Chapter Text
“To the new beginnings.”
Andy can’t help but break into a wide grin, raising her glass brimming with a blue drink stirred with a questionable amount of alcohol and clinking it with Nigel’s.
“To the new beginnings,” Nigel repeats, nodding, but has a terrible time fighting off the beaming smile on his lips.
Pure joy is radiating from him; every fibre of his being seems to be buzzing with energy, that restless and beautiful kind of. The moment he walked into the office early in the morning, Andy knew something was up. After all, they have become friends, and she knows him well enough - she is forever his girl, and it seems time only deepens their bond made of whispered jokes, side-eyed looks from Nigel, visits to the Closet and countless lunches in the cafeteria together. So, all it took was one glance his way from above her laptop, and whatever focus and attention she put into her new piece evaporated - not when he was holding back a smile so large, and seemed to be almost trembling with excitement while holding back to not get actually busted by the boss of all bosses.
“I’m so happy for you, Nigel,” Andy says softly, her cheeks starting to hurt.
“So am I,” He admits, and as he sighs happily, she reaches over to clasp his hand and bring it onto the table between them. Nigel wiggles his fingers, and the vivid blue diamond glimmers in the dimmed amber lights of the bar. It shines as bright as any ring has ever been supposed to shine on his finger - exactly what he deserves, Andy muses to herself. With a heart of gold, her friend should be cherished on each passing day. “Usually I am that kind of guy who always senses things in the air, but…” He chuckles. “I did not see this coming.”
“Well, Felix is a lucky man to have you, and he knows it, so,” Andy says, tilting her head and gently touching the magical stone lying perfectly upon Nigel’s skin. “If I were him, I wouldn’t be taking any chances either.”
“You can be charming when you want to, Six,” Nigel says. “No need to cosy up to me, I already like you enough.”
“I’m being sincere, Nigel.”
It’s kind of her thing by now. She’s always been honest about things and appreciative of people, but ever since the whirlwind of events over a year ago, since she returned to Runway and found herself fighting for its future in Milan, she’s somehow grown accustomed to enjoying every single good presence in her life.
He smiles warmly at her, a bit loosened up after the second drink in. It’s difficult to halt the drinking spree, especially when it’s the first week of the bar opening right across the street from the Elias-Clarke building, which means insane discounts for the fancy drinks and cocktails. There are enough varieties of them to drink Andy under the table.
But then he glances at her, giving her the look.
He seems to always see right through her.
“What?” She asks, trying not to sound offended, before anything is even said.
“Are we addressing the elephant in the room?” Nigel quirks an eyebrow.
Immediately, Andy wishes an actual elephant were stomping down the bar, saving her from that quizzical look which seems to penetrate each of her sins. That’s how being nice to people and celebrating their happiness pays you back.
“This is your night,” Andy marks a reminder, hoping to quickly wear the topic off. “Besides, I’m celebrating, too. The single life is worth celebrating as well.”
“Are you sure about that?”
Andy can’t help but roll her eyes - she’s heard enough of these questions coming from her parents and Lily, along with Lily’s daughter - and thank the stars for Emily Charlton, who seemed to be the only one congratulating her on being dumped; men aren’t crucial, after all, something she heard from Emily on multiple occasions.
“Listen, I’m okay. It’s the same old story that I went through twenty years ago. I worked too much, I talked about Runway too much,” Andy offers, and feels a bit embarrassed that she truly doesn’t give a flying damn about the situation, but is it wrong of her to say she has been counting on the story to run its course as quickly as possible? “But if I gotta be honest - writing the book was always much more interesting than… You know.”
“Oh, do I?” Nigel asks, with surprisingly no real bite in his voice.
“Nigel.”
“My dear, you are turning into the person you are so passionately writing about,” He states calmly and fires light up in every cell in her body. Opening her mouth, she is ready to show how fierce she can be about - well, about defending the person she finds more and more fascinating with each page she writes. But before she might even spell a single word, Nigel raises his hand, silencing the ranting before it might even begin. “I don’t want to hear another speech; I already know how incredible and inspiring Miranda Priestly is.” He seems to enjoy the look on her face. “Don’t you miss Peter at all?”
“It wasn’t a serious relationship,” Andy shrugs, and tries her best not to look sheepish. “It was… it was casual!”
For a moment, Nigel hangs in a stunned silence before finding his voice, “It lasted eight months-”
“Nine,” Andy cuts in, clearly not realising she’s digging her own grave.
“- and I’m pretty sure Peter was not casual about it.”
