Chapter Text
-Andy-
-2007, one year after leaving Runway-
“Fuck is this supposed to be, Sachs?”
Andy winced as a rather large, ageing finger prodded the monitor which had been whirled around to face her in a rather unceremonious fashion. If it wasn’t for the cables plugged into the back of the ancient thing, it would have toppled right off the edge of the desk.
She sat quietly, staring at the words he was relentlessly poking at.
“Well?”
Andy stayed quiet, eyes now downcast, feeling the telltale sting that could only mean that the tears she was desperately trying to hold back were about to win out.
Her boss started to rant then; something about “amateur hour” and “the type of crap people write in their first year at college”, though she really wasn’t listening. She was so tired, so overworked, and she hadn’t slept in days. Everything he said reached her ears as a muffled, garbled mess, as if she was hearing the sound from underwater.
“…Dissapointment.”
Her eyes shot straight up at that word, drawing her out of her haze. Doe brown met sharp blue-green.
Andy swore that if she had a dollar for every time a pair of similarly colored eyes had stared her down with this level of intensity, she’d have enough dollars to buy herself a fancy beachfront condo in Florida.
Her eyes were so much prettier though… The deepest, most beautiful blue with just a hint of dark green…
And for that thought, she mentally kicked herself so hard she could have fallen straight out of the rickety old chair she was perched on.
“…What?” Andy mumbled, mouth agape. She blinked a few times, silently willing the tears not to fall.
“I said,” he shook his head, then ran a hand over his short gray hair, a look of total exasperation worrying his features. “You were already someone’s greatest disappointment; I don’t want you to be my greatest disappointment. Got it?”
Andy levelled a glare at the man across from her, then, her shock and anger rapidly overtaking the urge to cry. What the fuck did he mean by someone? Her fucking name is Miranda Priestly. And she’s a hell of a lot more important and successful than him.
‘Yeah, and she probably hates you for what YOU did to her, remember? You deserve everything that’s happening in your shitty life right now.’
Andy suppressed a shudder. Why did her mind hate her so?
Greg, on the other hand, perked up, suddenly drawing her out of her rapidly out of control inner turmoil.
“Well, fuck, would you look at that!” He attempted to laugh, then, but the chuckles quickly morphed into a hacking cough. Too many cigarettes, probably.
“Judging by the glare you’re levelling my way now, Sachs, you’ve still got some fight in you after all!” Mood clearly brightened, he dragged the computer monitor back around to face him with a heavy grunt of effort, knocking some papers to the floor in the process. He continued, not missing a beat, and not giving Andy a chance to respond. His mind was clearly made up, and this was a battle she certainly wasn’t going to win.
“Look… There’s somethin’ goin’ on with you… And fuck if I know what it is. It aint’ my business, anyway. But you clearly aint’ the same girl I hired nearly a year ago. Take the week off, sort out whatever it is you got goin’ on in your personal life, then come back here and write like the talented girl I knew back then.”
Andy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, absentmindedly fiddling with one of the sleeves of her jacket, carefully avoiding touching the fresh bruises on her wrists that she was becoming so adept at hiding. Her eyes darted around the room in panic, looking at everything and nothing all at once. Whatever Andy’s eyes absentmindedly focused on, the images refused to register in her brain. Panic began to swell in her chest at the thought of not being able to come in to work. Her job was the only stable and reliable thing in her life.
Well, until now.
Now, sitting in this dusty and unkempt office, the cacophony of New York traffic floating through the air through a propped open window, and the smell of burnt, cheap coffee and cigarette smoke filling her nostrils, she felt her world tilt on its axis.
With the hectic workload a position like hers came with, inevitably leading to longer than healthy working hours, she should be overjoyed to have a break. Not now though, not with everything happening in her personal life. Even her own mind had started to betray her, in both her waking hours and when she slept.
And then there was Nate.
She shut her eyes and inhaled, as if the expansion of her lungs could somehow push the thoughts out of her head. Her personal life was falling apart at the seams, and if she was being honest with herself it was all too much for her to deal with right now.
She opened her mouth to speak, then, to beg him to reconsider. But she was silenced with a dismissive wave of Greg’s hand. “Nope, not hearing it.” He was already slamming his fingers into the keyboard in rhythmic keystrokes. The noise hurt her ears, for some reason.
