Chapter Text
"I knew you'd see sense, I just kneeeew it," is Emily's lyrical greeting at the door to her apartment.
Slipping off her coat, Andy laughs.
"Hey, I wouldn't go that far."
She sets the coat on the elegant silver coat stand, striving to be as gentle as possible. As Emily has pointedly reminded her before, that item costs more than half of two month's salary.
"Well, yes, you can be rather senseless but I suppose one of us needs to have it. If that's what it takes for, you know, the big," hands outstretched wide, Emily dips into an exaggerated breathless tone. "Vision."
Andy winces. Oh dear.
She closes the front door behind her with a sheepish smile.
"You're really still not over that, huh."
The very epitome of feigned nonchalance, Emily shrugs. "I've no idea what you mean."
Almost a year has passed since the whole Benji and Runway fiasco went down. Andy can't blame Emily for bringing it up. She also has a knee-jerk habit of doing that, clinging onto every word Miranda says.
Good, bad or ugly. They're all worth cherishing.
"Stop dawdling over there, Andy. We have work to do."
Andy casts a fleeting, longing look towards the door. She could call off this whole thing. But there's a giddy spring to Emily's step as she ushers Andy down the hallway. Her eyes twinkle, tiny flecks of fire stoked back alive from a pile of plaintive ashes.
Andy can hardly be the person to snuff out that light. She's barely begun to glimpse this silliness in Emily, a side of her so carefully parcelled away from prying eyes.
So yes. Andy is Doing This.
Whatever this is. Because that's what good friends do.
The apartment is just as lavish as Andy remembers it. Furnished with finesse and an air of tasteful simplicity that only comes from an outrageous price-tag. Andy has learnt it's best not to touch anything. Don't look directly at the ornaments on the mantelpiece. Don't acknowledge the empty vase on the coffee table.
Just don't, Emily's stern command remains ingrained in her mind.
The leather recliner chair beckons her. Andy sinks into it. In the corners of her vision, she can see Emily walking around with purpose to gather supplies. For a moment, Andy fears for her eyebrows. She pats them down consolingly.
It's going to be fine. This will be a bit of harmless fun. Nothing more.
Emily returns with a basket filled with mysterious things. She sets it down beside the chair, rummaging through for the first item on her agenda. Andy watches, contentment thrumming in her veins.
So much has changed in this past year, and all of it for the better. At times, it doesn't even feel real. To be back at Runway, to work closely with Miranda. To be a team and on equal footing. This is the kind of outcome she never dared dream up. Never dared wish for. Her younger self would hardly believe this could be their life, and honestly, that's relatable. Andy still pinches herself on the way to work some mornings.
Emily clears her throat. "Ahem."
"Sorry." Despite several attempts, the smile on Andy's face refuses to dampen in the slightest. "I was just thinking about how unbelievably good things are now, you know."
Visibly exasperated, Emily drops the items in the basket with a dramatic thud and steps back from the chair.
"I'm not willing to leave this any longer, Andy. Prepare yourself because we're finally going to talk about it."
Confusion cuts through the recent reverie. Brow furrowed, Andy glances up at her friend.
"About what?"
Emily gestures to her face. Bluntly. "That."
Right. The eyebrows. Andy stares at the basket. Somehow, it seems to have an aura of its own. Ominous and overpowering.
"Please, please tell me you've done this before."
"After all we've been through, I can't believe you don't trust me."
A theatrical pause. Their eyes catch, a knowing look passes between them. Resuming her pursuit of eyebrow greatness, Emily pulls out a sleek, shiny device with flashy lights and a low hum.
"Listen, Andy, you're barely going to feel a thing, I promise you. My friend in Paris says it's all the rage out there."
Andy sighs. Her hands grip the chair tighter. She blinks slow, as if that will steady her unease.
"Great. So you haven't done this before…"
"Oh don't give me that tosh." Emily looms over her. This is feeling more like a trip to the beauty salon from hell than a casual hangout. "Now stay very still, and stop trying to distract me from the conversation we were having."
Leaning back in the seat, Andy manages to put a bit of extra distance between her face and Whatever That Is in Emily's hand.
