FIC: Hijink (DWP, Miranda/Andy, Get Smart 99/Max) 6/?
Title: Hijink 6/?
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, SO sorry for the wait. Writing this requires actual blocks of time in which I have the time to concentrate, and I haven't too much of that lately. Plus I get really distracted with shiny objects. It's a curse.
--
CHAPTERS
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
--
Chapter Six: My Girlfriend, the Hero
500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale was an average high-priced house that bore no unique characteristics that could separate from any of the other average high-priced houses that lined the block.
There was no security gate. No guard dogs roaming about. A small security sticker on one of the front windows that warned potential burglars that the house was under regular 'neighborhood cop' protection, just like everyone else, but that was it. Just a beautiful house with a pristine lawn, timed sprinklers and motion controlled lights.
Dwayne Johnson was a master of disguise, but there was something to be said for hiding in the open.
And besides, inside the house was a different story altogether.
The house, used during the civil war as a pit stop for the Underground Railroad, boasted a neat little tunnel that moved under the house and exited through a small mound in the back yard. Plenty of hidden rooms hidden behind carefully coordinated moldings and triggers. Renovations had opened these tunnels wider, and now hidden in every nook and cranny of his perfectly normal looking house was an expensive surveillance system and a cache of weapons and cash from a dozen different countries.
Motion sensors, heat sensors, black lights. If there was another place to set a trap, Dwayne Johnson certainly wouldn't know it.
He was the best, after all. Even if Max-y and 99 had managed to beat him once, it wasn't because they were better than him. It was because he had gotten lazy. He had made the mistake of underestimating the boyscout once, had even liked the harmless old fool.
No more. No more being lazy. No more over-confident blunders. He was the best damned agent in the world, and this was going to prove it once and for all.
And fucking Max-y would be out of the way forever.
But not before 99 paid the price for being the only woman in the world to reject him.
Security cameras flickered on quickly, as he settled his muscled body into the plush leather chair of his hidden study, pausing momentarily on the slightly grainy image of a unconscious Max and Andrea Sachs, bound and gagged together in one of his upstairs bedrooms.
Nothing too challenging. Given Max's penchant for clumsiness and over-confidence it would be at least a half hour before they even woke up and managed to get themselves out of their binds.
99 was less predictable. She had never been the impulsive type, never been the sort to be in over her head. She learned from her mistakes and she corrected them, and the last time she had been impulsive, she had blown her cover and lost her face.
But he had Max-y, and if he knew anything at all about his girl, it was that 99 knew how to take an insult and give it right back.
She'd be tricky. She'd make it personal.
That made her dangerous.
"I'm not doing this."
Dwayne turned and arched a brow at the red-haired whisp of a woman at his desk. She pulled angrily at the gleaming handcuffs that kept her seated there, and turned a disgusted eye to the mounds of paperwork that littered her workspace.
Pushing his palms together, he cocked his head. He hadn't seen such a sheer glare of hatred in a long, long time. The only people scarier than killers and murderers were people in fashion.
He had to admit, that impressed him. The company of a like-minded person was kinda nice.
"I thought we had an understanding."
"Playing your stand-in assistant was not part of the deal!" Emily insisted, and wrinkled her freckled nose, lifting up a receipt stained with coffee.
"I thought that was the deal exactly." And it had been a good one, he thought. When he had still been infiltrated in Control, he had access to the best accountants, the best bookkeepers, and to Aggie, this little old lady who kept his balls in her two hands like a drill sergeant, and kept every moment of his life organized on a neat little calendar that synced to his Blackberry.
He missed her.
It was a problem with going rogue and freelance. He couldn't be expected to keep up with everything. And aspiring evil people tended to be really obsessed with trying to take over the world and wanting to kill people and less concerned about tallying receipts and making the proper deductions.
"Exactly what kind of criminal organization do you work for that allows you to write off breakfast with Tim Allen?"
"That's my business." The gruff answer, coupled with his low, threatening growl and scathing glare, was usually good enough for anyone who dared to even look him in the eyes. Apparently that was not the case for Little-Miss-Delusional. "What kind of name is KAOS for an evil empire?"
"It's a good name."
"It's ridiculous. It sounds like a mockery of a bad James Bond film."
He frowned, eyes narrowing. "Which one?"
"Excuse me?"
"Which Bond?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes. All Bonds were not created equal."
An exaggerated roll of her eyes was her response, as she kept digging through the folder. "You haven't kept any sort of recognizable filing system for a year and you expect me to organize all this for your evil organization in one afternoon?"
"Try half an hour," he said, glancing at his watch. "I figure we have a least that before 99 shows up and Max wakes up from the drugs. From then it'll just be pure fun, no time to worry about all of that. Which means you better hurry."
"Half an hour?"
"I can keep you longer."
"Sod you." She looked utterly miserable, handcuff clinking as she attempted to reposition receipts and get them into some sort of working order. "You're lucky I'm used to impossible demands."
"Relax and maybe I won't kill you," he told her, which was a complete lie. Everyone was going to die. That simply was the way of things. But she was much better off not knowing that.
At least not yet.
A button nose lifted up and green eyes glared. "You kill me and Miranda Priestly will murder you. She needs me."
Oh God-dammit. That name. Again. The name that this obsessed girl would not stop uttering like some sort of Buddhist chant. Between her and the drugged 99 look alike who kept whispering the name like it was damned porno, he was going to go insane.
Well, more insane.
Immediately, he unclipped the Glock from the holster on his shoulder and pointed it idly in her direction. "What was the condition for not gagging you?"
Emily's mouth closed, but her eyes glittered with loathing.
He wasn't gonna lie; it was kind of a turn on.
