Disclaimer: Not mine. Just playing. I know it. You know it. That's all.

Summary: The best way to tame a dragon is to beat it at it's own game. Miranda/Andy

Struck Down: Part One

A year had passed, possibly a little more, since that chance encounter outside the Elias-Clarke building, when Andy had waved and Miranda had laughed – privately – before they had reason to see each other again. Andy was still working for the Mirror, although in a considerably more favourable position than when she had applied, and had cause to be at the same gala as Miranda. Both had intended on avoiding the other – one, because she was worried for the other's reaction, the other because she was worried for her own. Miranda was not yet ready to face Andrea, and as always, the young woman seemed to know that, as they both discretely kept a sensible distance between them at all times while Andy covered the event.

The effort made Andy appreciate just how regally Miranda could command a room if she chose. There had never been a moment to pause for such a thought when she had attended these functions with the editor, it was always scrambling for the next name, trying to anticipate. The young journalist did wish the sight of the older woman, dripping in black fabric that caught the light at odd moments to stunning effect, her skin reflecting the lowered lighting in the manner of ivory, did not make her breath catch quite so much. Apart from tracking the young woman in her peripheral vision, Miranda did not allow herself any glance more detailed than that. An act she regretted later, when she could not remember the cut or the designer of the dress so she could form the picture in her own imagination, merely a hint of the darkest green she'd ever seen that would have complimented the brunette eyes she remembered.

A few months later, it was another event – this time, Andrea had been invited as a guest, not as a member of the press. She'd been entrusted to write a series of articles, and to no one's surprise but her own, she had excelled far beyond what had been expected. It had earned her a request for employment from a better, big paper and Miranda knew the girl would take it. Oh, she knew Andrea would question her loyalty to the Mirror, would work her notice this time, but she was meant for better things. It helped, Miranda considered, that she probably wasn't stepping over someone she felt obligated towards this time. Otherwise the silly girl's heart might have made the decision more difficult for her.

For half the evening, Andy maintained their previous distance although Miranda allowed herself a few chance glances in the girl's direction this time. It was a marvellously deep red gown for this event and Miranda wondered how a gown that wonderful had found its way to Andrea who probably earned half of its value in a year – then she thought of Nigel, and Emily, and considered asking them for no less than a second. Further than that, and the ridiculous notion was discarded. Any path that threatened to take her thoughts towards appreciation of the body wearing the gown was also derailed abruptly before it could begin its journey. Miranda merely appreciated the style, the cut, the fabric and how well it matched to Andrea.

Apparently, her intuitive ex-assistant had caught the wandering sapphire gaze one time too many and had taken them as permission to approach, because the brunette began to make slowly closing circles around the Dragon Lady, her dark gaze now reaching out to Miranda with a mixture of hesitance and determination. Unwilling to rebuff the encounter in so public a place, Miranda allowed the young woman to make her approach, grateful when two champagne glasses were apprehended from the waiter during the final swoop. As the last barrier peeled away from Miranda, in the form of some investor she'd not paid a whit of attention to, their eyes met and with some surprise, both found no animosity in the other's gaze. A shy smile was offered from the younger woman, along with the glistening flute of liquid that Miranda took gently, a nod being exchanged in return.

"That dress is a shade too deep for your complexion, Andrea."

"But otherwise palatable?" The younger woman finished, her tone lightly teasing as the wording imitated Miranda, showcasing her ever-present talent to still understand the unspoken words from her ex-employer. The silver head almost nodded and Andrea seemed to understand. It was as polite an opening into conversation as they both knew the editor was capable of. "Well, I don't have the Closet to run to when I'm in need anymore." Andy rejoined with a smile, deciding to allow the other woman the condescension in her greeting, if only because it wouldn't do to snap back in the middle of this event.

"I suspect Nigel is still as eager as ever to help perform miracles, after your little demonstration on his account." Miranda hid her smirk as she watched Andy's back straighten instantly and her expression whip away from the other woman.

"Nigel is a wonderful friend." Andy replied in what Miranda knew had to be a very modulated tone, her eyes trained carefully on the far wall, in the opposite direction the words were intended for.

"And very loyal to those he trusts." Miranda continued, knowing that they no longer had the luxury of time as she caught sight of another eye over Andrea's shoulder heading in her direction, with intent in its gaze. The indignant and quick reaction from Andrea was regrettable but necessary. That magnificent dark head swung back to look at her, mouth open to release some form of tongue lashing, until that widened gaze found her own. While Miranda was conscious of the difference in her own eyes, had allowed it to happen in order to communicate what she could not with words, the young woman's mouth dropping a little further open in surprise still made her smirk. There was understanding in the cool depths that the editor rarely revealed, but knew would placate Andrea sufficiently.

"I did wonder whether some of that trust was misplaced." The brunette finally said quietly, recovering herself with a rushed efficiency, her body still angled somewhat away from their conversation but her attention completely centred on Miranda.

"And now?" The silver-haired woman queried, her eyes darting away, at once making the question more and less significant.

