Archive of Our Own ^beta

Two years.

It had been two years since Andy had seen Miranda across the street, just after she'd gotten her job at the Mirror, just after she'd left her life at Runway behind. She'd left Miranda behind, too. Or so she'd thought. So she'd intended, anyway.

But now, looking at Miranda in a banquet room, Andy realized she'd never left her behind at all. She hadn't walked away a single step. Looking at Miranda here and now, Andy felt very much as if she'd just quit her job at Runway yesterday. No. More like she'd just been hired at Runway yesterday and had never quit.

Andy was covering the board meeting-cum-luncheon of a philanthropy committee. She'd completely forgotten that Miranda was on the committee, and had been bowled over to see her evil, malicious, former boss sitting at a table just a few feet away. But Miranda hadn't seemed to notice Andy; she just sat at her table with her wealthy, snooty peers, and paid no attention at all to the invited reporters hanging around in the back of the room. No wonder, really. She must have trained herself to ignore journalists and photographers completely, until maybe she didn't even see them anymore.

Then again, she never really had seen Andy. Not until the very end, and even then, she hadn't seen Andy very well--she'd only seen the parts of Andy that reminded her of herself. Typical. Andy curled her hands into fists.

A handsome man sat to Miranda's right. Her latest beau. A successful writer, actually. They'd been photographed together in all the gossip rags, and in the last few weeks he'd always had his hand on her elbow or at her waist. The word on the street was that his latest novel was set to land instantly on the bestseller list as soon as it was published. Of course, Miranda's influence in that regard wouldn't hurt his chances either.

Miranda looked much the same as she had two years ago. She was dressed like a queen, as always, and her silver hair swept around her face like a cloud. She appeared calm and relaxed, if not exactly happy. Andy had certainly seen worse from her, and not much better. Apparently Mr. Writer was good for her. Well. How special. Andy's fists clenched harder and something in her stomach started to hurt.

When the luncheon broke up, and everyone began heading for the doors, Andy watched Miranda's boyfriend gallantly hold her chair out for her. She thanked him with a small smile and a light hand on his arm. He gave her a charming grin.

"Hi, Miranda," Andy said.

Miranda and her man turned to see Andy. Andy hadn't quite realized that she was approaching them, but here she was now, standing almost in Miranda's personal space.

Miranda raised an eyebrow. "Hello…?" she said, and her voice actually trailed off.

Andy stared at her in disbelief. "It's Andy," she said. "I mean Andrea. Andrea Sachs." Miranda blinked, appearing politely confused, as if she'd never laid eyes on Andy in her life.

Sure. When inconsequential people tried to introduce themselves to Miranda, she had no problem brushing them off like flies. Miranda knew perfectly well who Andy was. The wicked, nearly-invisible gleam in her eyes proved it.

Well, Andy could be a bitch too, easy as pie. She turned to Miranda's beau with a big smile and extended her hand. "Hi, sorry to intrude. I'm Andy Sachs, I used to work for Miranda." She tilted her head towards Miranda, and gave the guy a resigned, you-know-how-she-is grin. "I just wanted to say hello."

"Oh, well," he said, shaking her hand and looking surprised. "Hi. It's nice to meet you."

"Thanks," Andy said, and gave him another sunny smile. "Congratulations on your new book coming out, by the way. I've heard some great buzz. I can't wait to read it."

Now he looked pleased. Chuffed, even. "Well, thank you, miss. I'm always glad to meet a fan."

"Oh, yeah," Andy said. "Big-time fan." She beamed. He glowed.

"You know," Miranda said quietly, "I do believe I remember you after all."

Andy turned to look at Miranda with raised eyebrows, as if she'd completely forgotten that Miranda was standing there. "Oh!" she said. "Good. I hoped you would." She beamed again.

"Chad," Miranda said, and patted her boyfriend's arm, "I think I'd like to stay and chat for a little while. Why don't you go on ahead?"

He looked surprised again. "Don't you want me to wait for you, honey?"

Honey? Andy hoped that Miranda could see the sneer in her eyes. Miranda's own eyes narrowed, which meant that she could. "No, no," she said. "You've got a busy day ahead of you, organizing your tour. I'll call you this evening."

"All right," he said, squeezed her elbow, and even bent down to kiss her cheek. Miranda never broke eye contact with Andy.

He left. Andy and Miranda were alone in the room, except for the serving staff that had arrived to clean up.

"Let's go somewhere else," Miranda said.

"Sounds great," Andy replied brightly.

Miranda led the way down the hallway to a quiet conference room with two long tables. Andy shut the door behind them both with a strange, warm feeling curling in her belly.

