queencher

Fandom: Devil Wears Prada
Pairing: Andy/Miranda
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except for Dylan. He's mine. And no ladies, he's not single.
Summary: Runway is robbed. Andy loses a Birkin.
Feedback: gives me warm fuzzies

 

The shrill ringing of her alarm clock pulled Andy from her slumber as the incessant beeping welcomed in a new day. Andy wearily lifted her head from her pillow and glanced at the red 5.30AM display before bringing a heavy hand down on top of the snooze button.

Rolling onto her back, Andy arched up and stretched her taut muscles, relieving some of the tension her night of broken sleep had caused before relaxing back into the mattress. She could see that the sunlight was beginning to creep in through her thin curtains, illuminating the shadowy corners of the bedroom in her modest and most importantly, affordable apartment. Sure she’d had to downsize following Nate s recent departure, but it wasn’t all that bad... much. Andy was always someone who looked at the glass as being half full and her home was definitely included in this philosophy. Her apartment was only two blocks away from the offices of the Mirror, there was a Starbucks right outside her front door, rent was easily manageable and she had fantastic neighbours. In spite of everything, not such a bad set-up after all, if one could get past the aesthetics of the place.

Andy opened her mouth to yawn and rolled out of bed very unceremoniously before heading in the direction of the shower. Tartan, flannel pyjama bottoms and a Felix the Cat t-shirt fell to the floor like wounded soldiers following her departure.

**

“Dylan can you get that?” Andy called frantically from her desk as the office phone rang for the tenth time in the last 15 minutes.

Allowing five seconds to pass with no reply from Dylan and a still ringing phone, Andy turned her attention back to the Blackberry in her hand, “Yes Mr Hanson, I’m terribly sorry about the interruption but I’ll have to call you back. Things are bit frantic around here today.”

Clicking shut her phone and muttering under her breath about all the evil things she was going to do to that silly intern later, Andy made a grab for line three.

“Andy Sachs, New York Mirror, how can I help?”

With half of the staff attending a conference at Time Magazine Andy couldn’t help but feel like she was about to spontaneously combust and before 9.30am for god’s sake. She had an article on the recent subway attacks due before her 9pm deadline, a mountain of paperwork to categorize and an interview with Senator Clarke at 2 that afternoon. Answering phones all morning was not what she needed to be currently doing. Where was Dylan anyway?

“Sachs, there’s been a robbery in downtown Manhattan, and by robbery, I mean robbery. Tens of thousands of dollars worth of stuff. Get there now, the corner of West 45^th and 22^nd street. Postpone the subway story until next week,” With a very final tone, Max her boss and editor of the Mirror hung up the phone leaving an open-mouthed Andy too stunned to do the same.

West 45^th and 22^nd. Elias-Clarke. Shit.

The sound of a hinge creaking brought Andy out of her stupor as she gingerly took the phone away from her ear and turned towards the door. Dylan sauntered through the frame with a Cheshire-sized grin on his tanned face and a burrito in either hand.

Andy jumped up as he moved towards her the sound of his leather boots padding softly on the carpet. Andy didn’t even raise her eyes to his as she shovelled her notebook and pens into her orange Birkin.

“Hungry?”

Andy glanced up at Dylan, his true religion jeans and white Berkley jacket enhancing the perfect white teeth that made up his cheeky grin.

“You,” she started, “Man the phones. Do not move until I get back.”

Running past him in her suede Manolos, Andy made for the door. As she reached the entrance to the corridor she turned back to face the head of curly chestnut hair that was taking a seat at her desk.

“Do not eat my burrito.”

**

It took nearly 20 minutes on the crowded subway to get from the offices of the Mirror to the exterior of the Elias-Clarke building. Those 20 minutes had done nothing to neither calm the butterflies in Andy’s stomach nor relieve her hands of their cold and clammy state. Sure she’d walked past the enigma that was home to the offices of Runway Magazine on numerous occasions over the last six months since her resignation, but she’d never believed she’d be tracing her old footsteps inside, back into that marble lobby.  The sound of her stilettos clicking against the polished stone sent a shiver of anticipation up her spine and a dark puddle of anxiety settled in her lower back.

Andy didn’t need to bother flashing her press pass at Lou the security man as she approached the front desk; he smiled at her warmly and allowed her to head towards the lifts. Andy tried to shake the apprehension from her being as she pushed the button to ascend and stepped inside the spacious carriage. Inhaling a deep, clear breath of air, her trembling fingers reached for the gold circle symbolising the 7^th floor. With trepidation she watched the elevator doors slide shut and felt that familiar jolt as the floors fell away below her. Letting her long dark locks fall from her topknot she sighed, she had been really hoping to avoid such a trip.

Jesus Nigel, how hard is it to lock The Closet.

**

With a resounding ping, the elevator doors slide open before Andy to reveal the beautiful, polished glass inscribed with the words ‘Runway Magazine’. That glass had welcomed Andy every morning for nearly a year during her tenure at the magazine. It used to represent normality. Today it represented something far more sinister; the wrath of one fuming editor-in-chief.

