Work Text:
“Don’t.”
Andrea stills her moving hand, her mind reeling as she feels two hands gently, though firmly, grab hold of her hips, pushing her to one side.
Here’s the thing Andrea Sachs noticed about Emily Charlton: She was gentle.
Yes, she knows, it’s a true juxtaposition of a sentence.
If Emily ever heard her saying this out loud, she’d probably be hung upside down, cerulean belt holding her legs together.
Unfortunately for Emily — and fortunately for Andrea — the girl was perceptive. Not in the way Emily was, no, Andrea could—would never match up to that.
She wasn’t analytical. She wasn’t able to pick up on the differences between ‘Rich Mauve’ and ‘Deep Mauve.' She wasn’t able to discern the difference between low-fat and normal-fat milk — did they put the cow on a diet?
Anyways, all this is to say that, no, Andrea Sachs wasn’t that type of perceptive. She’s rather blunt in that aspect, whereas Emily was sharp as ever.
But, she did know how to read people.
She excelled in the matters of people.
She’d learned all her life that charm was a weapon — her weapon — and she wielded it with poise and the knowledge of perception that preempted her actions.
Though somehow, someway, Andy felt more inclined towards…perceiving Emily.
And thus, leading to her previously mentioned thesis statement: Emily Charlton, under all those layers of sharpened armor, was gentle.
—
Evidence #1:
Currently, Emily had her hand delicately placed on Andrea’s waist, even though there was really no need for her hand to still be there.
Andrea was moved to one side, and Emily had already answered the phone she just had to physically move Andy for. There was absolutely no reason for Emily to still be holding onto Andrea Sachs.
Except that she was.
And Andrea was desperately holding her breath, hoping that the woman had somehow forgotten her palm resting on the base of Andy’s rib — somehow forgotten the soft press of skin against the thin sheet of fabric between flesh and fingers.
“You can breathe, y’know? There isn’t some corset asphyxiating you.”
Andrea barely restrains herself from jumping, she’d been so lost in her own head to have noticed that Emily’s put down the phone already, though her hand remained in place, burning a memory against Andy’s skin.
“Uhm…yes, sorry, you were just…don’t you have your own phone at your desk?”
Emily holds Andrea’s gaze for a second longer than necessary, her hand softly brushing past Andrea’s waist, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. She folds her arms together, eyes scanning Andy’s face for…something.
“It’s not working, I needed to phone the tech guys to fix it.”
Before Andrea could reply, Emily had already turned on her heel, the click-clack of her steps resounding as she made her way back to her seat.
Andy sits back down, hand palming the area just below her ribs — there’s something warm that blooms there.
She ignores it.
—
Evidence #2:
The day was brutal.
In a way that had Andrea scrambling to stand upright. Her legs ached from walking to 12 different luxury department stores, all because Miranda needed the perfect skirt.
She had finally brought back an apparently “acceptable” skirt — one Christian Dior corduroy mini skirt.
Frankly, she had trouble discerning it from the Versace skirt that was of a similar shade of red that she had brought in when she still had the energy for a smile.
Now though, apparently even the devil takes pity, because she was allowed a little breather, being sent to her desk with the minute task of organising some logs for the day.
“Andrea.”
Andrea jumped, head shooting up at a speed that gave her both whiplash and a headache.
“What, Emily?”
She didn’t mean for it to come out so pointed, so…well, sharp. She winced at the clipped tone of her words, head already bowing down in embarrassment.
Sighing, Andy tilts her head up, aiming for an apologetic look — she lands on something in between constipated and pained.
“Sorry, I just…long day.”
Emily hums, eyes rolling.
“Well, Andrea, it’s barely 3pm, so trust that it’ll get even longer.”
Before Andrea could reply with some…choice words that perhaps would be better contained in her head, Emily slams down a cup of…something onto her desk.
“Here, perhaps this would help with your scowling issue. Lord knows you don’t need wrinkles to go with those eyebrows.”
And with that, once again, Emily has turned on her heel, leaving Andrea perplexed, fingers subconsciously running themselves over the space above her eyelids.
The woman tentatively reaches out to the cup, drawing it closer to her lips.