“Does it even matter anymore?” Andy says, a bit exasperated. It’s not like she’s trying to run away from the heartbreak, because it would mean there had to be one to feel, but the only thing she thought about when Peter was breaking up with her, dramatically standing in front of the couch while she was laying with her laptop on her chest, reading old articles about Miranda from the 90s, was if he would take away the great vinyl records he borrowed to her. “I like my life now. I like staying late at the office without the tiring guilt. I like going out with you or with Emily, and I like waiting for Miranda so I can take the ride with her home and discuss what she’s planning next for the Elias-Clarke. I like her- I like it.” She immediately fixes, ignoring the warmth blossoming on her cheeks.
But… why is she even blushing? There is not a single reason to blush about enjoying extra time with your boss, especially when you are writing a whole book about them. After all, they’re a team now, given what a fight they’ve put up together, and nothing can change that.
And if there is one thing clear for Andy is that she loves being a team with the greatest woman of all time-
“Can I take a look?”
Andy blinks, startled when her daydreaming about that smile she is rarely granted, but when she is, it feels like climbing the highest peak of her life, is being interrupted by Nigel leaning in, “What?”
“I asked,” He speaks slower now, more suspicious. “If I could take a look at the newest chapter?”
“Oh,” Andy’s hands work faster than her brain, reaching for her brown Brunello Cucinelli satchel she’s started carrying everywhere ever since her work on the first draft became an addiction, and opens it. “Sure. I printed it out today for later edits, so it’s still pretty raw.”
Watching someone read her writing right in front of her face always makes her sweat a bit, shifting in her seat while Nigel seems to be dead to the world, his eyes scanning line by line. The anxiety should have worn off after decades in the profession, writing being what flows in her veins instead of blood, but this one is different. The intimacy within writing about Miranda doesn’t compare to anything else she’s ever written, no matter how many prizes she’s won over the years. It’s like… she’s being stripped bare, piece by piece, until all that is left is her naked skin, almost see-through, showing how her heart skips a bit each time a sentence lands perfectly and truthful to who Miranda genuinely is. Miranda makes it different.
It shouldn’t come off as a surprise. Not when she is the most extraordinary woman Andy has had the luck of meeting.
After a couple of minutes accompanied by the sound of turning pages, Renné Rapp’s song and Andy’s unbearable slurping through the straw, Nigel clears his throat with a weird smile.
He seems to be having a hard time forming a sentence. Or a single word.
“You didn’t like it,” Andy says.
“No, it’s not that,” Nigel’s eyes linger on the last page. “You are a brilliant writer. Really detailed and clear. Beautiful, but-” He finally looks at her, and for once, she does not recognise the shimmer in his eyes. “Darling, I can smell it from a distance.”
“Smell what?” Andy’s confusion is sincere, and she scrunches her nose, as if trying to find whatever seems to be in the air. He gives her a pained look, like he’s questioning how oblivious and truly stupid Andy Sachs can get and wondering if it’s all an act. “Nigel, what do you mean by that?”
He sighs, as if not believing he is having this conversation a day after he fell into the bliss of engagement. But to be fair, he has to admit he is the only one to blame.
Deciding to go straight for the jugular, all that is needed is one word.
“Lesbianism.”
“What?” A squeak that leaves her mouth is so loud that it turns heads from the nearby tables. Andy begins to choke on the remnants of the magical blue drink, and her eyes almost fall out of the sockets. “There is nothing to smell!”
“You can lie to everybody else, including yourself, but I’ve been there before,” Nigel says, definitely too calm compared to the wave of panic that washes over Andy. “I know how it goes.”
She tries to justify a million reasons why Nigel has no business saying this, but… It’s Nigel. When has he not been painfully frank and brutal with his world-view with her?
“I need to be way more drunk for this.”
Andy enjoys the five minutes of freedom she spends by the counter, waiting for a tray of shots and trying not to think about that one word that she never openly considered while looking in the mirror. Openly.
When the tray is placed in front of her, she has a hard time reciprocating the smile on the bartender’s lips. Not when the ten heavy shots are changing colours, creating an actual rainbow, set next to each other, and making her grow pale at the thought of returning to their booth with that.
Not willing to hear any comment headed to the colours of the shots, she immediately reaches for two and downs them after taking the seat. She craves for the vodka to hit her system enough to loosen up at the sudden tightness in her chest.
“I’m not trying to irritate you,” Nigel says, reaching for one of the shots, but just holding it in his hand. “Or be an ass, but… the book.”
“Okay, just be honest,” Andy gives up, barely holding herself back from another glass. “I won’t cry if you tell me it’s bad. Or, I’ll try not to cry.”
