Chapter Text
One: what the hell, Miranda Priestly?
Four months after Paris, Doug began talking to her again. Two months later, she phoned Lily for the first time in weeks. At that moment, Andy decided a life without friends wasn’t worth it, even if she still thought Nate was a childish prick. Doug was still sufficiently impressed by Miranda Priestly to befriend Andy again - she might’ve introduced him to Nigel at some point - and while what had happened between her and Lily still hadn’t been mended yet, they at least talked.
Emily began talking to her again when the cast was gone. Only fair. Nigel, once he got over himself - which was rather quick because in five months, the whole James Holt enterprise looked doomed - murmured a while later a “Welcome to the club of people Miranda can marginally stand, Six.”
Andy didn’t know what to think of that.
And indeed, Miranda could - if only marginally so - stand her. One day she came into the office and when Andy said as chipper as she could at 8 AM, “Good morning, Miranda! Your coffee is on your desk!”, she swore Miranda muttered a ‘morning’ back. Andy had been sitting slack-jawed behind her desk until Emily came back from her toilet break, and nearly missed the phone call from the Lagerfeld people, which resulted in Emily throwing a wad of paper at her head. She’d laughed and taken the phone. “Hello, Miranda Priestly’s office?”
After the Harry Potter incident, the twins weren’t complete brats anymore - especially because Andy was really good at telling them apart - and was now on her guard. Before she went into the townhouse, Andy took off her heels, checked the floor for booby traps, looked if the doorknobs had glue on them, and pointedly ignored the twins and their ‘offers’ to ‘help’.
One day, the twins dropped a parachute with a barbie holding a piece of white paper. A surrender? Andy looked them dead in the eye before leaving and raised an eyebrow. Next day, she left a copy of Erich Kastner’s Lottie and Lisa on the table, knowing full well the twins would come down and get it.
“It’s way better than the movie,” Caroline yelled a week later down the stairs, “Thanks, Andrea!” Of course they were capable of imitating how their mom had said Andrea. “Do you have more books?”
“Don’t worry,” Cassidy called, when she had frowned and mouthed Miranda. “Mom won’t mind. You’re like, her only friend!” Andy had stared at them, but true to her word, left every week a new book on the counter, and took the one the twins had finished home.
So, six months after Nate left, life was going pretty well for Andrea Sachs. Even better than before, especially on the good days. Another seven months later, it all came crashing down.
The day began relatively uneventful, with Andy slipping in a quick phone call to her father about how she was excited to come over to Ohio for Christmas and New Year’s between two emails. Afterwards, Emily told her in that prissy British voice of hers - Andy was sure she was laying it on extra thick just for her - that she was lucky Miranda wasn’t in yet.
At 9.15 AM, Miranda breezed in.
At 11.10 AM, disaster struck.
At 11.30 AM, Miranda had an emergency appointment with her lawyer, Arthur ‘Archie’ Ellis.
Andy knew it wouldn’t be good, because Arthur had called her twenty minutes before the appointment, mumbling with a good amount of fear in his voice that Miranda’s visa application had been denied. She wailed when she saw Nigel coming up, told him the whole story, and he spit out his water - almost on her keyboard, mind you - and then Emily said, “Bloody hell, can’t you two stay quiet?”
Finally Andy managed to say that Miranda’s Visa application was denied, and Emily’s skin tone now matched that of a sheet. “If she’ s deported…”
“Then we’re all done for,” Nigel finished flatly.
“I’m not telling her,” Andy immediately said.
“Shan’t!” Emily said at the same moment, after which they both looked at Nigel.
“No.” He rubbed his glasses for good measure, and then left, leaving Andy and Emily to a glare contest.
Finally Andy said, “Fine, I’ll do it, but you do the coffee run for the next month.” She received a brisk nod in return, and then, bracing herself for the imminent storm, entered Miranda’s office, which, at the moment, seemed more like a dragon’s lair surrounded by lava and other scary props, rather than the pristine glass cubicle it actually was.
Miranda raised an eyebrow.
Andy gulped.