"I'm still wondering." Cold eyes swung back, ready to snipe at the callousness of the reply, before her companion spoke again. "But I have hope." Andrea replied, her eyes a little more guarded now she'd smoothed away from the shock of seeing anything but fire in those ice blues, but Miranda saw a little of the shine she remembered from before Paris and she quickly turned her gaze away again. She had full confidence in her ability to control her actions when necessary, but her eyes were the most expressive feature she had and they would betray her to this woman. "After all," came that soft voice she remembered so well, much more close to her ear than she'd anticipated, "if the Dragon Lady can live on hope, I'm sure a lowly journo like me can afford some." She knew Andrea had to have noticed her neck muscles stiffen at the feeling of warmth on her skin and narrowed her eyes fractionally, in warning.

Apparently, the young woman did not seem inclined to press her luck any further and when Miranda finally allowed herself to turn, the back of that red dress was already being swallowed by the crowd behind her and there was a moment of uncomfortable déjà vu – of looking, but not finding. Of feeling curiously bereft. The entire matter was pushed away as another tiresome man swept in front of her and tried to grasp her hand, which she swiftly avoided before spreading her lips upwards in a smile as fake as her disinterest in where her ex-assistant had disappeared to.

Miranda knew the young woman had not expected their conversation to take that road – by the hopeful curl to her lips as she approached, Andrea had been hoping for a 'hello', perhaps edge in a couple of enquiries about Runway and Emily, before they both went their separate ways gracefully. But the editor never went into any situation unprepared and if anything was to come of this ridiculous connection with her ex-assistant, it would have to be in clear air.

It had almost been a surprise to hear Andrea bring up that evening in her hotel room – without walls, or make up, or shoes even on her part – the Dragon Lady comment had been too pointed to miss. It was the only time she'd allowed herself to think of those rotten, stagnant, pathetic excuses for tabloids that gave her ignorant monikas any moron with a thesaurus could create. Even more interesting was the impression that encounter had given Andrea hope – hope of what, exactly? That in the Ice Queen's chest beat a real heart than she'd stolen from the Tin Man? The idea made Miranda want to roll her eyes at the exaggerated fantasy.

However, the impudent girl had left her with an interesting idea.

A week or so after the benefit, Miranda was finishing a meeting with Nigel about a layout that stretched the boundaries of the word horrific, despite being uncomfortably close to the deadline for the issue, when the thought returned to her. The only colleague she'd known for so extended a length of time was usually her greatest strength, but the added side effect was also that he knew her better than most. It was unnerving, occasionally irritating and sometimes useful that he could read her mood with so little effort. Miranda hoped this would be one of the latter.

"You have Andrea's new phone number, I assume?" She said, her tone as soft as ever, not looking up. She'd expected a pause, in which he would frown and attempt to answer her with a question of his own. She'd expected resistance. She had not expected a slip of card to be placed gently on her desk, one end flicking onto the glass surface with a little snap and her slight pause as she registered the name and number written on the front must have given away her surprise.

"I had expected you to ask days ago." He said, a warmth in his tone she hoped for his sake was not amusement. Glancing up, Miranda shifted her fingers away from the card, wondering why she felt the urge to touch it at all. Who knew where it had come from, or who had touched it. Nigel was making a hasty retreat, which Miranda realised with a dangerous narrowing of her eyes did indicate he'd been affected by her simple remark, in a way Miranda was completely averse to. She couldn't let him think he'd gotten away with it, no matter how long he'd worked for her, or how loyal he was.

"Tell Jocelyn if this is not changed to something fabulously different by the time the Book reaches my house this evening, she will be utilising that redundant organ she laughingly calls a brain at some fast food chain with all the other imbeciles. That's all." The quickening pace to his steps as he left her office were satisfactory enough to have secured a smirk back over her lips and she settled back behind her desk, turning briskly to the next problem.

.~*~. .~*~. .~*~. .~*~.

That evening, Andrea Sachs received a rather strange text message. Or it would have been, if she had not known exactly who was sending it. She may not have the number programmed in her new phone – it had been part of her "leave it behind" movement – but she still recognised it. As if it could have been anyone else, with that last sentence. Although it could have been someone with a sick sense of humour, she supposed. But then, that would require someone at Runway who knew this woman's habits actually having a sense of humour and that kind of frivolity was drilled out of them all within days of contact with Miranda.

"No one walks away from me, Andrea, without my having the last word. That's all."

It didn't take any thinking to know where she'd gotten the number from. Only Nigel had it. Emily had her work number, in case of emergencies (the Brit had scoffed at the time that if there ever were an emergency, Andy would be the last person she'd call but the brunette knew the redhead was glad to have some way of contacting her. After all, who else was ever going to understand Em's daily frustration level?) But Andrea had considered that perhaps keeping in contact with Emily the way she had with Nigel wouldn't be good for either of them, at least until some time had passed – she had no idea whether Miranda would exact revenge for such disobedience on the part of her current assistant. Emily clearly had the same worry, and there was her loyalty to her world and Miranda to consider also.

It seemed now the worry was unfounded, and Andy found she was glad. When she was working late, she often thought about the sorry soul waiting around for the Book and understood from Nigel that had been Emily, consistently, since her departure. A few had come close to being considered, but they all slipped up eventually. Several times, she'd wanted to call, let Emily vent a bit, knowing she wouldn't be comfortable enough with whoever sat at the other desk to do so. Now, she could and would.

Focussing back on the text message, Andrea frowned. Then she smiled. Miranda was, on the surface, talking about their conversation from a week ago. Andy had left before the older woman could deliver her customary line and she'd exalted in her victory over the small phrase. But on the level of understanding it took to de-code Miranda, that wasn't what she meant at all. She meant Paris. Andrea sighed and leaned back on her couch, wondering if it would ever be possible to leave the thought of that place behind. And in a way, Miranda had spoken last – her recommendation to the Mirror. This new missive was a way of saying that this entanglement between them wasn't over.

