Chapter Text
Andy sees Emily for the first time in twenty years after a cascade of humiliating episodes that reminds her of flailing as Miranda Priestly’s new assistant. She’s twenty years older, has lived in Los Angeles, Amsterdam, and next to the Eiffel tower, has awards to her name, and yet, her guard has been brought down.
It’s embarrassing. She’d thought the fashion industry was far behind (and perhaps beneath) her, and now, she has been thoroughly humbled by Miranda Priestly. Believing that she had been Runway’s choice instead of a last effort to rehabilitate their image was truly mortifying, and Miranda hasn't mellowed out with age- she saw the weakness and struck.
Andy’s hard-won confidence had been demolished like a sand castle meeting the tides.
But it’s fine. She’s been fired from her dream job, she’s working for the devil again, and she’s painfully single, but it’s going to be fine. Andy is, despite what her former and current boss seems to think, a competent journalist and writer. The work will speak for itself, and eventually, her pieces will gain traction. Andy’s going to find her footing, slowly but surely. The plan is working twelve hours a day and hoping that the universe will throw her a bone and let her keep this job.
Andy’s plan B is-well, moving in with her parents in the Ohio suburbs, and that’s far too depressing to start considering, so plan B is suicide. Or selling her organs.
The point is, that when Andy walks into Dior, she’s unmoored. She feels vaguely ill, dizzy from the impressions, and is desperately wondering if she’s even going to see her first paycheck. Miranda and Nigel strides through the lobby, unbothered even while staring down cancellation.
Andy is less sure of herself. It’s been a long time since Andy was intimidated by corporate perfection, but she feels herself shrink a little when the receptionist looks at her like something the cat dragged in.The building has high ceilings, is beautifully lit, with big windows and polished floors.
After stepping into the elevator, Andy tries to steady herself. She takes measured breaths, ignores Miranda’s unimpressed look, and reminds herself that she’s here to do a job. The situation’s chaotic, sure, but she knows what the ultimate goal is: keeping the magazine afloat, and convincing whatever Dior executive they’re about to meet to forget the sweatshop scandal. Easier said than done, but at least it’s a clear goal. They pass meeting rooms and offices, and Andy remembers: the last time she worked at Runway, she did her best work when faced with a daunting (sometimes impossible), cleanly laid out task.
The assistant they’ve been followed gestures toward a meeting room, and-
Oh, damn. Andy feels her brain short-circuit.
It’s been twenty years, and she should say something right now. She should also close her mouth. Andy hazily manages to smile. Emily is obviously still gorgeous, but Andy knew that from stalking her on LinkedIn, knows her features like she knows her own mind. Her hair’s still red, but a lighter shade. She’s dressed in a pantsuit that’s tight on her upper body, contrasted by a white shirt and a tie. The outfit looks effortless, even if Andy knows it’s anything but. What’s even more striking is the certainty in her eyes, the calm, self-assured posture. It knocks the wind out of Andy.
In 2006, Emily had been beautiful, of course, but never tranquil. Times have changed, evidently: Emily walks into a meeting room, breezily insulting Miranda and Runway, looking disinterested in the whole ordeal. Power looks very good on her, Andy decides. She reprimands herself for the thought immediately, trying to banish her old, ill-advised crush. (The word’s hopelessly inadequate.)
Miranda gestures for her to answer Emily’s questions, and she tries to behave normally. Andy feels like a teenager, unsure of how much eye contact is normal. Her hands flail around, going from the table to her face and to her hair. Emily reacts to her new employment status in her high, condescending tone.
Andy wonders if she still uses the same perfume. Emily mercilessly critiques their PR strategy, and Miranda is shockingly docile. Emily insults her eyebrows, Andy stares at her eyes, the bridge of her nose, her hair against the white blouse. Emily is just as sharp, and the warm fondness spreading through Andy’s body is foreboding.
Emily was mean way back when, too. Andy never managed to dislike it.
2006
The first month at Runway was genuine hell. Andy was panicked in a way she has only since experienced in airports in foreign countries. Frazzled, anxious, vaguely angry at the injustice of it all, head and feet aching. Andy woke up at six to try to get ahead, and fell into bed every day wondering how she could still feel so behind. The twelve hour-days were the most exhausting Andy had ever experienced, and yet, Miranda was never satisfied.
It was a constant loop of working herself to the bone, falling short, and doing the same thing all over again. She was twenty four-her delusions of grandeur were constant. Andy’s inner monologue was akin to an angry aristocrat: why am I, of all people, being forced to work here? I am the future of journalism, and my mind is being wasted on coffee runs. This is killing my beautiful spirit and gentle temperament.
While the earnest self-righteousness hurt to look back on, Andy had been right. Annoying about it, but right. The Runway environment was unlike anything she had ever faced, and far beyond what anyone should be forced to endure. All the girls were hazy with hunger and ambition, ready to throw each other under the bus at a moment’s notice. Andy’s clothes, face, body, abilities-nothing was left uncriticized.
And Emily Charlton was usually at the scene of the crime.
