FIC: Hijink (DWP, Miranda/Andy, Get Smart 99/Max) 5/?
Title: Hijink 5/?
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: There will be actual Andy and Max in the next chapter. I swear it. And Emily, for good measure.
--
CHAPTERS
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
--
Chapter Five: (Oh No) You Didn't
There was something to be said for veterinary appointments with Heathcliff and the twins: they were never boring.
Andy couldn't say she actually looked forward to the vet visits that the twins insisted she accompany them to, but she owed Miranda. She hated owing Miranda Priestly, but there it was. Any other situation, she would have turned down the woman's offer to cover the expenses immediately, but a life had been at stake. Her ex-boss had ponied up quite the hefty vet bill for the best possible care for Heathcliff, and now it was clear the mutt never had it better.
Despite the fact that ribs were still showing, he was fattening up nicely, eating better than even poor Patricia, who subsisted on gourmet dog food while Heathliff's doctor prescribed raw diet was lapped up hungrily in the new porcelain bowl. What was once a mangy, flea infested coat was now glossy and shiny. Despite the fact that he was ugly as sin and had a newly amputated front leg, the doggie wagged his tail against the linoleum floor, glancing happily between her and Cassidy, tongue lolling out as Andy offered him a distracted pat.
"Lindsay Lohan is gay now." Cassidy never looked up as she played with her blinged out Nintendo DS, legs swinging from the chair as she made the bold announcement.
Beside them, a lady turned up her nose and sniffed, cuddling the Chihuahua in the thousand dollar cashmere sweater closer.
"Well… I think that's speculation," she began carefully.
The look that Cassidy threw her over her DS screen clearly told her the girl thought her a few points short of a normal IQ. "She's living with a girl. They're totally gay together."
Andy had discovered something about the twins after they came to her rescue and demanded she share custody rights: they were as observant, and as pig-headed, as their mother.
"Okay," she said, unwilling to get into a 'is she or isn't she' debate about Lindsay Lohan with an eleven year old. "Well, good for her."
"Lots of girls are going gay for other girls," Cassidy continued matter-of-factly. "Ellen and Portia are getting married."
"… that's great, Cassidy."
Heathcliff began to edge carefully toward the Chihuahua, who pricked her ears in interest. The dog's owner took one look at the patch-work colored fur and bandage covering the amputated foot and immediately scooted over one chair.
Andy rolled her eyes. It wasn't like it was contagious.
"I'm gonna go gay for someone at school."
Her head whipped around so fast she nearly got whiplash. "Come again?"
Cassidy swung her legs again. "I'm gonna go gay for someone at school. Her name is Heather."
"You're going gay for someone named Heather."
"She's thirteen," Cassidy said matter-of-factly.
Oh, God… this was not happening. Cassidy was not coming out to her in a vet office. "Cassidy… umm…" Pressing her hands against her flushed face, Andy told herself to breathe. "Cassidy, honey, are you sure you're... um... I mean, it's okay if you are-"
Brows lifted at her in a perfect imitation of the redhead's mother. "She has breasts."
Wow. Okay… that was gay. "Don't you think you might be a little… young?"
"Young for what?"
"To … um… you know… have a girlfriend."
"How old were you when you had a girlfriend?"
Crap. "Well… Nine," she admitted, but immediately rushed into an explanation. "But I didn't know what having a boyfriend meant! I mean, we just would eat lunch together and stuff."
Cassidy wrinkled her nose at her. "What else would we do?"
God-dammit. She just walked right into that one.
"Nothing," she said, and ignored the indignant huff of the lady beside her, who scooted yet another seat away from them. "Seriously, nothing. That's exactly what you do. That and NOTHING else."
"Heather and I eat lunch together, and she pays for stuff. Her mom's gonna take us to the Cirque De Soliel next week."
"That sounds nice," she muttered weakly.
"That's what girlfriends do. And she got a cat and said it could be mine too. We named it Catherine."
Oh God, now THAT was lesbian. "Fitting."
"Are you and my mom gay for each other?"
Andrea choked as if she had been harpooned in the gut. Keeling over, she swallowed a bubble of air and promptly hacked it back up again, face going increasingly red. Heathcliff immediately began to lick at her face.
"What?!" She managed to finally gasp.
"You and my mom have a dog together," Cassidy told her matter-of-factly. "And you eat lunch together and stuff. It's the same thing."
"It is NOT the same thing!"
"Yes it is."
"No, it's not!"
"Yes, it is!"
"Cassidy! Your mom and I are NOT gay for each other! We're…" What… were they exactly? Friends? Barely. Joint-custody owners of a dog so mixed up not even the vet could distinguish what kind of breed it came from? Companions? Okay… that sounded 1950's gay. "Friends," she finished, settling for the safest answer. "Just friends."
"Why? What's wrong with her?"
Oh, God. There was no winning this conversation. "There's nothing wrong with her."
"It's her big nose, huh?"
"Your mother does not have a big nose."
"She has a big nose. She should get a nose job."