She didn't know what she was doing. She didn't know what impulse had led her to shove herself in Miranda's face again, to needle her; she certainly didn't know why she'd followed Miranda down the hallway so eagerly, when it was obvious Miranda was planning to tear her a new one for her insolence.

And she really, genuinely, truly didn't know why she turned to Miranda and said, without preamble, "I've never known anybody named 'Chad' who wasn't a complete asshole."

Miranda, who had opened her mouth to say something undoubtedly blistering, snapped it shut as her eyes widened. She evidently hadn't been expecting that.

Fair enough, neither had Andy. "Just thought I'd mention that," she said, and added, "honey."

"I am honestly not sure what I've done to merit this attitude," Miranda said, "but I hope I enjoyed it thoroughly."

Andy bit her lip in sudden, embarrassed remorse. Miranda had a point. Bitch though she was, she'd graciously given Andy a new lease on life after Runway. What right did Andy have now, after two years, to walk up out of nowhere and start acting like a bitch?

She was even considering saying so when Miranda added, "Because I am going very much to enjoy getting you fired, or run out of town, or however you want to look at it. Oh yes, I'm really going to enjoy that. If this is the sort of thanks I get for saving your career."

Andy's jaw dropped. "Saving--? Of, of all the gall," she spluttered.

Miranda sneered. "You can't possibly think you would have gotten your job if I hadn't provided a recommendation," she said.

"You remember that, huh?" Andy said. Miranda started. "Wow, that's amazing. Five minutes ago you didn't even recognize my face, and now it all comes rushing back."

"I remember plenty," Miranda spat, finally dropping the act and looking at Andy with poison in her eyes. "Chiefly, I remember that I made you what you are."

"Wha--that's ridiculous," Andy said.

"Is it?" Miranda narrowed her eyes. "You've gotten cocky in the last couple of years."

"Confident," Andy snapped. It was true. She'd grown a lot, changed a lot, learned a lot. And she wasn't about to take Miranda's shit like she used to. "My editor liked me right away. My year at Runway was the only question he even had. And he knows all about how difficult you are. Everybody does." She glared at Miranda. "I've done good work in the last two years. I've gotten a promotion. He won't let me go just on your say-so. Not now."

"You sound very sure," Miranda said softly.

"I am," Andy said, which was the biggest lie ever. She'd never been sure of anything, anything at all, when it came to Miranda Priestly, except for the way Miranda always made her feel as tightly-wound as a corkscrew. And electrified, and scared, and alive. Right now Andy felt more alive than she'd felt in ages.

Miranda, too, seemed to be lit by some inner glow. Gone was the bland, blank expression she'd worn around Chad. Andy had watched her during the whole luncheon, and not once had Miranda seemed to pay attention to her surroundings. Here, though, here and now, she was completely present in the moment. With Andy.

"I don't owe you anything," Andy said, trying to believe it, swallowing hard at the pure blueness of Miranda's eyes.

"No?" Miranda murmured in her silkiest voice.

"No," Andy croaked.

"One might say," Miranda drawled, "that you are ungrateful. And self-righteous. And perhaps a little more 'confident' than is strictly warranted."

Andy's eyes widened. Miranda smirked. Well--that was just--

"One might say you," Andy replied shakily, "are controlling, repressed, deeply disturbed, and let's not forget--lonely and sad."

Miranda raised an eyebrow, trying to look bored, but her eyes flashed. A cheap shot? Totally.

And then Miranda turned and headed for the door. Andy's breath caught and her heart surged with feeling. Victory at driving Miranda off? No. Disappointment. She realized, with shock, that she didn't want Miranda to leave. She didn't want that at all.

But Miranda did not leave. Instead, she reached out and locked the door.

Then she turned back to look at Andy, and murmured, "One might say a lot of things."

Something about the way she said it made Andy's heart stop. Made her face flush. Made her sweat, and thrill. And then Andy realized it hadn't gone away.

It hadn't left her. Not in two years, not at all: that heat, that fire in her belly and her heart whenever she looked at Miranda. And judging from the blaze in Miranda's own eyes…she felt the same way.

Holy shit.

The door was locked. They were alone. There was every reason in the world not to--and there was no reason at all not to.

"One might do a lot of things, too," Andy said casually.

"One might," Miranda whispered, fire smoldering in her bright blue eyes.

"If you're interested, I mean," Andy said, and tilted her head to the side, giving Miranda a tiny, hopeful smile, but also room to refuse.

Miranda's cheeks flushed. "I," she said, cleared her throat, and rasped, "I could be."

Andy's heart began to race. Yes. Oh, yes. It was time they did this. Past time.

She kept her eyes locked with Miranda's as she lifted her hands to her jacket and unzipped it.

