FIC: Hijink (DWP, Miranda/Andy, Get Smart 99/Max) 3/?
Title: Hijink
Author: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada / Get Smart Movie (Cross-over)
Pairing: Miranda/Andy, 99/Max, 99/Miranda
Spoilers: Both movies
Archiving: ralst is welcome to it.
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Summary: Worlds collide when Agent 99 and Maxwell Smart chase Rogue Agent 23 to a charity auction, and discover the inspiration for Agent 99's new face: Andy. Now, a case of mistaken identity has Andrea kidnapped, Max befuddled, and Miranda Priestly pissed off.
Notes: So sorry for the wait. I had no time in the last week and a half. And believe me I tried!
--
CHAPTERS
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
--
Chapter Three: Two To Tango
The moan that ripped out of Miranda's throat was low and guttural. Fingers pressed into Andy's skin with bruising intensity, skimming down her sweat-soaked back as gray hair tickled against the side of her throat when Miranda exhaled, forehead falling against her shoulder.
Eyes fluttering closed, Andy allowed herself to be overtaken by her senses. The smell of Miranda, ridiculously expensive perfume diluted with the more pungent smell of her arousal. Her wetness coating her fingers as they remained buried inside of Miranda. The weight of the older woman seated in her lap, collapsed against her after crawling onto her thighs and riding her fingers so enthusiastically.
Her heart hammered in her chest. In the quiet moment after Miranda's orgasm, Andy allowed herself to touch, free hand smoothing up Miranda's waist, mouth skimming breathlessly along her bare shoulder.
Who would have thought the best sex she had ever had would have come at the hands of her temperamental, demanding, silver-haired ex-boss?
God, how did they even get here?
Miranda was starting to feel heavy in her lap, but Andy bore the weight gladly, only letting her fingers slide down Miranda's waist when she felt the other woman start to shift. Easing out of her, Andy didn't miss the shudder, the minute sigh that emerged when her fingers pulled free, skimming the wet digits through Miranda's folds, brushing her swollen clit on the way up.
"God, you're amazing," Andy confessed, and she tried hard to keep the surprise out of her voice, because Miranda had proven to be oddly insecure and instantly judgmental when it came to this. Insecure about everything, really. Not just Andy's age, but Andy's gender. The fact that Andy could always tell when she came but Miranda still seemed to struggle with her, staring up with flitting eyes to try and figure out her body, unsure if the way Andy convulsed was just reflex or THE reflex that mattered.
The result was a tendency to be snippy at their most intimate moments. If a cavalier comment slipped from Andy's mouth, Miranda was almost always going to take it the wrong way; get insulted as if Andy wondering if she was tired was always going to be a crack about her age or something equally ridiculous.
The problem was that Andy was a hothead too. She knew it. She would get wounded, even if she knew better, and then before she knew it they were sniping at each other like hissing cats, and she would get flushed and annoyed and leave, just like Miranda wanted her to.
Nate had been easy. This was hard. It was the hardest thing Andy did, and her life would be a cakewalk if she just stopped fucking her older, closeted, ridiculously touchy ex-boss.
Except she didn't. For this reason. Because as odd and weird and annoying as Miranda could be, moments like these made Andy feel like there would never been anything like this ever again, and it was ridiculously important to hold onto Miranda, because somehow Andy knew no one had affected her the way Andy did. Even if Miranda had never expressed that, Andy knew it. Miranda betrayed herself in how she clutched onto Andy. How she kissed her like she was starved for her, how each and every time they fumbled, Miranda always took her back. As long as Andy kept coming back, Miranda would always take her.
She'd give her hell for it, but she'd take her.
At this moment, however, Miranda seemed too busy recovering from her orgasm to take offense to Andy's compliment. She merely dug long fingers into Andy's nape and shifted her face, lips brushing against Andy's collar bone before jerking Andy's face to hers and opening her mouth against hers.
One long, wet kiss later, and Miranda was moving, shoving off of her and leaving Andy feeling oddly bereft as the older woman sat up beside her, eyes closing, fingers rising to smooth against her mussed hair.
"I need to go," Miranda said, and offered no other explanation. The look she gave Andy smacked of a smidgeon of conflict, because today had been the first time they had been together this week, and it was Friday. "The girls are expecting me."
"Sure," Andy said, determined to be cavalier about this. As stupid as it sounded, it seemed very important to her to remain on the same emotional level as Miranda. Match her attitude. Keep her heart from shoving her over the path of no return. "I've got an early day tomorrow anyway."
"Mmm…" Miranda now stood, looking uncaringly sexy as she walked barefoot across Andy's bedroom, reaching for the robe she had purchased to keep here at Andy's apartment. Andy thought of it as Miranda's 'fuck me' robe, and it created a bit of a Pavlov-ian response in her. She got turned on every time she even saw it in her closet. "Another do-gooder article on the appalling educational system in Queens, I imagine?"
If that was Miranda pretending to be interested, she could have at least attempted to sound a little more excited about it.
"No, actually." Following suit, Andy reached for a t-shirt, shoving her hands into the sleeves and raising it over her torso. "Kimberly is on maternity leave, so Steve asked me to fill in."
"Fascinating," Miranda answered dryly, tying the robe's knots together at her front. "Then you'll be free late tomorrow?"
Ah, the next rendezvous. Poking her head out of the shirt, Andy pulled on her long hair and draped it over her shoulders. "You mean you don't already have plans?"
"An art auction at the Plaza," Miranda remarked. "Sounds positively dreadful. I don't plan to be there more than twenty minutes."
Resisting the urge to smile at Miranda's resigned disgust, Andy scooted off the bed, arching a contemplative brow when Miranda's eyes immediately drifted to where the shirt's hem met her upper thighs.