"She doesn’t need a nose job."
"It's cause she's wrinkled."
"No, it's not because she's wrinkled," Andy snapped, exasperated. "It's because we're not gay."
"Neither was Lindsay Lohan."
Yes, by all means compare them. Inhaling sharply through her nose, Andy willed herself to keep it together. "Honey, I respect your mom."
"But you think she's ugly."
"No, I think she's beautiful, actually."
"She thinks you're beautiful, too."
"No, that-" she blinked, thoughts coming to a tumbling, cascading stop. "She does?"
Cassidy turned back to the DS. "If you go gay for my Mom, are you gonna start dressing like a guy like Sam?" When Andy could only gape, Cassidy calmly explained, "Because one of you has to be the man. It's the law."
--
Though she would never vocalize it Miranda Priestly would quietly admit one weakness: for all her attention to the tiniest minute detail, she did find that she could, on occasion, miss the broader theme. Things that would obvious to anyone else tended to go unnoticed to Miranda Priestly, and she understood that.
Can't see the forest for the trees, was the saying.
Too inclined to look at wrinkles and seams and flow. Too distracted by shades of colors or the right bangle or setting the right tone. Too engrossed in merits of brunette or blonde or ginger to take a step back and regard things as an entity.
It was the very reason her affair with Andrea had been such a shock - she had not been aware she had even been attracted to the younger woman until impulse overcame disdain during an argument.
An unexpected reunion months ago with the brunette reporter left Miranda's hair rising on the back of her neck, unexpectedly chilled. The sudden flash of heat that coursed through her body, and a surge of hate directed at the younger woman when Miranda had long ago told herself Andrea was not worth thinking about was infuriating.
They were all indications, but Miranda had not seen them. She had been too involved in her feelings, in her affronted anger, because it wasn't even at a dinner, or event in which Miranda had any sort of power. No, instead she had run into Andrea at the veterinarian's office, startled to find Andrea, drenched hair hanging limply in wet tendrils, holding a shivering, whining dog wrapped in her jacket.
Just a mutt, hit by a cab driver and left for dead. No breed or pedigree. Nuzzling into Andrea's coat and licking her face for relief, of which Andrea could provide none. She was only a poor Samaritan, who could not stand to walk by a broken dog and leave it to its fate.
Nor could she afford the extravagant costs of an operation. Miranda watched as the girl futzed with her credit cards, trying to see if she could spread the balance, could see the real anguish on her face for a dog she could not even keep.
In the process, she broke the heart of everyone in that waiting room, with the exception of Miranda. Miranda was too busy looking at details, the way Andrea had kept her weight; the mature, haunted expression on the face she hadn't seen in months. She had been, plainly put, struck dumb, hidden behind a cool shell.
It was only when Cassidy and Caroline, no longer able to endure Andrea's suffering or the inevitable death of the dog who could not afford treatment, loudly demanded that she cover the costs that Andrea even glanced in her direction.
That was how Patricia inherited a mutt companion named Heathcliff, a three legged beast with a floppy tongue and the annoying habit of jumping on Miranda's bed and slumping over her hip.
It was also how Andrea Sachs reentered her life, becoming co-owner to a pet because the twins demanded it, forced Andrea into accepting a role as 'fairy god-mother' to their new pet, demanded visitations and chaperoned trips to the vet.
And still, Miranda could not see the forest for the trees. Too involved in her search for the details, it never occurred to her that the feeling inside of her was genuine attraction; affection.
Not until Andrea kissed her, that very first time.
Today, the feeling was eerily similar, and it sunk down deep inside of her with a knot of tension and something far, far worse, because she saw the forest now.
She was very much in love with Andrea Sachs, and had been obsessed with details - a party, a reputation, a desperate bid for control in the relationship - she had never seen it. Not until now.
The phantom image of Andrea sat coolly beside her, legs crossed and face blank and closed. Pale hands smoothed over her dress, sorting through folds of her garment and snapping shut the Bluetooth headset she was twisting off her ear.
Her very presence suddenly offended Miranda so completely; she felt a wave of nausea.
"You'll explain to me now exactly why your face so strongly resembles Andrea," she said, voice low and barely unsteady. Long fingers fisted together, and in an effort to control herself, Miranda glanced outside of the window of the rolling car. Her eyes threatened to sting, but she kept the tears from falling.
To cry at this moment was not an option. To do so would admit defeat, and Miranda would never admit defeat or desperation.
"I'm afraid that's classified."
A wave of anger tumbled in her stomach, and she inhaled sharply through her nose, releasing it steadily. "Your classified information has not only been responsible for the kidnapping of someone very close to me, but has resulted in quite a scandal for my reputation." Miranda bit the edge of the sentence with a grind of her teeth. To even think about what the online blogs and tabloids were printing even now was enough to cause a migraine. And yet even that was preferable to think of what kind of danger Andrea was at the hands of a madman. Her head swiveled, locking into the other woman with a fixed stare. "How rich is your agency? Could you afford a suit?"