“Your lawyer, mr. Ellis has called. Your Visa application has been denied. I’ve scheduled an emergency meeting at 11.30 AM.” A sharp intake of air. Andy didn’t really care about God, Jesus or anyone else but at that moment, she fiercely hoped that whoever was up there, had mercy on her.
“Make sure you are there. That’s all.”
She fled the lair and got Miranda’s coat and bag ready and made sure to message Roy because exactly two minutes later, Miranda breezed out. “Coat. Bag.” If Miranda was impressed by her readiness, she said nothing of it.
Roy was waiting for them, and looked antsy. Andy gave him an apologetic glance, but was soon saved from awkward silences, because her phone lighted up, displaying Emily on the screen. “Em?”
“Don’t bloody Em me. Irv just walked in and told me he wanted to see Miranda. I managed to deflect him by saying she had an appointment, and then he just laughed, saying she’s quick to go to her lawyer. ” Andy paled. Of course. Miranda might have won the battle in Paris, but not the war. “Thanks, Em.”
“Don’t bloody Em me.”
“Bye, Em.”
“Bollocks.” Then the line went dead and she turned to Miranda. “Mr. Ravitz wants to see you…” She hesitated, and only when Miranda raised an eyebrow, she added, “Em...ily thinks he’s got to do something with it.”
Miranda merely ground her jaw and looked some more out of the window.
Luckily for the three of them, Arthur Ellis’ office came into view, and Miranda barged out of the car, doing her impossible stiletto-powerwalk, that left Andy struggling to catch up with her. Arthur Ellis, as turned out, was a smarmy forty-something who was terrified of Miranda Priestly, but also reminded Andy of Christian Thompson - the greatest lapse in her judgement - a little too much.
“Arthur,” Miranda said sweetly, “stop staring at Andrea’s cleavage. It’s unbecoming for a man of your age.” Andy’s eyes bulged. Arthur went red. Miranda just made a dismissive gesture and said, “Please tell me how this dreadful little situation occurred and what can be done about it.”
“Erm, not much, Ms. Priestly.” Her nostrils flared at the mention of Ms. Priestly. Classic mistake, Andy thought, satisfied with herself. “You promised not to leave the country, but you’ve been to Paris, then to Milan.”
“Of course I went to Paris and Milan, Arthur.”
“Apparently you haven’t submitted all of the correct paperwork as well - and they can prove it - but there’s nothing to be done about it now.” By now, Arthur looked like he was going to faint any moment. Andy suddenly felt a pair of stony blue eyes stare at her. She was so dead. Luckily for her, he didn’t stop talking. “We could prepare to contest and reapply, but that can only happen next year, so you’ll have to be deported. Aside from that… there’s not much we can do. Deportation would take place between mid-january to february. ”
In the car, Miranda murmured a little “ Well? ” that scared the living daylights out of Andy. Well, she wasn’t that scared of Miranda anymore, but that flesh-melting look still managed to make her feel uncomfortable. “I swear we haven’t received any emails or post about it. Maybe mr. Ra-”
“Irving. Of course.” Miranda sniffed. Back at Runway, she vanished into her office almost immediately, probably stewing.
“How is she?” Andy made a face in reply and Emily groaned, slamming her forehead on the desk.
Reprieve didn’t last long though, because immediately, the snit Miranda had worked herself in, became clear to both of them. “RVSP yes to the Prada luncheon, but have my driver waiting at 12.30. Inform Galliano I want more samples. Collect the advertisers’ samples as well. Get someone on editorial to do research on philosophers. Tell Nigel to reshoot the Dries Van Noten spread, but have Demarchelier do it instead of that buffoon the Art department hired. Remind Jocelyn that she’s here to innovate, not rehash stale ideas. Emily, fire anyone who suggests Valentine or love for our February issue on the spot, Jennifer and Edward you can already fire as well - incompetence is not tolerated - and, Andrea , call Arthur for the necessary paperwork regarding marriage Visas. That’s all.”
“Yes, Miranda.” Andy looked at Emily once Miranda was gone and said, “Good luck with Ego Ed.”
“About bloody time he got fired.” Andy chuckled softly while dialling Smarmy Archie and readying herself for an afternoon of errands. Once she got Smarmy Archie on the line, he proceeded to explain that unless Miranda had an eligible partner, Visa fraud was a serious felony and that the sponsor for Miranda’s US Visa could face at least a few years in prison along with a heavy fine.
