Chapter Text
Saturday, 15th of July, 2006. 03.30 A.M
Ambitious.
Such a word is not unfamiliar to Andy Sachs, always complimented upon her since the gaining of her consciousness when she was three. Said trait has gotten her far in life—moving from Ohio to New York is not something you do for fun. Her parents find every opportunity to complain about the fact that she’s working at a small café instead of studying at law school; Andy is anything but deterred. Work your way up, they say.
This also applies to her other predicament, namely being a newly-moved vampire in a bustling city. Bless her small hometown—humans seem to live alongside vampires just fine, and Andy grew up being used to feeding from both animals and humans. Now, she’s starting from zero with no human connections to feed from. Thus are deers her latest weekly obsession.
Other than ambitious, disciplined is yet another word Andy has heard acquaintances use to describe herself. It shows in the way she regularly takes her amulet off at 11 P.M every Saturday without fail. Once a week, no more, no less, with her feet gracing the familiar cerulean carpet of her apartment and amulet gracing her neck again at exactly 4 A.M.
Admittedly, ambitious and disciplined do not equal to perfect. Such is the explanation for Andy’s current predicament. Its initiator was a particularly big and stealthy deer—nothing against Andy’s speed it was, but certainly helped her release some pent up energy. Nothing feels like drinking victory in when your trophy is especially bloody.
Unfortunately, victory does not always last long. Yet the concept of time seemed to have escaped Andy entirely as she giddily drank up the fruits of her labor. ‘Long’ is quite a subjective word, but Andy objectively realised that rays of light were starting to filtrate the air the moment she regained consciousness of her surroundings.
Therefore, she did the most logical thing most vampires would agree upon—turn into her bat form. What she didn’t account for, however, is how much more blinding the rays of light are to her tiny eyes. As she zooms through the air while skillfully dodging trees, she—
THWACK!
… as Andy unskillfully flies right onto a hanging branch, she barely has time to recover as she rolls in the air. It’s a fight between her speed and the speed of the rising sun. Its rays are shining her way, as if determined to fry her how she does the potatoes whenever she clocks in for her shift.
If she were in human form, she’d be cursing the life out of the sun. Perhaps she should’ve applied to be a sailor. She seems to have the skill set for it—except maybe for the fact that she’d have to endure hours under the sun in the open sea, so maybe not. But there are also many other jobs that can appreciate cursing as a skill set.
Even lost in her thought, she manages to skillfully dodge the many trees in her way. After all, Andy can do anything.
THUMP!
Except for dodging doors, perhaps.
Andy falls down to the cold, hard floor. Her head spins—both from the force of her whole-body slam and the ever sharpening sting of the sun’s rays. She isn’t actively dying at this point, but she does feel like shit. She closes her eyes to regain her fried senses.
The door opens. Two things happen at once:
One: a Miranda Priestly scowls at seemingly nothing, irked at the early-morning disturbance. After all, as much as society for some reason loathes to think so, she is in fact still human.
Two: a very bat-shaped Andy Sachs immediately flees towards the darkness that is Miranda’s townhouse before 5 A.M, and immediately tumbles onto the floor again.
“Hey! Oh, God!”
Miranda’s gasp wakes her beloved St. Bernard up. The not-so-little puppy’s nose twitches as she sniffs the air around her, eyes practically glinting in delight when she spots the black bundle of fur. Patricia—because of course Miranda Priestly would name her dog that—quickly makes a beeline towards Andy’s trembling form.
“Patricia, no! Down- no, off!” Said woman shoos her dog away frantically.
The bat’s whimpers and panicked chirps definitely do not play a role in feeding into that panic. Miranda certainly did not care for the desperate way the bat tried to flap away from Patricia, failing miserably. She gets closer only because she needs to play the role of a physical barrier for her St. Bernard who is still a puppy—in other words, a toddler who doesn’t listen. The shortened distance gives her a clear view of the bat’s face, eyes wide in fear like a puppy’s, and oh god.
Contrary to popular belief, Miranda Priestly does have a weakness—hence the accompanying St. Bernard puppy by her side. This bat, somehow, is the same thing packed in a smaller body with wings. Miranda couldn’t have possibly known, but the girl beneath the bat was looking at her with wide eyes and an open mouth—and perhaps some drool. What she sees, however, is just a set of puppy eyes looking up sadly at her.
“God, I can’t deal with this. I- do not look at me like that. You are not a puppy.” Miranda scolds the injured bat, as if such an act would do anything.
The bat whines back at her, and Miranda has to physically run her hands down her bare face. There is very much a difference between being stressed out by her employees at Runway and a whining puppy of the night.
Seeing Patricia round her standing form and aiming for the bat again, she makes the rash decision of snatching a magazine from the table and scooping the bat up with it. The bat makes a pathetic squeak and chitters weakly, but Miranda pays it no attention as she quickly moves towards the kitchen counter. She sets the bat-carrying magazine on top of it.
She turns the ventilator lights on, taking a closer look at the bat’s scratched wings—no wonder the poor thing couldn’t fly. She had half-expected that she could leave her window open and let it fly out on its own, but it seems rather impossible when taking the bat’s condition into account.
“How would I even take care of a bat?” She mutters irritatedly to herself, but makes no move to throw Andy out of her townhouse again.