A ragged sigh, the only indication the woman was in anyway unnerved by what was happening. "I don't know," Miranda heard, before The Woman Who Was Not Andrea broke the stare, eyes turning toward the window. "About a year ago, my cover was blown. The condition for my release into active duty was a complete transformation: blonde to brunette. A few years younger, pigmentation, implants, the works."
"Is it the regular practice of the United States government to steal the features of an innocent woman and place it on the face of a killer?"
The woman's hands twitched. "It's not supposed to be."
"How assuring."
A hand slapped the leather of the seat beside her, a dull, sharp snap. "Look, how do you think I feel?" Mouth pressed in a grim line, Miranda watched as the agent finally snapped. The grim pouty line of her mouth was now edged with hardness, the moisture in her eyes threatened to spill over. "They changed my entire face. I've spent months looking in the mirror and searching for a piece of myself, and just when I start feeling comfortable with what I look like-"
"Are you expecting sympathy?" Miranda Priestly would not coddle her. "You are a killer, and a government agent. You are not as young as you look and in all of this, you had a choice. Andrea had no such luxury."
The petulant face, with Andrea's trembling pouting mouth and her big brown eyes, seemed stunned by the spat response, before the shoulders lifted, and the expression closed once more.
"We have an address," she said, an abrupt change in conversation. "But 23 knows we're coming. I'm going to take you to our headquarters. You'll need protection, no matter how this plays out-"
"Are you suggesting I submit myself willingly to the protection of the likes of your agency?" The very idea was laughable.
"It's not a suggestion."
How American. "Lovely." Her voice was dry, furious. "And what would you do if your rogue agent decided to pay me a visit? Choreograph a contemporary jazz routine accented in kevlar?"
An aggravated sigh was her answer. "You're alive, aren't you?"
"And Andrea is kidnapped. Emily is kidnapped. Both are at the hands of a ruthless madman, and all because my- because Andrea was unlucky enough to have her features plagiarized."
"We can't worry about that yet."
"And even if you do succeed in your endeavor," Miranda continued, voice low, quiet, still as a python waiting to strike. "What guarantee do can you assure me that this won't happen again? Some other rogue psychopath who has had the misfortune of crossing paths with you will lay eyes on Andrea and assume that she's a target-"
"Our covers are discreet."
"Clearly. That was readily apparent today." The phone vibrated. Irv. Miranda pressed ignore.
"We're going to catch 23, and when we do, this will no longer be an issue. He's setting them up as bait, which means he won't kill them. Not yet. He wants to finish this as much as we do."
"How reassuring," she spat, and her phone buzzed again. On the window, the blinking name of what was more than likely a distraught Beth, forced now to deal with the fall out of their exhibition on the dance floor. She pressed 'ignore'.
"Besides," 99 continued, speaking almost as if to herself rather than Miranda. "Max is with her. He won't let anything happen to her."
"Are you referring to the unconscious lump on the floor of the bathroom?"
That did it. The posture stiffened, the eyes glittered, and it was then that Miranda finally saw the killer she suspected resided beneath Andrea's mask. The glare flared in those luminous eyes was positively murderous.
And wounded.
Miranda Priestly was a master at picking at flaws, and she found this agent's immediately, in the form of her partner, and lover, apparently.
Observing the hurt face, the tears pricking at the dark eyes, Miranda felt a sudden thrill of validation, and it soothed her. Motivation was a tricky thing, but in this, there was now a common goal.
"Max is GOOD agent," the girl hissed, voice dark and dry and nothing like Andrea at all. "And he's a good man. He'll protect Andrea Sachs with his life, and he'll do whatever it takes to get them out of this." The smirk that creased Miranda's features confused her. The tight features grew befuddled, but then the woman just looked exhausted. "Retract the claws, Ms. Priestly. We'll get your girlfriend back."
"And after that?'
"We'll work it out."
Vagueness was not a quality she appreciated, but as a thundering migraine continued to pulse into Miranda's temples, she did not have the patience or the temperament to continue the argument. Still… there was a formality that had been ignored.
"My name is Miranda Priestly." The look she received at the statement clearly indicated the other woman thought she might have snapped. Releasing a labored sigh, Miranda arched an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"Oh." Blinking, the other woman shifted, crossed and recrossed her legs, hesitating in her answer. "You can call me Agent 99."
"That is not a name."
A smile was tossed in her direction, empty and strained. "That's what you can call me."
Wonderful. A secret agent with an identity crisis.
Again, her phone vibrated in her fingertips, and this time, she was forced to pick up the call.
"Cassidy, darling." The shrill rant that immediately followed was enough to cause even the agent sitting a foot away to jump in her seat. Miranda closed her eyes and uncurled her fingers, reaching up to massage lightly at her temples. "No, Bobbsy, I'm not familiar with those blogs… 'Oh No They Didn't'? Is that grammatically correct?" Another screech followed. "Hello, Caroline, dear. Darlings, we can discuss this when I get to the house. There are some things Mumsy must take care of first. Caroline!" she snapped sharply. "I realize it was a trifle insensitive to kiss Andrea on the dancefloor in a public venue but I will not take that tone from you. Now I will speak to you shortly. What on earth does a U-Haul have to do with this? Andrea is not moving in. No, this does not mean you will go to live with your father. No, that is not your choice. No, you will not have to start calling Andrea 'Mom'. No, you may not ask her to lose ten pounds. Goodbye."