"Good. Glad we understand each other."
With a happy grin, he swiveled back to the monitor, humming lightly. Behind him, the papers continued to shuffle.
Dwayne grinned, raising his arms behind his head and sighing in contentment. He fiddled again with the monitors and reached for the chilled soda he had brought up from the kitchen.
Things were definitely looking up.
"Wanna watch some tv?" he asked conversationally.
A crumbled wad of paper bounced off his head.
--
Concentrate on the mission. Concentrate on Max. Because Agent 23 will only be concentrating on you and you're his end game. He wants you dead. It's so much easier to kill you that it is to stay alive.
And he's setting a trap. You're on his turf and Max kissing him into submission won't work a second time.
Agent 99 was used to lurking in the shadows; calling attention to herself only when the situation demanded it.
She was used to controlling every aspect of any situation, and although she worked in a business that made a habit of coming at her with the unexpected, she discovered all that really meant was that the job required quick thinking and a slight amount of flexibility.
But this… this was a horse of a very, very different color.
The minute they pulled up to the townhouse, and the door to the limo opened she had been blinded by flashes.
The questions came as fast as gunfire.
"Ms. PRIESTLY! Why did you choose to out your relationship at this particular event!"
"Ms. Sachs, were you sleeping with Miranda when you were working with her?"
"-Is it true you got a six-figure offer to pose for Playboy?!"
Panicking for one millisecond, 99 nearly reached underneath her the long skirt of her dress for the magnum she carried and mowed every one of those damned reporters down.
"Oh come on," Miranda hissed, and before 99 was quite prepared for it, the older woman grabbed hold of her hand and yanked her out of the car, nearly forcing the usually graceful agent to fall flat on her face.
For her part, the famed 'Dragon Lady' seemed to not notice the migraine-inducing chaos at all. Head held high, Miranda kept her palm clutched in a vice grip, nearly dragging her along as they were escorted by the waiting security guards up the stairs and toward the front door.
Before they even arrived at the last step, the door flew open, and 99 was greeted with identical pairs of green eyes, belonging to twin redheaded girls.
Two sets of miniature Priestly glares set upon her, before little hands reached out and yanked her into the house, tearing her from Miranda's grasp and sending her nearly toppling forward a second time.
"Get in here," spat one, and didn't even allow 99 the luxury of catching her breath before she was pulled viciously through a pristine hallway and shoved into an adjoining study. "You both have ruined my life!"
"Girls," began Miranda, but it was the only word she could get out before a blur of mottled colors came streaking into the room, yapping excitedly and nearly pummeling into the silver-haired woman, sending the woman staggering back.
"How could you!" the same girl screeched. The other one looked so calm it was disturbing. She merely waltzed into the room and settled on the sofa, picking up the remote control.
99, head pounding and ears ringing, opened her mouth, and then closed it again, upon discovering that the dog that was now trying to very inappropriately nose around Miranda Priestly's crotch only had three legs.
What was odder still, was that the woman barely seemed to notice it. Instead she immediately patted the mutt on the head and allowed it to stand on its hind legs and attempt to lick at her chin. Miranda evaded the kisses without thought, but the sight of a three-legged mutt slurping at Miranda Priestly's ivory neck with a happy pant was nearly as disturbing as watching the Mona Lisa get hit with a water balloon.
A huge Saint Bernard ambled in and calmly collapsed in the corner, big furry paws folding over each other, before its head rested daintily on top of them, eyeing the proceedings with a wearied somber expression as the dramatic twin kept screeching about moving to Canada.
"Girls, calm down this instant. I will explain the situation to you but only if you remember your manners-"
"You're on the tv again!" the other one squealed. Little legs kicked happily against a cushioned seat and tiny fingers pointed to a flat screen television hoisted elegantly over the mantle.
Sure enough, splashed over the screen with the words 'SCANDAL AT CHARITY AUCTION' were images of the two of them exiting the Plaza hotel, mobbed with paparazzi and that poor assistant who looked ready to faint.
"Heathcliff, down!" Miranda said, finally losing patience with the mutt, and shoving him down on his rump. The dog happily sat, tail wagging before he glanced at 99 and began a happy bound in her direction.
"You've ruined my life!" cried the other one, in the middle of a very dramatic tantrum, which ebbed only slightly when the three-legged dog named Heathcliff stopped short of her, offered her a sniff and then a sudden growl.
"Heathcliff's pissed too," said the other one happily, and then offered a triumphant grin in her direction. "Heather thinks you're hot, Andy."
"Who on earth is Heather?"
"This house is so GAY now!" sniveled the other one and then grabbed hold of Heathcliff's collar, and dragged the growling, sputtering animal away from 99. "And why do you smell weird?"
Overwhelmed, 99 blinked. "I'm sorry?" Before she could catch herself, she was suddenly sniffing self consciously.
"Cesar Milan says that dogs feed off smells and energy," said the girl in the couch, eyes glued to the television. "You're not being the calm assertive pack leader right now."
"Oh," she said, and when Miranda tossed her a disgusted look, felt uncharacteristically idiotic. "Girls… uh… twins?"
That earned her a very frightening set of glares.
"Your mother and I need to explain something to you right now," she said, eyes narrowing at Miranda meaningfully. "And very quickly."
"I know how lesbians have sex," said the one on the couch, now fiddling with a laptop. "Heather and I read a book. You're on Perez now."
Heathcliff the three-legged dog continued to stare at her, teeth bared slightly.
"Mommy, I'm not calling her mom!" The pronouncement came from the hysterical twin, who was holding onto Heathcliff distractedly. "And when did Andy get fat!"
"Excuse me?!"
