Work Text:
She's wearing a Bjork shirt. That's the first thought which springs to Andy's mind as three uniquely aggressive raps sound at the door of apartment 405, waking her from a much-needed Saturday lie-in.
Great. Just great. All those weeks of ironing - ironing! - her work shirts, all that money spent on the extortionate dry cleaners down the street, and here she is.
In a fucking Bjork shirt and sleep mask pulled haphazardly over her head from where she had yanked it as she tumbled into consciousness not five seconds before. From a dream entirely too inconvenient. The universe is truly laughing at her.
"Pull yourself together. We have work to do," Miranda says, breezing into her apartment like she owns it (she could if she wanted to). "And by we, I mean you."
Andy can only stand there gormlessly, watching as Miranda proceeds to flop down incongruously ungracefully on Andy's sofa. Then she frowns, reaches underneath her and produces a - oh, good lord - pair of panties. Mercifully clean panties, an escapee from the pile of laundry she had folded on said sofa the previous night, but panties nonetheless.
Miranda pinches the garment between finger and thumb, raising one thin white eyebrow as she does so.
"Elastane," she mutters. "And size eight. Could you not have simply chosen one sin to commit? Were both really necessary? Maximalism is not yet back in style, you are aware."
Oh, this is just rich. Even coming from Miranda. Miranda, who has mounted a weekend home invasion and then proceeded to assault her on two more fronts, all before 9am.
So she crosses her arms instead, and replies smoothly, "remember the whole HR actually has power thing, Miranda? The fact that employment law is enforced now? New-Jersey methadone clinic gate?"
"Do be serious, Andrea. Critiquing your woeful lack of taste in lingerie does not constitute a violation of your human rights."
"It is when, quite frankly, it's coming from someone who I doubt wears far off an eight herself."
Miranda bares her teeth in that faux-sweet way that seems to have become her custom as of late.
"Oh, no. On the contrary, I do believe that makes my criticisms all the more valid."
"How?"
"Is it not terribly progressive of me to invoke the principle of lived experience? I hear it makes me even more of an authority than I already am."
"I could always point out that giving unsolicited feedback on an employee's choice of underwear isn't exactly politically correct, Miranda," Andy smiles back. A toothy one of her own. Two can play at this game, Miranda.
The Editor scowls and twists her rings.
"I suppose you shall be accusing me of sexual harassment next. Honestly."
Andy didn't see fit to even comment on that one for multiple reasons, including the fact she couldn't quite decide if her own feelings on the matter were deeply regressive or progressive. Regressive being that one should probably not work under a boss for whom no advance could constitute sexual harassment, but rather welcome invitation. Progressive because of the flagrant slow-burn homosexuality of it all.
Whatever.
Anyway.
Instead, she watches as Miranda flings off her long dark coat and casts it to the floor, before expectantly surveying her Features Editor.
"Nuh-uh," Andy says. "It's not 2006 anymore. Pick it up."
Miranda blinks, genuinely nonplussed.
"Miranda," Andy sighs, "I have been working again for you for long enough that I know even you have stopped flinging your coats around like confetti at a wedding. I don't know what point you're trying to prove here, but I'm not scraping your Armani off my own floorboards."
(Not when I wasn't the one to put it there, that little nagging voice in her head unhelpfully supplies.)
"I want you to do your work," Miranda replies.
"It's Saturday. Again, I reiterate. Employment. Rights. Law."
Miranda gives her one of the most filthy - and delightfully childish - looks she has ever received before bending down incredibly slowly to fish her own coat off the floor. She inclines her gaze upwards to meet Andy's own.
Andy shivers. It is as if Miranda's eyes have grown impossibly bluer in the twenty years since she last worked for her. Although perhaps stranger things have happened in that time, because twenty years ago Miranda Priestly would not have been caught dead kneeling on the floor of an employee's apartment, let alone while said employee stared down at her in an oversized shirt and not much else.
The not much else being her bare legs, which she had not bothered to shave for a week and yet had seemingly managed to capture Miranda's attention anyway.
"Miranda," Andy chirps sweetly, "what was that you were saying? You're staring at my legs, you see."
She would never have dared to speak to the Editor this way back in 2006, either. But at least Miranda had been more subtle about her ogling then, and with the plausible deniability of appraising whatever designer piece she was wearing that day. Like those Chanel boots.
Her boss drags her gaze back up to bore into Andy's own eyes, largely unchanged from those days save for the addition of a few crinkles at the edges.