"I'm on call," Andy reminded her, but wasn't obstructed when she slipped hands around the silk robe and knotted her fingers together at the small of Miranda's back. "But I'll let you know."
A moment, a pregnant pause, and Miranda's observant eyes remained on her face, almost as if she were mapping each point: ear to nose, jaw to lips. Long elegant fingers rose and smoothed down knuckle first against her cheek. "Make yourself available."
The way Miranda said it, breathless and almost choked, caused a hitch in Andy's throat. Slowly, a smile spread across her face.
"Yes, Miranda," she whispered, the tone almost teasing before Miranda's head lowered and their lips met in a lingering kiss.
--
Miranda Priestly did not wear her fear on her face for the world to see. Her emotions were held deep inside of her, because she was of the opinion that that was where they belonged. Emotional outbursts did no one any good. In her business, it was in her interest to keep her emotions close to her like a well dealt hand. Very few people had been privy to an expression that had not been carefully orchestrated, and objectively, she understood that doing so had become a habit that manifested itself in her personal life as well.
Her children could sometimes see her as cold. Near the end of her marriage, Stephen had come to see her as frigid (which was not the case; she just had no desire for him). Andrea, it seemed, posed an entirely different problem. It seemed that the more intimate they became, the easier it was for Andrea to gut her in a way that she was simply not prepared for.
Too easily an angry snarl would slip from Miranda's lips in defense of some offhand comment Andrea flippantly expressed. Too quickly, Miranda could see the hurt manifest itself in her lover's young face, and too often, the resulting jolt of emotion that capsized her heart nearly paralyzed her.
It affected her now, in a jolt of emotion so fierce and overwhelming she was frozen with it, scarcely able to keep her face neutral and without expression as she followed the girl who looked like Andrea down the hallway, eyes locked on the dull black of the gun that stayed cocked in the woman's hand.
But her heart was pounding, and her skin itched like she had a rash, because this? This was ridiculous. Body doubles and government agents, and the mere idea that Andrea was somehow caught up in the midst of all this…
It could have all been avoided if the dumb girl had simply stayed HOME like Miranda had requested.
Had Andrea stayed home, Miranda would have already been in the car, Roy at the wheel. She would have been heading to her townhouse instead of the god-forsake bathroom in a back hallway of the Plaza. Andrea would have been at her apartment, waiting for Miranda and a night of debauchery instead of being drugged and in danger in a GOD-FORSAKEN BATHROOM.
Miranda's fingers betrayed her. They twitched, grabbing hold of her dress and wrinkling the fabric.
The motion distracted Andrea's doppelganger, pupils twitching from the corner of her eye before the agent straightened and kept a hand up, motioning for her to keep quiet.
10 feet away from them, was the door.
"You're staying here," said the government agent who wore Andrea's face, but not Andrea's unique brightness. Not Andrea's smile, and no small scar that was barely visible underneath Andrea's chin. Too toned for Andrea, as well. Small observation, but Miranda Priestly was the editor of a magazine that relied on attention to the tiniest detail, and the mother of twins.
Just as no two blue belts were exactly the same, there would only ever be one Andrea.
In that moment, she sucked in a deep breath, feeling suddenly faint as she had no other recourse but to place her faith in the intense, worried face of this agent. She nodded, hands still fisting fabric as the other woman moved toward the door marked with the word 'Women'.
"There she is! Right there!"
Body stiffening, Miranda's focus jerked to the voice shouting behind them.
A blotched, limping Emily bore down on them, followed by three hotel guards. She pointed directly at Andrea's double. "That's her!" Emily squeaked. "That's the imposter!"
--
Max had been in tight spots before. His short but eventful career as a spy thus far had given him quite a number of scrapes, including but not limited to hurtling from an airplane with no parachute, fighting a seven foot tall bad guy on top of an exploding building, and having his ass scraped raw thanks to being dragged at eighty miles an hour by a speeding car.
With that in mind, he knew that he had what it took to get out of this. Even with a semi-conscious double of 99 in his arms, and a pounding headache that affected his vision and made everything look … snowy, he could get out of this.
There would be an idea on how to deal with the rogue traitor formerly known as Agent 23, who was still physically intimidating and devastatingly handsome, and pointed a Glock in his direction, aimed right at Andrea Sach's head.
It was coming. Any time now.
He blinked, tried hard to get his brain to work. "You should know," he finally began. "That this entire hotel is crawling with Control agents. They're just waiting for the word."
A large smile floated on the handsome face. "I don't think so, Max."
Damn. He sucked in a pained breath. "How about 10 NYPD Snipers?"
"Not so much."
"Maybe a security guard with an angry scowl?"
The low, rumbling chuckle that came in response was chilling. "No."
"Damn."
"You know, Max-y, I always liked you." Agent 23's smile, however, did not match the furious glint that sparked from the dark eyes. "You were sincere, you know? As transparent as plastic wrap. Believed so much in what you were doing. I wanted you to be a field agent, I did."
"You'll understand if that doesn't make me feel overtly sentimental." Max didn't dare take his eyes off the other agent with the gun, but the woman in his arms had gone from semi-conscious to blacking out. She now slumped against him like an increasingly heavy sack of potatoes, and with his concussion jack-hammering into the side of his head, he felt himself leaning.
He grimaced, but tightened his grip and kept his ground. As long as Agent 23 kept talking, he was safe. And boy did this guy like to talk. How had he never noticed it before?
"Honestly didn’t think you'd have it in you to keep her happy, though." The gun motioned lightly on Andy's still form, before it again rose to regard Max with its black, dark nozzle. "She really is a needy, pushy thing, isn't she?"
Oh, yeap, there it was, the sexual intimidation that happened every time he remembered that 99's previous lover had been the hulking specimen that was Agent 23.
"23-"
"Don't call me that."
"What?"