Andy doesn’t have much of a choice at the time being, helpless thing she is with her hurt wings. She can only hope that Miranda won’t change her mind and fling the currently bat-shaped Andy out of her many windows.
Miranda’s tsk fills the room when she sees the bat shiver, only hesitating for a brief second before scooping the bat into her arms with an annoyed mumble. The bat hasn’t shown any signs of ferality and seems too tired to even move.
Andy immediately curls up when she feels the warmth and softness of the woman’s hands. She finds herself in relief when the silver-haired woman lays Andy on her lap as she seats herself on the dining table, laptop open and search bar frantically being filled.
What do bats eat?
Do bats drink water?
How to take care of a bat
When do bats bite
Am I safe from rabies if I got my shot two years ago?
The last one would earn a scoff from Andy, if only she were physically able to emit such a sound. Instead, what emits from her frail body is but an embarrassing squeak. Miranda pauses in her typing.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would think that you are offended,” she murmurs.
The searching continues, this time less frantically.
Can bat wings heal on their own?
Miranda sighs in relief when she reads the given answer: yes, they absolutely can. That’s one less thing to worry about.
“You’ll be … fine, I suppose. Perhaps I could feed you for now. Mangoes. I have mangoes.” Miranda mutters to herself, scooping Andy in her palms again as she stands up and heads for the kitchen. The thought of the aforementioned fruit combined with the warm softness of Miranda’s palms certainly help in bringing Andy’s spirits up.
Andy chatters in complaint when Miranda lays her down on the cold counter. The woman scoffs as she takes a mango from the fruit basket beside Andy and a knife from the drawer below.
“I am trying to feed you. You ought to be more grateful,” she says in the way one were to scold a child. Andy would chitter back in defiance if it weren’t for the distractingly, deliciously sweet aroma of nectar.
Mango. Mango. Mango. Mango. Ma—
“Was that thing wrong again? How wasteful, perhaps I’ll eat this for breakfast.”
Andy doesn’t think she’s ever moved faster, even with perfectly healthy wings. She quickly sinks her fangs onto yellow flesh, chittering happily.
“Oh. Just slow, then.” Miranda somehow concludes.
Andy lifts her head to look at her incredulously. Miranda blinks back at her with equal incredulity, before massaging her temples.
“I do not find joy in proving Nigel right, but perhaps I truly am tremendously sleep deprived.”
The room falls into silence. Andy doesn’t know if it’s comfortable or awkward, too busy getting drunk on sweet nectar. She can feel Miranda’s stare burning across her small form. It’s another five minutes before Andy finally pulls away from the mango, now wrinkled and dry. She stares at Miranda, who stares right back at her—a game of whoever breaks first.
Call Page Six this morning, because a miracle has just happened. Miranda breaks their connection first, sighing as she goes to make herself a cup of coffee.
“A bat,” she murmurs to herself, “what am I supposed to do with a bat of all things?”
Andy chitters in offense—quite the outspoken one, she is. Miranda turns back in time to see the bat flap its wings—seemingly trying to fly in her direction—successfully lifting itself up a pathetic five centimetres before it lands face first on the counter, squeaking.
“Dear God,” Miranda mutters. She decides that it’ll be in her best favor to scoop Andy up instead of having the bat give itself a concussion and make a mess of her counter. She sets the chiroptera next to the whirring coffee machine, rolling her eyes when the bat finally calms down.
The bat keeps looking at her with its wide, puppy eyes. Miranda makes it a point to not reciprocate eye contact, instead letting it practically stare holes into her face.
Miranda takes a sip of her freshly made, center-of-the-sun-hot coffee, before muttering under her breath.
“Let’s hope that between the time I take you in and let you go, you don’t give me rabies.”
Sunday, 16th of July, 2006. 08.20 A.M
Ever since moving to New York City, Andy has never woken up past 7 A.M. At 8 A.M on Sundays, she walks the neighboring apartment room’s golden retriever, finding that the existence of the fur baby does wonders for her sanity.
Alas, once again, disciplined does not mean perfect. Andy wakes up—unfortunately still the Chiroptera that is a bat—to see 08:23 displayed in big, red numbers on the bedside table. She jolts with a squeak, before remembering that waking up at seven in this specific morning would’ve been futile anyways. As capable as she is in both forms, she’s not sure her neighbor could possibly stomach the reality of a bat casually walking their dog.
She looks around, finally remembering the previous day’s occurrence. Miranda had so kindly taken care of her, being very careful with her injured wings. And despite Miranda’s reluctance in bringing Andy into her bedroom, the girl—well, bat to her—had chirped and whined unfairly so that Miranda had no other choice other than to keep it close. She had settled for bringing out a smaller blanket, folding it into a smaller square, and setting it on top of the nightstand. That was how Andy spent the night.
What she hadn’t noticed the previous night, however, are the framed pictures sharing a space with her. Three pictures sit beautifully framed on top of the nightstand. One is of the woman herself, no less radiant than the woman herself even on paper. Andy feels recognition bubble up to the surface when she reads the woman’s full name on the bottom right corner: Miranda Priestly. She had heard of the woman during her time in Auto Universe—people talked about her like she was both life and death. Now, she finally gets to put a face to the name.