Miranda's eyes widened. Her pupils dilated, even as a soft, predatory smile teased her lips. And, without further ado, she began unbuttoning her blazer; then, when she'd tossed it casually into a nearby corner along with her handbag, she removed her silver necklace. Andy threw her own jacket over the back of a chair.

Then they stepped forward, facing each other, breathing rapidly. Andy's whole body now glowed with heat. Miranda actually licked her lips.

"Miranda?" Andy said hoarsely.

"Yes, Andrea?" Miranda purred.

"I," said Andy, "am absolutely going to kick your ass."

But Miranda swung first. The flat of her palm connected with Andy's cheek in a sharp crack, and Andy staggered backwards, stunned by the surprising strength behind the blow, her eyes already stinging with tears. But when Miranda raised her hand for a second slap, Andy was prepared, and grabbed her wrist before she could connect.

"At least you fight like a woman," she said, and just had time to see Miranda's eyes widen in fury before she rammed her head forward, slamming into Miranda's nose with a tremendous head-butt that sent Miranda reeling in her turn.

After that, it was war. Miranda recovered with admirable balance, considering her nosebleed and high heels, and used those same stilettos in an attempt to cripple Andy by driving one down onto the top of her foot. Andy, wearing sturdy boots, kicked back, and struck Miranda in the shin. Miranda lost her footing with a cry, and grabbed on to Andy's hair to keep her balance, bending Andy double at the waist and using the opportunity to drive her knee upwards into Andy's stomach. Twice.

"Ungh," Andy pointed out, and flailed upward, clawing with her nails until she struck flesh. Miranda gasped, let go of Andy's hair, and pulled her head back--Andy must have scratched close to her eyes--before swinging at Andy once more with her palm flat. Andy grabbed her wrist again and then let fly with the first real punch of the day, knocking Miranda backwards with her best right hook, just like in her favorite fantasies. Yeah--that was for piping-hot Starbucks and Harry Potter and smart fat girl and--

Miranda did not retreat, even though she had a bloody nose, scratches on her cheeks, and was definitely going to develop a hell of a shiner. Instead she wrenched her hand free and shoved Andy backwards; when Andy lost her balance, Miranda lunged forward, grabbed her by the elbows, and yanked her back in for a head-butt of her own, slamming her forehead into Andy's mouth. Andy's head rocked backwards, and Miranda shoved her again. Andy landed flat on her ass on the floor, and then Miranda landed on top of her, grabbing her shoulders and trying to pin her. She'd ditched both her shoes.

"Oh--no--way," Andy growled, curled her left hand into a fist, and jabbed upwards, quick and sharp, punching Miranda's right breast dead on the nipple. Miranda's eyes bugged out as she yelped in agony. Andy took the opportunity to roll over, to try and pin Miranda in her turn, but Miranda had already recovered, and drove her own fist into Andy's face with a vengeance. As it happened, she was wearing a large ring, and while it wasn't quite as effective as brass knuckles, it still cut into Andy's cheek, hurt like a bitch, and brought tears to her eyes again.

But Miranda didn't try for seconds. Instead, she shoved Andy off her and scrambled back to her feet. Andy had no idea why until she lurched to her own feet, just in time for Miranda to grab the glass water pitcher from the nearest table and swing it right at Andy's head.

Andy ducked just in time, cowering behind her own hands. "You cheating cunt," she cried, "you can't--"

"Oh, sorry," Miranda panted, "were there rules?" And she swung again, driving Andy backwards into another table to avoid a blow.

The pitcher was empty of water. The glasses on the table weren't. Andy fumbled blindly behind her, grabbed a glass, and threw ice water into Miranda's face. Miranda gasped and sputtered, her eyes automatically squeezed shut, and Andy surged forward and tackled her. Miranda dropped the pitcher, they both went down like a ton of bricks, and Miranda's breath left her lungs with a pained 'aagh!' as Andy landed on top of her. Then she spat in Andy's face, a mixture of blood, saliva and water, before her lips pulled back in a snarl. Andy wondered how hard she'd have to hit her to knock out one of those perfect teeth, but then Miranda heaved upwards with astonishing strength and pushed Andy off her, rolled them both over, grabbed Andy by the hair, and pulled up, getting ready to slam Andy's head back against the floor.

But Andy jerked her head forward, heedless of the pain of her pulled hair, and sank her teeth into Miranda's ear. Hard. Miranda screeched and let go of her--and then closed her hands around Andy's throat, squeezing. Hard. Andy immediately let go of her ear to say "Urk," and Miranda--her eyes crazed--croaked, "Ah, have you, I have you now," as her fingers dug into Andy's skin. Andy scrabbled at her wrists, scratching and clawing, but it didn't do any good--Miranda wasn't budging on this one.