The smile was gone. "My name is not 23. It's not even a name. It's just a number. It's a stupid number."
"Michael Jordan wore a 23 on his blazer. It's a great number."
"I hate Michael Jordan. I wanted 8, like Kobe Bryant."
"Oh." Max blinked. "Isn't his number 24 now?"
A flicker of annoyance creased 23's smile into a frown. "Originally, it was 8."
"But it's 24 now."
"Look, would you -" the gun shook maniacally before 24 managed to get a hold of himself, inhaling and exhaling again. "Yes, I know it's 24 now, but originally, it was 8. Okay?"
"Okay," Max answered, nodding agreeably. "But it'd be easier if I had a name to call you. Would you like me to call you Number 8, then?"
The gun stayed still as the idea marinated in 23's mind. A boyish smile emerged, and the massive shoulders squared. Stepping forward lightly with his gun, he grinned, "You know what? Sure. Do that. Call me 8. Like Kobe."
"Fine, Number 8."
"Nice," 23 said, nodding happily. "I like it. Like Kobe. It's been waiting a long time for this, Max. Let's see how much Control is willing to pay to get back their two best agents."
"They won't pay a dime. You know that."
"Oh, please. I know the protocol. But the Chief has a soft spot for you and that girl, Max-y." Max swallowed, watching with a growing sense of dread at the sudden coldness in 23's eyes as he once again looked at the unconscious Andy Sachs. "How'd you get her, Max? What'd you do? Give her the ole' boyscout routine? 'I could never tell a lie'?"
"Number 8, there has been a severe miscommunication."
"Oh, has there?"
"You see, the woman in my arms? She is not Agent 99. Her name is Andrea Sachs. She is an innocent-"
"Oh, come on, Max-y." The smile was instantly gone. "Do you think I was born yesterday? I know I've been in the business a long time, and you're just a rookie but even you should know better than to try to give me 'this is just a body double' line."
"You don't think she was acting oddly to you?" Max tried, trying hard not to sound desperate as the weight became too much for him. Carefully, he allowed the unconscious girl to slink down, and betrayed himself when he staggered in the process.
"Careful, Max. That's quite a knock on your head."
"You know that 99 would never drink a glass of champagne from a strange man. This isn't 99! You need to let her go."
"You know what? I've had enough." Without hesitation or warning, 23's finger jerked, pulling the trigger of the gun.
Max yelped, his woozy head kept him sluggish, but a half a second later, a dart buried deep into the wall behind him.
"Ha-ha!" he said, delighted with his reflexes. "A drugged dart, meant for my head! I hate to say it, 23, but you missed it by that mu-"
23 shot again, and the burn sizzled on Max's neck before the world tilted sideways and went black.
--
"Miss, we'll need you to come with us."
Ten feet from the bathroom door.
God, they were SO CLOSE to saving Max and the girl, and that GOD-DAMNED Emily-
Agent 99's fingers clenched tightly around her gun, and she brought it quickly behind her, keeping it out of sight.
"Oh, Miranda!" The little screechy thing named Emily now had her eyes on Miranda Priestly, who looked incensed. "She's kidnapped me! She locked me in a closet!"
The surprise on the editor's face was palpable as she swiveled to face her in disbelief. "You locked her in a closet?"
99 made no apologies. "And I gagged her. She was being hysterical."
"Ah," Miranda said, as if it that was completely understandable. "Officers, I'm afraid there's been somewhat of a miscommunication-"
"No misunderstanding, ma'am," said one olive-skinned guard, brandishing his nightstick. "Maintenance found her in the closet. She's very adamant that this young lady kidnapped her."
"She did!" Emily was hyperventilating in her emotion, and 99 winced, a shiver of annoyance causing a roll on her shoulders and she kept her back to the wall, eyes not on the guards but on the door. "She was talking about body doubles and having Andy's face-"
"Emily, keep it quiet," she warned.
"I will certainly not-"
"Shut up, you stupid girl!" Miranda, it seemed, had finally lost her temper. "You don't know a thing about this." The statement, said with utter disgust and annoyance, drained the color from Emily's face, as the girl cast them both a disbelieving snort, before shaking her head furiously.
"No, Miranda! She's not Andy! I got to you just in time!"
"Have you gone out of your mind?" Miranda demanded, and 99 gave an agonized look toward the door, heart pounding heavily.
"I don't have time for this," she breathed. Beside her, Miranda Priestly gave her a grim-faced expression. The older woman now turned completely in the direction of Emily and the guards, shielding her from their glares.
"You'll have to excuse my coordinator, officers. Sometimes she has the most ridiculous notions-"
"Miranda, she assaulted me!"
"Emily, you will keep your mouth shut."
"I can't! She's an imposter, Miranda!"
She couldn't wait. The shouting was getting louder, and the door was so close. With a grimace, 99 ignored the sudden shout of warning by the guard and moved fast, jerking around Miranda and lifting up her gun, aiming it directly at Emily's heart as she now stood just outside the bathroom door.
The screech that had begun to emerge from Emily's panicked form dissolved into a sudden whine.
"Keep.Your.Mouth.Shut," she hissed, fumbling for the door handle.
Locked.
Dammit.
"Woah, lady!"
"Listen to me." Swallowing hard, 99 kept her gun on Emily, but directed her gaze to the guards, who were fumbling for their belts. "There is a very bad man on the other side of that door, and he has two hostages. I need your help to bring him down. Are you listening to me?"
"Lady, the only danger to this hotel is you. Now put the gun down before someone gets hurt."
"Miranda-"
And then the door exploded, smashing into her body and forcing her off balance. She rammed hard into the wall, nearly colliding with Miranda, temple cracking against the hard surface before her gun swerved in the direction of the opening door and right into the image of a large, muscled man, hidden behind his own revolver.