"You're on defamer," said the other one, clicking again.
"This woman is not Andrea," Miranda snapped, and 99 rolled her eyes, thanking heavens for small favors. Feeling weak, she slumped into an empty uncomfortable chair and buried her head in her hands. "And those are muscles, girls, not fat. Now please sit down and allow me to explain things to you very quickly, because Andrea needs our help."
99 considered very thoroughly whether it would do any good to give into her impulses and start laughing hysterically like a demented stressed out agent in the room with a three legged dog, a Saint Bernard, Miranda Priestley and her two mini-clones.
Oh, Max, she thought to herself. Even if he was out cold, locked up, and kidnapped by the world's most dangerous spy, he had to be having an easier time with Andrea Sachs and Agent 23 than she was having managing in the world of the great Miranda Priestly.
At the moment, she kinda hated him for it.
--
Andrea's Saturday morning began with a call from her editor at 6AM. Haggard and underpaid, he was never pleasant on weekends; particularly weekend mornings.
Neither, for that matter, was Andrea, who was immediately informed that not only did she have a deadline pushed up to 1PM that afternoon when she had previously been given the whole week, but she had also been elected to attend a charity auction that evening.
Because of damned Kimberly and her maternity leave and Steve's completely inability to take her 'absolutely not' for an answer.
"Like it or not, Andy," he told her, in a flippant manner, "Aside from Kimberly, you're the only reporter we have who's under a size 8, looks decent in a photo, and knows how talk to these people in a way that won't send them running in another direction."
"What about Mark?"
"Mark? You're kidding, right? The last time I tried to send Mark to one of these things, he saw the PETA people outside and they talked him into dumping a bucket of paint all over Karl Lagerfeld's new model. No. This may seem like fluff, but this charity raises a lot of money for the homeless. We owe it to them to give them some good press, not a scandal. Get a new dress, and cover this event. That's not a request."
The devastation she felt over not being able to see Miranda that night was a tad over-dramatic, even Andy would admit that, but it put her in a horrendous mood.
There hadn't even been much time to sulk, because of her damned pushed up deadline. That only made her already surly condition worse.
When her phone rang, Andy was in the middle of rushing toward a subway entrance, frazzled and bumping elbows and shoulders with the midday Saturday crush.
She was hot, sweaty and her feet ached thanks to the sixteen blocks she had practically sprinted to get to the crowded entrance.
The glowering faces of the New York residents who weaved around her when she swerved to a stop against the flow of traffic did not help.
In retrospect, it was probably not the best idea to pick up the phone when Andy saw it was Miranda, but her lover was demanding, and did not leave voicemails.
Which incidentally, always drove Andy crazy, because Miranda took it as some grave sort of insult when Andy didn't pick up right away, no matter what the circumstances. and got into a serious huff the one time Andy didn't call back, because it had been an extremely busy day and since there had been no voicemail, she had made the mistake of assuming Miranda had had no real purpose. Andy found it eternally confounding how the woman was nearly twice her age and seemed to sometimes possess the emotional maturity of a stump.
And at this moment, she was not willing to jump through the hoops it usually took to maintain a civil conversation with a woman who lived on an entirely different plane of thought reserved for celebrities and really rich people who did not understand what it meant to be told 'no'.
"Hi," she said, trying to weave out of the line of fire when a guy in a suit gave her a dirty look.
"I don't have long," Miranda said, obviously distracted. "But I'll expect to be free after eight pm. Order something appropriate from the bistro around the corner, you have my card."
The credit card, of course. Because Miranda insisted that she take it the last time she came over and discovered, to her horror, that Andy had decided 'dinner' was to consist of local Chinese take out.
The MSG had nearly put her sleep and Miranda had spent half the night in the bathroom. She almost left her over it.
"Actually, Miranda, I'm not free tonight after all."
The wave of people flowing in and out of the subway entrance was vaguely overwhelming, and Andy muted her sigh as she checked her watch, wincing at the time.
"Pardon?"
"I said I wasn't free."
"I heard you, Andrea, I was expecting an explanation," came the snippy response, and Andy did not resist the urge to roll her eyes, and despite the nagging voice in her head that told her she did not technically need to offer any sort of explanation, found herself rambling on anyway.
"I told you Kimberly was on call, and now apparently Steve promised to give this charity some of legit coverage that isn't … fluffy. I have to be at the Plaza tonight. I have no idea what time I'll be out." Miranda hated to be disappointed, but Andrea did not expect the long silence that came at the tail end of her statement. "Hello?"
"Did you say the Plaza?"
Yes, she said the damned Plaza. "Yes. We don't usually cover these things, but apparently Steve really believes in the cause. Now I have… like two hours to find a decent dress-" she closed her eyes in muted frustration. "Miranda, I hate to ask you this, but is there anyway Beth can sneak me something out of the Close-"
"Absolutely not."
Of course not. "Right. Dumb idea."
"Andrea, under no circumstances are you to go anywhere near that charity event."
The command left her blinking dumbly. "What?"
"Promise me you will not be there tonight."
"But I have to be there," Andy said, like an idiot. "Steve said…"
"Steve said," came the gross mimic, and Andy caught herself flinching, unsure why the acidic remark came right back her so meanly. "Since when have you been such a blind follower, Andrea?"
Mouth dropping open in surprise, Andy's fingers clenched around the phone, and she glanced helplessly as the stream of people continued to pour out of the subway entrance.
"Andrea?"
And then, just like that, she put the pieces together. It was really idiotic it had taken her that long. "You're going to be there tonight, aren't you?"
