Work Text:
After the incident, the first thing that Andy does is buy new shoes. Her feet are sore, and there is no time like the present. The amount of euros sitting in her wallet proves to be enough for a pair of sneakers; leaving her with some to spare for a taxi should she need it. She has barely stepped of the store when she throws her heels away.
Very much not haute couture, she thinks, looking down at her now sneaker-clad feet, especially combined with the dress. Her colleagues—ex-colleagues, she corrects herself with a sigh—wouldn’t want to be associated with her while she’s wearing them; but, frankly, it doesn’t matter. Nobody is going to notice her in the throng of people, and there’s more to the city than Fashion Week, anyway. Especially now that she no longer has a job that forces her to attend its many events.
Without really knowing where she is to begin with, Andy aimlessly starts wandering around the streets of Paris. After all, there is so much to see! So much architecture. So many museums and small corner stores, so much art.
She visits none of them. She pays no mind to the buildings, or all the artists painting by the Seine. Her mind is too preoccupied with her. Is she still at the show? Is she sitting there with her lips pursed, furious at Andy for leaving her, right there and then, in the middle of it all? Is she disappointed once again? Or is she perhaps not thinking about Andy at all? Is a new assistant already by her side, scrambling to meet her every demand?
Did Andy ever matter? She likes to think so. She likes to think that Miranda was never entirely indifferent about her. She likes to think that she was better than anyone who came before her, anyone who will come after her. Things may not have started out perfectly; Andy may not have found her groove until Harry Potter. But afterwards, she was at her best. She was the best, could always read Miranda right. So, yes, she likes to think that she proved herself.
After all, she is in Paris.
And that is precisely what brings her back to the ever-present question of Why. Andy may still be in Paris, but she is not by her side anymore. Why did she leave? Maybe it is time to come clean. Maybe it is finally time to admit what she has been too afraid to admit all along. Maybe the answer is a very, very simple one:
It was too much. Not the pressure—she had learned to handle that. Functions, luncheons, appointments are easily dealt with. It’s Miranda who’s too much. Being with her. The previous night had shown that, although she’s perhaps not entirely indifferent, she’s never going to think of Andy as anything but an assistant. It’s simple: they’re not friends. Andy thought they could be, thought that maybe Miranda trusted her. She doesn’t; it’s not a friendship. It’s a work relationship.
Andy doesn’t want that. She can’t do it anymore. Lately, every time looked at the silver-haired editor, she would become overly aware of just how unattainable she is. Unreachable, on a personal level. Andy doesn’t want to put herself through that any longer.
Hundreds of people Andy passes by in the course of the afternoon. Maybe thousands. She looks at none of them. None of them pay attention to her, either. Still, it’s a comfort. To know that she’s not alone. Everyone has their own individual thoughts, pleasant or unpleasant, and she’s just one among millions. She doesn’t realize she has gotten lost until she quite literally runs into some kind of gate. She gets jerked out of the depth of her own mind rather rapidly, right back into reality. Fortunately, her arms have taken most of the damage. Unfortunately, there are definitely going to be some bruises near her shoulders. “Ouch,” she mumbles to herself.
Andy absentmindedly rubs her temple as her eyes scan the area for people. She crosses the street to what looks like the entrance of a park, and immediately starts asking around in a heavily accented, very broken French, for directions to the hotel she is staying in. In the back of her mind, she quickly wonders whether she will even still have her room by the time she gets back, but discards that thought quickly. They can’t throw her out. Right?
It doesn’t exactly matter. There’s nowhere else to go. She hails a taxi—which takes significantly longer here than in New York, she has noticed—and, immediately after sitting down in the back seat, takes another dive into her brain.
See, she swears she has seen quite a fair share of pity directed towards her. It’s absurd, of course; she’s merely projecting, thinking this is what she deserves after abandoning what was the most important job of her life, the one to either make or break her in New York. In the middle of the busiest, most important week of the year, no less. Even the taxi driver, she thinks, smiles at her in the rear view mirror with an expression that screams, Sorry for whatever you’ve done, my sincerest condolences.
She’ll get over it. Whether she’ll get over Miranda is another matter entirely, but one she doesn’t want to contemplate. Not now.
The lights of the city pass as day turns into night. This is it. The turning point. Runway is over. A new chapter is about to follow.