She takes a sip.
She tastes the flavour of artificial sweetness — the kind that Emily wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. She tastes hazelnut and a hint of vanilla, and it hits her. This is her order. This is her ridiculously long order that Emily had scoffed at when she first heard it.
Her lips curl into a soft smile, eyes chasing after the woman across from her, noting the upturn of lips that spelled satisfaction out for Andrea.
Something stirs within the brunette’s belly, her heart pounding against her ribcage, mimicking the cries of a bird stuck, confined by iron.
A seed planted, and perhaps sprouting.
Andrea goes back to working, each sip of her overly sweetened coffee watering whatever has taken root in the space right above her liver.
The coffee warmed her insides, drenching them in a honey-like glow.
It was iced.
—
Evidence #3:
Most of the hallway lights were turned off, save for the one nearest to Andrea’s desk.
Miranda, in a fashion so unlike her it was practically avant-garde, had left earlier than 8pm. The lights in her office were shut long ago.
It was currently 9:30pm, and the only thing accompanying the sound of Andy’s fingers clacking against her keyboard was Emily’s fingers clicking across hers.
The air between them had grown into a sort of comfort, where they both knew each other’s company was the only thing keeping them sane.
Andrea was just about finishing up a monthly report, and Emily was wrapping up a draft of the proposal for their issue on their winter collection.
The streets had gone from the bustling metropolis of honks and screeches to the quietness and serenity of fewer honks and (un)surprisingly more screeches.
Andy let out a silent yawn, eyes closing as she rolled her neck back, a crack resounding with her subsequent movements. She brings a hand up, rubbing at the base of her neck, a soft groan exiting her mouth involuntarily.
Her eyes gently flutter open, looking back towards her desk. Her gaze stops short of her computer, catching onto that of Emily’s.
She watches as the woman’s dazed eyes drop down, raking across the vast expanse of her neck, reaching her face, stalling at…the area just below her nose and traversing up the dips and valleys of cheekbones and nose bridges.
It’s only when Emily notices Andrea’s eyes on her that she quickly snaps back into focus.
Her sharpened gaze holds Andrea’s, unrelenting.
There was a flutter beneath where her heart sang, a chorus of gentle, flitting hums stuttered beneath muscle, between bone and skin.
Andy takes in a sharp, punctuated breath.
The humming permeates through each morsel of flesh, converging at her mouth, pulling apart her lips and letting scripted words (ones she’d only dare to whisper in the dead of night) roll off her tongue.
“Do you wanna…uh…go out with me? For dinner, I mean!”
She watched as the sentence tumbled, falling from her lips into the lap of Emily Charlton.
It’s awkward, the sentence somehow contorting itself into an anxious possum, threatening to claw its way back into Andrea’s mouth.
Emily stares at her, eyes only slightly widened.
“Bloody hell.” She hears the girl mutter under her breath, watching as Emily rises from her seat, striding over to Andy’s desk.
She gives Andy this look, bordering on scrutiny but not quite, like she's assessing the value of an outfit.
Huffing out a pointed sigh — which, by the way, can Andy just say, was totally unnecessary. Although, her initial thoughts were superseded by the rush of coursing dopamine that came with Emily’s next sentence — or well, word.
“Fine.”
Andrea let out a high-pitched sound, a mix between a squeal and a screech — it had Emily rethinking her decision.
Her smile, however, had begrudgingly weaseled its way into Emily’s head and made a poignant appearance during rather untimely moments (read: any moment).
“I’m only doing this because your poor, pathetic heart wouldn’t be able to handle the rejection.”
After a beat, she adds: “That, and the fact that you’re American, you’d probably get a heart attack. Knowing your kind, your heart is probably rather fragile." Emily then shoots Andrea a glance, before adding, “the Runway floorboards do not need a body desiccating them," under her breath.
Andrea chooses to ignore all of Emily’s snide remarks in favour of holding back a smile, afraid that the other woman would rescind her acceptance.
“But,” Emily starts as she packs up her things, shutting down her computer with one sharp click, stuffing her items into her purse.
She takes a second to glance back up, purse slung over her shoulder, to finish her sentence.