Andy pushed on out of the elevator and headed towards the main offices. Surprisingly there weren’t any clackers manically rushing around the floor. In fact the offices seemed semi-deserted. Two stick-thin blonde women, the only staff Andy could see, bustled past her in the direction of her abandoned lift.

Heart racing and adrenaline pumping, Andy took the tentative steps forward required to reach her old designated area of the floor. Looking around she noticed that the décor hadn’t drastically changed in her absence, Nigel’s sanctuary was very much the in the same disarray it had been 6 months ago.

Then she heard the raised voices. Andy stilled around the corner from hers and Emily’s desks. Heart racing a mile a minute she recognized the tones of a frantic sounding British red-head and a nervous Nigel Kipling.

“She’ll be back any minute Nigel, how do we explain this?!” Emily sounded like she was heading for a mental breakdown.

“Irv has already been alerted Emily, I’m sure he’s explained everything to her in a dramatic fashion!” Nigel’s voice cracked, “Besides, it wasn’t you who left the Closet unlocked last night!”

Andy’s heart faltered at the idea of Nigel holding back tears and she took one last deep breath.

“She can’t fire you Nigel,” Andy left the safety of her hiding place and trudged into her old office. She was greeted by two faces the epitome of shock horror.

“Andrea?”

“Six?”

Andy released a sigh and nodded at Emily before pulling Nigel into a hug where he promptly broke down into sobs.

“Nige, you’re an important part of this empire,” Andy began, trying to console the distraught man with pats on the back, “Everybody makes mistakes.”

Emily scoffed with disdain, “Mistakes Andrea? Really?” she snorted slightly as she rounded on the girl and Nigel straightened up, “When’s the last time that Miranda Priestly forgave a mistake? Particularly one that is going to send the company thousands of dollars over budget,” The sneer in her voice was evident.

Andy felt spurred on by the courage of her convictions, “She forgave me Em. After Paris. I cost the company a first class airline ticket, three weeks worth of work and four nights of luxury accommodation. She sent a reference to the Mirror for me. A good reference...”

Andy stopped talking as the eyes of Emily and Nigel darted to rest behind her head. And then she felt it. That sudden shifting of the atmosphere, that cold breeze behind her ears. She froze on the spot, her body becoming rigid as she heard the soft approach of Chanel boots. Then that molten voice.

“Exactly how do an adequate reference and a piteous lack of blacklisting lead you to the conclusion that you are forgiven for your misdeeds Ahndraya.”

**

Andy inwardly groaned. She’d really been hoping to avoid a confrontation with the dragon lady at all costs. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she slowly turned to face Miranda Priestly.

As her body swivelled to a halt Andy jumped back in fright dropping her Birkin accidentally. Miranda was merely inches away from her, her cold, ice blue eyes glaring into Andy’s own demanding an explanation. If Andy had been made out of water she was sure she’d have been frozen into hundreds of ice cubes by now.

“Please do tell everyone exactly why you are here Andrea.” Miranda’s voice was deadly and venomous, “I don’t recall extending an invitation.”

“M...M...Maxwell Sheppard sent me to cover the robbery, I...I didn’t realise I’d be the only member of the press here...”

Andy took a step back, pulse racing, hands shaking as Miranda took a step forward, her eyes glittering with malice and a hint of amusement. She was like a cat toying with a defenceless mouse. A cat who held all the power.

“Well, well, well,” Miranda sneered as Emily and Nigel both tried to make themselves as invisible as possible, “Mr Sheppard sends his lackey to air Runway’s dirty laundry, to spread tales of our embarrassment, to...emphasise my foolishness.”

“No Miranda!” Andy gasped, a hurt look briefly clouding her soft brown eyes, “I would never...I’m just covering the robbery, covering the truth! This story is just a report not an accusation!”

Miranda released a snarl, rounding in on Andy, backing her further into her office.

“Not an accusation,” she sneered, “Eighty thousand dollars of Runway property is lifted from The Closet. The unlocked Closet within the locked offices,” Miranda’s voice dropped an octave, “Just who do you think the press will blame; Joe Public with his lack of access to the building or the person with the only access card that will open the doors after midnight? Don’t pretend you aren’t trying to make this office look bad. Make me look bad.”

Andy’s eyes were like fire. She glared into Miranda’s with an intensity she didn’t know she possessed, a surge of unadulterated anger sped through her veins.

“Fuck you Miranda,” she growled at the woman in front of her. Ignoring the horrified gasps from Nigel and Emily somewhere behind her.  Andy stormed past Miranda, her shoulder brushing against the older editor’s. She did her best to ignore the spark of electricity she felt at the fleeting contact and thundered towards the elevators, her fallen Birkin abandoned as a casualty of war.


Part 2: http://queencher.livejournal.com/1155.html