It was him. Not the same face, but the same eyes, the same shit-eating grin. The very same killer.
Immediately she reached behind her, shoving Miranda between her and the wall, shielding the woman from harm.
"23," she whispered, and despite her ringing head, kept her gun up, warring with herself to keep her reflexes in control and not take her eyes off of him for even the second it would take to look past him and make sure Max and the girl were still alive.
"99," he returned, a little breathless. He stared at her, dark eyes dilating as he processed her image, and suddenly smiled at the picture she presented. "Well," he said, whistling in appreciation. "Looks like the idiot was telling the truth. Should have known. Max doesn't lie."
"Where is he?"
"Taking a nap," he snarled, waving his free hand carelessly toward the bathroom. "Don't worry. He's not dead yet. I'm planning to savor that."
"Let them go, 23," she ordered, voice even, firm. "You can't get out of this."
"I think I can. I got away from you once before."
"We blew you up. I'm not sure that qualifies."
The smug smile faltered. "You know its demeaning crap like that that was always a problem with you and me, 99. You never did know when to keep your trap shut."
"Oh, God," she snapped, keeping her gun trained to the spot right between his temples. "Get over it, 23! People dump people! Deal!"
"They don't dump me!"
"I hate to intrude," Miranda's soft voice cut in. "But it seems there may be an issue."
To their right, Emily gave another pitiful, muffled squeak.
That was a bad sign. That was a very bad sign.
Fingernails dug meaningfully into her shoulder, and with her free hand still splayed back against Miranda's hip, 99 began to move, keeping Miranda behind her until they had moved away from the wall and were now facing 23 and the hotel guns behind him, all brandishing guns.
One held Emily against him, muzzle of his weapon digging painfully into her temple.
"Hotel guards do not carry guns," Miranda informed her quietly, as her grip tightened on her shoulder.
"That's because they're not guards," 99 answered, and winced at her own stupidity, the pieces falling together fast. "This was all a trap," she whispered hoarsely. "You planted the rumor in the chatter because you knew only Max would be good enough to pick it up. You wanted us-"
"I wanted you," 23 interrupted. "But now I've got Max, a fake you, the real you, and even Miranda Priestly." He grinned. "I'll take it."
Panic rose in her throat like bile. "No-"
The instinctive jerk she made, one step toward him, was enough for the smile to fade, and the guard holding Emily shoved the gun in a bruising nudge against her throat, making the girl cry out.
"No, no, no." The glare in 23's eyes was murderous. "You don't get to move. You don't get to move one foot forward, or I kill your precious Max, and your little mirror-image, and the redhead. I won't wait. I blast their heads off right now." His eyes shifted from her to the woman pressed up behind her. "No offense, Ms. Priestly. I really am a fan. 99, drop the gun."
There was no way out of this. Too many people, too many guns pointed at her. Too many people to protect.
And 23 had just given her information.
He wouldn't kill Max. Not yet. She had time. She didn't know how much time she had, but she had it.
Enough to save Max. Enough to save Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly and even the wretched Emily, who looked pathetically helpless, clawing at the strong hands holding her, tears dripping down her cheeks.
Poor Emily had had a very stressful hour.
She would do no one any good if she gave up her gun. She could not help herself and not help Miranda Priestly if they stayed in this eternal stand-off, even if her lover was in the bathroom unconscious. She was hopelessly outnumbered and there were four men with guns, one of which was 23, who she knew she could not beat in hand-to-hand combat. Not on her own. She had to think like an agent, and assess the risks.
"Put the gun down, 99."
Get out. Regroup. Get Miranda safe, and then try and save the rest.
Her eyes moved off of 23 for only a second, enough to lock glances with the unfortunate assistant whose only mistake had been to overreact when she thought she was somebody else.
"I’m sorry for locking you in the closet," she said, before she flicked a latch on the side of her gun.
The smoke bomb that was immediately released created a sudden fog and shout of disoriented alarm.
Without waiting, 99 turned and grabbed hold of Miranda, shoving hard. "GO!" she snapped, before she grabbed hold of Miranda's arm and dragged her in a sprint down the hall and toward the only available door.
"DAMMIT - after them!"
The chirp of a bullet whizzed past her ear, buried with a snap into the wall beside them.
"I will not leave Andrea," Miranda hissed, and suddenly paused and added, as in afterthought, "Or Emily. So I can kill her myself."
"I can't help them right now," 99 said, and fumbled against the door, grabbing hold of the handle and pushing hard, shoving Miranda through the door as another bullet buried in the wood a centimeter to the left of her shoulder.
Breathless, she discovered herself accidentally cupping Miranda Priestly's breast as they struggled untangle themselves, in full view of the gaping guests mingling just outside the door of the crowded ballroom.
"Do you mind?!" Miranda hissed, and immediately, she yanked her hand away.
"Sorry."
The music wavered only slightly, and then continued, to a tune that 99 immediately recognized as 'Por Una Cabeza'.
The ballroom was crowded though, and that could have been either very good, or very bad.
"Get away from the door," she ordered as she dragged Miranda further into the crowd, taking the moment to quietly slip her gun back in the holder just underneath the deep slit of her dress.
"We need to go back for Andrea-"
"We won't do her any good if we're both captured."
"He means to kill her!"
"But not right away. We have time. I need to get you out of here and safe. Max is smart. He'll find a way to keep them both safe until I can find them again." It was an awful lot of faith to put upon her lover, particularly because 99 was no optimist, but she had no choice.
"And what do you suggest we do until then?" Miranda's face was pale underneath her make up, and even as her eyes blazed with fury, her fingers trembled against 99's, heedless of the crowd.
The door opened and 23's security guards emerged, guns pocketed, but eyes blazing, mindful of the watching crowd.
Hitching in her breath, 99 thought fast.
"We tango."