"Of course, I'm going to be there tonight," came the clipped response, exasperated tone leaking through Miranda's cool indifference. "
Andy's shoulders slumped, and she suddenly felt exhausted. Of course. Now it made sense. Miranda and her ever-increasing paranoia about being outed, because the longer this went on, the likelier it would be that someone would slip and then the press-
Cutting off the sudden onslaught of thoughts before she lost herself in the possibilities, Andy sucked in her breath and attempted to be reasonable. "Okay, look it's not that big a deal. We don't even have to pretend to know each other-"
"Are you suggesting we ignore each other?"
"Miranda, no one will expect me to talk to you anyway. Everyone at Runway thinks we still hate each other-"
"Do you honestly think I care the slightest bit about what my employees think?"
Okay, fine. A shiver of anger settled into her spine and made it's way up, vertebrae by vertebrae. "Well, then don't worry about it. The last thing I want is to cause a scandal. I think we can be adults and avoid each other for one evening."
"It's that easy for you?"
"Pardon?"
"To just ignore me?"
Oh, for the love of- "Of course not. I'm just saying that if that's what's bothering you-"
"You clearly do not have the slightest idea what is bothering me."
"Then what is this about, Miranda? Because I have a job to do and I intend to do it."
"I'm sure 'Steve' can find a replacement."
"It's not up to you whether or not I get to come," she spat, losing her patience. "And I don't have time to argue this right now."
"Fine." The line clicked and disconnected before she even had a chance to draw in her breath.
--
Consciousness was forced upon her when her leg spasmed and kicked out, banging against a wooden post and causing a painful yelp. Andy Sachs sat up so quickly the blood in her drugged system didn't have time to catch up and properly distribute, and the result was a gag, a sickly pale expression, and the young woman falling back, groaning loudly and muttering a series of curses that made Max blush.
His own head was ringing, and he was dangerously close to puking out his breakfast, but Max was resilient and had made a point to keep his body completely motionless, despite being put in the most uncomfortable position that made his spine curl and would earn him a very mean glare from both his personal trainer and chiropractor.
"Andy Sachs?" he managed, cheek plastered against the carpet. "Are you okay?"
An angry groan was his response, and Max sighed, sucking in a deep breath and trying to use his peripherals to see where the cameras were located. Because there had to be cameras in this room. It was a given.
Unfortunately, he was never good with using his peripherals. He tended just to widen his eyes and all that did was make him wish he had access to Visine.
"Andrea Sachs!" he tried again, keeping his tone down, a low and gentle hiss. "Are you okay?"
A moment of agonized moaning and then it was quiet. "… crazy guy from the hotel?"
Good enough. "I want you to listen to me very carefully, Andrea Sachs."
"What's going on?"
His cheek was numb from the carpet. "… I'm about to tell you."
"Who are you? Where are we? Why does my head hurt?"
He willed for patience. "I'm trying to explain that to you."
"I'm gonna hurl."
"Please don't," he said, and winced, his stomach gurgling in protest. "I'm a sympathetic vomiter, and if you do that then I'll be forced to do the same."
"Huh?"
"Smell. Sound. Sight. Any of it will send a chain reaction. Even speaking of it is making me very nauseous. I can feel my stomach acids gurgling."
"Augh. Now I want to hurl even more."
"Please, Miss Sachs. I need you to listen to me. We have been kidnapped by a rogue agent; a traitor to this country, who has kidnapped up in an obvious trap for me and Agent 99. At the moment it's unclear whether or not he has discovered that you are not her, but until then, I need you to be very quiet, and very careful, because this entire room could be one big booby trap. Just the slightest move forward could send us both to a very painful death."
It was a long winded statement, but he thought he had it call covered. On the bed above him, Andrea kept silent.
"That's it," she said suddenly. "I'm tripping. This is a hallucination and I've dreamt myself into a bad seventies spy movie."
"Pardon?"
"I knew that James Bond marathon was going to bite me in the ass."
"Andrea Sachs, please. I need your help."
"Maxwell Smart, right?"
At least it was coming back to her. "Yes, that is my name. Now I’m sure my partner 99 is launching a rescue investigation right now, but until then we must remain calm, and discover exactly what this room holds for us in order to escape Agent 23's clutches and get ourselves free."
"I'm totally gonna hurl."
His stomach cramped in reaction, and Max gritted his teeth. "Please don't. Please don't. Please don't."
"Distraction," he heard. "Distraction is the key. Think happy thoughts. Think non-gross thoughts. Think of how happy Miranda will be when I wake up and I'm not dead. So she can kill me herself."
"Miranda?" he asked, voice strained, eyes shut tight.
"My girlfriend. Holy shit, I just called Miranda Priestly my girlfriend. Is someone your girlfriend if you're sleeping with them all the time but you're totally in the closet?"
Head swimming, Max tried to keep up. "I hear celebrities do it all the time."
"Lindsay Lohan is a lesbian," she informed him gravely. "She's totally gone gay."
"That's great."
"I have a three-legged dog named Heathcliff."
"Also stupendous. I have a little pooch myself."
"Three-legged."
"No, he has all four. My… girlfriend gave him to me."
"I bet you ten bucks my girlfriend is scarier than yours."
He managed a grim smile. "I'm not so sure about that."
"Wanna bet?"
"I don't gamble."
"Great, now I’m bored and I'm nauseous."
Again with the nausea. "Would you please stop mentioning that?"
"Cause you'll hurl?"
"Exactly."
A pause. "You're not like the spies in the James Bond movies."
"No, I'm not," he admitted.
"That 99 girl is your girlfriend, right? That's why you kissed me?"
At least she was coherent enough to start put things together. "Yes."
"So we're waiting for your girlfriend to come save us?"
"Basically."