Andy gave up trying to disengage Miranda's hands and rammed two fingers up into her bloody nostrils instead. Miranda jerked her head back with a hiss, but she didn't let go of Andy's neck. The room was starting to get a little fuzzy, and Andy didn't seriously think Miranda would choke her to death, but she didn't really want to find out for sure, and so she slapped Miranda as hard as she could with her fading strength. Miranda didn't let go, but her grip loosened enough, just for a second, that Andy got some air. She gasped, reached up towards Miranda's face, fingers curled, nails at the ready--

--and then she dug her hands into Miranda's hair, yanked her head down, and kissed her.

Miranda froze. She obviously hadn't expected this, she didn't know what to do, and her warm mouth tasted of blood. Then, when Miranda's hands unlocked from her throat in pure shock, Andy bit down viciously on her bottom lip.

Miranda cried out and Andy let go of her hair, grabbing her shoulders as she threw her own weight to the right. She rolled them both over once more, straddled Miranda's left leg, and pinned Miranda's arms to either side of her head. Miranda thrashed and struggled, flailing her free leg to no avail; in this position there wasn't much she could do with it, and besides, adrenaline was giving Andy the strength of iron.

"Gotcha," Andy said, grinning so hard she probably looked like the Joker, and feeling like she was going to burst into hysterical laughter any second now.

"You little, you little," Miranda wheezed, still straining against Andy's arms. "How dare you--how--"

Andy did laugh, then, and Miranda struggled harder, but it was no use. "Oh no, sweetheart," Andy said, and laughed again. "You're not going anywhere. You are staying. Right. Here."

"You--you--" Miranda gasped again, apparently unable to come up with an insult foul enough. She was bleeding from the nose and the lip, and had long red scratches beneath her right eye, while her left eye was purpling. Andy knew she couldn't look much better herself, but she was still so jumped up she didn't feel any pain, not yet. Just victory. She'd beaten Miranda Priestly in a fair fight. Fair and square, even. She couldn't stop laughing.

"I'll ruin you!" Miranda panted, and tried to wrench her arms free. Her helpless rage only made Andy laugh harder. "I'll--you'll--I'll make you--regret--"

Andy couldn't even respond. All she could do was cackle, like somebody totally demented, "Gotcha. Gotcha, baby, I gotcha!"

"No, you--no!"

"Told you I'd kick your ass, I told you--"

"You'll pay, oh, you will pay--"

Andy shifted her weight to bear down harder, and, quite without meaning to, pressed her knee against Miranda's crotch. Miranda gasped, lifted her hips, and went still, as if she couldn't decide if she wanted to move or not, if she wanted to…

They stared into each others' eyes. Miranda had a stunned look on her face that was quickly evolving into horror. Andy gaped down at her. And then her lips parted in what she knew was her most obnoxious, shit-eating grin.

They'd just kicked the crap out of each other. So…

"Why not?" Andy whispered, still looking into Miranda's eyes. Yeah. Why not? After all this, what was the big deal--why shouldn't Miranda-- "Go for it," Andy said. She grinned again, remembering the way her kiss had thrown Miranda completely for a loop. Had beaten her. "You know you want to."

"No," Miranda croaked.

Andy laughed again, wondering if this was what people meant when they said 'punch-drunk.' She felt positively giddy. "You do too," she said. "I bet you've wanted it since, like, forever." Miranda's reddened face went pale. "Ha," Andy crowed. "I knew it!"

"Let go of me!" Miranda said, and struggled some more, which meant she ended up grinding against Andy's knee again and nearly went cross-eyed. Andy kept giggling. "I said let go--we're done, it's over--let go or I'll, I'll, I'll--"

"You'll what?" Andy taunted. "Come on my leg?" She pressed forward with her knee, very gently, between Miranda's legs. Miranda gasped and squeezed her eyes shut, her throat working. "Bet it wouldn't take much."

"I'll kill you," Miranda whimpered. She was shaking and she kept her eyes closed. "I'll kill you."

"Sure, sure," Andy said. "But you might as well get off first." Miranda hissed and turned her face away, rubbing her cheek into the carpet, refusing to open her eyes. "Come on," Andy whispered. "Is that why you wanted to hit me so much? You want to screw me, too?" Miranda gnashed her teeth. "I beat you fair and square, you might as well have a little fu--"

They heard voices down the hallway, getting ever louder, approaching the room.

