from comforting Miranda, whose arms were wrapped around her middle. She slid onto the couch and wrapped her arms gently around the shaking shoulder of the other woman. Miranda turned her head into Andy neck and kept speaking though her tears, her voice pitched high, belying her distress. “I looked at you holding them and imagined what my life would have been like if you weren’t there that day,” she cried, “a horrible, blessed coincidence.”

“Take some breaths, baby, okay? You’re panicking,” Andy soothed, pulling Miranda’s head to her chest to match their breathing. “Can you blame me for isolating myself?” Miranda said choppily.

“I don’t blame you for anything.”

And it was true. She shed her anger without qualm, unwilling to remain upset about something she now understood much better. Miranda and her had not known each other for very long, and had been together for even less time, but Andy was really beginning to understand that the stability Miranda possessed relied heavily on the well-being of her children (as she knew was common for mothers), and that stability had been compromised temporarily in the recent past.

“I understand you better now, Miranda,” Andy said, rubbing Miranda’s back and speaking into her hair. “And I’m not angry at you anymore. But it’s very important to me for a few reasons that you don’t just shut me out if something like this happens again.”

“It won’t happen again-”

“Hush, my turn to speak now,” she said, continuing when Miranda settled further into her chest. “There will be another time, maybe several, where you want to not talk to anyone about what’s going on. Those times happen for everyone, and it’s okay when they do, but next time I really need you to tell me that you need space. I will always give that to you, okay?” Miranda nodded against her breast. “You can’t just… Disappear like that. I thought we had broken up.”

Miranda sat up and looked at Andy, eyes wide and mouth pursed in displeasure. “We’re not breaking up,” she said decisively. “We didn’t break up,” she added immediately after, her tone scathing.

Andy frowned back. “And between you not answering my calls or texts after last week’s dinner, what on earth was I supposed to think?”

“I just needed a moment to compose-”

“A week is not a moment, Miranda Priestly. Your silence, you blatantly ignoring me was really shitty of you.”

Miranda let Andy’s words sink in, and once they had, she sagged back into Andy’s chest, resting her ear over her heart. “I will do better next time,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“God, I’ve been exhausted since Paris,” Miranda groaned. Andy screwed up her face slightly, knowing they weren’t done with their talk.

“Hey, I think we should talk about that, too.”

“What about it? I already had your garments made up if that’s what you’re about to say.”

“I wasn’t…”

Miranda pulled back enough to see Andy’s face, “Then what?”

“I saw Nigel the other day.” Miranda going stiff and pulling away was all the proof she needed that Nigel was right to be upset.

“You do not get to tell me how to run my magazine, Andréa. And frankly, after the conversation we just had, I don’t want to talk about anything else.”

And there it was, Andy thought. That tone that Miranda used at Runway to get her way, the one that made people shake in their Chanel boots. It was cute that Miranda thought it would work on her.

“We’re talking about it, and don’t use your EIC voice with me when we’re not at work.”

“It has nothing to do with you-”

“Miranda, if we are going to build a life together while also working at the same magazine, then you will need to accept that there’s going to be times when I have to talk to you about what you’re doing. It’s my magazine, too, but more importantly than that… Nigel is one of my best friends. Nigel is one of your best friends,” Andy emphasised. “Do you understand what that means for you both?” Miranda remained silent, but she was noticeably angry, her glare sharp as ever. “It means that he has an expectation on you as your friend, and as your girlfriend,” Miranda’s lips twitching did not go unnoticed by Andy, “I have them, too.”

Andy sat forward and brushed away Miranda’s hair from her forehead, a gesture of tenderness she had not been able to make in too long. She tilted her head and cupped Miranda’s face, mourning that they had had such a tough few weeks. “It wasn’t the fact that he didn’t get the promotion, Miranda, it was that you didn’t trust him enough to tell him what you were doing.”

“Oh,” Miranda whispered, her eyes sparking with understanding.

“Your silence can hurt more than your words,” Andy said, sounding far too wise even to herself. “I’m not telling you how to run your magazine, baby, but I am telling you that you were a bad friend to Nigel in Paris and you need to make it up to him if you want to remain close with him.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Miranda admitted.

“The same way you did tonight. Just call him and ask him to meet with you so you can explain. If it’s half as good as this one, then he’ll come around.”

When Miranda leans forward, Andy meets her halfway. It’s a nervous kiss, tentative, unwilling to be rushed or progressed. It’s nice, Andy thinks. She’s glad to be home.

“How do you do that,” Miranda asks against her lips.

“Do what?”

Miranda pulls back and gestures vaguely in Andy’s general direction, pulling a snort from Andy which signals the end of their heavy talk.

“Not get overwhelmed by the overlap in business and personal relationships. You make it seem so easy. What’s your secret?” Miranda says as she leans back into Andy.

“I guess it’s a lot like photography. You have to find the right angle to capture the moment, you have to stay calm and open to fixing problems when they arise and… and, I suppose more importantly than anything else, you need to have focus.”

“Focus?”

“Focus,” Andy nods.