"Are you…objecting?"
Damn. It appears Miranda, ever perceptive - even if now assisted by industrial grade prescription lenses in her Prada cat eyes - had registered Andy's shiver.
Yet Andy Sachs (as even Miranda herself - much to Andy's chagrin - insisted on calling her) was not the Andrea Sachs of years past. No, Andy Sachs, former intrepid investigative journalist turned Features Editor as a favour to Nigel, she was bolder. She also knew Miranda, for all her threats, was not in a position with the Board to fire her unilaterally.
(She also hoped Miranda did not wish to. After all, Andy's newfound method of interacting with her - largely fearless, equally biting - seemed to be something the older woman relished. Not that she'd ever admit it, but when this realisation had struck her, she had splashed out on an obscenely expensive bottle of champagne of the brand Miranda favored, then got absolutely smashed in this very apartment that night in celebration. Even if she suspected Miranda was merely bored.)
So she smirks, crosses one calf around the other leg's knee - noting with supreme satisfaction the way Miranda's gaze flickered down again to trace the movement - and says softly, "do you want me to be objecting?"
Miranda's eyelashes flutter repeatedly. Oh, fuck, Andy thinks. Please don't let her have a seizure here. Not here. God, the headlines…
"What," Miranda replies slowly, beholding her as if she had never quite seen her before, and if she could not be quite sure if she was treading on quicksand, "would I have to do to convince you to work on a Saturday?"
And perhaps she had finally succumbed to madness, because Andy says the first thing that came to mind, without considering the wisdom (none) or potential for disaster (tremendous) in doing so.
"What would you be willing to do?"
Then she bends down, crouching (fuck, was that her knees cracking? Great) to level her head with Miranda's own, and when she speaks again, it is in a mocking whisper.
"Because you can do anything, right?"
Miranda hisses, then pounces.
***
"Does your husband do this to you?" Andy asks, chin glistening with arousal. "Do you ever let him?"
"Nnnn, n-n, uh…"
"Words, Miranda. I need words."
"No!"
"What about the others, huh? Did they ever see you like this? The great Miranda Priestly, spread wide open, soaked and begging?"
"Yes! No, I mean no! Oh, God, no!"
"Very good."
Sliding her free hand - the one not inside the older woman - up over the perineum to circle an altogether more hidden entrance, Andy grins at the wretched wail such a move elicits.
"What about here?" she hissed.
"No! Ah! God! Let me - let me - "
Andy stills all her movements. Miranda lets out a whine which sounds awfully close to a sob.
"Not until you call me by my name."
"Andy!"
"No, no. My name, Miranda," she repeats. "The one that only you ever called me. The one you pronounced in your own personal way. You owe me that, don't you think? Pretending not to remember me, not to know me…"
She harshly flicks Miranda's clit. The Editor yowls.
"...look how well I know you now, huh?"
The sounds are incoherent, and for a few moments Andy worries that Miranda physically can't get the words out. But then:
"Oh, Andrea. You know me - e! Ah-Andrea - please!"
Well, if that wasn't a buy one get one free outcome? A 'please' as well as 'Ahn-drey-ah'.
"Good girl," Andy whispers, then thrusts, circles and sucks.
Miranda explodes.
***
"Well," Miranda mutters, pink-cheeked and breathless, "at least neither of us can accuse each other of sexual harassment now."
Despite herself, Andy laughs. It is a laugh borne of equal exasperation and irritating fondness.
"Yeah, I know sex ed hadn't been invented when you were at school, but believe it or not, consent isn't an ongoing carte blanche thing. It kinda needs to be renewed every time."
"You are implying that there will be other times."
"Do you want there to be?" Andy manages to keep her voice steady, refusing to inadvertently betray just how much she wants there to be 'other times'.
"I am seventy-one, Andrea," Miranda says. "I have had three husbands engage in infidelity, and my private investigator has proof of three, twenty-nine, and eight occasions of them doing so respectively. In the interests of fairness, I feel totally entitled to thirty-nine more encounters before guilt is warranted as a consideration."
Andy stills and bites her lip so hard she's surprised she doesn't draw blood. "I hope you're counting that in terms of days and not orgasms, otherwise I promise you we'll catch up pretty quickly."
"Acceptable. Now, I really must insist you do your work. Call it contractual honesty."
"Miranda, I just had three fingers in you. I know how you taste. We're past contracts. But yes, I'll look at the damn..."
"Contracts, would you believe."
"Ugh."
FIN