She mulled about that for a while while texting Nigel - as far as she knew, there hadn’t been anyone at all after Stephen.
>> SIX: m wants to reshoot the dvn spread w patrick
>> NIGE: now??
>> SIX: yea
>> NIGE: this is bc of her visa isnt it?
>> SIX: yup
Andy then went into Miranda’s office, telling her that Smar- mr. Ellis said Visa fraud wasn’t going to work out. Miranda merely muttered something about getting a Green card anyway, all while giving Andy a weird once-over before shooing her outside.
By five PM, Irv was there again, waltzing straight into Miranda’s office before Andy could stop him. She moaned, promptly heard “Andrea!” and cursed her existence before dragging herself inside where she was faced with the following image: Miranda Priestly in 4.7 inch Louboutin Pigalles, towering over Irving ‘Irv’ Ravitz, who had just challenged said Editor-in-chief to a glaring contest.
Miranda won, of course.
Irv began with fake chivalry in his voice that sounded more like glee. “Seeing your Visa application has been denied, Miranda, we impossibly can let you stay here. I’m sorry. Carine Roitfeld has agreed to take over business during your deportation.” Miranda hated her even more than freesias or Jacqueline Follet. Andy wished she was somewhere else.
“As a matter of fact, Irving, I’m marrying. We’ll have to push up the due date for a bit, with the whole Visa affair, don’t we, darling?” Miranda, though her voice was syrupy, gave her that same weird intent look like before. She hadn’t the slightest about what it meant.
When Irv said, “To who?” Andy got a horrible feeling in her stomach.
“Whom, Irving, and she’s standing right behind you.” Miranda seemed triumphant, even as Irv whipped around his head, seized up Andy, muttered, “You’re her assistant huh? HR will have to say something about that, not to mention the INS about Visa fraud.”
“Irving, may I remind you that your wife is still not aware of your decade-long affair with your thirty-something secretary? Isn’t she called Cheryl-something?” He actually gasped for air, muttered “Christine” and waggled out of the office.
“Oh well, close enough,” Miranda said to nobody in particular - at least that’s what Andy thought - until it became clear she was talking to Andy. Then Andy remembered how to breathe. “We are what ?”
“Marrying. Don’t be daft.”
Andy forgot how to breathe again. Spluttered. “Don’t be daft? Oh, I’ll… you - … how...”
Even worse was Miranda’s reply. “It’s perfectly legal, isn’t it? Honestly, Andrea. ”
“We are so not doing this,” Andy said and almost stalked off, that is, until Miranda stood up, giving her a cold glare. “Stay. Didn’t you want to be a journalist or something?” Andy imagined the blacklist looming over her head.
“Oh my god, Miranda, are you threatening me?”
“I’m doing nothing of the kind.” Miranda replied blandly.
Andy saw red. “You know what? I quit. Fuck you, Miranda, this is not only about you, you selfish…”
“Well, then, say it. Go on with your childish temper tantrum, Andrea,” she said quietly, the evenness of her voice deceptive, and Andy lamented for a brief moment the fragments of the comfortable working relationship she had built up with Miranda. “Out with it, darling.”
If Miranda wanted to play it like this, she could have it. “Fine! You’re a selfish bitch! Arthur told me the risks. Five years in prison, Miranda, five years . And then you’re threatening to blacklist me because I don’t want to go along with your insane plan?”
Miranda now sat in the windowsill of her office, watching the New York traffic outside. “Is that how you think of me?” Miranda sounded strange and if Andy didn’t know better, hurt even. Well, maybe calling Miranda Priestly a selfish bitch didn’t exactly help, but this was yet another of those ridiculous Priestly demands, and Andy considered it to be the goddamn red line. Fuck Miranda, and fuck her stupid green card.
“I wasn’t going to threaten you with blacklisting,” Miranda said, her voice barely audible.
Andy stared.
“I was going to offer you employment better suited to your talents. Never let it be said that I do not nurture it. You would obviously get a… monetary compensation as well for the impact on your own life.”