Miranda tilts her head to kiss Andy’s mouth, less tentatively but just as sweetly. Andy is secretly very, very glad when Miranda trails her lips down to her jaw and neck. “And what do you think I should focus on,” she murmurs against the sensitive skin behind her ear. Andy huffs a laugh at Miranda’s coy tone. She’s so fucking glad they talked, because damn, she missed this.

“Well, making up with Nigel, for starters,” she says a little too breathily.

“But surely that will have to wait until tomorrow… What should I do in the meantime, do you think, my darling?”

“Well, you’ve got about three weeks’ worth of kissing to make up for, actually.”

“Do I indeed?”

“Yeah, you do indeed,” Andy laughs. She groans when Miranda nips her collarbone in retaliation.

“I suppose I had better get on with it then.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” She’s about to protest when Miranda pulls away but she doesn’t get a chance to.

“Andréa,” Miranda says softly, pulling blown brown eyes to her own glittering blue. The lust Miranda sees in the younger woman’s gaze takes her breath for a moment, but she doesn’t let it distract too much. “I love you, darling,” she says, with a weight that Andy cannot begin to dismiss.

“I know you do,” she says just as seriously. Then, “But if you don’t take me to bed, then I’m headed home to take care of it myself.” Her teasing grin is evidence enough to Miranda that she’s kidding. Miranda frowns mightily regardless.

“Upstairs. Now.”

“I love a woman in charge,” Andy laughs, racing Miranda to her bedroom and collapsing on it with the older woman. Miranda’s straddling her half-naked body, topless and braless, when she pulls back and looks down at Andy.

“It will all work out, won’t it?”

Andy sees the vulnerability, smiles and squeezes Miranda’s hips in her hands, rubbing her hipbones with her thumbs. “Yeah, baby. We’ll work it out. Now get back here.”

“Yes, Andréa,” Miranda smiles before leaning down.

.oOo.

All was exactly as Andy had predicted, Miranda realised when she got home after meeting with Nigel. She had rang him after a late breakfast with Andréa, and asked him (using her best manners) if he would please meet with her so she may explain herself. It was terrible to hear the wariness in Nigel’s admittedly hesitant response, but it was all the more reason to meet with him. The meeting itself was difficult for a few reasons. The first and foremost hearing how Nigel thought he meant more to Miranda than that.

“Before anything, you are my friend, Miranda. I don’t think you feel the same.”

“I have nothing to say to defend myself, Nigel. Only that I know James Holt International will fold before 2010, and the position Follet got will not last. I realise now that I did not treat you the way a friend should, but I will do my best to rectify that error for the rest of our friendship.”

“It is a friendship, though, isn’t it?”

“Most assuredly, Nigel.”

They had parted ways on the same page and with high spirits. Andréa was right, Miranda was glad to say. Nigel had certainly come around. Now, she just had to work on not making the same mistakes, which was easier said than done, but Miranda had her wonderful girlfriend to help her if she needed it. And she knew she would eventually, but she wasn’t worried about that.

She had made a very conscious effort to communicate with Andréa as much as she could over the following week, as well. Little texts that Miranda knew Andréa thought were funny, and little messages of good mornings or good evenings. Phone calls each night, even if just for ten minutes. And the most confusing part of it all what that Miranda enjoyed it. She loved having someone to send her thoughts and loved sending a receiving those little heart emojis that Andréa was fond of. It was blissful, in a word.

It was Friday night, later than usual because Andréa had been at a shoot, and Miranda had gathered all her courage before inviting Andréa to dinner the next evening.

“No way,” the brunette said, but continued before Miranda could get upset, “You guys can come to the apartment. I’ll cook, and the girls will like the little photobooth thing I can set up for them.” Miranda really did like the idea of not cooking, and the girls would enjoy exploring a new place. “If we get the girls here a few times, they might be comfortable enough to stay for a night soon,” Andréa said, sounding so hopeful that Miranda felt her chest ache a little.

“It sounds wonderful, darling. What time do you want us?”

“Aim for six.”

“Nigel would make a play on words about that, but I shall refrain.”

“God bless you.”

.oOo.

Andy was a touch frantic when she was buzzed and told that Miranda and the girls were in the lobby. She had seasoned beef mince cooking on the stove for tacos (with the option of a lettuce wrap for Miranda if she didn’t want the extra carbs) and was running a little behind on her schedule. Wiping her hands on a tea towel, she pressed the relevant button and buzzed them up, unlocking the door to her apartment and returning to the mince to stir.

She had hoped to have had the food ready to go on the table by the time her guests arrived, but she supposed Caroline and Cassidy could play with the little photobooth in the meantime. Some boisterous knocks, that certainly didn’t belong to Miranda, sounded on her door, making her smile at the stove. She turned the heat down having learnt from the last time she made tacos that the meat burned quickly when left unattended. She wiped her hands again, nervously she had the presence of mind to realise, then walked to the door.

“We’re here!” Cassidy cried, launching herself into Andy, Caroline waving and moving forward at a much more sedate pace.