Because it’s far more distinct to be criticised by her editor or anyone else for the matter, than by Nigel. She cares about everyone’s opinion, but her friend matters more, especially given how artistically gifted he is, and how he cares for the media that are released to the public. This book just can’t be bad in his eyes, and perhaps Andy would not cry now, but it would haunt her for some time.
“I meant it when I said it was good,” Nigel says. “But this is not a biography.”
The surprise takes Andy off guard.
“It- it’s not?” She stutters.
“No,” Nigel peeks down, clearly staring at one paragraph before meeting her eyes once again with disarming honesty. “It’s a love letter.”
Andy sputters, trying to find her voice before bursting, “It’s anything but a love letter!” She appears truly horrified. “It is a biography, my- my editor and the publisher repeated it over and over again, and they keep a close eye on the entire process. A love letter,” Scoffing, she shakes her head, but her glare doesn’t impress Nigel. “I think you are…”
“I am what?” Nigel challenges.
“Too in love to think straight,” She realises a moment later. “Pun not intended. You’re newly engaged, and enamoured, and possessed by… by the power of love, but there’s no love in everything you see and read.”
He graces her with an ocean of patience, the way he has done since the very beginning, twenty years ago.
“I think there is a bit of love in this,” Nigel says.
“There’s not.”
To kill the odd unsettled feeling carving its way in her chest, she reaches out and downs another shot. Her eyes water as her throat burns - but none of it works, and the feeling only deepens. It seems like it’s about to make her ribcage its homeland.
“So you didn’t miss her?”
Andy sighs. She sighs because she thinks about the two decades she spent trying her best to move on from the overwhelming sense of loss, how she’s been all around the world, and still, Miranda echoed somewhere back in her mind. She remembers the dreams she often had, which left her upset, and she thinks about the pure joy she experienced stepping into Miranda Priestly’s office, before she realised that it wasn’t her idea to bring Andy back, and felt a stinging disappointment.
“I missed-” She begins, clearing her throat, trying to make a diplomatic way out of this. “I missed having a strong female figure in a position of authority in my life who I can look up to. But that’s it. There’s nothing more to it.”
Nigel hums, staring at one spot, deciding not to fight drunk Andy on it; however, the memory of her reaction at seeing Miranda for the first time after twenty years is like a ringing church bell. Reuniting these two had to be one of the best ideas he had ever had in his life. There’s just… He didn’t expect these two to be this dense.
“So you never liked a woman besides Miranda,” He states.
“I never liked a woman, period.”
Nodding thoughtfully, Nigel realises he never was as much in denial as Andy is; she’s definitely a tough cookie.
“But you liked men,” He says, watching her closely.
Andy doesn’t miss a beat before answering, “Yes.”
“And you felt fulfilled in relationships with them,” He decides to take another step further.
Before she manages to control her facial expression, Andy grimaces. Clear as day, her face twists, her lips quirking down.
Nigel releases a blow of air, “Oh, you’re hopeless, Six.”
“Men don’t like independent women who have different ambitions than just being a wife,” Andy accusatory points forward, her words starting to slur, mixing into each other.
“I do.”
“Nigel,” She snorts in disbelief. “Trust me, if you weren’t off the market, I’d be marrying you.”
“I’m way out of your league,” He winks at her.
“Hey!”
All he does is shrug nonchalantly.
“But, what proves my point,” Andy picks up, having issues with enunciating words; given the amount of vodka she’s knocked back, it’s still impressive she hasn’t fallen off her seat. “About men and ambitions - even Stewart left Miranda. And he seemed so lovely. But here we are, the old story repeating itself.”
“Andy,” Nigel softens a bit, and it makes her feel like a total idiot, even though she has no idea why his voice changed so much. “Don’t you know?”
She is most certainly missing the most important point, “Don’t I know what?”
“It was Miranda who let him go,” He speaks quietly, with respect. “He fell in love - he was, well, he is gay. And he didn’t want to leave Miranda, so the media wouldn’t descend on her reputation like vultures again, and she filed for divorce first, but let the narrative go the same way it always does. So she could protect him while he was at his most vulnerable.”
“Oh.”
Miranda Priestly in a lavender marriage.
That has never been on Andy’s list to happen in this lifetime.
But, sort of, it makes sense. To who Miranda truly is - not talking about her sexuality, which must be incredibly, truthfully, authentically straight - but who she is at heart. Of course, she is the queen of ruthless comments, unforgivable judgment and merciless power, and has always been, but…
That woman has a softness inside of her that she rarely shows. And if she does, you’re truly lucky to witness it.
