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By the time Andy opens her eyes, Miranda’s already ready for the day.
The woman operates at a machine’s pace. Kind of like the sewing machines that seem to eat away at the fabric, the needle a constant drill. She’s too quick with it. There’s still sleep in Andy’s eyes, but she is able to make out an image of Miranda, gray hair falling around her nape and a tight black dress gracing her hips. She has on those leather gloves from Christmas that go up to her forearms.
Her eyes immediately go wide. She must have gasped somewhere in there studying what Miranda’s hips looked like in the expensive material, because the woman turns her head to her and raises a brow.
She quickly puts herself together. “Morning, Miranda,” she says.
Miranda doesn’t say it back. She never does. “It’s nearly nine o’ clock. You and I are going to be late.”
She pauses. Then there’s the dimple on her cheek but never a lift of those lips, the closest Andy can get to a smile.
“Perhaps it’s only you in that dilemma because I assume you’ll be taking the train?”
So goddamn snobby, Andy thinks as she rustles through the bedclothes. Miranda’s acting cold and indifferent as if the woman hadn’t fucked her through the bedframe last night.
Andy pouts. “You don’t want me to ride with you?”
She catches that momentary flicker of arousal in Miranda’s face, always prompted by her little innuendos. Andy’s good at that. Miranda called her immature, saying this was why she avoided fucking younger girls, and Andy would call her a prude, saying likewise this was why she avoided older women.
Miranda traced the seam of Andy’s full lips and said yet here you are, sweetheart - Andy had to surrender.
But who’s to say it won’t work?
Miranda fixes a stern glare at her. “Put some clothes on. The hotel will kick us out in thirty minutes.”
No, they won’t. She’s Miranda Priestly, and they’re under the impression that the two of them are here for a meeting with an Italian designer. They won’t “kick” her out. They’ll probably even let her stay a whole year if need be.
It’s much needed, considering that yes, she can be a bit needy, and there’s the roles between them they try to ignore. Andy’s still a fresh grad from somewhere in Oklahoma, Ohio, or whichever Emily thinks she’s from and Miranda remains the head of Runway. Professional boundaries should be stressed.
But Andy hates when Miranda gets strict with her.
“Please?” Those thick, dark lashes flutter up at Miranda. “Pretty please?”
And it’s quite unfair to her, truly. Not even Nigel can resist those Bambi eyes. Andy’s putting so much pressure on her.
Andy pouts again and before she knows it, Miranda has her pinned down the bed, one glove placed over her hand and the other trailing down her stomach.
Miranda doesn’t want to ruin her lipstick. It’s Chanel nude, something she puts on when she’s in a rush. It’s still a good color on her, so she doesn’t kiss Andy when she starts touching her. She only hums softly after pressing her nose to Andy’s neck, inhaling the perfume she owned that somehow stuck to her supple skin. How did that happen? Andy doesn’t wear wooden notes.
Must be when she was pressing down onto her like she is now. She cups Andy between the legs and Andy shivers. Her eyes are wide. She looks like she’s trying her hardest not to dig her short nails into Miranda’s skin.
“Y-you don’t wanna take it off?” she asks meekly, voice hiking up an octave when she feels the leather slide over her clit. It feels strangely good. The sensation is foreign; her hips jolt when Miranda’s clothed fingertip draws circles over it. The smooth texture makes her wonder if it’s intentional that Miranda kept it on or, as always, she simply did not have enough time to take it off. Time is the only currency Miranda cannot afford.
Miranda pays attention to the sensitive, sweet spots on Andy’s neck. She can feel the vibration of the girl’s sighs here. There’s a certain rhythm to them. They go just like this, when she’s nervous, hesitant to move before she remembers Miranda holds the reins here; and this, a sharp gasp followed by deep, whimpering pants when she likes it.
Oh, Andy likes it, alright.
“Ten minutes, Andrea,” she warns.
Andy nods furiously. She bites her lip as Miranda works the sensitive nub harder. Miranda watches the sensations consume Andy. The color fills her cheeks while she lets out short, shaky huffs that fan her brown hair. She’s pretty like this.
“I want to ride with you.”
“Didn’t your primary school teacher tell you about prepositions? Where do you want it?”
Andy gasps as the first full finger delves inside her. The texture of it makes her squeeze down on Miranda’s quick fingers. It definitely feels different. That isn’t to say it isn’t good. Andy’s crying out already. The sensation is silky and rough and hot-
“I think they taught it differently in my generation,” she says cheekily. Miranda’s face darkens. The consequences are swift. All three fingers stuff her at once, pressing against the spot she knows can do so much. “No… sorry. Ah, I meant in the car, please will you let me take the car?”