In the middle is a framed picture of the aforementioned woman with two redheads, all three smiling brightly like they’re in an ad for toothpaste. Andy ignores how the woman’s bright smile makes her want to break out in one herself. In the last one, Miranda is pictured with a bald man—Nigel Kipling, the creative director of Runway—during a charity gala back in 2004.
Andy noticed one important similarity between the three pictures: Miranda is absolutely radiant and unbelievably, unfairly attractive. So gorgeous. Oh my god.
The smell of blood—albeit less sweet and mixed with something saltier—renders her stomach gurgling embarrassingly, cutting off her train of thoughts. Her captor was considerate enough to leave her bedroom door open, giving Andy means to travel once she regains consciousness. Would captor even be the correct word to describe her in Andy’s situation? She was, after all, the one that crash-landed straight into the woman’s home.
Andy realizes with a giddy jolt of her pulse that she’s once again able to fly, her small body subconsciously begging to follow the trail of delicious aroma. Another thing that makes Andy very capable indeed—her ability as a vampire to heal quickly, which also means more effective working days. Employers seem to love her dearly; she has no idea how to feel about that.
Either way, she quickly lifts herself up into the warm air and zooms outside, passing the many rooms of the big townhouse as she follows the subtle scent of blood and perfume.
Sweet.
She meant the blood, of course.
“Oh!” Miranda flinches in surprise as she sees Andy zooming around above her kitchen grounds.
“Well, you seem to have healed just fine. Perhaps I’ll feed you once more this morning and set you free.”
Andy chirps in protest. She’s not sure why, but she did. In her defense, who throws their guests out after breakfast? Miranda—once again busy with her cooking—does not cast another glance at Andy and mistakens her chirps of protest for ones of excitement. Andy lands on the cold counter, right next to the ingredients of Miranda’s breakfast. The silver-haired woman side eyes the tiny bundle of fur.
“I will cut more mangoes for you. Be patient.”
Andy could be described with many, many words. Patient is not one of them. She takes a bite of the small cubed red flesh sitting on the cutting board. If Miranda is going to make a plate of steak bites, she could share one little cube with Andy. The aforementioned woman nearly splutters.
“I- what?” She asks, looking at Andy with furrowed brows. Andy doesn’t know if it’s in shock of her change of diet or at her audacity.
“You- oh, god. Of course you eat meat, too. Go on, then. Eat my wagyu,” she mutters.
Andy indeed eats the piece of beef rather happily, quickly swallowing it down as she ignores the woman’s comment. As much as she loves fruit nectar, red meat is a much more satisfying alternative for blood. Think of it as a double shot of caffeine.
That aspect, Andy definitely forgot to account for. Alas, such a small body could only handle so much pent-up energy. That is very much obvious in the way Miranda chokes on her breath and stumbles backwards as a gust of smoke explodes from where Andy sat beforehand.
POOF!
When Miranda recovers from her coughing fit, it is only to find a wide-eyed brunette staring back at her own wide eyes.
“Uh, I- fuck. Hi, Miranda?” Andy splutters.
If it weren’t for the absolute shock and dread that immediately filled Miranda’s entire system, she would’ve found herself absolutely appalled by the girl’s clothing choices—a worn-down, clearly not-official Knicks sweater paired with wrinkled elephant pants.
Miranda immediately stumbles—actually stumbles—backwards in fear, putting just enough distance between them. The woman only stares with wide eyes for a good few seconds, as if trying to accumulate enough of the proper words to form a question.
“Who are you?!” The woman asks frantically, voice taking on a rasp of panic and fear. Andy knew it all too well.
Andy quickly stumbles closer, needing to explain herself. “Wait, I’m not gonna- “
“What- oh my god! Stay away! No- tell me right now, who are you?!” The woman snaps so viciously, Andy is surprised the woman hasn’t started shrieking. But shrieking seemed too improper for the regal woman in front of her. Not that there’s anything wrong with shrieking, she can shriek all she wants! But Andy isn’t sure that most important figures would shriek in fear if they could still fight it.
“Okay, okay! I'm- I'm Andy. Andy Sachs! Um, what do I say- uhh I'm a vampire. I'm a vampire ... and—what else?! Uh- I got laid off Auto Universe because they apparently didn't need junior writers anymore even though I was in Northwestern Uni's journalism team- “
Out of all things to say in the midst of a tsunami of new information, the only possible thing Miranda could say is, “Your name could not possibly be Andy.” There are no other options whatsoever. Perhaps it’s the fact that the girl’s rambling made her a thousand times less intimidating.
As if she ever was in the first place.
Andy pauses, hands freezing from their frantic waving. For someone with a higher possibility of dying than the average person at the moment, Miranda seems to have no qualms in voicing her critiques whatsoever. Andy blinks slowly—once, twice, then shakes her head. Very puppy-like indeed, Miranda notes.
“Um. Well, my name is Andrea, but most people call me Andy.”
“Andrea,” the woman repeats. The accented version that comes with her smooth voice sends a shiver down Andy’s spine. “And what exactly- what was … ?” The woman trails off rather atypically, still consumed by shock. “No, forget that. I’m calling the police.”