She used to like change. She’s not so sure now, considering Miranda Priestly—a probably rather disappointed Miranda Priestly—is in charge of her fate. Her hands involuntarily interlock in her lap, and she does what she does best when she is anxious: she fidgets. Her lip soon becomes victim to a very hard bite, too, and tears are threatening to fall down onto her cheek.
Before that ever happens, the taxi driver pulls her out of her sulking. “On est arrivé.” She musters up the closest equivalent to a smile that she can, takes out the amount of money shown on the screen, and opens the door. She can’t wait to just lie the hell down. Just before she steps outside into a night that has turned rather cold, the man behind the steering wheel speaks up again. “Madam, I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but notice that you look rather sad tonight. I don’t know what has happened, of course. But you deserve your happiness. I hope you find it.”
She’s so stunned that she all but stumbles out of the car, almost forgetting to shut the door altogether. With her legs now shaking, she walks a few steps, contemplating his unexpected—but not unwelcome—words. He’s right, of course. She does deserve to be happy, just like everyone does. The problem is that it’s likely to never happen. Then again… how can she know if she doesn’t try?
Maybe she should pay Miranda a visit. And, well, hope that she at least lets her in.
A smile forms on her face when she has almost arrived at the staircase. Before taking it, making her way into the reception area, she makes a decision: she turns back around, runs towards the car once more. She is glad to see the window still rolled down. She leans in. “Thanks. I needed that.” She gives him her biggest smile. “Also, I’d never consider a taxi driver ‘just a driver.’ You do much more for those out there than quite a lot of other people, if that makes sense.” She runs a hand through her bangs, and leans away from the window. “Anyway, I really hope you stay the way you are, because I think you’ve just inspired me to do something I would otherwise have been afraid to do. So, yeah, thanks.”
The man mirrors the smile on Andy’s face with the most sincere display of gratefulness that she’s ever seen in her life.
With a newfound determination, she enters the hotel, and then the elevator, where she promptly presses the button that she has learned will send her directly to the most expensive floor. She has no idea what she’s going to say when she comes face to face with Miranda, but she owes her something.
Her lower lip is assaulted by a daring tooth once again—so much so that, by the time she reaches the eighth floor, she can taste copper. Her hands smooth her dress right before she leaves the lift to make her way towards the door at the end of the corridor.
You can do this, Andy. Whatever this is. Before she has the chance to doubt her decision, she straightens her posture and knocks.
Terrified, she waits for an answer. She may be determined, full of hope, but that doesn’t reduce the horrible nervousness she’s feeling. She thinks she may actually be about to throw up. Her stomach is doing really strange things, her hands are sweating, trembling—her entire body is, in fact—and the fact that her back is straight isn’t actually helping any, nothing is helping. She’s not even sure she can feign confidence when she finally, hopefully, inevitably comes face to face with—
Andy swallows the lump in her throat as something is being mumbled from behind a still closed door. She can’t for the life of her make it out. But it doesn’t matter, because half a second later, the door is all but torn open by a Miranda who, Andy notices immediately, is trying a bit too hard to look bored. Her eyes give her away, though. There is anger in them. Fury, rather. And—something else that she cannot quite place. Sadness? Fear? “Whatever it is that you have to say, I do not have any intere—”
Ah! Screw it. This is less than ideal, but Miranda is about to slam the door in her face, so it’s as good an opportunity as any other. Okay. God. Here goes absolutely nothing. Andy clenches her fists, digs her nails into her palm to ground herself—for a few seconds, at least, that’s all she needs. Then, she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath to stop herself from freaking out—freaking out even more—and gets reads. Because she has to say it now, or she won’t at all. Without another single thought spent on what may or may not happen once this is done, she interrupts Miranda. “I’m in love with you.”
Whatever it is that Miranda has expected, her face tells Andy that this isn’t it. Far from it. Shock, Andy identifies. Surprise. From the way in which the woman’s eyebrows are raised. Both are expressions that Andy isn’t sure she has ever seen on her, ones that she didn’t think she ever would. And the emotions, the feelings that accompany the expression make Miranda’s knees buckle, too, because she sort of stumbles backwards a bit before she catches herself, gripping the low vanity table in the entrance area.