End chapter
Crossposted to dvlwears_prada and passion_perfect
Author: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
Fandom: The Devil Wears Prada / Get Smart Movie (Cross-over)
Pairing: Miranda/Andy, 99/Max, 99/Miranda
Spoilers: Both movies
Archiving: ralst is welcome to it.
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Summary: Worlds collide when Agent 99 and Maxwell Smart chase Rogue Agent 23 to a charity auction, and discover the inspiration for Agent 99's new face: Andy. Now, a case of mistaken identity has Andrea kidnapped, Max befuddled, and Miranda Priestly pissed off.
Notes: So sorry for the wait. I had no time in the last week and a half. And believe me I tried!
--
CHAPTERS
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
--
Chapter Three: Two To Tango
The moan that ripped out of Miranda's throat was low and guttural. Fingers pressed into Andy's skin with bruising intensity, skimming down her sweat-soaked back as gray hair tickled against the side of her throat when Miranda exhaled, forehead falling against her shoulder.
Eyes fluttering closed, Andy allowed herself to be overtaken by her senses. The smell of Miranda, ridiculously expensive perfume diluted with the more pungent smell of her arousal. Her wetness coating her fingers as they remained buried inside of Miranda. The weight of the older woman seated in her lap, collapsed against her after crawling onto her thighs and riding her fingers so enthusiastically.
Her heart hammered in her chest. In the quiet moment after Miranda's orgasm, Andy allowed herself to touch, free hand smoothing up Miranda's waist, mouth skimming breathlessly along her bare shoulder.
Who would have thought the best sex she had ever had would have come at the hands of her temperamental, demanding, silver-haired ex-boss?
God, how did they even get here?
Miranda was starting to feel heavy in her lap, but Andy bore the weight gladly, only letting her fingers slide down Miranda's waist when she felt the other woman start to shift. Easing out of her, Andy didn't miss the shudder, the minute sigh that emerged when her fingers pulled free, skimming the wet digits through Miranda's folds, brushing her swollen clit on the way up.
"God, you're amazing," Andy confessed, and she tried hard to keep the surprise out of her voice, because Miranda had proven to be oddly insecure and instantly judgmental when it came to this. Insecure about everything, really. Not just Andy's age, but Andy's gender. The fact that Andy could always tell when she came but Miranda still seemed to struggle with her, staring up with flitting eyes to try and figure out her body, unsure if the way Andy convulsed was just reflex or THE reflex that mattered.
The result was a tendency to be snippy at their most intimate moments. If a cavalier comment slipped from Andy's mouth, Miranda was almost always going to take it the wrong way; get insulted as if Andy wondering if she was tired was always going to be a crack about her age or something equally ridiculous.
The problem was that Andy was a hothead too. She knew it. She would get wounded, even if she knew better, and then before she knew it they were sniping at each other like hissing cats, and she would get flushed and annoyed and leave, just like Miranda wanted her to.
Nate had been easy. This was hard. It was the hardest thing Andy did, and her life would be a cakewalk if she just stopped fucking her older, closeted, ridiculously touchy ex-boss.
Except she didn't. For this reason. Because as odd and weird and annoying as Miranda could be, moments like these made Andy feel like there would never been anything like this ever again, and it was ridiculously important to hold onto Miranda, because somehow Andy knew no one had affected her the way Andy did. Even if Miranda had never expressed that, Andy knew it. Miranda betrayed herself in how she clutched onto Andy. How she kissed her like she was starved for her, how each and every time they fumbled, Miranda always took her back. As long as Andy kept coming back, Miranda would always take her.
She'd give her hell for it, but she'd take her.
At this moment, however, Miranda seemed too busy recovering from her orgasm to take offense to Andy's compliment. She merely dug long fingers into Andy's nape and shifted her face, lips brushing against Andy's collar bone before jerking Andy's face to hers and opening her mouth against hers.
One long, wet kiss later, and Miranda was moving, shoving off of her and leaving Andy feeling oddly bereft as the older woman sat up beside her, eyes closing, fingers rising to smooth against her mussed hair.
"I need to go," Miranda said, and offered no other explanation. The look she gave Andy smacked of a smidgeon of conflict, because today had been the first time they had been together this week, and it was Friday. "The girls are expecting me."
"Sure," Andy said, determined to be cavalier about this. As stupid as it sounded, it seemed very important to her to remain on the same emotional level as Miranda. Match her attitude. Keep her heart from shoving her over the path of no return. "I've got an early day tomorrow anyway."
"Mmm…" Miranda now stood, looking uncaringly sexy as she walked barefoot across Andy's bedroom, reaching for the robe she had purchased to keep here at Andy's apartment. Andy thought of it as Miranda's 'fuck me' robe, and it created a bit of a Pavlov-ian response in her. She got turned on every time she even saw it in her closet. "Another do-gooder article on the appalling educational system in Queens, I imagine?"
If that was Miranda pretending to be interested, she could have at least attempted to sound a little more excited about it.
"No, actually." Following suit, Andy reached for a t-shirt, shoving her hands into the sleeves and raising it over her torso. "Kimberly is on maternity leave, so Steve asked me to fill in."
"Fascinating," Miranda answered dryly, tying the robe's knots together at her front. "Then you'll be free late tomorrow?"
Ah, the next rendezvous. Poking her head out of the shirt, Andy pulled on her long hair and draped it over her shoulders. "You mean you don't already have plans?"
"An art auction at the Plaza," Miranda remarked. "Sounds positively dreadful. I don't plan to be there more than twenty minutes."
Resisting the urge to smile at Miranda's resigned disgust, Andy scooted off the bed, arching a contemplative brow when Miranda's eyes immediately drifted to where the shirt's hem met her upper thighs.
"I'm on call," Andy reminded her, but wasn't obstructed when she slipped hands around the silk robe and knotted her fingers together at the small of Miranda's back. "But I'll let you know."