“NO! I mean- please don’t! No, please, let me explain, I swear! Um, uh- so, well … I think you’ve guessed it, judging by your expression. I’m a vampire. But you can’t tell anyone! Please- please promise me you won’t tell anyone, or I’ll have to kill you. And I don’t want to do that because you were so nice to me!” Andy rambles, lips curling downwards at the thought.
Miranda looks at the girl in horror—the one talking about being graciously averse to possibly murdering her the same way one would beg for a classmate to not tattle to their teacher for the possibility of a gold star at the end of the day. ‘Andy’ truly looks like a kicked puppy more than a predator of the night—another wave of horror dawns on Miranda at having such a thought amidst the possibility of a severed lifeline.
“You are to … kill me if your identity ever gets revealed?" Miranda asks with wide eyes and a hardened voice.
Andy frowns again. “Well, I don’t want that. But if you tell other people, I’ll have no choice. Unless it’s an accident, then … I think- I think that’s okay. I’ll kill the other person or something,” she rambles.
Miranda takes a step back. “That does not make things better. You’re threatening to murder me.”
Andy frowns. Admittedly, it does not feel nice when an unfairly attractive woman steps away from you.
“Well- okay, fair. But I won’t kill you for no reason, Miranda. I know we’re depicted as blood-thirsty monsters in folklore, and I won’t say there aren’t any of those vampires at all, but I’m not one of them. I’m standing almost two meters away from you right now.”
Miranda relents with a sigh, cocking her head. She does so with extreme hesitance, as if logic and fear are actively wrestling each other in the arena that is her head. “I … suppose you are right.”
“Would it make you feel any better if you asked me questions?”
“ … I suppose.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Perhaps we should take a seat,” Miranda finally says. She doesn’t wait for Andy’s response, paled figure already heading towards the den. Andy trails behind her without a word, letting the woman process this newfound knowledge. Folklore coming to life doesn’t exactly sound like the more desired situation in most cases.
The two women sit in silence for a while. Andy, sat opposite Miranda, fidgets with her hands as she watches Miranda massage her temples.
“You’re a real vampire.” The woman finally says.
“ … yes.”
“And your diet consists of blood.”
“And fruit nectar, personally.”
“And you’re allergic to sunlight? Is that why you flew inside my townhouse yesterday?”
“Yes, and yes. If you’re wondering, it works the same, but I get burnt way more easily. Think of second or third degree burns as opposed to simply reddened skin. And your townhouse was still dark … it looked comfortable,” she admits sheepishly. “Oh, but we have amulets we wear! When that happens, we’re just like normal humans with an especially big appetite for red meat. No powers or weaknesses or anything.”
Miranda hums in answer. “Are you also allergic to garlic, then?”
Andy scoffs. “No, that one’s just a stupid myth. Especially the ones about how we disappear into smoke if someone throws an entire head of garlic at us. The whole thing just feels like people who have the coriander soap gene, but two times worse, and with garlic.”
“I see.” Miranda seems to pause and ponder. “How often do you feed, Andrea?”
“Once a week on animals. Minimum of once a month on humans because it has different properties and effects. Before you freak out, if a vampire goes for too long without human blood, they lose control. So really, it’s better to feed constantly in controlled portions.”
“You say that as if it’s supposed to quell my worries.”
“Does it not?” Andy cringes.
“Seeing that it’s under rather … bizarre circumstances, I suppose I'll take it.”
Andy sighs in relief. “Okay, great! I think. Any other questions?”
“Earlier, were you implying that nobody here knows you’re a vampire?”
“ … yes. Back in my hometown in Ohio, a lot of humans did. Here, I’m not sure most people could accept that we’re real, so I’ve not had any connections, humans and vampires alike. You’re the first to know.” And Andy being Andy, she just has to add, “congratulations?”
Miranda gives her a look of zero amusement. Zero, zilch, nada. Andy has to make a conscious effort not to shiver. Her body is always cold, but it doesn’t compare to the icy gaze radiating her way.
“Just joking … “ She mutters, looking anywhere but Miranda. The aforementioned woman sighs.
“I will be straightforward with you, Andrea,” she pauses, “I’m not sure which direction I’m supposed to be heading with this abundance of information.”
“You don’t … have to do anything, I guess. So long as you don’t tell other people about my identity. You can pretend this didn’t happen, if that’s what you’d like!” Andy offers.
“I don’t think that’s quite possible.”
“Okay, true. Right. Sorry,” Andy answers. The two fall into awkward silence.
Miranda is the one to break the silence. “I suppose you’d like to leave now that you’re back in health, then?”
Andy freezes. “Uh, about that … “ She sighs when she sees Miranda raise a brow in expectation of an explanation. “I can’t. I left my amulet in my apartment before going on a hunt in case I wanted to turn into my bat form. I mean, I did … eventually.”
Of course she did, Miranda thinks. She’s not sure why, but the thought occurs to her with confidence.
“I would offer you shelter until nightfall, but I do very much appreciate having my blood circulation unintercepted. That being said, why exactly should I let you stay here knowing that it puts me in the line of possible danger?”