In the time it takes for Miranda to recollect her senses, Andy lets herself into the room. She wants nothing but to throw her arms around her, but she knows she shouldn’t. Not until she has at least somewhat explained herself. “I’m sorry,” she starts. “I’m really, really sorry, Miranda, I am, but I had to leave. When we were in the car together earlier… you were so close to me. So close. I was going crazy. I thought that this would pass. I thought it was just an infatuation that would go away. But then we were in that damn car, and I realized just how much I love you, and I just—I had to go. I can’t be in love with you and work for you. It’s too painful. I should’ve handled—I know I should’ve handled it more maturely, or at least—I know—” Tears are starting to sting her eyes, and soon, they fall. She can barely breathe.
Miranda steps closer. “Andrea—” She reaches out to trace Andy’s jaw with her thumb for a few seconds before reclining again. “I’m not quite sure what all this is about, but you need to breathe, darling.” She moves away and motions towards the couch.
As Andy moves there—trying her very best to inhale and exhale until her lungs are filled to capacity with air again, just as she has been instructed—Miranda grabs her a glass and fills it with water. Andy gulps it down as soon as she’s been handed it. She leans against the backrest. Relaxing is out of the question, for now, but she can simply… sit.
She feels the couch move when Miranda sits down next to her. “So you abandoned me today because you…” She clears her throat. “Because you love me.”
Andy sighs dejectedly and slumps further into the sofa. “Listen, I’m sorry. I spent all afternoon walking around and realizing how incredibly, well, not nice it was of me. Leaving you like that.”
Miranda hums. “I’ll say.”
“And I obviously don’t know whether you’ll ever forgive me, but—I just—I had to do it. And, what’s more, I had to explain. No matter how much I feared your wrath. Even though I knew you’d despise what I’d done. I had to tell you that, yes, it was stupid, but I had to do it. Otherwise I would have probably ended up doing something even stupider.” Andy looks down at the rug-covered floor. Something awfully ridiculous like kissing you.
“Stupider than leaving me right before one of the most important events of Paris Fashion Week?”
“Okay, I deserved that.” Andy takes a sharp breath, and hides her face in her hands. “But yeah, stupider than that.”
“And what would be—”
For God’s sake. “I would’ve kissed you, Miranda,” Andy admits, breathless. “I knew I wouldn’t—it just—it hit me. Right there. In the car. We were together, close together, and it hit me that it was impossible. I couldn’t be that close to you. It tore me apart. Even for those few minutes. It—I just—” Her voice betrays her. It cracks, and Andy is left sitting there, humiliated from all the admissions. She can’t even finish now. It’s—God. Why does Miranda have such power over her? Why can’t she even speak now? She buries her face deeper in her hands, until no light makes it through anymore. She presses her eyes shut, praying that this conversation be over soon. This feels like torture.
“You’re here right now,” Miranda says, and Andy can hear the way she’s feigning her disinterest, “close to me.” It comes out in a mocking tone, though, despite the fakeness, and it stings.
It stings because it’s true. She’s here. And it is taking everything inside of her not to lean in and kiss. Not to give in. “Yeah,” Andy mutters, “I am.”
“And do you want to…”
Miranda’s voice is suddenly a lot closer than it was a second ago, and Andy’s body jerks. Her hands fall down, and she looks up, right at her. A raised eyebrow makes Andy shiver.
“Kiss me?”
Might as well go all in. “More than you know.” She has nothing to lose, does she? It’s all on the table. “You have no idea how hard it was not to just shove you back and attack you earlier when you opened the door."
Miranda seems to contemplate this for a second. If she had her glasses with her, she’d rub them against her lips, for sure. Oh, her lips. Her lips— “Well, Andrea, it looks to me like you have more than enough willpower.”
Andy chokes back an incredulous laugh. “Believe me, Miranda—”
“I don’t, Andrea.”
Their gazes lock. The way Andy’s stomach clenches at Miranda staring at her like this is entirely unhealthy. She’s getting an ulcer. She shakes her head. Swallows again. Will she have to convince her? She chuckles breathlessly, “Miranda, I promise—”
“I don’t believe you, Andrea. I don’t believe that you’re really having such trouble holding back when you’re right here, holding back,” Miranda repeats pointedly. Has she moved even closer, somehow?
Andy thinks her heart is about to explode. It’s beating way too fast.
“I don’t believe what you’re saying.”
And that’s when it hits Andy. Miranda actually wants her to prove what she’s saying. She suddenly has to fight very hard to bite back a grin as she leans forward another few inches to do what she’s abstained from—completely unnecessarily, as it turns out: she kisses Miranda.