That thrust is definitely irritable. It’s a big ask. People will start to wonder and Andy could get them in trouble. Miranda fucks her like she’s angry with her, pulling these pathetic sounds from her throat with just her fingers. She makes sure Andy feels the scratch of the leather and how full they make her. Each hitch in the thread is directed to those fluttering walls.
“Please?” Andy doesn’t know what she’s begging for anymore. It feels too good and odd and overwhelming simultaneously. Sometimes Miranda’s stern look alone makes her want to get on her knees. “I was so tired. Didn’t get enough sleep. I did a good job, right?”
“You get awfully bold when I’m inside you, don't you, Andrea.”
“I said sorry, p-please….”
“Maybe,” she says, and Andy whines hopefully. “Are you a good girl?”
“Yes.”
“Are you my good girl?”
Yes. Andy says it a couple more times, not at all answering the question afterwards but ordering Miranda to go faster (she can forgive that), as the fervent thrusts continue. They’re furious, hard, and Andy’s knees shake through her climax. She’s so sensitive. Even the mere action of Miranda pulling her fingers out makes her sob. Miranda makes her suck off the juices and tells her to get on with it.
Andy has to admit that it sort of hurts her when she does that. She likes keeping a job almost as much as she likes Miranda’s fingers inside her, but it’s… different. It’s a completely separate story when Miranda acts like it never happened.
The beauty blender nearly breaks with how many times she’s puffed it on her neck. Andy does not know color theory, never gave a shit about it in kindergarten and never did now. So she has to sort through different shades and colors on the mahogany vanity.
The bruise is still there. Stubborn little thing. It looks like Miranda had tried to suck blood out of her. It peers angrily through peach and looks worse when under purple. Even Andy’s shade doesn’t hide it.
Andy huffs, the frustration making her shoulders tense. This kind of reminds her of the first time she put on makeup. She couldn’t find a proper shade of foundation and struggled harder to blend it. She felt like a little girl playing around in her mom’s makeup kit.
“Purple,” Miranda supplies. Andy jumps in her seat. How long has her boss been watching her from the reflection?
It works though. Andy sighs in relief. She lightly dabs the sweat that settled on her brow. She’ll need a lot of setting spray for that to stick. Emily’s going to call it patchy later on but it’ll have to do.
They get in the same elevator. Miranda ties a scarf around Andy’s neck and lets her thumb brush through the stray lipstick on her cheek. When they finally get on their floor, however, Miranda thinks nothing more of it and gets to work. She tosses her coat in Andy’s desk. She notes the lack of breakfast. She tells Andy to stop slumping. What happened at the hotel stays at the hotel.
The problem with Andy is that she doesn’t want it to stay there. She brings it up, Miranda gets annoyed, and they fight. When she and Andy get into a fight, it’s never pretty.
She always pushes the narrative that you weren’t making any sense, Andrea when she knows that it’s mostly her own fault. And she also knows that the girl can’t do much around her but do that mildly irritating stutter. Andy argues back, tries to make her see reason, please please please - and it always ends with her finally storming out of the office, tears flooding her eyes.
Miranda would turn her chair so Andy doesn’t know she’s watching her tiny, miserable reflection leave.
Lord forgive her. Miranda’s a stubborn woman whose stubbornness is adapted to by everyone around her - coffee in the morning, coat thrown and on the hook, the twins woken up for the day. They’re all on her payroll anyway so they should be. But Andy just matches the stubbornness with one of her own. It’s laughable. Doesn’t she realize she can’t fight?
Today, it’s about the Louboutin-red blood dripping from Andy’s lip. They’re in the office past work hours and she’s frisking around so much that Miranda finally sighs.
“Spit it out.”
The deer-caught-in-headlights look never gets old. “What?”
Miranda rolls her eyes. “Andrea, you’ve been circling me like a vulture for the past” - she checks her watch - ”ten minutes and you’re doing my head in. Spit it out.”
Andy sinks into the sheets. She still hasn’t learned to hold Miranda’s gaze outside of the building. Barely could within those walls anyway. Nigel has had to clear his throat multiple times for her eyes to stop scanning the entirety of the ceiling.
Miranda watches the nervous bob of her throat (pretty, pretty) and Andy finally finds her words. “You hurt me.”