"So you're like the damsel-in-distress." Max winced. "Huh. How progressive."
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: So, SO sorry for the wait. Writing this requires actual blocks of time in which I have the time to concentrate, and I haven't too much of that lately. Plus I get really distracted with shiny objects. It's a curse.
--
CHAPTERS
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
--
Chapter Six: My Girlfriend, the Hero
500 Miraposa Drive in Scarsdale was an average high-priced house that bore no unique characteristics that could separate from any of the other average high-priced houses that lined the block.
There was no security gate. No guard dogs roaming about. A small security sticker on one of the front windows that warned potential burglars that the house was under regular 'neighborhood cop' protection, just like everyone else, but that was it. Just a beautiful house with a pristine lawn, timed sprinklers and motion controlled lights.
Dwayne Johnson was a master of disguise, but there was something to be said for hiding in the open.
And besides, inside the house was a different story altogether.
The house, used during the civil war as a pit stop for the Underground Railroad, boasted a neat little tunnel that moved under the house and exited through a small mound in the back yard. Plenty of hidden rooms hidden behind carefully coordinated moldings and triggers. Renovations had opened these tunnels wider, and now hidden in every nook and cranny of his perfectly normal looking house was an expensive surveillance system and a cache of weapons and cash from a dozen different countries.
Motion sensors, heat sensors, black lights. If there was another place to set a trap, Dwayne Johnson certainly wouldn't know it.
He was the best, after all. Even if Max-y and 99 had managed to beat him once, it wasn't because they were better than him. It was because he had gotten lazy. He had made the mistake of underestimating the boyscout once, had even liked the harmless old fool.
No more. No more being lazy. No more over-confident blunders. He was the best damned agent in the world, and this was going to prove it once and for all.
And fucking Max-y would be out of the way forever.
But not before 99 paid the price for being the only woman in the world to reject him.
Security cameras flickered on quickly, as he settled his muscled body into the plush leather chair of his hidden study, pausing momentarily on the slightly grainy image of a unconscious Max and Andrea Sachs, bound and gagged together in one of his upstairs bedrooms.
Nothing too challenging. Given Max's penchant for clumsiness and over-confidence it would be at least a half hour before they even woke up and managed to get themselves out of their binds.
99 was less predictable. She had never been the impulsive type, never been the sort to be in over her head. She learned from her mistakes and she corrected them, and the last time she had been impulsive, she had blown her cover and lost her face.
But he had Max-y, and if he knew anything at all about his girl, it was that 99 knew how to take an insult and give it right back.
She'd be tricky. She'd make it personal.
That made her dangerous.
"I'm not doing this."
Dwayne turned and arched a brow at the red-haired whisp of a woman at his desk. She pulled angrily at the gleaming handcuffs that kept her seated there, and turned a disgusted eye to the mounds of paperwork that littered her workspace.
Pushing his palms together, he cocked his head. He hadn't seen such a sheer glare of hatred in a long, long time. The only people scarier than killers and murderers were people in fashion.
He had to admit, that impressed him. The company of a like-minded person was kinda nice.
"I thought we had an understanding."
"Playing your stand-in assistant was not part of the deal!" Emily insisted, and wrinkled her freckled nose, lifting up a receipt stained with coffee.
"I thought that was the deal exactly." And it had been a good one, he thought. When he had still been infiltrated in Control, he had access to the best accountants, the best bookkeepers, and to Aggie, this little old lady who kept his balls in her two hands like a drill sergeant, and kept every moment of his life organized on a neat little calendar that synced to his Blackberry.
He missed her.
It was a problem with going rogue and freelance. He couldn't be expected to keep up with everything. And aspiring evil people tended to be really obsessed with trying to take over the world and wanting to kill people and less concerned about tallying receipts and making the proper deductions.
"Exactly what kind of criminal organization do you work for that allows you to write off breakfast with Tim Allen?"
"That's my business." The gruff answer, coupled with his low, threatening growl and scathing glare, was usually good enough for anyone who dared to even look him in the eyes. Apparently that was not the case for Little-Miss-Delusional. "What kind of name is KAOS for an evil empire?"
"It's a good name."
"It's ridiculous. It sounds like a mockery of a bad James Bond film."
He frowned, eyes narrowing. "Which one?"
"Excuse me?"
"Which Bond?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes. All Bonds were not created equal."
An exaggerated roll of her eyes was her response, as she kept digging through the folder. "You haven't kept any sort of recognizable filing system for a year and you expect me to organize all this for your evil organization in one afternoon?"
"Try half an hour," he said, glancing at his watch. "I figure we have a least that before 99 shows up and Max wakes up from the drugs. From then it'll just be pure fun, no time to worry about all of that. Which means you better hurry."
"Half an hour?"
"I can keep you longer."
"Sod you." She looked utterly miserable, handcuff clinking as she attempted to reposition receipts and get them into some sort of working order. "You're lucky I'm used to impossible demands."
"Relax and maybe I won't kill you," he told her, which was a complete lie. Everyone was going to die. That simply was the way of things. But she was much better off not knowing that.
At least not yet.
A button nose lifted up and green eyes glared. "You kill me and Miranda Priestly will murder you. She needs me."
Oh God-dammit. That name. Again. The name that this obsessed girl would not stop uttering like some sort of Buddhist chant. Between her and the drugged 99 look alike who kept whispering the name like it was damned porno, he was going to go insane.
Well, more insane.
Immediately, he unclipped the Glock from the holster on his shoulder and pointed it idly in her direction. "What was the condition for not gagging you?"
Emily's mouth closed, but her eyes glittered with loathing.
He wasn't gonna lie; it was kind of a turn on.
"Good. Glad we understand each other."