Andy and Miranda froze, and Miranda finally opened her eyes, staring up at Andy. Andy stared right back as the punch-drunk feeling evaporated into utter panic. If anybody saw them here--if anybody realized what they'd been doing, their careers were--

Then, right before Andy's eyes, Miranda's own eyes narrowed and glittered with pure malice. Time seemed to slow down as Andy realized that Miranda was going to get her revenge. The bitch was going to call for help, act like Andy had attacked her for no reason and she'd only defended herself--and who would believe a nobody like Andy, a disgruntled ex-employee--

But even as Miranda opened her mouth and took a deep breath, Andy yanked both of Miranda's hands up above her head, and then dropped down, letting her whole weight fall down on Miranda's body and driving the breath out of her before she could scream. Then Andy grabbed both Miranda's wrists with one hand, and slammed her free hand over Miranda's mouth, terror giving her new strength now that euphoria had faded.

"The hell you will," she whispered, "you are not going to pin this all on--"

Miranda bit down on Andy's hand, and Andy nearly cried out. Miranda's eyes filled with satanic glee again, and she sank her teeth in even harder, drawing blood. Andy hissed in agony, but didn't move her hand. Too much rode on Miranda's silence, and the voices were getting closer. If anybody heard them--if anybody came to investigate and unlocked the door--

Miranda thrashed and bucked, but she couldn't throw Andy off, and she couldn't make Andy let go of her mouth or her arms. Andy clamped her hand down harder on Miranda's face, squeezed, put pressure on her jaws, mashed her head down back against the floor. Miranda tried to scream again, but it wasn't much use.

"You asked for it," Andy said, and pressed down hard--with her thigh this time--between Miranda's legs. Miranda made an "MmmMM!" sound, but there was no way it would carry beyond the room, and her face went bright red again. She was helpless, pinned down and splayed wide by Andy's weight and Andy's grip, to say nothing of Andy's desperation.

"…figures from last quarter," a man's voice was saying in the hall, getting ever louder.

"Yes, but…forgetting…index," a woman's softer voice replied.

"Gotcha," Andy whispered again, looking right into Miranda's astonishingly blue eyes. She shifted her thigh; Miranda's hips arched, and her eyes slid shut again as she gave a little moan of denial beneath Andy's hand.

Andy bent to her ear and breathed, "You can take it if you want."

"--not sure the index is the proper criterion, really," the man said.

Miranda whimpered, and her thighs tensed against Andy's. "It'd feel so good, wouldn't it?" Andy said softly. "I'd love to see it--you, happy for a change." She blew softly against Miranda's ear, the same ear she'd bitten just a few minutes before. Miranda shuddered and moaned again, panting so hard through her nose that Andy wondered if she was going to pass out.

"But what else could we use?" the woman asked, drawing ever closer. Now Andy could hear their footsteps too.

"I'm not going to make you," Andy whispered. "You have to want it, you have to do it." Miranda was as rigid as a plank of wood beneath her, her eyes squeezed shut and leaking tears--of arousal, of humiliation, of pain?--and she was shaking with the urge to give in, to thrust her hips and fuck Andy's thigh and get off right in the middle of the very floor where she lay bruised and bleeding.

"We've got to be more inventive," the man said. "Look at the NASDAQ figures from last quarter, I'm telling you, that's the answer."

"Come on, now," Andy urged. Miranda shook her head back and forth, as much as she could beneath the pressure of Andy's hand.

"Well, I don't know," the woman said--and, right outside the door, the footsteps paused. But the door handle didn't turn, and the woman just kept talking. "The latest analyses aren't encouraging."

"You've always been too cautious," the man said.

"No kidding," Andy whispered into Miranda's ear. "Just let go." Miranda sobbed. "You want it. Take it." Miranda's thighs tensed even more and quivered. She wasn't fighting Andy's grip anymore, or trying to get free, or bite, or scream, or do anything other than master her own impulses and hold perfectly still. Andy would bet all the tea in China that if Miranda moved her hips even slightly, even once, she'd come.

"Well, maybe you can convince me," the woman said, and they laughed, and then their footsteps started again, heading down the hall.

"Think I can convince you?" Andy said. Miranda whimpered again. Was she hoping Andy would move her thigh, make the decision for her, make her come? No way to tell. But even if she was, no dice.

The footsteps vanished, and then the voices, and Andy and Miranda were safely alone again.

Andy lay hopefully on top of Miranda for a moment more before accepting that no, actually, Miranda wasn't going to move. Bitterly disappointed, she removed her hand from Miranda's mouth, let go of Miranda's hands, and slowly, painfully, hauled herself to her knees. The adrenaline was wearing off, and she was just beginning to notice how much her body throbbed with pain. Especially her face. Especially her nose. Jesus. Had Miranda broken it?