A moment, a pregnant pause, and Miranda's observant eyes remained on her face, almost as if she were mapping each point: ear to nose, jaw to lips. Long elegant fingers rose and smoothed down knuckle first against her cheek. "Make yourself available."
The way Miranda said it, breathless and almost choked, caused a hitch in Andy's throat. Slowly, a smile spread across her face.
"Yes, Miranda," she whispered, the tone almost teasing before Miranda's head lowered and their lips met in a lingering kiss.
--
Miranda Priestly did not wear her fear on her face for the world to see. Her emotions were held deep inside of her, because she was of the opinion that that was where they belonged. Emotional outbursts did no one any good. In her business, it was in her interest to keep her emotions close to her like a well dealt hand. Very few people had been privy to an expression that had not been carefully orchestrated, and objectively, she understood that doing so had become a habit that manifested itself in her personal life as well.
Her children could sometimes see her as cold. Near the end of her marriage, Stephen had come to see her as frigid (which was not the case; she just had no desire for him). Andrea, it seemed, posed an entirely different problem. It seemed that the more intimate they became, the easier it was for Andrea to gut her in a way that she was simply not prepared for.
Too easily an angry snarl would slip from Miranda's lips in defense of some offhand comment Andrea flippantly expressed. Too quickly, Miranda could see the hurt manifest itself in her lover's young face, and too often, the resulting jolt of emotion that capsized her heart nearly paralyzed her.
It affected her now, in a jolt of emotion so fierce and overwhelming she was frozen with it, scarcely able to keep her face neutral and without expression as she followed the girl who looked like Andrea down the hallway, eyes locked on the dull black of the gun that stayed cocked in the woman's hand.
But her heart was pounding, and her skin itched like she had a rash, because this? This was ridiculous. Body doubles and government agents, and the mere idea that Andrea was somehow caught up in the midst of all this…
It could have all been avoided if the dumb girl had simply stayed HOME like Miranda had requested.
Had Andrea stayed home, Miranda would have already been in the car, Roy at the wheel. She would have been heading to her townhouse instead of the god-forsake bathroom in a back hallway of the Plaza. Andrea would have been at her apartment, waiting for Miranda and a night of debauchery instead of being drugged and in danger in a GOD-FORSAKEN BATHROOM.
Miranda's fingers betrayed her. They twitched, grabbing hold of her dress and wrinkling the fabric.
The motion distracted Andrea's doppelganger, pupils twitching from the corner of her eye before the agent straightened and kept a hand up, motioning for her to keep quiet.
10 feet away from them, was the door.
"You're staying here," said the government agent who wore Andrea's face, but not Andrea's unique brightness. Not Andrea's smile, and no small scar that was barely visible underneath Andrea's chin. Too toned for Andrea, as well. Small observation, but Miranda Priestly was the editor of a magazine that relied on attention to the tiniest detail, and the mother of twins.
Just as no two blue belts were exactly the same, there would only ever be one Andrea.
In that moment, she sucked in a deep breath, feeling suddenly faint as she had no other recourse but to place her faith in the intense, worried face of this agent. She nodded, hands still fisting fabric as the other woman moved toward the door marked with the word 'Women'.
"There she is! Right there!"
Body stiffening, Miranda's focus jerked to the voice shouting behind them.
A blotched, limping Emily bore down on them, followed by three hotel guards. She pointed directly at Andrea's double. "That's her!" Emily squeaked. "That's the imposter!"
--
Max had been in tight spots before. His short but eventful career as a spy thus far had given him quite a number of scrapes, including but not limited to hurtling from an airplane with no parachute, fighting a seven foot tall bad guy on top of an exploding building, and having his ass scraped raw thanks to being dragged at eighty miles an hour by a speeding car.
With that in mind, he knew that he had what it took to get out of this. Even with a semi-conscious double of 99 in his arms, and a pounding headache that affected his vision and made everything look … snowy, he could get out of this.
There would be an idea on how to deal with the rogue traitor formerly known as Agent 23, who was still physically intimidating and devastatingly handsome, and pointed a Glock in his direction, aimed right at Andrea Sach's head.
It was coming. Any time now.
He blinked, tried hard to get his brain to work. "You should know," he finally began. "That this entire hotel is crawling with Control agents. They're just waiting for the word."
A large smile floated on the handsome face. "I don't think so, Max."
Damn. He sucked in a pained breath. "How about 10 NYPD Snipers?"
"Not so much."
"Maybe a security guard with an angry scowl?"
The low, rumbling chuckle that came in response was chilling. "No."
"Damn."
"You know, Max-y, I always liked you." Agent 23's smile, however, did not match the furious glint that sparked from the dark eyes. "You were sincere, you know? As transparent as plastic wrap. Believed so much in what you were doing. I wanted you to be a field agent, I did."
"You'll understand if that doesn't make me feel overtly sentimental." Max didn't dare take his eyes off the other agent with the gun, but the woman in his arms had gone from semi-conscious to blacking out. She now slumped against him like an increasingly heavy sack of potatoes, and with his concussion jack-hammering into the side of his head, he felt himself leaning.
He grimaced, but tightened his grip and kept his ground. As long as Agent 23 kept talking, he was safe. And boy did this guy like to talk. How had he never noticed it before?
"Honestly didn’t think you'd have it in you to keep her happy, though." The gun motioned lightly on Andy's still form, before it again rose to regard Max with its black, dark nozzle. "She really is a needy, pushy thing, isn't she?"
Oh, yeap, there it was, the sexual intimidation that happened every time he remembered that 99's previous lover had been the hulking specimen that was Agent 23.
"23-"
"Don't call me that."
"What?"
The smile was gone. "My name is not 23. It's not even a name. It's just a number. It's a stupid number."