With a happy grin, he swiveled back to the monitor, humming lightly. Behind him, the papers continued to shuffle.
Dwayne grinned, raising his arms behind his head and sighing in contentment. He fiddled again with the monitors and reached for the chilled soda he had brought up from the kitchen.
Things were definitely looking up.
"Wanna watch some tv?" he asked conversationally.
A crumbled wad of paper bounced off his head.
--
Concentrate on the mission. Concentrate on Max. Because Agent 23 will only be concentrating on you and you're his end game. He wants you dead. It's so much easier to kill you that it is to stay alive.
And he's setting a trap. You're on his turf and Max kissing him into submission won't work a second time.
Agent 99 was used to lurking in the shadows; calling attention to herself only when the situation demanded it.
She was used to controlling every aspect of any situation, and although she worked in a business that made a habit of coming at her with the unexpected, she discovered all that really meant was that the job required quick thinking and a slight amount of flexibility.
But this… this was a horse of a very, very different color.
The minute they pulled up to the townhouse, and the door to the limo opened she had been blinded by flashes.
The questions came as fast as gunfire.
"Ms. PRIESTLY! Why did you choose to out your relationship at this particular event!"
"Ms. Sachs, were you sleeping with Miranda when you were working with her?"
"-Is it true you got a six-figure offer to pose for Playboy?!"
Panicking for one millisecond, 99 nearly reached underneath her the long skirt of her dress for the magnum she carried and mowed every one of those damned reporters down.
"Oh come on," Miranda hissed, and before 99 was quite prepared for it, the older woman grabbed hold of her hand and yanked her out of the car, nearly forcing the usually graceful agent to fall flat on her face.
For her part, the famed 'Dragon Lady' seemed to not notice the migraine-inducing chaos at all. Head held high, Miranda kept her palm clutched in a vice grip, nearly dragging her along as they were escorted by the waiting security guards up the stairs and toward the front door.
Before they even arrived at the last step, the door flew open, and 99 was greeted with identical pairs of green eyes, belonging to twin redheaded girls.
Two sets of miniature Priestly glares set upon her, before little hands reached out and yanked her into the house, tearing her from Miranda's grasp and sending her nearly toppling forward a second time.
"Get in here," spat one, and didn't even allow 99 the luxury of catching her breath before she was pulled viciously through a pristine hallway and shoved into an adjoining study. "You both have ruined my life!"
"Girls," began Miranda, but it was the only word she could get out before a blur of mottled colors came streaking into the room, yapping excitedly and nearly pummeling into the silver-haired woman, sending the woman staggering back.
"How could you!" the same girl screeched. The other one looked so calm it was disturbing. She merely waltzed into the room and settled on the sofa, picking up the remote control.
99, head pounding and ears ringing, opened her mouth, and then closed it again, upon discovering that the dog that was now trying to very inappropriately nose around Miranda Priestly's crotch only had three legs.
What was odder still, was that the woman barely seemed to notice it. Instead she immediately patted the mutt on the head and allowed it to stand on its hind legs and attempt to lick at her chin. Miranda evaded the kisses without thought, but the sight of a three-legged mutt slurping at Miranda Priestly's ivory neck with a happy pant was nearly as disturbing as watching the Mona Lisa get hit with a water balloon.
A huge Saint Bernard ambled in and calmly collapsed in the corner, big furry paws folding over each other, before its head rested daintily on top of them, eyeing the proceedings with a wearied somber expression as the dramatic twin kept screeching about moving to Canada.
"Girls, calm down this instant. I will explain the situation to you but only if you remember your manners-"
"You're on the tv again!" the other one squealed. Little legs kicked happily against a cushioned seat and tiny fingers pointed to a flat screen television hoisted elegantly over the mantle.
Sure enough, splashed over the screen with the words 'SCANDAL AT CHARITY AUCTION' were images of the two of them exiting the Plaza hotel, mobbed with paparazzi and that poor assistant who looked ready to faint.
"Heathcliff, down!" Miranda said, finally losing patience with the mutt, and shoving him down on his rump. The dog happily sat, tail wagging before he glanced at 99 and began a happy bound in her direction.
"You've ruined my life!" cried the other one, in the middle of a very dramatic tantrum, which ebbed only slightly when the three-legged dog named Heathcliff stopped short of her, offered her a sniff and then a sudden growl.
"Heathcliff's pissed too," said the other one happily, and then offered a triumphant grin in her direction. "Heather thinks you're hot, Andy."
"Who on earth is Heather?"
"This house is so GAY now!" sniveled the other one and then grabbed hold of Heathcliff's collar, and dragged the growling, sputtering animal away from 99. "And why do you smell weird?"
Overwhelmed, 99 blinked. "I'm sorry?" Before she could catch herself, she was suddenly sniffing self consciously.
"Cesar Milan says that dogs feed off smells and energy," said the girl in the couch, eyes glued to the television. "You're not being the calm assertive pack leader right now."
"Oh," she said, and when Miranda tossed her a disgusted look, felt uncharacteristically idiotic. "Girls… uh… twins?"
That earned her a very frightening set of glares.
"Your mother and I need to explain something to you right now," she said, eyes narrowing at Miranda meaningfully. "And very quickly."
"I know how lesbians have sex," said the one on the couch, now fiddling with a laptop. "Heather and I read a book. You're on Perez now."
Heathcliff the three-legged dog continued to stare at her, teeth bared slightly.
"Mommy, I'm not calling her mom!" The pronouncement came from the hysterical twin, who was holding onto Heathcliff distractedly. "And when did Andy get fat!"
"Excuse me?!"
"You're on defamer," said the other one, clicking again.