“Take the afternoon off too, Sachs. You’ll have a fun week, then you’ll come back on the fourteenth bright eyed and bushy tailed.” He accented a particularly loud key stroke with “That’s all.”
Andy blinked in disbelief, as thoughts of a certain white-haired editor came crashing into the forefront of her mind. She’d never even heard him say that before. Ever. So why now? The universe, she decided in that moment, clearly hated her. She must have done something bad in her past life, she supposed, to be deserving of this mockery.
Something really, really bad.
Thoroughly defeated, she stood and slowly made her way out of Greg’s office on wobbly legs. When she reached her desk and began shoving her belongings into her satchel, she heard a soft warm voice floating through the frenzied noise of the office, barely loud enough to catch her attention at all.
“He didn’t fire you, did he?”
Andy looked up to see Michael’s concerned face peering curiously at her over the cubicle wall, his hair a tangled mess of curls that he held together in a loose bun. A stray curl had popped out of its elastic bonds and was now hanging over one of his hazel eyes. ‘Boy, he needs a haircut’, Andy thought, as she resisted the urge to reach out and tuck the stray hair behind his ear. He was gay, anyway. He had told her that on her first day at the new job, so it wasn’t as if she had to worry about him misinterpreting the gesture.
Nate so would, though, if he saw you playing with some guy’s hair.
She chewed her bottom lip in worry, but she recovered quickly. She flashed her colleague a slightly crooked smile as she tried to still the intrusive commentary of her mind. She only hoped that the smile seemed genuine. Michael really was quite sweet, and he had been very kind to her during her tenure at The Mirror. She didn’t want to worry him.
“Nah, don’t worry, it’s all good. He said my article sucked, though.”
Michael raised an eyebrow slightly at that, and she continued; “He said he thinks something’s wrong with me, or ah … Umm…” She stumbled over her words as she forcefully stuffed a disorganized pile of work assignments into her bag.
“He thinks something’s going on in my personal life that I need to sort out before I come back to work. He thinks whatever’s wrong is affecting the quality of my writing.”
She slung the bag over her shoulder, the weight of it nearly sending her off balance as she once again attempted to flash him one of her signature sunny smiles, though it didn’t reach her dulled eyes. She didn’t have much to truly smile about these days, but she hoped it looked genuine regardless.
Her coworker tilted his head, brow furrowing in genuine concern as he spoke carefully.
‘Fuck, he noticed.’
“Is there something wrong, though?”
She was already starting to leave. She couldn’t do this right now. She couldn’t keep up the charade much longer, so she pretended not to hear him.
“Oh! Hey, wait! Andy! Don’t forget your phone.” He pointed to the offending device on Andy’s desk and she halted mid step, her eyes glancing back in the direction of his gesture. She shook her head at herself. She was more forgetful these days than she’d ever been in her entire life.
“Oh! Thanks, Mike!” She quickly scooped up the phone. “And don’t worry, nothing’s wrong… Nothing major, anyway! I’ve just had trouble sleeping for a while now. I guess it’s starting to catch up with me.” She pressed a button to illuminate her phone’s screen and her eyes darkened.
Five missed calls. All from Nate.
Shit. She’d forgotten to call him on her lunch break.
“Melatonin is great for that.” Mike offered with soft smile, though his eyes were sad. Andy knew he didn’t fully believe her. She wondered if she’d always been this transparent. “You should call in to the drugstore and get some. It worked for me when I had trouble sleeping”
“You know… I might just do that.” Andy once again tried to offer up her best everything-is-fine smile, though the facade was still threatening to crack. She needed to get out of there, and fast. She was halfway out the doorway when she called back a “See you later!”
And with that, she was gone.
-Miranda-
Blue-green eyes narrowed at the sight before her as she shook her head in indignation. It was bad enough that she was dealing with one hell of a migraine right now, but the scene unfolding before her was driving her to wits’ end. Not helping her foul mood in the slightest, this morning had begun with her newest second assistant spilling coffee all over her desk. The wide eyed and trembling thing had stared at the editor’s workspace, her face plastered with a look of what could only be described as pure terror as the piping hot liquid seeped into some rather important documents.
Emily had escorted her from the building before she had even had time to utter an apology. Not that apologies would have done the girl any good. She had fired people for far less.