“This does not mean that we’re friends.”
Andrea chuckles despite herself.
“Oh no, I wouldn’t dare.” She replies, watching as Emily narrows her eyes, lips pursed as the duo reach an impasse.
Walking over to the door where Andrea was standing, Emily mumbled the word "good" before grabbing the handle, twisting it open, and using one leg to keep it from closing.
“Well, go on then. Do I have to instruct you to do everything like you’re some golden retriever in a doggy boot camp?”
With that, Andrea spurs herself into action, her stomach presenting her with all sorts of sensations as the picture of Emily Charlton holding the door open for her begins tattooing itself into the crevices of her brain.
—
Evidence #4
“—And then I tried to tell him that Runway was more than what we’d initially thought it was — what I thought it was. But he just…accused me of becoming “one of them” and stormed off!”
Emily chortled, hand swirling the Chardonnay she had gotten for herself — contrasted by the long island Andrea had gotten herself.
It was strange, Andrea thought, to see this side of Emily.
To see the woman beneath the blue eyeshadow and immaculate style. To see the smile lines that creased her forehead — even if it was just for a second before being smoothed out. To see the way her head tilted back, jaw working as she took sips (read: concerningly hearty swigs) of her drink.
“Thank god you broke up with him. God, he sounds like an absolute prick.” Emily brings her glass to her lips, taking another generous gulp. “No, really, he’s full of enough shit to clog a toilet — multiple, even.”
Andrea kind of gawks at her, lips curling into an amused smile. “My, my, Emily, are you maybe…taking my side for once?”
Emily sneers. “Please, I'm merely taking the side of Runway — if that happens to be where you’re standing, then whoopee! But no, Andy, not your side.”
It’s silent for a moment.
A beat.
Two beats.
A thir—
“Did you just call me Andy?”
Emily mirrors Andrea in her earlier silence, feeling her face warm from something other than the rather expensive alcohol in her glass.
“I think you might have to get your hearing checked — or your sanity. It’s either the hearing that’s going or you’re developing some form of schizophrenia.”
Andrea laughs, full and oh so sweet; Emily can’t help the upward curl of her lips as she hides behind her glass of wine.
“Sure, Em, whatever helps you sleep better at night.”
Emily chooses to ignore the nickname, despite the flush that dripped down her neck, pouring blood into places that lived in scarcity of it — the picture it painted was one that Andrea gawked at, staring and staring and staring; maybe she was going crazy, or maybe it was the long island, but god Emily looked divine like this.
“What helps me sleep at night are my red lights and the scent of lavender, do not shove yourself into my nightly routine.”
Emily says it deadpan, but there’s a small smile playing on her lips that betrays her faux irritation. Andrea rolls her eyes in mock annoyance, mirroring Emily in her smile as she chuckles under her breath.
“So…why did you stay with him for so long if he was such a dick?” Emily asks after a minute, watching as Andrea chokes a little on her drink at the sudden question, alcohol involuntarily sputtering from her mouth.
Andy clears her throat, remaining silent for a second as she gathers herself.
“Well, he wasn’t always like that, he was smart, kind, and funny. Not to mention, he made a damn good pancake — now that’s the way to my heart.”
Emily scoffs, face scrunching.
“God, of course the way to your heart is to clog it with carbs.”
Andrea shakes her head, laughing.
The sight of the woman’s smile stirs something within the confines of Emily’s chest, but stubborn as she were, the woman tamps that down, her heart too guarded to let anything other than blood in.
—
The night passes by in a blur of jabs and smiles behind glasses. The extent of Emily’s polished demeanour grew relatively non-existent as the night wore on and the alcohol had made its entrance into her system.
“You know, hic, I actually, hic, really like you, Andy.”
Andrea’s face contorts, siphoning through at least 50 different emotions at once — her chest constricts and something in her lungs gives.
“You’re really drunk, Em.”
Andy looks at the woman in front of her, taking in the redness of Emily’s cheeks, along with the flush that spreads down to her chest.
There’s a jittery feeling that floats about in her stomach, as if a cloud had formed from the ‘dewy feelings’— as Emily would call it — in the cavity of her chest, dripping droplets down to the pit of her abdomen, forming a puddle.
