Chapter Text
Emily Charlton was going to need to pay for Andy’s lunch a grand total of ten times, before she would ever let this go. Their original agreement for five coffees had only encompassed Andy performing ‘Book’ duties for a grand total of three nights. Nothing more, nothing less. And by ‘Book’ duties, Andy had been made to understand that all she had to do was drop off The Book – and only The Book, which in itself was a no-brainer.
Ignoring the fact, of course, that Andy had ceased to work for Runway for a grand total of eleven months and twenty-five days.
Still, Andy was a good friend and good friends made it a point to be there when needed. Emily’s intensely critical mother was in town, and Andy knew that Emily had been juggling the duties of two assistants herself for the better part of last year. Miranda, who had taken a chance on smart, fat, Andy, had apparently decided that taking chances were out of fashion and fired second assistants every few weeks, much to Emily’s immense suffering and increased consumption of cheese cubes.
To be fair, the night had started out promising. Andy had entered quietly, the flats she was accustomed to wearing now making no sound on the hard floors. Then, she had left The Book on the assigned table and turned to go when she heard it.
It was barely audible but Andy, whose hearing had been tuned to sharp perfection during her tenure at Runway to pick up Miranda’s whispers, heard it.
The first two nights had gone by without much fanfare. Honestly, it took less than a minute to enter the townhouse, deposit The Book on the correct table, and exit again. Andy told herself that the rush of adrenaline she felt each time she entered Miranda’s house was due to fear. Fear and Miranda Priestly were two things that went hand in hand more naturally than the moon took to the stars. So it had to be fear, and not thrill, because that would be wrong. Because that would mean that Andy was actually excited to be in Miranda’s private space again, like she was tasting forbidden fruit and getting away with it every night.
Now, torn between wanting to run and wanting to make sure that everything was okay (since Andy was also a concerned citizen, in addition to being a good friend), Andy had stood frozen at the bottom of the stairs, unable to move, because fear – definitely not thrill – was coiling around her stomach. It made her heart pump so hard she felt a little light-headed.
Andy wasn’t sure if it sounded like someone had dropped something, or someone had dropped and the second possibility was driving Andy crazy. The twins were not around, Andy knew, since Emily had provided her that assurance. So it could only be the devil herself, who had dropped something, or had dropped. She could just shoot Emily a quick text to check. Maybe the weekend plans for the girls had changed, and they were upstairs, moving about. Emily could have forgotten to update her. Pulling out her cellphone, Andy bit back a curse. It was dead. Fantastic.
Therefore, as a rational adult, Andy decided to do what a rational adult would do next, and made a list. If she went upstairs to check, she could be risking:
1. Emily’s job;
2. Andy’s job;
3. Both their lives.
If she left right now, she would save herself from a full-blown anxiety attack, but she could also be risking:
1. Miranda’s actual life.
If Andy hadn’t agreed to help – no, if Emily hadn’t asked, she wouldn’t even be in this situation, thinking about risks and feeling concerned about Miranda. Because Andy should have left the “feeling concerned” part behind a long time ago. Emily was going to pay for the level of uneasiness she was feeling right now, with ten lunches, because there was a lot of it building up in her system.
Jesus Christ. She was insane. Miranda had probably just dropped a ten-thousand dollar shoe, or something. She needed to leave, she thought.
But her legs carried her up the stairs and into Miranda’s empty study.
With a quick glance, she saw that there was a half-empty mug of coffee on the side table at Miranda’s favourite seat, so Andy knew Miranda had been there recently.
This should be enough to assure Andy that the other person in this house was alive, and moving around. Right?
It wasn’t. Clearly, Andy was on her way to being committed, because she ascended another flight of stairs, which led to the brightly-lit floor where the bedrooms were. She had never been on this floor, and only having deduced it from one of the rules in the Golden Rulebook for all of Miranda’s assistants: The second floor onwards was off-limits, no matter what.
Thinking of it now, Andy was certain that Miranda had extended her some sort of privilege when it came to townhouse access. Emily had certainly never indicated that it was normal for any assistant to ever venture beyond the foyer. But she had ventured, far beyond the foyer. She had seen Miranda’s study, the kitchen (when Miranda felt inclined to work there), the garden in the back (to look for Caroline’s missing bracelet) and the guest bathroom.
Sometimes, Miranda would ask Andy to bring The Book up to her in the study by appearing on the landing when Andy came. Other times, she made Andy sit and take notes. Most times, Miranda looked really pretty and “note-taking” consisted of Miranda actually asking Andy’s opinion about things. Obviously, it had all come to an abrupt end when Andy walked away in Paris, but whenever she thought about Miranda, she would remember the slope of a smooth shoulder, partially exposed in cashmere sweaters the older woman favoured at home.