“Hmm.” She raises her brows.
“W-when you threw your coat…” Andy touches her fingers to the side of her bottom lip. “You had a safety pin on it. It wasn’t hooked. And it… it, um, got me on the mouth.”
It was for one of the models, who’s so thin she might as well be a strand of hair. Miranda had kept it in her pocket just in case. She always had some for emergencies - to keep the fabric wound, not to draw much attention to the waist but the way it falls around it.
It fell on the wrong target. Andy’s lip looks bruised and swollen at the corner. It looks painful, freshly throbbing with blood. The matte lipstick blurs out into messy streaks above her mouth. It made Andy’s lips look sort of kiss-swollen. Miranda sort of likes that.
“You poor thing,” she says, before focusing on the pages of her book again.
Andy scoffs lightly. That’s no surprise; just what the hell did she expect? “I was hoping for an apology.”
“Nobody died, and it brought color to your face.”
Andy’s bottom lip is doing that trembling thing again. Miranda usually only sees it when - well, she’s got the younger woman trapped in the sheets and under her fingers when the twins weren’t home for the night, when she’s begging to be allowed to come. It still looks pretty on her, as do many things, but Miranda doesn’t like fragility when it comes to emotions. Likes it better when Andy’s letting her do whatever she pleases.
And she does, for the most part. Which is why she fails to understand why a slight puncture would be a problem.
“But you still hurt me.” Andy’s brows draw together. “I could’ve gotten an infection. And what if it stuck to my eyeball instead?”
“Then that would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it. You and your beautiful eyes.”
Andy opens her mouth for a while, then shuts it. She has no idea if she should take the compliment when it’s veiled under that indifference. Her fists ball up and she feels much like a little girl again, always with a wagging finger in her face, always discarded. She feels a lot like this when she’s with Miranda. She doesn’t know why she stays anyway.
Andy swallows the sob threatening to leave her mouth. She turns on her heel with furious footfalls on her way out. She embarrassed herself for nothing. Miranda just got off to seeing her ruin her life, get her nose red and runny, and shiver all to please her. That’s why she likes twisting Andy’s wrists behind her back so she has nowhere to run and tells her to beg for it. That’s why Miranda snarls and tugs and scratches until Andy’s properly sobbing.
She should have listened when they said she was a sick woman.
Andy doesn’t come to work the next day. She knows this because her coffee isn’t there and Emily doesn’t look distressed. Still, she throws her coat at Emily and looks around, peeved.
“Why isn’t my coffee here? Has she died or something?”
“She got sick” is what Emily says from a mouthful of fur. “I’ll get you one right now. Sorry.”
No. Miranda cannot function without coffee but Starbucks is way too far to make it.
“We have no time for the flu.” Miranda slips into her chair and waves a hand dismissively. “Tell Bulgari the meeting will progress at six. And I need twelve bags from Sandra by tomorrow, the models look scarily plain.”
Emily nods, gently pushing the red coat off herself. Miranda studies the slight alarm in her face. She wishes to ask if it really is the flu. Plausible, because Andy has the immune system of a seven-year-old, or if Andy’s pulling a stunt. If so, it’s working. She’s alarmed.
Miranda writes a note for the designers to keep on the reference board this weekend. She finishes several things, slotting even an hour to talk to her daughter. She finds that she gets things done undertime faster when she has to take her mind off things. No one says that to her, in fear of prying into her life and the wrath of the Dragon Lady, but everyone knows it. She knows it, too. She wants to take one thing off her mind, and that is Andy.
(She can deny it as many times as she pleases, but it’s Andy.)
As the chauffeur drives her, the night seems to narrow around her. The black of the limousine combined with that of the skies and her sunglasses don’t provide reprieve from the thoughts. There’s work to be done, work on her mind, but always there’s Andy.
Andy, she’d argue, is no separate being from work. The girl barged into Runway a helpless being and, to her surprise, grew acquainted with it. She’s a good assistant and goes the extra mile. Her thoughts of Andy start and end with Runway. Just another chore to drop on her back.
But she would be lying if she said that. A fallacious rebuttal. Otherwise, a pair of black stockings wouldn’t have gone from Andy’s legs to her pocket that first night. Her eyes struck her - large, wanton, a home to every feeling she never bothered to hide.