Andy couldn't help wondering if it wouldn't be wiser to ignore the contact, wanting to lay to rest all the leftover ruckus from Runway. But... how many people did Miranda ever text? The twins? Emily on occasion, when she couldn't use the phone to call because of work. That put Andrea in a rather exclusive category, even if only because Miranda wanted some form of payback. Also, ignoring her previous boss was decidedly dangerous and not to mention rude. She decided she couldn't resist one last move on this game of theirs.

"Tell me, please, that you didn't enact Chinese water torture on anyone for this number?" Andy typed, subverting the topic completely.

"Nigel offered the information freely." Was the text she received in reply, aloof and somewhat intriguing. Had it really become so necessary for the editor to have the last word she would condescend to asking for small things like phone numbers? Andrea knew the man would not have offered the number unsolicited.

"And of course, after our conversation, you knew he would have it." Was her reply, a little sharp perhaps but hoping for some answers. The thought of Miranda using Nigel even now still brought a little tightness to Andy's mouth, though she knew it wouldn't have taken much persuasion on her friend's part. This entire set of circumstances felt like she was being led through a darkened room, guessing her way, and Andrea refused to feel that powerless in front of Miranda Priestley anymore. The reply took a little longer this time, ten minutes passed and Andrea almost began to breath normally again, before her new ringtone sounded once more.

"Have you discontinued your temper tantrum now?" Was the mocking text that blinked up at her and Andrea couldn't help growling a little. That was another example of dual layers – tonight, and Paris, all rolled into one conversation and Andy wished it was easier to have an honest, simple discussion with this woman.

"I would have thought you would be making every effort to remove the thought of me from your life." The brunette finally typed back, deciding with a deep breath that it was more conducive to keep her temper reigned in for the moment.

"I have. It was doomed from the beginning when Nigel and Emily continue to discuss you outside of my office. I can't decide if they don't like their jobs or they are foolish enough to believe I can't hear them when they're less than fifteen feet away." Andrea bit her thumb nail slightly as she made a mental note to warn her two friends of the impending cyclone that would head their way the next time they saw fit to discuss her in the office. The indication from Miranda that she wanted to hear nothing about Andy was odd, but not unexpected, although it did clash rather nicely with Miranda's current actions.

"I'm sure if you'd mentioned it, they would have discontinued the practise." That was the most defensive Andy could be without putting further jeopardy over both fashion devotees' jobs.

"With your warning, they should have done by tomorrow." The response irritated her, as if being used as a pet. Nevertheless, she sent a text to both the man and woman warning them against further mentions of her name.

"Is that why you contacted me? To pass along a warning?" She typed abruptly, wishing that typing on a mobile phone could be as effective as jack-hammering on a keyboard. There was none of the stress relief one got from typing heavily on keys on a keyboard.

"No." Was the only response she got and Andrea resisted the urge to reply, knowing she wouldn't get an answer. And that was the end of that slightly ridiculous conversation.

.~*~. .~*~. .~*~. .~*~.

It was another month before Andrea heard the name Miranda Priestley, aside from in casual conversations with Nigel and Emily. She'd recently been promoted, her writing was getting noticed and closer each day to the front of her current publication. It was gratifying to have her work recognised and to have her job inching slowly towards the "Enjoyable" edge of the scale, rather than hovering over "Interesting".

This interview had been with Senator Richards, who was planning to make some rather swift, sweeping changes to the education system – changes that Andy was not entirely sure were going to be beneficial. Apparently, her editor and the Senator had met at a party, hit it off well and he'd agreed to do the one-on-one interview for the Herald, despite its small size, so the brunette knew it had to be spectacular. She relished the opportunity though. They'd sat at the bar of the Ritz and talked for about an hour, her notebook was covered in scribbles and her audio recorder had been checked for sound quality. The article would be written this evening, once she'd had time to do some research.

She was sipping away the last of her Ginger Beer (non-alcoholic, obviously) when a maitre-de came over and hovered nervously just to the side of her. Thinking he was about to tell her to shift, Andy slung her bag over her shoulder and got up, giving him a slight nod as if to spare him the message, before his words brought her to an abrupt freeze.

"Ms. Priestley would like you to join her." Blinking, Andrea threw her gaze over his shoulder and swept the room, which made up the seating area for the hotel restaurant. Sure enough, sitting near the back wall in as private a place as it was possible to achieve in a room this size, sat the editor. Despite the silver head being tipped downwards, Andy could tell even from this distance she was being watched, carefully. Pushing the obvious questions about motives and circumstances from her, the brunette directed a sympathetic glance at the young man, who looked distinctly on edge.

"Please send Ms. Priestley my apologies, and tell her I'm late for another engagement." The watery blue eyes of the man in front of her suddenly went very wide and he began to shake his head slightly.

"Please Miss." He said rapidly in a hushed undertone Andrea knew he didn't need to bother with. Miranda had an acute sense of hearing, which was part of what made her such a devil to work for. "She wished for you to eat with her. Please!" There was almost a squeak in his voice now. Andrea sighed, knowing how much this poor boy had already irritated the infamous Ice Queen by not having the backbone to look her straight in the eye. Andy felt familiar sympathy edge into her expression and she put a hand out to him.