"Michael Jordan wore a 23 on his blazer. It's a great number."
"I hate Michael Jordan. I wanted 8, like Kobe Bryant."
"Oh." Max blinked. "Isn't his number 24 now?"
A flicker of annoyance creased 23's smile into a frown. "Originally, it was 8."
"But it's 24 now."
"Look, would you -" the gun shook maniacally before 24 managed to get a hold of himself, inhaling and exhaling again. "Yes, I know it's 24 now, but originally, it was 8. Okay?"
"Okay," Max answered, nodding agreeably. "But it'd be easier if I had a name to call you. Would you like me to call you Number 8, then?"
The gun stayed still as the idea marinated in 23's mind. A boyish smile emerged, and the massive shoulders squared. Stepping forward lightly with his gun, he grinned, "You know what? Sure. Do that. Call me 8. Like Kobe."
"Fine, Number 8."
"Nice," 23 said, nodding happily. "I like it. Like Kobe. It's been waiting a long time for this, Max. Let's see how much Control is willing to pay to get back their two best agents."
"They won't pay a dime. You know that."
"Oh, please. I know the protocol. But the Chief has a soft spot for you and that girl, Max-y." Max swallowed, watching with a growing sense of dread at the sudden coldness in 23's eyes as he once again looked at the unconscious Andy Sachs. "How'd you get her, Max? What'd you do? Give her the ole' boyscout routine? 'I could never tell a lie'?"
"Number 8, there has been a severe miscommunication."
"Oh, has there?"
"You see, the woman in my arms? She is not Agent 99. Her name is Andrea Sachs. She is an innocent-"
"Oh, come on, Max-y." The smile was instantly gone. "Do you think I was born yesterday? I know I've been in the business a long time, and you're just a rookie but even you should know better than to try to give me 'this is just a body double' line."
"You don't think she was acting oddly to you?" Max tried, trying hard not to sound desperate as the weight became too much for him. Carefully, he allowed the unconscious girl to slink down, and betrayed himself when he staggered in the process.
"Careful, Max. That's quite a knock on your head."
"You know that 99 would never drink a glass of champagne from a strange man. This isn't 99! You need to let her go."
"You know what? I've had enough." Without hesitation or warning, 23's finger jerked, pulling the trigger of the gun.
Max yelped, his woozy head kept him sluggish, but a half a second later, a dart buried deep into the wall behind him.
"Ha-ha!" he said, delighted with his reflexes. "A drugged dart, meant for my head! I hate to say it, 23, but you missed it by that mu-"
23 shot again, and the burn sizzled on Max's neck before the world tilted sideways and went black.
--
"Miss, we'll need you to come with us."
Ten feet from the bathroom door.
God, they were SO CLOSE to saving Max and the girl, and that GOD-DAMNED Emily-
Agent 99's fingers clenched tightly around her gun, and she brought it quickly behind her, keeping it out of sight.
"Oh, Miranda!" The little screechy thing named Emily now had her eyes on Miranda Priestly, who looked incensed. "She's kidnapped me! She locked me in a closet!"
The surprise on the editor's face was palpable as she swiveled to face her in disbelief. "You locked her in a closet?"
99 made no apologies. "And I gagged her. She was being hysterical."
"Ah," Miranda said, as if it that was completely understandable. "Officers, I'm afraid there's been somewhat of a miscommunication-"
"No misunderstanding, ma'am," said one olive-skinned guard, brandishing his nightstick. "Maintenance found her in the closet. She's very adamant that this young lady kidnapped her."
"She did!" Emily was hyperventilating in her emotion, and 99 winced, a shiver of annoyance causing a roll on her shoulders and she kept her back to the wall, eyes not on the guards but on the door. "She was talking about body doubles and having Andy's face-"
"Emily, keep it quiet," she warned.
"I will certainly not-"
"Shut up, you stupid girl!" Miranda, it seemed, had finally lost her temper. "You don't know a thing about this." The statement, said with utter disgust and annoyance, drained the color from Emily's face, as the girl cast them both a disbelieving snort, before shaking her head furiously.
"No, Miranda! She's not Andy! I got to you just in time!"
"Have you gone out of your mind?" Miranda demanded, and 99 gave an agonized look toward the door, heart pounding heavily.
"I don't have time for this," she breathed. Beside her, Miranda Priestly gave her a grim-faced expression. The older woman now turned completely in the direction of Emily and the guards, shielding her from their glares.
"You'll have to excuse my coordinator, officers. Sometimes she has the most ridiculous notions-"
"Miranda, she assaulted me!"
"Emily, you will keep your mouth shut."
"I can't! She's an imposter, Miranda!"
She couldn't wait. The shouting was getting louder, and the door was so close. With a grimace, 99 ignored the sudden shout of warning by the guard and moved fast, jerking around Miranda and lifting up her gun, aiming it directly at Emily's heart as she now stood just outside the bathroom door.
The screech that had begun to emerge from Emily's panicked form dissolved into a sudden whine.
"Keep.Your.Mouth.Shut," she hissed, fumbling for the door handle.
Locked.
Dammit.
"Woah, lady!"
"Listen to me." Swallowing hard, 99 kept her gun on Emily, but directed her gaze to the guards, who were fumbling for their belts. "There is a very bad man on the other side of that door, and he has two hostages. I need your help to bring him down. Are you listening to me?"
"Lady, the only danger to this hotel is you. Now put the gun down before someone gets hurt."
"Miranda-"
And then the door exploded, smashing into her body and forcing her off balance. She rammed hard into the wall, nearly colliding with Miranda, temple cracking against the hard surface before her gun swerved in the direction of the opening door and right into the image of a large, muscled man, hidden behind his own revolver.
It was him. Not the same face, but the same eyes, the same shit-eating grin. The very same killer.