“I don’t drink from unwilling humans, Miranda. Well, thankfully I’ve had the privilege of being around humans who were willing to make a pact with me. Even if it comes to the one-month mark since I last fed, it can be solved by drinking twice the amount of deer blood I would for my weekly feeding, but it’s not as effective. Plus, it’s only been three weeks. I can’t force you to take my word for it, but I’m assuring you either way that I won’t hurt you.”
Miranda only hums in acknowledgement, looking away in thought. Andy can’t have Attractive WomanTM be scared of her, so she leans onto an old friend for help: infodumping.
“The feeding isn’t like … violent or anything. Those vampire movies are sooo exaggerated. If anything, the person being fed on will feel relaxed because of the oxytocin in our saliva. It’s a win-win thing, you know.”
“I fear imagining vampires draining humans as they do in movies is much more believable than vampires having oxytocin in their saliva. But the existence of vampires itself is barely believable, and yet here you are. So, I must say for once that I am quite at a loss for what to believe.”
Oh, absolutely not. Andy cannot possibly carry on with her life knowing Miranda does not trust vampires. She knows not why, but that simply will not do. It doesn’t matter if not all humans trust vampires—not every city possesses the absolute uniqueness that Ohio does (interpret that how you will). However, if Miranda doesn’t trust Andy, that will very much be a problem that will haunt Andy to the grave—and she’s already dead, at least by human terms.
“It’s true! I’m not lying, I swear. I can show you,” Andy says without any further thought.
Miranda looks at her incredulously. “Are you implying something, Andrea?”
Andy freezes, gaping like a fish out of water. Miranda gives no indication of letting Andy breathe any time soon. Perhaps she ought to turn into a bat and just fly out onto the morning sky. Maybe it’s written in the stars for her to be fried. If only she’d be as delicious as a fish, but she really only gets the embarrassing-mouth-gaping qualities from them.
“What- no! Well, I mean, do you? Uh, want to- I mean, I’m not. But, if you’re into it? The idea, I mean! ‘Cause, y’know, it makes you relax and I get to feed and if we’re in a pact you kind of have control over me to say it easily so woohoo … ? And it’s- “
Miranda puts a hand up, face entirely consumed by stress. Andy immediately shuts her mouth, sitting straight with her hands on her lap. The silver-haired woman feels as if a nuclear explosion has just gone off inside of her head. Call her a minefield, the way she’s sure she’ll explode if Andy presses her buttons even once more. She sighs.
“Before I agree to anything or you continue to … throw up another abundance of information, I must insist you tell me about your background first, one that’s not about getting laid off from Auto Universe out of all places. Even if not for the pact, I am housing a stranger in my home.”
Andy splutters. “Throw up- are you saying I ramble?”
But at the possibility of Miranda agreeing to making a pact with Andy, the girl can’t find it in herself to be offended with the silver-haired woman’s small jabs. It seems to be ingrained in her speech anyways, and it’s somewhat a charming trait when it’s Miranda saying them.
“Do you not? And that is besides the point. Tell me, you got laid out of your job at Auto Universe … do you have a degree in journalism or other majors of sorts?”
“Oh, yeah. I graduated from Northwestern University with a degree in—yes, exactly what you said—journalism. That’s why I was in our journalism team. I moved here like two months after my now ex and I graduated.”
Miranda takes her time in processing the information. “And this ex … was he the other half of the so-called pact you mentioned earlier?”
“ … yup. Um, yeah. We were in a pact- until we broke up, obviously. That was nearly three weeks ago.”
“Is it truly that easy to break a pact? I reckon there would be consequences or side-effects.”
“If the human loses trust in the vampire, yeah. You just sever the connection and the pact. Technically I could feed from random people, but it’ll hurt less for the human when they’re in a pact with the vampire. ‘Cause, you know … that technically means there’s more trust between them, so they’re more relaxed … I think. I don’t know the details, maybe the oxytocin works faster and better. There’s no dramatic side-effects or consequences. I mean, pacts do sound like a heavy responsibility that you’re tied to, but truth to be told, it barely has any difference other than the fact that it doesn’t hurt for the human. I mean, nothing happened to Nate nor me when we broke our pact.”
Miranda doesn’t speak, but holds eye contact. The icy, blue gaze demands answers without words. Andy bites her lip in hesitance. Miranda’s gaze truly was hypnotizing, as if demanding Andy to spend the rest of her life in devotion to the woman. But alas, she is still a stranger whom Andy’s only known for less than two days, and she doesn’t want to talk about Nate either way.
“It’s … complicated,” she offers.
Miranda raises an eyebrow. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to excel in journalism.”
Damn it. Andy isn’t exactly in a place to make demands, and Miranda still doesn’t trust her—that is clear as day. She normally doesn’t enjoy talking about Nate and what they had, but perhaps negotiations are in order. A little information won’t hurt; might be useful.
“I moved here together with Nate a few months ago from Ohio. He worked as a chef and I as a barista. And then I took the leap to work at Auto Universe, which he opposed but I ignored. We weren’t really in a good place after that, and me getting laid off was the tip of the iceberg. He said, ‘told you so’, and I broke up with him right then. So … yeah.”
Miranda hums in acknowledgement. Smart girl.
“And that was nearly three weeks ago, you said,” Miranda says. Andy nods in confirmation. “So you have less than two weeks to make another pact.” Miranda concludes.