“I see that,” Andy laughed. “I hope you’re not too hungry,” she added as an afterthought. Hungry five years olds were a specific kind of terrifying of their own right.

“We’re happy to wait, aren’t we, girls,” Miranda said. The girls nodded, and Andy was glad that they were so well-behaved.

“Come in, I have something for you both to play with while we wait.” They were off like a shot, a blur of strawberry blonde and their light blue dresses that Andy knew Miranda had made them put on. Turning to the doorway, Andy looked her girlfriend up and down, slowly, lips stretching into a slightly predatory grin. “Won’t you come in, pretty lady?”

“Said the wolf to the girl,” Miranda quipped as she walked past and into the foyer. Andy noticed that blue was a running theme with the Priestlys as Miranda shed her black coat to reveal a perfectly flattering knee length flared dress in a devastating blue hue.

“You’re no girl,” Andy husked.

“Decidedly not.” Andy was about to step forward to kiss the smug grin off of Miranda’s lips when she was stopped by Miranda sniffing delicately at the air. “Is something burning?”

“Shit,” Andy hissed, running to the stove and taking the pan with the meat off the heat. It wasn’t burnt, but it was a close thing. Thank god for Miranda’s keen senses, she supposed.

“Do you need help, darling?”

“Yeah, I have the-”

“Andy! It’s not working!” Called Cassidy from the living room where an old college project of hers, a small portable photobooth, sat ready to entertain both young girls.

“Tell me what to do here then go and help or she’ll get louder,” Miranda said knowingly. Andy moved the dish to hold the meat and the chopped vegetables and grated cheese, asking Miranda to get everything ready for the table.

“Hey honey, we’re going to have dinner now, so you can both play with it after, okay? I’ll show you how it works then.”

“But I wanted to do it now,” Cassidy whined.

“I know, but it’s dinner time. Come on,” Andy said, cutting off another complaint from the more boisterous twin. Caroline pulled Cassidy along behind her, talking about how hungry she was, which distracted Cassidy immediately.

“You did well,” Miranda commented as she arranged the lettuce and tomatoes and grated carrot artfully on the large dish. Andy beamed at her.

“Well, you know, gotta let them know they can’t bully me around,” she laughed. Miranda smiled, too, looking at Andy with a tender hopefulness.

“It won’t take long for you to be important to them,” Miranda assured. “I assume that’s your goal?” She added.

“You bet.”

“Good. Now get the shells out of the oven or they’ll burn. I’ll situate the girls.”

“Yes, Miranda,” Andy says, mock saluting her lover who only rolls her eyes as she moves to the dining room. When Andy gets into the dining room herself, Miranda is sat next to Caroline and Cassidy already grabbing handfuls of cheese and carrot for her taco. In hindsight, Andy realised, tacos were probably the messiest choice for dinner she could have chosen. As if Miranda could read her mind, she said, “Anything would have been messy, darling.”

It wasn’t that bad, Andy decided once they’d all eaten their fill. Miranda had helped Caroline with her food (she was nervous about touching food, which Andy apologised about. “That’s okay, Andy. But next time let’s just have pasta, okay?” Andy had agreed without hesitation.). Cassidy had no such qualms and dug in right away, so enthusiastically that her fingers were stained orange, but she was incredibly good at not dropping anything on her pretty dress. All in all, Andy breathed as she and Miranda sunk back into the couch, she deemed it a success. Even the photobooth, now packed away for another time, was going down as ‘the coolest, most amazing thing ever, ever’.

The kitchen was cleaned, the dining table packed away, the living room in a manageable disarray of pillows and blankets, a movie playing that the girls had chosen from Andy’s small collection of films. The bichrome haired woman on the screen was harping on about coats and puppies, but Andy wasn’t really listening, too busy, too absorbed in stroking Miranda’s back as she leaned on her. It was the most domestic that Andy had ever seen herself, but she wasn’t afraid of it or hesitant to want more of the same. She felt at home with Miranda and Caroline and Cassidy, and hoped that perhaps in some not too distant future, they might feel the same about her.

“You have to stop that, or I’ll fall asleep,” Miranda murmured against Andy’s neck.

“You’ll have to bring an overnight bag next time,” she said tentatively. Miranda hummed in what could only be agreeance.

“For the twins, too?”

“If they want to stay.”

“Good.”

It had been a long few months in some ways. Since she came to New York, Andy had hit the ground running and she hadn’t really stopped. If anything, her dating Miranda and their relationship that they were building together, had made her work harder than before. And it was not without sacrifice, not without a little pain and a little misunderstanding here and there, but sitting in her living room with the woman she loved curled into her, and a pair of children she adored beyond anything else, Andy thought she had done pretty damn good.

“Andy,” Caroline asked from below.

“Yeah, princess?”

“Are you going to be part of our family now?”

“I-… Do you want me to be?”

“Yes!” Cassidy chimed in. “We can do fun stuff when mommy is busy,” she added.

“We sure can,” Andy said softly, a fond smile stretching her mouth.

“Cool,” Cassidy mumbled. And then, “Can we get a dog?”