“Maybe, hic, and lord knows, hic, I'll hate myself, hic, in the morning,” Emily trails off, and Andrea genuinely thought the girl had somehow passed out with her eyes open — a true metaphor for how the woman never truly did rest. Alas, Emily continued, “but that doesn’t, hic, make it, hic, any less, hic, true.”
Emily then proceeded to promptly pass out — eyes closed this time.
—
Evidence #5
The first thing Emily registers when she opens her eyes is the pounding ache in her head. The second thing she registers is the warmth pressed against her back. The third thing she registers is the fact that the warmth pressed up against her back was moving, breathing — it was alive — and it was wrapped around her like some fucking koala.
“What the fuck!”
Emily jumps out of the bed she’s in — whoever’s bed this was because this isn’t her bed, she would never use a mixed-fabric bedsheet.
“God…Em, do you always wake up like this? Or is the banshee treatment just for me?”
Emily completely ignores the words Andrea had just said, choosing instead to contort her facial features into one that depicted the sole emotion of horror. No, scratch that, it was horror, disgust, and abhorrence mashed together.
“Why am I in your bed? Why were you spooning me, like we’re — oh my god…did we…?”
The more Emily talked, the more airy her voice became, with increasing distress permeating her tone.
“No, Emily, we did not sleep together, you passed out while we were drinking, and I brought you back to mine since I didn’t know where you lived.”
The breath of relief that left Emily’s lungs was enough to power a wind turbine, and it was enough to make Andrea’s heart sink, ever so slightly inching past its original spot.
Pursing her lips, Andy sits up, head motioning to the bottle of Advil and glass of water she has placed on her bedside table.
"There's some Advil there, you can take that and just…leave…whenever.”
She didn’t know what prompted her to do so, but Andrea merely turned around, back facing Emily, and fell back asleep, leaving a stunned Emily Charlton standing listlessly in the middle of her room.
—
When Andrea awakes for the second time, there is a chill in the air and an emptiness beside her that manifests in a void of absence in her chest.
Although, there is another thing that sifts about in the air — the smell of food, or more specifically, pancakes.
Andy perks up, body moving before her mind could catch up, drawn to the scent of the delicious-smelling food that had somehow sprouted in her kitchen.
The first thing her eyes land on is the sight of perfectly round, golden brown hues of fluffy pancakes plated with a drizzle of maple syrup and a dash of powdered sugar — exactly as she likes it.
Practically sprinting, Andrea pulls out a fork from one of her drawers, shoveling a forkful of pancake into her mouth. The taste itself is enough to make Andy’s knees weaken, a small moan spouting from her mouth as she took another bite.
As she was savouring the sweet, sweet treat, there was a second thing that made itself known: a yellow sticky note that was hidden beneath the Michelin star plate of pancakes.
The note read:
“I do believe these are damn good pancakes, or however your American self put it. Though, why is your kitchen so empty, Andy? I thought you were a carb monster — I saw none in sight. I had to trek all the way to a grocery store to pick all this up.
You owe me,
Em.”
The smile that formed on Andrea’s face could only be described as wide. It was wide, full and it kind of hurt Andy’s cheeks, but the girl paid it no mind, clutching the note like it was a lifeline and she was on life support.
Soon enough — soon meaning around, well, 10 minutes later or so — she snaps herself out of whatever daze those stupidly neat words had put her in.
Fishing her phone out of her pocket, Andrea quickly dials Emily’s contact. She doesn’t quite know what she was going to say, truly she was doing this out of…out of what? She didn’t know — or well, she dared not to say.
The ringing lasted for 1…2…3… oh god, what if Emily didn’t pick up? What if this was something of a misunderstanding and there was actually rat poison in the food, and oh my god, was Andrea going to die? Not only that, she was going to die in love with Emily—
Before Andrea could complete that…completely ludicrous thought, the line clicks, and there is a quipped “Hello?” that is somehow simultaneously earnest and exasperated.
Andrea freezes.
“Hello?” It’s said again, with increasing annoyance, punctuated by sharp impatience.