“Yep. That, or I develop an obsession towards deers by sheer will.”
Perhaps it’s Andy’s imagination, but Miranda’s eyes seem to crinkle in amusement. She chalks it up to the side effects of the sunrays of pain and agony.
“And how exactly do you get involved in a pact?”
Andy tries not to get distracted by the fact that Miranda is starting to sound interested. Andy does not know what in this world she’s done to possibly receive such good karma, but if Attractive WomanTM really does end up willing to make a pact with her, who is she to complain?
“Blood exchange, to explain it simply. You drink a little bit of my blood and I’ll feed from you after. Like I said earlier, you won’t feel pain other than a little bit of pricking in the beginning once we’re in a pact.”
“So to speak, I will only feel the moment you sink your fangs into my neck, but the feeling will immediately go away as a result of the oxytocin in your saliva?”
“Yeah, exactly!” Andy says enthusiastically, as if it’ll convince Miranda further.
The woman doesn’t give another response other than a curt hum of acknowledgement. She does, however, stare at Andy’s mouth—as if willing her fangs to make themselves known behind her lips.
“Do your fangs retract?”
“Only when I wear the amulet. I can’t retract them by will.”
“Show me your fangs.” Miranda demands.
Andy freezes, eyes wide. Unfortunately and contrary to popular belief, still has a beating heart, which is not at all helpful in this situation. A sea of pink flushes over her skin, starting from her chest and rising up to her face. Most people would say that she is the personification of a bat, to state the obvious. Miranda would say that she is the personification of a puppy—this fact will come to light for Andy soon enough. As of now, she herself feels like the personification of an overboiling kettle. If she taps into the headspace hard enough, perhaps steam would start blowing out of her ears.
The brunette squeaks when she sees Miranda get up and make a beeline for her sitting form. “Wait! I might accidentally graze your hands- “
“Show me.” Miranda once again demands.
If it were anybody else, Andy’s jaw would unhinge in consternation at their audacity. Or better yet, she would’ve left them standing alone to wonder if they’ve been hallucinating—a one way ticket to therapy, indeed. However, she does not move a single muscle as the woman enters her personal space like a moth to a flame.
Andy is a very kind person—she does not want to startle Miranda with any sudden movements. That’s all.
Miranda pushes her thumbs against the edges of Andy’s upper lips. Somehow, her lower jaw also unhinges—not in consternation, but in compliance, she realizes with horror.
“Noooooo.........oooargwgfh … “ Andy trails off into a mumbled whine—as if she didn’t willingly open her mouth for the attractive woman in front of her.
Cupping Andy’s jaw with the rest of her fingers, Miranda maneuvers Andy’s head into different angles. Apparently, something about her fangs is worth the same stare a particularly satisfying collection preview would receive.
“Hmm. They are a complimenting feature,” Miranda murmurs.
Andy might just die. If anyone could kill the unliving, it would be Miranda Priestly.
“Oh, thank … you … ” Andy says awkwardly, willing herself not to quiver under the woman’s attention.
Miranda doesn’t give a reply, instead taking her time to maneuver Andy’s head into several more different positions, eyes zoned in on her fangs. Once satisfied, Miranda lets her hold on Andy go and returns to where she was previously seated. The loss of Miranda’s warmth makes Andy deflate like a balloon. Once comfortable, Miranda sighs heavily.
“Truth to be told, Andrea … the existence of vampires being anything but a myth is already hardly believable in itself. And coming from someone whom I’ve just met, this request of a … pact is not quite an easy thing to take in, let alone accept.”
In the beginning, Andy would not dare even think of asking Miranda to make a pact with her. But the fact that Miranda was at some point interested—or at least, she seemed like she was—is making the half-rejection drive Andy crazy. The fact that there was a possibility and not just a straight ‘no’ is driving Andy into a state of extreme desperation—which, truly, is unreasonable given that the two women barely know each other.
“I’m not trying to force you into it or anything, but … you know, it’s- you kind of get autonomy over me. And I’m a really smart, ambitious, and effective person. You get to relax and ask me for help and stuff, and I get to feed, and it doesn’t hurt for you! I mean, that’s nice … um, right?”
Miranda raises an eyebrow. “Are you implying that I look stressed, Andrea?”
Andy freezes, spluttering once again. “NO! No, I mean- ugh, you know what I mean …”
“No, I do not.”
Andy sighs. “I’m just saying, I can help you. I promise! I can do anything you want.”
Miranda’s gaze immediately sharpens into one of interest and something else entirely. Andy immediately regrets the words that spilled out of her mouth. To Andy’s excitement and absolute fear, Miranda seems to be taking Andy’s words into account and mulling the offer over. Andy almost misses Miranda’s next words as a result of the incessant beating of her heart. She ought to enroll herself in a masterclass of getting oneself together.
“If you’re very confident with your offer, perhaps I could have some use for you. You see, my twins have been begging for the new Harry Potter book …” Miranda trails off.
Andy immediately nods. “Oh, okay. Yeah, I can do that. Once I get my amulet back, I’ll visit the nearest Barnes and Nobles—”
Miranda rolls her eyes, quickly cutting Andy’s rambling off.
“Did you fall down and smack your little head on the pavement?”