She was graced three times by Miranda smiling at her after they officially saved Runway, and each one of them felt like the best gift the world has ever given her. Perhaps it’s a limited amount of seeing a person smile, but most of the time, Miranda spoke more through her eyes. By now, Andy can recognise when she is pleased, or amused, or downright annoyed, and even when she hesitates if she should ruin someone’s career and commit murder.
There’s also one weird glimmer in her eyes that she cannot ever understand or attach a meaning to. It only ever happens when she staggers into Miranda’s office, always in the wrong moment, always at the wrong time, bothering her boss, and instead of finding pristine irritation, it turns out to be something foreign.
It shines through for a moment before dissolving back into a scowl.
However, in this one short while, Miranda always seems to be taken aback for three seconds. Her lips parted, icy blue eyes almost… warming up?
Andy can’t ever find a way to make sense of it, what lies behind it.
She must look deeply perturbed, enough for Nigel to leave her alone for a moment, heading to order drinks. Andy can’t even remember when she devoured most of the shots, but decides to ignore it and be thankful for a cocktail that’s not as strong as the previous one was.
They change the topic, for the sake of Nigel’s patience and Andy’s undeniable frustration, before it might blow up in their faces.
It’s easy to flow into another conversation. The first edition of Runway Men is up on the horizon this year, and Nigel, as its Editor in Chief, has so much work to do that he has barely been sleeping these days, which is certainly the top topic as they talk their way through the night. It easily slips into Emily’s kids that have somehow grown into admiring and adoring Andy, to Emily’s great faux-displeasure, but of course, it rounds back to Felix’s proposal this weekend.
Felix Reid makes Andy wonder if she wants a partner like this or wants to be a partner like Nigel’s fiancé. The idea of him flying Nigel to their favourite spot in Portland, as just a weekend getaway - a thing they do often around the nearest states to New York, and finding the spot where they truly fell in love, just to kneel and promise his devotion to her friend, makes Andy wanna squeal with happiness. Nigel has deserved someone like Felix all these years, and their story causes her to think that it’s never too late to start again.
By eleven, Andy is on the verge of being wasted, all giggly and messy.
Nigel wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t make an innocent use out of that fact.
“You know what?” Andy falls into his trap in a matter of minutes, grinning and raising her hands in the air, as if waving a white flag. “I do like kissing women when I’m drunk, but that doesn’t make me a lesbian - or bisexual. It’s a thing. It’s a girl thing. All girls kiss other girls at a club, a bar, or whatever. That’s an actual thing. I’m pretty sure it’s in the constitution.”
Nigel hums with a smirk she doesn’t even notice at this point, knowing Andy Sachs will want to commit suicide at the memory tomorrow morning.
“Okay,” He says simply. “If you say so.”
“But it never really mattered to me, not if it was any other woman-” She fumbles her words and halts before she says a word too much, silencing herself. Some things spoken out loud are irreversible, even if you’re inebriated, and she can’t pay the price.
Deciding not to torture her further, Nigel takes some pity on her little lesbian-in-denial ass.
“I think we should call it a night,” He says.
“Yep,” Andy nods. “I’m gonna order an Uber.”
The air in early June still gets slightly chilly at such a late hour, and her exposed arms are covered in goosebumps. Despite the heat emanating from her chest, her mind is buzzy, and the coolness still surrounds her; her outfit was a bit too warm during the day, in the hours she spent away from her air-conditioned office, and now it’s too cold for the night.
But she can’t help but wear these pieces often, after she was given an almost-verbal approval when she came in last month from Miranda’s watchful gaze. Andy has learned to dress stylishly for herself a long time ago, and each piece she owns now, or has borrowed from the never-failing Closet, is selected by her, but there’s something thrilling about pleasing Miranda with her fashion choices.
The Vivienne Westwood black puff-sleeve shirt with the front button fastening accentuates her body, and exposes her long pale neck with the square neckline, and it looks perfect along with the Christopher Kane zebra-print pleated mid-skirt with a tie strap, high-waisted. She thrifted it last year, after countless attempts at persuading Emily into going to second-hand stores, to show her that if you look hard enough, you can find jewels between the endless hangers. But her favourite item is the Hermès Jackie 50 slingback pumps in the satin crepe, with a hapi buckle and rhinestone details.
They wait for Andy’s ride, the music slipping through the bar’s left ajar door, chatting quietly, some of the sentences swallowed by the speed of cars driving by.
That’s when Nigel’s phone rings.
“It’s Felix,” He says with the sweetest of smiles. Andy likes seeing him like this. “Hell, what’s- What? Wait, where are you?”
The concerned tone of his voice makes her eyes grow alarmed, instantly focused - at least as focused as she is capable of being in this state.
