Chapter Text
Death, Taxes, and Nigel Kipling’s machinations, Andy Sachs thought. The three sureties in life. For the third was the only reason why she had found herself in her current situation. Namely, aboard an Elias-Clarke private jet bound for a remote tropical island, all the while being determinedly ignored by La Priestly. La Priestly, who remained intent on pretending that she was suffering from selective amnesia pertaining to the year 2006. And as for their destination…she shook her head, and reflected on the wholly unexpected trajectory her life had taken over the past few months.
Being head-hunted had not come as a surprise: Andy knew she was hot property. After all, she had carved out quite the career over the past twenty years as an international investigative journalist, and that was without the Gen-Z online cult she had accumulated for some reason (and which had only expanded in the wake of her divorce and subsequent public coming out). Even if she had been obligated to undertake a significant degree of damage control after Doug had infiltrated several social media servers and dropped hints of the candle she still held for her first employer.
Her first employer, who at that moment was determinedly staring out of the window into a view of nary but clouds. Also, her current employer, having been hired as Runway’s new Features Editor when the Board of Elias-Clarke decided they needed a way to up the magazine’s relevance.
Which had led to the events which had been rather more of a surprise. She had - perhaps naively - assumed that she would select the features she would cover herself. But scarcely a week in the job had elapsed before she had been informed that her first had already been assigned by the unholy (and previously unthinkable) alliance of Nigel and Irv. Namely, that she was being packed off to a much-discussed and even more secretive luxury retreat, Nivarna, renowned for its de-stressing abilities. And even more alarmingly, that Miranda herself had been strong-armed by the aforementioned unlikely duo into accompanying her. Andy had to admit it made sense - if anyone was going to subject the capabilities of the resort to extreme scrutiny, it would be the woman for whom ‘stress’ was practically a middle name.
Particularly given Miranda seemed to regard the prospect of being sent anywhere which wasn’t explicitly fashion-related as akin to undertaking the trials of Hercules. A mindset which - if Nigel’s murmured asides were to be taken at face value - had landed her here. Apparently Irv had realised she had not taken any annual leave in such a long time that she was rapidly approaching the point of having an exceptionally strong lawsuit against Elias-Clarke for violation of employment conditions, if the urge so struck to pursue one. Andy privately thought this was probably the one time Miranda did not, in fact, realise there was a glaring opportunity for legal action staring her in the face (even if she was still in the dark as to Nigel’s motivations, if not Irv’s).
In any case - Miranda was more likely to sue someone - likely multiple someones - for whatever the two of them were going to encounter (read: be subjected to) over the next week. Andy had to begrudgingly admit it was a worthwhile assignment - no journalists had yet written an insider piece on the resort, and its reputation abounded in a swirl of gossipy mystery online.
The more daunting task, therefore, was catching Miranda out on her memory loss act. But as the Editor herself had once said, Andy could do anything - right?
***
If the landing had been smooth, the car ride to the entrance was even smoother, albeit characterised by yet more of Miranda’s stony silence. She might very well have been alone in the car -
Oh. That curl of the older woman’s upper lip was new - or at least, she hadn’t done anything to deserve such a look of disgust before. But then Andy turned her head to the window Miranda was staring aghast out of, only to see:
That would explain it. A pair of towering gates, made of unsightly steel reinforced bamboo and gold paint. The structure was no doubt a hundred times more expensive than it looked, and as they swung open Andy got her first proper look at the resort.
It was huge.
It was also hideous.
“I could believe Irving would be attracted to such an unsightly location, but why on earth has Nigel seen fit to send me to…”
“A place that - architecturally speaking - looks like Trump Tower had a baby with the hippie granddaughter of a VP at Lockheed Martin?”
“Garish would have sufficed. But for once, you are not entirely incorrect.”
For garish was what it was. Unhinged in its combination of excess and aesthetic bad taste. Andy privately congratulated herself on posing a semi-question to Miranda and suffering minimal consequences.
Speaking of unhinged…
Five sharp knocks at the tilted window up front jolted both women out of their judgemental musings. As the driver opened the doors - Miranda’s side first, naturally - they laid eyes on the source of the disruption, who chirped sunnily at them with enough vocal fry to keep a McDonald’s in business for the next five years.
“Hey folks! Welcome to Nivarna!”
A woman of indiscernible age - perhaps thirty three, perhaps forty-nine, it was hard to tell - sporting bleach blonde Texas curls, bright white teeth and a level of fake tan which made one wonder if an orange had snuck its way into her distant family tree.
“I beg your pardon?” Miranda replied.