It’s soft. So incredibly soft. Andy moans, and brings her hands up to Miranda’s neck. Now that she has her, she’s not letting go. They move together, gently exploring one another, tasting one another. It feels better than what she has fantasized about. Just—so good.
When they eventually break apart, Miranda is already rolling her eyes and halfway across the room. “I’m so glad I didn’t have to spell it out for you,” she drawls sarcastically.
Andy can’t help it—she’s full on grinning now. There are butterflies running amok inside of her, and, frankly, it’s fantastic. “You know, you could be a bit nicer to me, Miranda,” she teases.
A snort echoes around the room. “And why would I do that?”
“Easy. Because you like me.”
“I’ll have you know that I’m not nice, not to anyone. Honestly, Andrea. You of all people should know that.” Andy can’t see it, but she’s sure Miranda has just rolled her eyes at her again.
A hum leaves her mouth. “Oh, well, that’s a shame. I guess I should probably head back to my own room, then. I don’t really want to spend the night with someone who won’t—” Oh. Her words are cut short by Miranda, who has appeared right in front of her. In the doorway. (One which undoubtedly leads to the bedroom.)
The older woman puts her index finger on Andy’s lips, shushing her. “Don’t you dare finish that thought.”
Andy bites the inside of her cheek. She’s feeling a bit too smug. “Don’t think I didn’t notice, by the way,” she winks. With that, she pushes herself past Miranda. She lets herself fall onto the bed, and watches the dumbstruck woman, facing away from her. She can practically hear the wheels turning.
“And what is that? Do tell.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest.
Andy notices that pretending to be bored is somewhat of a signature move. Kind of like putting on her glasses and saying certain things. It should be infuriating. Instead it’s closer to endearing than anything else. She barely manages to hold back a smile when she says, “That you never denied liking me.”
First, she gets but another eye roll. But then—laughter follows. Genuine laughter. From Miranda Priestly.
It makes Andy so insanely happy that she can’t stop staring as the woman makes her way towards the bed, too.
“Staring is unbecoming, Andrea.”
“You like me,” Andy sighs happily, not caring in the slightest about what has been said.
“So is teasing,” Miranda continues.
A satisfied hum. “Yeah, but you like me.”
“My God, Andrea. I’m going to kick you out of this bed.”
Andy, once again, doesn’t acknowledge the words. There’s something else on her mind. “You know, that fountain I threw my cell in earlier—”
A click of the woman’s tongue reminds her that a mention of the incident isn’t exactly good conversation material. Yet. But—the cell phone part is entirely besides the point, anyway.
“Sorry,” Andy squeaks. “As I was saying, that fountain is, like, super clean. Too clean, somehow. It’s so golden and shiny. Obviously I don’t know who cleans it but they must be doing their job really well. Do you think they only clean it in the evenings? Or do they do it during the day as well? Or in the morning, maybe—”
There’s a groan, and a shuffle.
Unbothered, Andy continues. “Yeah, maybe they clean it multiple times a day. Or do you think that maybe they’ve filmed a movie there or something? I don’t know, it just caught my attention. I was standing there, thinking to myself—” A shuffle, she heard. “Wait. Did you just put your pillow over your head so you don’t hear me?”
“Yes, Andrea. You’re by far the most insufferable person I’ve ever talked to.”
“Oh!” The brunette grins. A superlative from Miranda is one hell of a compliment. “Thanks.”
Miranda huffs.
“Love you, too,” Andy teases. “Now, scoot, I want to cuddle you.”
(She swears she has just made Miranda smile.)
“I will have you know, Andrea, that, should you wish to enter a relationship with me, I will not tolerate those absolute monstrosities you brought into my suite last night. They need to go.”
“They’re shoes!” Andy sits up at once, looking absolutely scandalized. “They’re new,” she adds, pouting.
“They’re hideous.” Miranda purses her lips. “Perhaps I was wrong to assume you would want to pursue—”
Well, she cannot have her lover thinking that. Before another word can leave the woman’s mouth, Andy has jumped out from under the covers, run across the room, and collected her shoes. She opens the large windows next to the bed, and she makes sure Miranda sees her do it.
“What are you doing?” comes the immediate hiss.
Andy looks back over her shoulder, shrugging. “Isnt it obvious? I'm throwing them out of the window. For you, may I add.” She pouts again. (For good measure.) “I genuinely like them.”
“For God’s sake. Keep them, then.” Miranda rolls her eyes. “Just come back to bed.”