She stared some more. Miranda studied the traffic with a great deal of interest. Finally, Andy managed to at least think coherently, scraping herself together. “Miranda, I’m so-”
“Save your apologies for someone else. You meant what you said. I simply find myself in a most unfortunate predicament, and I will not shirk from doing what I must do to maintain my career.” There was definite ice in that voice. Oh god.
“You’re still compromising me.”
“Ah, yes, your little work ethic. Isn’t that why you aren’t doing this job? To get a recommendation for your big break into journalism?” Andy stiffened. She was right, as usual.
Still. “I’ll quit after New Years. In any case, frauding the USA into giving you a Green card isn’t that easy.”
Miranda merely sniffed. “You can do the impossible, can’t you?”
Andy looked sceptical. “You are aware that this could, no, would be a Stokes interview?”
Miranda gave her a blank look.
“What do I usually have for breakfast in the morning?”
“How is that relevant?”
Andy sighed. “A Stokes interview is where we are supposed to answer questions about each other, Miranda. Separate. If you fuck up, I’m done for.”
A sharp intake of breath. She ignored it. “You want me to comply, you’re going with me to Cincinnati, Ohio for the holidays. The twins are staying with their father for Christmas, no?” Fuck Miranda, fuck this job and fuck her work ethic.
Miranda stared at her. It took Andy a minute to realize Miranda Priestly was indeed, astonished. Then, a nod. “If I’m back in time for the Elias-Clarke New Year event. Book two plane tickets.”
“We’re driving and we’ll be back in time.”
Miranda’s lips pursed. Oh crap. “Do you even have a car?” Andy straightened. “Uh - I was going to rent one.” An evil little smile. “My car. And I drive.”
Then Andy asked “Shake on it?” and Miranda gave her her best you-absolute-idiot look, but did take Andy’s hand - even though she acted like Andy’s hand had the bubonic plague and gave a purposeful limp handshake. Guess the selfish bitch comment hit pretty hard. It still was a first though, touching Miranda’s hand, which was soft and warm, and Andy actually didn’t realize before how nice that was, but anyway, she’d told Miranda that she was a selfish bitch and did somehow not get fired, so that was quite incredible.
“Anyway, I really need to be calling my parents about the extra guest, who is incidentally also my boss and fiancée.” And with that, Andy strode out of the office, wondering why the hell she had agreed to this. She really was going to marry Miranda Priestly, huh?
Emily looked at her in confusion - thank god the office was soundproof - but Andy merely said, “Gotta dash,” and decided to make her call in the Runway break room that no one ever used because no one took breaks. Oh, she was so fucked.
“Richard Sachs, Sachs & Miller Finance Lawyers.”
“Hi dad!” She tried to sound as cheery as possible and failed miserably. Better to tackle Dad first. He’d deal with everyone else. “Andy?” Her dad sounded mildly surprised. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing stuff ?”
“Um, well, yes. Would you mind if I brought someone along for Christmas? Uh, like a special someone?”
Silence. Andy cringed.
“I - uh - didn’t know you were seeing someone again?” After Nate . Her mother hadn’t exactly been happy with the break-up, and she knew Dad had liked Nate quite a lot. They’d both dropped hints about tying the knot anytime soon. Look at how that had turned out.
“Yeah, it sorta happened.” More like Miranda sprang it on her and she went along with it because she was completely insane.
“Who is he?” Oh well, fuck.
“Er... Not a he.” Andy wanted to die.
“Oh, gotchu,” her father said after a while, “Well, that’s uh new. What’s her name?”
Andy really wanted to die. “Her name is Miranda.”
It became very silent on the other side.
“Miranda?” her father finally choked out, “as the in the Miranda who’s your boss?”
“Yeah?”
More silence.
“Andy…”
“We’ll talk about this later,” Andy quickly interrupted him, “I just want to know, yes or no?” She could hear a deep sigh on the other end of the line.
“Fine, I’m not liking it, but yes, you can take her here if you insist.” Despite everything, Andy smiled. “Please tell mom? Bye Dad!” Then she hung up before there could be more protests. Well, lying to the United States was one thing, lying to her parents another.
“Andrea!” a familiar voice carried through the Runway offices. Oh - out of all the things.