She hadn’t even lasted an hour in her tenure. Second Emily had just secured a new world record for shortest time ever spent working for Miranda Priestly.
And so here she was: second assistant-less on the busiest day of the month and overseeing a photoshoot which was not yielding results that were even close to her standards. Every spread, every word, every article, every photograph; these would all reflect on her. And this was a very poor reflection indeed.
Miranda closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose, trying desperately to chase away the pain between her eyes through sheer force of will. The migraine was beginning to make her feel rather unwell, and a thin sheen of perspiration had formed on her brow, nausea building in the back of her throat. She was also desperately in need of more coffee and, if she didn’t have it in her hand soon, she would probably fire a second person before the day was over. Maybe even a third. Perhaps she would fire everyone in the room, should her mood darken further. She hadn’t decided yet. The people in the room with her were, after all, merely warm bodies to serve the needs of the magazine. A production line of endless sycophantic clones, mere worker bees buzzing about the queen.
Easily replaceable.
Yet there’s still an assistant you’ve never managed to replace…
A flash of innocent brown eyes barged their way into her mind, and Miranda involuntarily clenched her jaw so hard she thought her teeth would crack.
She wouldn’t allow herself to think about her right now. She could not, would not, allow this ridiculousness to jeopardize her work ethic. She didn’t do distractions, and remembering Andrea only caused a confusing cocktail of emotions; of regret, of sadness, and of something else that she found rather unbecoming of a woman who had built a reputation of always being in control.
It was a feeling that had, much to Miranda’s indignation, wormed its way into her heart and resided there without her noticing until it was too late. It presented itself as a telltale ache in her chest, only making its presence known when her mind betrayed her and drifted to images of a certain gorgeous brunette.
She snapped her eyes open suddenly when she heard Nigel’s voice, her characteristic steely gaze now intensely focused on the man making his way over to where she was sitting. The dull ache in her sternum thankfully stilled, as if it was a shy thing that had fled immediately at his approach. She was glad the idiotic feeling had retreated. It irritated her immensely.
“Where did these kids get shipped in from, anyway? Was discount-models-r-us running a buy one get one free sale? As good as I am at my job, Miranda, I’m no miracle worker.” He slumped down in the empty chair next to the older woman, waving one of his hands dismissively at the two young models in front of him. The girl was looking down at the floor, absentmindedly smoothing the fabric of her dress while her male counterpart was staring at the space above her head so intently that he was about to bore a hole through the wall.
“They have about as much chemistry as a nun and a space shuttle.” He chewed the end of his pen and shook his head slowly. “If we can’t make this work, we’re going to have to rethink the whole thing… With your approval, of course.” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You’re the boss.”
Miranda detected a tinge of venom in those last three words, though she wouldn’t grant him the satisfaction of a retort. She was better than that. While she respected Nigel for his brilliant mind and unwavering dedication to his job, she didn’t get to where she was in the fashion industry by making friends. Hard decisions had to be made. It was dog eat dog, kill or be killed, and Miranda would not allow herself to become prey. There was only room for one at the top. That was something she’d made peace with long ago.
She sighed, then, standing slowly as the young man and woman before her attempted yet another awkward embrace at the behest of the photographer. The flashes of light from the camera stilled as Miranda approached, and the young models’ shoulders tensed with anxiety. The two of them stared straight ahead at nothing, still as statues. The devil herself was in their vicinity now, and they figured if they were to survive the encounter, that it was best to not make eye contact. When Miranda did speak, she spoke with the same quiet authority that commanded the rapt attention of everyone in a room.
“Now, as I’m sure the two of you are aware… If these photographs are not satisfactory, well…” The editor circled around them like a shark, quickly snatching the male model’s wrist. She could feel his pulse as it started to hammer wildly under her thumb. Pulling his wrist forward and downward, she continued. “You will both be blacklisted from the entire modelling industry… And you will spend the rest of your days scrubbing gum off the city sidewalks.”
She heard Nigel snort in amusement as she finished her threat and brought the man’s muscled arm around the woman. Once his arm was hooked behind her back, his hand hovering over the swell of her hip, Miranda moved her hand over his and pressed down.
“Keep your hand exactly where it is.” She spoke as she slowly removed her own. “Now, hold her chin gently between your thumb and forefinger. Then tilt her face upwards. Do not, under any circumstances, break eye contact.”