So she knows she wrote a claim of ownership on her when she said she saw a great deal of herself in Andy, in more ways than one. Those eyes turned all big and hopeful, the exact opposite of what Miranda wanted. She had expected Andy - awkward, sensitive, pretty Andy - to scoff, say that she isn’t because why would she want to be. But she didn’t. Andy worships her.
She realizes she must have exploited that.
But when Miranda pulls out her phone, all she texts her is
Be here tomorrow. Dior wants a first look at the pictorial.
×
No reply.
×
“Is there a date for Andrea’s funeral or do I have to guess for myself?”
The board visibly shifts with discomfort. The seat beside Miranda remains empty. Emily looks like she’s going to start throwing up.
This is an official meeting between major executives that could uplift the reputation of Runway beyond galaxies. The presentation is gorgeously made, a moodboard of dreams.
There’s a lot of work to be done. All of it feels distant in her head when at the forefront of it all is Andy.
Her nails tap on the table. Miranda raises her brows, a warning sign, and Emily immediately scrambles for an answer.
“Uh… she never said why, she didn’t leave a note.”
How unpunctual. Miranda waves it off and drills the intern for the cerulean. Horrid. Not a spring color at all. It reminds her of another once-jumpy, once-fragile girl she knows.
Miranda dismisses the meeting five minutes early and a wave of relief washes over the room. Maybe the Ice Queen has mercy after all, unlike the widespread myths about her terror. Now they can all have lunch. Thank you, Miranda, they all say. Thank you for sparing us.
But it’s Emily who is once again the target. Miranda corners her and watches those droopy, moody eyes widen when she orders her to dial Andy’s number. Emily’s confused. Miranda didn’t give a shit if you were terminally ill or dead - she would never phone an employee in the office.
“F-from our desk phone?” Emily stutters. Even that is exclusive for sponsors.
“Would you rather write a telegram, Emily?”
Emily still looks miffed as her black polished fingernail taps in Andy’s landline number. Her files sit out in the open should she need a second look. Miranda peers at it. There’s Andy’s resume, with a 2x2 photo where she looks noticeably younger and more innocent. Somehow she looks even more doe-eyed. She’s smiling up at Miranda, dressed in a plain t-shirt with her hair undone and frizzy.
Below the photo reads her profile, where she states she’s a passionate person, sensitive and adaptable to the needs of the workplace. Whichever those may be.
There’s a lump in Miranda’s throat all of a sudden. She closes the folder.
“She didn’t answer.”
“Put in the call again,” she orders, and Emily does. “You are to notify me immediately once she picks up.”
Emily holds the telephone to her ear. She isn’t one to question Miranda, especially when she worships the ground she walks on. But she finds herself asking, curiously, “What if she doesn’t-”
“She will.”
Miranda never doubts her own words but there’s a first time for everything. Today seems to be exactly that. The sound of Andy’s number being dialed is starting to agitate her.
Up. Slam. Up. Slam. It goes like that for a long time. She can’t even count it. She leaves for some coffee until Emily’s red head peeks around the corner and says it’s her.
Miranda’s shoes click quickly across the smooth floor. She grasps the telephone immediately.
“Hello, Andrea Sachs speaking.”
There she is. That smooth voice sounds even better warped by the proximity of her mouth to the telephone. But she doesn’t even sound the least bit ill, which makes Miranda ask:
“Where have you been?”
Miranda hears the staggering breaths over the line. She can picture Andy holding the phone, trying to keep a steady head, trying to find the courage to drop the call.
“Home. I’m recovering from an infection.”
Jesus. Miranda pinches her nose. So she wasn’t lying at all, was she?
“Put on a mask and meet me at the lobby in ten minutes.”
“I told you, I’m sick.”
“And I need to speak with you immediately.”
“What do you think we’re doing now?”
She’s so fussy when she’s mad. Miranda gets on Andy’s nerves all the time but this is the first time she’s genuinely being insufferable about it, avoiding and missing work.
Emily looks on expectantly. She’s standing there like a fool, shifting in the latest season’s heels. Miranda looks particularly cross. It kind of lifts her spirits that it’s about and because of Andy, whom she knew was always going to be a complete and utter disaster. Her hair looked like it wasn’t conditioned in years. There wasn’t a speck of charm about her at all. She and Serena had laughed about it, often in her face, because Jesus - you had to understand she seemed like a lost cause.
But now she’s beautiful. She always has been, even if she didn’t count calories. She even learned to put some eyeliner on. Miranda favors her more now, she knows it - Emily rarely receives orders unless it’s outside of Miranda’s office or to pick up the Book.