"I'll tell her." The brunette made her voice as warm and soothing as possible, and it seemed to work as the man began to breathe again and scuttled off in the direction of the kitchen. Andy resisted the heavy urge to roll her eyes at the self-satisfied smile she knew would be on Miranda's face at the reaction, before making her way across the quiet room towards the other woman, who was still observing her but now with a hint of triumph around her mouth.

"You certainly put the fear of the devil in him." Andrea said with a twist of amusement and dismay. Miranda flicked her wrist dismissively and gestured towards the chair across from her. "I can't stay, Miranda, that's what I came to tell you, because he couldn't. I have another meeting, and an article to write." Andy kept her expression void of reaction as twin steel-blue eyes fixed on her face.

"You would be eating lunch at some point during your day, I assume?" The voice matched the drop in temperature in the surrounding area. The slivers of blue lightening flashed down Andrea's figure, the implication one she'd never quite gotten used to during her time at Runway, so much so that she'd managed to keep her size four ass just to tease Nigel. Andy hoped Miranda hadn't noticed her hand clenching in her coat pocket. The last thing the young woman wanted was to give up possible ammunition. Directing her mind down a more logical path, Andrea tried to take a subtle, long breath.

"Aren't you meeting someone?" Andy nodded at the other chair. Miranda never went out to lunch by herself, it was always easier to have an assistant run out for her chosen meal of the day at whatever time she saw fit, and then promptly decide that was not what she wanted or eat barely half of it so it felt the whole journey was a waste of time and food. Andy had speculated that the older woman got her sustenance from the fear she inspired rather than food, like the rest of the mere mortals.

"I was supposed to be." Withholding a wince, she wondered whose job it had been to confirm this appointment and wondering if it was a reasonable sudden cancellation – Miranda got that icy fire in her eyes no matter what the circumstances surrounding a broken engagement, be it a genuine emergency for the other party – such as a serious hospital visit – or a mistake by her immediate subordinates. "Sit down Andrea." Miranda finally snapped, her patience with getting refused clearly already wearing thin. Much as Andy had no intention or wish to prolong Miranda's influence over her life, she did have a few questions. The bill would set her back by a week's wages, but hopefully, would be a balance to the answers she'd find a way to obtain.

Sliding into the other seat gracefully, the brunette retrieved her notebook from her bag and began to go through her notes from earlier, underlining or crossing out as appropriate. Andrea wondered whether she was going to be subjected to another reprimand about behaving like a child, could feel the ice burn from the look being directed her way, but refused to look up. She refused to do Miranda the favour of opening up conversation. The urge to babble out her nerves was gripped by her sensibility at last.

"Is this business, Andrea?" A low, frozen tone finally breached the gap and Andy shook her head, looking up at the other woman with a tiny smirk.

"No Miranda. I remember, vividly, how much you despise the paparazzi and I would never wish to add 'blood hound' to what I suspect is an extensive list of my failings." There was almost a smile in response and the brunette almost dropped her notebook. "I also remember how much you despise small talk." Andy finished before going back to studying her own handwriting.

"Do you not think this little pantomime is counterproductive?" Came the voice again, barely a second later, and Andy looked up in time to see an elegant hand lift a beautiful cut glass towards Miranda's lips, water being briefly sipped before replaced on the table. It was a serious competition with herself to ignore the action and make sure her subject did not clock her observation.

"In what way?" The brunette could have wished for a more steady voice just then.

"Well, if you intend not to speak throughout the entire meal, how will you ask me all those questions fluttering so chaotically inside your little head?" Before she could stop them, her eyes had risen and met Miranda's across the table, a little too wide not to be shocked. There was a smug look hovering over the other woman's face that matched her tone perfectly as she met the glance head on, her lips pursing slightly in encouragement of the disdained kind. Andrea wondered sometimes if the woman had sold her soul for Prada shoes, Valentino dresses and the ability to read minds. With an irritated twitch of her expression she took great pains to hide, the young woman put down her notes on the table with her pen tucked into the volume to mark her page.

"Fine. Why did you contact me?" The straightforward question was a relief – Andy hated playing at code-Miranda.

"You gave me no alternative." Miranda answered smoothly as the waiter approached and set a dish down in front of the editor, then Andy. With a flicker of annoyance, the brunette looked up, realising the older woman had ordered before she'd even asked her to join her. The gaze she sought was focussed upon its own plate and Andrea bit hard on the inside of her lip to release the remaining warmth in her blood that lingered from anger. At least it wasn't salad. Picking up her fork, Andrea levelled her gaze at the other woman, waiting the rest of her answer, not willing to ask. "Are you expecting me to explain?" Miranda added, her tone dripping with mock-politeness. Andy exhaled softly through her nose, both in exasperation and amusement.

"I know better." Andrea conceded, finally turning her attention to her meal. They ate in silence, both considering their next move. The young brunette wondered whether she ought to go back to her notebook – every other question she had could be answered by something as equally innocuous as the first was. And no doubt would be, if she chose to voice them. Therefore, she held them all back, and buried them for a time when she could finally find one that might draw a useful answer. Once they'd both finished eating, Miranda gave her a nod and stood, gathering up her coat and purse while Andy once again could only blink at her.

