Work Text:
In all of Andy’s sleepless nights before Paris Fashion Week, not once did she imagine herself contending with a bare-faced shell of her formidable boss. She’s been scared on the clock more times than she can count, but none of those instances compare to her blood turning to ice as she enters Miranda’s hotel room.
“Oh, there you are.”
The words penetrate Andy’s horrified fugue in slow motion. Her jaw is open so wide that she should probably refer herself to a dentist in Australia.
“We need to go over the seating… uh, chart… for the luncheon.”
Of course she still wants to work. Well, Andy thinks vaguely, at least she hasn’t been called here to do Miranda’s makeup. What a sight that would be. Forcing her wooden limbs to move, she stumbles across the room, ingratiating words falling from her lips faster than she can chastise herself for them. God, anything to make Miranda feel better.
“By all means, move at a glacial pace. You know how that thrills me.”
Andy glances up from the bag she was rummaging in, and meets the Dragon Lady’s tear-stained gaze. She doesn’t look away (when has she ever?), but this time, it doesn’t feel like a challenge. It feels like a plea.
“Well, I mean… glacial. That is what they call you around the office,” Andy ventures.
Whatever Miranda was expecting, it certainly wasn’t that. But before Andy can offer up her final prayers, her boss lets out a bark of laughter.
Slowly, a smile dawns on Andy’s face. She had a feeling, somehow she just knew, that Miranda didn’t want someone to feel sorry for her tonight. All these months later, Andy could write a thesis on the inner workings of her mind. And tonight, she refers to the footnotes: sometimes even Ice Queens just need a laugh.
Emboldened, Andy adds, “They’re wrong, though. Glaciers are ancient. If that were an appropriate nickname, your plastic surgeons would have to resign.”
“Andréa!” Miranda splutters.
Andy, however, is far from being deterred. With every passing second, her boss is gaining colour in her cheeks.
“Should I go into stand-up comedy?” she asks, doing jazz hands.
Catching up with characteristic swiftness, Miranda replies, “Not with that stage presence. What on Earth are those fingers doing?!”
Andy hesitates before opening her mouth this time. If there’s one thing working at Runway has taught her, it’s that. But fuck it, she’s in too deep now, so…
“That’s what she said.”
That does it. Miranda’s guffaw reverberates around the room, catching Andy in its rip tide. The seconds seem to disappear as the two women cackle shamelessly. When Andy catches Miranda’s eye, she notices fresh tears wetting her cheeks, this time of mirth. She doesn’t observe much more, though, because the eye contact triggers yet another explosion of laughter.
“Christ, what have you done to me?” Miranda manages at last.
“Best assistant ever,” Andy gasps, catching her breath.
Miranda is still clutching her belly, giggles shaking her shoulders like aftershocks. “Well, I suppose I’ve had worse,” she says.
“Oh my God, I need to tell my parents I’ve been promoted. I’m second to last now.”
At that, Miranda snorts. But when Andy’s eyes find their way back to hers, the only thing she feels is tenderness. From whom, she’s not sure. Maybe even both of them.
“Thank you,” Miranda mouths silently.
Andy can only quirk her lips. Maybe what Miranda needed wasn’t just a laugh, but someone brave enough to care for her more than they feared her.