"What did you want to talk about?"
Andy had not been aware they were having a conversation. She veers towards diplomacy, because it's never good to irritate a person who wields the power of life and death over your eyebrows. But nothing could have prepared her for the absurd thing Emily says next.
"How you're still in love with Miranda after all these years."
The world grinds to a jarring halt.
No. Way.
She can't have heard that correctly.
Pulse races. There's a noise between Andy's ears that buzzes and hisses. Above her, the ceiling fan looks a little fuzzy. Maybe the room is spinning, maybe it's not. Andy has no idea. Her brain might be a tiny bit broken at the moment.
"What," Andy croaks out.
Oblivious to the way she has shattered the flimsy foundations that hold Andy together, Emily continues on. She puts the foreboding device down- for now- brushing over Andy's eyebrows with a comb.
"I mean, I thought you were merely pining and would get over it. But clearly, it was far more than just a phase—"
What what what.
Andy bolts upright in the chair. Emily jumps back, eyes wide. She appears startled that her ritual has been interrupted. Well, too bad. Andy's only experiencing the fright of her goddamn life right now. Thanks so much.
"—No," Andy says firmly. Strange, it comes out weak, frayed and breathless. "That's- no. No, no, no, no, no, I am not."
The words trail off into frenzied laughter. Andy throws her head back, lets the force of it rattle through her.
In love with Miranda. That is so funny.
So, so, so funny.
"I never pined, oh my god," she gasps, clutching the chair to support her from falling in a graceless heap to the floor. "What are you even talking about, Emily?"
"Oh please." Emily waves a hand dismissively, accompanied with a classic eye roll for good measure. "Don't give me that, you used to follow her around like a lovestruck mutt snapping at her heels. You were always begging for the slightest scrap of praise."
That's such a delightfully dreadful depiction of Andy's initial time at Runway. As usual, Emily has such a way with words. Andy pleads her case whilst she still has the chance. Laughter subsides enough for her to speak evenly.
"Everyone wants validation from Miranda at the start. We've all been there, that's hardly anything special."
There, case pleaded. Emily struts around her room, like a runway designed specifically for people who need to unleash inner frustrations. The pleaded case is promptly ignored.
"And now! God. And now, it's even worse with those stupid big moon eyes of yours and gooey face."
Andy wheezes. Her face is not gooey. Before she can say as much, Emily jabs an accusatory finger in her direction.
"Yes it is and do not interrupt me. I've had this bottled up for decades I'll have you know."
Emily spins on her heel, charges ahead with vigour. She's abandoned the act of tending to Andy's eyebrows. Thoroughly swept up into this terrible monologue and serious procession through her own living room.
"Anyway, where was I, yes—it's revolting really. Somehow, you melt. Do you understand what I'm saying, Andy? I've seen it. You actually melt. Like all of you just-"
Eyebrows pinched, Emily makes an odd expression akin to a gaping fish. Paired with a wild downwards sweep of her hands.
"—Blerughao! Okay, Like that. That's what you do. That noise, but with your face."
Andy has heard enough. Right, then. Time to go. She leaps out of the chair and scoops up her bag.
"This is ridiculous! First of all, I do not go 'blerughao'."
"I can't believe you did that better than me," Emily quips, fascinated and furious all at once.
"Thank you," Andy replies smoothly. Moving on. Swiftly. "Secondly, yes. I admire Miranda and respect her a lot, but that's all it is. And thirdly, I am not-"
Pause.
Andy chokes on the shape of the word, the curve of the letter. God. She can't even let it sit on her tongue without it burning. In love with Miranda. Her throat is clogged by the gravity of such a statement. Because it's so ridiculous.
In love with Miranda.
What a thing for someone to think.
So random.
As Andy dances around the madness, she also dances around Emily. The woman is set on pacing by the only way out of this place. Andy steps left and boom. Emily is already there. Right is no better.
"I'm not in love with her-" huff. "letmethroughplease."
"NoIshallnot." Arms folded primly across her chest, Emily stares Andy down. "You flew halfway across the world at the last minute to save her job. From me, might I add, which I'm still debating how to feel about by the way."
"I flew halfway across the world for lots of people."