“I’m on my way,” Nigel says hurriedly. “I’m three blocks away. I’ll be there, hang on, I’m on my way, give me five minutes-”
The moment he hangs up, Andy jumps in, “What’s wrong? What happened? What’s going on?”
“A guy tried to jump him on the street,” He says, looking a bit dazed in shock and fright. “I need to go. I’m sorry, I need to go get him.”
“Go, Nigel! I’ll be okay,” She pretends to be less drunk, so he’s not guilty about leaving her. “Just text me later when you’re both okay, please.”
“I will,” Nigel takes a heavy, shaky inhale, clearly trying not to fall into panic. “Thank you, Andy.”
He hurries away, and after a couple of steps, he doesn’t hold back anymore and breaks into a full run. The lights around make it harder for Andy to focus her eyes, and soon, Nigel is just a far dot of grey, disappearing around the corner.
Andy looks around, knowing her Uber is supposed to appear in a minute; she loses the sense of passing time, but after a moment, she’s pretty sure that minute has passed. She glances down at the screen of her phone, blinking. Her face falls.
The driver cancelled the trip.
Fuck.
She enjoys New York in many ways and has longed for the city often when she lived away, but she definitely does not delight in being a heavily drunk woman alone in the streets. Life has taught her over time that she has terrible luck in attracting the most dreadful of situations, and unfortunately, the most bizarre, uncomfortable characters.
Tonight turns out not to be anything different.
“Need a ride?”
She turns her head so quickly that it makes her dizzy, and she almost trips over her own feet.
Her face is probably a pure picture of discontent when she sees the man two feet away from her. He’s much taller than she, and she sort of wishes she had picked her five-inch heels instead of the slingback pumps; his skin has the most fake, distasteful orange-toned tan that does not work well with his platinum blonde hair. She never found men as attractive as women could be - not in a gay way, but rather in a… that’s-how-god-created-world kind of way. It’s just a fact that men have the potential to be beautiful, and she is aware of the fact, but women are just created to outshine and outperform the opposite sex by default.
Meanwhile, this one is single-handedly lowering the attractiveness bar for men in New York.
She never judges people who wear cheaper clothes - if it wasn’t for thrifting or the heaven-sent Closet’s supplies she steals, she would still be one of them. However, this man just has to be judged, because the chequered beige slacks do not work well with the red and white striped golf shirt, and do not get started her on the old brown oxfords. If Miranda were here, she would actually throw him into a fashion jail.
“No, thank you,” She politely says, smiling.
It’s like he’s not listening at all, “Are you here alone?”
Red flags wave in her mind, and loud alarms ring in her ears as her blood rushes through her veins. She might be drunk to the point of incoherence, but there are lessons you learn as a woman quite early and stick to the rules to keep yourself alive.
“No,” She keeps smiling, her cheeks hurting. “I’m waiting for my friends. And my boyfriend.”
She hears a chuckle on her left and does not dare to glance that way, “The one who just left?”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Andy glances down at the screen and quickly presses the button to order another driver to come. She feels blood drain from her face seeing he’s ten minutes away, making her almost curse out loud.
Inhaling deeply to keep herself on her feet and aware, when she looks up again, the strange man is closer. It would probably send her into full panic mode if she were completely sober; nonetheless, the fear prolongs and never falters.
There’s one reasonable move she can make in this situation. Well, two, because there is an idea of running into the street for help, but she realises she might not end up surviving it. Instead, she takes an unsure but swift step towards the entrance to the bar. She’s not quick enough.
He moves just as she does and cuts her way off. His broad shoulders and muscular arms wouldn’t be so intimidating during the day with people everywhere.
She laughs nervously.
“Excuse me?” She tries to pass him by again.
“No need to go back inside,” He says, so confident it makes Andy sick to the bone. “We can have a drink at my place.”
“No,” It pains her to keep her voice so steady and the smile still on her lips. “I’m afraid I have to decline. But thank you.”
“It wasn’t really a question.”
Andy tries to speak, feeling a lump in her throat and takes a shaky step back, hating how dizzy she feels. She can’t think clearly, can’t see anymore. Instead of freezing, thank God, when he reaches out to grab her, she flinches, staggering back. He’s so close now, and everything is so loud, and her heart is rattling so hard, it feels like her entire ribcage is vibrating.
If he makes any move now, she is fairly certain she might start screaming.
“Andrea.”
She freezes for the first second, frankly believing she might be having hallucinations, but when the voice repeats her name, she feels like she could cry.
They both turn towards the source of the sound.