Miranda slowly propped herself up on her own elbows with a grunt of discomfort, and then drew herself up to a full sitting position with a longer groan. Her black eye was full-fledged now, although her nose had stopped bleeding. They were both still panting. Andy realized incredulously that less than fifteen minutes had passed since they'd removed their jackets and come out swinging. Less than twenty minutes since they'd said hello for the first time in two years.

Miranda wasn't looking at Andy. Her head was bowed, her face pale, her posture stooped. She looked utterly defeated. And dazed. She even swayed a little, as if she was about to collapse back down on the floor. Of course, that could have been because they'd both knocked each other in the head more than once, but it suddenly occurred to Andy that she might actually have hurt Miranda more seriously than she'd intended. Which would have such terrible consequences that she didn't like to think about them. Sure, Miranda could have done the same to her, but she hadn't--and if Andy really had harmed her…

Trying not to panic, Andy said, "Hey--um--are you okay? Did I--"

Miranda lunged forward and shoved her back down onto the carpet, where she reached between Andy's legs, cupped, and rubbed.

Andy's back arched up so hard she was surprised her spine didn't break, and she came with a wheezing wail while Miranda grinned down at her with bloodstained teeth and wild, triumphant eyes.

Then, after Andy slumped back down with her ribs and abdomen and pretty much everything else aching, Miranda leaned forward, crawled on top of her, and kissed her every bit as hard as Andy had kissed her earlier. Which was dumb, because she was the one with the bloody lip and therefore it had to hurt her more than Andy. But Miranda didn't seem to care as she mashed their mouths together in something that wasn't at all like tenderness or affection.

"Gotcha," she whispered, and darted her tongue out to lick Andy's bottom lip before pulling away.

"F-f-f-fuck," Andy retorted, shaking all over. Miranda chortled and sat up, one hand resting on her hip, looking down at Andy from her perch on Andy's thighs as she wore her cuts and bruises like the loveliest, most expensive accessories ever.

Utterly humiliated, Andy grunted and sat up, putting her almost nose-to-nose with Miranda. Miranda, for her part, made no move to get up, which meant she was now practically in Andy's lap. "I won first," Andy said, panting and trying to ignore the lingering, pleasant tingle between her legs, to say nothing of the painful throbbing in her face.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Miranda cooed. She was still smirking. Then she blinked and winced, pressing her fingertips gingerly to one cheek.

"At least I handed out the first black eye," Andy said, and smirked again. "What were you trying to do, slap me to death? Hardcore."

"First a sore winner, and now a sore loser," Miranda said, still trying to get her breathing under control. "Runway certainly lost out when you stopped clomping around the halls."

Ow. That stung almost as much as the slaps. In retaliation, Andy slid one hand up Miranda's thigh; Miranda, without missing a beat, knocked it right back off. But she didn't get up.

Huh.

"You've got to be frustrated," Andy said.

"Don't flatter yourself," Miranda said.

"Yeah. So what are you going to do now?" Andy said. She let the cruelty bubble up into her mouth as she added, "Going to run to the future Mr. Priestly for a little relief?" Miranda inhaled sharply and narrowed her eyes. "You could even let him do the whole white-knight thing," Andy added. "Just so long as you don't tell him a girl beat you up."

"That's enough," Miranda said.

"Let him see your black eye and get all angry on your behalf. Let him feel like a man." Andy bared her teeth at Miranda in another grin. "You know, while he still can."

Miranda's whole body tensed and her eyes flared. Andy laughed. And then she reached out, cupped Miranda's ass, and squeezed. Miranda seized Andy's elbow, but it was too late--she was straddling Andy's thighs, and Andy lifted up even as she pressed Miranda down, and it was all over. Miranda tossed her head and gasped, "No!", grinding her hips helplessly as she came. Then she moaned and collapsed back down into Andy's arms, panting.

"Gotcha," Andy said. But Miranda retaliated by sinking her teeth into the side of Andy's neck as fiercely as any vampire. Or rabid dog.

Andy yelled and shoved, and Miranda reared back. Now she was the one laughing. Again. Andy was willing to bet Miranda had never laughed this much in her life. Obviously making Andy bleed was the pinnacle of hilarity for her. It figured.

"Jesus," Andy swore, clapping her left hand--which was also bleeding--over her neck. Miranda had broken the skin. "What the he--what is this, high school? You think you're marking territory or something?"

"I already did that," Miranda said, and laughed some more. "Didn't you notice?" She jabbed a perfectly manicured finger hard against the bruise on Andy's cheek, making Andy's eyes water. And then she did it again.

Without further ado, Andy ripped Miranda's blood-spattered blouse open, sending buttons scattering everywhere. Miranda yelped and immediately scuttled like a crab off Andy's lap, clutching her blouse shut with one hand to cover her bra. It was Andy's turn, yet again, to roar with laughter.