It's true. For Runway, for all the people who have built and maintained the legacy. Andy would do it all over again if she had to.
Emily blocks the hallway, hands bracing the walls on either side. Head cocked, she casts Andy a contemplative look.
"Would you fly halfway across the world for me?"
The pout on her face should not be endearing. Sometimes, Emily can be so petulant. But at least this tangent has distracted her from the conversation.
"I'd do a lot of things for you," Andy admits warmly. She is glad even if the ship sailed away decades ago, they found their way back in the harbour together. "I have already done a lot of things for you."
"Gosh you have, haven't you."
Quiet descends upon them.
Emily blinks back the moisture budding in her eyes. If she had it her way, the tears would retreat on command. At the sight, Andy feels a swell of sheer emotion overcome her. Tears have always come easier for her.
Outraged, Emily shakes her head. She wipes fiercely as the rogue tear that dares to slip down her cheek.
"Stop that this instant! You're such a sap, I can't stand it."
Andy inches closer to Emily. Ordinarily, she would drape and arm around a friend or bundle them into an affectionate hug. But Emily eyes her now the way she would a stray feral creature shrieking on the street too close to her presence.
"Okay!" Slinking past Emily, she heads to the door. Freedom is on the horizon at last. "Well, this has been lovely. Can't wait until next time."
In love with Miranda. Gosh.
What a wild thing to say about someone who isn't Andy. Because Andy is not in love with Miranda.
"Hold on, before you go scurrying away like a little mouse."
Andy falters in her footsteps. She hovers at the doorway, hand on the handle and ready to run to the comforts of her best blanket. The bottle of sauvignon blanc in the fridge calls her home so sweetly and it says: Andy is not in love with Miranda. Because she is not.
"As we are now friends, I must insist you address this. Quite frankly, it's embarrassing and unbearable for the average observer. The way you look at her."
The journalist in Andy wants more information to feast upon, no matter how nonsensical. Curiosity piqued, she turns from the door momentarily.
"How do you think I look at—"
Emily raises an eyebrow. The judgement is visceral and clear as day. Andy grabs her coat, hastily throws it on.
You know what, she doesn't want to know. No more.
They say brief goodbyes, Emily is not one for ceremony or overly sentimental exchanges. Andy flings herself out the door.
The crisp night air offers no remedy for the searing heat beneath skin. City lights chase her shadow, stretching the shape of her denial out along the pavement. In the cage of her barred teeth, the words fizzle and steam.
In love with Miranda.
In love with Miranda.
Emily is allowed to have her own ideas about things. That's fine. People hold all kinds of different views on a vast range of subjects. A good journalist is able to hear multiple points of view and recognise them, even when one is blatantly untrue. More, Andy is no stranger to earning the conclusions she draws with her readers.
This will be no different.
She won't put this hilarious half-baked conspiracy to bed, no. This takedown will be bigger; she'll kill it dead and put it rightfully in a grave six feet under where it belongs.
Lips twitching, Andy fiddles with the keys to her apartment. Fortunately, she knows just where to start.
- 👠 -
The next morning, Andy blazes into Nigel's office.
Last night, she'd mulled it over until the stars shrank away from their positions in the sky. Figured out the way to play this. You see, the introduction to any compelling piece of work is like the hook of a song. It needs to be catchy. Confident.
Above all, Andy must remain cool and calm, which is easy because hey guess what ding-dong look at that oh wow Emily is wrong, wrong, wrong about this.
In love with Miranda.
What on earth. Where did Emily even get that from.
As rehearsed in the privacy of her bedroom, Andy wrings her hands together and addresses the matter head-on.
Here goes.
"So get this, Emily thinks I'm in love with Miranda. How crazy is that?"
Nigel doesn't look up from the set of photos he's observing on the table. He shuffles two around with an absent hum. A beat passes. Adjusting his glasses, he spares a glance in Andy's direction.
"Oh, I'm sorry, are you supposed to be telling me something new? Do you want to walk back in here so I can pretend to act surprised about this?"
Stunned. Andy is stunned.