"Andrea, has your sight deteriorated so badly under the fluorescent lamps which are no doubt installed where you work that you are required to blink that often, or should I assume there is something wrong?" That was a tone Andy was very familiar with – she'd been berated by it for many months and it still managed to shoot adrenaline straight into her blood stream, the flight response ready and waiting.

"The bill?" She asked, looking up at the silver haired woman from her seat as she packed her notes into her satchel and began to search for her purse.

"Taken care of." Was the short response and Andy frowned, standing to give Miranda a full view of her expression. "Do not argue, Andrea. It's most unbecoming." This time, Andy really had to bite her tongue as she twisted her body away to pick up her things, not wanting to pick a fight now even if she did have a right to. She was not anyone Miranda should be paying for lunch for. She was capable of paying for her own food, even preferred to. But she knew from much previous experience that is was not an argument she could win. Slinging the long strap of her bag over her shoulder, Andrea turned around and found, oddly, that Miranda had waited for her. Despite however suspicious the action was, it was also shockingly human for the editor and Andy decided to take it on a little faith.

Together, almost in step, they walked to the front of the hotel before Andy turned to head in the opposite direction as Miranda's car pulled up to the kerb. Andy had managed to take a few steps, listening to the sharp snap of heels on the sidewalk to track Miranda's progress, the car door made its usual succinct noise as it was opened, when she heard her name being called softly, in that accent that made it unique to one individual. For a moment, the brunette closed her eyes, wishing away the pull of that whispery command. Then she turned back around.

Andy found burning blue eyes, bright and flashing with a glow she didn't recognise from any of the time she'd spent at Runway, resting on her shoes, travelling slowly up her legs, tracing around her torso before finally finding her face and a twist of a smirk made it over the pale, soft pink lips of the Ice Queen. Her usual, large, dark sunglasses were at the level of her nose, allowing Andy to see both pieces of Miranda's expression that were most likely to tell the truth.

"That's all." The voice was equal, normal, but the gaze had not been and as the sunglasses were slid back into place, Andrea couldn't help swallowing impulsively. She caught a glimpse of the smirk growing before the car door was shut and Andy could force herself to turn around, her feet once more resuming their staccato beat along the New York sidewalk. Only Miranda Priestley would have the nerve, the sheer utter nerve, to survey her in that manner on a street. In front of so many people. Probably because she was completely sure none of those people would be looking at her eyes – it took a lot more backbone than the average New Yorker possessed to meet that steely gaze.

And there was something... something different. Miranda always used to look her up and down, to check her outfit, her makeup, to ensure everything was perfect while she was at Runway, because it was expected that she maintain certain standards.

Andrea could never remember seeing that glow before today, though. And she was beginning to grasp what it had been.

.~*~. .~*~. .~*~. .~*~.

Three months after that lunch at the Ritz, Emily Charlton pushed open the door to the art department viewing room, her pace hurried and eyes glancing back over her shoulder at least ten times in a minute. Nigel didn't even look up, he could tell by the perfume and the shoes exactly who had entered his office and knew why she had come. In a vague sense anyway.

"Don't tell me. We've got a Miranda problem." He said calmly, moving the magnifying glass he was using a little to one side to examine the next print before finally straightening his back and feeling a few of his vertebrae crack. He was getting a little too old for this, or so his body told him. Emily threw one last look over her shoulder before drawing one hand over the air near her eyes and lifting the other one to place a bundle she'd been carrying on the worktop. Nigel grimaced in distaste at the volumes Emily had brought into his space.

"There's no need for that." He said, as if she'd done something very offensive, which in this case, she probably had but Emily was wound a little too tightly to see the wry humour.

"We have a problem." The redhead hissed, her nails beginning a rapid drumbeat on top of the stack of trashy magazines she'd just produced.

"I said that. Would you like to elaborate, or am I supposed to guess why you brought those filthy rags into my space?" His disgust was directed wholeheartedly at the lurid titles upon which Emily clearly meant to make a point.

"Do you know where I found these?" Emily asked in an agitated murmur, leaning over the surface Nigel was working on.

"In the trash, where they belong?" He replied archly and was surprised when Emily nodded her head sharply.

"Exactly. In the trash. She never puts them in the trash. She'll shove them just about anywhere on her desk, she'll turn them over, she'll even put them on the floor, but she never puts them in the bin. That's my job, in the evening or morning, before the new ones are arranged. I checked with the new girl, she didn't do it – she wouldn't be caught dead in Miranda's office after that debacle with the coaster two weeks ago. So why, pray tell, is Miranda ignoring two years worth of good old fashioned habit and throwing these – these – you said it, rags in the bin!" The level of stress in Emily's voice rose with each sentence and Nigel, to his credit, actually began to take in what she was saying.

Gingerly, as if he might catch something, he reached out to the abominations Emily was glaring daggers at and flipped them open, one by one, looking for something that might cause their fearless leader to stuff the offending articles into a rubbish receptacle. After two, and then a third, presented a similar article and set of pictures, he knew what he was looking for and began to leave them open, spread out over the light table. Emily's breathing was beginning to deepen, anger beginning to creep over her face now she had an enemy to fight.

From the open pages of all the magazines Emily had rescued, smiled the glowing face of one Andrea Sachs. Many of the pictures were taken on different nights of the week, in several hot-spot locations, and in every photo she had someone else close by – a man, a woman, it didn't matter. Everyone in each picture seemed to be drawn to her. Several of the people around her were well known to the gossip columns, popular artists, a singer that had gotten into the charts recently, a few heirs to New York money. The articles from earlier on were focussed on those people, but as the brunette appeared in more places, with more people, looking so very stunning, the attention shifted to her.