The migraine was now actively pulsing the vein above her brow, and there a crook in her neck aggravated by Agent 99's manhandling on the dancefloor that left Miranda wearied and frustrated.
Shutting her eyes, she let her head fall back against the seat. "We'll need to take care of the children," she spoke up quietly.
"I already have a team of agents stationed outside the townhouse," Agent 99 said a beat later.
"I would suggest they not try to enter without allowing me to explain things to my daughters. The girls… are a tiny bit aggravated."
"Yes, they sound lovely," 99 commented mildly.
--
The citizens of the United States of America slept better at night believing that their country was not run by a bunch of emotional nitwits.
The Chief did not sleep very well at all.
The security of the free world rode on his ability to navigate around the cocky son of a bitch that was the Vice President and manage to keep a sense of humor every time the President of the United States asked him to pull his finger.
None of that was in the secret agent handbook.
Nor was there any precedent set for dealing with the fact that two of his agents were compromised: one with a duplicate face, and the other in the hands of his former best agent, the psychopathic 23.
He shook another pair of pills into his palm, and with a tilt back of his head, dry swallowed them.
"Okay," he said, hacking slightly as the medicine lingered on his tongue. "Explain this to me. Carefully."
"What's there to explain?" Dr. Michelah seemed entirely too relaxed considering the gravity of the situation. He seemed downright bored, legs crossed like a prima donna, inspecting his fingernails and using a Kleenex plucked off the Chief's desk to try and dig the grime out from under them.
"How about starting with how one of my top female agents went into facial reconstruction and came out a Xerox copy?"
"Oh, that could happen to anyone."
"Oh, you're chalking this up to coincidence?" His blood pressure was getting higher. Any minute the blood was going to mount higher, and shoot out his ears like a geyser.
"Look, you wanted a beautiful face, you got one. She came out perfect."
"I wanted a beautiful ORIGINAL face!" he screeched, slamming his hand down at the desk. "Not one that had already been walking around for twenty-odd years."
"Well, then you should have been more specific."
"Listen you little-" Dr. Michelah immediately scrambled, shoving off the chair and just out of reach of his outstretched fingers.
"Hey, hey! Relax! Look, how were we supposed to know this was going to happen?"
"How were you suppose to- are you listening to yourself?"
"What?! We do it all the time!"
"Excuse me?"
"Do you know how hard it is to create a face from scratch and make it look NORMAL?" Dr. Michelah, now beet red, straightened his tie, fussing with his belt, trying to regain his refined experience. "This is human SKIN we're talking about! Manmade looks… MANMADE! It's… easier if we take a face that we've seen and reconstruct it. Add some differences sure, but this one…"
"This one what?"
He shrugged, and smiled. "I liked it. I saw this girl once, in a Starbucks in New York, looking harried and worried, and so very sweet, gabbing on her phone about trying to get some Harry Potter book, and I just… I fell in love with that face. I never forgot it."
"You fell in love with a face," The Chief breathed incredulously.
"Look, you wanted the best face for your best agent, so I gave you my best face. You said so yourself! 99 looked perfect!
"And it never occurred to you that she might run INTO this other woman at some point?"
"If it came to that, I'd figure she'd just kill her."
Moron. "It doesn’t work that way, Michelah."
"It should. It'd make my job a whole lot easier."
"Michelah."
"Well, how was I supposed to know that the girl would end up being the lover to Miranda Priestly of all people!" Michelah shook his head, hands on his hips, before peering in and looking at the bridge of the Chief's nose.
He blinked, suddenly self conscious. "What?"
"You know, I can take care of that scar if you want. Just zap it away."
Flabbergasted, he could only gape. Jerking toward his desk, he grabbed hold of his pills, fumbling with the child safety cap. "We can't bench 99. She's my best agent. You will fix this. We will fix this."
"Impossible." Michelah shook his head. "Do you know how traumatic a complete facial reconstruction is? I had to break bones. Implant pigment. A complete hair transplant!" The two pills he tossed into the back of his mouth got stuck in his larynx. "Are you okay?"
Two hacking coughs and the pills were on their way down. "Well, we can't exactly put Miss Sachs into witness protection. Her face is plastered over every newspaper and blog in the country!"
Michelah smiled.
"What's so funny?"
"Not funny," he said, and released a satisfied sigh. "Just… proud. I really nailed her, didn't I? Even down to the smile. Damn, I'm good!"
"Listen, you little-" The globe paperweight went sailing so quickly Dr. Michelah didn't have time to duck.
A squelch later, the good doctor was slumped on the floor, mouth open, head bleeding, looking dazed. "You're just jealous," he wheezed.