"This woman is not Andrea," Miranda snapped, and 99 rolled her eyes, thanking heavens for small favors. Feeling weak, she slumped into an empty uncomfortable chair and buried her head in her hands. "And those are muscles, girls, not fat. Now please sit down and allow me to explain things to you very quickly, because Andrea needs our help."
99 considered very thoroughly whether it would do any good to give into her impulses and start laughing hysterically like a demented stressed out agent in the room with a three legged dog, a Saint Bernard, Miranda Priestley and her two mini-clones.
Oh, Max, she thought to herself. Even if he was out cold, locked up, and kidnapped by the world's most dangerous spy, he had to be having an easier time with Andrea Sachs and Agent 23 than she was having managing in the world of the great Miranda Priestly.
At the moment, she kinda hated him for it.
--
Andrea's Saturday morning began with a call from her editor at 6AM. Haggard and underpaid, he was never pleasant on weekends; particularly weekend mornings.
Neither, for that matter, was Andrea, who was immediately informed that not only did she have a deadline pushed up to 1PM that afternoon when she had previously been given the whole week, but she had also been elected to attend a charity auction that evening.
Because of damned Kimberly and her maternity leave and Steve's completely inability to take her 'absolutely not' for an answer.
"Like it or not, Andy," he told her, in a flippant manner, "Aside from Kimberly, you're the only reporter we have who's under a size 8, looks decent in a photo, and knows how talk to these people in a way that won't send them running in another direction."
"What about Mark?"
"Mark? You're kidding, right? The last time I tried to send Mark to one of these things, he saw the PETA people outside and they talked him into dumping a bucket of paint all over Karl Lagerfeld's new model. No. This may seem like fluff, but this charity raises a lot of money for the homeless. We owe it to them to give them some good press, not a scandal. Get a new dress, and cover this event. That's not a request."
The devastation she felt over not being able to see Miranda that night was a tad over-dramatic, even Andy would admit that, but it put her in a horrendous mood.
There hadn't even been much time to sulk, because of her damned pushed up deadline. That only made her already surly condition worse.
When her phone rang, Andy was in the middle of rushing toward a subway entrance, frazzled and bumping elbows and shoulders with the midday Saturday crush.
She was hot, sweaty and her feet ached thanks to the sixteen blocks she had practically sprinted to get to the crowded entrance.
The glowering faces of the New York residents who weaved around her when she swerved to a stop against the flow of traffic did not help.
In retrospect, it was probably not the best idea to pick up the phone when Andy saw it was Miranda, but her lover was demanding, and did not leave voicemails.
Which incidentally, always drove Andy crazy, because Miranda took it as some grave sort of insult when Andy didn't pick up right away, no matter what the circumstances. and got into a serious huff the one time Andy didn't call back, because it had been an extremely busy day and since there had been no voicemail, she had made the mistake of assuming Miranda had had no real purpose. Andy found it eternally confounding how the woman was nearly twice her age and seemed to sometimes possess the emotional maturity of a stump.
And at this moment, she was not willing to jump through the hoops it usually took to maintain a civil conversation with a woman who lived on an entirely different plane of thought reserved for celebrities and really rich people who did not understand what it meant to be told 'no'.
"Hi," she said, trying to weave out of the line of fire when a guy in a suit gave her a dirty look.
"I don't have long," Miranda said, obviously distracted. "But I'll expect to be free after eight pm. Order something appropriate from the bistro around the corner, you have my card."
The credit card, of course. Because Miranda insisted that she take it the last time she came over and discovered, to her horror, that Andy had decided 'dinner' was to consist of local Chinese take out.
The MSG had nearly put her sleep and Miranda had spent half the night in the bathroom. She almost left her over it.
"Actually, Miranda, I'm not free tonight after all."
The wave of people flowing in and out of the subway entrance was vaguely overwhelming, and Andy muted her sigh as she checked her watch, wincing at the time.
"Pardon?"
"I said I wasn't free."
"I heard you, Andrea, I was expecting an explanation," came the snippy response, and Andy did not resist the urge to roll her eyes, and despite the nagging voice in her head that told her she did not technically need to offer any sort of explanation, found herself rambling on anyway.
"I told you Kimberly was on call, and now apparently Steve promised to give this charity some of legit coverage that isn't … fluffy. I have to be at the Plaza tonight. I have no idea what time I'll be out." Miranda hated to be disappointed, but Andrea did not expect the long silence that came at the tail end of her statement. "Hello?"
"Did you say the Plaza?"
Yes, she said the damned Plaza. "Yes. We don't usually cover these things, but apparently Steve really believes in the cause. Now I have… like two hours to find a decent dress-" she closed her eyes in muted frustration. "Miranda, I hate to ask you this, but is there anyway Beth can sneak me something out of the Close-"
"Absolutely not."
Of course not. "Right. Dumb idea."
"Andrea, under no circumstances are you to go anywhere near that charity event."
The command left her blinking dumbly. "What?"
"Promise me you will not be there tonight."
"But I have to be there," Andy said, like an idiot. "Steve said…"
"Steve said," came the gross mimic, and Andy caught herself flinching, unsure why the acidic remark came right back her so meanly. "Since when have you been such a blind follower, Andrea?"
Mouth dropping open in surprise, Andy's fingers clenched around the phone, and she glanced helplessly as the stream of people continued to pour out of the subway entrance.
"Andrea?"
And then, just like that, she put the pieces together. It was really idiotic it had taken her that long. "You're going to be there tonight, aren't you?"