"Heavens to Betsy! Well I never!" she said, and grabbed at her own shirt, aping Miranda's modesty. "Oh, my sainted maiden aunt!" Miranda, apparently at a loss for words, actually snarled, and Andy fell over onto her aching side, muffling her laughter with her hand. "Keep away from me," she said, and waved her hand, "you utter beast," and then she broke down into giggles again.

"Keep laughing," Miranda said softly, dangerously. Andy opened her eyes to see Miranda looking at her with nothing less than loathing in her eyes. "You just keep doing that, while you can."

"Wow," Andy said, stopped laughing, and sat up again. "You really do hate my guts, don't you?" The thought made her feel…not as bad as it probably should. In fact, it almost made her tingle. How many people did Miranda actually care enough about to hate, instead of merely ignore or disdain?

"I repeat: don't flatter yourself," Miranda said, and dropped her gaze. Ostensibly she was looking around the carpet for her buttons, but oddly enough, she didn't seem to want to look Andy in the eye again. "You have ruined this blouse."

"I thought once we beat each other up a little, you'd get over it," Andy said.

"It cost me nine hundred dollars," Miranda said, and picked up a pearl button before dropping it, still not meeting Andy's gaze. "You had better believe I will extract every penny--"

"It didn't cost you a damn thing," Andy said, and crawled over to where Miranda was sitting. Miranda froze, but did not look up. "I worked for you, remember? You get all your clothes for free. Everything you want. The designers beg you to wear their stuff." She leaned in and whispered it again: "You heard me. Stuff."

Now Miranda looked at her. Her cold blue eyes bored right into Andy's skull. "You certainly like getting close to me, don't you?"

Andy realized she was blushing. "Well--I don't see you crawling away again." She laid a hand on Miranda's hip. Miranda shoved it off. Andy put it back. Miranda's breath caught. "Come on, tell me. What's that guy do for you?" Andy squeezed her hip, and Miranda hissed. "What does he do for you that I can't?"

Miranda's eyes widened. So did Andy's.

Andy hadn't known she was going to say that. She hadn't meant to say that. But as she said it, she realized where it was coming from. Maybe it was even why she'd wanted to punch Miranda in the first place.

Maybe she'd wanted to punish her for being so stupid. For always looking for satisfaction in places where she had to know she wouldn't find it. Two years after her last divorce and Miranda was deluding herself all over again, thinking that this time she'd find the perfect man, she'd get the happy ending. With Chad. Couldn't Miranda see, didn't she know by now, that he wasn't what she needed?

Andy realized she had remembered Miranda mostly fondly for the last two years. Miranda was a bitch, but she'd done well by Andy, giving her a recommendation at the Mirror even though Andy had screwed up so badly. She'd been generous for once, and Andy had appreciated it, had let it warm up her all-too-frequent thoughts and memories of her former boss.

But then she'd heard about Miranda's new boyfriend, and it was as if all that had never even happened. She'd never felt so angry, so disappointed, in all her life as when she'd heard that Miranda Priestly was trying her luck yet again. And until this moment, it hadn't even occurred to her to think about why that was.

"Give up on him," Andy heard herself say. "It won't work, and you know it."

Miranda instantly made to rise, and Andy stopped her, moving her hand from Miranda's hip and pressing her back down on the floor, straddling her yet again. But this time, Miranda offered almost no resistance. She'd set her mouth in a thin, hard, but shaking line, and a whole storm of emotions was brewing in her eyes.

Andy leaned down, looking into Miranda's eyes the whole time. "No sucker punches this time," she whispered. "Not from me." And, keeping her eyes open, she kissed Miranda again very softly, mindful of Miranda's bottom lip. Miranda looked right back at her, not kissing Andy back, but breathing more quickly with every passing second.

Before today, Andy had never kissed another woman in her life. It was different, and probably not just because of the blood. Miranda's mouth was very soft.

Andy raised her head, sat back on her heels, and regarded Miranda.

"I suppose that was meant to be some kind of dramatic gesture," Miranda said, but she sounded too breathless to make it work.

"Yeah, because we haven't made enough of those today," Andy said.

"Get off me."

"Don't go back to him."

"Get off me."

"Sure you said that right? Sure you didn't mean 'Get me off'?"

Miranda raised a hand, and Andy realized she was fully prepared to start Round…Four? Five? Andy had lost count. But Andy didn't want to fight anymore. Not now. So she sighed and slid off Miranda.

Which was when her aches and pains started speaking up again. Andy groaned, staggered to her feet, and pressed a hand to the small of her back. "I think I gotta go to the hospital now," she said. "I'll probably tell them I got mugged."