--
END CHAPTER
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: There will be actual Andy and Max in the next chapter. I swear it. And Emily, for good measure.
--
CHAPTERS
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
--
Chapter Five: (Oh No) You Didn't
There was something to be said for veterinary appointments with Heathcliff and the twins: they were never boring.
Andy couldn't say she actually looked forward to the vet visits that the twins insisted she accompany them to, but she owed Miranda. She hated owing Miranda Priestly, but there it was. Any other situation, she would have turned down the woman's offer to cover the expenses immediately, but a life had been at stake. Her ex-boss had ponied up quite the hefty vet bill for the best possible care for Heathcliff, and now it was clear the mutt never had it better.
Despite the fact that ribs were still showing, he was fattening up nicely, eating better than even poor Patricia, who subsisted on gourmet dog food while Heathliff's doctor prescribed raw diet was lapped up hungrily in the new porcelain bowl. What was once a mangy, flea infested coat was now glossy and shiny. Despite the fact that he was ugly as sin and had a newly amputated front leg, the doggie wagged his tail against the linoleum floor, glancing happily between her and Cassidy, tongue lolling out as Andy offered him a distracted pat.
"Lindsay Lohan is gay now." Cassidy never looked up as she played with her blinged out Nintendo DS, legs swinging from the chair as she made the bold announcement.
Beside them, a lady turned up her nose and sniffed, cuddling the Chihuahua in the thousand dollar cashmere sweater closer.
"Well… I think that's speculation," she began carefully.
The look that Cassidy threw her over her DS screen clearly told her the girl thought her a few points short of a normal IQ. "She's living with a girl. They're totally gay together."
Andy had discovered something about the twins after they came to her rescue and demanded she share custody rights: they were as observant, and as pig-headed, as their mother.
"Okay," she said, unwilling to get into a 'is she or isn't she' debate about Lindsay Lohan with an eleven year old. "Well, good for her."
"Lots of girls are going gay for other girls," Cassidy continued matter-of-factly. "Ellen and Portia are getting married."
"… that's great, Cassidy."
Heathcliff began to edge carefully toward the Chihuahua, who pricked her ears in interest. The dog's owner took one look at the patch-work colored fur and bandage covering the amputated foot and immediately scooted over one chair.
Andy rolled her eyes. It wasn't like it was contagious.
"I'm gonna go gay for someone at school."
Her head whipped around so fast she nearly got whiplash. "Come again?"
Cassidy swung her legs again. "I'm gonna go gay for someone at school. Her name is Heather."
"You're going gay for someone named Heather."
"She's thirteen," Cassidy said matter-of-factly.
Oh, God… this was not happening. Cassidy was not coming out to her in a vet office. "Cassidy… umm…" Pressing her hands against her flushed face, Andy told herself to breathe. "Cassidy, honey, are you sure you're... um... I mean, it's okay if you are-"
Brows lifted at her in a perfect imitation of the redhead's mother. "She has breasts."
Wow. Okay… that was gay. "Don't you think you might be a little… young?"
"Young for what?"
"To … um… you know… have a girlfriend."
"How old were you when you had a girlfriend?"
Crap. "Well… Nine," she admitted, but immediately rushed into an explanation. "But I didn't know what having a boyfriend meant! I mean, we just would eat lunch together and stuff."
Cassidy wrinkled her nose at her. "What else would we do?"
God-dammit. She just walked right into that one.
"Nothing," she said, and ignored the indignant huff of the lady beside her, who scooted yet another seat away from them. "Seriously, nothing. That's exactly what you do. That and NOTHING else."
"Heather and I eat lunch together, and she pays for stuff. Her mom's gonna take us to the Cirque De Soliel next week."
"That sounds nice," she muttered weakly.
"That's what girlfriends do. And she got a cat and said it could be mine too. We named it Catherine."
Oh God, now THAT was lesbian. "Fitting."
"Are you and my mom gay for each other?"
Andrea choked as if she had been harpooned in the gut. Keeling over, she swallowed a bubble of air and promptly hacked it back up again, face going increasingly red. Heathcliff immediately began to lick at her face.
"What?!" She managed to finally gasp.
"You and my mom have a dog together," Cassidy told her matter-of-factly. "And you eat lunch together and stuff. It's the same thing."
"It is NOT the same thing!"
"Yes it is."
"No, it's not!"
"Yes, it is!"
"Cassidy! Your mom and I are NOT gay for each other! We're…" What… were they exactly? Friends? Barely. Joint-custody owners of a dog so mixed up not even the vet could distinguish what kind of breed it came from? Companions? Okay… that sounded 1950's gay. "Friends," she finished, settling for the safest answer. "Just friends."
"Why? What's wrong with her?"
Oh, God. There was no winning this conversation. "There's nothing wrong with her."
"It's her big nose, huh?"
"Your mother does not have a big nose."
"She has a big nose. She should get a nose job."
"She doesn’t need a nose job."
"It's cause she's wrinkled."