How Andy had met these people, he couldn't fathom – perhaps through that friend at the art gallery, or through her work, but her natural friendliness was clearly bringing more into her social circle. The camera loved her and the paparazzi were clearly starting to appreciate the list of names she brought to their articles. Nigel had a very serious feeling of foreboding creeping up through his chest and was wondering if giving Miranda the business card had been a good idea after all. This had not been part of the plan.

"That woman will be the death of me. Or vice versa." Somehow, Nigel had a feeling Emily didn't mean Miranda this time.

.~*~. .~*~. .~*~. .~*~.

Nigel kept an eye on the gossip rags after that, occasionally, when he could bear the horrendous colours and catastrophic designs. He was closest to Andy of anyone at Runway and he knew in his heart that something was "up". Andy liked quiet nights in, with popcorn and a movie, Andy liked reading and eating dinner with friends. Andy did not like clubs, Andy did not alcohol that much and Andy did not swap her lovers like Miranda did her clothes. Another month of still seeing Andy's face in the magazines – admittedly, not as often, but he suspected that was simply because it was not shocking anymore – he finally thought he'd figured it out.

He knew Emily had finally succumbed to taking Andy's late night phone calls and the young redhead did look better for it – less twisted into ridiculous shapes, now merely her snobbish, sarcastic, efficient self and he knew Miranda had noticed. He'd yet to work out whether the editor knew why, or how she felt about the development if she did know, but considered the lack of reaction akin to permission from their boss, because really, there was such a small chance Miranda didn't know, it wasn't worth considering. Nigel was also aware that the redhead had threatened, rebuked, along with all manner of other unpleasant things, the younger brunette in an effort to cease her appearances in Miranda's magazines, still very uncomfortable with the change to such a wonderfully set routine.

He also had heard from Emily that the reply had been an adamant, warm but firm 'no'.

"Em, I do care about you, God knows why, but I do. But that doesn't extend far enough to influence how I chose to spend my evenings. Miranda no longer controls my life. I'm certainly not going to let a few magazines in a bin stop me from having fun. Besides, it's me she's mad at, if she is, not you." That had been of little comfort to the redhead, but she had eventually relented, acknowledging Andrea's point. The young woman was free from their dominating boss, she didn't need to care that this break in habit was disturbing and hinted at trouble, and maybe that was why Emily felt just a little jealous of the ex-assistant.

Both he and Emily heard also, through different sources, that the young journalist's escapades in the gossips had done her quite a bit of a favour – apparently, a humanised reporter was more appealing, someone the public empathised with and she was helping to sell several other magazines to boot. Nigel doubted any of those people looking for Andy's face every day had a clue why it was really there. Regardless of her motives, and due to the lack of scandal surrounding her affairs, which all remained remarkably amicable considering, a post was offered to her at the New Yorker – a very good post, in fact. And she accepted, naturally.

Nigel knew then he had to call, even if it was just to say congratulations. He knew the girl had dreamed of working for that paper for her entire career and she would be happy to share that joy. Her initial breathlessness when she answered the phone told him just how wide her smile was and he told her how happy he was, how Emily had even sniffed her praise a little at the news, and Andy laughed delightedly. She took him through her first few articles, told him where to look, and he hoped he would remember. She seemed to sense the next topic of conversation and sobered up quite fast, waiting for him to announce his view.

"Andy, I know I said drastic darling, but really... Page Six? Those terrible tabloid rags? It's marvellous you're having some fun, goodness knows you deserve it after all the hard work you've done to get your dream job, but all of that won't make you forget. Trust me." Nigel waited, hoping he had not been too hard on her.

"It's doing a pretty damn good job so far." She replied in a low voice, as if she was tired and Nigel tried to reach out to her.

"When I gave her your number, I expected some sort of reconciliation not handbags at dawn!" He hoped his tone was light and joking, despite not feeling that way at all. Ever since this dangerous game had started, he'd been avoiding a fizz at the back of his head, the warning of a shift in pressure, the calm before the storm.

"I told you not to get involved. Giving her my number was your choice, not mine. This is Miranda we're talking about. How did you not expect a little jousting?" There was a hint of teasing there, but not enough.

"Well, can you at least open peaceful negotiations sometime soon? You're giving poor Emily a stomach ulcer." He didn't mention the addition stress on himself, because he never whined, but he could have used a fair few others names on top of Emily Charlton.

"I can't make any promises and you know it, Nigel." She didn't sound very repentant and Nigel knew it was a lost cause appealing to a conscience in this situation. There was apparently too much invested in a battle-plan he wasn't aware of.

"I know Emily told you about Miranda throwing the magazines with articles about you in the bin. According to our dear Brit, you have made her break a steadfast habit of two years. Congratulations!" He really hoped to hear a smile, even a faint one, in her voice when she next spoke.

"It's a start." There wasn't as much punch to that triumph as he would have liked. "Is Em ok? I didn't mean to cause her any trouble." Now that was the Andy he knew and loved.

"She's fine, declaring war on everyone and nothing, planning your execution, traipsing after Miranda. Nothing new." They both chuckled a little.