Andy’s heart could soar when she sees Miranda Priestly on the sidewalk behind the man, one hand on her hip, the other grabbing her dark brown suede clutch bag. She is still wearing her work outfit, but is missing the spring coat. Even in the midst of despair, Andy can’t help but stare at the naked skin exposed by the Brunello Cucinelli silk saint blouse with a deep V-neckline that is tucked into the striped pleated jody trousers from the newest Ralph Lauren collection. The deep leather slingback pumps’ red lively shade contrasts with the dark ground. Even after a dozen hours at the Elias-Clarke, Miranda appears flawless, except for one unruly hair that has slipped down her forehead.
For a moment, she wonders if it’s an illusion, her brain trying to save her from danger by making up Miranda’s presence.
But Miranda is here, and the look inside her icy eyes is unforgivable. She stares daggers at the man who’s towering over her and appears not fazed by the height difference, even by a bit.
“Miranda,” Andy breathes out and trips over her feet as she moves towards her boss. In that exact moment, as she’s halfway from reaching the woman, she feels the man’s hand on her wrist.
Wasting not even a second, Miranda steps in immediately, “Don’t you even dare.”
He chuckles, not affected at all, “You think I’m intimidated by an old hag?”
Andy gasps, feeling like she’s about to throw hands at the guy, forgetting about the threat of the situation. Who does he think he is?
No one speaks to Miranda this way. Andy will not allow it.
Still, she is too slow through her drunken haze, and before she might even form a word, Miranda doesn’t bat an eye at the audacious words.
“Well, you should be,” Miranda speaks slowly, voice dripping with venom, alluding to how poisonous she can be. “Let go of her.”
All he does is stare into Miranda’s cold eyes, the two of them holding a silent battle.
That’s exactly the moment when two security guards from the Elias-Clarke building across the street appear right behind Miranda, as if on cue. The guy’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back, entirely forgetting about Andy and setting her free.
Without a second thought, it’s her instincts that make Andy shift into Miranda’s personal space, clinging to warmth and safety. Only then does she realise and feel how badly she is shaking. Her body spasms - fear, intoxication and cold catch up to her the moment relief floods her system.
“Take care of it,” Miranda says to the security guards. “That’s all.”
For the first time since she arrived, Miranda looks at Andy and exhales softly, “Let’s go.”
Andy blinks. Doesn’t move an inch.
“Andrea,” Miranda speaks up again, ignoring the pathetic excuses the stranger is trying to sell to the guards. “Come with me.”
When Andy stays in that hazy frozen state, Miranda huffs with impatience and looks like she’s about to stomp her foot if she won’t move an inch. All Andy does is stare and tremble, eyes so widely open, it almost makes her tear up.
She flinches when Miranda puts an arm around her waist and begins to lead her across the street towards the familiar car awaiting her. Andy is confused, anxious, and terrified at the same time that no matter how many attempts she makes, she cannot utter a single sentence until Miranda opens the door for her and gently pushes her inside, making sure Andy’s satchel is on the backseat with her.
“Hey, Andy.”
She looks up to meet Roy’s curious, worried eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Oh, hi, Roy.”
He turns to glance at her just as Miranda reaches the other side and slides into the vehicle, “You alright?”
Andy watches Miranda settle in her seat, fixing her blouse and hair before looking at Andy, making her heart melt. Miranda saved her.
“Yep. Perfect,” Andy mumbles, and only then does Roy turn around, starting the car. Even then, all she can do is stare like a total imbecile at her saviour. She just cannot tear her eyes away, as Nigel’s words echo in her mind - it makes her blush profoundly, flashing back to the absurd conversations they had. It makes her forget about the dangerous situation that had taken place minutes before. Waiting for Miranda to look at her again, it happens only once she speaks again. “What is going to happen to that guy?”
“Are you really worried about his fate?” Miranda sighs, and Andy reads her as disappointed. If she were only sober, she would realise that Miranda was relieved. That Miranda was equally scared, but did what had to be done - cover it up with courage and hope for the best. “The security will get his personal information, and tomorrow morning, I will make some calls, perhaps to his supervisor, or to his wife, or what I prefer - both. I’ll just ask some basic questions, if it’s their statute to harass and assault women. If I have to, I’ll pay a visit or two.”
“Miranda,” Andy murmurs weakly.
She has so many things to say, but as the adrenaline wears off and the alcohol sinks further in, she is losing any ability to be an actual sensible human being, capable of communicating.
“187 Clinton Street, Apt. 4B,” Miranda says to Roy.
She remembers her address?
Andy wasn’t even aware Miranda knew her address, let alone that she had memorised it. Why does such a simple thing mesmerise her, just like everything Priestly does?