Immediately she reached behind her, shoving Miranda between her and the wall, shielding the woman from harm.
"23," she whispered, and despite her ringing head, kept her gun up, warring with herself to keep her reflexes in control and not take her eyes off of him for even the second it would take to look past him and make sure Max and the girl were still alive.
"99," he returned, a little breathless. He stared at her, dark eyes dilating as he processed her image, and suddenly smiled at the picture she presented. "Well," he said, whistling in appreciation. "Looks like the idiot was telling the truth. Should have known. Max doesn't lie."
"Where is he?"
"Taking a nap," he snarled, waving his free hand carelessly toward the bathroom. "Don't worry. He's not dead yet. I'm planning to savor that."
"Let them go, 23," she ordered, voice even, firm. "You can't get out of this."
"I think I can. I got away from you once before."
"We blew you up. I'm not sure that qualifies."
The smug smile faltered. "You know its demeaning crap like that that was always a problem with you and me, 99. You never did know when to keep your trap shut."
"Oh, God," she snapped, keeping her gun trained to the spot right between his temples. "Get over it, 23! People dump people! Deal!"
"They don't dump me!"
"I hate to intrude," Miranda's soft voice cut in. "But it seems there may be an issue."
To their right, Emily gave another pitiful, muffled squeak.
That was a bad sign. That was a very bad sign.
Fingernails dug meaningfully into her shoulder, and with her free hand still splayed back against Miranda's hip, 99 began to move, keeping Miranda behind her until they had moved away from the wall and were now facing 23 and the hotel guns behind him, all brandishing guns.
One held Emily against him, muzzle of his weapon digging painfully into her temple.
"Hotel guards do not carry guns," Miranda informed her quietly, as her grip tightened on her shoulder.
"That's because they're not guards," 99 answered, and winced at her own stupidity, the pieces falling together fast. "This was all a trap," she whispered hoarsely. "You planted the rumor in the chatter because you knew only Max would be good enough to pick it up. You wanted us-"
"I wanted you," 23 interrupted. "But now I've got Max, a fake you, the real you, and even Miranda Priestly." He grinned. "I'll take it."
Panic rose in her throat like bile. "No-"
The instinctive jerk she made, one step toward him, was enough for the smile to fade, and the guard holding Emily shoved the gun in a bruising nudge against her throat, making the girl cry out.
"No, no, no." The glare in 23's eyes was murderous. "You don't get to move. You don't get to move one foot forward, or I kill your precious Max, and your little mirror-image, and the redhead. I won't wait. I blast their heads off right now." His eyes shifted from her to the woman pressed up behind her. "No offense, Ms. Priestly. I really am a fan. 99, drop the gun."
There was no way out of this. Too many people, too many guns pointed at her. Too many people to protect.
And 23 had just given her information.
He wouldn't kill Max. Not yet. She had time. She didn't know how much time she had, but she had it.
Enough to save Max. Enough to save Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly and even the wretched Emily, who looked pathetically helpless, clawing at the strong hands holding her, tears dripping down her cheeks.
Poor Emily had had a very stressful hour.
She would do no one any good if she gave up her gun. She could not help herself and not help Miranda Priestly if they stayed in this eternal stand-off, even if her lover was in the bathroom unconscious. She was hopelessly outnumbered and there were four men with guns, one of which was 23, who she knew she could not beat in hand-to-hand combat. Not on her own. She had to think like an agent, and assess the risks.
"Put the gun down, 99."
Get out. Regroup. Get Miranda safe, and then try and save the rest.
Her eyes moved off of 23 for only a second, enough to lock glances with the unfortunate assistant whose only mistake had been to overreact when she thought she was somebody else.
"I’m sorry for locking you in the closet," she said, before she flicked a latch on the side of her gun.
The smoke bomb that was immediately released created a sudden fog and shout of disoriented alarm.
Without waiting, 99 turned and grabbed hold of Miranda, shoving hard. "GO!" she snapped, before she grabbed hold of Miranda's arm and dragged her in a sprint down the hall and toward the only available door.
"DAMMIT - after them!"
The chirp of a bullet whizzed past her ear, buried with a snap into the wall beside them.
"I will not leave Andrea," Miranda hissed, and suddenly paused and added, as in afterthought, "Or Emily. So I can kill her myself."
"I can't help them right now," 99 said, and fumbled against the door, grabbing hold of the handle and pushing hard, shoving Miranda through the door as another bullet buried in the wood a centimeter to the left of her shoulder.
Breathless, she discovered herself accidentally cupping Miranda Priestly's breast as they struggled untangle themselves, in full view of the gaping guests mingling just outside the door of the crowded ballroom.
"Do you mind?!" Miranda hissed, and immediately, she yanked her hand away.
"Sorry."
The music wavered only slightly, and then continued, to a tune that 99 immediately recognized as 'Por Una Cabeza'.
The ballroom was crowded though, and that could have been either very good, or very bad.
"Get away from the door," she ordered as she dragged Miranda further into the crowd, taking the moment to quietly slip her gun back in the holder just underneath the deep slit of her dress.
"We need to go back for Andrea-"
"We won't do her any good if we're both captured."
"He means to kill her!"
"But not right away. We have time. I need to get you out of here and safe. Max is smart. He'll find a way to keep them both safe until I can find them again." It was an awful lot of faith to put upon her lover, particularly because 99 was no optimist, but she had no choice.
"And what do you suggest we do until then?" Miranda's face was pale underneath her make up, and even as her eyes blazed with fury, her fingers trembled against 99's, heedless of the crowd.
The door opened and 23's security guards emerged, guns pocketed, but eyes blazing, mindful of the watching crowd.
Hitching in her breath, 99 thought fast.
"We tango."
End chapter
Crossposted to dvlwears_prada and passion_perfect