"Believe it or not, I don't actually care what you do," Miranda said, still sprawled on the floor.

"No? What about you? What are you going to tell Chad?" Andy headed over to the chair where she'd thrown her jacket. Luckily it had a hood.

"None of your business," Miranda grunted, and finally sat up. "He is none of your business."

Andy snorted. "If you say so."

"This isn't over."

The soft menace in Miranda's voice arrested Andy's attention. She was looking at Andy with cold, intent eyes, appearing every inch the picture of forthcoming revenge.

Andy gulped, but said breezily, "Sure hope not," before she unlocked the door, timidly poked her head out, and then hurried out of the room. She pulled up her hood and hoped frantically that she wouldn't run into anybody on the way out of the building who might think to look twice.

She was lucky. She wondered if Miranda was, too.

Apparently Miranda was. There were no next-day headlines in Page Six, anyway, and no gossip snaked its way through the wires. On Andy's end, everybody believed her story about being mugged; her boss urged her to call the police and then seek counseling, which made Andy feel like a complete jerk for worrying him. She refused to do either (though maybe she could have used the counseling, actually).

Four days after Andy and Miranda's boxing match, the Post whispered that Chad Healey was going off on his book tour, and that Miranda Priestly would reportedly not be making an appearance at his premiere party in Manhattan.

It took a whole week before her boss, friends, and co-workers seemed to believe that Andy really wasn't traumatized, but her smiles on that fourth day probably helped.

Of course, Andy was traumatized. Just not in the way they supposed. Mainly she just wondered if she was going crazy, or if she'd hallucinated the whole thing. A week later, and the encounter with Miranda still seemed like a dream, bruises and scrapes and whispers in the Post to the contrary. And the moment Andy had been dreading--when Miranda swooped down on her like the wrath of God and ruined her life--had yet to materialize.

It materialized nine days after their fight, on a Tuesday. Only without the ruining part. Maybe.

Andy was in her apartment, reviewing her copy for the following day when somebody knocked on the door. It was almost ten. And Miranda was standing in the hallway.

Andy should have been surprised. She wasn't. Well, maybe she was a little surprised that Miranda had come here, of all places. But Miranda had said that it wasn't over--that they weren't finished with each other--and Andy realized she had been bracing for this moment ever since leaving the conference room with a bloody nose.

"I've just spoken to your editor," Miranda said. She was a wizard with makeup, of course, and after nine days even Andy couldn't find evidence of their scrap. "Within the hour."

Andy gasped.

"He said you'd gone home for the night," Miranda said blandly. "So here I am."

Andy snapped her mouth shut.

"Let me in," Miranda said.

Andy did. The door closed behind Miranda, and they looked at each other.

It could go a zillion different ways. It could end right here with insincere apologies and innuendo. Or Miranda could go to the cops and file assault charges. Or Andy could. Or they could have some kind of one-night stand, or a week-long stand. Or, years down the road, they could say things like, "Actually, it all started when we beat each other up," and exchange loving glances while everyone around them looked shocked. Or they could reach some kind of mutual understanding and become best friends forever--or lukewarm friends, even, sharing the occasional martini over lunch and never talking about how once they'd made each other come.

"Best of three," Miranda said.

Andy took a long, deep breath. "I'm not going to hit you again," she said.

"Who asked you to?" Miranda said, invaded Andy's personal space, and kissed her hard. And just like that, martinis were out, and apologies, and even innuendo because the things they said during the next few hours needed no double-entendres at all. Which was as it should be.

Around three in the morning, Andy skimmed her fingertips over a fading bruise on Miranda's abdomen. Miranda hadn't bothered covering anything up that wasn't on her face. Surely nine days ago her boyfriend and her subordinates had seen fresher marks; but no subordinate would have dared say anything, and maybe that was why the boyfriend was gone now. Good.

"You have a mean right hook," Miranda said, sounding almost complimentary.

"Yeah," Andy said. "You have a mean everything."

"Thank you," Miranda said, and patted Andy's thigh, where she'd sucked a whole new mark into existence.

Andy settled her head against Miranda's shoulder and was not pushed away. That was nice. Then she imitated Miranda as she intoned, "This isn't over." She hoped it wasn't a question.

Miranda answered it anyway. "Of course it's not," she said, took Andy by the chin, and dragged her nails down Andy's back as they kissed.

"Gotcha," Andy said when they paused for breath.

"We are now officially burying that joke," Miranda replied, and nibbled Andy's earlobe.

"What about burying the hatchet?" Andy asked as she shivered.

"Maybe in your head," Miranda replied in a friendly way, and kissed her again.

Fin.