"Of course, I'm going to be there tonight," came the clipped response, exasperated tone leaking through Miranda's cool indifference. "
Andy's shoulders slumped, and she suddenly felt exhausted. Of course. Now it made sense. Miranda and her ever-increasing paranoia about being outed, because the longer this went on, the likelier it would be that someone would slip and then the press-
Cutting off the sudden onslaught of thoughts before she lost herself in the possibilities, Andy sucked in her breath and attempted to be reasonable. "Okay, look it's not that big a deal. We don't even have to pretend to know each other-"
"Are you suggesting we ignore each other?"
"Miranda, no one will expect me to talk to you anyway. Everyone at Runway thinks we still hate each other-"
"Do you honestly think I care the slightest bit about what my employees think?"
Okay, fine. A shiver of anger settled into her spine and made it's way up, vertebrae by vertebrae. "Well, then don't worry about it. The last thing I want is to cause a scandal. I think we can be adults and avoid each other for one evening."
"It's that easy for you?"
"Pardon?"
"To just ignore me?"
Oh, for the love of- "Of course not. I'm just saying that if that's what's bothering you-"
"You clearly do not have the slightest idea what is bothering me."
"Then what is this about, Miranda? Because I have a job to do and I intend to do it."
"I'm sure 'Steve' can find a replacement."
"It's not up to you whether or not I get to come," she spat, losing her patience. "And I don't have time to argue this right now."
"Fine." The line clicked and disconnected before she even had a chance to draw in her breath.
--
Consciousness was forced upon her when her leg spasmed and kicked out, banging against a wooden post and causing a painful yelp. Andy Sachs sat up so quickly the blood in her drugged system didn't have time to catch up and properly distribute, and the result was a gag, a sickly pale expression, and the young woman falling back, groaning loudly and muttering a series of curses that made Max blush.
His own head was ringing, and he was dangerously close to puking out his breakfast, but Max was resilient and had made a point to keep his body completely motionless, despite being put in the most uncomfortable position that made his spine curl and would earn him a very mean glare from both his personal trainer and chiropractor.
"Andy Sachs?" he managed, cheek plastered against the carpet. "Are you okay?"
An angry groan was his response, and Max sighed, sucking in a deep breath and trying to use his peripherals to see where the cameras were located. Because there had to be cameras in this room. It was a given.
Unfortunately, he was never good with using his peripherals. He tended just to widen his eyes and all that did was make him wish he had access to Visine.
"Andrea Sachs!" he tried again, keeping his tone down, a low and gentle hiss. "Are you okay?"
A moment of agonized moaning and then it was quiet. "… crazy guy from the hotel?"
Good enough. "I want you to listen to me very carefully, Andrea Sachs."
"What's going on?"
His cheek was numb from the carpet. "… I'm about to tell you."
"Who are you? Where are we? Why does my head hurt?"
He willed for patience. "I'm trying to explain that to you."
"I'm gonna hurl."
"Please don't," he said, and winced, his stomach gurgling in protest. "I'm a sympathetic vomiter, and if you do that then I'll be forced to do the same."
"Huh?"
"Smell. Sound. Sight. Any of it will send a chain reaction. Even speaking of it is making me very nauseous. I can feel my stomach acids gurgling."
"Augh. Now I want to hurl even more."
"Please, Miss Sachs. I need you to listen to me. We have been kidnapped by a rogue agent; a traitor to this country, who has kidnapped up in an obvious trap for me and Agent 99. At the moment it's unclear whether or not he has discovered that you are not her, but until then, I need you to be very quiet, and very careful, because this entire room could be one big booby trap. Just the slightest move forward could send us both to a very painful death."
It was a long winded statement, but he thought he had it call covered. On the bed above him, Andrea kept silent.
"That's it," she said suddenly. "I'm tripping. This is a hallucination and I've dreamt myself into a bad seventies spy movie."
"Pardon?"
"I knew that James Bond marathon was going to bite me in the ass."
"Andrea Sachs, please. I need your help."
"Maxwell Smart, right?"
At least it was coming back to her. "Yes, that is my name. Now I’m sure my partner 99 is launching a rescue investigation right now, but until then we must remain calm, and discover exactly what this room holds for us in order to escape Agent 23's clutches and get ourselves free."
"I'm totally gonna hurl."
His stomach cramped in reaction, and Max gritted his teeth. "Please don't. Please don't. Please don't."
"Distraction," he heard. "Distraction is the key. Think happy thoughts. Think non-gross thoughts. Think of how happy Miranda will be when I wake up and I'm not dead. So she can kill me herself."
"Miranda?" he asked, voice strained, eyes shut tight.
"My girlfriend. Holy shit, I just called Miranda Priestly my girlfriend. Is someone your girlfriend if you're sleeping with them all the time but you're totally in the closet?"
Head swimming, Max tried to keep up. "I hear celebrities do it all the time."
"Lindsay Lohan is a lesbian," she informed him gravely. "She's totally gone gay."
"That's great."
"I have a three-legged dog named Heathcliff."
"Also stupendous. I have a little pooch myself."
"Three-legged."
"No, he has all four. My… girlfriend gave him to me."
"I bet you ten bucks my girlfriend is scarier than yours."
He managed a grim smile. "I'm not so sure about that."
"Wanna bet?"
"I don't gamble."
"Great, now I’m bored and I'm nauseous."
Again with the nausea. "Would you please stop mentioning that?"
"Cause you'll hurl?"
"Exactly."
A pause. "You're not like the spies in the James Bond movies."
"No, I'm not," he admitted.
"That 99 girl is your girlfriend, right? That's why you kissed me?"
At least she was coherent enough to start put things together. "Yes."
"So we're waiting for your girlfriend to come save us?"
"Basically."
"So you're like the damsel-in-distress." Max winced. "Huh. How progressive."
End chapter