She studied the man in front of her as she spoke, noticing the beads of sweat that had begun to form on his brow. The quiet threat had worked wonders, and two sets of eyes were now locked onto each other. She would have guessed the boy to be in his mid to late 20s, with blonde hair and piercing green eyes. He was tall and handsome, much taller than the petite thing in front of him. He wore no shirt under a brown Loro Piana vest, his abs peeking through the unbuttoned fabric. Miranda supposed she would have found him quite attractive in her younger years.
Before the three failed marriages, that is.
As she stood there scrutinizing the scene in front of her, her gaze shifted towards the girl. She seemed slightly younger than the male, in her early twenties. Large doe eyes were gazing into the pair before her, their shade matching the dark brown hair cascading down her bare neck.
They made quite the attractive pair, but something was still missing, and Miranda knew exactly what that something was.
“Stand closer.”
The models took a half step forward, which achieved nothing. Such a small amount of contact would not be believable. For the spread to work, really work, they had to look like they were in love.
Clicking her tongue in frustration, Miranda moved to stand behind the brunette, firmly placing a black Prada gloved hand in the middle of the young woman’s back and gently nudging her forward.
Despite herself, the younger model let out a surprised squeak at the contact. It was sort of cute, really. She reminded her of…
The sudden movement had caused the model’s hair to fall out of place and slip forward and Miranda, whose mind was rebelling in this present moment, reached out and instinctively tucked the loose strands behind the model’s ear. The girl’s breath hitched involuntarily at the touch and for a single, fleeting, blink-and-you-miss-it second, she saw Andrea.
Miranda frowned and moved to stand in front of the models. She sauntered back a few steps, crossing her arms over her chest and arching an eyebrow slightly. It was more believable, yes, but something was missing. She appraised at the scene with a clinical eye, starting at their faces and trailing downwards to…
Ah.
Everything was perfectly believable from the waist up, but this was a full body shoot from head to Chanel covered toe.
“Lift up your leg and hike it over his hip. And for God’s sake don’t lose your balance.”
As the model acquiesced, the red velvet of her dress shifted to expose most of her pale thigh, her black stilettoed heel now pointed outwards and down. A faint, mischievous smirk had tugged at the corners of the taller man’s lips as he winked at the girl. It was then Miranda noticed the brunette’s eyes darken with desire as she tried and failed to suppress a telltale shudder. The young woman was smiling softly too, now, a noticeable blush creeping up her neck and spilling across her cheeks. So that had been the problem.
‘Young love? How nauseating…’
Though the girl’s eyes, well, they reminded her of a young woman her mind often traitorously drifted to, in those rare moments when she was alone and not driven to distraction. The way they sparkled, blown wide and hiding a playfulness that was hard to spot, but would occasionally flicker across the surface of gorgeous chocolate brown.
When she thought of Andrea’s leg hiked up over her own hip, she visibly bristled. Why could she not rein in these ridiculous thoughts? Her former assistant was less than half her age, for crying out loud. While she had been standing at the altar with her first husband, Andrea would have been latched onto her mother’s breast. Her face paled at the thought. This was all wildly inappropriate, and yet…
‘Oh, Miranda, you old fool…’
Suddenly acutely aware of how many eyes were watching her, Miranda waved her hand at the photographer in a manner so aggressive that he visibly flinched.
“What are you gawking at me for?” She spat, “As you can see, the models are ready. Get me some usable photographs now.”
He whirred around so fast he nearly toppled straight over, the camera’s shutter suddenly working overtime. White flashes illuminated Miranda’s frame as she stalked over to the far side of the room. Nigel glanced up at her as she sat down, a knowing smirk on his face as she pressed two gloved fingers to her temple.
“She’ll be pregnant by five o’clock.” He paused for a beat, then gasped dramatically and cupped his own cheek, mouth hanging open for added comedic effect; “I wonder if they’ll ask you to be the Godmother?”
Miranda snorted in mild amusement but said nothing. Suddenly aware of movement in her peripheral vision, she glanced at his outstretched hand which contained two round, white pills.
“Advil?”
She gave a slight nod, popping the pills into her mouth and chasing them down with water from the bottle she had sitting beside her. Several blinding flashes of the camera caused yet another throb of pain between her eyes.
She gritted her teeth. It was going to be a long day.