She closes the door to his office for a fraction more privacy, reaches for the nearest thing she can find to throttle. Of all things, it's a magazine- not Runway from the looks of things, that would probably be blasphemy. She rolls it up, thumps the air dramatically in Nigel's direction. She'd never risk tearing a seam on whatever wonderful piece he's wearing.
"Oh my god," Andy groans, voice rasped. She fans more frantically with the magazine. "You knew about this! You knew, I can't believe you knew."
She stops fanning with an indignant huff. It takes a surprising amount of arm strength to keep it up. Nigel pries the magazine from her clammy hands, setting it down out of reach.
"If I wanted a wind machine in here, I'd ask for one."
He casts her a pointed look before setting the photos back in their rightful place; a few have turned wayward angles on the table from the ordeal. Andy would offer to help, but Nigel has his own particular way of doing things. Her eyes trail over to the window. She glimpses a fierce, fuchsia-wrapped silhouette. An unspoken beast roars in her chest, claws at her composure.
In love with Miranda.
What a thing to be. Hypothetically.
Peering over the rim of his glasses, Nigel raises an eyebrow. There's a furtive, pleased smile nobody could prove tucked into the corner of his mouth.
"You're ready to acknowledge it then."
"Yes!" Wait what. Andy tries again. "No."
Confusion mounts. Back pressed against the glass door, she whines. Nigel can tell her it's undignified and chastise all he wants later.
"I don't know."
In love with Miranda.
What a thing to be. Potentially.
"I can't be in love with her." Voice hushed, Andy chases Nigel's eyes. She needs his steady hands at the helm of this ship. She's unmoored by this. His presence is the anchor that can bring her back to her senses.
Well. What she has left of them for the day.
Nigel abandons his photos entirely, leg hiked over the edge of the desk to perch. "Why not?" he asks, not unkindly.
Andy bites down on the wretched wobble of her lips. Her shoulders are stitched tighter together, drawn up like a collar around her neck. Makeshift armour. All of her is braced for a battle she never wanted to fight. Not here, not ever.
"I just—can't."
Andy watches the bustle outside on the floor, the energy that thrums through each and every person. This amazing work they're doing, all that's blossoming here- she'll never jeopardise that.
Following her gaze, Nigel prompts gently.
"That's not an answer, Andy."
"No, it's not," she admits, prickly moisture prods at her eyes.
In love with Miranda.
What a stupid thing to be.
Head ducked, Andy swallows the lump in her throat.
"Do you think-does Miranda know?"
Panic seizes her at the thought. Nigel eases off the desk, inching closer. He moves slowly, as if not wanting to spook her. Andy appreciates the subtle act of consideration, she leans against his shoulder once in orbit.
"Let's leave it there for now." The vague, non-answer does nothing to appease frayed nerves. "We've got places to be in five, you need to get a hold of yourself."
Nigel takes the pocket square out of his suit and passes it over. Such a beautiful thing, undoubtedly expensive. Embroidered with fine gold threads that weave patterns of wildflowers. Andy dabs her eyes, conscious that her mascara may cause some issues. She'll do her best. But she'd prefer to prioritise and deal with one disaster at a time.
"Thank you," Andy manages with a sniffle.
Nigel makes no comment upon seeing the small black dots littering the fabric despite her best efforts. He wordlessly takes the pocket square, meandering back to the photos he pretends to reorganise for the seventh time.
It's a comforting reminder. Nigel has always seen her; he's choosing not to now because he knows what she needs. A quiet moment to witness the whispers of her foolish heart, to grapple with the magnitude of what has been wedged between her bones for so long, what has claimed a piece of her insides without an invitation. Without even thinking to announce itself.
In love with Miranda.
What an inevitable thing to be.
Andy goes for the door, waving absently in Nigel's direction.
"I should probably go prepare for the briefing."
"Andy."
Her name sounds so strong and unwavering in his voice. The name of someone who could not just weather a storm but outright oppose the odds it brings to the table. Find a way to succeed. To make things right.
The conviction startles Andy enough to press pause on her restless mind and the internal spiral she's sliding into.
Nigel looks up, reassurance nestled into the corner of his mouth.
"I wasn't just calling in a favour, you know. I was calling you back home."