"I'm glad Em'll never change. Tell her I say hi, and that she can call tonight if she likes, I've got a while before I head home. I think the venting is helping, even if it is mostly about me." There was an unmistakable giggle to that and Nigel felt much better.

"Talk to you sometime soon Six, we need a night out. Well, I definitely do. Think you've already got it covered for both of us." He teased and he heard a 'tut' sound as if mock-exasperated.

"Speaking of going out, I have someone I want you to meet. He's an artist from Brooklyn, but you'd never know it. He looks like he walked into the world in an Armani suit. I promised him I'd drag you out to see him." Andy sounded excited again and Nigel felt a tingle of similar feeling at the thought of finally meeting someone who understood what he did.

"Alright sweetie, just let me know when and where."

"You bet, speak soon!" Nigel felt a good deal better about his friend and himself by the time the dial tone sang in his ear then realised she'd used the same technique as she was using on herself on him. Cheeky madam. In the dearest sense.

.~*~. .~*~. .~*~. .~*~.

Two months after the enlightening phone call, an auction was held for several different charities by a wealth of magazine proprietors, sponsors and contributors. Andy's articles and growing standing within the publishing world led to her being placed in the last column, alongside many of the authors she'd looked up to over the years and a certain editor whom she'd not spoken to since their lunch around six months ago. The lack of contact had been deliberate on the young journalist's part – she knew Miranda expected her to make the next move, and in a way, she had. Andrea just had to wait, to see whether her actions had the desired effect.

The large gathering was ensconced in a luscious ballroom, with tables lining the walls that were alternately covered in food and items for the auction. Andrea and her escort this evening, a charming young man with Italian good looks, arrived quite early in the evening. Now that she finally had a little money to spare for things like this, the brunette intended to do some good with it and they used the early hour to make a circle around the edge of the hall, Andy bidding on a few of the smaller items, a picnic hamper full of luxurious food and drink, a weekend in Hawaii, that kind of thing, not paying much attention to her date. The guests were arriving fairly steadily, the crowd having a relaxed and easy feeling to it. Because of this, Andy knew the minute Miranda arrived.

There was an outbreak of excited and frantic shouting and flashing of lights from the entrance, where the press were gathered, and then a general quiet spread through the hall as everyone, in a slow wave, flicking their heads to watch Miranda enter, flanked as always by Emily on one side and Nigel on the other. Conversation did not stop completely, but it was clear everyone in the room was at least curious to see what the fashion maven was wearing, if not registering her mood. Andrea resisting looking around, even when her young man craned his neck around her to see what the fuss was about.

It was only when the room had returned to its usual beat and chatter rose back up that Andrea allowed her head to turn and register the presence she'd recognise anywhere in the corner of her eye. She caught a flash of smoothly entwined black and white that was undoubtedly Miranda's dress and briefly amused herself constructing a Cruella De Vil-esque vision in her mind's eye, with the editor's face, but dismissed it before she had to laugh at the ridiculousness. Knowing she would be in a position to observe the person she so wanted to see soon enough, she guided her escort to the edge of room again to check on the bids for their items. It took only a few carefully placed steps and she could steal a few looks in Miranda's direction without a hope of the other woman knowing.

Her dress was a swirl of black velvet, with white glimpsed under the layers of fabric when they fluttered, and it suited her perfectly, as if made for her. But then, all of the gowns Miranda wore – not necessarily just the ones designed for her - felt completely hers. Andrea smiled slightly to herself, thinking of James Holt and a disgusting red creation with a ridiculous bow that even she had known was a catastrophe, before firmly pushing all contemplation of the older woman out of her mind. That one assessment was all she would allow herself tonight. It was necessary, essential even. Concentrating on the man whose arm she was holding, Andy smiled wider and engaged in the conversation around her.

Across the room, Nigel was trying to watch both his friends at the same time, attempting to pin down exactly what was going on. Miranda was being her usual, gracious self that she adopted for these appearances but whenever she had a moment, her eyes would spin outward and find the figure they were both more interested in across the room. The slight brunette was in another dark colour – blackberry this time, a fact that should have made her easier to pinpoint in such a crowd, all of whom were partial to the same black tie formal wear. But the cut of the gown, which was a halter-neck and flowed downwards, making the most of those legs that went on for years and elegantly curved figure, made for a devastating effect on the attention span of anyone to catch sight of her.

It didn't exactly hug the figure beneath – but made the observer feel as though getting closer to find out was a mission they absolutely had to undertake. A subtle come-hither that was just this side of acceptable, considering she had company, and it was a comfort to know Andrea would never have been able to accomplish such a sophisticated elegance before her tenure at Runway. Nigel was proud of her. The long brunette hair was half up, twisted neatly at the back of her head while the rest brushed constantly against her shoulders and the top of her dress. A subtle silver chain hung across her collarbones, and a small diamond nestled in the hollow of the young woman's neck. Nigel couldn't have done a better job himself.

Disappointingly, same could not be said for the man currently sneaking an arm around the innocent beauty's waist. Well, perhaps she wasn't so innocent anymore – Nigel knew the glow from Andy's skin could not all be down to good make up and champagne. But the man also knew his dear friend was not investing her interest in that latino. A rather unpleasant vapour of heavy aftershave could almost be imagined wafting from the tanned skin, the dark hair slicked back as if to imitate Antonio Banderas and failing miserably. He wasn't unattractive, by any means, a Mediterranean build and tan to make any heterosexual female's mouth water, but apparently not Andy's. That young man, Nigel surmised, was nothing more than cover.