When their eyes lock, Andy feels slightly out of breath. She’s always been fascinated by her eyes, no particular reason, but the way its impenetrability changed over time, ever since Andy managed to get in touch with Sasha Barnes and got them an one-on-one interview with her. Since that day, things have begun to transfer and translate into something new, into a territory they touched only once, twenty years prior in Paris, during that last car ride together.
Despite the state of drunkenness, Andy finds two memories so clear in her mind, enough to almost see them. That scene in the backseat, compared to one that happened a year ago, after Runway was officially bought by Sasha.
The smile Miranda gave her that day, talking about how much she loved working, still makes her heart race in a way no one has ever caused it to do so.
So, maybe she looks like an idiot now, but she cracks a silly smile, still gazing at Miranda.
As the car moves through the streets, Andy has a hard time concentrating, still possessed by memories. She doesn’t even recognise that Miranda’s head is tilted to the window, watching the city scenery passing by.
“Thank you,” She says quietly, thinking her speech is not slurred.
Miranda’s neck almost snaps at the sudden turn of her head to look at Andy.
“If there’s one thing I despise in this world,” Miranda says, voice lowered. “It’s men who feel entitled to own a woman’s time, attention and body.”
Her mouth moves as she speaks, but to be frank, Andy doesn’t hear a word.
Instead, she reaches out her hand as her eyes close, and her palm lands on Miranda’s, which rests upon her lap. It shuts Priestly up in a blur of a second.
If she were in a sober state of mind, Andy would frown at that immediately - no one quietens Miranda up this quickly and suddenly; the alcohol flowing in her system is too much, and she’s out in a moment. Just like that, head tilting back, lips parting as soft, barely audible, snores leave her mouth.
It gives Miranda a perfect out - she can just remove her hand without dealing with awkward consequences and uncomfortable touch. But it also gives her an out for an opposite action.
So, as they drive through the night of New York’s lights, restless yet comforting at the same time, Miranda twists her hand until her fingers twine around Andrea’s palm. She always wondered how it would feel. She never thought she would experience it, as well. Some things stay untouchable your entire life, no matter how long you wait for a miracle to happen.
Clearly, it’s not the miracle she’s had the weakest hopes for, but she decides to take it in, for the next ten minutes as they head to Andy’s place.
She doesn’t let go, closing her eyes to remember it, until Andy’s eyes flutter open as they pull up by her building.
“It’s a bit… mess-ish,” Andy murmurs as she stumbles through the front door of her apartment, grabbing the frame to not fall flat-faced. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
Miranda huffs, rolling her eyes - quite at disbelief this is how her Monday night is going, guessing this will be a great week with this start, but she sincerely prefers this instead of Andy getting hurt.
“It’s alright, Andrea. Let’s just…” She steps further. “Where is your bedroom?”
Andy fails at being a reasonable grown-up woman altogether and bursts into giggles, her cheeks burning fiercely. So caught up in it, she doesn’t grasp Miranda eyeing her carefully as if she’s dealing with a deeply disturbed individual. Which, well, might be true.
Looking like she’s about to get the biggest headache of the century, Miranda holds Andy up in the middle as she pushes her slightly forward, enough to turn around and lock the door behind them, which is a troublesome task itself, especially with uncooperative Andrea hanging onto her. She flicks the lights on, blinding them both.
How did she end up here?
“The bedroom?” She asks again, pressing to hurry her up.
“Maybe Nigel was onto something,” Andy laughs freely again, but points in the direction of the dark oak door left ajar on the right side of the living room.
“Nigel?” Miranda frowns and begins to lead her drunk feature editor through the apartment.
The place is quite cosy, with many frames of pictures of people Miranda doesn’t know, or paintings of unknown artists, a big couch with colourful cushions, and an armchair tucked in the corner of the room, right by the beautiful dark desk that must be the place of Andy’s work. She does not have much time to ponder the decor, especially while half-carrying Andrea on her arm. It’s a wonder neither of them has keeled over so far.
“Yep,” Andy nods feverishly and mumbles incomprehensible words, almost knocking the vase off the kitchen island, but Miranda grabs her tighter in the waist just in time and pulls her away. “He tried to… convert me. Y’know.”
None of this makes sense, making Miranda grunt and roll her eyes.
“Well, I’ll definitely have a conversation with him,” She announces, doubting Andy will even recall it tomorrow. She wants to sigh with relief when they manage to stagger inside the bedroom. “About leaving you alone in this state.”
Neither of them bothers to turn on the lights, just leaving the door wide-open, letting the light pool through it.