It makes Andrea want to shit her pants and swoon at the same time — which she does; the latter though! Not the former, yet.
“Hi! Emily, sorry, I know it’s like the weekend and you don’t really—”
“Get to the point, Andrea.”
Taking in a breath, Andy sighs softly, hoping to ease whatever was trilling beneath her skin — an amalgamation of this emotion that skipped the line of hope and rammed horrifically close to expectation, a scary, frightening little (big, actually, gigantic, if Andrea was being honest.) feeling.
“The pancakes were…amazing. They were so damn good, god Em, I didn’t know you could cook.”
There’s a soft chuckle that is barely audible from the other line, a glimpse of something soft — Andrea wished to catch it, light as it was, in the cusp of her palm, like dewdrops on leaves, held together by the gentleness of nature.
“Well, don’t be so surprised, I’m quite literally capable of anything.” Emily replies after a pause, and before Andrea could retort, she continues, "And, well, I did have to thank you for…caring for me.”
“Oh Em—”
“Ugh, is this how you feel with all of your gooey…feelings?"
Andy barks out a laugh. "Right, you and feelings.”
“What about me and feelings?”
“Well! Nothing, it’s just—”
“God, Andrea, must you be so elusive all the time — getting to the point will do you, and me, wonders.”
There’s a silence, not oppressive, but bordering on stifling.
“Okay fine! You’re never honest about them, like ever, you care but you never say it; and I get it, it’s scary. It’s just, you always say that you dislike me in that posh, british—”
“My accent is not posh—”
"Oh, will you just shut up and listen!”
Silence, once again, accompanied their tension-filled musings.
“You’ll say things that make it seem like your skin is on fire every time you step within a one-foot radius of me, but then you’ll…do this!”
Andrea is flailing her free arm in the air, though no one is there to witness it. Her body is all jittery from the culmination of emotions within her — a collection that threatens to, or well, is exploding.
“You’ll cook breakfast for me, hold the door open for me, say that you like me — but only when you’re drunk because, god, you could never do that sober.”
“And you know what, I honestly think that if you just—”
“I like you.”
“Let yourself—wait what?”
“There, I said it. Are you happy? I like you.”
The line goes still, and Andrea feels something expand and then, painfully, slowly, deflate within her.
“That’s not the point, Em,” She says — her voice is low, not as a show of tenderness but instead as a display of her exhaustion.
“Then what is, Andrea?"
It’s said through gritted teeth, and Andy knows this because she knows Emily — knows how the girl twitches her mouth in an attempt to tamp down a smile, knows how the girl crinkles her eyes for a fraction of a second before smoothing out the lines.
And most of all, she knows, now, that she is immutably, irremediably, irrevocably, in love with Emily Charlton; and she was stupid to think that the girl could feel the same for her — well, her first mistake was thinking the girl could feel, at all.
Every bit of gentleness, a momentary faux pas. Something inconsequential to Emily that Andrea had taken and misconstrued to fit her little (big, actually, gigantic, if Andrea were being honest) rose-tinted lens of a brooding crush.
“Nevermind, Emily.”
With that, she hangs up. She hangs up and wishes for Emily to at least be merciful and use one of the 20 Hermes scarves she had collected the other day to hang her from the ceiling — maybe she’d be of better use as an ornament, dangling from the office coat hanger.
Groaning, she plops down on her couch.
The stupid thing in her chest claws at her ribcage in protest, begging for an exit where she had just shut the door. A large part of the woman wants to grab her phone and ring Emily to apologise; to grovel and restore some semblance of normalcy between them.
But, well, confrontations were scary, and Andrea could not do that twice in a row — so, she’ll do it tomorrow.
Pathetic, she knows.
For now though, there was a stinging that she tried to ignore in her eyes and her remote control for the TV in her right hand — thus, of course, she pressed the little red button on the corner of her remote, watching as her TV came to life.
Andrea raised the volume till it drowned out the little voice in her head that had the thought of Emily Charlton embedded in it.
—
Evidence #6
It was 5:32pm when Andrea was given the pleasure of screaming for her life as loud thuds assaulted her ears — on top of the castigation, Andrea saw her door rattle.