"No, it's not because she's wrinkled," Andy snapped, exasperated. "It's because we're not gay."
"Neither was Lindsay Lohan."
Yes, by all means compare them. Inhaling sharply through her nose, Andy willed herself to keep it together. "Honey, I respect your mom."
"But you think she's ugly."
"No, I think she's beautiful, actually."
"She thinks you're beautiful, too."
"No, that-" she blinked, thoughts coming to a tumbling, cascading stop. "She does?"
Cassidy turned back to the DS. "If you go gay for my Mom, are you gonna start dressing like a guy like Sam?" When Andy could only gape, Cassidy calmly explained, "Because one of you has to be the man. It's the law."
--
Though she would never vocalize it Miranda Priestly would quietly admit one weakness: for all her attention to the tiniest minute detail, she did find that she could, on occasion, miss the broader theme. Things that would obvious to anyone else tended to go unnoticed to Miranda Priestly, and she understood that.
Can't see the forest for the trees, was the saying.
Too inclined to look at wrinkles and seams and flow. Too distracted by shades of colors or the right bangle or setting the right tone. Too engrossed in merits of brunette or blonde or ginger to take a step back and regard things as an entity.
It was the very reason her affair with Andrea had been such a shock - she had not been aware she had even been attracted to the younger woman until impulse overcame disdain during an argument.
An unexpected reunion months ago with the brunette reporter left Miranda's hair rising on the back of her neck, unexpectedly chilled. The sudden flash of heat that coursed through her body, and a surge of hate directed at the younger woman when Miranda had long ago told herself Andrea was not worth thinking about was infuriating.
They were all indications, but Miranda had not seen them. She had been too involved in her feelings, in her affronted anger, because it wasn't even at a dinner, or event in which Miranda had any sort of power. No, instead she had run into Andrea at the veterinarian's office, startled to find Andrea, drenched hair hanging limply in wet tendrils, holding a shivering, whining dog wrapped in her jacket.
Just a mutt, hit by a cab driver and left for dead. No breed or pedigree. Nuzzling into Andrea's coat and licking her face for relief, of which Andrea could provide none. She was only a poor Samaritan, who could not stand to walk by a broken dog and leave it to its fate.
Nor could she afford the extravagant costs of an operation. Miranda watched as the girl futzed with her credit cards, trying to see if she could spread the balance, could see the real anguish on her face for a dog she could not even keep.
In the process, she broke the heart of everyone in that waiting room, with the exception of Miranda. Miranda was too busy looking at details, the way Andrea had kept her weight; the mature, haunted expression on the face she hadn't seen in months. She had been, plainly put, struck dumb, hidden behind a cool shell.
It was only when Cassidy and Caroline, no longer able to endure Andrea's suffering or the inevitable death of the dog who could not afford treatment, loudly demanded that she cover the costs that Andrea even glanced in her direction.
That was how Patricia inherited a mutt companion named Heathcliff, a three legged beast with a floppy tongue and the annoying habit of jumping on Miranda's bed and slumping over her hip.
It was also how Andrea Sachs reentered her life, becoming co-owner to a pet because the twins demanded it, forced Andrea into accepting a role as 'fairy god-mother' to their new pet, demanded visitations and chaperoned trips to the vet.
And still, Miranda could not see the forest for the trees. Too involved in her search for the details, it never occurred to her that the feeling inside of her was genuine attraction; affection.
Not until Andrea kissed her, that very first time.
Today, the feeling was eerily similar, and it sunk down deep inside of her with a knot of tension and something far, far worse, because she saw the forest now.
She was very much in love with Andrea Sachs, and had been obsessed with details - a party, a reputation, a desperate bid for control in the relationship - she had never seen it. Not until now.
The phantom image of Andrea sat coolly beside her, legs crossed and face blank and closed. Pale hands smoothed over her dress, sorting through folds of her garment and snapping shut the Bluetooth headset she was twisting off her ear.
Her very presence suddenly offended Miranda so completely; she felt a wave of nausea.
"You'll explain to me now exactly why your face so strongly resembles Andrea," she said, voice low and barely unsteady. Long fingers fisted together, and in an effort to control herself, Miranda glanced outside of the window of the rolling car. Her eyes threatened to sting, but she kept the tears from falling.
To cry at this moment was not an option. To do so would admit defeat, and Miranda would never admit defeat or desperation.
"I'm afraid that's classified."
A wave of anger tumbled in her stomach, and she inhaled sharply through her nose, releasing it steadily. "Your classified information has not only been responsible for the kidnapping of someone very close to me, but has resulted in quite a scandal for my reputation." Miranda bit the edge of the sentence with a grind of her teeth. To even think about what the online blogs and tabloids were printing even now was enough to cause a migraine. And yet even that was preferable to think of what kind of danger Andrea was at the hands of a madman. Her head swiveled, locking into the other woman with a fixed stare. "How rich is your agency? Could you afford a suit?"