Andy hesitates, feeling as if her heart has just dropped all the way down to her asshole. “Not that I can recall today. But I kind of did yesterday … ?”
Miranda sighs in exasperation. “We have all the published Harry Potter books. My twins want to know what happens next.”
It takes a few moments before the implication in Miranda’s words dawn on her. “You … you want the unpublished manuscript … ?”
“I have … connections. You’ll be allowed to mention my name, and any verification sent my way will be approved. How you use them to get this manuscript, however, is for you to figure out. I am a very busy woman, Andrea, but I always try my best to give my daughters things that make them happy, so long as it is useful to them. Hence, my request, which should be fulfilled by tomorrow.”
Andy nods again, this time less frantically and way more hesitantly. Miranda leans forward as she continues speaking to the girl.
“With your … efficiency,” she says, as if the concept of it could be an award-winning joke, “and the connections made available to you, you shouldn’t have any problems. And you can do anything, right?”
Miranda ends the question with a tilt of her head and eyes that gleam with challenge. To Andy’s horror, she feels heat rise up her face at the sight and the fact that Miranda is using Andy’s own words against her. The woman is purposely giving her an actual challenge—one that seems nearly impossible. If she were to accept and create a pact, she knows she’d have to go through with the request.
At least I’ll have the rest of today to think about what I’ll do and get a headstart on contacting Miranda’s connections, Andy thinks. It’s like her own brain is doing anything to justify making a pact with Miranda Priestly.
“ … okay. Yup, yeah. I can … do that,” Andy says with a wobbly smile.
“Well, then,” Miranda practically purrs out.
Andy sits up straight, eyes practically twinkling with hope. “Does that mean you agree to the pact?”
“Well, if you’re sure you’ll be able to get that manuscript and agree to future requests of a similar level, perhaps you could be useful to me.”
Andy is stuck occasionally nodding, limbs reaching out and immediately freezing in different directions as if lost on what to do first. Her brain seems to be overheating, which is weird given that she’s inside of Miranda’s townhouse and not outside being fried by the glaring sun.
Miranda’s eyes narrow. “Do not tell me you are about to give out on me after I’ve finally accepted your offer.”
“NO! No, sorry. I’m- okay, so. I … okay. We need a needle or anything sharp so you can drink my blood—just a tiny bit is enough on my part. And then I feed on you.”
“You saw where the utensils are yesterday, did you not?”
“Oh, I … ? Right, be right back!” Andy says as she quickly gets up and heads for the kitchen counter again.
Miranda rolls her eyes—what a strange girl, flung out of thin air. Andy comes back with a small sewing kit which she took from the second drawer, lingering a good distance away from Miranda and standing still like her joints have magically disappeared.
“By all means move at a glacial pace. How that thrills me,” Miranda says, annoyance and sarcasm starting to seep into her voice. Most people in Runway’s circle would know not to hesitate after she’s agreed to something, while this girl is the complete opposite.
Andy cringes, quickly shuffling towards Miranda. “Right, sorry. Are you ready?”
Miranda stares at her, unblinking. Andy could practically shower in her own sweat. She distracts herself by opening the sewing kit and taking a needle out, casting the small box aside on the table.
“Right, okay. I’ll prick my hand, and you just kind of drink my blood.”
The brunette doesn’t wait another moment before pricking her thumb, making sure blood actually flows out. It’s always a little ineffective with needles, but she doesn’t find joy in slicing her thumb like she does her sausages either, so that should work for now. Andy offers her thumb awkwardly towards Miranda, before realizing just how awkward their positions seem.
“ ... can I sit beside you-” “Go on.”
Andy quickly takes a seat beside Miranda, angling her body towards the woman and offering her thumb. It really didn’t cross Andy’s already short-circuiting brain just how badly she set herself up until Miranda takes Andy’s thumb in her mouth. Under different circumstances, this action would lead up to the start of an entirely different saga.
If she thought her brain had short-circuited, she’s sure it’s completely broken down now as she feels Miranda’s lips wrap around her thumb.
Oh my god. OH MY GOD. Calm down, Andy! I should’ve given Miranda my middle finger instead. Fuck, that’s not any better. Oh my god, does she have to do it like that? Okay, that was my fault. Should I jump out of the window and fly away? Oh god. Oh my-
“And how much more blood do I need to consume, exactly?” Miranda asks her in annoyance, but her cheeks are slightly tinted pink.
Andy hadn’t even realized Miranda had let go of her finger.
Albeit not trapped in her bat form anymore, to her horror, Andy squeaks, “Uh- right. That’s enough!”
She clears her throat, hands moving frantically as if begging Miranda to change her position. “Okay, I’m- now I’m gonna feed from you. It’s not gonna be messy, I promise! Um- can you turn the other way- okay, yeah.”
Andy slides over, closing the small distance between them. She apologizes awkwardly as she pulls one side of Miranda’s blazer away. The smell of Miranda’s perfume and her blood from such a close distance makes Andy’s head spin.
“Okay, I’m gonna bite now. Just relax, alright?” Andy says in a hushed voice.
“Quite easy for you to say, I- oh!”