Emily swallows. There’s an uncomfortable feeling in her chest just now, watching Miranda’s eyes glaze over with what looks like worry as she listens to Andy talk. She breaks out of it as soon as the call’s dropped.
“You’re dismissed,” Miranda says finally. Whatever. Isn’t she always?
×
Back when the twins were younger, they got into a fight. And when they both look like each other and act like each other, it’s hard to tell who’s exactly the correct one.
Their stupid father was never around to tell them to calm down. He was only there for the highs - which is to mean when he missed out on half their lives but showed up to give them lavish gifts. All she wants is for her girls to be happy, and those gifts made them happy. But often Miranda finds herself wondering what would have happened if he were here to teach the lessons that she does. How to say please and thank you. How to tie their shoes. All these she taught in spite of her frequent absence.
But this fight was about a toy. Oh, they’ve got hundreds of those. There are dolls, mini cars, vanities; think everything Miranda didn’t get as a little girl herself and wanted them to have. Caroline had torn the dress off a doll and Cassidy wailed like she’d been injured. Miranda demanded an apology immediately.
Caroline tilted her face and asked what an apology was.
Miranda tossed and turned in her bed that night. Was she a bad mother? Had she hurt the twins before and, without meaning to, conditioned them to hurt themselves and each other without regretting it? The shame burned in her cheeks as she recalled the genuine, innocent confusion Caroline reacted with. She couldn’t believe she had to illustrate what being sorry meant, and why she should be.
Of course, for no reason at all, the memories flash in her mind as she waits in the lobby. She’s thinking about things to pass the time because if she focuses on the chilly atmosphere, one coat won’t do. It has nothing to do with Andy.
She brought this upon herself, Miranda thinks. Andy should’ve expected what trying to cater to every expectation of hers means. She’s merely a rebound from that divorce.
Why did she have to be so beautiful though?
Miranda’s head hurts. Why does Andy have to look so attractive and filled out compared to the rest whose ideals lie in ligament and bone? Why did she have to wear that dress and keen when Miranda tugged her hair? Why is she so sweet and obedient even when Miranda admittedly goes harsh on her?
She even agreed to meeting up because Miranda called her darling.
Her sweet, impressionable little Andrea. Perhaps she takes advantage of her too much.
Roy fetched her from her slummy apartment earlier as ordered. Now the limousine pulls up with the shadow of the girl inside it.
Miranda turns up her chin and doesn’t speak as she steps into the sleek car. The shades hide her eyes wandering over Andy. Her undereyes are hollow. She’s wearing a band shirt and a pair of stressed jeans. She doesn’t look much like the woman she sees strolling in confidently at the office.
She looks… young. Something pricks in the corners of Miranda’s eyes as she realizes it.
“Does it still hurt?”
Andy looks straight ahead at the tinted privacy screen. She forces herself to nod.
Miranda pulls her sunglasses off. “Can you show me where it hurts?”
There are tears in Andy’s brown eyes when she turns to look at her. They close when Miranda places a hand on her cheek. Miranda gently tilts her face to better study the new, stinging plumpness that makes Andy’s already full lips look softer. It’s sore-red around the area. The indent of the safety pin still lingers on the injured skin.
Miranda’s thumb smooths over Andy’s cheekbone. It manages to block a fat tear from slipping down her face.
“I did mean it when I said I’m glad it didn’t get your eyes,” she says in a hushed whisper. “The prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”
They didn’t have the courage to meet hers before, but Miranda noticed them. Large and brown and so fucking pretty. Adriana Lima’s green ones might look better on Vogue but Miranda never picked up a copy anyway.
There’s a small smile on Andy’s face. However, it’s the matter of the smile still being injured, and those doe eyes she loves filled to her lashline with tears.
“Does it hurt to speak? Or maybe you prefer not to speak to me?”
The lack of accusation gives Andy the courage to lift her shoulders. The muscles of her throat fight to hold back sobs. She wasn’t usually this pathetic. She was competent, smart, and smiley. That’s how Runway and her state university, which seems so far away now, sees her.
It isn’t quite like Andy to pout and shed tears for a woman who holds her face like she means it. But Miranda isn’t just any woman.
Because Miranda Priestly is the kind of woman who would scoot closer, hold her watery gaze, and not quite say she’s sorry - but asks, “Will kissing it better make it hurt less?”
And the funny thing is, as Miranda plants her lips over the sore spot, Andy discovers that it does.