Andy felt a twinge of something and squashed it away by imagining all possibilities of Miranda’s reaction at realizing that her greatest disappointment was here.
“Hello?” she whispered, testing out her voice and her courage.
Nobody replied, and Andy walked further down the hallway. There were a few doors, and Andy had no idea which one led to Miranda’s bedroom. She passed by three doors before realizing that one at the end of the hall was slightly ajar.
Pausing a few feet away, Andy tried to sound brave. “Miranda? Are you okay?”
Andy waited several moments for a response, before deciding that if she had to face an irate Miranda Priestly, at least her conscience was clear.
She pushed the door open, and looked inside. The lights were on, and there were a pair of shoes lying haphazardly at the foot of the bed. A cream Prada tote laid on the carpet, as if its owner had dropped it there unceremoniously. It wasn’t too out of place, Andy decided, since Miranda was known to fling her purse from amazing distances to her second assistant’s desk with startling accuracy.
“Miranda?”
Again, there was no response, and she stepped across the threshold into what was probably Miranda’s most private space. There were bookshelves lining one side of the wall, and a large, framed portrait of the twins adorned the opposite side. There was even a Steinback novel on the nightstand – over a year ago, Andy would have sworn that the only sort of reading Miranda did would involve The Book – beside a bottle of hand-cream, the only indicator that a woman inhabited this room. Everything else looked distinctively genderless, from the white and grey sheets to the minimal headboard. It was most likely intentional. Miranda had never gone for long periods between marriages, if Wikipedia was to be believed. It would make sense that a shared bedroom wouldn’t be too feminine, or masculine. Wikipedia also told her that Miranda was currently in between marriages. Page Six had certainly never mentioned anyone else after the whole thing with Stephen.
Andy wondered how the bedroom would look like if Miranda shared her bedroom with another woman. It would probably messier, since Andy left her books all over the place after reading them.
Not that Andy had any business thinking about how it would be like to share a bedroom with Miranda Priestly.
The bathroom’s lights were lit – she could tell from the crack below the door – but the shower wasn’t running and she couldn’t hear anything else. Everything sat dead still, and Andy began to worry her lip.
Taking a deep breath, Andy lifted her hand and rapped lightly on the bathroom door. “Miranda?”
The silence was beginning to get to her. Maybe the woman had slipped and hit her head on the sink. Stuff that like happened all the time, didn’t it?
“Hello?” Andy called, louder this time, and knocked on the door a little bit more frantically.
Nobody responded.
Andy swallowed hard and reached for the doorknob. Please, Andy repeated in her head, like a mantra. Please, please, please be okay.The door turned out to be unlocked, and she pushed it all the way open.
Stepping into the largest and most well-lit bathroom Andy had ever seen, it occurred to Andy that she should have grabbed something as a weapon, because she couldn’t be sure that a deranged stalker-fan hadn’t broken into the townhouse.
Andy’s senses were tingling. Something was wrong, she knew it. She could feel it, smell it even. It wasn’t just fear talking anymore. The lights were too bright, reflecting off polished white marble. So white, in fact, that Andy almost missed the white hair on the floor, peeking out from behind the edge of a frosted glass partition.
Fuck, fuck, fuck –
Andy’s knees crashed into the floor as she grabbed Miranda’s pale face in shaking hands.
“Mir-Miranda?”
Papery-thin eyelids cracked open barely, only to squeeze shut again. Oh, thank God. Thank God.
“Miranda, are you okay?” Andy patted a delicate cheek gently with her palm but Miranda didn’t move. “Miranda?”
The older woman opened her eyes again, looking dazed as she tried to focus on the face in front of her. She frowned in confusion.
“Miranda, what’s wrong?”
“Andrea?”
“Yes!” Andy cried, relieved. Maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe she had just missed lunch today. “I’m here. It’s okay.”
“Are you real?” Miranda whispered, blinking.
Andy laughed shakily. “I am. As real as can be.”
“That’s good.” A smile ghosted across Miranda’s lips. They reminded Andy of the rosebuds in the garden out back and nights taking endless notes dictated by Miranda’s soft voice. Andy’s heart clenched. “Hurts,” Miranda said, jolting Andy back into the present.
It was then that Andy recognized that it wasn’t fear she had noticed in the air when she first entered the bathroom, but the metallic scent of blood. Her heart dropped a million miles a minute. But Miranda’s hair was pristine white and her arms and legs looked unmarred. Even her cream coloured shirt was still cream. It didn’t seem like there was any physical injury, as far as Andy could make out. She wasn’t going to take any chances, though, and tried to channel some calmness she didn’t feel at all when she spoke. “Can you tell me where you’re hurt?” Andy asked. She needed to call for help, and her damn phone was dead.