Miranda is cut off by the sharp feeling of Andy’s fangs breaking skin. She nearly scolds the girl in irritation, but true to Andy’s word, the pain barely lasted. Miranda slowly feels her anger dissipate—and her stress too. She can visualize it—little persons of stress banging on her head and throwing around to-dos finally falling asleep.
Miranda can feel her blood rushing how it normally would be associated with adrenaline, but she feels nothing of the sorts. She feels relaxed, and worst of all, she can’t bring herself to not admit it, even if only in her head. Another problem is the incessant heat she feels radiating off her face at the feeling of Andy sucking on her neck.
The feeding goes on in silence, and before Miranda realizes it, Andy has already pulled away. Miranda can’t find it in herself to move away from the embrace of the girl’s warm body behind her. The only irritation left in her bones now is at the obvious gulps of nervous breaths Andy is taking behind her, threatening to give Miranda another headache. She can feel the girl overthinking.
“So … ? Relaxed?” Andy says hopefully, as if she were a contestant waiting for a judge’s scathing review.
Miranda, for the first time in many years, finds no vocabulary of sarcasm that could be of use. So instead, she answers with the truth.
“Hm … perhaps I could get used to this.”
Andy only answers with a bloodily radiant, wide smile behind her—unseen by Miranda’s eyes, but so bright that she could feel it.
Her own lips twitch upwards.
Monday, 17th of July, 2006. 01.34 P.M
“Hm, acceptable. Send it to my email.”
“Alright. I do need to ask beforehand … have you been abducted and replaced?”
Miranda looks up at the person in front of her incredulously. The one and only person who would dare talk to her that way.
“Excuse me?”
“A minimum revision count of two. The last time this happened was a good few years ago when Irv tripped on his way out of the building. I must ask which masseuse you visited because you look like you’ve just been rebirthed.” Nigel remarks.
Miranda sends a tight smile his way. “Nigel,” she says with faux patience, “if you weren’t such a reliable creative director, I’d have personally dealt with you a long time ago.”
Unaffected, because he is in fact Nigel Kipling of all people, he points at her. “Exactly why I say those things.”
Before Miranda can retort, Emily knocks on her door. She looks at her first assistant irritatedly, having expected no interruptions in the following half hour. Emily looks at her apologetically.
“So sorry, Miranda. Reception called, they have an Andy Sachs for you, apparently. But she doesn’t have any appointments, so I just- “
Miranda quickly cuts her off. “Let her up. That’s all.”
Emily barely hides her shock in the easy way that Miranda accepted the no-appointment meeting of an unknown name. Though, she recovers quickly and heads back towards her desk to call reception back, always eager to give nothing but her best for Miranda. The aforementioned woman goes back to reviewing the spread in front of her, ignoring Nigel’s questioning gaze. She can imagine his face—an eyebrow raise accompanied by the quirk of the right corner of his lip.
It’s not long before a familiar voice floats in from just outside of the open glass door.
“Miranda … ?”
The owner of said name looks up, turning her head towards the source of sound.
“Well, are you going to hover behind that door all day long like shrimp behind a stone?” The woman asks, boredom injected in every passing word as she looks at Andy above the rim of her glasses.
Andy finally steps inside carrying a stack of binded papers. The girl definitely looks a little out of place in this part of the building, floating amidst a sea of designer pieces. And yet, much to her absolute horror, Miranda finds herself appreciating the sight of Andy in a pinstriped set as she analyzes the brunette from head to toe. Miranda definitely hadn’t expected the sharp, pointed black heel that presented itself before her eyes.
It’s understandable, she reasons. A much more composed look than yesterday.
Amidst Miranda’s running thoughts, whose speed could win her an F1 race, Andy had taken the initiative to step further inside until the editor-in-chief’s desk was the only thing left separating them.
“The manuscripts.” She declares as she puts them down on the unoccupied surface of Miranda’s table and spreads the three copies horizontally. “Well, I had them covered, reset and bound so that they wouldn't look like manuscripts. This is an extra copy to have on file. You know, just in case.” She continues as she points at the third copy.
Miranda seems to pause for a moment, taking her glasses off as she analyzes the copies in front of her. When she looks back up at Andy, the brunette is already smiling at her, eyes gleaming with satisfaction and a hint of daring smugness—as if waiting for Miranda’s inevitable approval.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Andy asks with a tilt of her head.
“That’s all.” Miranda says, wonder-filled blue eyes looking at satisfied brown ones as she holds the tip of her glasses against her lips. As editor-in-chief of Runway, competence is a bare minimum that Miranda requires of the people around her. But even this level of competence from the girl had rendered her astounded.
“Okay,” Andy answers with a wide smile. “Bye!” She decided to add in a last-second whisper, before leaving Miranda’s office. The editor-in-chief gets a glimpse of her assistant quickly pushing Andy towards the elevator, like an irritated cat pawing at a puppy.
“Interesting things happening at Runway today,” Nigel says.
Miranda had completely forgotten he was still in her office. She sighs irritatedly.
“Send the final layout to my email, now, Nigel.”
“Will do,” he retorts back unaffectedly as he goes to exit Miranda’s office. Nigel then decided that a departing message was in order.
“I don’t think Emily really likes your masseuse.”
“Nigel.” Miranda snaps irritatedly, but the man was already out and on his way.