A ragged sigh, the only indication the woman was in anyway unnerved by what was happening. "I don't know," Miranda heard, before The Woman Who Was Not Andrea broke the stare, eyes turning toward the window. "About a year ago, my cover was blown. The condition for my release into active duty was a complete transformation: blonde to brunette. A few years younger, pigmentation, implants, the works."
"Is it the regular practice of the United States government to steal the features of an innocent woman and place it on the face of a killer?"
The woman's hands twitched. "It's not supposed to be."
"How assuring."
A hand slapped the leather of the seat beside her, a dull, sharp snap. "Look, how do you think I feel?" Mouth pressed in a grim line, Miranda watched as the agent finally snapped. The grim pouty line of her mouth was now edged with hardness, the moisture in her eyes threatened to spill over. "They changed my entire face. I've spent months looking in the mirror and searching for a piece of myself, and just when I start feeling comfortable with what I look like-"
"Are you expecting sympathy?" Miranda Priestly would not coddle her. "You are a killer, and a government agent. You are not as young as you look and in all of this, you had a choice. Andrea had no such luxury."
The petulant face, with Andrea's trembling pouting mouth and her big brown eyes, seemed stunned by the spat response, before the shoulders lifted, and the expression closed once more.
"We have an address," she said, an abrupt change in conversation. "But 23 knows we're coming. I'm going to take you to our headquarters. You'll need protection, no matter how this plays out-"
"Are you suggesting I submit myself willingly to the protection of the likes of your agency?" The very idea was laughable.
"It's not a suggestion."
How American. "Lovely." Her voice was dry, furious. "And what would you do if your rogue agent decided to pay me a visit? Choreograph a contemporary jazz routine accented in kevlar?"
An aggravated sigh was her answer. "You're alive, aren't you?"
"And Andrea is kidnapped. Emily is kidnapped. Both are at the hands of a ruthless madman, and all because my- because Andrea was unlucky enough to have her features plagiarized."
"We can't worry about that yet."
"And even if you do succeed in your endeavor," Miranda continued, voice low, quiet, still as a python waiting to strike. "What guarantee do can you assure me that this won't happen again? Some other rogue psychopath who has had the misfortune of crossing paths with you will lay eyes on Andrea and assume that she's a target-"
"Our covers are discreet."
"Clearly. That was readily apparent today." The phone vibrated. Irv. Miranda pressed ignore.
"We're going to catch 23, and when we do, this will no longer be an issue. He's setting them up as bait, which means he won't kill them. Not yet. He wants to finish this as much as we do."
"How reassuring," she spat, and her phone buzzed again. On the window, the blinking name of what was more than likely a distraught Beth, forced now to deal with the fall out of their exhibition on the dance floor. She pressed 'ignore'.
"Besides," 99 continued, speaking almost as if to herself rather than Miranda. "Max is with her. He won't let anything happen to her."
"Are you referring to the unconscious lump on the floor of the bathroom?"
That did it. The posture stiffened, the eyes glittered, and it was then that Miranda finally saw the killer she suspected resided beneath Andrea's mask. The glare flared in those luminous eyes was positively murderous.
And wounded.
Miranda Priestly was a master at picking at flaws, and she found this agent's immediately, in the form of her partner, and lover, apparently.
Observing the hurt face, the tears pricking at the dark eyes, Miranda felt a sudden thrill of validation, and it soothed her. Motivation was a tricky thing, but in this, there was now a common goal.
"Max is GOOD agent," the girl hissed, voice dark and dry and nothing like Andrea at all. "And he's a good man. He'll protect Andrea Sachs with his life, and he'll do whatever it takes to get them out of this." The smirk that creased Miranda's features confused her. The tight features grew befuddled, but then the woman just looked exhausted. "Retract the claws, Ms. Priestly. We'll get your girlfriend back."
"And after that?'
"We'll work it out."
Vagueness was not a quality she appreciated, but as a thundering migraine continued to pulse into Miranda's temples, she did not have the patience or the temperament to continue the argument. Still… there was a formality that had been ignored.
"My name is Miranda Priestly." The look she received at the statement clearly indicated the other woman thought she might have snapped. Releasing a labored sigh, Miranda arched an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"Oh." Blinking, the other woman shifted, crossed and recrossed her legs, hesitating in her answer. "You can call me Agent 99."
"That is not a name."
A smile was tossed in her direction, empty and strained. "That's what you can call me."
Wonderful. A secret agent with an identity crisis.
Again, her phone vibrated in her fingertips, and this time, she was forced to pick up the call.
"Cassidy, darling." The shrill rant that immediately followed was enough to cause even the agent sitting a foot away to jump in her seat. Miranda closed her eyes and uncurled her fingers, reaching up to massage lightly at her temples. "No, Bobbsy, I'm not familiar with those blogs… 'Oh No They Didn't'? Is that grammatically correct?" Another screech followed. "Hello, Caroline, dear. Darlings, we can discuss this when I get to the house. There are some things Mumsy must take care of first. Caroline!" she snapped sharply. "I realize it was a trifle insensitive to kiss Andrea on the dancefloor in a public venue but I will not take that tone from you. Now I will speak to you shortly. What on earth does a U-Haul have to do with this? Andrea is not moving in. No, this does not mean you will go to live with your father. No, that is not your choice. No, you will not have to start calling Andrea 'Mom'. No, you may not ask her to lose ten pounds. Goodbye."