“That’s the resort’s name, remember! Mine’s Kayleigh, by the way. You’re -” she looked down at her phone - “Miranda and Andy, right?”
“I am going to have a stroke,” Miranda muttered.
“Oh no! Hold on a sec - “ Kayleigh produced a clear bottle - “take a sniff of this! Scares that negative energy all away!”
Miranda raised one eyebrow, but the blonde’s proffering was too fast to avoid inhaling. The elevated eyebrow collapsed as the Editor promptly descended into splutters.
“What - what is that?” Andy gasped.
Kayleigh raised the bottle and grimaced. “Oops! Guess I mixed up the absinthe and smelling salts! But you don’t look like you’re gonna have a stroke anymore, so I guess it’s good as?”
Miranda opened her mouth, then closed it again. She blinked rapidly, as if fervently hoping that if she did so enough times, the woman she was rapidly mentally renaming as ‘amoeba-brained Barbie’ would have disappeared.
***
Not only did Kayleigh not disappear, she kept up a running monologue all the way to the check-in reception, which made the five minutes in the golf cart seem like fifty. To Miranda, at least. Andy spent it rapidly taking in the abundance of tropical vegetation lining the horizon and filing away mental notes for her article. The notes had to be mental, as - much to Miranda’s outrage, and the entire reason why they were thirty-five minutes late to check in despite arriving fifteen minutes early - they had been sunnily informed by the blonde that all guests' phones had to be surrendered.
Miranda’s ‘no-touch’ rule had been flagrantly ignored at that point, given that Kayleigh had quite literally had to prise each individual finger from the Editor’s iPhone in order to remove it from her iron-clad grip.
And that was before their luggage had been searched for any ‘chemical influences’ not permitted on the resort. Namely, anything stronger than Tylenol. This, naturally, had elicited a long monologue from Miranda about how “your typical clientele may be high functioning drug addicts, but I simply require coffee, and I can assure you that you will not find grocery store packets of beans in there.”
Cue Kayleigh’s cheery response that there was a strict policy dictating an absolute moratorium on caffeine ('gotta detox the spirit!')
At which point Andy herself had seen fit to break the no-touch rule. Miranda would merely torture her for steadying her. Had she actually fainted - as she appeared in serious danger of doing in that moment - Andy would be dead.
***
“Yes,” Kyle (the receptionist and veritable Ken to Kayleigh’s Barbie, apparently) said, “I’ve your room booking here! All good to go!”
Miranda tensed. “I presume your deployment of the singular tense was a verbal slip.”
“Huh?”
Andy inhaled and exhaled heavily through her nose. Perhaps if she took in enough oxygen it would somehow migrate to the man’s brain. Lord knows he seemed to need it.
“Hey, hey!” Kayleigh chirped. “It’s great to see you’re already familiar with transcendental meditation techniques, but let’s get settled in first!”
Andy blinked. Turning back to Kyle she forced a tight smile onto her face.
“She means aren’t there two rooms?”
Kyle looked as confused as a four year old who had just been handed Google Maps written in a foreign language. Or Linear B.
“I hate to tell ya this, but if you’re doing some sort of celibacy kick you might have to take a week long break.”
Kayleigh smacked his arm in a gesture that Andy suspected was intended to appear affectionate but instead just looked plain old violent. About as violent as her heart's hammering away in her chest at the insinuation of his words with regards to the sort of week they were signed up to experience. That Nigel had signed them up to experience.
Oh, he wouldn't -
He couldn't have -
“Shh,” Kayleigh stage-whispered. “Maybe marital problems are why they’re here!”
Miranda’s frame assumed a stillness that was impressive even for her.
“Marital?” she hissed.
“Marital?” Andy squeaked. And promptly stood on Miranda’s foot.
“Oh, sugar!” Kayleigh gasped. “I’m so sorry - shouldn’t have assumed you guys subscribe to traditional relationship dynamics. Partners, right? That’s what Mr. Kipling told Shelly in reservations.”
Oh, he absolutely would. Fucking Nigel. Why oh why had she ever confessed the identity of the cause of her gay awakening to him?
“I'm sorry,” Miranda smiled. With teeth. Showing both rows of teeth, in fact. “Mr Kipling meant business partners.”
“Aw, don't you worry about that! We get plenty of those!” Kyle attempted a wink - at least, Andy assumed it was a wink. It seemed a consummate effort given his forehead was rendered utterly incapable of movement.
“Do you now,” Miranda murmured faintly.
“Yup! Besides, we don't do separate rooms at all. What's the point? Totally contrary to the holistic mission here.”
Andy swallowed.