The friday before Christmas, at the ass-crack of dawn, Andy took the sub to Miranda’s townhouse, only to find Roy struggling with a ridiculous amount of suitcases. She frowned at Miranda. “We’re staying for a week, Miranda. And I thought you were driving.”
Miranda gave her the you-idiot look again. “Roy picked up the car in the Hamptons.”
“Oh.” Andy looked at the car and realised she was looking at a black Ferrari sportscar that was probably worth more than she’d make in a lifetime.
“We’re taking the Ferrari,” Miranda said while easing herself in the car “Roy, put our luggage in the car. The address?”
“5850 Grand Legacy Dr, Maineville, Ohio.” Andy finished quickly, and immediately noticed a pair of eyes boring through her.
“I thought we were going to Cincinnati ?”
“It’s forty minutes from Cincinnati, Miranda.”
“Fine.” Andy entered the address in the GPS, and with that, Miranda pushed on the gas pedal, which made the engine roar unnecessarily. As turned out, Miranda was a great driver with a complete lack of respect for speed limits. Figures.
The first hour was spent in relative silence, mostly because Andy saw kind of green. Then, Miranda asked, “How did your parents take it?”
“Not well. What did you expect?” Andy answered, maybe slightly too catty, because Miranda stiffened and pushed down harder on the gas pedal. “I see.”
“I’ll call Leslie?” A cautious venture, not a question.
“Later. At least Irving isn’t too stupid to realise it’d be bad publicity for Elias-Clarke. I’m telling the twins first.” She actually winced at that. “I would rather have they weren’t so delicate. Here’s to hoping William won’t get air of it or else it’ll go to his head again.” Miranda explaining herself. That was new too.
“Sure, uh we need to start preparing stuff for that Stokes interview.” Miranda pursed her lips at stuff. Andy didn’t apologize.
“Later. Call Arthur and tell him to make an appointment with the Office for Immigration. Then let him draw up a prenup, obtain the license and find someone to prepare the ceremony. That’s all.”
She bit back a sigh, and began her phone calls. Smarmy Archie tried to protest, but Andy merely barked, “Get over it, mr. Ellis, or else Miranda will be forced to contact another attorney.” He, eventually, got over it. Andy could’ve sworn Miranda had smiled at that.
Not that she could think about it. “Find a suitable restaurant on the way and make a reservation for lunch.” She found something with enough stars to hopefully appease Miranda. “We don’t accept reservations for today anymore.”
“It’s for Miranda Priestly.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll see what we can do, miss Sachs. See you in a few hours.” Andy put down the phone with relief, and read a book while Miranda effortlessly weaved through the traffic. A few hours later, in Pittsburgh, Miranda indeed pronounced the lunch to be acceptable with a singular nod. Thank God. Not much time to linger though, because if anything, Miranda’s middle name was punctuality.
“Andrea, put on some music for God’s sake.” Andy looked up from the book she was reading and instinctively opened the glove compartment to find a stack of CD’s. What the hell, Miranda ? She filed through the CD’s and was confronted with a collection that made no sense - Rammstein and the Jonas Brothers? Time to guess what Miranda liked (Rule number one: you do not ask Miranda anything) - and she had an inkling it wasn’t the Jonas Brothers or Justin Timberlake for that matter. Must be the twins.
When she slid Mutter in the CD-player with a muttered “I like Linkin’ Park myself,” Miranda’s face remained blank, focused on the road as ever, but once Till Lindemann’s voice blasted out of the speakers, Andy noticed two fingers idly drumming along. Who knew Miranda Priestly was a Rammstein fan?
Rammstein was fun for half an hour or so. An hour later, Andy wanted to continue reading Pride and Prejudice, which she’d started reading while waiting for the Book. Alas, Till Lindemann was still blasting through the speakers. Another hour passed by - she wanted to nap (though she doubted that she would with Miranda next to her) - but by then, Miranda had insisted on playing Stahlhammer, and from there, it only went downhill into what the hell she was into. Three hours later, Andy decided that all rules about not asking Miranda anything could go to hell. “Do you even speak German?” she asked, as she handed Miranda the GlaubeLiebeTod CD by a band called Oomph! Not that she knew what it was, and at this point, she had no interest in finding out anymore.