The migraine was now actively pulsing the vein above her brow, and there a crook in her neck aggravated by Agent 99's manhandling on the dancefloor that left Miranda wearied and frustrated.
Shutting her eyes, she let her head fall back against the seat. "We'll need to take care of the children," she spoke up quietly.
"I already have a team of agents stationed outside the townhouse," Agent 99 said a beat later.
"I would suggest they not try to enter without allowing me to explain things to my daughters. The girls… are a tiny bit aggravated."
"Yes, they sound lovely," 99 commented mildly.
--
The citizens of the United States of America slept better at night believing that their country was not run by a bunch of emotional nitwits.
The Chief did not sleep very well at all.
The security of the free world rode on his ability to navigate around the cocky son of a bitch that was the Vice President and manage to keep a sense of humor every time the President of the United States asked him to pull his finger.
None of that was in the secret agent handbook.
Nor was there any precedent set for dealing with the fact that two of his agents were compromised: one with a duplicate face, and the other in the hands of his former best agent, the psychopathic 23.
He shook another pair of pills into his palm, and with a tilt back of his head, dry swallowed them.
"Okay," he said, hacking slightly as the medicine lingered on his tongue. "Explain this to me. Carefully."
"What's there to explain?" Dr. Michelah seemed entirely too relaxed considering the gravity of the situation. He seemed downright bored, legs crossed like a prima donna, inspecting his fingernails and using a Kleenex plucked off the Chief's desk to try and dig the grime out from under them.
"How about starting with how one of my top female agents went into facial reconstruction and came out a Xerox copy?"
"Oh, that could happen to anyone."
"Oh, you're chalking this up to coincidence?" His blood pressure was getting higher. Any minute the blood was going to mount higher, and shoot out his ears like a geyser.
"Look, you wanted a beautiful face, you got one. She came out perfect."
"I wanted a beautiful ORIGINAL face!" he screeched, slamming his hand down at the desk. "Not one that had already been walking around for twenty-odd years."
"Well, then you should have been more specific."
"Listen you little-" Dr. Michelah immediately scrambled, shoving off the chair and just out of reach of his outstretched fingers.
"Hey, hey! Relax! Look, how were we supposed to know this was going to happen?"
"How were you suppose to- are you listening to yourself?"
"What?! We do it all the time!"
"Excuse me?"
"Do you know how hard it is to create a face from scratch and make it look NORMAL?" Dr. Michelah, now beet red, straightened his tie, fussing with his belt, trying to regain his refined experience. "This is human SKIN we're talking about! Manmade looks… MANMADE! It's… easier if we take a face that we've seen and reconstruct it. Add some differences sure, but this one…"
"This one what?"
He shrugged, and smiled. "I liked it. I saw this girl once, in a Starbucks in New York, looking harried and worried, and so very sweet, gabbing on her phone about trying to get some Harry Potter book, and I just… I fell in love with that face. I never forgot it."
"You fell in love with a face," The Chief breathed incredulously.
"Look, you wanted the best face for your best agent, so I gave you my best face. You said so yourself! 99 looked perfect!
"And it never occurred to you that she might run INTO this other woman at some point?"
"If it came to that, I'd figure she'd just kill her."
Moron. "It doesn’t work that way, Michelah."
"It should. It'd make my job a whole lot easier."
"Michelah."
"Well, how was I supposed to know that the girl would end up being the lover to Miranda Priestly of all people!" Michelah shook his head, hands on his hips, before peering in and looking at the bridge of the Chief's nose.
He blinked, suddenly self conscious. "What?"
"You know, I can take care of that scar if you want. Just zap it away."
Flabbergasted, he could only gape. Jerking toward his desk, he grabbed hold of his pills, fumbling with the child safety cap. "We can't bench 99. She's my best agent. You will fix this. We will fix this."
"Impossible." Michelah shook his head. "Do you know how traumatic a complete facial reconstruction is? I had to break bones. Implant pigment. A complete hair transplant!" The two pills he tossed into the back of his mouth got stuck in his larynx. "Are you okay?"
Two hacking coughs and the pills were on their way down. "Well, we can't exactly put Miss Sachs into witness protection. Her face is plastered over every newspaper and blog in the country!"
Michelah smiled.
"What's so funny?"
"Not funny," he said, and released a satisfied sigh. "Just… proud. I really nailed her, didn't I? Even down to the smile. Damn, I'm good!"
"Listen, you little-" The globe paperweight went sailing so quickly Dr. Michelah didn't have time to duck.
A squelch later, the good doctor was slumped on the floor, mouth open, head bleeding, looking dazed. "You're just jealous," he wheezed.
--
END CHAPTER