Miranda had been watching Nigel as he surveyed Andrea, and concluded from the unguarded confusion and dismay that filled his eyes that he had drawn similar conclusions to herself about her ex-assistant's company for the evening. Of course she was aware the young woman's tastes varied quite widely these days – she did glance into the horrendous drivel that she almost immediately relegated to her waste paper – but that young man did not seem to capture those dark eyes for more than a few seconds.

The editor of Runway was no fool. Andrea did not suit the role of manipulator, nor would Miranda have guessed that she would take to such a position so believably. It did not change the situation. Miranda refused to accept this was the answer to her overtones from their last encounter. The young woman she had employed was faithful to a fault, in every part of her life; this behaviour was so out of character it could only be a point. And Miranda knew the point had to be for her. Andrea was no longer under her thumb, she would not be pressed upon by her ex-boss anymore. A short, sharp, silent exhalation of breath through her nose was the only allowance the woman made to her irritation.

Why did the silly girl insist on surprising her?

Still, she was Miranda Priestley after all, and manipulation was her game. Andrea should have been aware by now that the older woman never lost anything she had set her mind to acquiring. The editor was in her own arena, in her natural setting and it was pointless to resist in such circumstances. Slowly, unnoticeably, Miranda began her approach in a similar pattern as Andrea had used, all those months ago. A less experienced attendee would have trouble following her progress, only her finely attuned awareness of the both the room and Andrea had bequeathed her the foreknowledge last time.

With a pace that was uniquely hers, Miranda navigated the room, keeping a constant check on Andrea's position, circling a little closer. A quick conversation and two glasses of champagne, and she'd closed the distance between them significantly. Satisfied she had yet to be noticed by the woman she was pursuing, she paused and made a short bid on a couple of items before restraining herself from turning her nose quite literally up in the air at the sight of immensely unhealthy food on the table nearby. It was upon turning back to her prey that she remembered a rule of the hunt – never take your eyes of the target. Andrea had moved, quite significantly, in the opposite direction from her, putting even more space between them than there had been. Miranda felt fire flash in her eyes and turned back into the conversation around her as a distraction.

Once she was sure the irritating girl was once again involved in the conversation of her neighbours, Miranda began another approach, in a vague kind of zig-zag that cut off most of Andrea's escape options. Not once, to her slight surprise, did she note the young woman's gaze anywhere near her, but not pointedly in another direction either. Almost as if the brunette was completely unaware of her presence at all, which Miranda knew was untrue. Just as she was about to make one last pass before stepping into Andrea's circle, a woman knocked into her, the drink in her hand coming perilously close to Miranda's dress and the editor was forced to wave the foolish woman away, apologies still falling from her like waves of rancid incompetence.

To her growing, wildly annoyed impatience, Andrea had once again made her escape, not quite as far but Miranda knew she would not reach her now unless she was willing to be direct and her ex-assistant knew she would not do that. A chill of fury settled in her veins and Miranda promised herself that at the next event, she would corner the maddening young woman and force her to rethink her behaviour tonight, would induce a confession that it had been inexcusable. For a moment, Miranda allowed her fury to overwhelm her thinking, tempting her into striding straight across to Andrea and confronting her. The inclination was promptly reigned in as a microphone was picked up and the auction began.

With a twitch of relief, the editor was glad to notice Nigel had found her and was now by her side, Emily on the other, having followed Miranda on all of her tours in odd shapes around the room and no doubt wondering what purpose her boss could possibly have for taking the routes she had. It did not matter – Emily would not question it for long, and despite the unlikelihood she should approach the truth, her loyalty would automatically redirect the thought from its destination.

The final decisions of the auction were then announced, Miranda having successfully bid on a several items. Notably, Andrea also won an apparently luxurious food and drink hamper which she caught Emily suppressing a snicker over. Her Mediterranean boyfriend however was much more successful than either of them. He was attributed the weekend holiday in Paris, a sizable yacht and a time share on a villa in some beach resort. Miranda resisted the urge to purse her lips at the frivolity, feeling a tiny hint of a smirk as Nigel shook his head at the man. The phrase 'more money than sense' seemed dryly appropriate.

Every line in her body straightened and remained painfully taught, however, when the young man proclaimed he was taking "Andy" to the city of love, saying loudly that it would be her favourite place in the world once she'd seen it with him. The implication was at once insulting and offensive. It was of little comfort that he obviously had no idea that her ex-assistant had any memories attached to the foreign city, memories that would always belong to Miranda. The editor took a vicious joy in that thought, despite her own memories from the time shared with Andrea in Paris not being completely pleasant.

Seeing Nigel once more shake his head, Miranda felt a little of the tension within her muscles dissolve. Andrea, for her part, handled the declaration with no flinch at all and merely smiled, if somewhat vacantly. The lack of reaction did not help the silver haired woman immunise herself to the thought that this woman, whom she considered well and truly hers, had a steady line of lovers, a few of whom could be found in this room, and all of those people had a claim to Andrea that her ex-boss could not boast. Yet. Miranda waited with as little impatience as she could for the rest of the items to be decided than quickly made her exit for the evening, unwilling to watch the latino fawning a second longer. Her one, miniscule consolation was that Andrea's recent reputation assured her he would not remain fawning for long.

.~*~. .~*~. .~*~. .~*~.