***
“This is the worst kind of excess,” Miranda growled, throwing her cumulatively hundred-thousand dollars of luggage onto the (mercifully) enormous bed with no sense of irony whatsoever.
Andy coughed politely.
“Oh, don't be ridiculous. It's Californian excess. An entirely different breed to Runway. Financial input is inversely proportional to aesthetic output.”
“Hmmm,” Andy said, rooting through her suitcase for literally anything save her flannels. She hadn't anticipated being judged in her own bedroom - she'd anticipating having her *own* bedroom.
“That awful woman looks like if Donatella and Gwyneth had an unfortunate run-in with an unlicensed surgeon from Texas who exclusively advertises his services on Temu.”
Andy bit back a laugh.
“You know, my friend Doug once went on Temu. He said it was the weirdest five minutes of his life.”
“Did he buy anything from those awful drop-shippers of cheap plastic?”
“He attempted to bid on the soul of a Lithuanian man encased in a purple snow globe, but a Sandra from Appalachia beat him to it.”
Miranda blinked.
“I see.”
Then she bent down and removed her shoes, before fixing Andy with a steely glare.
“If I suffer bruising as a result of earlier your assault on my person, do be aware I will pursue action.”
“Assault?” Andy asked incredulously.
“Trampling on my foot. Might I remind you that I am - as much as I am loathe to admit it - of an age where bone breakage is a disturbingly distinct possibility? Believe me, if you think interacting with me on a daily basis is unpleasant, just you wait until you're contending with my insurers and lawyers.”
Twenty-six year old Andrea would have cowered. But forty-six year old Andy would do no such thing. Besides, Miranda couldn’t pretend to have forgotten her and then expect behavioural consistency.
“Look, Miranda,” she replied briskly, “if you want relevant features, then going de facto undercover at one of the most discussed and under-reported on luxury resorts in the world is the way to get it. I understand you would rather break not one but both of your feet before sharing a room with me, but might I remind you we have both signed God knows how many NDAs and you have executive signoff on my finished article?”
Miranda narrowed her eyes.
“And just where did you acquire the audacity to speak to me in such a way, Andrea?”
Then she froze. Andy smirked.
“Remember my name now, huh?”
To her credit, the older woman recovered quickly. “Hardly. You have simply gone to such lengths to remind me of it at every given opportunity it was all but inevitable I would have it entirely non-consensually seared into my brain.”
“Sure,” Andy muttered under her breath.
“You still haven’t answered the question.”
Andy sighed and flopped back onto the bed. “I’m just anticipating the absolutely foul mood I’m bound to be in now they’ve stripped us of all medication. I’ve half a mind to sue them for age-related discrimination for taking my HRT.”
Miranda blinked as if genuinely startled. Then she rolled her eyes and undid her blazer, producing a small bottle of gel from an inside pocket before tossing it unceremoniously in Andy’s direction. Who could not help but notice it was a precise orchestration of the way the Editor used to fling her bags and coat onto her desk.
“Well?” Miranda snapped impatiently.
Andy stared at the object now within touching distance, before shaking her head and smiling.
“Drug mule Miranda Priestly. Whoever would have thought it?”
“Carry on like that and I’m taking the drugs back.”
“No! Please don’t. I’m just - uh - surprised that you’d…”
“Share my own? Believe me, Andrea, this is not an act of pure altruism. While I confess I had not anticipated you requiring this - although it makes your insistence on acting like a child all the more exasperating, given this is concrete proof you most decidedly are not one - and I’ve frankly no idea of the dosage, I would rather avoid encountering the version of you without it. This week is bound to be utterly unbearable as it is without some hormonal-related meltdown.”
What an completely ridiculous thing to be pleased about, Andy thought drily to herself. But Miranda’s act of ‘not pure altruism’ nonetheless alighted a small warm flicker in her chest. For when had the Dragon ever been known to share?
***
Two hours later, she was supremely grateful for it. It was doubtful she could have survived mealtimes unmedicated. Or rather, Miranda’s presence during them.
Because every single offering was strictly vegan.
And the rapidly emerging demon sat opposite her - glowering as she viciously stabbed at artfully-dressed tofu and beans with the Nivarna-provided ‘sustainable cutlery’ - was positively flourishing in advance of the hell the next day promised.
She had more than a sneaking suspicion that Miranda would not react well to the ‘initial energetic frequency work’ which would determine their schedules. Their mysterious schedules that apparently would be contrary to the maintenance of celibacy.
Not that she didn’t plan to relish the inevitable entertainment the next week would provide.
Even if she needed to survive the night first. The night in their room. Their room, which very pointedly did not have a couch.
Only a bed.
One bed.