Miranda whimpered, curling up into a fetal position in obvious pain.
“I’m going to get some help.” Andy was already moving to stand when a hand shot out and grabbed her wrist with surprisingly strength. Andy paused, and looked down into Miranda’s very terrified eyes. Miranda being terrified meant something was really wrong.
Andy shuffled closer on her knees. “Don’t worry,” she said, as much for herself as she was saying it for Miranda. She put a comforting hand against the other woman’s shoulder because now that Miranda was awake, Andy didn’t dare touch her face again, no matter how much she wanted to. “I’m just going to call an ambulance. I’ll be right back, I promise. Just don’t move, okay?”
“No,” Miranda gasped. Her black pencil skirt rode up slightly, and Andy caught a glimpse of red on her upper thighs.
“Oh, shit.” Andy barely felt the nails digging into her skin when she noticed the dark red smear on the spot Miranda’s movement had exposed. “I need to get help, Miranda. There’s –” Too much blood, she wanted to say, but couldn't get the words out. “We need to get you to the hospital.”
“Tired,” Miranda breathed, and closed her eyes against something, shuddering as it passed.
“I just – I’m going to call 911. I’ll be back real quick. Don’t move,” Andy said, and stood up, forcing Miranda to release her hold. “I’ll be right back!”
Andy sprinted into the bedroom and emptied Miranda’s purse on the bed in one swift motion. Grabbing Miranda’s cellphone, she ran back into the bathroom, to see that the other woman had pushed herself upright. Refusing to allow Miranda’s stubbornness and self-destructive tendencies to cause more damage, Andy found herself on her knees again. She wrapped an arm around Miranda’s shoulders so that the smaller woman didn’t need to strain her arm to keep herself up.
Miranda leaned back without restraint, which meant that she was in a great deal of pain. Shit.
“Told you not to move,” Andy said, gently.
“No ambulance.”
Oh, for God's sake. There was no way Andy was going to let Miranda bleed to death on her bathroom floor.
“Miranda, I don’t know what’s wrong, and I know you don’t want to go to the hospital, but I don’t know what to do to help you. I need help to help you.” If Miranda was resisting out of some misguided sense of pride, or not wanting to look weak in front of little old Andy (it stung, thinking that Miranda didn’t trust her that way anymore), well, it was a little too late for that. “If you don’t want to alert the press, I’ll call Roy. You know what, I’m going to call Roy,” Andy said, having already dialed Roy’s number anyway.
Roy would still be around the area on-standby since he was paid rather handsomely to do so. How else could he appear so quickly whenever Miranda needed him?
He picked up after the second ring. “Yes, Miranda?”
“Roy? It’s Andy. I really need you to come over to the townhouse now. It’s an emergency,” she said, hoping that he could read the urgency in her voice and wouldn’t start asking questions. He was also paid, rather handsomely, for his discretion and loyalty.
There was a short silence, before Roy spoke again. He sounded different, his voice further away. He had undoubtedly put Andy on speaker. “Okay. I’m on the way. Be there in three minutes. Is everything okay?” Specifically, why was an ex-employee calling from Miranda’s phone? But Roy always knew better than to question, and Andy knew he wouldn’t ask.
“No.” Andy stared at the spreading stain on Miranda’s silk hosiery. Everything is wrong. “Come up to the master bedroom when you get here. Please hurry.”
“Right, I’ll see you soon,” Roy said, and hung up.
Andy fought valiantly against the urge to touch Miranda’s face, even if it was to sooth or comfort her. If she did, she wasn’t sure if she could ever go back to the cordial distance they had before, not that there had been much cordiality, or anything at all, for the past year. Even so, the soft skin on Miranda’s cheeks was dangerous territory. Andy might have risked Emily’s job tonight and perhaps her own as well, but she couldn’t risk her sanity.
How could she have been so stupid, stupid to have waited this long to have come upstairs, debating the risks of Emily losing her job? She couldn’t give a flying fuck about Emily’s damn job right now. And if Andy hadn’t been the one to bring the book, she was sure that no clacker would dare trespass upstairs, even if they heard somebody screaming for their lives. Andy wasn’t even sure if Emily would have done what Andy had done. Had Miranda been left alone for the rest of the night – no. Andy wouldn’t think of that.
“You’re going to be okay, Miranda,” Andy said, firmly. There was no other option.
“I know,” Miranda said, faintly. After a heartbeat, she leaned further into Andy's hold.
Ah, hell. Andy’s sanity had left the stage the moment she had accepted Emily’s five coffees, as much as she wanted to pretend otherwise.
So she lifted a hand to brush Miranda’s forelock aside.