“Ja,” came the answer, without missing a beat, “natürlich.”
“What?”
Miranda just smirked.
Andy opened her mouth to ask another question, but at that point - and she was damn sure it was purposeful - Miranda had turned up the volume button once again. She rolled her eyes and tried to focus on Pride and Prejudice again. Not that it was much use. Luckily, before she went insane, her dad called. Wonder above wonders, she did not miss the call due to Miranda’s music, and managed to pick up just in time.
“Hi dad!” Andy yelled, before turning down the music herself. Miranda glared.
“What the hell’s that music?”
“Uh - it’s something from an album called Glabeliep-something .”
“GlaubeLiebeTod,” Miranda corrected with the same bitchy voice she’d delivered the whole cerulean-sweater lecture in. Andy pointedly ignored her.
Luckily, her dad couldn’t hear it. “When will you guys be arriving?”
A look at the GPS. “Twenty minutes, give or take?” The engine revved. Andy gave Miranda a dirty look.
“Until then!” And as turned out, it would be less than fifteen minutes, before the car was parked on the driveway while it blasted some random song Miranda seemed to particularly enjoy. Maybe because it’d scared the shit out of Andy, the beginning calm until all hell broke loose. “It’s just loud,” she declared upon getting out of the car - “and meant to turn you prematurely deaf. No content whatsoever.”
“It’s nothing of the kind,” Miranda replied in her characteristic snotty tones. Turns out she could not only obliterate whoever she wanted to when it came to fashion, but also Neue Deutsche Härte. “It’s perfectly legitimate. . . if you knew German.” Andy ringed the doorbell in protest. “I believe it was Erich Kastner’s poem,” Shit . Kastner. She totally knew, and knew Andy had finally realised that too. “that supplied the lyrics for ah, Eine Frau spricht im Schlaf. When Rammstein did Links 2-3-4, they alluded to Bertolt Brecht’s Einheitsfrontlied, one of the most fundamental songs of the German Labour movement, so it’s really funny how you think Neue Deutsche Härte-”
Andy’s parents opened the door, Andy said “Hi mom, hi dad!” while giving them a hug, and that was the end of Miranda’s little lecture on music.
“Mr. Sachs. Mrs. Sachs.” If the roadtrip with Miranda had been bad, this would be so much worse, especially because right now, Miranda had plastered her best crocodile smile on her face, and said, “It’s wonderful to meet the parents of my fiancée - ” before proceeding to give them air-kisses.
Andy’s mom froze in place. Her dad stiffened slightly. Andy said, “Come on, let’s get unpacked!” and managed to save the situation. Yeah, she was good at that. “Dad, you wanna help?”
“Sure do,” and with that Richard Sachs beheld the car. “This is not a rental, is it?”
“It’s a Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano, mr. Sachs. And it’s mine.”
“Oh, Rich will do... Ms. Prie-.”
“Miranda,” Andy interrupted, and then said, “Richard.”
“Does everyone in your family shorten their names?” Miranda murmured, making it sound like they all committed some horrible crime - it probably was, in her eyes.
“Yes - oop!” She nearly keeled over, trying to unload one of Miranda’s suitcases. Her dad caught on, but even he struggled for a brief moment. Miranda rolled her eyes, took over and effortlessly lugged it inside. Andy and her dad both stared.
In the meantime, Andy’s mom had brought her sister and brother in law outside to help with all of Miranda’s damn luggage - because it definitely wasn’t Andy’s. “Rach! David!” Another series of hugs.
David actually let out a whistle upon seeing the car. “Aight, that’s one hell of a pretty girl.”
Miranda gave him a look.
“We took the liberty of preparing your old room for you two,” her mom said when all the luggage was finally upstairs, “Dinner will be ready in an hour, so you’ll have the time to settle in.”
“Let me show you around, Miranda,” Andy said with a veneer of fake enthusiasm, and dragged Miranda away by the hand before she could cause more damage. Once Andy’s parents were out of earshot, she jerked her hand away and said, “That was uncalled for.”
“At least try to act like we’re a couple,” Andy retorted, and opened the door to her childhood room.