Chapter Text
Saturday, 25th of July, 2026. 07.43.
When you live and breathe Runway, attending red carpets becomes as natural as one would breathe. When you are Miranda Priestly, seeing the crowd part as her feet step on solid ground like Moses did the red sea feels much more natural than breathing, if even humanly possible.
Whether in 2006 or in 2026, all eyes immediately find her, radiance and all. Another indifference is her expected departure, barely staying an hour before people are rendered looking longingly at her retreating form.
A notable difference, however, is the destination of her arrival post-event. Back then, she would head straight to the townhouse and work from her office. Today, she heads back to the towering building that is Elias-Clarke and immediately heads for the 17th floor, still donning her red Balenciaga gown made of silk taffeta.
The elevator comes to a halt and opens with a ding.
The office is silent—mostly dark now save for a few table lamps. The click-clacking of Miranda’s heels fill the wide, empty space as her dress drags behind her. There are so many things she needs to do, and so little time. The many rejuvenations and changes being presented to Runway has rendered late nights at the office inevitable, with the top three executives working side-by-side.
Hands grasp her shoulder firmly. “There you are. I was starting to get restless.”
Ever unwillingly, the corner of her lips quirk upwards. “Must you always be so impatient?” She asks with an air of carefully-crafted coolness.
Miranda is broken out of the meticulously crafted persona with a gasp when the other woman turns her around with a hand on her waist and leans forward, forcing the silver-haired woman to bend backwards.
“As if you haven’t been waiting for this as well,” Andy says as she hovers over Miranda’s neck, warm breath eliciting goosebumps from the once smooth skin. Impatient as ever, she takes the lead for the both of them and sinks her fangs into smooth skin, smiling when she hears a sharp inhale from Miranda followed by a satisfied sigh.
They stay in that position in silence, which lasts about approximately a single minute, before a familiar voice interrupts their evening.
“Oh, I’m very sorry. Should I have brought my holy water spray bottle with me?” Nigel’s teasing voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
Andy pulls away from Miranda’s neck, lifting the both of them up into standing straight again—unlike themselves. The brunette rolls her eyes, both amused by his comment and the yellow lamps that are reflected on his shiny head. A light in the darkness, indeed.
“That doesn’t work, bald man!” She says.
Nigel gasps in offense. “I cannot believe Miranda would hire such an unprofessional features editor in the big two-thousand-twenty-six.”
Miranda rolls her eyes. Andy shrugs.
“You started it.”
“Unbelievable. I’m going home,” Nigel says as he turns around and leaves the two women to their reunion, even if they were only apart for less than three hours.
Just as Nigel turns the corner, Andy’s vampire ears pick up on his mumbled words.
“Twenty years … what a masseuse indeed.”