Her comments were invariably cutting and scarily precise. Once, Andy wore Doc Martens to work. She was attempting to be fashionable, but wasn’t sure how to go about it. Andy didn’t own many clothes bought for the explicit purpose of expressing herself. The boots were an exception. She had an edgy phase in high school, and while the heavy eyeliner wasn’t a highlight, the Docs were nice.
They were classic, leather comfortable from years of use. She nervously walked into the office at seven am, reminding herself that no rude comments were worse than what she had been subjected to in her work clothes. Emily was already at her desk in Jimmy Choos, typing away at her computer. She looked Andy up and down, nothing but cool disinterest on her face.
Success! Andy was impressed with her own initiative, wondering if acceptance into the world of fashion was that simple. Emily looked at Andy and picked up the phone, dialing slowly.
“Hello, I’m Emily Charlton, calling from Runway. Hi. Fred’s Chimney Magic, that’s right. I’m calling because there has been a mistake. There’s a chimney sweeper at our office.”
Emily smiled. “Yes, the boots are dragging mud into our offices. It’s an issue. The employee’s name is Andrea Sachs. No? Okay, I’ll try another contractor. Thank you for your help.”
Two days later, Andy went to Nigel for help. She refused to be an easy target for two people whose greatest joy in life was coming up with insults. She could at least give them a challenge. Andy’s humiliation wasn’t clean-cut, even if she hadn’t been able to see it clearly back then. The heat rising to her face when Emily insulted her shoes was anger and humiliation, yes, but there was something more. Emily was so endlessly intriguing. Endlessly cutting, too, but Andy was still curious.
That was the only thing she’d been able to admit to herself.
Emily was fascinating, at most. Andy didn’t catch herself staring at Emily’s profile, sniffing her perfume when she left her desk. That would be ridiculous. Her being a woman wasn’t the problem- Andy had girlfriends in college- it was more that this particular woman was evil. That’s what she had thought, back then. The world was so simple. There were the cruel, narrow-minded, superficial people at Runway, and the noble field of journalism as a whole.
The satisfaction Andy felt when she walked into the office in Nigel’s clothes multiplied when Emily’s jaw dropped. She was always put-together, a poker face unlike anything Andy had ever seen. Now, she gapingly took in the black leather pants, the suit jacket, the new haircut. Emily’s eyes ran over Andy’s body. Andy wanted to keep shocking Emily, decode more of her facial expressions.
She wanted her attention, biting comments and impressed surprise. All of it. Looking back, Andy can point to this as the moment of realization. She wanted Emily, and she enjoyed her approval.
Now Andy knows that Emily might have needed some approval herself, but at the time, she was preoccupied. Preoccupied with impressing Emily, the symbiotic nature of their jobs, Emily’s microexpressions. The pure delight on her face when she came up with a particularly creative insult. When Emily asked her if she had “some hideous skirt convention to attend to?”, she burst into laughter. A week later, Andy asked Emily to help her pick between two dresses. “Pick the blue one if these are the only two dresses left in the world. If not, reevaluate.”
In spite of her acidic wit, Emily seemed to care for Andy. She was willing to explain the filing system, the office drama, the best way to carry shopping bags. Emily didn’t seem to care much for the concept of personal space, either. When she wanted Andy somewhere, she put her hands on her shoulders, arms, waist or back. Her expensive sandalwood perfume lingered on Andy’s clothing.
Andy’s cheeks were constantly flushed like she’d been hiking. She felt like Emily could see right through her. She told herself to be normal, then ended up breaking a vase when Emily put both hands on her hips to move her. Nigel had definitely understood what was up. He’d given her a knowing glance while picking up glass shards, but had mercifully avoided bringing it up. Andy was grateful.
She couldn’t articulate the feelings even to herself. Even twenty years later, after everything that happened, everything Andy did, there’s not much she can say about it. She just wants to be near Emily. See the way her eyes sparkle when she feels clever.
Andy still doesn’t know if Emily ever suspected anything. Andy wasn’t subtle, but Emily was entirely focused on her job. Entirely focused on Paris, working herself to the bone, starving. She cared, though. At least a little.
Andy remembers a gala-she had been out of her depth. It had been crawling with industry people, powerful men and women and an open bar. Andy was trying to track down a designer Miranda wanted to berate when she felt a hand on her back. A blonde guy in overalls, a silk shirt and leather boots met her eyes, beaming. Andy took a step back, and felt the edge of the bar against her spine.
He smiled, holding out a hand. Andy reluctantly took it. “Hi, I’m Drew. Are you a new model? You’re absolutely stunning.” Andy smiled carefully. She didn’t want to insult him. With her luck, he was probably some corporate big-shot.
“No, just a lowly assistant, but thanks.” He unsubtly checked her out, moving closer. His voice was deep, and his suit was perfectly tailored. He was a bit shorter than her, but clearly muscular. Andy might have gone for him under different circumstances. Drew wasn’t exactly her type, she’d never been into blonde guys, but he was hot. He was also clearly aware of it, his body language oozed confidence.