Andy releases a breath, trying to find a comprehensible sentence in her head as Miranda turns her around, gently, with care, and tries to sit her down at the edge of the mattress. Instead, Andy collapses and spreads her hands on the bed, just dropping dead.
“Don’t do it,” She says quietly.
“You were at risk,” Miranda says, standing above her, feeling a bit lost. It’s hard to focus when she watches Andrea in such a vulnerable state, showing complete trust in her. She’s always been painfully, obviously beautiful, and it bothered Miranda - not in a jealousy way, not at all. She’s looked in the mirror enough times to know better than compare herself to others. But… The idea of other people perceiving Andrea the same way she does, that’s what aggravated her. “I can’t… Something could have happened to you, and you should know I can’t ever-” She loses sense of words. She can’t ever what?
“Nigel’s gay fiancé was jumped,” Andy says, humming, and Miranda finds herself gasping.
“What in the world are you talking about?”
Nigel is engaged?
“There are drawbacks to being a homosexual,” Andy says simply.
That’s all Miranda needs to fully realise she is not getting any true information from her tonight.
“Well, undoubtedly there are,” She says, more to herself than to Andy.
She hesitates about her next move, lingering while knowing at the same time she should just leave. Andrea is an adult who can deal with the effects of getting wasted. She is in her apartment, safe and sound, away from the hands that craved to harm her earlier. Miranda brought her home to the safest place she could be.
Her brain doesn’t catch up to what her body does, because somewhere in the middle of drawing these conclusions, she leans down and gently unclasps the Hermès pumps, slowly taking them off. Her fingers brush against Andrea’s ankles, the skin covered by the see-through black stockings. She shifts on the bed, causing the skirt to hike up her thighs, right where the stockings end, and Miranda’s breath hitches. For a moment, her lungs burn, and she can’t move an inch.
Then, Andy releases a whimper, and Miranda freezes.
In a painfully slow pace, Miranda draws her eyes up her body until they meet Andrea’s.
Those puppy-dog eyes.
Oh, for heaven’s sake.
“Why are you here?” Andy asks softly.
“Because I’m not in a habit of leaving threatened women in danger.” Her voice leaves no room for objection.
“No,” Andy might be intoxicated, but in that moment, her gaze has never been clearer. “I mean, here. Why are you here?”
Leaning over her body, still holding her pumps in her hands, chest heaving. Enraptured. Spellbound.
Miranda sets the shoes on the floor, straightens her back and clears her throat - the full armour back on, “Go to sleep, Andrea.”
Miraculously, Andy listens and drags herself up the mattress, making poor attempts at kicking the comforter down.
Giving up on any hopes of Andrea making it easy on her, Miranda scoffs and pulls the bedsheets down. Waiting until the woman crawls onto her fluffy pillow and slides her long legs underneath the layers of warmth, Miranda watches it with odd interest. Then, she fixes the covers and the comforter around Andy, tucking her in and realising this is not a ridiculous, insane dream.
It envelopes her heart - the humanity of this act. How casual it would appear to some, as if they have done this a dozen times before, of just caring for Andrea openly, as a friend would do. But they are friends, aren’t they?
They have to be, Miranda decides, by the pure look of vulnerability and trust on Andy’s face. As if she doesn’t mind someone seeing her like this at all.
“Are you comfortable?” Miranda asks, just to cut through the slice of silence.
Andy nods, eyes closing.
Miranda breathes in the sweet vanilla scent that rises in the bedroom, and the familiar perfume she’s grown to recognise whenever she passes by Andy in the office. When they share the elevator, when she leans down to hand Miranda another article, another piece of her excellent work. Whenever Miranda peeks at her work over the biography, in a way she doesn’t want to be openly caught.
With that, she turns around to leave the bedroom, and by that, the apartment.
“I lied.”
Miranda freezes and turns around in the doorway, watching Andy’s posture lie still under the covers.
She shouldn’t even ask, but her body seems to be having a hard time controlling itself tonight. “You lied about what?”
She truly expects to hear that the story about Nigel’s fiancé was just a made-up thing, or whatnot.
Thinking she might never receive her answer, Miranda can’t believe how awfully clear Andy is with what she says next.
“I did miss you.”
Silence.
Just soft breathing, which soon will turn into snoring. The world goes on, Andy Sachs stays as unbothered as ever, unaware of how the reality changes around her, how much impact she has on others.
Miranda stares at her for a moment, pretending it’s not indulging herself, before coming to the crystal clear conclusion: she will probably never discover what was sincerely behind these words. She might never dig into it.
So, she does the only thing she can and she should. She leaves.
But even when she’s lying in her bed much later the same night, until it turns into early morning, alone in the townhouse…
Her mind is far across the city.