Normally, Andrea would have been more cautious — but all caution of hers had been thrown to the wind, probably pummeling down the streets of New York.
With a twist of the handle, she flings it open, half hoping for her demise to be quick and painless.
Unfortunately, there was no gunshot — shocking news, considering the fact that they were in America — and instead, there was Emily Charlton, in the flesh, red hair and all.
Andrea felt faint.
“Emily. What…What are you doing here?”
Emily ignored the girl, sidestepping Andrea in order to enter (was this considered a break-in?) her home.
Andy, still reeling from the unexpected entrance, merely accepted the presence and closed her door, turning to face Emily.
“Listen, Andrea. And I mean it, I'm only going to admit this once.”
Emily waited — she waited for Andrea to acknowledge her with a shaky nod before continuing.
“So, I…am well aware of the fact that I don’t do feelings.” Crossing her arms, her eyes dart to the floor — the image of Emily Charlton like this sends a bolt through Andrea, like a chestnut tree splintered by a shaft of lightning.
“Feelings aren’t permissible in this business, Andrea, they’re a weakness to be exploited.”
With each word that Emily spoke, both Andrea’s heart and stomach aligned in the motion of sinking to the pit of the cavities in which they sat.
She couldn’t take it — being let down, heart shattering into splinters that cut the veins of her body, blood leeching, her mouth coated in a rim of it; she tasted it on her tongue.
“Emily, stop, if you’re here to just—tell me you hate me, I don’t, that’s…you can just leave.”
Emily stares at her, like, really stares at her — eyes boring into the rifts of her soul, and she proceeds to roll them.
“Do you ever let anyone finish speaking, manners are important Andy, don’t interrupt me, didn’t they teach you this in grade school?”
Emily crossed the distance between the two of them, eyes still tracking every minute change of Andrea’s expression.
“What I wanted to say, before you so rudely interrupted me, was that…well, god.”
Andrea sighed, “It’s okay, Emily; just say you want me to stop bothering you, or whatever request you have.”
“That’s not—fuck, Andrea that’s not it.”
Andy lifted her head, eyes searching — searching for something, reciprocated or expected, she didn’t know; she just wanted something, desperately, just some form of a clue as to what this all was.
“Then what is it, Emily? Please just—”
She’s cut off by the feeling of soft, malleable lips against her own. Her mind stops, everything pauses. She forgets to respond — she finds herself unable, a flurry of feelings knotting themselves in the back of her throat, rendering her incapable.
Emily takes the nonresponse as a sign to pull away.
“Oh god, I fucked up.”
It’s whispered, and the words have cracks along their edges, and it spurs Andrea into action, for she had never heard such humanity slip from Emily’s lips. Her paralysis receded as she surged forward, capturing sweetness between budding hope.
There was this inexplicable feeling of twine, somewhere under Andrea’s left rib, that had inextricably knotted itself to a similar, shared string in the corresponding quarter of Emily’s frame — something that kept her pulled to Emily.
Now, if this were a movie, there would be a soft backtrack — mellow, with strings; a quartet to accompany their sway. But, this wasn't; this was just them, their space, and soft sounds that were suppressed by the pressing of vivid sparks that leapt and crashed against each other.
Though she would like to continue drinking in the bliss of kissing Emily Charlton, Andrea desperately needed air and her lungs burned with the lack of it.
Pulling away, Andy was met with the sight of the ocean before her, windswept and, oh, so beautiful. If a tide were to wash her away, she’d hope for it to mimic the blue of Emily’s eyes — for she would want to drown in them.
“I like you, Andrea Sachs.”
She says it delicately, as if it might shatter upon impact with the air — gentle as she was, gentle as she has always been, Emily smiles. It’s small, tentative, and it makes Andrea’s heart swoop.
“I like you too, Emily Charlton.”
After a brief pause, she adds: “Just to be clear, you like me romantically, right?”
“No, I just go around making out with every stranger I see on the street.”
Andrea pouts, eyes staring up at Emily in her best attempt at “wounded puppy."
“Oh for Christ’s sake, do not look at me like that, Andrea, I will throw you out.”
“Of my own house?”
“Yes.”
—