“Really? This place is swarming with agents, you might leave with a contract tonight. They’re like sharks, someone as beautiful as you are bound to stand out.” He was truly attractive. He looked like he belonged on a beach somewhere, lounging after hours of surfing. Andy didn’t feel any interest, though. Also, Miranda was probably contemplating firing her, and if that happened, tracking down the fucking Harry Potter manuscript would be for naught.
“That’s kind. Have you seen Max Wyle around? My boss wants a word with him.” Drew shook his head, blonde curls bouncing.
“No, I haven’t. But forget your boss for a second, you deserve to unwind.” Andy held back a snort at the mention of Miranda in the same sentence as unwind. “Let me buy you a drink, relax a little?” He winked, grinning widely at her.
Something about his body language made her feel like a prey animal. It felt off. Andy tried to project disinterest, looking around for Nigel, Andy, Serena. She would honestly settle for Miranda interrupting to yell at her.
“Sorry, I gotta find him. I’m technically at work.” She took a step to the side, moving past him. Then, she felt a hand around her wrist.
“Aw, come on. You’re just going to leave me like that?” His voice was light, but his brow was furrowed. Andy pulled her hand back, but he held onto her. “It’s just one drink, baby. I know you want to.”
She spun around, feeling her blood boil. “Let go of me. I’m not interested at all.” She glared at him, making the hostility obvious while yanking at her hand.
Drew stroked her wrist. “You sure about that?” His voice was soft, but he held her hand in an iron grip. “You were eyeing me across the bar five minutes ago.” Five minutes ago, Andy had been thinking about Emily. Andy decided to make a scene. No guy was powerful enough for her to put up with bullshit like this. She looked at the wine bottle on the bar counter. She could reach it with her right hand and get in at least one good hit.
Then, she heard an irritated, cool voice. “She’s just not that into you. Get away from her.” Emily appeared in her periphery like an angel sent from above. She looked the part, too. Emily was a vision in a sleeveless white dress, hair pinned up to show off silver necklaces resting on her clavicle. Andy had felt her throat go dry when saw the low, lacy neckline earlier that afternoon. Now, Emily crossed her arms, putting her hand on Emily’s lower back.
Drew looked surprised, but he recovered quickly. “You’re as beautiful as your friend. What’s your name?” Emily rolled her eyes.
“None of your business. I recommend you remove your hand. Security are on their way. They’re escorting you out either way, but if your hands are on her, they will taze you. Do you understand?”
Drew dropped her wrist. Emily’s right hand moved to her lower back, while she used the left one to signal to two guys in uniform. “What’s your problem? We were just talking.” Drew looked genuinely hurt, bottom lip sticking out. Emily scoffed.
“You look and behave like a perverted, hideous lumberjack with a fetish for silk. I recommend you jump tonight, because there’s nothing worse than a short guy with an unsalvageable personality.” Drew’s jaw dropped. He opened his mouth, and then he closed it. Andy felt so, so warm. After getting a nod from Emily, the security guys led him out of the room.
Emily stepped in front of Andy, dropping her hand from her shoulder. Andy mourned the loss. Emily’s brows were furrowed. “Are you alright? I’m sorry he was bothering you.” Andy stared at her. Emily’s face was so earnest, eyes clear and searching. If it only took some light sexual harassment to see her like this, Andy would begin to seek out construction workers on their lunch breaks.
Andy wanted to thank her. Instead, what came out was: “So you care about me?” God. She needed to get it together.
Emily furrowed her brow. “What are you on about?” She looked dismayed by the implications of defending Andy.
Andy pouted. “Thank you, I mean.” Emily pursed her lips, nodding imperceptibly.
Andy thought there might be something there. Emily would never feel the same way, but Andy wanted any form of closeness she could get. A friendship would be enough. She could force it to be enough. She was a masochist: first letting a straight woman insult her, falling in love with said straight woman, and then wanting the scraps of friendship anyway.
She wanted to be Emily’s friend so badly. She also wanted a career. She had thought the two things were compatible. Andy could have her desire for Emily and her burning ambition, and the two would exist in different realms. She needed to work at Runway for two reasons: she could see Emily, and she could see a bright future with a recommendation from Miranda Priestly.
Then, Emily was hit by a car, and Andy couldn’t think properly, and Miranda told her that she was going to Paris. Emily hadn’t eaten in weeks, but still, Andy convinced herself that she would understand. She wasn’t making the Paris trip anyway, wouldn’t it be better for Andy to go? The two of them were a team.
Emily was so small in the hospital bed. Bruised, exhausted, hungry, eyes like broken glass. Andy understood (she’d known all along, on some level) that Emily had expected Andy to fight for her. Like she’d done for Andy, like she deserved. Instead, Andy went to Paris, with her ambition and greed and ruthlessness. It took seeing Miranda treat Nigel the same way for the gravity of the situation to sink in. The shame was eating her alive. She blamed the Runway environment, and quit on the spot.
She didn’t want to see Emily again, and especially didn't want to ask for forgiveness. Back then, Andy had more pride. More than she needed, enough to put up necessary barriers between herself and someone she wanted. So she gave Emily the clothes but not an apology, and tried to forget her.